Stitching a better future

In late February, as winter still clung to the mountains of Mabian, an Yi autonomous county in southwestern Sichuan province, Qiaojin Shuangmei carefully packed 15 sets of Yi embroidery for her trip to Beijing.

Unlike previous business trips, she spent weeks deciding what to pack into her luggage.

Coiled skirts with intricate silver stitching. Capes patterned with goat horns and flames. Sashes embroidered with cockscombs and ferns. Each piece is one of a kind, stitched entirely by hand, telling stories of the Yi people.

"I planned to wear a different outfit in the morning and another in the afternoon," she explains. "It's not vanity. I want people to see how beautiful Yi embroidery can be."

This year, she added two special motifs to her collection: the animated film sensation Nezha and the bronze figures from the Sanxingdui Museum in Guanghan city, both stitched by hand in bold black, red and yellow.

Soon after returning from the capital, the deputy to the National People's Congress wasted no time sharing what she learned with other local women, many of whom have used the heritage as a bridge to a better life over the past two decades.

Qiaojin grew up with the Mabian folk legend in which a fairy bird taught a weeping girl with no gown for her wedding to stitch the sun and stars into a dress.

Among the local people, known for their wide-legged trousers and distinctive garments, embroidery is more than just decoration.

"Black stands for the earth and dignity. Red symbolizes fire and life. Yellow signifies sunshine and harvest," she explains.

According to Chen Xiaomei, a cultural researcher in Mabian, the region's Yi embroidery dates back nearly 2,000 years, a period when local Yi chieftains engaged in flourishing cultural exchanges with the Han and other ethnic groups.

By the Tang (618-907) and Song (960-1279) dynasties, the Yi people's clothing already showcased distinct regional features and class differences, Chen notes.

"One of the most distinctive features of Mabian Yi embroidery is its technique. The coiled stitch — using two needles simultaneously, one winding the thread, the other anchoring it — creates a raised, sculptural effect," she explains.

The lock stitch, varying in length and the angle of the "lock", produces different textures, giving Mabian embroidery a unique place among China's rich textile traditions, she adds.

Traditional pieces include the flame-patterned apron, symbolizing fire worship; the goat-horn-patterned cape, carrying wishes for good fortune; and the azalea garment, inspired by nature worship.

As a child, Qiaojin learned to stitch from her mother, as all Yi girls did. Her ambition was simple then: to embroider her own wedding dress one day.

But life had other plans. At 17, she was already known for her needlework and her school leadership — she was president of the student union. This ambition to be first in everything increasingly contradicted what she observed: many Yi ethnic women were confined to their homes, raising children and doing chores, with very few job opportunities.

To fight the acquiesced destiny her family had arranged for her — a wife and stay-at-home mother — she took on the hardest, dirtiest jobs. She cleaned streets and hauled waste. After 18 months, she had helped pay off the family debt, eventually earning her many career choices and her parents' approval.

That was when she decided to turn her innate passion for Yi embroidery into something for others.

When she began, Yi embroidery in Mabian was "unwanted, unsought, and unnoticed", in her words. Women stitched only for themselves, for their own weddings and festivals. The idea of selling their work was unheard of.

But Qiaojin promised those women that she would buy whatever they stitched together.

It was a reckless promise. In the early years, only about 30 percent of what she collected was sold through a small shop she rented in the county seat. The other 70 percent piled up in her home. But Qiaojin soldiered on.

"I figured, we have a large population and people would always need traditional clothes during festivals, weddings and funerals," she says.

As she modernized the designs and promoted them in touristy areas, orders began increasing in 2014. The following year, with support from the local government and the women's federation, she established a cooperative, where she continues to promise to buy every piece those women make.

Payment is made on the spot — 50 yuan ($7.33) for an embroidered phone pouch. She also set up collection points across townships, regularly gathering products for finishing and resale.

"They don't take any risks. When they feel secure, they can work without worrying," Qiaojin says.

In her cooperative workshop, 27-year-old Yin Fei is a familiar presence, spending weekends and spare hours moving her needle in confident, rhythmic strokes.

Yin has loved drawing since childhood, but her family could not afford formal training. The passion locked inside her was not tapped until 2019, when Qiaojin's initiative reached her township.

She walked in hesitantly and began learning the foundational stitches. She soon discovered that embroidery was just drawing, but with thread. "Composition, color, flow — it was all the same," Yin says.

She began adding her own designs to traditional patterns, shifting motifs of cockscombs, goat horns, flames, and ferns into something fresh.

As her skills improved, her income steadily grew to 2,000-3,000 yuan per month.

For Yin, the best part is that the working hours fit her life. During the week, she teaches at a kindergarten. After work and on weekends, she embroiders and trains other women.

"I don't like being idle," she says.

Qiaojin's cooperative has enabled more than 900 women to find flexible employment from home through training, commission-based orders and livestreaming sales.

To date, her embroiderers are spread across the Daliang Mountains in southern Sichuan.

"The most fulfilling thing is seeing so many sisters finally able to stand on their own. Their status in the family has risen. Now, more women have a say in their households," she says with pride.

Qiaojin has also encouraged skilled embroiderers to start their own business.

"I tell them to go open their own shop. Buy wholesale from me. Pay me only after you sell," she says.

Embroidery has earned her respect, and she has made a point of mediating civil disputes. There was a time when villagers would whisper, "Shuangmei is coming", and arguments would stop, she says with a laugh.

In March, journalists from Africa interviewed her during the two sessions in Beijing. Preliminary discussions have begun about possible collaborations. African partners have taken samples home to explore whether Yi embroidery products could be sold in tourist areas, she says.

"Each year at the legislative session, leaders at every level care about intangible cultural heritage. This year's government work report mentioned heritage several times. I am more confident than ever," she says.

She emphasizes that her future efforts will continue to pursue a careful line between preservation and innovation.

Traditional Yi garments, she acknowledges, will always be for the Yi ethnic group. But cultural products — including bags, accessories and decorative pieces featuring pandas, Sanxingdui and other distinctive Sichuan elements — can reach a much wider audience.

"What is ethnic is global," she notes.

She is also pushing to bring Yi embroidery into schools for children to learn that this beauty comes from the land and the needles of generations of Yi women.

Qiaojin says she will keep seeking out Yi women who are struggling financially.

"There is only one kind of poor person in this world, and that is the lazy person. If you are willing to work, things will get better," she often tells her embroiderers.

"I am living proof," she says.