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KAWARAMACHI, Japan — Time seems to stop here. 

Women sit in a small circle, quietly, painstakingly stitching patterns on balls the size of an orange, a stitch at a time. 

At the center of the circle is Eiko Araki, a master of the Sanuki Kagari Temari, a Japanese traditional craft passed down for more than 1,000 years on the southwestern island of Shikoku. 

Each ball — known as a “temari” ball — is a work of art, with colorful geometric patterns carrying poetic names like “firefly flowers” and “layered stars.” A temari ball takes weeks or months to finish. Some cost hundreds of dollars (tens of thousands of yen), although others are much cheaper. 

These kaleidoscopic balls aren’t for throwing or kicking around. They’re destined to be heirlooms, carrying prayers for health and goodness. They might be treasured like a painting or piece of sculpture in a Western home. 

The concept behind temari is an elegant otherworldliness, an impractical beauty that is also very labor-intensive to create. 

“Out of nothing, something this beautiful is born, bringing joy,” said Araki. “I want it to be remembered there are beautiful things in this world that can only be made by hand.” 

Natural materials 

The region where temari originated was good for growing cotton, warm with little rainfall, and the spherical creations continue to be made out of the humble material. 

At Araki’s studio, which also serves as head office for temari’s preservation society, there are 140 hues of cotton thread, including delicate pinks and blues, as well as more vivid colors and all the subtle gradations in between. 

The women dye them by hand, using plants, flowers and other natural ingredients, including cochineal, which is a bug living in cacti that produces a red dye. The deeper shade of indigo is dyed again and again to turn just about black. Yellow and blue are combined to form gorgeous greens. Soy juice is added to deepen the tints, a dash of organic protein. 

Outside the studio, loops of cotton thread, in various tones of yellow today, hang outside in the shade to dry. 

Creating and embroidering the balls 

The arduous process starts with making the basic ball mold on which the stitching is done. Rice husks that are cooked then dried are placed in a piece of cotton, then wound with thread, over and over, until, almost magically, a ball appears in your hands. 

Then the stitching begins. 

The balls are surprisingly hard, so each stitch requires a concentrated, almost painful, push. The motifs must be precise and even. 

Each ball has lines to guide the stitching — one that goes around it like the equator, and others that zigzag to the top and bottom. 

Appealing to a new generation 

These days, temari is getting some new recognition, among Japanese and foreigners as well. Caroline Kennedy took lessons in the ball-making when she was United States ambassador to Japan a decade ago. 

Yoshie Nakamura, who promotes Japanese handcrafted art in her duty-free shop at Tokyo’s Haneda airport, says she features temari there because of its intricate and delicate designs. 

“Temari that might have been everyday in a faraway era is now being used for interior decoration,” she said. 

“I really feel each Sanuki Kagari Temari speaks of a special, one-and-only existence in the world.” 

Araki has come up with newer designs that feel both modern and historical. She is trying to make the balls more accessible to everyday life — for instance, as Christmas tree ornaments. A strap with a dangling miniature ball, though quite hard to make because of its size, is affordable at about 1,500 yen ($10) each. 

Another of Araki’s inventions is a cluster of pastel balls that opens and closes with tiny magnets. Fill it with sweet-smelling herbs for a kind of aromatic diffuser. 

A tradition passed down through generations 

Araki, a graceful woman who talks very slowly, her head cocked to one side as though always in thought, often travels to Tokyo to teach. But mostly she works and gives lessons in her studio, an abandoned kindergarten with faded blue paint and big windows with tired wooden frames. 

She started out as a metalwork artist. Her husband’s parents were temari masters who worked hard to resurrect the artform when it was declining in the modern age, at risk of dying out. 

They were stoic people, rarely bestowing praise and instead always scolding her, she remembers. It’s a tough-love approach that’s common in the handing down of many Japanese traditional arts, from Kabuki acting to hogaku music, that demand lifetimes of selfless devotion. 

Today, only several dozen people, all women, can make the temari balls to traditional standards. 

“The most challenging aspect is nurturing successors. It typically takes over 10 years to train them, so you need people who are willing to continue the craft for a very long time,” Araki said. 

“When people start to feel joy along with the hardship that comes with making temari, they tend to keep going.” 
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KARACHI, Pakistan — Stained glass windows, a sweeping staircase and embellished interiors make Mohatta Palace a gem in Karachi, a Pakistani megacity of 20 million people. Peacocks roam the lawn and the sounds of construction and traffic melt away as visitors enter the grounds.

The pink stone balustrades, domes and parapets look like they’ve been plucked from the northern Indian state of Rajasthan, a relic of a time when Muslims and Hindus lived side by side in the port city.

But magnificence is no guarantee of survival in a city where land is scarce and development is rampant. Demolition, encroachment, neglect, piecemeal conservation laws and vandalism are eroding signs of Karachi’s past.

The building’s trustees have fended off an attempt to turn it into a dental college, but there’s still a decadeslong lawsuit in which heirs of a former owner are trying to take control of the land. It sat empty for almost two decades before formally opening as a museum in 1999.

The palace sits on prime real estate in the desirable neighborhood of Old Clifton, among mansions, businesses and upmarket restaurants.

The land under buildings like the Mohatta Palace is widely coveted, said palace lawyer Faisal Siddiqi. “It shows that greed is more important than heritage.”

Karachi’s population grows by around 2% every year and with dozens of communities and cultures competing for space there’s little effort to protect the city’s historic sites.

For most Pakistanis, the palace is the closest they’ll get to the architectural splendor of India’s Rajasthan, because travel restrictions and hostile bureaucracies largely keep people in either country from crossing the border for leisure, study or work.

Karachi’s multicultural past makes it harder to find champions for preservation than in a city like Lahore, with its strong connection to the Muslim-dominated Mughal Empire, said Heba Hashmi, a heritage manager and maritime archaeologist.

“The scale of organic local community support needed to prioritize government investment in the preservation effort is nearly impossible to garner in a city as socially fragmented as Karachi,” she said. 

Mohatta Palace is a symbol of that diversity. Hindu entrepreneur Shivratan Mohatta had it built in the 1920s because he wanted a coastal residence for his ailing wife to benefit from the Arabian Sea breeze. Hundreds of donkey carts carried the distinctively colored pink stone from Jodhpur, now across the border in India.

He left after partition in 1947, when India and Pakistan were carved from the former British Empire as independent nations, and for a time the palace was occupied by the Foreign Ministry.

Next, it passed into the hands of Pakistani political royalty as the home of Fatima Jinnah, the younger sister of Pakistan’s first leader and a powerful politician in her own right.

After her death, the authorities gave the building to her sister Shirin, but Shirin’s passing in 1980 sparked a court fight between people saying they were her relatives, and a court ordered the building sealed.

The darkened and empty palace, with its overgrown gardens and padlocked gates, caught people’s imagination. Rumors spread of spirits and supernatural happenings.

Someone who heard the stories as a young girl was Nasreen Askari, now the museum’s director.

“As a child I used to rush past,” she said. “I was told it was a bhoot (ghost) bungalow and warned, don’t go there.”

Visitor Ahmed Tariq had heard a lot about the palace’s architecture and history. “I’m from Bahawalpur (in Punjab, India) where we have the Noor Mahal palace, so I wanted to look at this one. It’s well-maintained, there’s a lot of detail and effort in the presentations. It’s been a good experience.”

But the money to maintain the palace isn’t coming from admission fees.

General admission is 30 rupees, or 10 U.S. cents, and it’s free for students, children and seniors. On a sweltering afternoon, the palace drew just a trickle of visitors.

It’s open Tuesday to Sunday but closes on public holidays; even the 11 a.m.-6 p.m. hours are not conducive for a late-night city like Karachi.

The palace is rented out for corporate and charitable events. Local media report that residents grumble about traffic and noise levels.

But the palace doesn’t welcome all attention, even if it could help carve out a space for the building in modern Pakistan.

Rumors about ghosts still spread by TikTok, pulling in influencers looking for spooky stories. But the palace bans filming inside, and briefly banned TikTokers.

“It is not the attention the trustees wanted,” said Askari. “That’s what happens when you have anything of consequence or unusual. It catches the eye.”

A sign on the gates also prohibits fashion shoots, weddings and filming for commercials.

“We could make so much money, but the floodgates would open,” said Askari. “There would be non-stop weddings and no space for visitors or events, so much cleaning up as well.”

Hashmi, the archaeologist, said there is often a strong sense of territorialism around the sites that have been preserved.

“It counterproductively converts a site of public heritage into an exclusive and often expensive artifact for selective consumption.” 
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PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA — Nhem Liza made her first visit to the National Museum of Cambodia after learning about the August return from the United States of dozens of looted Cambodian artifacts, including important Hindu and Buddhist masterpieces dating from the ninth to 14th centuries.

“Those artifacts are amazing,” said 15-year-old Nhem, a 10th grade Phnom Penh high school student.

The return of the statues — viewed as divine or containing the souls of ancestors — has given younger Cambodians like Nhem an opportunity to embrace the country’s cultural heritage and history.

“I am excited to see these artifacts our government is trying to get back,” she told VOA on September 16 after viewing some of objects now on display at the museum.

Cambodia has worked for years to identify and secure the return of culturally and historically important relics from private collections and museums overseas, many of which were lost to the country because of war, theft and the illegal artifact trade.

Cambodia faced continuous civil unrest from the mid-1960s until the early 1990s and archeological sites from the ancient Khmer Empire, such as Angkor Wat and Koh Ker, suffered serious damage and widespread looting, Cambodian officials told VOA Khmer.

In August, Cambodia celebrated the return of 70 items from museums and private collections overseas, including 14 from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The objects include priceless stone statues such as one depicting a mythical warrior from the Hindu epic Mahabharata. There are also statues of Hindu deities Shiva and Parvati, and one of the Hindu god Ardhanarishvara from the ancient capital of Koh Ker, according to Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts.

Presiding over the return ceremony, Prime Minister Hun Manet said the 70 returned objects symbolically reunited the Cambodian people with their “ancestral souls,” adding that the government will continue working to bring more artifacts home.

From 1996 to July of this year, 1,098 artifacts had been returned to Cambodia — 571 from private collections and 527 from foreign institutions and governments, Hun said.

“It is the soul of our nation,” Doeun Sokun Aly, 18, told VOA at the museum. “The heroes of our country built those artifacts for the younger generation to know about those antiques. … I will visit museums more to see more artifacts.”

National Museum Director Chhay Visoth told VOA the display is meant to stir new interest from Cambodians, especially younger Cambodians.

“Recently, we have seen a surprising increase of Cambodian visitors to the museum, especially youth,” he said by phone this week.

The authorities, he said, are now planning to conduct a “mobile exhibition” to display the artifacts at museums in provinces such as Siem Reap, Battambang and Pursat, in the northwestern part of the country.

Chhay said the museum also hopes the display will send a message to private collectors and museums overseas that “those artifacts are greatly important” and “not for beautifying gardens, kitchens, living rooms, residents or offices of the rich.”

“For Cambodians, they are meaningful indeed. Those artifacts are the souls of Khmer ancestors,” he said.

Chhay added that the museum is already planning to expand its display area to accommodate more returned artifacts.

Over the years, Cambodia has received dozens of statues from the families of wealthy collectors, such as George Lindemann, a U.S. businessman and philanthropist who died in 2018.

In 2021, after three years of negotiations, the family of the late British art collector Douglas Latchford agreed to return more than 100 Cambodian artifacts, according to the government.

Latchford, who co-authored three books on Cambodian art and antiques, died in 2020 facing accusations that he had illegally trafficked the artifacts to his homes in Bangkok and London.

In November 2019, federal prosecutors in New York charged Latchford with falsifying the provenance, invoices and shipping documents to transport valuable Khmer-era relics to private collections, museums and auction houses around the world.

Other cultural objects that have found their way back to Cambodia went through processes including voluntary returns, negotiations, seizures and legal proceedings.

The United States has helped secure the return of well over 150 antiques to Cambodia so far, Wesley Holzer, a U.S. Embassy spokesperson in Phnom Penh said.

“The United States is proud of its longstanding contributions to preserving and restoring Cambodia’s cultural heritage,” he told VOA in an email, adding that Cambodia is the first country in Southeast Asia to establish a bilateral property repatriation memorandum of understanding with the U.S.

“Through this MOU, the United States and Cambodia have trained heritage professionals, prevented pillaging of antiquities, and facilitated the return of looted artifacts. This agreement also makes it illegal to import certain Cambodian archeological and ethnological material into the United States,” he added.

Bradley Gordon, a lawyer representing Cambodian government, said there were “many more” that his team are searching for.

“To be clear, Cambodia does not want to empty out museums around the world, but wants many important and precious national treasures to come home.   Cambodia also is open to long-term loans which they are exploring with a number of museums,” he added.

A member of Gordon’s restitution team, Cambodian researcher Kunthea Chhoun, said getting the artifacts back is not easy.

“We need to investigate and collect testimonies from looters, villagers and brokers.  It takes a great amount of patience and many interviews.   We have used different approaches to get back our artifacts and it has taken many years,” she told VOA in a September 20 email. 
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