Lurik, an indigenous Javanese handwoven fabric, was all but forgotten several decades ago. It’s now experiencing a revival thanks to community projects, cottage industries and a few fashion designers who are anxious to preserve this bit of their heritage. Yogyakarta-based writer Linda Hoffman explores the lurik weaving culture.


It’s high time that Yogyakarta let the rest of the world in on yet another of its mysterious secrets. There’s an indigenous handwoven cloth here that predates the popularity of batik. Who knew?

The striped cloth of the jackets worn by Keraton (palace) officials in both Yogya and Solo, called lurik, was once fervently handwoven in villages throughout Java. But by the 1970s, lurik had fallen out of fashion, to be replaced by cheaper, more modern factory-made fabrics. Many traditional weavers turned to other ways of earning their livelihoods, leaving behind centuries of culture. Today, thanks to a new generation actively cultivating their heritage, lurik is experiencing a renaissance in several interesting ways and one day may be as identifiable with Yogya as batik is.

For young entrepreneurs Ibus Endang and Eci,  the traditional cloth became the focus of their business because they like what it represents.

“Lurik is for everyone,” they say. “Unlike batik, which originated in the palace, lurik always belonged to the people. Even though some motifs were worn only by the Keraton it was always a cloth worn by regular people in their daily lives.”

Lurik is doing its part to preserve this ancient tradition by designing and producing modern products made from lurik – bags, sandals, a few clothing items and toys – that appeal to today’s shoppers. They sell through craft shows, particularly in Jakarta, which has an abundance of foreign visitors who appreciate traditional fabrics.


Nobody really knows when weaving began in Indonesia or how it came here, but it is documented that the archipelago has a long history in this particular art. Skillful weavers, always women, once had a particularly high social status; in some areas of the country, only noblewomen were permitted to weave. References to a horizontal striped cloth are made in ancient Javanese Hindu inscriptions dating back to the Mataram Empire in 851–852 AD; folklore and shadow puppet plays also contain legends referring to weaving. Alternatively, according to Threads of Life in Bali, an internationally recognized organization dedicated to sustaining Indonesia’s textile arts, batik probably originated in Java with a rice-paste technique but did not begin to develop until the invention of the canting (the wax “drawing” tool) in the 17th century.

Initially, all Indonesian textiles were woven on back-strap looms, so named because the tension on the threads is controlled by a strap fitted across the weaver’s back. The back-strap loom was replaced by the more efficient pedal-driven, non-mechanical loom at the beginning of the 20th century, so today the back-strap variety is seen only in isolated villages. As in days gone by, today’s village women still weave to make clothing for their families or to earn extra income only when the household chores are done, the crops are harvested and family duties allow free time. Frequently they are forced to sell their cloth to middlemen for a pittance because they cannot afford trips to the nearest market, where they could get a better price.

So what makes lurik unique amid all the other types of weaving? The answer, as with all things Javanese, is multifaceted: What you see on the surface is not exactly all there is to the story.

While the ikat cloths woven in eastern Indonesia are distinctive because of a special technique of tying the threads to form motifs before the threads are dyed, they are nevertheless woven in the same manner as lurik. The songket of the Minangkabau in Sumatra is also woven similarly, except it has supplementary weft threads in silver or gold.

Is it the striped motifs that make a fabric lurik? Not really. Although stripes are most readily identified as lurik, there are other motifs, such as a checkered pattern, more contemporary, regional designs such as raindrops and a plain cloth with no design at all, that are also called lurik.

Here’s where the Javanese complexity comes into play. According to Yogya-based Ninik Darmawan, a top Indonesian fashion designer who has been instrumental in reviving the fabric, lurik-making is a culture in and of itself.

“It’s a process of the mind and heart,” Ninik says. “Weaving lurik requires discipline, patience, neatness and dedication. It cannot be done carelessly; it must be done properly to get good results.”

Ninik believes that high-quality lurik is a reflection of good community culture and that reestablishing traditional lurik weaving can even rebuild that culture.

She cites an example of a village in the Yogya region that is producing lurik with earthquake relief aid money to provide jobs for local women. The weavers were given the chance to freely express themselves so are using modern colors and non-traditional motifs. They are now exporting this contemporary lurik, so the project is considered an economic success. But, according to Ninik, the quality is not good: Dyes run, patterns are not even and edges of the cloths are not straight. Ninik says this is because the village did not incorporate the “spirit” of lurik: patience, discipline, dedication and neatness. She believes that if the weavers had been instructed in the cultural aspect of lurik first, they would produce a better quality product.

Ninik expands her explanation of what lurik really is by adding, “It’s actually a reflection of Javanese life: cool, not too showy, simple, down-to-earth. The primary motif – stripes – isn’t too complicated.”

Non-Javanese observers could add to her description “simple on the exterior … but complex in reality”, which the Javanese accept without question but outsiders find enigmatic. Because, in addition to the spirit of lurik that Ninik insists must be employed in its making, there are the meanings behind the motifs to consider.

The width of the individual stripes and their arrangement in groupings are symbolic and are interrelated with Javanese philosophy. Some motifs are reserved for religious rituals and traditional ceremonies. The colors or combination of hues also carry different meanings. For example, when used together, green and white denote sanctity. As the colors of Nyai Loro Kidul, the fabled goddess of the South Sea, lurik with green and white motifs is used in offering ceremonies on Parangtritis beach.

Does the general public appreciate the spirit of lurik in Ninik’s designs? “Not yet,” she says. So she adds Javanese elements as a way of educating them. Included in her Jakarta Fashion Week 2008 collection were modern adaptations of the kebaya, the traditional blouse favored by Javanese women. Shoes and hairstyles were reminiscent of Java and, of course, music from this area was incorporated.

Embracing the very essence of the lurik culture is a group of five women who formed Yogya’s LAWE four years ago. Their dedication to reviving this ancient weaving tradition and combining it with women’s empowerment programs has produced amazing results for such a young group of women embarking on a new enterprise.

“We chose lurik as the basis for our project,” says co-founder Ibu Nindyah, “because it is rich with symbolism that embodies our philosophy: eternal life, hope, happiness and willingness to face challenges.”

Believing that teaching women skills that will help them earn money while raising their children will produce a healthier, better educated next generation, sales of LAWE products – which include stationery supplies, bags and interior elements – help fund their projects. Out of a group of 45 women in a Yogya community in partnership with Rifka Annisa Women’s Crisis Center supplemented by post-earthquake aid from the UNDP and the Global Environment Facility, three LAWE “trainees” now create their own designs, have their own label and recently participated in the Bantul Handicrafts Expo in southern Yogyakarta.

In Imogiri and Pakualaman (near Yogya) in conjunction with the Yogya District Rotary Club, in Giriloyo partnering with the Yogya Heritage Society, and as far afield as Narmada, Lombok, the nine staff members of LAWE are training women in fine sewing skills and design and marketing to help them rise out of poverty. With every success for LAWE comes the opportunity for the word to spread to other women that there is hope for a better future.

LAWE’s philosophy echoes Lurik Lurik’s and Ninik Darmawan’s: If lurik can be used in ways that appeal to today’s consumers, it is a win–win situation all round. The cloth is vibrant once again and its heritage is preserved; its underlying Javanese character is alive and spreading through communities; women have skills and work and are paid fair prices; and the businesses that support them can survive. What more could any simple, down-to-earth cloth ask for?