I used to think broom-making was just bundling sticks together until you had something vaguely sweepable.
Turns out, the craft of traditional Uzbek broom-making—called supurgi in some regions—is this whole intricate system passed down through generations, mostly by grandmothers who’d smack your hand if you tied the binding wrong. The materials matter more than you’d expect: chiy grass from the steppes, sorghum stalks from summer harvests, sometimes willow branches if you’re near the Amu Darya river basin. Each region has its preferences, and honestly, people get weirdly territorial about which plant makes the superior broom. I’ve seen arguments at bazaars in Samarkand that lasted longer than some marriage negotiations. The binding techniques vary too—some families use strips of leather, others prefer cotton twine soaked in water to shrink-tight as it dries, and a few stubborn holdouts in Khorezm still use sheep gut, which sounds medieval but apparently lasts decades if you treat it right.
Wait—maybe I should back up. The whole process starts months before you actually assemble anything. Harvesting chiy grass happens in late summer, August through September, when the stalks are dry but not brittle.
The Geometry of Binding: Why Your Grandmother’s Knots Actually Matter for Longevity
Here’s the thing about broom construction: the angle of the binding determines how long the tool survives. Traditional Uzbek methods use a spiral wrap technique, starting roughly 15 centimeters from the bristle ends and working upward in overlapping loops. The tension has to be consistent—too tight and the natural plant fibers crack under stress, too loose and the whole thing unravels after a week of use. I guess it’s similar to braiding hair, except the consequences of failure mean you’re sweeping with a fistful of loose straw like some kind of agricultural disaster. Master craftswomen (and it’s mostly women, though some men have entered the trade in recent years) can tie off a broom in under four minutes. I’ve watched Bibigul-opa in Bukhara’s old quarter do it while simultaneously arguing with her daughter about wedding arrangements and keeping an eye on simmering plov. The multitasking was honestly more impressive than the broom itself.
The handle attachment is where things get controversial. Some families insist on drilling a hole through the wooden handle and threading the binding through it. Others wrap externally and seal with pine resin heated over coals.
Why Sorghum Stalks from the Fergana Valley Command Premium Prices at Tashkent Markets
Economics enter the picture when you realize certain materials have developed regional reputations. Fergana Valley sorghum, for instance, grows in soil with specific mineral content—higher silica levels, apparently, which creates stiffer bristles that don’t bend as easily. Vendors at Chorsu Bazaar charge 20-30% more for verified Fergana stalks versus generic alternatives from Jizzakh province. Is the difference detectable in actual sweeping performance? Probably not to casual users, but the prestige economy around craft materials is its own weird ecosystem. I used to think this was just marketing until I spoke with Rustam-aka, a third-generation broom-maker in Margilan, who could identify the growing region of sorghum by rubbing a stalk between his fingers. He was right four out of five times in my informal test, which was unnerving. The whole thing reminded me of wine sommeliers, except the product costs three dollars and ends up covered in courtyard dust.
The Dying Art of Decorative Broom Tops: When Household Tools Become Folk Art Objects
Some families—particularly in rural areas south of Termez—still practice decorative broom-making, where the handle top gets carved or the binding incorporates dyed wool in geometric patterns. These aren’t meant for daily use; they’re ceremonial gifts for new households or symbolic offerings during Navruz celebrations. The patterns follow old Sogdian design principles: repeating diamonds, stylized pomegranate motifs, occasionally abstracted bird shapes that might represent swallows or might represent the maker’s vague recollection of what swallows look like. Anthropologists have documented roughly 40 distinct regional pattern vocabularies, give or take, though younger generations are forgetting the symbolic meanings. My colleague Dilnoza showed me a broom her great-grandmother made in 1960-something with indigo-dyed bindings arranged in a pattern that supposedly wards off envious neighbors. Whether it works is debatable, but the craftsmanship was genuinely beautiful—tight enough that you could barely see the underlying plant structure, the dye still vibrant after decades hanging in a storage shed. Anyway, these decorated brooms rarely get used, which defeats the purpose but preserves the artistry.
The craft is fading, obviously. Plastic brooms cost less and last longer if you don’t care about tradition or environmental impact. But I’ve noticed a minor revival among younger Uzbeks interested in sustainable living and cultural preservation—mostly urban types who’ve never actually made a broom but enjoy the aesthetics. Which is fine, I guess, though I wonder if Instagram-driven craft revivals can sustain actual knowledge transfer or if we’re just watching the aestheticized death of practical skills.
