Photo essay: How a Lebanese hat maker is keeping an ancient skill alive

Youssef Akiki says the process of making wool labbadeh has links to the ancient Phoenicians

Hat maker Youssef Akiki inspects traditional labbadeh hats at his workshop. All photos: AFP

Akiki works in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province, high in Lebanon's rugged mountains

Akiki is one of the last craftsmen practising the 1,000-year-old art of making wool caps

Akiki grabs handfuls of sun-dried sheep's wool from his stock to be shaped into hats

The ancient process transforms the wool into a felt-like fabric

Akiki cleaning and processing wool

The process is labour intensive and Akiki says he can make 'three labbadehs in one day, at most'

Preparing to shape a traditional labbadeh hat using olive soap

Akiki uses Aleppo soap, which includes olive oil and laurel leaf extracts

Akiki shaping a hat

Although the hats are practical and warm, few people wear them today

The hats are more often bought by tourists or Lebanese people nostalgic for times past

Hatmaker Youssef Akiki leaves his recently-finished Lebanese wool hats known as "Labbadeh" out in the sun to dry outside his workshop in the mountain village of Hrajel in Keserwan-Jbeil province on February 14, 2023. - High in Lebanon's rugged mountains, Akiki is among the last practising the thousand-year-old skill of making warm wool caps once worn by mountaineers during the snows of winter. (Photo by JOSEPH EID / AFP)

Akiki and members of his family. He hopes to keep the hat-making tradition alive by teaching his nephews

High in Lebanon's rugged mountains, hat maker Youssef Akiki is among the last artisans practising the 1,000-year-old skill of making the traditional warm woollen caps once widely worn against the icy winter chill.

Akiki believes he may be the last commercial maker of the sheep's wool "labbadeh", a name derived from the Arabic for felt, or "labd", a waterproof and warm cap coloured off-white, grey, brown or black.

"The elders of the village make their own labbadehs", says Akiki, 60. The craftsman, from the snow-covered village of Hrajel, perched more than 1,200 metres up in the hills overlooking Lebanon's Mediterranean coast, says that making the hats is a careful process.

After drying sheep's wool in the sun, he moulds it with his hands using water and Aleppo soap, which includes olive oil and laurel leaf extracts, to turn it into felt.

"It helps the wool shrink, so it becomes malleable, like dough", he says, showing his hands, rough with years of work. It is a slow process that allows him to fashion "three labbadehs in one day, at most", he says.

Although the hats are practical and warm, few people wear them today. Those buying the caps are mainly tourists, or Lebanese nostalgic for their childhood, and they often buy them not to wear but to display at home.

"The state should guarantee us markets and places to exhibit," he says. Income from the hat trade is not enough to survive on and Akiki also works as a farmer, especially given the economic crisis that has gripped Lebanon in recent years. Lebanon's economic turmoil has left many struggling to make ends meet, and the poverty rate has reached 80 per cent of the population, according to the UN.

Akiki believes the labbadeh design is rooted in the caps worn by the ancient Phoenicians, although their style was "more elongated". Today, to encourage more customers, he is dabbling with more modern designs and, to keep the skills alive, is training his nephews in the time-honoured craft.