July 25, 2025 – 10:56 AM

In a rapidly modernizing corner of Hong Kong, one woman continues to carve out a living—literally—from a centuries-old tradition. Ho Sau-Mei, one of the last hand-carving mahjong tile artisans in the city, works from a tiny storefront in Hung Hom, surrounded by high-rise developments and passing double-decker buses. But her presence stands as a testament to cultural endurance in a time of change.

A life dedicated to tradition

At 68, Ho’s hands remain steady, though the years have taken their toll. “My eyesight is fading, and my hands are sore,” she admits, eyes fixed on the tiny plastic tile beneath her carving tool. Each tile—no bigger than a postage stamp—is hand-etched with intricate Chinese characters or delicate floral patterns, part of the 144-piece set central to the beloved Chinese game mahjong.

Ho’s dedication to the craft spans over five decades. She began learning at 13 under her father, who founded Kam Fat Mahjong in 1962. During Hong Kong’s manufacturing boom in the 1970s and 80s, visiting master craftsmen shared skills and passed along techniques. Today, Ho is not only one of the last remaining artisans but the only woman still practicing the trade in Hong Kong.

The game behind the craft

Mahjong is more than a game—it is a cultural ritual across Chinese communities. Played with four players, it’s often compared to rummy. Families gather during the Lunar New Year to play, and among older generations, it remains a daily pastime. Its appeal spans entertainment and tradition.

Historically, mahjong tiles were handcrafted from bamboo, bone, or ivory. Carvers would cut, polish, engrave, and hand-paint each piece. But times have changed. Today, most tiles are mass-produced in factories in mainland China, sold online for as little as $10.

In 2014, Hong Kong’s government listed mahjong tile carving as part of its “intangible cultural heritage,” an effort to preserve traditional crafts. Yet few artisans remain.

A vanishing trade in a transforming city

From her dimly lit shop on Bulkeley Street, Ho’s world is no more than two meters wide. A faded glass display case rises to the ceiling, filled with novelty tile sets and old photos. A small shrine glows quietly in the background as Ho carves, the street noise blending into her focused rhythm.

Her routine hasn’t changed much, even as skyscrapers have replaced many old businesses around her. By 10 a.m., she’s seated at her shop, tools laid out, ready to work. These days, she only works a few hours in the morning. “I don’t have the stamina anymore,” she says. “But I’d be bored if I stopped completely.”

A full mahjong set, priced at around $245, takes her 10 to 14 days to finish. Every piece is meticulously shaped and carved by hand, a process involving a set of specialized tools. One tool resembles a large corkscrew used to drill dot patterns; others vary in tip and size to create different strokes.

After engraving, Ho uses vintage glass jars of red, green, and blue paint to fill in the etched designs. “Don’t go away, this part is fast,” she says with a grin, brushing color across the tiles with practiced ease.

A fully analogue business

Despite her remarkable craftsmanship, Ho operates without a website or digital ordering system. Orders are taken by phone or in person, and she logs them in a tattered notebook with no structure or tracking. When a British customer calls to check on an order, Ho needs help translating—and flipping through pages of scribbled notes to confirm the delivery status.

“I can’t keep up with the orders,” she says. “I’m not a machine. It’s really down to luck and timing.”

Once the tiles are painted and left to dry, she starts closing shop for the day. “I’m still a woman,” she jokes. “I have groceries to buy and a house to run.”

Modern pressures and changing times

Hong Kong’s transformation from a manufacturing hub to a financial center in the 1990s reshaped its economic landscape. Today, machine-carved tiles dominate the market, especially from mainland producers. Even the licensed mahjong parlor near Ho’s shop uses factory-made sets.

While Ho once played mahjong frequently with family, she rarely has time now. Sometimes, old friends invite her to join games—but most of her hours are spent alone, focused on her craft.

She doesn’t plan to pass her knowledge down. “I was never interested in teaching,” Ho says plainly. Over the years, cultural organizations and artists have approached her about mentorship and demonstrations, but she always declined. “I work at my own pace. That’s how I like it.”

Despite this, Ho regularly welcomes curious visitors—journalists, students, and tourists—eager to document her rare skill. “People are becoming more aware of this dying craft,” she acknowledges. “That’s good.”

Still, her hands ache more now. Her vision blurs more easily. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she admits. “But as long as I can still hold the tools, I’ll keep going.”

A fading but enduring legacy

Every morning, Ho returns to her stool, laying out her tools and tiles. She continues carving by hand what most machines now mass-produce. With each stroke, she preserves a piece of Hong Kong’s heritage.

Even if no apprentice steps in, her work leaves a lasting impression—not only on the tiles she creates, but on the cultural fabric of the city.

Source: CNN – The game is almost over for one of Hong Kong’s last mahjong carvers

The post The Last Hand-Carved Mahjong Tiles in Hong Kong appeared first on Journos News - Breaking News, World News, Top Stories, Todays Headlines and Flash Reports.

In a small town in eastern Germany, Anke Hanusch delicately dips her tool into dark blue wax, carefully dotting it onto a yellow-dyed Easter egg. Back and forth, wax to egg, egg to wax, as the intricate honeycomb pattern emerges. This is not just a simple decoration – it’s a symbol of tradition, a cherished practice passed down through generations of the Sorbian community.

The Sorbs, a Slavic-speaking ethnic group in Germany, have been decorating Easter eggs for over a thousand years. The eggs are more than just festive decor; they carry deep cultural significance. The honeycomb motif, for instance, is often used to create eggs that are given as gifts from godparents to their godchildren, symbolizing diligence and a strong work ethic.

The Sorbs, descendants of Slavic tribes who settled in Germany about 1,500 years ago, number around 60,000 today, primarily residing in the federal states of Saxony and Brandenburg. For this small but proud community, Easter is the most important holiday of the year.

“It’s a time when people travel home to be with family and celebrate together,” said Stephanie Bierholdt, an employee at the Sorbian Cultural Center in Schleife, a town located just 10 miles from the Polish border. “The best part is seeing that the tradition is still alive in families today.”

On April 6, ahead of the Easter holiday, Bierholdt, Hanusch, and other members of the Sorbian community gathered at the cultural center to celebrate their heritage. The event featured traditional Easter egg decorating, folk costumes, songs, and dances – all part of the rich Sorbian culture that dates back to the Middle Ages.

Hanusch, dressed in the red folk costume worn by unmarried Sorbian women, was among over 30 artisans selling their beautifully decorated Easter eggs. Prices ranged from 7 euros ($7.72) for a simple chicken egg to 90 euros ($99.28) for a painted emu egg. The decorating process is meticulous, with some designs taking up to six hours to complete.

The techniques used by the artisans are varied and intricate. Whether it’s using a needle or a goose feather quill to draw fine patterns, the level of detail is astonishing. While the global bird flu outbreak has led to higher egg prices and some shortages, the artisans note that their craft is still going strong, with many sourcing eggs directly from farmers rather than supermarkets.

Hanusch, who comes from a Sorbian family on her father’s side, has been decorating Easter eggs since she was just two years old. “When you can first hold a pencil, that’s when you start,” she said. Though many children only practice the craft during the Easter season, Hanusch continued through her childhood and eventually became a teacher, passing on the tradition to others, including her niece.

“I believe it’s a valuable cultural asset that needs to be preserved,” she added. “It would be a shame if this tradition were to fade away.”

The dedication of the Sorbian community to keeping their cultural practices alive is evident in their efforts to teach the next generation. Through the craft of Easter egg decorating, they honor their history, their language, and their identity. For Hanusch and many others, this tradition is not just about making beautiful eggs – it’s about ensuring that their culture continues to thrive for centuries to come.

As Easter approaches, the decorated eggs serve as a reminder of the timeless beauty and significance of the Sorbian community’s traditions, and the bond that ties generations together through a shared cultural heritage.

Source: AP News – These Easter eggs have been decorated by the Sorbian community for thousands of years

The post The Sorbian Tradition of Decorating Easter Eggs for Over 1,000 Years appeared first on Journos News - Breaking News, World News, Top Stories, Todays Headlines and Flash Reports.

When you step into the serene grounds of Katsuo-ji Temple, one of Japan’s most beloved landmarks, you can’t help but notice the sea of Daruma dolls scattered across the hillside. From the towering figures peering out from between tree branches to smaller versions perched on altars, these iconic red dolls are impossible to miss.

Located in the scenic Minoh National Park, just an hour outside Osaka, Katsuo-ji Temple has long been associated with success and victory. The temple’s history stretches over 1,300 years, and for the past century, it has been home to thousands of these talismans, which have become a cherished symbol of perseverance and good fortune across Japan.

Katsuo-ji is affectionately known as the “Daruma Temple”—a name that dates back about 100 years, when the temple began selling these lucky charms. The Daruma doll, a vibrant reminder of Japan’s culture and traditions, represents Bodhidharma, the 5th-century monk who founded Zen Buddhism. Legend has it that Bodhidharma meditated for years so intensely that he lost his limbs, an image captured in the doll’s rounded, weighted form that always returns upright when toppled—symbolizing resilience and unwavering determination.

For centuries, Katsuo-ji has been a spiritual retreat for emperors, shoguns, and ordinary people alike, all seeking blessings for victory in battles, exams, and business ventures. Even today, locals flock to the temple before major events, such as exams or important meetings, hoping for a boost of luck.

Unlike other lucky charms that promise wishes granted with little effort, the Daruma doll encourages an active role in achieving one’s goals. According to Marco Fasano, an Italian tour guide and founder of Tanuki Stories, the process of acquiring a Daruma is an interactive ritual that goes beyond simply making a wish.

“First, you think of a goal you want to accomplish, then you write your wish on the doll and paint one eye. You purify the Daruma with incense before taking it home with you,” Fasano explains. The key to the Daruma is constant reflection: every time you look at it, you’re reminded of your goal and asked, “What can I do today to get closer to achieving this?” The second eye is filled in only once the goal is achieved—a powerful symbol of hard work paying off.

Fasano’s own experience with the Daruma was deeply personal, having visited Katsuo-ji before taking his Japanese Language Proficiency Test. He emphasizes that the process isn’t just about passive hope—it’s about taking action.

“When you see so many people returning to the temple with completed goals, it’s a tangible reminder that you too can achieve your dreams if you put in the effort,” he says.

The Daruma doll’s distinct look—a round body, scowling face, and wide eyes—holds a wealth of symbolism. It’s not just about resilience. The doll’s thick eyebrows and beard represent cranes and turtles, animals revered for their association with longevity and good fortune in Japan. The bright red color further amplifies its auspicious significance, as red is considered a color of protection.

Beyond Katsuo-ji, Daruma dolls are also deeply embedded in other parts of Japan, including nearby Kyoto’s Hōrin-ji Temple, known as “Darumadera.” However, the heart of Daruma production lies in Takasaki, a town in the Gunma Prefecture, where about 80% of the dolls are crafted. The tradition there goes back over 200 years, with the Shorinzan Daruma-ji Temple starting the practice of selling them over two centuries ago.

At Katsuo-ji, visitors can choose between two types of Daruma: the Kachi-Daruma, or “winning Daruma,” for those setting specific goals, and the Daruma-Mikuji, or “fortune-telling Daruma,” unique to this temple. Instead of painting eyes, those who choose a Daruma-Mikuji ask a question before selecting their doll, which contains a scroll offering guidance to help them along their journey.

Despite the influx of millions of visitors to Japan each year, Katsuo-ji remains a somewhat hidden treasure. While Osaka is a bustling hub for tourists, the temple sees far fewer visitors compared to the likes of Asakusa Senso-Ji in Tokyo, which attracts around 30 million people annually. Katsuo-ji’s annual visitor count hovers between 800,000 and 1 million, with a significant portion of those visitors coming from overseas.

Fasano, who has lived in Osaka since 2023, believes that the city and its surrounding areas deserve more attention from tourists. “Osaka is often underrated. People think there’s nothing to do, but there are so many unique spots, like Katsuo-ji, that offer a richer cultural experience,” he says.

To attract more visitors and offer a deeper connection with the Daruma tradition, Katsuo-ji introduced a creative “stamp rally” in May 2024. This activity encourages visitors to explore the temple grounds, collecting stamps at six checkpoints that form an image—a metaphor for goal-setting, one step at a time.

For visitors, purchasing a Daruma at Katsuo-ji adds a layer of meaning to the experience. “Buying a Daruma here feels more powerful than picking one up in a random shop,” Fasano reflects. “It’s a reminder that achieving your goals is a journey—and you have to be intentional about each step.”

Daruma dolls have evolved into one of Japan’s most beloved souvenirs, symbolizing not just luck, but a call to action and perseverance. At Katsuo-ji, surrounded by the whispers of centuries-old prayers and the encouragement of countless others who have made their wishes, the Daruma doll becomes much more than a simple token. It serves as a companion in the quest for success—a reminder that while luck plays a part, true achievement requires effort, reflection, and determination.

Source: CNN – Daruma dolls are one of Japan’s most popular souvenirs. But where do they come from?

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