Wild Silk, the Landibe Moth, and the Shrouds of the Highlands

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By Jordan Lamont · Last updated 7 October 2026

Say it like a local: landibe (lan-DEE-beh) — the wild silkworm; lamba mena (LAM-ba MEH-na) — “red cloth,” the silk shroud.

In the highlands of Madagascar, silk is not for dresses or ties. It is the cloth you are buried in. For centuries, Malagasy families have wrapped their dead in thick wild-silk shrouds, woven from an endemic moth that lives on a single kind of tree — and the making of that cloth binds together a forest, a tradition, and the deepest beliefs about the ancestors. This is one of the island’s most quietly profound crafts.

The moth that spins the thread

Madagascar’s silk does not come from the Asian mulberry silkworm but from a wild, endemic moth: landibe (Borocera cajani). Its cocoons yield a silk quite unlike the smooth thread of China — thicker, coarser, richly textured. It is so different that US customs officials have reportedly mistaken landibe silk for cotton. The caterpillars feed above all on the tapia tree (Uapaca bojeri), a fire-resistant highland species, which ties the whole craft to a specific, threatened forest.

The red cloth of the dead

The most important thing woven from this silk is the lamba mena — literally “red cloth,” though the name signals prestige and ancestral status rather than a literal colour. It is a burial shroud. Highlanders wrap their dead in it, and during famadihana, the “turning of the bones,” families wrap the exhumed remains of ancestors in a fresh layer of silk. Many elderly Malagasy keep a silk shroud ready for their own death. To be wrapped in landibe silk is to be dressed for the company of the ancestors — the single most important journey a person makes.

Women, weaving, and a sustainable harvest

The craft is largely in women’s hands, and around Ambalavao in the southern highlands it survives as a genuinely sustainable tradition. Weavers gather wild cocoons from the tapia forests — often after the moths have naturally emerged, so the next generation is not destroyed — and spin and weave a durable, beautiful cloth. It is a rare example of a craft, a culture and a conservation interest pulling in the same direction: protect the tapia forest, and you protect the silk, the moth and the tradition at once. It stands beside Ambalavao’s other famous craft, Antemoro paper.

A fading thread

The tradition is under strain. Madagascar’s silk-cocoon harvest, once around 100 tonnes in 1902, had fallen to roughly 43 tonnes by 2009, as the tapia forests shrink and rural economies change. A cloth that has clothed the Malagasy dead for centuries is now, quietly, endangered — which is why buying genuine, sustainably made wild silk directly from highland weavers matters more than ever.

Why it matters today

Wild silk ties together the forest, the loom and the tomb — few crafts anywhere carry such weight. Understanding it deepens any encounter with Malagasy beliefs about death and the ancestors. If you want to bring home something truly meaningful, see our guide to authentic Malagasy crafts and buy from the weavers themselves.

FAQ

What is landibe?

The endemic Malagasy wild silkmoth (Borocera cajani), whose cocoons yield a thick, textured silk — so unlike Asian silk that it has been mistaken for cotton.

What is a lamba mena?

A silk burial shroud of the highlands. “Lamba mena” means “red cloth,” but refers to the cloth’s prestige and ancestral status rather than a literal colour.

Why is silk tied to death in Madagascar?

Highlanders wrap their dead in wild-silk shrouds, and add a fresh silk layer during famadihana, the “turning of the bones” — silk is the fabric of the ancestors.

Where is it woven?

Notably around Ambalavao in the southern highlands, where women weave wild silk from the region’s tapia forests.