Madaba: In the Heart of the City of Mosaics

I had mentioned to Imad, our driver, that since Madaba was already on our itinerary, I’d love to stop somewhere and see if I could find a few things to take back home—not just anything, but the kind of souvenirs the internet said were part of the Jordan experience.
I had missed buying anything in Amman. Since I wasn’t returning to the city, I thought Madaba might be the perfect place to make up for it. Mosaic art was on that list, somewhere between spices and dates.

“Mosaic”—the word sounded familiar, but I’d never really stopped to think about what it meant. I knew nothing about how it was made, what it involved, or even why it mattered.

The only time I ever heard the word “mosaic” was during conversations at home—usually when my mom was talking about getting the bathroom redone or when someone came over and casually pointed out floor work. That was about it. I hadn’t connected it to art, or to anything particularly worth noticing.

But walking into that workshop changed that.

See, I used to collect rocks. Yes, actual rocks—from places I’d travelled. I’d write the name of the place on each one using a sketch pen and bring them back home. Some came from Quiraing, some from Giant’s Causeway, and others from the four furthest corners of Ireland—Mizen Head, Malin Head, Wicklow Head, Dunmore Head.

A few from England. A couple from Nepal. One or two from the Scottish Highlands. And, of course, from back home in India.

I did try to show them proudly, but it was just rocks. They sat on the thin strip of space in front of the books inside my father’s rusted steel almirah—the kind with glass shutters you had to pull up and slide back.

The shelves were filled with literature in Assamese, English, Hindi, and Nepali—some dating back to the 1970s.

And the rocks just sat there, names facing out, like quiet little keepsakes.

Until one day I opened the almirah again—and realised they all looked the same.

The names I had written had faded completely.

Worn off. Absorbed. Gone.

Now they just looked like regular pebbles sitting in front of books, no different from the ones you'd find on any roadside.

That was the end of my rock phase.

Since then, it’s been fridge magnets. At least the name of the place stays visible longer—printed neatly across a picture of the city skyline or some popular landmark. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll last decades. That’s good enough.

Still, even though I collect magnets without fail, I always keep an eye out for something more—something the place is known for, but you wouldn’t find in Dhemaji, my home.

Mosaics, it turned out, fit that category perfectly.

Mosaic art has a rich history, dating back to the 3rd millennium BCE in Mesopotamia, where artisans used stones, shells, and ivory to create intricate designs. The craft evolved through ancient Greece and Rome, reaching its zenith during the Byzantine Empire. The Byzantines, who considered themselves Romans, centered in Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul). They preserved Roman traditions and Christian faith, with their empire lasting until the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Byzantine mosaics are renowned for their intricate designs and religious significance, adorning churches and public buildings across the empire.

Madaba, often referred to as the "City of Mosaics," flourished during the Byzantine and Umayyad periods, becoming a renowned center for mosaic art. Its most celebrated piece, the Madaba Map, dates back to the 6th century AD and offers an extraordinary glimpse into the geography of the Holy Land during that era.

Later, when I visited the Greek Orthodox Church of St. George, I saw the map in person — once composed of over two million colored stone pieces. Though only a fragment survives today, it remains the oldest known geographic floor mosaic, created to guide pilgrims through a landscape of biblical cities, villages, and sacred landmarks.

Beyond its artistic significance, Madaba holds a special place in Christian history. Nearby Mount Nebo is traditionally believed to be the site where Moses viewed the Promised Land before his death. The Promised Land refers to the land promised by God to Abraham and his descendants, encompassing present-day Israel, Palestine, and surrounding regions. These biblical associations make Madaba a significant pilgrimage site for Christians.

Imad pulled over beside what looked like a plain, slightly worn-down house with a wide sign: Mosaic House Handicraft Centre.

It didn’t look like much from outside.

But the moment I stepped out, a middle-aged man in his late 40s emerged with a grin that stretched ear to ear. He greeted Imad warmly in Arabic, the kind of greeting that spoke of familiarity and hospitality.

Then he turned to me with the same wide smile, gesturing us inside.

The place didn’t open up into a showroom right away. Instead, I walked into a simple hall—and right there, on two separate tables, were two women seated, both working silently, heads bent low in concentration.

I slowed my steps, half in respect and half in curiosity, and let my eyes wander. The walls were hung with giant mosaic pieces—not prints or posters—real ones. You could see the slight unevenness in the surface, the grooves, the subtle mismatches that gave it all life.

The man began to give me a tour, leading me closer to the artisans. He explained that what I was witnessing was the indirect method of mosaic-making, a technique perfected over centuries in Jordan, particularly in Madaba. This method involves placing the tesserae—those tiny, colored stone pieces—face-down onto a temporary surface like paper or mesh. Once the entire design is assembled in reverse, it's transferred onto its final backing, and the adhesive paper is carefully removed, revealing the completed artwork.

I watched in awe as the artisans, using magnifying glasses and fine needles, meticulously positioned each tessera. These stones weren't just any pebbles; they were carefully selected for their color, texture, and origin. Jordan’s geology offered exactly what they needed—red sandstone from Ma’an, green serpentine rock from the hills of Tafila, and dark basalt from the area surrounding the Dead Sea.

It was mesmerizing to see how these artisans, with skills passed down through generations, could transform simple stones into intricate artworks. Some pieces were so detailed they fit into pendants, requiring magnification to appreciate their complexity. Others spanned entire walls, their elaborate designs telling stories of history, faith, and culture.

I ended up buying a few mosaic coasters with the Tree of Life and Black Iris—the national flower of Jordan—on them, something that will go with me to my home.

Before we left, Imad insisted I try on the Shemagh—a traditional Jordanian headscarf made of soft cotton, typically in a red and white checkered pattern. He folded it just right, placed it on my head, adjusted the wrap, and smiled.
“You’re Jordanian now,” he said.

I laughed, nodded, and didn’t take it off for the rest of the day till we reached Petra.
I bought that same Shemagh — not knowing then how useful it would turn out to be in Wadi Rum.

As I left the workshop, I kept thinking about the hands that placed those tiny stones, the eyes that saw patterns where most of us would just see color.
It wasn’t just art. It was memory, preserved in minerals and mortar.

And maybe, in a world moving as fast as ours, there’s something quietly powerful about a craft that insists on patience, on stillness, and on lasting far beyond the person who made it.