At Jordan’s first winery, travel writer Chiara Mapelli finds a winemaking heritage going back millennia—one that’s continued despite droughts, climate change, and geopolitical challenges. But the vineyard is about more than wine; for those who work there, it’s also about challenging perceptions of Jordan and ‘the Middle East’ as a whole.
“I would normally take visitors inside the vines and off the main path, but it’s snake season…” our sommelier and guide, Qussai Allouze tells us. Perhaps too casually, before glancing down to check if anyone is wearing sandals.
I’m at Haddad Estates, a family-run vineyard on the Mafraq Plateau in eastern Jordan, where the soil is volcanic, grapevines look way too lush for desert weather, and the footwear suddenly matters. It’s Jordan’s first winery, having opened in 1975 and now celebrating 50 years. Just eight miles from the Syrian border and near the newly designated UNESCO site of Umm el-Jimāl, the estate sits 2,750 feet (840 meters) above sea level on what was once forested land.
Today, its basalt-rich soil and abundant underground water make it fertile for agriculture—and, perhaps surprisingly in this predominantly Muslim corner of the Levant, for winemaking. With only two commercial wineries in Jordan—Zumot and Haddad—and wine tourism only in its early days, one thing’s clear: This won’t be your typical vineyard visit.
It’s a small group for today’s tour, a mix of foreigners and, importantly, locals. Ensuring Jordanians come on tours is key to the mission of JR Wines, the label from Haddad Estates, to make wine better known in Jordan. With 85 percent of their sales domestic and just 15 percent international, wine culture here is, as Qussai, a former bartender, puts it, “in its teenage phase: Not quite here, not quite there.”
“Yet wine has always been a thing in Jordan,” says his colleague Essa Gergeis, whose first name means Jesus in Arabic. “Some even believe the wine at the Last Supper came from here. We’re just trying to reignite that cultural excitement.” I chuckle, my fear of snakes slithering away. If Essa can fill his namesake’s shoes and turn drought-stricken Jordan into a land of luxuriant vines, I’m all in.
Wine making in Jordan is not an easy business, which makes it all the more remarkable that only two families are the pioneers of Jordanian wine: The Haddad family, whose vineyard I am visiting today, and the Zumot family, behind the well-regarded Saint George wines. The vineyard here at Haddad feels like a small miracle. With nearly 330 days of sunshine a year in Jordan, rain is rare. As a result, newly planted vines are trained to survive with minimal water, and aggressively trimmed to strengthen their roots, pushing them deeper into the earth for them to eventually need even less water.
We walk beside rows of chardonnay vines, their leaves flickering in the warm breeze and reflecting the sun like tiny half-lit green candles. Qussai points at the olive trees lining the vines, explaining their role in protecting them against airborne diseases such as fungal spores by acting as windbreakers. I brush my fingers against the rough leaves of a particularly robust olive tree, meditating on its symbolic role in the Levant, both practically and metaphorically.
The welcome drink isn’t wine, but a Jordanian aperitif—bright neon-orange, the same color of the now-ubiquitous Aperol Spritz (a drink I recall fondly from my teenage years). Made from a mix of citrus, herbs, and a touch of bitterness, it’s perhaps a symbol of the country’s drinking culture slowly opening up to global trends. Soon enough, chairs scrape back, purposefully unsalted crisps crunch under impatient teeth, and half-melting ice cubes clink and dance in the aperitif glasses. Then, gradually, the noise fades.
Spanking clean, big-bellied glasses are set down in front of each of us. “Please don’t get crazy on the snacks, guys,” Qussai says with a big smile, placing large cheese boards on the table. “There’s so much more food to come… remember where you are!” He giggles, hinting at the Jordanian habit of overfeeding guests and visitors. Yallah, it is time to feast.
My mind shoots back to what Qussai told us earlier. Pointing at the layers of soil beneath the vineyard, he had compared the rough, unique terroir to the Jordanian people. “Wine is a magical drink,” he’d told us, beaming. “It reflects not just the winemaker, but also the locals. And sometimes, you just don’t understand Jordanians. They might look angry or unapproachable—they’re a bit like this soil… all unique in their own ways, so please allow yourself time to get to know us.”
As I enjoy the first glass of red Essa pours, I now understand what Qussai meant. I feel that the same sentiment could be applied for the Middle East and its people: Never stop at the media headlines or at the usual narratives. Instead, take your time to speak with the locals, and make the conscious decision to shed long-standing stereotypes. Swirl more, and dig deeper.
Five hours in, people are swapping stories about what brought them to Jordan—or what makes them stay. Ann, an American who’s made Jordan her home, glances at her watch nervously and whispers to her husband, “We booked the nanny until 4.15pm and it’s now 6.30.” She starts typing a message, then leans toward me with a knowing smile: “Jordanian time is relative.”
She winks, and I can’t help but laugh as a group of Arabs nearby start chatting about what music they’ll blast on the drive back to Amman. “On a Friday, us Arabs like to let loose—and that’s what we want to show,” says my fellow wine taster, Noor, with a shrug. “We’re fun people who like to drink. Not the usual picture they show you on TV, is it?”
As Qussai explains while pouring the last glass, wine is all about balance—just as in life. I close my eyes to search for the balance between the strong aroma and taste of the bold Shiraz warming my mouth and soul.
Slowly savoring the last sip, I think about what Qussai and his team are doing. They’re working hard to find the balance between tradition and innovation, survival and progress. And this balance extends beyond the vineyard, as they work to change how the world sees Jordan in particular and the Middle East as a whole.
Their mission is not performative; it’s about redefining perceptions and revealing the true soul of a region too often misrepresented. In the end, sharing a bottle of wine is a moment of hope. And while I’m not sure Qussai and Essa can turn water into wine just yet, they’re certainly working their own kind of miracle.
