MAPPING AMMAN’S UNSEEN CITY: TRANSIT, GENDER, AND THE RIGHT TO MOVE
TEAM MEMBERS AND ORGANIZATIONS THAT WORKED ON MAPPING AMMAN:
SAHAR ALOUL is gender advocate and community organizer with Ma’an Nasel and co-founder of SADAQA.
HAZEM ZUREIQAT is a transport planner and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel.
ALI ATTARI is a mobility payments consultant and campaign organizer with Ma’an Nasel; a dedicated team of student volunteers and community members who led data collection and outreach.
HANA BILBEISI is a tech enthusiast, environmental advocate and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel.
SYNTAX is a local design firm led by AHMAD HUMEID, who collaborated with the campaign to produce the map’s visual design.
AHMAD SABBAGH, Lead Project Designer at Syntax.
SAHAR ALOUL is gender advocate and community organizer with Ma’an Nasel and co-founder of SADAQA.
HAZEM ZUREIQAT is a transport planner and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel.
ALI ATTARI is a mobility payments consultant and campaign organizer with Ma’an Nasel; a dedicated team of student volunteers and community members who led data collection and outreach.
HANA BILBEISI is a tech enthusiast, environmental advocate and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel.
SYNTAX is a local design firm led by AHMAD HUMEID, who collaborated with the campaign to produce the map’s visual design.
AHMAD SABBAGH, Lead Project Designer at Syntax.
In 2016, two women’s rights advocates, a transport consultant who couldn’t drive, an environmental science graduate, and a group of student volunteers set out to do something no government agency in Jordan had ever done: make Amman’s public transport system make sense. Together, they helped launch Ma’an Nasel—Arabic for Together, We Arrive. What began as an advocacy campaign soon became a mapping initiative and a tool of empowerment, especially for women navigating a system not built with them in mind. “Transportation is a right,” one organizer says. “And when you organize around rights, you create lasting impact. It’s not just a technical issue—it’s a gender issue. A rights issue. A justice issue.”
When you first arrive in Amman, the hills are the first thing you notice. The city sprawls across steep, stony jabals, or hills, that give each neighborhood its name and shape its daily life. The color palette is muted: sunbaked stone, dusty beige, soft ochres. Traffic pulses through narrow roads, and the air smells faintly of exhaust and cardamom. With a population of over 4.5 million, Amman is Jordan’s beating heart, as well as one of the Levant’s largest urban centers. But it’s also a city built with private vehicles in mind, not public transit. There are no subways, and until recently, there weren’t even reliable maps.
Public transport in Amman is “public” in name only. It consisted mostly of servis taxis––white, shared sedans that run on fixed but unpublished routes—and Toyota Coasters––minibuses that depart only when full. The experience of riding these vehicles varies widely, but one thing remains constant: unpredictability.
“There was no map. No data. People used word of mouth,” explains Hazem Zureiqat, a transport consultant and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel. “It was a very intimidating experience.”
Hazem knows the system intimately—not just as a planner but also as a user. “I have low vision and I actually can’t drive,” he shares. “So to move around, I need alternatives to private cars.” His frustration with the status quo was matched by that of his colleagues. Ali Attari, who studied environmental science abroad, remembered being struck by the freedom of movement in cities where you could simply check a schedule, hop on a train, or ride a bike. “That was a moment of realization for me,” he recalls. “There was a world where public transit was functional, and I wanted that for Amman.”
Sahar Aloul came to transit through advocacy. Working at a nonprofit, she saw how the lack of mobility translated into structural inequality—particularly for women. “Jordan has one of the lowest rates of women’s workforce participation in the world,” she explains. “And one of the main barriers is the lack of reliable public transport.”
MAKING A MAP: KHATOUTNA—“OUR LINES”
What started as frustration quickly turned into action. The Ma’an Nasel team knew they had to start with the basics: making the system visible. But there was no existing data—no list of stops, no routes, and no schedules. So they did what no government agency had done: they got on the buses themselves.
Volunteers, including students from the Hashemite University and an Amman-based blogger who was mapping the routes he regularly used, began riding and recording routes by hand. “We had no funding,” Sahar recalls. “We paid for the bus fares and sandwiches out of pocket.” But what they lacked in resources they made up for in determination. Over time, they documented 75 unique transit routes. Working with the local design firm Syntax, they turned GPS tracks into a schematic map.
The Khatoutna map, which translates to Our Lines, instantly went viral. People assumed it depicted a proposal for a future system, because they couldn’t believe something so organized already existed.
“We told them, no, this is the system. You just couldn’t see it,” remembers Hazem.
For women, the impact was immediate. “It gave us the ability to plan our day,” asserts Sahar. “To get to work, to school, to childcare. It gave us confidence. It gave us freedom.”
An app followed, funded primarily by the global environmental movement 350.org, and built using the same community-collected data. The government briefly adopted it, integrating it into its e-services platform, but without proper maintenance, the app soon stopped working. Still, the map endures: it hangs in cafés, is passed hand to hand, and emailed by volunteers. The Facebook page is quiet now, yet messages still come in. To build on that momentum, the government, together with partner organizations, later organized a hackathon to expand on the app’s capabilities.
When you first arrive in Amman, the hills are the first thing you notice. The city sprawls across steep, stony jabals, or hills, that give each neighborhood its name and shape its daily life. The color palette is muted: sunbaked stone, dusty beige, soft ochres. Traffic pulses through narrow roads, and the air smells faintly of exhaust and cardamom. With a population of over 4.5 million, Amman is Jordan’s beating heart, as well as one of the Levant’s largest urban centers. But it’s also a city built with private vehicles in mind, not public transit. There are no subways, and until recently, there weren’t even reliable maps.
Public transport in Amman is “public” in name only. It consisted mostly of servis taxis––white, shared sedans that run on fixed but unpublished routes—and Toyota Coasters––minibuses that depart only when full. The experience of riding these vehicles varies widely, but one thing remains constant: unpredictability.
“There was no map. No data. People used word of mouth,” explains Hazem Zureiqat, a transport consultant and co-founder of Ma’an Nasel. “It was a very intimidating experience.”
Hazem knows the system intimately—not just as a planner but also as a user. “I have low vision and I actually can’t drive,” he shares. “So to move around, I need alternatives to private cars.” His frustration with the status quo was matched by that of his colleagues. Ali Attari, who studied environmental science abroad, remembered being struck by the freedom of movement in cities where you could simply check a schedule, hop on a train, or ride a bike. “That was a moment of realization for me,” he recalls. “There was a world where public transit was functional, and I wanted that for Amman.”
Sahar Aloul came to transit through advocacy. Working at a nonprofit, she saw how the lack of mobility translated into structural inequality—particularly for women. “Jordan has one of the lowest rates of women’s workforce participation in the world,” she explains. “And one of the main barriers is the lack of reliable public transport.”
MAKING A MAP: KHATOUTNA—“OUR LINES”
What started as frustration quickly turned into action. The Ma’an Nasel team knew they had to start with the basics: making the system visible. But there was no existing data—no list of stops, no routes, and no schedules. So they did what no government agency had done: they got on the buses themselves.
Volunteers, including students from the Hashemite University and an Amman-based blogger who was mapping the routes he regularly used, began riding and recording routes by hand. “We had no funding,” Sahar recalls. “We paid for the bus fares and sandwiches out of pocket.” But what they lacked in resources they made up for in determination. Over time, they documented 75 unique transit routes. Working with the local design firm Syntax, they turned GPS tracks into a schematic map.
The Khatoutna map, which translates to Our Lines, instantly went viral. People assumed it depicted a proposal for a future system, because they couldn’t believe something so organized already existed.
“We told them, no, this is the system. You just couldn’t see it,” remembers Hazem.
For women, the impact was immediate. “It gave us the ability to plan our day,” asserts Sahar. “To get to work, to school, to childcare. It gave us confidence. It gave us freedom.”
An app followed, funded primarily by the global environmental movement 350.org, and built using the same community-collected data. The government briefly adopted it, integrating it into its e-services platform, but without proper maintenance, the app soon stopped working. Still, the map endures: it hangs in cafés, is passed hand to hand, and emailed by volunteers. The Facebook page is quiet now, yet messages still come in. To build on that momentum, the government, together with partner organizations, later organized a hackathon to expand on the app’s capabilities.
BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER THROUGH DATA COLLECTION
What made Ma’an Nasel powerful wasn’t just the map; it was the way it brought people together. “Each volunteer had a story,” Sahar remarks. “They were users of the system. They were students, workers, women, advocates. They all wanted change.”
The team held advocacy meetings with ministers and members of parliament. They pushed for passengers’ rights to be included in transport laws. At one point, they presented their finished map to Amman’s Deputy Mayor. “He asked us how much it cost,” Sahar remembers. “When we estimated $23 USD, he looked at his staff and said, ‘We still haven’t been able to produce a map—and these kids did it as volunteers!’”
A SYSTEM IN FLUX
Jordan’s public transit system is still evolving. In recent years, the government has introduced Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) lines with fixed schedules, subsidies, and real-time information. But these formal networks cover only a portion of the city, and the majority of Ammanis still rely on informal transport—80% of the fleet remains owned by individuals. The poorest residents, women, and youth are the most reliant on these services.
The Ma’an Nasel team believes these informal systems must be embraced, not discarded. “You can’t replace everything with shiny new buses,” Hazem maintains. “You have to work with what exists. We need real-time information, better licensing, and a framework that includes the informal sector.”
What made Ma’an Nasel powerful wasn’t just the map; it was the way it brought people together. “Each volunteer had a story,” Sahar remarks. “They were users of the system. They were students, workers, women, advocates. They all wanted change.”
The team held advocacy meetings with ministers and members of parliament. They pushed for passengers’ rights to be included in transport laws. At one point, they presented their finished map to Amman’s Deputy Mayor. “He asked us how much it cost,” Sahar remembers. “When we estimated $23 USD, he looked at his staff and said, ‘We still haven’t been able to produce a map—and these kids did it as volunteers!’”
A SYSTEM IN FLUX
Jordan’s public transit system is still evolving. In recent years, the government has introduced Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) lines with fixed schedules, subsidies, and real-time information. But these formal networks cover only a portion of the city, and the majority of Ammanis still rely on informal transport—80% of the fleet remains owned by individuals. The poorest residents, women, and youth are the most reliant on these services.
The Ma’an Nasel team believes these informal systems must be embraced, not discarded. “You can’t replace everything with shiny new buses,” Hazem maintains. “You have to work with what exists. We need real-time information, better licensing, and a framework that includes the informal sector.”
A FEMINIST MAP
For Sahar, mapping the system is about recognition as much as it was about wayfinding. “Women are already using the system. They’ve always been there,” she acknowledges. “But without information, without acknowledgment, we were invisible.”
Hazem agrees: “It wasn’t just about where the buses go. It was about who gets to be seen, who gets to belong, who gets to move.”
In a city where women had to ask strangers on the street where the bus might stop—or whether it would come at all—this map propelled a quiet revolution. It proved that infrastructure doesn’t always have to be handed down from above; sometimes it can be built from the bottom up, bus fare by bus fare.
Nine years after the map’s debut, the buses still run, and so does the map. It’s a testament not only to the persistence of a grassroots movement, but also to the power of seeing what’s already there and showing others the way.
For Sahar, mapping the system is about recognition as much as it was about wayfinding. “Women are already using the system. They’ve always been there,” she acknowledges. “But without information, without acknowledgment, we were invisible.”
Hazem agrees: “It wasn’t just about where the buses go. It was about who gets to be seen, who gets to belong, who gets to move.”
In a city where women had to ask strangers on the street where the bus might stop—or whether it would come at all—this map propelled a quiet revolution. It proved that infrastructure doesn’t always have to be handed down from above; sometimes it can be built from the bottom up, bus fare by bus fare.
Nine years after the map’s debut, the buses still run, and so does the map. It’s a testament not only to the persistence of a grassroots movement, but also to the power of seeing what’s already there and showing others the way.