I love the idea that a carpet is never simply a carpet — it is a map, tracing the cultural and economic roots of the country it comes from. And while you might not believe me yet — what could a piece of material possibly reveal about a place? — I am here to show you the proof.

So here is the plan for our carpet masterclass today. First, a little theory — we will take a quick look at the story of carpet-making in general, just to have some context in mind. Then we move to practice — looking at carpets from different countries and trying to read what is hidden between the threads.

Let’s play a little researcher’s game — a soft introduction to how to read a carpet. How much can you understand from a single glance, without getting lost in its history? And where should you be looking?

First — material

Material answers the question: where was the carpet made, and what social class did it belong to?

Thicker materials often point to mountainous regions — like the high-pile wool carpets of Morocco or Persia. In colder climates, insulation matters, and a thick pile naturally traps air and holds warmth.

In contrast, flat weaves (kilims) with no pile are more common in hotter regions like Egypt. Again, climate explains it. In desert climates, your priority is that the carpet is light, breathable, and easy to roll and carry.

And then there is silk. It isn’t about warmth — or even practicality. It is a symbol of wealth. Expensive and delicate, it was typically produced in urban workshops and intended for refined indoor settings.

Second — colour

Colour answers two questions: when was the carpet made, and how connected was its region of origin to the wider world?

Dating a carpet often comes down to a single dividing line: the Industrial Revolution. Before synthetic dyes were invented, colours came from natural sources, resulting in softer tones and subtle variations in shade. If you see very bright, uniform, almost neon hues, the carpet is post-industrial — meaning it was made after the 19th century.

But colour also reveals trade connections.

Before synthetic dyes, every shade had to be sourced from nature — and not every region had access to the same plants, insects, or minerals.

Take cochineal red — a deep pigment made from insects in Latin America. It only appeared in carpets in regions that had access to global trade after the 16th century. European countries and the Ottoman Empire, with their established trade routes and fleets, were among those that could obtain it.

Another example is indigo. Cultivated in India and parts of Africa, it travelled widely along trade routes, especially the Silk Road. So if you see a rich indigo blue in a carpet, it may hint at those connections.

Third — motifs

Motifs answer a different set of questions: what did the people who wove the carpet believe in, fear, protect, and celebrate?

While this subject could easily fill pages, the short version is simple: in many Middle Eastern and North African weaving traditions, motifs usually carry protective or cosmological meanings.

The Tree of Life, for example, symbolises continuity and the connection between generations. Repeating hooks and zigzags are often seen as warding signs — protective energy woven directly into the fabric.

Some motifs, though, change meaning across the parts of the world. A good example is the diamond: in Middle Eastern carpets, it often represents protection; in European textiles, it has traditionally symbolised fertility; and in parts of Latin America, diamond-like forms evoke mountains.

Fourth — density and structure

Density and structure answer a simple question: how was the carpet made?

Tightly knotted, highly symmetrical Persian carpets usually point to urban workshops — sometimes even palace commissions. That level of precision requires time, stability, and organised production.

Slight asymmetries or small irregularities, on the other hand, often suggest tribal or domestic weaving. These “imperfections” aren’t mistakes — they are human signatures.

Fifth — borders

Borders (or the frame of the carpet) answer another question: how does a culture visualise protection?

In Saudi and other Bedouin traditions, bold geometric borders can feel like a protective fence around the inner space — textiles acting as symbolic architecture. In Ottoman and Persian court carpets, borders are wide and layered, reinforcing hierarchy and order — a quiet reflection of the structured, multi-layered empires they emerged from.

While Saudi carpets follow broader regional weaving traditions, the key technique is Al Sadu — a Bedouin weaving practice traditionally carried out by women. Its key characteristics are strong horizontal bands in red, black, white, and earthy tones. A recurring geometric figure is the diamond — a symbol of protection. Many motifs were also inspired by Bedouin life itself: tents, the desert and camels. Al Sadu was traditionally passed from mother to daughter and, as it was part of a simple home craft, you will often notice small imperfections in the carpet — part of its charm.

Interesting fact: Al Sadu is also part of the heritage in the UAE and Kuwait, so carpets from all three countries can look almost the same — even the motifs overlap. The main difference today is that the UAE has pushed Al Sadu further into contemporary design and luxury branding, which gives it a more modern feel.

In the centre of Saudi Arabia, another tradition developed — Najdi weaving, with its own distinct character. It is quieter in a way — more controlled, more geometric, built around clear structure. That reflects Central Arabia itself, which has long leaned towards simplicity and strength rather than ornament — even in the architecture of its traditional communities. The desert likely played its part too: when you live in a landscape defined by vast openness, structure becomes comforting.

Head south, though, and the mood shifts. In the Asir region, weaving becomes far more bright, with bold colours taking centre stage. The geography explains a lot — mountainous terrain brings more rainfall, richer agriculture, and easier access to natural dyes. Add to that the Red Sea trade routes, which connected Asir to Africa and parts of South Asia, and you begin to see where the wider palette and visual influences came from.

Morocco, through its Amazigh (Berber) weaving tradition, is probably the clearest example of how a carpet reflects its environment and way of life.

Start with the thickness. These rugs are heavy and high-pile for a reason. The Atlas Mountains are cold, and homes need insulation. Wool traps air and keeps warmth in.

The asymmetry in the designs isn’t a stylistic gesture but a result of process. Many of these carpets were woven from memory rather than drawn patterns, with motifs held in the mind instead of mapped on paper. Made at home and for personal use, they carry small irregularities.

The diamonds appear again and again. Commonly interpreted as symbols of protection, they raise a more interesting question: protection from what, exactly? When Islam arrived in Morocco in the late seventh century, Amazigh communities already had established symbolic systems, shaped by a belief in both visible and unseen forces. Some of these pre-Islamic motifs continued through weaving, even as religious life evolved. Textiles became one of the spaces where older beliefs quietly endured. Protection wasn’t only spiritual — life in the mountains meant facing cold, illness and isolation, and the symbols reflected that reality.

And then there is the open space — large fields of undyed cream wool. Today it feels minimalist, but originally, it was simply practical: dyeing required time and resources.

Unlike the previous traditions, Persian (modern-day Iranian) carpet weaving was never primarily about functionality. From the outset, it was closely tied to beauty and imperial history. That is why Persian carpets were typically produced not at home, but in organised urban workshops and specialised production centres, where every detail mattered — even the smallest. This precision became a defining characteristic of the tradition: miniature florals, intricate vines and carefully constructed medallions.

Another key feature is the “garden” concept. Many Persian carpets depict trees, flowers and flowing water channels. The explanation lies in older Persian cosmology and later Islamic ideas of paradise. The central medallion (another recurring element) is often interpreted as symbolising the sun or divine light, anchoring the entire composition.

Colour was equally important. You can probably already guess that Persian carpets are rich in their palettes: deep indigo, madder red, ivory and muted greens — understandable, given that Persia was historically a key point along major trade routes. But they went even further later on, introducing gold and silver incrustations into the carpet. No wonder some of them could take up to 10 years to be produced.

If Saudi carpets are about geometry and Persian carpets are about imperial structure, then Turkish ones sit somewhere in between. The weaving tradition is Anatolian, and its key feature is bold, graphic clarity.

The Anatolian tradition combined functionality with beauty. While the designs were often more geometric — partly because they were easier to memorise and reproduce — the scale of the motifs was striking. Large diamonds and dominant medallions gave the carpets a strong presence, reflecting the wealth of the empire. Another defining feature (which we touched on earlier) is the bold, structured border. Turkish carpets often have strong framing, with large, clear bands that anchor the composition.

Although the Ottoman Empire was a major centre of trade, many Turkish carpets — particularly those from Western Anatolia — developed bright tones that didn’t appear too harsh, but rather softer. This may seem like a contradiction, but it can be explained: the specific mineral content of the local water affected how natural dyes bonded to the wool, often resulting in colours that mellowed more quickly over time. There is no rule without exception.

Indian carpets were strongly influenced by neighbouring Persia, but while they adopted the structural foundations — symmetry, florals and medallions — they softened them and adapted them to their own cultural sensibility.

Like Persia, the focus was largely on floral themes. However, in India these florals were less spiritual. Rather than symbolising heaven, they often functioned as refined decorative gardens.

The “Mughal flower” became a distinctive feature. It isn't a specific plant, but a recognisable floral style that developed under the Mughal Empire.

What also differentiates India from Persia is tone. Indian carpets tend to feel warmer and less formal than Persian court carpets. The colours are often softer as well — lighter grounds, gentler contrasts and a more harmonious overall palette.