You say that architecture never exists in a vacuum—that we must first understand the value and context of what already is there. What does that mean in practice?

As architects, we tend to look for what isn’t working. We walk into a space and immediately see what should be changed, what should be demolished, what should be repaired. But my mentor from the Rolex Mentor and Protégé Arts Initiative, architect Anna Lacaton, taught me to flip the perspective: to look first for what works. It sounds simple, but it’s a real exercise. Once you master it, you’ll find that surprisingly a lot of things work, and that some things we should preserve and support rather than change. The role of architecture then shifts: instead of something that comes from above, disrupts, and dictates, it becomes something that triggers change from within.

How do you learn this way of working, and who should actually be doing it? Someone “from the inside”, or can an outside perspective be just as valuable?

It’s a combination of everything. I had the advantage of having grown up in Burj Hammoud, where I did my thesis, so I knew a lot of things from childhood. I had a sense of what bothered me. At the same time, however, it’s important to move within that space and understand its context. That context will be different here in Prague, in Beirut, or in Amsterdam, for example. And it’s essential to talk to people and understand what’s truly important to them. The key is for the community to have a voice in shaping the space. So that architecture isn’t just for a few people, but is truly democratic.

An architect should then be more of a mediator than an author. But that doesn’t mean an outside perspective has no value. It must stem from a deep understanding of the place, its history, and the people who live there. Otherwise, even well-intentioned interventions remain disconnected from reality.

Burj Hammoud began as a refugee camp for Armenians fleeing the genocide. Today, it is a vibrant, densely populated neighborhood. What are its current needs—social, economic, and climatic?

The neighborhood is constantly transforming and adapting to new arrivals and their needs. The streets are narrow and the development so dense that you can never start from scratch here, on a greenfield site. You always have to build on what already exists. At first glance, this place seems chaotic, like a patchwork of disparate interventions. But beneath that chaos lies a system, a structure, and relationships between people.

You grew up in the neighborhood we’re talking about. It seems to me that growing up in a place with a complex history, one that is in a certain way neglected, can paradoxically bring great freedom—it’s then easier to reshape and change things. Do you feel the same way?

Absolutely! And I think it was formative in the strongest sense of the word. Growing up in such a neighborhood helped me understand how much the manipulation of space influences people’s lives, both positively and negatively.

As a child, I lived in conditions I didn’t consider entirely good, and I often thought to myself: if only I could change this or move that, it would be more comfortable. I think that’s exactly what took my interest in architecture to the extreme. At the same time, I grew up with a love for culture, but without public parks or playgrounds, though with a tremendous amount of interaction among neighbors. That teaches you to perceive what space means in a slightly different way.

You also decided to make a documentary film about your research, called Bourj Hammoud: The Value of the Existing. Why? Was it an effort to make architecture accessible to a wider audience?

I had a big problem with representation. When you make small, almost acupuncture-like interventions—adding a staircase here, opening a wall there—it looks on an architectural drawing as if you’re not doing anything at all. So I started asking myself how best to explain and show what I do. Film was the only medium capable of capturing the neighborhood as it is: noisy, quietly pulsating, chaotic yet structured at the same time. It was my first film and a huge challenge in itself. We shot it in January, and by May it was already screening. But it was worth it.

Architectural schools still often teach that success means designing something new, bold, and iconic. Have you ever felt pressure to “build something” in order to be a “real” architect?

Technically speaking, I have no problem with large buildings or this way of working. However, it’s not an approach that suits every situation. Moreover, the world can afford demolition less and less, from economic, social, and environmental perspectives. Construction is one of the most polluting industries. That’s why I think we need a different way of thinking; less about the production of buildings, more about how people themselves create and inhabit space. And then, honestly, it would be nice to design a truly great building one day. We’ll see. But I don’t have that in my plans yet. [laughter]

You’ve even taught architecture and art students in Amsterdam to view architecture through the lens of science fiction. How does that work?

It stems from the belief that the world’s problems are evolving much faster than architecture can keep up with. A speculative approach is a way to train ourselves to take a longer-term perspective: instead of designing for the next ten years, we ask ourselves what the world will look like in fifty or a hundred years. And we start answering that question right now. Sci-fi plays a crucial role in this. It teaches us to think in stories and scenarios, not just in plans and cross-sections.

And what was it like working with young people?

Surprising. And at times even unsettling. The students were much more pessimistic about the future than I expected. They expressed not only pessimism, but sometimes even despair. What surprised me most, however, was that my Lebanese friends, who objectively experienced much worse things and grew up in more challenging conditions, were paradoxically more optimistic than many of their European peers. I don’t know exactly what to make of that, but I still think about it to this day.

If you had to choose one thing we could bring back from Burj Hammoud to our Central European cities, what would it be?

Much greater autonomy for people in shaping their spaces. That’s all.