You often say that architecture never exists in a vacuum—that we first need to understand the value and context of what is already 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 change, what should be demolished, what needs fixing. But my mentor from the Rolex Mentor and Protégé Arts Initiative, architect Anna Lacaton, taught me to flip that perspective: start by looking for what works. It sounds simple, but it's a real exercise.

Once you practise it, you realise there's a surprising amount that already works—and that some things should be preserved and supported rather than changed. The role of architecture then shifts: instead of something that comes from above, disrupts and dictates, it becomes something that catalyses from within.

And how do you learn this process of finding value? Is it about long-term observation, conversations with residents, mapping?

It's a combination of everything. I had the advantage of growing up in Burj Hammoud, where I was conducting the study, so I knew a lot of things from childhood. I had an instinct for what bothered me. But it's also about moving through the space and understanding its context—which will be different here in Prague, in Beirut, or in Amsterdam. And it's important to talk to people and understand what truly matters to them.

Burj Hammoud began as a refugee camp for Armenians fleeing genocide. Today it's a vibrant, densely populated neighbourhood. What are its needs now—social, economic, climatic?

The neighbourhood is constantly changing. It's a living organism, adapting to new arrivals and their needs. The streets are narrow and the built fabric so dense that you can never start from scratch here, from a blank slate. You always have to work from what already exists.

At first glance, the place looks chaotic—a mismatched patchwork of individual interventions. But beneath that chaos is a system, a structure, and relationships between people. And that's exactly what needs to be understood and built upon.

You grew up in the neighbourhood we've been talking about. I feel that growing up in a place with a complex history—one that is in some ways neglected—can paradoxically bring a great deal of freedom. It's easier to appropriate and transform things. Do you feel the same way?

Absolutely—and I think it was formative in the strongest sense of the word. Growing up in that neighbourhood helped me understand how deeply the manipulation of space affects people's lives, positively and negatively.

As a child, I lived in conditions I didn't consider ideal, and I often thought: if I could just change this, move that, it would be more comfortable. I think that's what pushed my interest in architecture to the extreme. At the same time, I grew up with a love of culture but without public parks or playgrounds—and with an enormous amount of interaction between neighbours. That teaches you to perceive what space means in a very different way.

You also decided to make a documentary film about your research. Why? Was it an attempt to make architecture more accessible to a wider audience?

I had a big problem with representation. When you make small, almost acupuncture-like interventions—add a staircase here, open up a wall there—in an architectural drawing it looks like you're doing nothing at all. So I started asking how to best explain and show what I was doing. Film was the only medium that could capture the neighbourhood as it truly is: loud, quietly pulsing, chaotic and structured at the same time. It was my first film, and a huge challenge in itself. We filmed in January and it was screening in May. But it was worth it.

Architecture schools still often teach that success means designing something new, bold, iconic. Did you ever feel pressure to "build something" in order to be a "real" architect?

Technically, I have nothing against large buildings or that way of working—but it's not an approach that fits every situation. The world can increasingly less afford demolition. Economically, socially, and ecologically.

Construction is one of the most polluting industries. So I think we need a different way of thinking—less about producing objects, more about how people themselves create and inhabit space. And then—honestly—it would be lovely to design a really great building one day. We'll see. It's not in the plans yet. [laughs]

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

It comes from the conviction that the world's problems are moving much faster than architecture can keep up with. The speculative approach is a way of training a longer perspective: instead of designing for the next ten years, asking what the world will look like in fifty or a hundred years—and starting to answer that question now. Science fiction plays a crucial role in that. It teaches us to think in stories and scenarios, not just plans and sections.

And what was it like working with young people?

Surprising. And at times unsettling. The students were far more pessimistic about the future than I expected. Not just pessimistic—sometimes almost hopeless. But what surprised me most was that my Lebanese friends, who had objectively experienced far worse things and grown up in much harder conditions, were paradoxically more optimistic than many of their European peers. I'm not sure exactly what to make of that—but I've been thinking about it ever since.

If you had to choose one thing we could bring from Burj Hammoud to our cities here in Central Europe—what would it be?

Much greater autonomy for people in shaping their own space. That's all.