Who can afford to be the architect of the poor?
Introduction
At architecture school, we were taught that architects are agents of social change. Our projects were framed around noble ideas — imagining we could help solve cultural or social issues. But once we stepped into the real world, that narrative collapsed. The profession, as it exists today, rarely offers the space — or the time — to be critical.
I am always questioning my role — or my contribution — as an architect within my surroundings. I hate to admit it, but I often find myself criticizing the very work I do. The same questions keep returning: How can I relate to the problems I witness every day? How can my work speak to the realities I live through? How can I contribute, even in a small way, to addressing the challenges facing my society? And how can I develop a critical practice of my own?
The problems are immense — from urban inequality to informality and the dominance of private real estate, etc. What can one architect do in the face of all that?
The disconnect between my professional work and the societal issues I care about has left me unsettled. Maybe I didn’t fully understand how my work was supposed to make a difference. So I kept asking myself: Who can afford to do this kind of work? Who can afford to be critical — and still make a living?
In this blog post, I want to reflect on one of the biggest challenges I face — and I believe many in my generation face as well: The challenge of sustaining critical architectural practice in the face of economic and institutional constraints.
Is Critical Thinking a Privilege?
In my public university education in Egypt, I rarely had the chance to develop any real critical thinking, even though I often questioned what I was being taught. Still, it was clear that criticism wasn’t welcome. Our courses treated us as containers — memorize, reproduce, pass. In architecture school, it wasn’t much different. The goal was to execute a task in a specific way. If you followed the instructions, you passed. If you deviated or failed to complete it, you were punished with low grades. Criticism, especially toward teaching assistants, was simply not tolerated.
I remember studying urban design and being asked to design a gated community — without any discussion of what that meant, or why we were doing it. There was no context, no theory about the real urban challenges we saw every day. It was just a design task. Even when something felt wrong, I had no intellectual foundation or support to express it. So, like many others, I just did the work.
We were trained to follow, not to think. We graduated without the tools to question our professional roles or imagine alternatives.
Of course, elite universities in Egypt offer a broader perspective. They organize important events, their courses are taught by some of the best professors and practitioners in the country, and their campuses and libraries are often remarkable. But this comes at a price — one that most Egyptians simply cannot afford. These elite institutions provide environments with resources, support, mentorship, and freedom — the essential conditions for critical thinking to grow.
Everyone deserves access to good education. But in Egypt today, we must acknowledge a difficult truth: being critical — even as a student — is often a luxury. To think, to question, to explore without fear or exhaustion, requires a level of support that most students in public universities don’t have.
I don’t say this to discredit the important work happening in elite institutions. But here lies the irony: critical design thinking is meant to be liberating — yet in practice, it has become increasingly exclusive, confined to elite schools, elite spaces, and elite networks.
Who Can Afford a Critical Practice?
After graduating from Mansoura University, I was full of excitement and determination to pursue a dream: to become an architect who works for the people. It was — I now realize — a somewhat naive and romanticized version of myself. Still, I knew I wanted to continue studying, so I applied for a master’s program at Cairo University, hoping it would be the first real step toward that dream.
But I was quickly confronted by reality: I had to pay rent and put food on the table. I needed a job — urgently. I eventually found work at a mid-sized office in Heliopolis (Masr El Gedida), where we designed private villas, gated compounds, and high-end real estate for Egypt’s wealthy class. At the same time, my limited salary forced me to look for affordable housing — the only option I could afford was in Ain Shams, in Ezbet El Nakhl, a dense and underserved informal area.
Each day, I commuted between two completely different worlds: from the polished offices where celebrities commissioned lavish mansions, to the overcrowded streets where people struggled to survive. I was stretched thin — working, studying, and simply trying to hold everything together. Over time, I realized the real burden wasn’t physical but psychological. The contradiction between what I believed in and what I was doing began to wear me down. Eventually, I couldn’t sustain it.
In a lecture based on his book Building and Dwelling, Richard Sennett made a bold claim:
“Any young planner or architect should go hungry rather than build a gated community.”
He sees gated developments — so dominant today — as ethical failures. As he points out, even international development agencies have tried to stop investing in them. But how does this play out for real architects on the ground? What if you don’t have the luxury to “go hungry”? No one want to go hungry! I didnt want to go hungry
Gated communities keep growing, and we keep building them. What was once a crisis has become routine. But the questions remains: Who can afford to refuse a commission for the next luxury compound? Who can afford to be critical — and still survive in this profession?
It Is Fashionable to Build for the Poor, but Not to be Among Them
I once looked up to Hassan Fathy as an ideal — the “architect of the poor.” His work was poetic, earthy, human-scaled, and deeply oriented to the architecture of the poor. For years, I believed he represented what architecture should be: grounded in tradition, close to the people, and socially committed.
But as I looked more closely, I began to see a contradiction — one that might overlook. Fathy came from a wealthy bourgeois family, with the financial means and social standing to pursue an experimental path that most architects — especially those from modest backgrounds — could never afford. His story revealed something: the very idea of building for the poor, in a radical or alternative way, often requires a level of privilege that shields you from the economic demands of everyday practice.
As Mohamed Elshahed critically argues in his article “Hassan Fathy and the Architecture of the Rich” (Cairo Observer), many of Fathy’s celebrated architectural elements — such as domes and mud brick vaults — were not part of the actual residential traditions of Upper Egypt. These were not techniques he learned from the people; they were ones he introduced to them. He writes:
“Domed architecture in Upper Egypt is funerary, not residential… the claim that his materials and techniques were familiar and local goes against Fathy’s own description of the process of instructing builders how to create his mud brick and the many repeated attempts to perfect building his domes.”
New Gourna project was not grassroot initiatives but top-down, state-funded interventions. As Elshahed explains, the village was not requested by the community but imposed as part of a forced relocation. Participation was tightly controlled.
This intervention was coming from an outsider. But in reality, his ability to be “critical” — to question modern construction and propose alternatives — was made possible by privilege. He didn’t have to survive in the private sector and face the challenges. He didn’t have to take every commission to pay rent. He had time, freedom, and state support to pursue ideas.
And this pattern continues. In a recent interview, El Dahan and Farid — students of Fathy — explained that they worked with him without pay, just to learn his style. Eventually, they built projects in the Red Sea using his architectural language — but these weren’t for the poor. They were for elite clients and private resorts. What began as the “architecture of the poor” was rebranded as a high-end style — appearing in resorts like El Gouna and other exclusive developments.
I’m not trying to undermine the work of Hassan Fathy or his followers. Their contributions are important. But what I am questioning is this: Is critical architecture only possible for those who can afford it? Has it become just another form of elite expression — dressed in the language of social concern?
What’s next? The myth of Autonomy and Self-Determination!
During my early years of practice, I struggled to develop any real critical thinking. I constantly felt the urge to return to school — to learn, to question, to think more deeply. So I made a decision: I would save up for two years and invest everything I had into pursuing a master’s degree abroad.
I was fortunate to study in Germany — a space where I finally found the freedom to think.
While working on my thesis, I felt for the first time that my architectural ideas were connected to real questions — not just abstract assignments. I selected the topic about Informality and the future of the socio-economic wellbeing associated with it which I cared about and lived through it, and just as importantly, I found a professor who supported it and helped me grow.
This was something I had never experienced before. And I know — this, too, is a form of privilege.
To have the time, space, and support to think freely, to ask questions, and to engage critically with architecture — this is not something most people can take for granted. And I don’t. I thank God for it.
After my master’s degree, a professor asked me:
“What are you going to do next?”
I replied: “I’m going to find work.”
She looked at me and said, “You should go back to Egypt and continue working on the topic of your thesis. I can even help you with some connections.”
My answer was clear: “I simply can’t afford it.”
”THIS SCHOOL IS A SANDBOX AND THE WORLD OUTSIDE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT”
A quote From the book “who can afford to be critical?”
It was, in many ways, a lifetime opportunity — to return home, to work on a subject I had researched deeply, to build a practice and career rooted in real social questions. But I couldn’t make it happen. Doing this kind of work requires financial support, long-term commitment, and a degree of stability I simply didn’t have access to.
I was grateful to be able to think and write and research during my studies, with few constraints. But what design school — even critical or alternative design education — doesn’t teach us is how to survive after graduation. Yes, you develop a foundation, you formulate your ideas, but then what? What does it mean to sustain a critical practice in the real world?
In the book Who Can Afford to Be Critical? This dilemma is echoed in the book: the myth of autonomy and self-determination. He questions whether one can continue doing critical, research-based projects outside of the institutional shelter of design school. Reflecting on his experience in graphic design, he writes:
“I was thinking, is it possible to be critical outside of this school?”
Though he speaks about graphic design, his concern applies equally to architecture and design more broadly. He goes on to explain that some people manage to sustain a critical practice through grants or project funding. But this raises another issue, as discussed by his colleagues in a meeting:
“I think one way of being able to sustain it is to become really famous — and I think that’s also what motivates the individualization and atomization of designers. That’s why everyone tries to be so unique.”
This points to a larger problem of our time: in a media-saturated world, the culture of uniqueness has become dominant. Designers are encouraged — even pressured — to be visually striking, to be instantly recognizable, to create content that is media-ready. As a result, critical work that is less visual or less glamorous, but far more meaningful, is often ignored.
The critical projects often remain confined within academic circles, while highly aesthetic but superficial work dominates social media. This creates a troubling gap: the public — who should be most engaged with socially-driven design — is left out, while being fed a steady stream of polished, consumable imagery instead.
Even a strong media presence or prestigious awards don’t guarantee real opportunities. As one contributor reflects, even working at an award-winning office in Sweden didn’t translate into stability — it didn’t bring projects, and it didn’t put food on the table.
Design is powerful but designers lack power
As architects, we operate under the full weight of capital. We work with budgets, clients, contractors, timelines. We negotiate constraints every day. We are part of a system — the same system that fuels inequality, displaces communities, and deepens climate crisis.
So we must ask:
What is our role in all this?
Can we work within the system — and still serve a good cause?
Can we push for social change, sustainability, justice — using tools built by capitalism itself?
As Who Can Afford to Be Critical? reminds us:
“Design is powerful. Design shapes how the world works. But designers themselves often lack power.”
Our work affects lives, spaces, economies. And yet, most of us are too low in the hierarchy of power to act collectively. We live in that contradiction. We dream of impact. We speak of justice. And still — we need to survive, pay rent, find a job.
So what is design, then?
A service? A product? A political or collective act?
Perhaps it is all of these — and perhaps that’s the problem. We try to do good while building within systems that are fundamentally unjust. We try to be critical while relying on the very commissions that dilute our convictions.
If the systems we work within limit our agency, maybe the answer doesn’t lie in individual resistance, but in new alliances — in shared structures, cooperative models, and spaces of solidarity that allow critical practices to survive and grow
The contradiction is real. The hypocrisy exists. And the question still stands — not just as a personal reflection, but as a collective challenge:
How do we create the conditions that make it possible for more of us to think critically — and to work on the kinds of projects that challenge, question, and imagine new futures?
