The text explores the topic of preserving and rebuilding places that have been destroyed by war or other conflicts. Special attention is paid to the preservation of urban life, which is essential for the everyday life of the inhabitants and can offer a certain normality. The methods mentioned have already been used in the Middle East in particular, and with success.

Possibly in connection with my design studio this semester, in which we are working on the reconstruction of residential buildings in Ukraine, the following question has particularly occupied me: “Shall we wait for crises to end to talk about reconstruction?” In our history, the reconstruction of cities has often started before the end of the war, or at least the thoughts about it. The aim after such conflicts should be to restore urban life for the population as soon as possible so that not all these people move away. Reconstruction requires local people who feel a connection with their homeland and are willing to invest in restoring urban life in order to win it back. Thinking about reconstruction before the end of the crises also brings hopeful prospects for the people affected.

I find the Yalla Project explained above a very inspiring way of turning the desired changes into reality. What I find important, however, is the observation that day-to-day practice benefits little from theoretical discussions. Academic knowledge does not know the local know-how in detail. It is therefore incredibly important that people from the social environment who are familiar with the cultural activities and infrastructure of the city and know the needs of city dwellers are involved in such projects. Are there already technologies available today that can support such reconstructions of urban spaces or what challenges have not yet been solved in this area? Which experts are involved in such projects who can judge the protection of certain buildings or the preservation of cultural traditions? Who decides on the reconstruction or preservation of buildings in order to adapt to modern needs and still preserve historical values? What challenges arise when dealing with the preservation and reconstruction of urban spaces? To what extent is the issue of sustainability taken into account in such emergency situations?

As you often don't know how long a crisis situation will last, you can think about how you want to rebuild. Even if there is usually a financial emergency, donations can sometimes be used to develop sustainable projects that generate added value for the environment, the future residents and the social community.

The Yallah Project is an example of this resilience and a way to deal with physical and mental destruction through critical times. For the people of Palestine waiting for the “war” to end is no longer an option. Dealing with the everyday destruction, starting over and over again has become part of their daily routine.

The activities of Yallah Project architects and participants, working closely with the local community, have made me question current architectural practices, tendencies, and rigid work frames. Are we, as architects, too focused on the formalities, the rigid regulations, and the abstract design workflows that often alienate us from the very people we design for? Western architecture, with its top-down approach, has often lost touch with the reality of those who inhabit the spaces we create- as if we are designing not for people, but for the sake of being referenced in an architectural magazine. It makes me wonder: have we forgotten that architecture is first and foremost about people, about responding to life’s rawest conditions, rather than crafting visually striking yet detached structures?

Is it only during crisis when we are able to take a step back and start thinking with the people and not for them ?

If architecture is working well through a bottom -up approach and even proves itself to be more sustainable, supporting local businesses, how can we implement it in big-scale projects?

Are we able to normalize architecture as a non-master plan process, contributing to the regional well-being? Can architecture ever be non-political (again) , or is it always an extension of power/ resistance?

While visiting the old city, our guide showed us a renovated café for the local community. At the time, I didn’t know it was part of the Yalla Project, or perhaps I just missed that detail. But now, reading about the project, things make sense and come together. The Yalla Project’s inter-crisis approach—working not after the conflict but within it—feels like one of the most effective methods. Their emphasis on “learning by doing” seems to me the best possible path, especially since every region, every community responds differently to destruction and rebuilding. What works in one context might fail in another.

I found this sentence particularly insightful:

“Success occurred when promotors were able to position in between the worlds of the street and of the institutions, working as mediators.”

It captures so well the complexity of the role of an architect —not just designing spaces, but navigating between worlds, building trust, and translating realities. This makes me wonder: Can we really extract lessons from these experiences that apply beyond Nablus? Or are the learnings so specific to this context that every city in a similar situation needs to go through its own process of trial and error in order to truly regenerate? What “general rules,” if any, have emerged from the Yalla Project’s experience that could guide others?

Architecture contains transparencies and obstructions, becoming a weapon of war, but also the collateral damage. Does this mean architects are responsible for how their spatial practices are used by others? Furthermore, should they be responsible for the afterlife or other lives of building?

The Yalla Project exemplifies how reconstruction can be an act of defiance, a way to reclaim identity and community in the face of displacement and oppression. Traditional, top-down architectural approaches often fail to account for the lived experiences of those affected, treating buildings as aesthetic or technical exercises rather than essential components of survival and cultural resilience. Instead, bottom-up approaches challenge dominant narratives and offer more sustainable, socially embedded solutions. However, this raises a critical question: if architecture is more effective when it emerges from the people, why does mainstream architectural practice remain so detached from local realities?

Moreover, architecture has historically been used as a tool of domination, particularly in occupied territories. The destruction of homes, the strategic use of urban spaces for surveillance, and the erasure of cultural landmarks all serve political agendas. In response, rebuilding efforts must not only focus on physical structures but also on restoring the cultural and social fabric of communities. Yet, this too is a political act, one that resists imposed narratives and asserts local agency.

Ultimately, the question is not whether architecture is political, but rather whose politics it serves. Can architecture ever be non-political, or will it always be an extension of power, control, and resistance? If so how does that change the role of the architects? Are they complicit in reinforcing dominant structures, or can they actively contribute to more just and inclusive spaces?

by Abdalrahman Kittanal, Alessandra Gola.

The text highlights that architects and urban planners can be active agents in the regeneration of urban spaces. It is not just about reconstruction but about creating spaces that foster social interactions and restore a sense of normality for residents.

The Yalla Project focuses on micro-interventions tailored to the knowledge and needs of the local community rather than large, externally imposed master plans. One of the most distressing passages describes how military presence fosters mistrust and alters social behavior. Soldiers disguised as civilians undermine residents' sense of security and erode the social fabric. This illustrates that war is waged not only physically but also psychologically and socially.

But how sustainable are decentralized initiatives like the Yalla Project in a context of constant threat and international dependency?

The café as a social microcosm demonstrates how spatial design can foster a sense of belonging. Architecture thus becomes a social catalyst: it can either reinforce isolation or create connection and security.

Long-term effectiveness requires continuous adaptation and maintenance to respond to residents' needs and promote resilience. The Yalla Project also shows that resilient urban spaces do not arise solely through architecture but primarily through the active participation of the local community. Collective co-creation strengthens initiative and ensures a deeper integration of projects into the social fabric. As a result, the boundaries between architects, planners, and residents become blurred – forming a dynamic and adaptable urban system.

The text leaves a mix of distress and hope. It reveals the immense suffering of urban warfare but also the opportunities embedded in conscious spatial design. As architects, we are not only responsible for designing places but also for actively shaping social change. Every intervention in the city is more than an architectural decision – it is a political and social act.

Ultimately, the question remains: How can we develop long-term strategies that go beyond mere resilience and sustainably improve urban life? What role do participatory processes play, and how can the influence of geopolitical dynamics be minimized? The case of Nablus vividly illustrates that architecture is never neutral – it is deeply embedded in social and political structures and can both destroy and heal.

Is it possible to develop architecture that adapts flexibly to conflict situations without losing its social function? Can spaces be created that are not only reconstructed but also more resistant to renewed destruction? The role of the local community in shaping such resilient spaces remains central – not only in Nablus but in all urban contexts affected by uncertainty.

One question that arises is whether architecture in conflict areas can ever truly be apolitical. Can spaces be designed without reflecting the underlying political tensions? Given the context in Nablus, where the built environment is deeply intertwined with ongoing conflict, how can architects create spaces that are not influenced by these tensions?

Another question relates to the emotional impact of such environments. After experiencing such intense trauma, can beauty in architecture ever be created without acknowledging or confronting the associated suffering? Does every architectural intervention in a place like Nablus necessarily carry with it the weight of the violence and destruction that preceded it?

Furthermore, can regeneration processes focus solely on physical reconstruction, or must they always be integrated with efforts to heal social divisions? How can these efforts avoid reinforcing existing power dynamics and instead support the empowerment of local communities?

These questions challenge the traditional boundaries of architecture and urban regeneration, urging us to consider the deeper cultural and political forces at play in conflict zones.

What stands out is their emphasis on "being there" not as experts parachuting in with solutions, but as peers who listen, learn, and work alongside locals. They didn’t start by imposing big plans; they took over a struggling café, observed, and let the community’s needs guide their actions. That slow, humble approach seems key to building trust. When outsiders rush in with preconceived ideas, even with the best motives, it can feel patronizing or even exploitative. But Yalla’s incremental, hands-on method shows how outsiders can earn credibility by proving they’re in it for the long haul, not just for a short-term project or a headline.

Trust isn’t just about good intentions—it’s about how you show up. The text mentions how Yalla avoided the typical NGO model no flashy offices, no top-down directives. Instead, they embedded themselves in the daily life of the casbah, making their work visible and open to feedback. That transparency matters. In a place like Nablus, where people have endured decades of occupation, broken promises, and outside interference, skepticism is inevitable. Why should locals believe yet another group claiming to help? The Yalla Projects answer seems to be by using local materials, hiring neighbors, and letting people see the process unfold, they turned suspicion into collaboration.

But the text also doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities. Even with this careful approach, Yalla faced scrutiny from locals, authorities, and the occupying forces. That’s a sobering reminder that outsiders can’t just waltz in and expect smooth sailing. Authenticity isn’t just about being “nice” or “respectful”; it’s about recognizing power dynamics, accepting setbacks, and staying accountable to the community, not to donors or distant agendas.

For someone like me, far removed from the realities of Nablus, this raises tough questions: How could I contribute without unintentionally causing harm? The Yalla Project’s model suggests that the answer lies in humility, patience, and a willingness to follow rather than lead. Maybe it’s not about bringing “solutions” at all, but about supporting what’s already there like they did with the café, turning it into a hub that revived street life and local pride.

The Café even does this within itself for example with the progressive reshuffling of the interiors to provide better security of spaces.

To earn trust, you need to be consistent, transparent, and willing to work within existing structures rather than around them. Unlike traditional NGOs, Yalla was a part of the everyday life of the casbah. Their approach was visible, participatory, and rooted in collaboration. In a place where people had been living under occupation and had not been given what they were promised, it was natural for the locals to question their motives. But Yalla did not just respond with words, they did things that people could see, like hiring neighbours, getting materials from the local area, and letting the community see the project being built. But even then, there were still problems, like bureaucracy and politics, and it was clear that they were committed to their work.

For those of us watching from a distance, this raises an important question: how can outsiders contribute without unintentionally reinforcing existing power imbalances? Yalla's approach suggests that the most valuable role isn't to solve a problem, but to support it - to listen, follow, and make what exists even better. Instead of bringing in solutions from outside, they helped to create a space where the community itself could take the lead. Maybe, in the end, real solidarity is not about stepping in with answers but about standing alongside people as they shape their own.

Kittana and Gola highlight how, in conflict zones like Palestine, architecture has been weaponized, with buildings and urban spaces manipulated to serve surveillance, control, and displacement. The loss of homes and public spaces is not just collateral damage—it is a targeted erasure of collective memory. Without local landmarks, cultural traditions embedded in architecture, and familiar gathering spaces, people lose their connection to their past, making it easier for dominant forces to reshape their identity.

The Yalla Project, in contrast, fights against this loss by prioritizing "inter-crisis reconstruction", where rebuilding efforts occur even amidst ongoing conflict. This approach challenges the idea that architecture should only serve as a tool of power; instead, it can be reclaimed as a form of resistance. However, the project also raises deeper questions: Is it possible to preserve identity in an era where global architectural trends and external interventions often override local knowledge? Can grassroots rebuilding efforts truly counteract the larger forces of political, economic, and cultural erasure?

Ultimately, the loss of local identity in architecture is not just an aesthetic or historical issue—it is a profound disruption of social cohesion and self-determination. If architecture continues to serve external agendas rather than the communities it is meant to support, it risks becoming a mechanism for control rather than a means of cultural expression. The challenge is not just to rebuild physical spaces but to ensure that reconstruction efforts protect and revive the identities that these spaces once embodied.

In the case of Nablus, a Palestinian city that suffered significant damage at the beginning of the new millennium due to Israeli attacks, the recovery process is complex. The city experienced a partial socioeconomic collapse, with a large portion of the population forced to flee the more dangerous areas. The historic center, particularly devastated, became a zone of hardship, a margin for the local inhabitants. In this context, the Yalla Project focused first on understanding the city's sociocultural, spatial, infrastructural, and economic characteristics, then integrating them into a sustainable redevelopment project aimed at restoring autonomy to the urban system in the long term.

Although the inhabitants of Nablus show resilience and determination not to abandon their identity space, such a development process in wartime must necessarily account for the ongoing conflict. However, attempting to keep the urban center alive could make it even more vulnerable to attacks. From this perspective, I believe that humanitarian efforts should be more focused on refugee camps, where local communities are not integrated into development processes and where an approach like the Yalla Project would be particularly useful.

In an environment like Nablus, the idea of rebuilding and restoring the city seems especially complex. As "foreign" architects, our role is likely limited to envisioning a future of growth for the city in times of peace. In wartime, we must accept our inability to act directly, and we are not in a position to impose solutions on conflicts that do not directly affect us. A conflict like the Israeli-Palestinian one is so complex and devastating that every other issue, including urban reconstruction, becomes secondary. The conflict has led to genocide, raising questions about the value of keeping cities destroyed by war alive. In this context, assistance like the Yalla Project, while important, prompts reflections on priorities and resource allocation, especially considering that the project has created 11 jobs, while 11 people have perhaps died today in the Gaza conflict.

The way Yalla organizes their interventions in Nablus, does not just create an impact with limited resources, but also a spacial configuration that changes the setting in the neighborhood.

For me the process Yalla works with, feels similar to the anticapitalist approach many collectives use in europa. Yalla’s more scientific and empirical approach feels therefor very interesting to see and compare.

The text discusses chances, developments, wins and risks with the help of a few projects.

Is Yalla, as an organization, an exception or is the way Yalla works and organizes something that is replicated all over Palestine/other war-zones?

Comparing Nablus to other (heavily) occupied areas/cities like Hebron, how can the knowledge from Nablus be shared and be applied?

While the IDFs aggression against Palestinian infrastructure, the daily life etc. is mentioned multiple times in the text, I was wondering how this aggression shows in projects like Yalla and did the IDF (as well as other Israeli forces) develop strategies to systematically fight those efforts?

But can architecture ever be neutral in contested spaces? In cities like Nablus, where violence has left lasting scars, every act of reconstruction carries the weight of loss. Spaces cannot simply be restored as if the past never happened; they must acknowledge trauma while fostering hope. Beyond physical reconstruction, architecture must help communities regain a sense of security and belonging.

The Yalla project shows that small-scale interventions - such as public gathering spaces or community-led restorations - can have a powerful impact. A simple café, for example, can become an act of defiance, a place where people reclaim a sense of normalcy in the midst of instability. But how sustainable are these grassroots efforts in the face of ongoing threats? Can architecture provide lasting solutions, or is it always at risk of being destroyed again?

To build truly resilient cities, the role of architects must evolve. They cannot remain distant planners creating abstract designs; they must engage directly with the lived realities of those in conflict zones. The boundary between architect, planner, and resident dissolves when communities take an active role in shaping their environment. Architecture, then, is not just about constructing buildings-it is about rebuilding trust, resisting oppression, and envisioning a future beyond mere survival.

Yet, in contexts of perpetual violence, even resilience is precarious. Can such efforts withstand systemic erasure, or are they destined to be ephemeral gestures? The answer lies in redefining success: not as static monuments, but as processes that sustain agency amid instability. If architecture in contested spaces is inherently political, can architects from privileged institutions ever truly decolonize their practice, or do they inevitably perpetuate colonial logics through their very presence? When intervening in sites like Nablus—where every design choice echoes decades of resistance—does our technical knowledge risk reducing lived trauma to aestheticized “solutions”? Or can we leverage our positionality to amplify marginalized voices without recentering ourselves as saviors? Put starkly: Must Western architectural education dismantle itself to embrace the margin’s radical openness, or is complicity with power structures an inescapable cost of “expertise”?

One example is a café in the old city that had almost stopped operating due to the surrounding violence. Instead of turning it into something new, the project worked with what was already there. Rearranging the interior, improving safety, and slowly bringing it back as a social space. The aim was not to create a finished project but to make daily life possible again.

But this process was full of challenges. The café was in a tense part of the city, under surveillance, and people were suspicious. Trust had to be built with the local community, institutions, and even between team members. There were also bureaucratic barriers and the constant risk of renewed attacks. The architects had to take on roles far beyond design, often acting as mediators and caretakers.

This made me think about our role as architects. Are we prepared to work like this? Most of our training is focused on design, form, and structure, but here the real tools were time, presence, and listening. I realised that reconstruction is not only about what is built, but how and with whom it is done.

What I learned from the text is that even very small interventions can carry weight. The café became a symbol of resilience not because of what it looked like, but because it was used again. The project shows that architecture can support recovery by protecting what still exists instead of replacing it.

The text made me think critically about how we normally approach post conflict design. The Yalla Project does not offer ready made answers. It works with uncertainty. It builds slowly and locally. And maybe this is exactly what is needed in places where life itself is uncertain.

On the small scale of a café in Nablus, Yalla shows how a successful regeneration process can emerge from a modest initial investment, built through careful, thoughtful approaches and a slow, deliberate process of building relations, understanding neighborhood dynamics and habits. The project, aimed at restoring autonomy and a rebuilding of urban life, that is specifically targeted by the occupying Israeli force, highlight the importance of observing and following the indications of local residents, rather than arriving with a finished project vision.

What I find impressive is how the micro-interventions trigger multiple positive outcomes on different scales—drawing people back to that part of the Nablus casbah, enabling residents to benefit from increased business as visitor traffic grows, creating safe spaces for women, revitalizing a historical structure, and empowering local businesses and craftsmanship. Despite ongoing uncertainty, the project continues in phases, anticipating setbacks and potential new conflicts. However, the authors of the text emphasize that, in the long term, an institutional framework is necessary to ensure that grassroots initiatives like Yalla are not just episodic or temporary, but can have a lasting impact.

Relating this to bell hooks' text, I view the Yalla project as a transformative activity from the margins—a refusal to accept the further deterioration of urban life in Nablus caused by the targeted destruction of urban architecture by Israeli forces. As a financially accessible initiative, it opens up scope for action and restores local agency.

However, this raises the question: can grassroots initiatives, by their very nature precarious, withstand further systemic destruction? If they can, does this simply deepen the material marginality of the group? And if they survive, can their essence endure institutionalization? How can we extend the timeline of grassroots initiatives into more formalized frameworks, with the proper preparatory phases that the Yalla project underscores as essential?

One of the most striking points in the text is the idea that preservation is not a neutral act. Deciding what to rebuild, what to alter, and what to let disappear is inherently political. The text raises the question: Who has the authority to determine what is worth saving? While international organizations often impose standardized reconstruction models, local communities hold the deepest knowledge of their own needs. The Yalla Project challenges conventional top-down approaches by working directly with residents, ensuring that rebuilding efforts reflect their lived realities rather than external expectations.

This raises an important question: To what extent can participatory processes be integrated into large-scale urban reconstruction? If local engagement is key to sustainable rebuilding, how can bureaucratic and funding structures adapt to support bottom-up initiatives rather than imposing rigid frameworks? Furthermore, what role does architectural education play in preparing architects to navigate these complex socio-political dynamics rather than focusing solely on aesthetic or technical concerns?

The text also touches on the psychological and emotional dimensions of reconstruction. Beyond physical damage, war leaves behind invisible wounds, trauma, displacement, and the gradual erosion of social trust. If architecture has the power to restore a sense of place and belonging, can it also facilitate healing? And if so, how can design acknowledge and respond to collective trauma without reducing it to a mere aesthetic or conceptual exercise?

Ultimately, the text challenges the notion that architecture exists separately from politics. Whether through destruction, preservation, or reconstruction, spatial interventions always carry ideological weight. The case of Nablus demonstrates that rebuilding is not simply about technical expertise but about engaging with the realities of those who continue to live and resist in spaces shaped by conflict. It leaves me wondering: Can reconstruction ever be neutral, or is it always an act of power, one that either reinforces dominant structures or actively resists them?

The Yalla Project exemplifies regeneration amidst ongoing conflict through its bottom-up approach and strategic micro-interventions in Nablus, Palestine. It addresses the challenges of urban regeneration in a city facing continuous conflict by focusing on preserving local social and spatial cohesion. The project aims to encourage engagement with the casbah (old city) and stimulate new activities. What I found pretty interesting is that the Yalla project focuses on micro-interventions, which significantly improve the community's life in the city’s centre. The Yalla Project's emphasis on micro-interventions is particularly noteworthy because these small-scale, targeted actions can have a profound impact on the community's daily life. By focusing on the casbah, the project not only preserves the historical and cultural essence of Nablus but also fosters a sense of belonging and resilience among its residents.

These thoughts lead me to the question: Are there other similar initiatives in Palestine that function similarly to the Yalla project? How does the project deal with the local institutions, and what are the dynamics between both sides? How does the Yalla Project stay flexible in times of extreme uncertainties?

Additionally we were able to visit Naseers families old soap factory that he converted into a community space hosting different events were locals can craft arts and sell their painting or ceramics in Naseers shop. There I was firstly introduced to the concept of reusing historical buildings into new architectural spaces in Nablus. In addition, while visiting the casbah we entered a turkish bath which has been transformed into a Shisha bar. The Antique Café by Yalla Project furthermore highlights this urban transition happening in Nablus.

The text provides a compelling exploration of Nablus as a site of destruction and renewal. Its strength lies in its detailed empirical analysis and its attention to local agency in reconstruction. However, it also invites further reflection on the limits of urban regeneration within contexts of its continuous suffering of urban violence. The case of Nablus serves as a critical reminder that rebuilding cities is not just a matter of physical reconstruction but also a deeply political act, that must contend with the legacies of violence and the realities of occupation.

In this complex urban context is there a way for architecture to be non-political? What measures can be put in place to ensure that bottom-up regeneration efforts, like the Yalla Project, are financially and socially sustainable in the long term? What are possible challenges that one is facing regarding the preservation and reconstruction of these historical buildings? What can we learn from Nablus and the Yalla Project bottom-up approach? How can we design spaces that can adapt to urban violence and how can we include more resilient strategies into those spaces?

Hooks reminds us that even with the best of intentions, designers can become the new colonizers. Marginal spaces do not need to be designed with a so-called cosmopolitan style wrapped up in a top-down dominance. They are not ‘zones of lack’ but ‘laboratories of radical imagination’.  The choice of materials for each piece of construction and the architectural intent of each small installation all answer the question, "Where is this, and for whom is this being built". In Yalla’s project, they use gold-leaf resin to fill bullet holes, vibrant turquoise colors, and collage tiles to show both the pain and beauty of this land with radical openess. Here, memory seems vibrantly alive. This kind of memory refuses to be "preserved" as static heritage, but instead grows wildly like weeds through the cracks. People can touch and walk among these surviving remnants, or use technology to reconstruct painful experiences—as if silently resisting the forces of power through these acts. Pain doesn't need to be romanticized here, it's as if it's a medal for their rebirth from the ashes.

As I read the story of Macondo, I couldn’t help but wonder: What happens when the world begins to change faster than we can make sense of it? When inventions arrive not quietly, but with spectacle, lightbulbs glowing through the night, films where the dead return in new roles, voices speaking from strange machines?

The people of Macondo aren’t naïve. Their reactions, bewilderment, anger, rejection, are deeply human. They sense that these machines are not just tools, but symbols of a new order. And as the mayor declares the cinema a “machine of illusions,” we see how quickly wonder becomes something to be governed.

Today, we find ourselves again in Macondo only now with artificial intelligence. Machines no longer just projiect stories they write them. They compose, draw, speak.

Much like when the first camera arrived and painters feared the end of art, we now ask: Will AI replace us? Or will it force us to redefine what it means to create?

Still, unease lingers. Who controls these systems? Who decides what truth they simulate? And what happens to human expression when illusion is no longer imposed, but personalized?

And maybe that’s what the people of Macondo remind us of: that what overwhelms us is not the invention itself, but what it demands from us. They stayed up all night staring at the lightbulbs, not because of what they did, but because of what they meant. A sense of something larger arriving. Of the world shifting under their feet.

Just like them, we too are standing in that in-between space between disbelief and desire, between control and awe. Our machines grow more powerful, but perhaps we haven’t changed all that much. We still project, still fear, still long for something we can’t quite name.

So the question remains: If the people of Macondo once broke the cinema seats out of protest against illusion, what will we break, when the illusions come from within us, wearing our own voice?