The Transience of Architecture

One thinks of architecture as designed  buildings intended to be, if not permanent, at least exist a long time, serving generations, defining cities, reflecting history. As Winston Churchill famously said, “We shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us”. And then an earthquake or flood or war or willful damage occurs, such as we have witnessed not just in Pakistan but across the ancient cities of Iraq and Syria.  It questions and undermines our authority over our lives, our ability to construct our futures. It makes our lives impermanent and fragile.

A basti or riverbank in Karachi is suddenly bulldozed, a politician forces neighbours to vacate their homes at three day’s notice, a road expansion pays off homeowners to sell their collective family memories, a dispute over inheritance forces previous owners to see the painful dismantling of their childhood  paradise.

The lofty quotes about designing architecture to last for eternity seem not to apply to Pakistan. We live in a time of the insensitive commercialism of builders, who take down an exquisitely planned 100 year old building in the inner city to construct an ugly concrete substitute that maximizes sellable floor space.  Owners of beautifully designed homes in Amil colony “modernize” their homes ripping out historic Nusserwanji tiles and double windowed doors.

It has happened in history and continues today. Antakya, a small ordinary town in Turkey, was once  Antioch, second only to Rome, and the birthplace of the declaration of Christianity as a distinct religion, and possibly the town mentioned in the Quran as having been destroyed by God  when Habib Al Najjar, the Christian carpenter  was martyred as the sole believer in a city of non-believers. All that remains of that glory are a few mosaic floors. It is not a unique story.  We see the constant erasure of human hubris.

Does architecture have to be seen only through a lens of permanence, structures meant to last an eternity?

In its most abstract sense, Architecture is essentially enclosed space or defined spaces.

In this sense a burqa is an architectural device as it carries the char dewari into public spaces, as does the air conditioned SUV . The sofa armchair and lamp without an electric connection, placed by rag pickers under Baloch pul is an interior space in an unlikely outside space.

More deliberate forms of temporary architecture are shamiana constructions erected every Friday for prayers or for weddings in a reassuring rhythmic system of organized constructing and dismantling.  

Even more fascinating must have been the mobile tent palaces of the Mughal emperors. They housed upto 300,000 people for months. Centered around a lavish two storied Emperor’s tent, the tent palace had an adjoining harem tent, administrative and military sections, kitchens, stables, workshops, bazaars and even a royal mint recording the name of the town nearest the imperial camp. Two palaces were required, one made functional while the next was constructed by a 2000 strong work force that went ahead leveling roads, building bridges, arranging supplies of food, livestock and fuel and gaining the cooperation of local rulers. A man could be standing 15 hours waiting for the caravan of materials to go past.   The notion of “urban” and a “capital city” as a geographical location is challenged and instead becomes an idea.

The city as “Idea” can also be seen in the parceling of cultural spaces in Karachi: once privileged city dwellers were called “Society” people since PECHS society was designed to house civil servants of grade 17 and above. Today they are called “yeh Clifton aur Defence ke loug”. Teen Talwar is a divider between “them” and “us”. When people migrate to Defence Society from other parts of the city, they don the “them” and “us” identities. There may be richer people living in Ranchore lines or Lyari, but the architecture defines the perception of elitism.   

There were once two types of housing areas: the housing “society” which implies agency or a consensus to dwell in a regularized space; the “colony”, suggesting an intuitive gathering like a colony of bees or ants – Geedar Colony, Machar Colony, Khamosh Colony. To this has been added an aspirational space housing the socially mobile – the Gulshan and Gulistan, full of possibilities for change of circumstances.

The city is constantly and invisibly on the move, reclaiming spaces intended as containment by city planners. The bland organized maps of the city bear little resemblance to the experience of the street.

Road names are largely ignored and re-mapped with personalized landmarks. In the old days it was Trampatta, Lal Kothi, Cheel Wali Kothi. Today it is the now non-existent Ayesha Manzil and Moti Mahal, Water Pump, Kala Board, Mukha Chowk, Mochi Mor, Nasir Jump, and even Do Mint Ki Chorangi, where the bus 4J stops for 2 minutes.

The personal road map of 24 yr old Quratul Ain written for “ Meethapani”, an art project, reads:  “Travelling to Buffer Zone from Gulshan-e-Iqbal, one crosses two bridges. I recognize the first from the stench of the open drain it crosses and know I have entered Federal B Area, and when I smell the next I know I have entered Buffer Zone.”  

Durriya Kazi

Karachi May 27, 2017
 PUBLISHED in Dawn -JUN 18, 2017