KK: I think we, as architects, have always known perhaps even quietly accepted that we are part of the system. We tend to fit into it quite comfortably because it aligns with the model that sustains us professionally. When you’re working with a state-financed entity at that level, we often have very little leverage to question their practices or broader strategies. That speaks to a kind of impotence in our role as architects we end up succumbing to the system. We don’t always have the tools or the depth of knowledge to challenge or shift it meaningfully.


Take Francis Kéré, for example. He’s received immense praise and rightly so. But many people overlook how deeply embedded he was with the communities he worked with. That’s the foundation of his brilliance. His projects are fantastic, but his genius was in being there, in that slow, grounded work over many years. My biggest concern now is that he’s being celebrated so much by global institutions that he’s being pulled away from that embedded practice. And that’s a loss, because his power was in the years of presence, commitment, and community-building. So I think we, as architects, really need to question how we fit into that broader food chain and whether we are building systems or simply reproducing them.

AA: Would you say that a deeper understanding of land, its histories, and its legacies comes from long-term engagement such as spending months or years studying, researching, or teaching on-site? In your view, how distant are current architectural and development practices from this kind of grounded, site-specific approach?



KK: It goes without saying the model of how we practice is deeply tied to the neocolonial capitalist systems that permeate the world. We’re not immune to it at all. These systems push us into pigeonholes where spending a long amount of time on a specific site just being there with the people is undervalued. But I feel strongly that’s exactly what we need to fight for: to be present, not just for a fleeting period, but consistently. Every day I go to the mountain, I learn something new. Every single day. And often I find myself asking, Why didn’t anyone tell me this before? There's just so much knowledge embedded in the land.
In a way, it's about shifting our model, our modus operandi. It's about embedding ourselves deeply in place. And yes, part of it ties into building relationships with individuals and entities who are already on the ground. In reality, there aren't many but that’s precisely what needs to be cultivated.



AA: In your work, particularly through projects like the Anthropocene museums, how do you see the concept of the museum redefining our understanding of public space especially in relation to the environment, cultural narratives, and the relationship between architects, researchers, and communities?



KK: I think, tying it to your previous question where you spoke about this interesting notion of archaeology, what I believe we’re trying to do is build a vocabulary that connects us better with the land a new way of thinking. And I think that effort should never be underestimated, because the whole logic of the Anthropocene is that we as humans have unwittingly impacted the entire earth systems without even fully understanding them in the first place. This has been happening for centuries. It’s only now that we’re starting to look geology in the face and realize, Oh my gosh, this is what we’ve done without ever having built a way to speak back to the geology, a way to truly understand what it is. In a way, the practice becomes about forming a relationship with the land and earth systems a relationship that is not superficial, but one that actually takes time. And, pun intended, geology is a practice of millennia. We delude ourselves if we think we can absorb or understand it within a very short period of time.



AA: What lessons can be drawn from integrating geological and anthropological research into architectural practice in order to create spaces that are both contextually relevant and environmentally responsive?


KK: As I’ve highlighted, it’s not just about the surface processes, but the literal processes tied to plant life, water systems, water towers, and water tables. And understanding all of that takes time especially when so much of this research hasn’t been done. When you’re talking about resolving complex issues like water scarcity, for example in Suswa, where all the water runs off into caves and underground water tables, what is our real understanding of that system?


If you’re not managing or mitigating it properly, what systems do you employ? You can’t just pour a huge slab of concrete and call it a water pan. It would be disastrous it would collapse the entire cave system beneath it. You’d be back at square one. Sure, you could get consultants in, collect some data in two or three months, and come up with a plan. But honestly, that’s just wishful thinking. We need a reality check an honesty to admit: we don’t know a lot of what's happening here. Unfortunately, our training often gears us to posture, to present as if we have the answers. But when you deal with nation-state entities, that kind of honesty isn’t welcome. Saying, We need a year and a half just to understand this site doesn’t fit into financial models or project timelines that demand rapid impacts. Part of what’s really needed is reading geologies and embracing a serious slowing down of our practice.


AA: How can recognizing the unique forms of rural urbanity influence the planning and execution of development projects to more effectively serve diverse communities?



KK: We coined the term rural urbanity to describe what we found in places like Suswa that you cannot separate what’s happening in the rural landscape from what’s happening in the city. The rural landscape, specifically the river valley, is the direct source of about 40% of the country's energy through geothermal power plants. It’s through that exploitation that the city can actually exist. With a rural-urban consciousness, you begin to really see these relationships. You understand why the displacement of huge tracts of Maasai communities from their land was seen as essential at least in the government’s eyes to justify progress in the city.

It's easy to forget these relationships when you’re focused on a specific project, site, or mission, just trying to achieve measurable impact and feed into Board reports. But these deeper linkages, these connections, become apparent over time once you really pay attention.



AA: Would you describe yourself as an architectural activist, given that your work seems to go beyond design to engage with broader social, cultural, and environmental issues?



KK: I don’t know if I would call this activism exactly, but maybe, in a way, it is. We resist a lot. We’re not activists in the conventional sense, fighting in the streets. It’s more about how your knowledge takes a stand, how you position yourself through your work and ideas.



AA: How might incorporating more-than-human perspectives, considering the needs and roles of non-human entities, reshape the objectives and methodologies of aid architecture? Additionally, how can acknowledging historical events, sites of resistance, and non-human legacies inform more contextually and ethically grounded contemporary architectural practices?



KK: I think they’re completely intertwined. The very foundation of why aid is mobilized in any particular site is because there has either been a degradation of natural ecosystems—flora and fauna—or the environment has been overexploited, or broader climate change issues have emerged. Unlike any other model, aid needs to recognize this. When we talk about deteriorating earth systems and logics of repair—how we can relate with the more-than-human world—it’s all about repairing and aiding broken relationships with life. Everything is connected, but we’re not taking it seriously.


I get very frustrated when aid models are reduced to a tick-box exercise—purely about building something and claiming an impact. That building might stand, but it’s flawed if it ignores the larger ecosystem. What if, instead, we fixed a river system? Or cared for a species that serves as a fantastic barometer, like lichen, which signals healthy air quality? These natural clues are everywhere, but we aren’t listening. Aid often ignores what truly sustains communities traditional agricultural practices, women’s weaving, materials like rattan grown locally. Instead, architects are front-loaded to just erect structures and declare success, without addressing the deeper systems that actually allow communities to thrive.


AA: As we wrap up, could you share a piece of advice for young architects who aspire to not only practice architecture, but also embody activism and integrity in their work those who wish to speak and build with conviction, despite the challenges they might face?


KK: Honestly, from what I’ve seen today just keep doing what you’re doing. It feels like a beautiful obsession, this work you’re doing within the gap of questioning philanthropy and traditional aid models. These systems are part of a much larger web interconnected with global politics, economic structures, and the dominant narratives of so-called progress and civilization. And your work is clearly pushing back against that.