At a time when communication and understanding — across borders, bodies, Institutions and disciplines — seem more urgent than ever, Ziad Jamaleddine’s short meditation on translation positions architecture between meaning and time. The following text is a version of a talk delivered at an intimate gathering at San Marco Art Centre (SMAC) co-hosted by the Columbia University GSAPP and PIN UP magazine, during the vernissage of the 19th International Exhibition of Architecture at the Venice Biennale.

This essay is part of KoozArch's issue "Polyglot".

We need a new language to address the complexities of the built environment today. Our current architectural discourse is insufficient.

Some of my work focuses on translating Arabic spatial terms into English. The function of this translation is to expand the receiving language, rather than centring it around Arabic or asserting any superiority to it. More importantly, the translation process of the Arabic terms is not encyclopedic. Instead, it resists reducing the terms to a single meaning and explores the manifold meanings that the word holds.

The word I want to translate in this text is 'architecture.'¹

In Arabic, the common word for architecture is '’imārah' which also refers to a 'building' or 'habitation.' The root of ʻimārah is the word 'umr,' which means 'life' or 'age.' The verb ‘amara,' to build, is also interpreted as 'to live a long life' or 'to bring life into something.' For example, the expression 'ammara al-ard' (to build the land) is commonly used by Bedouins to mean 'to cultivate the land,' — essentially bringing life to it.

The plural term 'umrān,' also derived from the root verb 'amara,' can mean 'urbanism.' This specific term has been used by the 14th-century sociologist Ibn Khaldun to theorise about civilisation. For Khaldun, umrān, translated in his writing to possibly mean 'society', represents a group of people coming together with a specific purpose, namely 'to make life happen,' following a cyclical pattern. Think of the civilisational rise, fall, and rise again.

Therefore, whether in singular or plural form, as a verb or noun, ʻimārah, or architecture, embodies the idea of longevity, existing in a constant state of cyclical renewal.

The second word I want to translate is the Ottoman Turkish word imaret, which derives from the Arabic word ʻimārah. The Dictionary of Islamic Architecture defines imaret as the 'term for a kitchen which dispenses soup and bread free to the poor, students, and wandering mystics (dervishes).' In the Ottoman Turkish language, the term ‘'imārah' is, thus, associated with a specific charitable program: in this case, the soup kitchen. However, an imaret can also denote an entire complex of buildings that includes multiple charitable programs, such as a madrasa (school) and a caravanserai (traveller's lodge), among others.

Historically, whether a single structure or a complex, imaret served as an indispensable public institution, supported by a pious charitable foundation, which is the 'waqf,' or religious endowment. The term waqf, which literally means 'to stop' or 'to hold,' is another Arabic term and a concept that I explore in my design studio teaching at Columbia University, GSAPP. A waqf is a textual legal framework grounded in Islamic tradition that suspends any transactions that could be imposed on a physical property (a building or land), instead endowing it, or holding it in perpetuity for the benefit of the community. By the 19th century, more than half of the Ottoman Empire's real estate properties were classified as waqf.

To conclude, across these translation models, 'architecture' is situated between two words and two notions of time. On one hand, there is the Arabic term ʻimārah, which refers to an act of building within a cyclical framework of time, continuously recast into different forms. On the other hand, we have the Ottoman Turkish word imaret, which signifies a site that is frozen in time, forever committed to serving a specific communal benefit.

In this space, architecture operates outside capital flow, even while benefiting from it. Its purpose, within Islamic understanding of charity, is not necessarily to resolve societal problems, but to address them in the present moment. For example, the role of the soup kitchen (imaret) is not to eliminate hunger. Instead, and unlike secular philanthropy, it unconditionally feeds the hungry today, all the while recognising that hunger will continue to exist in the future; hence, the need for the soup kitchen's benefit will always be necessary. Many Ottoman soup kitchen structures, some dating back a few hundred years, such as the Hasseki Sultan Imaret (1552) in Jerusalem, still function today (see Figures). These structures are continually reconstructed, repaired, expanded, and maintained to ensure the continuity of this charitable program.

In this conceptual framework, 'architecture' — situated between ’imārah and imaret — represents a dynamic building form that is inherently committed to a charitable obligation.

Bio

Ziad Jamaleddine is a co-founder of L.E.FT Architects (New York/Beirut) and an assistant professor at Columbia University, GSAPP. He is a practitioner and scholar with a research focus on mosque architecture. His writings have been published in Places Journal (2020), Journal of Material Cultures in the Muslim World (2024), and International Journal of Islamic Architecture (2025). His research has been exhibited at several cultural venues. In 2024, he was selected as one of the ‘Nine Arab American Architects You Should Know’ by the AIA.

Notes

1Part of this text results from an ongoing conversation with my architecture historian colleague at Columbia University, Iheb Guermazi.