In this conversation, Priscilla Namwanje and Nooshin Esmaeili — both recipients of the OBEL Teaching Fellowship — reflect on their distinct yet intersecting approaches to shaping the built environment, led by community. Namwanje’s work in Kampala interrogates colonial legacies in urban planning, centering informal settlements as spaces of knowledge and resilience. Esmaeili, drawing from her research in Bhutan, explores the architecture of well-being, attuned to the spiritual and affective dimensions of space.

This interview is part of a series of ten conversations exploring OBEL and its initiatives, including the Award, Fellowships and Travel Grants.

FEDERICA ZAMBELETTI/KOOZFirst, I want to say congratulations to both for receiving the OBEL Fellowship — it’s a significant achievement, especially considering how many people applied. Could you each share your research, agendas, and interests? Priscilla, perhaps you could start by telling us about your work in Kampala’s urban settlements and how it connects to your broader interests.

PRISCILLA NAMWANJEI’m an urbanist, researcher, and educator, and much of my work focuses on spatial practices within informal settlements in Kampala. I dedicate a significant part of my efforts to the decolonial project, which seeks to rethink and transform how urban planning is approached in the Global South. This involves engaging with everyday spatial practices and understanding how indigenous knowledge systems are formed, sustained, and transmitted within these communities. A central theme in my research is the role of social spaces in informal settlements — how they serve as hosts for dialogue, exchange, and the unfolding of spatial logic. These spaces are where the nuances of community life and knowledge-sharing become visible, and they form the foundation of the work I do.

KOOZNooshin, would you mind sharing a bit about your research on the relationship between the built environment and well-being? I’m especially curious about how you define well-being; it's a term that’s been widely used and misused. I’d love to hear how you frame it within your specific practice.

NOOSHIN ESMAEILII’m trained as an architect and worked in the field for several years, but I always felt there was something more, something deeper I needed to explore. The traditional nine-to-five didn’t fulfill me, and after about ten or eleven years, I decided to return to academia and pursue a PhD. I wanted to investigate the things I had observed in practice but never had the time or space to truly engage with.

When I speak about well-being, I mean it in a holistic sense. It’s not just physical health — it’s emotional, cognitive, mental, and spiritual. It’s about feeling anchored in oneself and in one’s surroundings. If we look at Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, self-actualisation sits at the top — that’s the ultimate state of well-being. So for me, architecture should support that journey — we spend a great amount of time within the built environment, it becomes the number one determinant of health. It’s in the way light moves across a wall, the silence of a space, the materials, the thresholds, the alignment with the horizon. These elements may not be measurable, but they profoundly shape our sense of self, and ultimately our well-being.

KOOZSince you're approaching this from an architectural perspective, how do you weave in disciplines like environmental psychology and religion? Do you engage in conversations with practitioners from those fields? And how is that knowledge then embedded into your practice and research?

NEI believe it’s essential to understand other fields so I can meaningfully integrate them into my work and pass that knowledge on to others. I’m currently involved in several interdisciplinary projects at our university, collaborating with faculties of medicine, public health, sociology, social work and architecture. These conversations are incredibly valuable because they expose me to different perspectives. For example, my definition of well-being as an architect is quite different from how someone in public health or social work might define it. Understanding those differences — recognising what I might be missing or who might be missing from the conversation — helps me grow and refine my approach. And of course, context matters. The understanding and application of well-being can vary significantly depending on the environment. Priscilla could probably speak to that from her own experience. What well-being means in North America is very different from what it meant when I was living elsewhere.

KOOZIt’s interesting that you both emphasise the importance of conversation. Priscilla, you mentioned your commitment to decolonial practices and how these unfold through dialogue in the social spaces of Kampala’s urban settlements. Could you tell us more about the kind of work that takes place within these spaces, and how you approach the settlements themselves?

KOOZIt’s interesting that you both engage with very different contexts; Priscilla, your work is rooted in urban settlements, while Nooshin, your OBEL research has focused more on rural environments. I’d like to ask how useful these binaries are — formal versus informal, rural versus urban — in helping to define and operate within these contexts? Do we need new vocabularies? What have your experiences been in navigating and working within these terms while also trying to move beyond them?

NEFor me, the process was one of constant improvisation — especially during my time in Bhutan. I went to the other side of the world without knowing the language or what to expect. It was a journey into the unknown, and that uncertainty became part of the research itself. We began exploring the definition of wellbeing and its applications in architecture. Our studio project was centered around exploring rural contexts and visiting a primary school in a remote area. As I spent more time there, I realised the distinction between rural and urban wasn’t as clear-cut as I had imagined. There was a strong connection between the two — people, ideas, and resources moved fluidly between them. So rather than defining my work by geography — rural versus urban, formal versus informal — I began to focus on the human experience. It became less about location and more about how people live, adapt, and relate to their environments.

In rural areas, I found that people often have to rely on themselves and each other more. They face daily challenges that require creativity, resilience, and deep community ties. In contrast, urban environments — especially in the Global North — often come with systems and technologies that solve problems for us. That contrast taught me a lot. I also began to see that the qualities we often associate with rural life — slowness, care, rootedness — are incredibly valuable and important in our daily life. I started asking: how can we bring those qualities into urban contexts? And conversely, how can the complexity and dynamism of urban life inform rural design? The binary between rural and urban is increasingly fluid, and I think we need to move beyond rigid categories.

Instead of binaries, I prefer to think in terms of gradients — layers of identity, experience, and settlement. That’s also where my interest in wisdom traditions comes in. I was born in Iran and grew up in Canada, and I feel a strong connection to Persian architecture. I’m not trying to recreate traditional forms, but I want to learn from the principles behind them. How did my ancestors design spaces that still move me today? What can we learn from that? I imagine Priscilla might feel something similar — there’s so much richness in our cultural backgrounds that often gets lost in more standardised, Western approaches to architecture. In many communities, when people come together to build something — a library, for example — it becomes more than just a structure. It becomes a space of meaning and connection. That’s something I think we can all learn from.

PNI completely agree, and I’d like to build on that. It’s definitely more complex than a binary — it’s more like a continuum. If we take Kampala as an example, you see informal settlements embedded within the urban fabric, but their growth is often driven by rural-to-urban migration. People move from rural areas into the city, and they bring with them knowledge, culture, and practices. What happens is a kind of re-creation of rural life within the urban setting.

So while these spaces might appear distinct, they’re actually deeply connected — almost like extensions of one another. The same goes for the distinction between formal and informal planning. When you really look closely, the boundaries blur. You’ll find informal practices happening within formally planned areas, and formalised systems emerging within informal settlements. These aren’t static categories that exist in isolation — they’re interwoven, fluid, and constantly evolving. Like Nooshin said, it’s about interdependence and overlap. In my experience, it’s impossible to treat these terms as fixed.

KOOZOne aspect of your research that really intrigued me is your exploration of the Pattern Language method. Could you share more about what this method entails, and what opportunities it might offer for urban design? In particular, how might it support a more generous, inclusive, and bottom-up approach, as opposed to the top-down models we often see?

PNI first encountered the Pattern Language method during my studies in Europe. I had come across it before, but it wasn’t until I was grappling with a specific challenge in my research that it really resonated with me. I was trying to figure out how to bridge the communication gap between urban professionals — like myself — and everyday city dwellers. We often speak from a highly technical, so-called “informed” perspective, assuming we hold the knowledge. But the reality is that communities also hold valuable knowledge, and if we want to co-create meaningful solutions, we need a way to access and share that knowledge equitably.

That’s where the Pattern Language method came in. It was originally developed by Christopher Alexander and his colleagues, primarily for architecture, as a way to address recurring problems in the built environment through what they called “patterns.” These patterns range in scale — from something as small as a window to something as large as a city — and they offer simple, repeatable solutions grounded in observation. What drew me to the method was its simplicity and accessibility. It allows you to observe a solution that already exists in the environment and document it in a clear, straightforward way. I first saw it being used in urban design as a communication tool between professionals and laypeople — helping both groups understand and contribute to design solutions. That really struck me as something we could leverage in the context of urban planning in the Global South. It has great potential for co-creation and co-design, enabling professionals and community members to work together more effectively.

From my perspective as an educator, it also has pedagogical value. It encourages students to immerse themselves in a context, observe carefully, and document what they see — skills that are essential for thoughtful, responsive design. Another strength of the method is its flexibility. Patterns can exist at very small scales and scale up to complex urban systems. That adaptability makes it especially useful in a field as multifaceted as urban design.

KOOZWhat exactly was the vacuum in communication that you were responding to? Was it that conversations simply weren’t happening at all? Or was it more about misinterpretation and disconnect when exchanges did occur? What was happening before, and what’s still happening in places where this methodology isn’t being used? Is it a lack of space for dialogue, or a breakdown in communication even when those spaces exist?

PNI think the issue is less about the absence of communication and more about how that communication takes place. The spaces do exist — take Kampala, for example. When the city council develops a new urban plan, they often organise workshops or community consultations as part of the process. On the surface, it looks like engagement is happening. But in reality, it’s often very one-sided. Typically, these sessions involve presenting highly technical information to community members — information that’s difficult to digest or respond to meaningfully.

Even when the language is simplified, the structure of the engagement doesn’t allow for genuine dialogue. Community input is often reduced to ticking boxes, answering survey questions, or giving a yes-or-no response. There’s little room for open, honest conversation where both parties — planners and residents — can contribute as stakeholders with shared investment in the outcome. So the vacuum isn’t about the absence of space, but rather the imbalance in how communication is facilitated. The process tends to be top-down, with professionals assuming the role of knowledge holders and communities positioned as passive recipients. What’s missing is a framework that allows for more equitable, reciprocal exchange.

KOOZAnd how has this method landed on the ground in your experience? What kinds of opportunities have emerged through its implementation?

PNAt the moment, I’ve implemented the Pattern Language method primarily within the context of the OBEL Fellowship course and a few community workshops. It’s still very much an experimental tool in my practice — something I’m continuously tweaking, adapting, and testing to see how it can work more effectively. Within the spaces where I’ve used it, I’ve seen promising results. For example, in workshops with students and community youth, or with fellow practitioners and local residents, the method has helped create more balanced conversations. It’s allowed us to actually hear from community members, document their insights in a way that’s accessible, and then reflect that knowledge back to them in a form they can understand and engage with. These workshops have felt more like genuine exchanges — where both sides can understand each other and contribute meaningfully. So while it’s still in development and hasn’t yet reached a broader scale, I see real potential in it. My hope is that, over time, it can be scaled up and integrated into larger planning processes — even at the level of city planning.

KOOZWhat do you see as the potential of engaging students through this kind of pedagogical structure — one that moves them away from books and into real-world contexts? How does testing frameworks like Pattern Language, and understanding that learning can happen in the city with citizens rather than just in classrooms or behind screens, shift their perspective and practice?

PNI think that was one of the most powerful outcomes of the course — the way it shifted students’ understanding of where learning happens and who holds knowledge. Traditionally, students are immersed in books, reading about best practices in urban planning, and often imagining large-scale master plans as the solution to urban challenges. But this method pushed them to step outside that framework. It asked them to immerse themselves in the context, to recognise that the answers are not just in theory — they’re in the community, with the people.

In our first workshop, for example, students came in with bold, imaginative ideas — as students often do. But then they were paired with community youth who had also been introduced to the Pattern Language method. These youth were able to respond critically and practically: “That idea won’t work,” or “That’s too expensive — I’d rather spend my money on something else.” It was a reality check for the students. They had to confront the gap between what sounds brilliant in theory and what’s actually useful or feasible on the ground.

That moment of humility — of listening, observing, and co-creating — was transformative. By the end of the course, most students were working closely with the community youth to develop ideas together. The interventions they proposed were small-scale, implementable, and deeply rooted in the lived realities of the community. It was a complete departure from the usual top-down, masterplan approach taught in school. So yes, I think the pedagogical potential is immense. It teaches students to approach the discipline of urban design differently.

KOOZI’m curious — what were the students’ reactions like? Were some hesitant to engage at first, while others showed more sensitivity or enthusiasm? Did you encounter any resistance to being on site, or were they generally eager to immerse themselves in the reality of the context?

PNThey were incredibly keen to get out of the classroom. I think having real-world clients and working toward real-world solutions was a major shift for them — one they embraced with enthusiasm. If there was any resistance at all, it came more from the challenges of communication: language barriers, cultural differences, and just the initial discomfort of navigating unfamiliar social dynamics. But overall, the attitude was overwhelmingly positive. In fact, we had 100% attendance throughout the course, which I’ve never experienced before in my teaching career.

What was especially powerful was the way students and community youth were grouped together — not as separate entities, but as equal collaborators. Each group was half students, half community members, and they all took ownership of the process. It wasn’t “I’m the student and you’re the local resident” — it was “we’re both here to co-create something meaningful for this community.” That shift in mindset was profound. They built real friendships, and there was a genuine sense of shared purpose. The students really committed to applying their design knowledge for the greater good, stepping back from their own egos and centering the needs of the community. I truly believe they won’t forget that experience. And I hope it influences how we teach urban planning — not just in Kampala, but more broadly. We need to create more opportunities for students to immerse themselves in real contexts and develop grounded, realistic solutions.

As for the outcomes, two projects stood out as particularly promising for implementation. The first was an expansion of a community shed — a space already used for gatherings, but too small and surrounded by areas that posed safety risks for children. The proposal was to enlarge the shed and create a safe, communal play area on adjacent community-owned land. We worked with local leaders to identify the best layout and design something that would serve both adults and children.

The second project was more of an installation — something like a community monument — made from recycled plastic. The community was already informally collecting plastic bottles, so the idea was to formalise and celebrate that effort. The installation would be placed in a skate park and serve both as a collection point and a symbol of environmental stewardship. The plan was to connect this initiative with a city organisation that buys plastic waste and recycles it into building materials like tiles. That way, the youth could earn income while contributing to a circular economy — and the community would have a landmark they could take pride in.

KOOZIt’s incredibly inspiring — and clearly a lot of work. Working on site, navigating real-world complexities, and then trying to formalise that into something tangible is no small feat. And while an outcome isn’t always necessary, it’s impressive that you were able to guide students through the process and arrive at grounded, community-driven solutions.

Nooshin, I wanted to turn to your experience. You mentioned earlier that you traveled to Bhutan for the OBEL Fellowship — somewhere you had never visited before. What informed your choice of Bhutan as the site through which to explore the relationship between architecture and well-being? What drew you to that geography, and what were your impressions once you arrived?

NEGoing to Bhutan was a deeply personal and transformative journey. The decision to go there was shaped by a conversation with my supervisor and mentor, who is both an architect and a psychologist. He had worked with the Bhutanese government years ago, and when I told him I was interested in exploring spirituality through architecture and applying for the OBEL Fellowship, he suggested Bhutan. Once I began researching the country and its people, everything about it resonated with me. I knew immediately: this was where I needed to go.

It wasn’t just about teaching. I knew I would be learning just as much — if not more — from the people there. I wanted to immerse myself in a challenging environment: to grow, to serve, and, in some quiet way, to heal. I say “heal” because, just under a year before I traveled to Bhutan, I had to say goodbye to my younger brother. He chose to end his life — a departure that left a silence I still carry. And yet, I feel him with me. I see him in moments of stillness, often as a butterfly — gentle, fleeting, and forever transformed. Carrying that grief with me, I hoped the experience would offer space not only for reflection, but for a deeper reconnection with life, purpose, and presence.

That loss left a deep wound, and this journey became part of my healing process and search for meaning in life.. I truly feel and believe I was meant to be there. It was all planned from beyond. Everything came together in such an unexpected, almost mystical way that I felt called to go — not just as an academic or a designer, but as a human being seeking transformation. I wanted to serve the students, the faculty, and everyone I encountered. And what I found in Bhutan was a culture where spirituality and intangible values are not separate from daily life — they are embedded in everything: in teaching, in living, in rituals, in the way people relate to one another.

In the West, we often talk about well-being in terms of physical health, fitness, or lifestyle — yoga mats and mindfulness apps. But in Bhutan, well-being is something much deeper and more integrated. People may not even use the term “well-being” the way we do, but they live it. It’s in their values, their rhythms, their sense of community and care. Of course, they face their own challenges and stresses, but their beliefs and way of life help them stay connected to something larger — a shared sense of purpose, harmony, and meaning. That contrast was incredibly powerful for me and reminded me of my own culture and roots. I knew there would be challenges, and I welcomed them. I wanted to step outside my comfort zone and explore what Eastern cultures could teach us about living well — about how architecture and space can support a more holistic, grounded sense of being. And of course, Bhutan itself is not an easy place to access. You can’t just go as a tourist and wander freely. It’s highly regulated — you need a guide, and visits are limited. So living there for seven months, through the OBEL Fellowship, was truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The Teaching Fellowship gave me the space to truly connect — with students, with faculty, and with the place itself. Together, we explored how architecture can embody values that go beyond the physical — how it can reflect a spiritual lens. That was a very different perspective for many of the students. But it was also something they could easily lean into, because their beliefs and cultural grounding made it feel natural — unlike in the West, where such ideas often require unlearning or reframing. In their context, talking about well-being, health, or beauty in architecture can feel like a luxury. The mindset is often: “First, we need shelter — then we can think about all these other things.” So I had to adapt. I came in with a curriculum, a plan, a workshop structure — but once I arrived, I realised I needed to shift my perspective. I was learning from them in real time, and I had to improvise. The students were used to traditional modes of teaching: the teacher lectures, the students listen. But that’s not how I teach. I try to create a more relational, embodied experience. I always try to become friends with my students and learn from them — not just as a group, but as individuals. Each of them sees the world differently, shaped by their own experiences, stories, and ways of being. We go outside. We take off our shoes. We go on meditative walks. I encourage them to feel the world with their bodies and emotions first — and then translate that into their architecture and design. I believe it’s essential for designers and architects to first understand themselves — their own inner landscapes — before they can meaningfully design spaces that respond to the needs and emotions of others.

This approach was new for them, but they were open. — something I also experienced growing up in Iran. So in many ways, Bhutan became a mirror for me. I felt like I had stepped back into my own school years. I saw myself in those students — curious, quiet, shy and eager to connect beyond words. It brought me back to the questions I’ve always carried: How can architecture be a quiet, grounding presence in our lives? And I think my teaching introduced a fundamentally different way of thinking about architecture. At their university, architecture is housed within the School of Engineering, so it’s often seen through a technical lens. But I was there to show that architecture is also about poetics, about atmosphere, about beauty. If we just want to build a bridge or a shelter, yes — we need engineers. But if we want to create spaces that move us, that hold memory, that evoke feeling — we need architects. Architecture isn’t just about solving problems. It’s about creating experiences.

Through the fellowship, I was able to open up a conversation around transdisciplinary collaboration — bringing together aspects of health (especially mental health), well-being, emotional connection, and spirituality. These were all relatively new concepts for both the students and the faculty. Often, these dimensions are seen as secondary, even luxurious — something to consider only after the “real” work of shelter and structure is done. But I wanted to challenge that mindset and show that these so-called secondary aspects are actually foundational. Because I only had one semester, I had to be strategic. I started small. I asked the students to look at their own classroom: What if we cleaned it up and organised it differently? What if we painted the walls and brought in curtains? How would that change the atmosphere? These were simple, inexpensive interventions, but they demonstrated how prioritising care and attention to detail could dramatically improve the quality of a space. It helped shift their perspective — from seeing architecture as purely material and technical, to understanding it as something that shapes how people flourish, connect, and heal.

This shift became especially powerful when we worked on a rural primary school project. I introduced them to the work of Prakash Nair, who advocates for transforming schools from “cells and bells” to learning communities. When we visited the school, I asked the students to question everything: Why are the rooms separated? Why is there no playground? Where do the children go when it rains? Why is there no communal space? These questions helped them realise that the buildings they design will shape the lives of future generations. That realization was profound for them. I often shared a quote by Louis Kahn that encapsulates this philosophy: “A great building must begin with the unmeasurable, must go through measurable means when it is being designed, and in the end must be unmeasurable.”

This speaks to the balance between the technical and the poetic. Yes, we need to calculate how much concrete and steel a building requires — but we also need to consider the intangible, unmeasurable qualities that give a space soul — the genius loci. In Bhutan, this conversation was especially nuanced because of the Buddhist cultural context. There’s a strong emphasis on detachment from the material world, on simplicity and humility. But I wanted to show that simplicity doesn’t mean we must reject beauty. As human beings, we are drawn to beauty, to art, to nature. Architecture can be simple and still be deeply nourishing. In Bhutan, that beauty is already present — visible in the intricate wood carvings, symbolic paintings, hand-painted details and spiritual ornamentation that grace even the most functional buildings such as their airport. Yet I sensed there’s space to deepen this further — to carry that same intentionality into spatial design, light, materials, and the lived experience of the building itself.

To broaden their perspective, I organised lecture series and invited speakers from around the world and across disciplines. This helped students see that architecture isn’t just about buildings — it’s about impact. It’s about how we live, how we feel, how we relate to one another and to the world around us.

KOOZThat’s such a compelling observation. Nooshin, you describe a culture in Bhutan that is deeply attuned to the intangible — spirituality, emotional resonance, and subtle qualities of space. Yet, as you mentioned, the pedagogical structure you encountered had a clear hierarchy between teacher and student, and a more technical, engineering-oriented view of architecture. Why do you think this disconnect exists? Has this pedagogical model evolved at all in recent years, or has it remained largely fixed — where buildings are seen as buildings, and the more nuanced, culturally embedded understandings of space are left out of the educational framework?

NEBhutan is a constitutional monarchy, and access in and out of the country is highly regulated. So change happens slowly, and often through very deliberate channels. Within the academic setting — particularly in the architecture program I worked with — things are still in an early but promising stage. As the only architecture program in the country, it brings together students from diverse regions and backgrounds across Bhutan. The faculty are deeply committed and doing meaningful work. While they work with limited resources, their dedication and vision are evident. The program is housed within the School of Engineering, which naturally frames architecture through a more technical lens — but there is a growing openness to more holistic, integrated ways of thinking about space, culture, and design.

There’s definitely room for growth, but change requires approval from multiple levels — the university, the royal family, and various ministries. Even for me, as a foreign educator, there were many layers of permissions and protocols I had to navigate. That’s why I had to improvise so much in my teaching. Still, there’s a lot of potential. Many of the faculty members studied abroad — in the UK, Germany, India, even Canada — and they bring fresh perspectives. I also worked with the Department of Culture and Dzongkha Development Ministry of Home Affairs and became the only certified foreigner in Bhutan who completed the training program on Conservation of Heritage Buildings. That led to a paper we co-authored and presented at a conference in the Valencia International Biennial of Research in Architecture (VIBRArch) in Valencia, Spain — an important step in opening up international dialogue. So yes, the pedagogical model is still quite structured, but there’s momentum building. There are collaborations with institutions such as  Germany, UK and Spain, and I believe the students — who are so bright and eager — will be the ones to carry these new ideas forward. They have so much to offer, both to their own country and to the global architectural conversation.

KOOZHow have these OBEL Fellowship experiences shaped your trajectories? Are you continuing to work with the communities you engaged with? Has Bhutan become a closed chapter, or is it still informing your thinking? And how are these insights reshaping your pedagogical approaches going forward?

PNI see this as my life’s work. I don’t envision an endpoint to the kind of research and engagement I’m doing — it’s something I’ll carry forward as long as I can, and hopefully someone else will pick up the baton when I can’t. Right now, I’m beginning my PhD studies, and I’m continuing to center the conversation around social spaces in informal settlements — specifically, how we can move beyond their physical presence and begin to understand their cognitive and cultural dimensions. This means tapping into the shared, collective knowledge that exists within these spaces — knowledge that’s often overlooked or undervalued in formal planning discourse. And because this is fundamentally a decolonial project, I’m also rethinking the methods I use. I don’t see communities as sites to extract data from, but as long-term collaborators. These are not just “subjects” of research — they’re colleagues, co-creators, and fellow citizens working toward a shared goal: making life in Kampala more livable, more equitable, more humane.

KOOZWhat other decolonial practices are you engaging; what alternative formats, tools, or methodologies are you exploring or challenging in your work?

PNI think one of the most important decolonial practices I’m engaging with is deep self-reflection. Even though I’m working in communities in Kampala that I’m culturally familiar with, I didn’t grow up in an informal settlement. I’ve lived a more privileged life, and that creates a distance — a set of internal biases that I have to confront. So part of the work is acknowledging that bias — not just within myself, but also within my peers, colleagues, and institutions. It’s about asking: how do we come face-to-face with our own positionality and still show up with humility and integrity? Right now, I wouldn’t say I have all the answers. But I’m designing a research process that tries to be as fair, honest, and grounded as possible.

NEFor me the fellowship affirmed that the kind of work I’m doing — centered on well-being, spirituality, and emotional connection — is not only valid, but needed. It opened my eyes to the possibility of applying these ideas in other countries, developing or underserved communities. Maybe even through collaborations with people like Priscilla or others who are doing grounded, community-based work. I love serving others, and I love learning from them — so I see this as the beginning of something that can evolve in both scale and spirit. I’m truly grateful to the OBEL Foundation for this unique opportunity — it’s an experience that will stay with me for a long time.

What we explored in Bhutan was just a studio project, but I see the potential for it to become something much more — a living prototype. A way of designing spaces that respond with sensitivity to both context and community. I really hope my students carry those lessons forward. We didn’t just talk about architecture in the abstract — we talked about their own lives. I asked them to reflect on their childhood schools: What did you love? What didn’t you like? And then we used those memories to shape their designs. That kind of personal reflection helped them see that architecture isn’t just about shelter — it’s about creating transcendent habitats. Spaces that go beyond function to awaken awareness, nurture the human spirit, and foster quiet connections between people and place.

About

The OBEL Teaching Fellowships seek to bridge the gap between professional practice and academia to enrich the dialogue and learning around each year’s chosen award theme. By supporting the development of new courses within accredited academic programs, the fellowship brings fresh voices into academia, reinforcing a commitment to innovation and the core mission of OBEL.

Bios

Nooshin Esmaeili is a Canadian architect and researcher currently pursuing a PhD on the relationship between architecture and well-being. Her work explores the role of spatial quality in shaping physical, emotional, and spiritual health, with a particular focus on the intersection of mysticism and design. Drawing on the wisdom traditions of Persian architecture, her research investigates the concepts of harmony, flow, and unity in the making of transcendental spaces. She is interested in how architecture can bridge the inner and outer worlds, creating spaces that resonate universally across cultures and identities.

Priscilla Namwanje is a Ugandan urbanist and educator whose work focuses on inclusive and sustainable urban development in the Global South. She holds a Master’s in Urbanism from TU Delft and a Bachelor’s in Architecture from Makerere University, where she now teaches. Her research engages with spatial justice, participatory planning, and local knowledge in informal settlements in Kampala. She is the founder of ReFrame, a research initiative that explores community-led urbanism. Her current focus is on southern urbanism and postcolonial urban theory, which she will continue to develop through upcoming PhD research. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Sustainable Urban Development from the University of Oxford.