Member Perspective: Incarnation Machine

To know Egypt is to step into an incarnation machine, a place where the ancient and the urgent converge, grinding the past into the present, transforming the visitor in ways that linger long after the journey ends. Cairo, this beautiful, ancient, brutal megacity of over 22 million souls, where the Nile winds like a ribbon of fate, reminded me that we are all pilgrims searching for something, purpose, love, peace, a way home. I arrived not as a tourist but as a houser, part of a delegation from the National Association of Housing and Redevelopment Officials (NAHRO), representing Public Housing Authorities at the World Urban Forum.

For a week, I was buried in the business of building, sessions on zoning reform, panels on international housing finance, informal settlements, sustainable cities, conversations that felt like lifelines tossed into a storm. On a panel titled “Meeting the Moment: Innovations in Housing Supply to Address Inequality in Cities”, it was my honor to represent NAHRO, as I spoke about stagnant efficiency gains and how they inflate the cost of affordable housing, about the need for building codes that see beyond the next permit, places that members love to call home. I talked about how we housers are builders of foundations, how it’s not the walls and roofs that matter but the lives that beat within them. Every session felt like a new gear turning in the machine, grinding policy into plans, plans into the promise of a home. 

But some truths hit harder than policy. The session that shattered me introduced the work of the Taiwan-Reyhanli Centre, building dignified spaces for Syrian refugees in Turkey. “Architecture is not just about buildings – it’s about people,” said Cho, the architect of this life-changing center. “Spaces can heal if they respect the dignity of those who inhabit them.” His words, paired with images of classrooms, clinics, and community spaces, moved me beyond words. I stood in that crowded room, endorphins pulsing, tears streaming down my face, hands red from clapping, drawn to my feet by the sheer power of what I’d heard. Their mission, to unite cross-border resources to create homes for families unmoored by war, was everything I believe in. It was housing as salvation, as the purest form of sanctuary. In that moment, the incarnation machine roared to life, transforming despair into hope, brick by brick, bed by bed, hope springs eternal. 

Then came Faten Kikano’s, an urbanist and advocate for refugee dignity, wielding words like a scalpel: “a poison gift,” “protectors become oppressors,” “a non-place,” “the territorialized ghetto.” She laid bare the shadows that haunt even our best intentions, the way a shelter can become a prison, the way a helping hand can morph into a clenched fist, around one’s neck. I listened, heart pounding, and thought about how zoning conditions force our hands as affordable developers, the way we find ourselves trapped between what we want to build and what we can, where we can. The incarnation machine doesn’t just build; it reveals. It shows us what our hands have wrought, for better or worse. 

I thought, too, of the residents back in Colorado, frustrated by unit layouts that didn’t fit the needs of their families, deep and narrow one or two-bedroom layouts with windows on only one side, such scarce sunlight. I remembered their voices, some calm, some trembling with frustration, some lifted in rage, describing how it feels to live in a space that doesn’t see you, doesn’t welcome you. Those conversations stayed with me, pushing me to help write policy that addressed those flaws, to fight for designs, in locations that honor the lives that fill them. The incarnation machine turns slowly, but it turns nonetheless.  

The hardest part is knowing there will never be enough. Not enough units, not enough funding, not enough time to help everyone who needs it. Each new building feels like a drop in a desert, and sometimes the weight of all those unmet needs is paralyzing. I’ve spent nights staring at drawings, budgets, eyes burning, wondering if we’re even making a dent, if the incarnation machine grinds on only to reveal our failures in the end. 

Between sessions, Cairo pulled me into its labyrinthine streets. I wandered the old city, inhaling saffron and grilled lamb, the call to prayer echoing from minarets that pierced the skyline. I watched men smoke hookahs, their debates rising in plumes of sweetened tobacco, and thought about how ancient this all was, how these same streets had been threads in the tapestry of empire, conquest, faith, and rebellion. Every step was a turn of the incarnation machine’s gears, grinding history into dust and hope. 

In the Grand Egyptian Museum, I stood shoulder to shoulder with my beloved NAHRO colleagues before relics that had endured for millennia, statues of Isis, Osiris, and Horus carvings of Ramses II triumphs, the solemn gaze of mummified kings. They seemed to whisper that humans have always been builders, not just of walls but of worlds. The museum itself was an incarnation machine, preserving memory in alabaster, basalt, granite, copper, silver and gold so that we might remember who we are. I wondered what traces our housing projects might leave behind, what story they might tell when we are dust. 

When the Forum ended, I traded my conference badge for a train ticket south. Late at night, I boarded an overnight train to Aswan, the Nile unfurling silver beneath the moonlight. The train rocked and rattled, a lullaby of metal and momentum, carrying me deeper into the heart of Egypt. Through the window, palm trees flashed by like phantoms, and I thought about all the refugees who had boarded trains bound for uncertainty, clutching bags and children and whatever hope they had left. 

By dawn, Aswan rose in soft light. Feluccas bobbed on the river, their sails bright against the sky. I moved slowly, trying to absorb the warmth, the quiet, the way the Nile seemed to cradle the city in its ancient arms. My first stop was to the Philae Temple, the sanctuary of Isis. I walked  through the cool shadows, fingers brushing the stone where priests once prayed for floods to nourish the land. The incarnation machine turned, grinding centuries into echoes. I thought of how we housers, too, are priests of a sort, praying that the foundations we pour will hold, that the walls will stand, that the homes we build will outlast us.  

The next morning I traveled south to Abu Simbel, standing beneath the colossal statues of Ramses II, carved into the cliffside with a precision that defied time. Their eyes seemed to follow me, impassive, as if judging all of us for what we’ve done and what we’ve left undone. I thought of Kikano’s words, “a poison gift,” and of our collective efforts as housers to overcome the barriers placed before us, to build affordable housing in areas of opportunity, to transform what confines into what liberates. 

The next morning,  I took a felucca northward, the sail catching a warm breeze. Without an engine, there was only silence and the gentle slap of water against wood. Nubian songs filled the air as we danced, and danced and danced. Stars emerged, bright and watchful, their reflections turning the Nile into a ribbon of light. I lay back and dreamed of lotus flowers unfolding on the dark water, symbols of rebirth, of life rising from the muck. The incarnation machine spinning on, turning darkness into dawn. 

On my last morning, Cairo pulled me back into its chaos. I sipped coffee at a sidewalk café, watching the city pulse with life, children threading through traffic, teenagers snapping selfies, hip Egyptians puffing on hookahs, like modern day prophets. Cairo, I realized, is the ultimate incarnation machine, turning every prayer and curse, every joy and grief, into fuel for the next cycle. 

As my plane lifted off, I thought of the Taiwan-Reyhanli Centre, of Cho’s belief that “spaces can heal if they respect the dignity of those who inhabit them,” of Faten Kikano’s warnings, of Abu Simbel’s stone guardians and the joyful faith of Nubian families. I thought of the incarnation machine, its gears turning endlessly, grinding all our triumphs and failures into the dust from which new things grow. 

Maybe that’s the secret, that every brick laid, every home built, every life sheltered is a turn of the incarnation machine’s gears. That even in the ruins of temples and the cries of refugees, in the endless sprawl of Cairo and the quiet hope of a new foundation, there is a promise that life will rise again. 

And maybe that’s enough…