Oman Water Services Launches Camelina Project for Sustainability

Oman Water Services Launches Camelina Project for Sustainability

Aerial shot of lush date palm plantations surrounding a farmhouse in Oman. by Eslam Mohammed Abdelmaksoud via Pexels

.

Nama Water Services launches camelina biofuel project in Oman

.

BioFuels International – 24 August 2026

.

Nama Water Services has launched a new project to cultivate one of the leading sustainable crops used in biofuel production – camelina.

The initiative, in partnership with Hema Energy, forms part of the company’s commitment to environmental sustainability, supporting green economy goals and expanding the use of reclaimed water supplied under the Manhal Nama programme.

The project reflects Nama Water Services’ strategy to transform reclaimed water into a strategic resource that supports sustainable development through innovative agricultural applications.

It aims to strengthen water and food security, reduce carbon emissions and accelerate the transition to clean energy sources.

Nama Water Services will provide the project site and reclaimed water supplies, while Hema Energy will be responsible for implementing the project, overseeing its technical management and operations, carrying out monitoring and data analysis  in line with the highest technical and environmental standards.

The project is supported by several national institutions. Sultan Qaboos University will provide research, scientific and technical support, the Environment Authority will oversee environmental compliance, and the Oman Net Zero Centre (ONZC) will ensure alignment with Oman’s net zero targets and carbon sink initiatives.

The pilot project will assess Camelina’s agricultural performance under local climatic conditions, improve irrigation efficiency using treated water, monitor soil and water quality, measure environmental benefits and evaluate its potential for biofuel production and carbon credit generation.

The findings are expected to support decisions on expanding the commercial use of treated water for agriculture and contribute to the development of sustainable value chains for biomass and renewable energy production in the Sultanate of Oman.

.


 

.

The Stories Behind Qatar’s Iconic Buildings and Culture

The Stories Behind Qatar’s Iconic Buildings and Culture

The image above shows the Elegant modern architecture of the National Museum of Qatar, with a waving flag by Emre Gencer via Pexels, and it is part of the stories behind Qatar’s iconic new Buildings and culture.

.

Doha Architecture: The Stories Behind Qatar’s Iconic Buildings

.

There is something slightly surreal about arriving in Doha.

One moment you’re driving through what appears to be an ordinary Gulf city; the next, a building emerges on the horizon that looks as though it belongs in a science-fiction film. A few minutes later, you’re standing beneath a structure inspired by a desert rose, walking through a museum shaped by Islamic geometry, or sitting in the shade of a courtyard designed around principles that have been used in this part of the world for centuries.

Doha can sometimes feel like a city that has been built at extraordinary speed. And, in many ways, it has. But spend a little time here and you begin to notice that beneath all the glass, steel and ambitious contemporary design is a much older story.

That is what makes exploring Doha’s architecture so interesting.

It isn’t simply a collection of spectacular buildings. It is a conversation between what Qatar was, what it has become, and what it hopes to be.

 

Museum of Islamic Art, Doha

Start with the Museum of Islamic Art

If you only have time to see one building in Doha, make it the Museum of Islamic Art.

Designed by the legendary architect I. M. Pei, the museum sits on its own island at the edge of Doha Bay. From a distance, it looks almost deceptively simple: a series of geometric forms rising from the water.

Get closer and the details begin to reveal themselves.

Pei drew inspiration from Islamic architecture, particularly the geometric purity of historic mosques and the play of light and shadow found within them. There is something calming about the building, particularly when the harsh Gulf sun begins to soften towards the evening.

And then there is the view.

From the museum, Doha stretches across the water — an ever-changing skyline of towers, minarets and modern structures. It is one of those places where you can quite literally see several versions of Qatar at once.

Inside, the museum houses more than 1,400 years of Islamic art from across the Muslim world. But you don’t necessarily need to be an art historian to appreciate it. The objects tell stories of movement, trade, faith, craftsmanship and the interconnectedness of Muslim societies across enormous distances.

In that sense, the museum is about much more than beautiful objects behind glass. It is a reminder of just how expansive the Islamic world has always been.

National Museum of Doha

A desert rose in the middle of Doha

Then there is the National Museum of Qatar, and it is difficult not to stop and stare.

 

Designed by French architect Jean Nouvel, the building takes its form from the desert rose — a natural formation created when crystals gather beneath the surface of the desert.

Its enormous discs overlap and intersect, creating something that feels simultaneously geological and futuristic.

But perhaps the most interesting thing is what happens once you go inside.

The museum takes you through Qatar’s story from its geological beginnings, through Bedouin life, pearl diving and the country’s relationship with the sea, to the discovery of oil and gas and the extraordinary transformation that followed.

It is easy, when looking at modern Doha, to forget that this was once a collection of small settlements shaped by the desert and the Gulf. The museum makes sure you don’t.

Msheireb Museums

Finding the old city beneath the new

One of the best places to understand that transformation is Msheireb Downtown Doha.

At first glance, Msheireb might seem like another shiny new development. But this is where things get interesting.

The district was built on the site of what was historically the heart of Doha, with the project attempting to bring some of the character and principles of the old city into a contemporary urban environment.

There are shaded streets, courtyards, narrow passages and buildings designed with the Gulf climate in mind. The idea isn’t simply to recreate old Doha, but to ask what traditional Qatari architecture might look like if it were designed for today’s city.

It makes walking around here surprisingly enjoyable.

 

And that’s important because Doha is often experienced from inside a car. Msheireb encourages you to slow down and explore on foot. Within the district, the Msheireb Museums occupy restored heritage houses and offer a much more intimate perspective on Qatar’s past.

These aren’t grand monuments. They are homes, courtyards and rooms — the sorts of spaces where ordinary lives were once lived. And sometimes that tells you more about a place than a skyscraper ever can.

Shadows Travelling on the Sea of the day by Olafur Eliasson

Look up

Eventually, though, you have to look up.

Doha’s skyline is extraordinary.

The towers of West Bay rise dramatically above the Corniche, each competing for attention with its own unusual shape, façade or silhouette.

One of the most recognisable is Doha Tower, also designed by Jean Nouvel. Its exterior is wrapped in an intricate pattern inspired by the traditional mashrabiya.

The mashrabiya is more than a decorative motif. Traditionally, these screens helped provide shade, ventilation and privacy while allowing light into a building.

Here, that idea has been transformed into the skin of a contemporary skyscraper.

And this is where Doha’s architecture becomes particularly fascinating. The connection to Islamic design isn’t always a literal reference to the past. Sometimes it is an idea — shade, privacy, proportion, geometry, the relationship between inside and outside — translated into a completely different architectural language.

A library that feels like a statement

At Education City, another building offers a very different kind of experience.

The Qatar National Library, designed by Rem Koolhaas, is enormous, bright and strikingly open.

There is something almost symbolic about it.

Libraries traditionally suggest quiet, enclosed spaces. Here, the architecture feels expansive and communal. Books, people, technology and research occupy one enormous flowing space.

Education City itself reflects Qatar’s ambitions beyond oil and gas — a concentration of universities, research institutions and educational organisations from around the world.

And the library sits at the centre of that idea: knowledge as infrastructure.

It is perhaps one of the clearest examples of contemporary Qatar building not just for today, but for the generations that come after.

The art you don’t expect

One of the things I particularly enjoy about Qatar is that you don’t necessarily have to enter a museum to encounter art.

Across the country, Qatar Museums has commissioned some remarkable works for public spaces and landscapes.

Richard Serra’s East-West/West-East is perhaps the most memorable.

Four enormous steel plates cut across the landscape of the Brouq Nature Reserve, standing starkly against the desert. The installation is simple, but its scale changes the way you experience the landscape around it.

You don’t just look at the artwork. You become aware of the desert.

Other works, including pieces by Damien Hirst and Olafur Eliasson, appear in very different settings, creating an unusual relationship between art, architecture and the natural environment.

It means that travelling around Qatar can feel like moving between galleries — except the walls keep changing.

More than a skyline

What I find most interesting about Doha isn’t necessarily the individual buildings.

It is the question they collectively seem to ask.

What does a modern Muslim city look like?

There isn’t one answer, of course. But Doha is clearly experimenting with its own.

You see it in the way Islamic geometry appears in contemporary façades. In the way traditional ideas around shade and privacy influence modern buildings. In museums that preserve the country’s memory while using some of the world’s most ambitious architecture. And in neighbourhoods attempting to make a rapidly developing city feel walkable, human and connected to its past.

There are moments when Doha can feel almost impossibly futuristic.

Then you’ll turn a corner and find a quiet courtyard, a traditional doorway, a mosque or an old house that reminds you that the story didn’t begin with the skyscrapers.

Perhaps that is the most compelling thing about Qatar’s modern marvels.

They aren’t simply buildings designed to impress the visitor.

At their best, they are attempts to tell a story — about a desert, a people, a faith, a coastline, a rapidly changing country and an uncertain but exciting future.

And once you start looking at Doha that way, the city’s architecture becomes much more than something to photograph.

It becomes a way of understanding Qatar itself.

Explore more of Qatar: Visit Qatar

.


 

.

.

We’re Building a New York-Sized City Worldwide every month

We’re Building a New York-Sized City Worldwide every month

Dubai’s intricate roadways and futuristic skyline in this stunning aerial shot. by Kate Trysh via Pexels, despite the , which reckoned that the way is to go green thereafter in the built environment.

.

We’re building a New York‑sized city every month. That’s worrying for our climate

.

By Philip Oldfield, UNSW and William Craft, UNSW

.

We’re Building a New York-Sized City Worldwide Aerial view of the island of Manhattan, New York City.
Art Wager/Getty

 

 

.

Each of us needs of a roof over our head, classrooms to learn in and offices or space to work from.

To meet this unprecedented demand for new buildings, globally we’re constructing the equivalent of an entire New York City every month.

This provides us with vital infrastructure, but also generates an enormous amount of world-warming emissions.

So how can we build what we need, without harming our planet? Our new research provides some answers.

The need to build

Creating new buildings benefits communities, cities and countries, and eases housing pressure. That’s why Australia’s National Housing Accord is aiming to construct 1.2 million new, well-located homes between 2024 and 2029.

But this Australian effort is dwarfed by the 96,000 new and affordable homes needed worldwide every single day. Tragically, hundreds of millions of people around the world endure homelessness. One in four are living in harmful conditions.

However, construction comes with a climate cost. Each time we build, we use materials and construction processes that release large amounts of greenhouse gas emissions – known as “embodied carbon”.

To understand the scale of embodied carbon, picture a square metre of floor space. Constructing that square metre would release around half a tonne of greenhouse gas emissions. Now scale that up to building a whole New York-sized city every month!

Bricklayer laying another brick in a wall being constructed.
Conventional building practices can release huge amounts of greenhouse gas emissions.
Iryna Melnyk/Getty

What we studied

Our new study examined trends in office building construction in Australia. We currently have about 170 million square metres of office space across the country, and are set to build a further 100 million square metres by 2049.

To investigate what effect these buildings have on global warming, we modelled their greenhouse gas emissions. We measured both their embodied carbon and operating carbon – the emissions from everyday heating, lighting, cooling and appliances.

We found Australian office buildings are projected to release 138 million tonnes of greenhouse gas emissions between 2024 and 2049. This number is equivalent to the annual emissions of 36 coal-fired power stations. Given offices make up just 20% of all commercial buildings in Australia, this is only a fraction of our total urban emissions.

A mixed picture

Most surprisingly, operating emissions represented 85% of the total in 2024, but are set to drop to just 15% by 2049. This is because Australia is decarbonising our energy sector by shifting from fossil fuels to solar, wind and other renewables.

However, if we keep building at our current speed and scale, our annual embodied emissions will remain at similar levels. Compared to operating emissions, it’s more difficult to lower embodied carbon because many material supply chains rely on fossil fuels and carbon-intensive practices. The process of manufacturing cement, for example, is responsible for 8% of all global carbon dioxide emissions.

We also compared office building emissions in Australia with emission pathways that would limit the sector’s contribution to global warming below 1.5°C or 2.0°C. However, we found cumulative emissions from offices are over 40% above these pathways. This means office buildings will likely blow their carbon budgets within a matter of years. We found Tasmania – which runs almost entirely on renewable energy and has fewer office buildings per capita – is the only state or territory with annual emissions that sit consistently below the 1.5°C pathway.

Total greenhouse gas emissions of the Australian office sector, 2024-2049.
Adapted from Craft et al. (2006), CC BY

Cutting carbon

Our study measured several ways to reduce embodied carbon in office buildings, summarised below:

We found combining these strategies could reduce total emissions by over 47 million tonnes, putting the office sector far closer to the 2.0°C emissions pathway target.

These results show the importance of “sufficiency” measures, such as refurbishing existing buildings and constructing smaller, or fewer, new buildings.

Research shows sufficiency strategies work. Consider Sydney’s Quay Quarter Tower. This tower was originally built in 1976 but, by the late 2010s, was older and less useful. Rather than demolish it, architects 3XN and BVN extended the tower to the north and upcycled two-thirds of the original structure. This increased office space while saving around 8,000 tonnes of embodied carbon.

Three diagrams of the same office building, showing how it was extended using upcycled building materials.
Sydney’s Quay Quarter Tower was extended using upcycled building materials.
3XN

More work ahead

Our study suggests embodied carbon will, in the next decade, overtake operating carbon as the leading source of building emissions. This is problematic because most countries don’t impose limits on embodied carbon. As a first step, Australia must regulate embodied carbon emissions as other countries – including Denmark, Finland, France, the Netherlands and Sweden – have already done.

We should also offer incentives for the construction sector to refurbish older buildings. Several councils in the United Kingdom have adopted “retrofit first” policies, where builders must at least consider options for refurbishing buildings before simply demolishing or replacing them.

Our ever-growing global population demands millions of new homes, workplaces and community spaces. But to truly tackle climate change, we must find better ways to balance society’s need for new space with a commitment to curb emissions.The Conversation

Philip Oldfield, Head of School and Professor of Architecture, UNSW Built Environment, UNSW and William Craft, Senior Research Associate, School of Built Environment, UNSW

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

 

.


 

.

.

What If Our Cities Were Designed for Both People and Nature?

What If Our Cities Were Designed for Both People and Nature?

Aerial shot of Fortaleza’s urban landscape blending with sprawling forested areas. by Nino Souza via Pexels

.

What if our cities were designed for wildlife as well as people?

.

By Saman Sobhani, Aberystwyth University

.

Common swift flying at sunset
shutterstock.
Paul Sawer/Shutterstock

.

On a warm evening in May, swifts scream over rooftops, chasing insects above the traffic. A fox slips along a garden wall while gulls squabble on a supermarket roof. We tend to treat these animals as visitors. But they’re residents too, living alongside us in places designed for people.

My recent research argues this needs to change.  Instead of asking how nature can make cities better for humans, urban planners should consider what cities owe the many species that already live in them.

More than half the world’s population now lives in urban areas, while cities continue to expand into wildlife habitats.

In the UK, swifts provide a distinct example. They nest in gaps under eaves and roof tiles, which can disappear when older buildings are demolished, re-roofed or insulated. UK swift numbers have fallen by around 60% since 1995. In 2021, the species was added to a list of birds at greatest risk of extinction.

The issue isn’t simply how we can make cities greener. It’s who we think cities are for.

For my new study, I compared approaches to incorporating nature into urban planning, including environmental offsetting, sustainable development and nature-based solutions such as green roofs, street trees and wetlands. I also examined cases where governments and courts have given species and ecosystems a different status in decision-making.

The pattern I found was striking. These approaches have become increasingly good at showing how nature benefits people, but much less willing to ask whether other species have interests of their own.

Trees are planted because they cool streets. Wetlands are protected because they can hold floodwater. Parks are funded because they improve our health.

All of those benefits are important. But they can also leave nature looking like a service provider for people. If a tree no longer provides enough shade, or a wetland becomes more valuable as development land, what happens to the argument for protecting it?

This is where the idea of “multispecies justice” comes in. It starts from a different premise, where animals, plants and ecosystems are not simply amenities that provide benefits to people. They are co-inhabitants of places we share.

That changes the question urban planning asks. Instead of only considering what nature can do for us, it asks what responsibilities we have towards the species with which we live.

What would change?

This doesn’t mean turning cities into wildlife reserves. It can involve small changes to decisions that shape urban life.

For example, before restoring a river, planners could consider whether the proposed changes are likely to create conditions in which fish and frogs can thrive. They could then assess the project not only on its effects on flooding or visitor numbers.

A development could be designed around established wildlife routes rather than treating them as obstacles to mitigate later. Environmental assessments could consider what a new road does to the routes used by badgers, bats or other animals, alongside its effects on drainage and emissions. Some places might be left undisturbed during breeding seasons.

There are already examples of governments experimenting with this type of approach. In New Zealand, the Whanganui River was recognised as a legal person in 2017, with guardians appointed to represent its interests. Colombia’s Atrato River was recognised as a subject of rights in 2016, with a similar system of guardianship.

.

A view of the Whanganui River looking lush and green.
The Whanganui River in New Zealand.
Robert Harding Video/Shutterstock

.

These cases aren’t straightforward solutions. The rights granted to rivers still have to operate within existing political and legal systems. Research suggests implementation in Colombia has been uneven.

But they illustrate a different way of thinking. Nature doesn’t have to justify its existence solely through the benefits it provides to people.

The idea is also beginning to appear in more conventional urban planning. Barcelona has built green corridors linking parks to the hills beyond the city so that wildlife can move through it.

In the UK, Scotland has become the first nation by law to require swift bricks in new buildings. These hollow bricks contain a nesting cavity and cost roughly £30 each. But its significance is larger than the brick itself. It treats the presence of another species as something that should be considered when we design buildings, rather than as an unexpected problem to deal with afterwards.

In England, efforts to require swift bricks by law were rejected by the House of Lords. The UK government has instead pursued their inclusion through planning policy and development requirements.

A different way of designing cities

None of this makes urban planning simple. Species can have competing needs, and protecting wildlife can sometimes conflict with other environmental or social goals.

A protected predator might threaten a vulnerable population. Preserving a habitat might complicate a development intended to reduce overheating. There won’t always be a simple answer.

But those conflicts already exist. The difference is that they’re often resolved using systems that give human interests the greatest weight. Multi-species justice asks us to make those choices more explicit.

Cities are already shared habitats. The birds nesting in our roofs, the insects in our gardens, the bats above our streets and the organisms in our soils are not simply passing through. They are part of urban life.

The challenge for planners is to decide whether they’ll continue to design cities primarily around human needs, adding nature where it provides a benefit, or begin to treat the flourishing of other species as a legitimate consideration in its own right.The Conversation

Saman Sobhani, PhD Candidate in Environmental Economics, Aberystwyth University

.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

.


 

.

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence

Across the Gulf, Bedouin heritage often enters architecture first as an image. Airport terminals recall tent silhouettes, visitor centres incorporate woven screens, and pavilions reinterpret traditional textiles as decorative façades. These references have become a familiar visual language for expressing regional identity. They also risk reducing one of the world’s most sophisticated vernacular building traditions to an architectural motif. Long before the Bedouin tent became a cultural symbol, it was an environmental technology: a lightweight, adaptable structure capable of creating comfort in one of the planet’s most demanding climates. What contemporary infrastructure may inherit is not the tent’s silhouette, but the construction intelligence woven into it.

The Bedouin black tent, traditionally woven from goat hair by women practising Al Sadu weaving, demonstrates a remarkably precise understanding of climate and material. The material works with desert conditions instead of resisting them. Goat-hair fibres swell when exposed to moisture, tightening the weave to resist rain, and loosen as they dry, allowing air to circulate during intense heat. Individual textile strips are woven separately before being stitched into larger membranes, enabling damaged sections to be repaired or replaced without dismantling the entire structure.

Save this picture!

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 6 of 11

Museum of Moroccan art in Rabat – Zemmour tent 1989. Image © JopkeB under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license

Supported by poles and tensioned ropes instead of rigid walls, the tent remains lightweight, portable, and adaptable to changing patterns of movement. Filtered shade, moving air, and permeability create comfort without complete enclosure. Recognised by UNESCO as an important element of intangible cultural heritage, Al Sadu represents far more than a craft tradition; it contains a sophisticated understanding of environmental performance achieved through material knowledge rather than mechanical technology.

From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 11 of 11

The Western Hajj Terminal of King Abdulaziz International Airport. Image © Diriyah Biennale Foundation

For decades, these ideas were discussed mainly as vernacular architecture. The Hajj Terminal changed that. Completed in 1981, the Hajj Terminal at King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeddah transformed the environmental logic of the Bedouin tent into one of the twentieth century’s most ambitious pieces of transport infrastructure. Beyond borrowing the tent merely as a cultural image, architects at SOM explicitly described the project as a reinterpretation of the Bedouin tent, translating its lightweight construction into a vast cable-supported tensile membrane system. The result was not simply a dramatic roof, but an entirely different approach to accommodating people in an extreme climate.

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 7 of 11

Hajj Terminal at King Abdulaziz International Airport. Image © Jay Langlois | Owens-Corning

The terminal’s celebrated PTFE-coated fabric canopy stretches across hundreds of modular roof bays, creating expansive shaded spaces that remain naturally ventilated while accommodating the extraordinary seasonal demands of the annual Hajj pilgrimage. Unlike conventional airport terminals designed around permanently enclosed, mechanically conditioned halls, the Hajj Terminal accepts that comfort in the desert can emerge through shade, airflow, and openness. Millions of pilgrims occupy these spaces during peak periods before the infrastructure returns to a quieter operational rhythm for the rest of the year. In many ways, its spatial intelligence mirrors that of the Bedouin encampment itself: modular rather than monolithic, flexible rather than fixed, and organised around temporary but highly efficient occupation. The project proved that environmental knowledge developed at the scale of a family dwelling could also organise national infrastructure.

From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 3 of 11

Red Sea International Airport by Foster + Partners, Saudi Arabia. Image © Foster + Partners

Subsequent generations of Gulf infrastructure reveal an interesting shift. Explicit references to Bedouin architecture have become less common. The environmental strategies, however, continue to reappear. Foster + Partners’ Red Sea International Airport, for example, draws inspiration primarily from the surrounding desert landscape rather than Bedouin settlements. Its modular terminal clusters, lightweight roof structures, and carefully shaded circulation spaces are presented as responses to climate, energy efficiency, and future expansion rather than cultural symbolism. The result is unexpectedly familiar: lightweight structures, generous shade, modular growth and buildings that remain adaptable over time. The resemblance is less about influence than about arriving at similar solutions under similar climatic pressures. Faced with the same desert climate, architects repeatedly arrive at principles already embedded within Bedouin construction.

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 2 of 11

Grimshaw’s Terra Sustainability Pavilion at Expo 2020 Dubai. Image © Expo 2020 Dubai

A comparable evolution can be observed in projects beyond transport infrastructure. Grimshaw’s Terra Sustainability Pavilion at Expo 2020 Dubai demonstrates how large roof canopies can function as environmental infrastructure rather than purely formal expression. The pavilion’s expansive shading system filters intense solar radiation while creating usable public space beneath it, reducing dependence on enclosed conditioned environments. Likewise, visitor facilities across AlUla and landscape projects such as the Wadi Hanifah Visitor Centre increasingly prioritise passive cooling, landscape integration, and filtered environmental conditions over iconic architectural form. These projects rarely resemble tents. What they borrow is the way tents work.

Save this picture!

Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure Influence From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 9 of 11

Grimshaw’s Terra Sustainability Pavilion at Expo 2020 Dubai. Image © Expo 2020 Dubai

This distinction may appear subtle, but it fundamentally changes how architectural heritage is understood. Too often, discussions of regional identity focus on preserving appearances while overlooking the knowledge systems that generated them. Bedouin construction was never remarkable because tents looked distinctive. They were remarkable because they solved complex environmental problems using locally available materials, reversible construction, and extraordinary material efficiency. The lesson lies in understanding why weaving produced comfort, flexibility, and repair rather than copying its patterns.

From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 4 of 11

Camp Sarika / Amangiri + Luxury Frontiers. Image © Aman

As architecture confronts increasingly extreme climates, growing resource constraints, and more dynamic patterns of occupation, these lessons become newly relevant. Airports designed for fluctuating passenger volumes, temporary cultural events, disaster relief infrastructure, and rapidly expanding desert settlements all require buildings capable of adapting without excessive material consumption or mechanical dependence. Its principles of lightweight assembly, modular repair, passive environmental control, and climatic responsiveness align closely with many of the ambitions now driving sustainable architecture worldwide.

From Tent to Terminal: Bedouin Craft in Contemporary Infrastructure - Image 10 of 11

Desert X AlUla 2024 Visitor Centre / KWY.studio. Image © Colin Robertson

The Hajj Terminal continues to resonate more than four decades after its completion, for its enduring significance lies in demonstrating that indigenous knowledge can operate confidently within contemporary engineering. It showed that tradition need not survive only through preservation; it can evolve through translation. Desert infrastructure will not become more regionally grounded by repeating the image of the Bedouin tent. It will do so by understanding the environmental intelligence woven into its construction.

This article is part of the ArchDaily Topic: The Architecture of Craft: Handmade Stories in a Digital Age.

 

.


 

.