Living with Building

Initiated in 2022, the project Living with Building by Rojia Forouhar Abadeh documents the lived experiences of invisible laborers, many of whom lack legal status and endure precarious living and working conditions, residing on-site in the very buildings they construct.

Through extensive fieldwork across ten construction sites in Tehran and its immediate suburbs and via photography, interviews, and everyday objects, the project reflects their unique yet transient connections to the spaces they build, highlighting how they shape the urban landscape in ways that typically remain unseen and unacknowledged.

By illuminating the everyday lives of these laborers, Living with Building offers an alternative history of Tehran’s rapid urbanization – one that foregrounds the sociopolitical and spatial dynamics enabling the city’s growth. The project situates the local context of Tehran within a global dialogue on labor migration, urbanization, and the ethics of urban development.

The process uses cataloguing as an artistic method to create a layered narrative that unfolds through the following forms textures, lists, long shots, and quotes:

Textures: A curated selection of close-up photographs creates a conceptual section through the domestic spaces within construction sites. These images transition from one scene to the next, capturing the temporary yet intimate settings workers inhabit. The series moves through physical features, gestures, and details, from sleeping areas and wet zones like toilets and showers to stand-in kitchen spaces. Presented as postcard-sized prints, these images evoke the transient, personal nature of a postcard sent home.

Lists: An inventory listing objects in the close-up images that construct the mise-en-scène of everyday within the textures. These lists elevate and transform ordinary objects to manifestations of the workers’ lived experiences and the environments they shape.

Both the images (textures) and the words (lists) are arranged in grids. The grids are organized alphabetically from left to right (A, B, C, …) and numerically from top to bottom (1, 2, 3, …).

Long shots: Wide-angle photographs of the construction dwellings, positioned in dialogue with the close-up textures, to provide context and a broader view.

Quotes: Key phrases from interviews are collaged to form a cyclical narrative linking individual objects in textures and lists to the space and time beyond each building site. The narratives trace the journey from the place of origin in Afghanistan to Tehran. They also highlight the temporality within the building cycle, and the inevitable deportation/return to Afghanistan that lingers only to loop back and be repeated, always drawing a trajectory to larger global and regional political and economic context. This approach frames the construction site as a recurring stage of both creation and erasure.

»It took us eight days to get here, all through smugglers. This was my third time. In Nimrooz, there were 20 of us. From there, we crossed into Pakistan, and then headed toward Iran. They crammed 13 people into each car – four in the boot [trunk], eight in the back seat, and two in the front. The more you paid, the better your place. But if something happened, or you couldn’t breathe properly, that was your own problem. Sometimes you’d be stuck in the boot for seven or eight hours, maybe even twelve. The rest of the way, you had to walk. When they finally opened the boot and let you out, people were so stiff, they could barely stand. Once we got into Iran, the cars were a bit bigger and took fewer people—only two in the boot. If you are skinny you should count yourself lucky ….«

Through the intersection of these media, Living with Building creates a multilayered (hi)story, capturing the essence of construction workers’ lives in a way that is simultaneously archival and immersive.

Hans D. Christ: The way you’ve arranged the installation – interior scenes on one side and exterior views on the other – seems almost like a map. The audience navigates these spaces through layers of repetition, right?

Rojia Forouhar Abadeh: Yes, the layout is intentional. There’s a system that guides the viewer through fragments. It’s almost impossible to perceive the work as a whole at once. Instead, a sense of wholeness only comes through the repeated imagery and layering. And what emerges is a powerful reminder that the workers own very little; the only constant presence is their bodies, which are missing in the images. They have just left, or will enter at any moment.

H: That repetition is compelling. For instance, the way you use the word »nail« – a simple thing on which to hang something. Yet in this repetition, it takes on a new rhythm and therefore significance. There’s something powerful in that – it mirrors the process of creating and holding together these improvised spaces, piece by piece. And visually, you’re doing something similar with the repeated images. One example is the curtain or where you are (re)constructing the space through the carpet (see image below). The structure of the grid in effect creates a space of flowing continuity that interestingly is again connected with the rhythm of language.

R: As the work evolved, I began to see this continuity as a kind of cinematic transition – a dissolve or zooming in and out through the space, which we are seeing a conceptual section of.

H: So, the structure also very clearly shows how you have organized forms of repetition with this material to explore the poverty of the condition – you have a narrative emerging.

R: Yes, but I also hope this description – or, if you like, the system depicting what is there – reveals something more than just the poverty …

H: If you were to make a film, the sequence you’ve already created provides structure. You already have a form of editing, the system, and then the language. It works very nicely: »If you pair words with image, you have cinema.« So, it’s a glimpse into your sketchbook or film script.

R: Yes. I started thinking about the cinematic qualities of the work as I saw it physically take form on the walls when I was putting it up. It gradually became apparent.

H: And while you’re guiding the viewer’s attention with these layered descriptions, you’re also pulling in direct quotes from the workers. Their words describing their conditions are raw.

»We are from the north of Kabul, Kapisa, close to Afghanistan International Airport … 10 minutes away from there … where the American base used to be. We farmed then, back in Afghanistan, grapes, wheat, and corn ….«

R: These quotes open another layer, situating us not only in Tehran, but also in a wider context. A simple phrase like »the American base« pulls you immediately to a global level. It suggests the forces that drove them here, away from the work that once sustained them.

H: Earlier when I said poverty or the »conditions,« you resisted the term. Just to clarify, I meant »poor conditions,« not pain. Their setup appears orderly but incredibly improvised. This reflects instability, and no assurance of permanency. They make the best of what they have. It’s obvious this is happening in poor conditions.

R: Absolutely. And I think this reflected in the materiality of the project as well. The images can just be blown away. It is organized and there is a system, but it’s simple and fragile.

H: This clearly comes across and is very well selected, too … it’s as if it’s a meeting point in the project. It is also clear that they developed their sovereignty in the given conditions. But, of course, one risks …

R: … romanticizing it …

H: That’s it … and it seems they are using the resources from the building site to optimize their living conditions.

R: Yes, the metal frames, the rebar, the tarpaulin, the spray paint, cement, and so on.

H: Interesting how the long shots with quotes place us in Tehran while highlighting a global, exploitative system – reflecting the condition of the working class under neoliberal production.

R: Of course we know many instances globally in which it is no longer about working or living conditions, but a case of actual slavery. What we have here is far from ideal, but it’s not slavery. Injuries are common. Reviewing the photos, I noticed people missing fingers or an eye, likely from the job. Surprisingly, it didn’t come up in interviews.

H: Heavy, physical work often brings a resigned acceptance of danger. I know this from experience. Adapting to constant risk is a psychological thing, which is why they don’t discuss it. They share their constant danger, almost like a family. Did they say how they identify themselves?

R: It’s an all-male domestic setup. They work, save money, go home, marry, then return. It’s not seasonal – six, seven years at one site, moving within the site as construction progresses. Here, they’re in Tehran’s wealthier suburbs. Construction hasn’t started, so they live in what’s left of an original building in a garden. This rapid urbanization devours nature. They’ve planted vegetables and even have sheep – but once construction begins, it will all vanish.

H: This reminds me of the »Gastarbeiter« – first-generation Turkish workers in Germany who brought farming competence. Looking at these images: It’s clear someone who knows farming was here; empowering themselves over the existing conditions.

H: The combination of images and text really works. By reading again what you have seen, you get into an order of things. And then there’s this one card in the list grid where you’re writing »blue sky.« It’s like a cut in the rhythm in the descriptions of what we see in the other images. I like engaging with the images, and to trace back and forth, which is a different quality than if you were to make a film out of it. You would still have the image, but the description then would be read to you, via the image. Could you tell me a bit more about the workers? Are they hired in Afghanistan?

R: No, they are not hired directly; they know each other as cousins or friends. It’s almost a self-organized system – a soft network that distributes them once they arrive. The brutal construction industry in Tehran is sustained by this network of friendships.

H: Not to romanticize it, but this is interesting. Here in Germany, companies would usually control things. Here there is a social structure without the business-oriented intermediary, which gives the workers some level of autonomy. And you can see on these images, they’ve used tarps in clever ways – to cover walls and create storage even. It’s almost like a design store.

R: It really is. They’ve created a particular aesthetic, even a TV stand and cupboards, painted blue.

R: On another site, one quote of a worker describes the living conditions and encounters with people from the city:

»Back when the lower basement hadn’t yet become a parking lot, I was on security duty and would often sleep in the office. One morning, around 6am, I spotted a thief climbing up the wall outside. The ramp hadn’t been built, so scaffolding stretched across the site, and he was near the deep foundation pit. Our eyes met through the window. I didn’t approach him, afraid he might fall. Once he reached the ground, I told him to leave the way he’d come; if the others woke up – twenty of them – he wouldn’t stand a chance. He left and never returned ….«

Such a humane encounter, so thoughtful, human-to-human.

H: Stealing in desperate conditions can even feel justified. I think there’s a deeper knowledge of what could be shared ownership.

R: Yes, there’s something almost universal like a shared understanding across classes.

H: Right, it’s not about nationality but class – a shared experience. A powerful story. He even said he was sure the thief left and never came back. That sense of fairness was clear.

It’s an unfinished story, right? This whole project, the way you describe it, is simple, but carries weight.

R: This is the first chapter. I hope to make a film essay and a book next.

H: It’s precise. These occasional gaps, where there is no image, make me think about gaps in our perception – what we choose to see or not see. You simply state in this gap that there is no image which could connect. It is interesting to consider that the sequence cannot be filled as such. So that a letter and a number doesn’t automatically mean that the position which is giving by it is filled, but rather that there is a missing link in the system that cannot be filled or maybe something is coming. But this open system is, in general, a very strong moment. At first glance it seems that every grid is strictly nine fields long, but then I very often see that there’s no number nine. Why?

R: That’s right: The gaps in rows give the living spaces a sense of scale in comparison to one another.

H: You can also see children in the images. Do they work, too?

R: They do small tasks, and care for each other. But it’s not a child’s life – there’s no real childhood for them. You see traces of care in the images – Mickey Mouse bedding, for example. Maybe someone’s mom sent it. It stands out against the rest of the rough setup.

H: It’s like a paradise lost. They bring bits of their village life into these spaces, across generations. But in the end, it’s out of place – it should be in their village, with their families.

»Crossing the border is always a gamble, and if luck isn’t on your side, things can go bad fast. The border guards don’t hesitate – they’ll arrest you, or worse, they’ll just shoot. I remember when I was crossing, our group made it, but another didn’t. They tried to run back to safety, but the guards opened fire. One of them fell … The story of our lives! It should be a film.«

H: … a very nice, fitting ending. And the narrative layout you chose makes it feel almost like a storyboard. The sentences are working and providing a narrative background. That is very important. It’s narrative-driven and giving context to the other side. You chose images and moments carefully – no faces, only gestures. It’s about respecting their humanity without intruding, keeping a respectful distance.

R: That’s it. I wanted to show them in their absence, capturing gestures that we all recognize, like holding a cup of tea. It’s familiar and builds connection.

H: And it shows their vulnerability – soft moments, not just »worker’s hands,« but gestures that convey care. It’s beautifully done.

R: The light touching their hands feels symbolic.

H: It’s an incredible tribute to their value and dignity. They’re building Tehran, but it’s not about romanticizing them. It’s about honoring them, showing care for their surroundings and stories beyond the pain. Their story, self-narrated in quotations, recognizes that they know their conditions, but there’s no one politically at the receiving end. That’s the true loss …

R: And they’re sophisticated; the quotes show that.

H: Absolutely. They aren’t just victims. They actively shape their lives, organize their communities, and adapt. Society often overlooks their competence – the working class isn’t passive; they’re incredibly skilled and socially aware.

R: Their networks, connections, and the way they adapt – there’s depth and intelligence.

H: Exactly, and they break down class distance. You’ve captured that essence.

 

All images if not mentioned otherwise: Rojia Forouhar Abadeh, Living with Building, 2024. © the artist.
All documentation photos if not mentioned otherwise: Sara Salomon.