How did you discover your passion for design and get started in your career? I am Syrian-Polish and grew up in Syria, surrounded by the beauty of Damascene culture. Coming from an artistic family, I was immersed from an early age in art, patterns and Arabic calligraphy. I was always drawn to anything that involved creating—design, art and architecture—and originally wanted to apply to art school. Due to circumstances at the time, that wasn’t possible, so I chose architecture as the closest path to what I was intuitively searching for.

While studying architecture, I enjoyed the discipline, but I soon realized I wasn’t drawn to designing large-scale buildings. I found myself more interested in smaller, more intimate scales—interiors, details and the visual layers that shape how people experience spaces. At the same time, and almost subconsciously, I was constantly following graphic design blogs and studios out of pure curiosity and admiration. I didn’t yet see graphic design as “my” field, but I was deeply inspired by it and drawn to its visual language and immediacy.

After graduating, finding work in Syria was challenging. By chance, I joined a team working on a cultural event. I was responsible for creating the project’s visual identity. The project won first prize, and the visual identity was later nominated for an award. That moment was a turning point for me; it made me realize that graphic design wasn’t just something I enjoyed but something I could pursue seriously as a career.

From there, I began working as a designer during the day while teaching myself in the evenings, gradually building my skills and portfolio. I was fortunate to be surrounded by mentors and inspiring people who supported and guided me in those early stages. My architectural background continues to shape the way I work: it trained me to think structurally, to approach design as a process of problem-solving and to balance function with expression. Whether I’m developing a visual identity or designing a logo, I’m always thinking in systems: how elements relate to one another, how meaning is constructed and how form can serve intention.

Over time, graphic design became more than a profession for me; it became a way to research, question and reclaim visual narratives connected to the Arab world—and Syria, in particular. Working with Arabic typography, archives and cultural references is not simply an aesthetic choice; it is a way of asserting presence, preserving memory and creating space for visual histories that are often overlooked. My practice sits somewhere between design, research and storytelling, shaped by this in-between cultural position and a continuous desire to engage critically with representation, heritage and contemporary visual culture.

Coming from your background as an architectural designer, would you say there is any overlap between the two disciplines? Architecture shaped the way I think long before I started calling myself a graphic designer. The biggest overlap for me is in the way both disciplines approach problem-solving. In architecture, you’re constantly balancing constraints, function, context and concept; that way of thinking translated very naturally into graphic design.

I approach visual identities and typographic systems structurally, almost like designing a building. I think in terms of systems, hierarchies and grids, reflecting on how different elements relate to each other. There is always an underlying logic to the work even when the final outcome feels expressive or intuitive. Architecture also trained me to think about context: where a design lives, how people encounter it, and how it behaves across different scales and formats.

In architecture, you don’t design a project in isolation; you study the site, the users, the history and the constraints. I bring the same mindset into graphic design. Whether I’m working on a brand identity or a typographic project, I start by understanding the cultural, social and historical layers around it. This is especially important in my work with Arabic typography and visual culture, where form is inseparable from history and meaning.

I don’t see architecture as something I left behind. It became part of my design language: a way of thinking structurally, working with systems, and building visual experiences that are both functional and conceptually grounded.

What personal experiences or circumstances have most influenced your personal style? Growing up between different cultural and linguistic worlds has deeply shaped the way I see and design. Being Syrian-Polish meant moving between two visual languages, two ways of communicating and two cultural rhythms. For a long time, that in-between position felt confusing. I often felt caught between choosing one side or the other, both culturally and creatively. There was an unspoken pressure to “belong” somewhere.

Over time, I realized I didn’t have to choose. Instead, I could take what resonated with me from each culture and allow them to coexist in my work. That shift was important for my personal style. I became comfortable embracing contrast rather than resolving it. You can see this in how my work often moves between the restraint and clarity I admire in Polish and European design traditions—their minimalism, structure and reduction—and the richness, density and complexity of Arabic visual culture, particularly in typography and ornament.

Language played a big role in this, too. Thinking and working between Arabic and Latin scripts made me more sensitive to how form carries meaning differently across cultures. Arabic lettering invites rhythm, movement and layered expression, while Latin typography often leans toward modularity and reduction. Instead of seeing these as opposing forces, I began treating them as complementary. This tension between minimalism and complexity, structure and expressiveness, and clarity and ornament became a defining quality of my visual language.

What once felt like fragmentation gradually became a resource. My personal style grew out of navigating this in-between space, allowing multiple references to coexist and letting my work reflect the layered reality of my own cultural experience rather than trying to flatten it into a single, fixed identity.

Tell us about the Syrian Design Archive. What was the inspiration behind its foundation? The Syrian Design Archive grew out of a very personal frustration I experienced throughout my career. As a self-taught designer, I constantly struggled to find resources about designers and visual culture from our region, especially in Arabic. Most of what was accessible to me came from Western contexts, while the histories, references and visual languages I felt connected to were either scattered, undocumented or simply invisible. That absence stayed with me for a long time.

When I started my master’s, I wanted to use that opportunity to explore questions around Arabic visual identity. At first, the topic felt too broad and overwhelming. I eventually decided to narrow it down to something more personal and grounded: design in Syria. That shift made the research more meaningful and tangible. I began searching, interviewing and visiting personal collections and informal archives. Through my personal network and the circles I had access to, I was able to enter spaces and collections that are usually closed to the public. Coming across these materials felt like discovering hidden treasures and with that discovery came a sense of responsibility to make them visible, accessible and valued.

That was the moment I reached out to my friends Sally Alafssen and Hala Al Afsaa. We all shared a deep interest in design, history and archiving. Even though none of us come from a formal archival background, we are designers first. We spent a long time discussing how to approach this responsibly and ethically and what kind of archive we wanted to build. We decided to start small and public, using social media as a way to test our commitment, understand how people would engage with the material and slowly build a methodology through practice. This is how the Syrian Design Archive began.

Under the umbrella of the Syrian Design Archive, we developed several focused sub-archives, each with its own way of working and documenting: the Syrian Type Archive, a typography and signage archive documenting lettering from Syrian streets; the Syrian Print Archive, focusing on printed matter; the Syrian Stamp Archive; the Syrian Media Archive, documenting title sequences of TV series and films; the Syrian Logo Archive, where we redraw and contextualize historical logos; and the Syrian Banknote Archive. Each section requires a different approach to research and documentation, but they all share the same intention: to preserve visual material that is at risk of disappearing, to contextualize it historically and culturally, and to highlight the designers and makers behind these works whenever possible. 

For us, the archive is not only about preservation but also about visibility. We are reclaiming Syrian design as part of a living visual history and creating accessible references for designers, researchers and anyone interested in the visual culture of the region.

What have been some of your favorite projects that you’ve created for clients? A few client projects have stayed with me because they shifted how I think about what design can do—not just visually, but socially and politically. While every collaboration teaches me something new, some projects expanded my understanding of responsibility, trust and the kinds of impact design can have beyond aesthetics.

The Syrian Design Archive has probably reshaped me the most in unexpected ways. I initially approached it as a research and preservation project, but it quickly grew into something that fundamentally changed how I think about design. Working with fragmented archives, missing materials and overlooked designers pushed me to find new ways of telling visual histories and to accept incompleteness as part of the process. It also made me more aware of the ethical responsibility that comes with working with other people’s histories, shifting my focus from polished outcomes to care, process and creating space for multiple narratives.

Another meaningful project was Absent Presence, a poster I created with designer Ranim Halaky for The Syria Campaign around the anniversary of the fall of the Syrian regime. At the time, images resurfaced of torn posters and scraped-away portraits of Assad in public spaces, especially a striking image from the city of Homs, Syria, where tiles forming his face had been removed, leaving only a hollow outline. His presence remained, albeit emptied of authority. That gesture of erasure became the foundation of our poster: referencing his imprint without granting him a face.

The work speaks to the regime’s unraveling and the collective desire to reclaim public space. By fragmenting Assad’s image, it reflects how deeply his likeness once saturated daily life while also honoring the quiet resistance of those who dismantled it. For families engaging with this work, it creates a space to reclaim narrative and confront an image that once symbolized fear. For us, it carried the responsibility of reflecting their strength and contributing to a collective memory shaped by survivors. Absent Presence taught me how design can carry political weight without reproducing the violence of the image itself.

In a very different way, the collaboration with humanitarian organization Choose Love for the Netflix film The Swimmers pushed me too. I set the words Choose Love in Arabic for a fundraising T-shirt connected to the story of Yusra and Sara Mardini, two sisters and Syrian refugees that swam alongside a dinghy ferrying other refugees from Turkey to Greece. The project reminded me that design can also be a gentle, practical way to translate visibility into concrete support for Syrian refugees, and it made me think more about circulation and accessibility, as well as how design can move beyond cultural spaces into everyday acts of solidarity.

While every project challenges me in a different way, these experiences reminded me that creative growth doesn’t only come from difficulty; it also comes from responsibility, trust and being invited to contribute to stories that matter beyond the design world.

You recently created a poster for Lines of Grief, an exhibition within the larger exhibition Elegiac Whispers held at the A. M. Qattan Foundation in Ramallah, Palestine. What was it like to participate in this exhibition? Being part of Lines of Grief was truly an honor. The context of Palestine and the theme of grief gave the invitation a particular emotional weight, and I felt grateful to be part of this collective alongside designers and artists I admire, as well as to work closely with the curator in a very thoughtful process.

We didn’t start from an open brief. The curator assigned each of us a poem, and our task was to translate it visually. There were clear constraints around format, color and legibility, which made the process challenging—but also productive. Within those limitations, I chose to work with Arabic typography in a restrained, dense way, enabling the weight and tension of the letterforms to carry the emotion of grief rather than illustrating it directly. The project reminded me how powerful constraints can be in shaping intention and how typography itself can become a space for holding complex emotions without needing to explain them.

What have been some of your most trusted resources when engaging in design research for your work? I don’t have one fixed resource or a single way of researching. It really depends on the project and the process.

My research is usually a mix of archives, books, visual materials and what I’d call “live research”—conversing with people, visiting studios or learning from practitioners directly. Sometimes, the most useful references come from things that aren’t obviously related to the project at all—a conversation, something I read or an image I come across. I enjoy keeping my research process flexible and changing it from project to project; it keeps the work fresh and often leads me in unexpected directions.

What do you think is the current biggest challenge facing designers, and where do you think the field of design is heading? The pressure of social media and visibility. If you’re not present online, it can feel like you don’t exist at all. Designers are expected to do everything: design the work, write the content, create posts, prepare presentations and constantly show up online. This creates a huge workload and can easily lead to feeling overwhelmed. Social media also encourages comparison. We mostly see the final results—not the time, effort and struggles behind the work. This can create self-doubt and make designers feel like they’re never doing enough, even when they’re working very hard.

Do you have any advice for designers just getting their start today? The most important thing, I would say, is not to compare yourself to others. Everyone has their own story, struggles and timing. Social media only shows the highlights, the perfect moments and achievements. However, behind every project is usually a big mess, self-doubt and many failed attempts. You’re only seeing the polished outcome, not the process. Comparing yourself to that isn’t fair to you.

I’m still learning to embrace imperfection and the idea of wabi-sabi—finding beauty in what’s unfinished or imperfect. Try to enjoy what you’re doing instead of chasing perfection because perfection doesn’t really exist. It’s okay to share work even when it feels “not ready.” Some of the projects I was most unsure about ended up leading to opportunities I never expected, including projects that later felt like dream collaborations for me.

Ask for feedback and stay open to learning. Social media can be overwhelming, but it also gives you access to people all over the world. You can reach out, ask questions and learn from others. The moment you think you know everything is the moment you stop growing as a designer.

Try things outside your comfort zone, experiment and allow yourself to take breaks. Growth doesn’t only come from pushing harder; it also comes from giving yourself space to rest, reflect and come back with new energy. ca