When it came time to choose a topic for her final thesis, Master of Architecture student Tings Chak (MArch 2014) was interested in combining her architectural skills and knowledge with her political organizing work. The result was an investigation into migrant detention centres in Canada — “the fastest growing incarceration sector in an already booming prison construction industry.” Chak transformed her research into a graphic novel that documents the intimate experiences of detainees and the impact of the architecture in which they are forced to reside.

In fall 2014, Chak’s work was on display in the Daniels Faculty’s Eric Arthur Gallery as part of the exhibition Tactical Resilience. The show also featured an exhibit by Elisa Silva entitled “Pure Space: Public Space Transformations in Latin American Slums.” Both projects look closely at the political and material economies of space that permeate public and institutional settings occupied by some of North and South America’s most marginalized individuals.

Bachelor of Arts in Architectural Studies student Josie Northern Harrison (BA 2017) asked Chak about her work with the organization No One Is Illegal - Toronto, how it influenced her thesis, and her book Undocumented: The Architecture of Migrant Detention.

No One Is Illegal heavily influenced your thesis and professional work. Could you describe the work that they do?
No One Is Illegal is a grassroots, all-volunteer organization made up of migrants and allies. We lean heavily to the left and have a very critical analysis of the immigration system. Our broad work challenges detentions and deportations, supports Indigenous sovereignty struggles, and works with people who are undocumented to make sure that they can access essential services. Last September, 191 immigration detainees staged a mass hunger strike (which is featured in the book), but it sparked a larger effort for those of us on the outside to work in solidarity with people leading the resistance and to build a campaign around ending immigration detention.

How did you get involved with No One Is Illegal?
I got involved just after my first year of doing the Masters of Architecture program here at the Daniels Faculty. The first year of architecture school was extremely challenging. What I found the hardest was the isolation from communities and the political work that is really important to me. I was constantly searching for a more critical, political analysis of architecture and the built environment beyond form and aesthetic. I have also always been interested in themes of migration, displacement, and colonization, so for these reasons I joined the organization. It definitely made life strained at times — It's very hard to do any type of organizing as a student because of the intense culture of architecture school, but I felt like I needed it, in a way, to keep me going.

I should mention Scapegoat, which is a journal about architecture, landscape, and the political economy founded by a number of people who have been associated with the Daniels Faculty. It's great! I would highly recommend this to students who are also struggling with these political questions.

How did your experience with No One Is Illegal influence your thesis?
My education and my political work felt like two opposing worlds. I had a hard time bringing my work for No One is Illegal into my life as an architecture student. When it was time to do my thesis, when we could really explore our own interests, I started thinking about where architecture intersects with migration. I was looking at things like border infrastructure, ports of entry and airports, and that led me to consider migrant detention centres, which are the fastest growing incarceration sector in North America’s prison system. I started looking into why architects’ designs of these centres and prisons were not talked about, and why they are not featured in our design magazines even though architects are given huge commissions to design them. These investigations informed my thesis work and the book. Halfway through my thesis research, the migrant detainees in Lindsay began their strike, which made it feel urgent and necessary to feature their experiences and courageous actions.

Could you explain your decision to present your research in the form of a hand-drawn graphic novel?
Using hand drawings was not just an aesthetic decision. A lot of what I’m talking about is about paper, of having papers as a proof of personhood and the fragility of paper. Having certain documents can determine a lot of things in our lives. For a migrant, it can determine your freedom, what rights or services you have access to, and what protections you might have. Hand drawing the book helped emphasize that arbitrariness and fragility. Also hand drawings helped emphasise the role of architectural representation, and how the act of drawing and revealing can be a political practice.

You launched your graphic novel in September. What happened to your mother on the night of the launch?
Someone at the launch went up to my mom and said, “Oh, this is a book launch, are you supposed to be here?” This question — even if it’s said in the nicest tone — is clearly just saying: “You don’t belong here.”

For me, it was important to make a small statement on Facebook afterwards to acknowledge that we have a lot to work to do in terms of creating welcoming spaces. It’s very easy to say, “It's a public space. It’s a free space. It’s inclusive.” But we are constantly excluding people, and here in academia, as well as in artist or activist spaces, we have to be conscious about those levels of exclusion and what "publics" we serve.

It’s interesting that my parents reacted differently, whether to be offended or to brush it off. People learn different ways of dealing with these common subtle forms of racism.

In your work, there seems to be a conflict between your desire to become a designer of spaces that affect people’s identity and your determination to shine a light on the way that spaces can oppress people’s identity. Have you found a way to resolve this conflict in your professional practice?
Most of the people I’ve befriended who remain in the architectural discipline are people who teach and are not practitioners. I don't think that's a coincidence! I think people who are politically minded tend choose a path that’s not around practice because there are a lot of the real problems associated with it. But that’s not to say that I’m ruling it out. There are design practices that try to complement research-based work, though, in a time of global austerity, this work tends to involve small-scale interventions rather than large permanent projects.

Occasionally, I do see amazing projects that enhance community life in a real way and further social movements. I often wonder though: are those involved in this work just independently wealthy, or do they rely on having a permanent paid gig that allows them to do something collaborative on the side?

But these are important questions to think about, like: What is the role of service in architecture? Is this a public service? If so, who is it accountable to and who gets to access it?

How does it feel to come back to the Daniels Faculty as a recent graduate?
The fact that the Daniels Faculty is showing support for my work and exhibiting it is not just great on a personal level; it’s great because the Faculty is engaging challenging political questions. It's also exciting to see new political projects emerge like speaker-series being organized by students [Editor's note: more on this to come!]. There is obviously a need for this type of work, and people are organizing to make it happen.

The exhibition Tactical Resilience runs until November 28th in the Eric Arthur Gallery.