 Today, I will begin with a line, a line that has the capacity to define sovereignty's, to trace territories. This line, when read as a border, also divides. At the border's edges, collections of shelters become a visible artifact that necessitates scales of intervention in which the state often transposes so called solutions. The line, when repeated, when manufactured, establishes a grid in which the same conditions are intensified. No longer porous or rational, the grid conspires. Temporalities coalesce. Among the new temporary camps of Dunkirk, France, and in northern Iraq, where people are often forcibly taken, the grid has become an instrument of control, and invisibility remains. Recent UN estimates posit that over 65 million individuals today are refugees or internally displaced throughout the world. We have been witness to the crossing of borders in which the perils of multiple landscapes mask what happens next. For some, indefinite detention on offshore islands, for others, disappearance. And more often, entrance into provisional structures and possibly camps that are either self-made or NGO-sponsored into carceral grids that belie histories and radicalize inequality. The making of provisional shelter at these margins, like the boat, is considered fragile and indeterminate. These questions affect the need to radically interrogate the systems that produce the camp in the city and the city in the camp. Can architects and designers offer an ethics of space? More critically, how does the use of the grid manifest a series of internal and external borders that exacts the same divisions which contributed to the disasters, both political, social, and environmental, from which thousands still attempt to escape today? This year, 2016, marks 25 years of the largest refugee camp in the world, Dadaab in Northern Kenya, with a growing population of 300,000, in which the average length of stay for an individual is now 17 years. While the state disavows its existence, having erased it from Google Earth for a time, Dadaab, like so many others, is a proto city. Perhaps the most accessible, at least visually, Alsatari in Jordan, with its 12 primary districts, is also expanding into new sub-camps, while internal market economies emerge to compete with the forced assembly of often conflicting cultures. What are the alternatives? I do not use or propose the word solution in this case. The paradigm that transgresses the grid, even when embedded in an abandoned luxury hotel on the periphery of cities, or self-assembled in the desert over 40 years, assumes that individuals participate in the making of the city, that urban settlement is not imposed from without. Even when enmeshed in a dense urban context such as the multiple camps of Lebanon, in which over a million individuals reside, the borders between city and camp have been diminished. In their place, communication networks and infrastructure of potential transgress the urban forms and often the boundaries that were first used to disassemble identities. The refugee camp is a shadow city. To turn away is to disavow ourselves as occupying analogous spaces. If we begin to define the camp as a city and the refugee not as fixed or other, moving beyond the binaries, we have the potential to deploy many, if not all of the strategies around which the discussions of this conference center for better or worse. Yet as long as the grid with its lines of violence and violent lines continues to persist, camps and cities alike will continue to collapse around us. Thank you. Thank you very much. And I should of course refer to this not stimulation but an important reminder of realities. We should stick to this theme of refuge for five minutes. I think then we can open up again to the much broader themes that have emerged. And I'd like to really invite thoughts from anyone around the table. Joe. Thank you, Sean, for a wonderful presentation. The thing that I was thinking of as you were talking about the grid is that one of the most infamous symbols of apartheid racism was the grid of the township houses of Soweto. I mean that went around the world and it became synonymous with the terrible racist regime. But since 1994 when the country was liberated, people were given ownership of their properties, businesses were allowed to be established in Soweto. And I believe recently Soweto scored its first million-rand house sale. And it's a very nice place to live in today. I'm not saying that it's the best place to live in in Johannesburg. So the question really for me has to do with the idea that I don't really think it matters too much about that structure that you place on the ground. It's rather the relationship that people have with it and the freedoms that they can exercise in terms of what they can do with that, that leads to good, healthy urban environments. Thank you. I completely agree. I think, however, that the images that we see today and the structuring of the camp, this dependence on the grid as both rational and as defining the space of what makes home is quite problematic. Because within the camp, what we're seeing, I feel at least, and what I've seen on the ground myself, is that those small-scale interventions as you with, the augmentation of value isn't allowed. It doesn't exist. And when it does, it becomes again a kind of bordering between, within the camps. And it perpetuates these cycles of difference and rather than change and rather than kind of a broadening of what it means to be human. Sean, I had a question on your presentation. Clearly, this seems to be a process for the refugee that almost dehumanizes or perhaps robs them of the makings of domesticity, which would give a certain sense of security, identity, and all of those things. However, this is a transient phase, and I hate to sound cruel about that, but nevertheless, we survive through a particular period hoping for something beyond that. Have you found in your investigations of these settlements a certain conception of home itself, evolving for the people who live in these camps? Have you discovered that? I think it's a great question because what we see in the media, what we see in various publications, not only by architects but by people who are invested in the betterment of these millions of individuals, is we see the exterior. And I am also complicit in this today. We don't really consider the interior lives of individuals. And it's come to my thinking that when we construct or when we imagine ourselves constantly in transit, constantly subject to temporalities of which we have no control necessarily, that the notion of home is not only diminished but also it disappears. Home isn't constituted by what we own and what we possess. Yet home, in the case of a refugee camp, often is reduced to those very simple things. And so when multiple organizations and multiple architects and designers around the world are, in a sense, investing in the exterior and not the interior lives of these individuals, we're doing a disservice to these people.