In a part of the world where buildings are more often reduced to dust than raised from it, two sisters have found a way to turn destruction into creation. Mai and Shaima El-Najjar, young engineers from Gaza, have won the prestigious James Dyson Award for their invention: a brick made from compressed rubble that binds rubble, ash and a secret binder into a durable, low-cost building block. The award, which comes with a £30,000 prize, has attracted the attention of British engineers who are now backing their innovation for wider use.
What is striking here is not just the technical achievement, but what it says about the peculiar alchemy of crisis. In Gaza, where the raw materials for conventional construction are either blockaded or bombed, the sisters looked at the heaps of broken concrete and saw not debris, but potential. Their bricks use no cement, the production of which is a major carbon emitter. Instead, they rely on compaction and a locally sourced additive that remains proprietary. The result is a block that withstands compression tests and costs a fraction of the price of imported materials.
The social psychology of this is fascinating. Necessity mothers invention, sure, but so does a certain kind of stubborn optimism. In a place where the future is uncertain, building with the rubble of the past is not just practical, it is a symbolic reclaiming of agency. The sisters have described their work as a way to "rebuild our dreams." It is a phrase that could sound hollow, but here it is backed by hard data and prototype walls.
The British engineering community, always alert to elegant solutions, has latched on. Engineers from organisations such as Engineers Without Borders UK have offered mentorship and potential supply chain connections. The hope is that the brick can be scaled into a small industry, providing both shelter and employment in a region where both are scarce.
What does this tell us about the broader cultural shift? It suggests that innovation is no longer the preserve of Silicon Valley or MIT labs. It is happening in basements and bombed-out classrooms, driven by people who cannot afford to wait for the world to change. The El-Najjar sisters are part of a quiet revolution: a generation of problem-solvers emerging from the very places we assume have nothing left to give.
Of course, a brick does not solve geopolitics. It does not end a blockade or bring peace. But it does something equally important: it reminds us that human ingenuity, when pressed, turns trauma into tool. In Gaza, where the sound of demolition is familiar, the sisters have created something that sounds like construction. And for now, that is a sound worth celebrating.
