A MUSEUM OF VANISHED VOICES

University of Asia Pacific

Project idea

This project comes from a deep ache to confront the brutal reality of genocide—those horrific acts that don’t just take lives but try to wipe out entire cultures, stories, and identities. “A Museum of Vanished Voices” is my vision for a place that fights back through memory and defiance. It’s a space that holds space for grief, a quiet rebellion to keep the dignity of those who’ve been silenced alive in our hearts.

I picture this museum on a site that carries the weight of history, where every corner feels like it’s whispering about loss and resilience. As you walk through, the spaces pull you into a kind of quiet that hurts—spaces that feel broken, heavy, yet somehow sacred. It’s not just about seeing history; it’s about feeling it, carrying it with you, both alone and together.

What I Hope to Do

1. Turn the pain of genocide into a story told through space, one that honors every person who was silenced.

2. Create a museum that’s more than facts on a wall—a place that takes you on a journey where you feel the weight and the hope of those lost.

3. Use light, shadow, textures, and empty spaces like a language to keep their memory alive, to make you pause and remember.

4. Build something that adds to how the world remembers, a space that teaches, heals, and shouts a warning so this never happens again.

5. Push other architects to see design as a way to stand up for justice, to fight for human rights, and to tell the truth about our past.

This project, for me, is about making architecture speak when voices have been taken away. It’s a promise to never let those stories fade.

Project description

I’ve been thinking a lot about what a museum can be—not just a quiet place to remember, but a living, breathing space that shakes you awake and calls you to act. “A Museum of Vanished Voices” is my dream for something that’s both a memorial and a rallying cry—a place that doesn’t just mourn the victims of genocide but equips people to stop it from happening again. It’s about giving the silenced a voice and the living a purpose.

Picture a building that feels alive with meaning, set on a site that carries the weight of history. It’s not just about feeling the grief of the past—though you’ll feel that in every shadow and empty space. It’s also about learning, questioning, and growing. I imagine seminar rooms buzzing with students, activists, and scholars from around the world, digging into the history, psychology, and politics of mass violence. There’d be exhibition spaces that pull you in, archival libraries filled with stories waiting to be heard, and discussion halls where people wrestle with big questions about justice and responsibility. This isn’t a place to just stand and stare—it’s a place to talk, listen, and take a stand.

The museum has to be for everyone. I want it to be accessible, welcoming to all cultures, and flexible enough to grow with the times. It’s a global meeting point for hard conversations, for building peace, and for fighting against forgetting. The spaces are designed to hit you emotionally but also to spark action—to make you feel like you’re not just remembering silence but breaking it.

To me, this isn’t just a museum. It’s a school for our conscience, a safe haven for truth, and a voice that says, “We remember the dead by protecting the living.”

Technical information

I’ve been pouring my heart into imagining a place that’s more than just walls and rooms—a space that holds grief, sparks learning, and brings people together. “A Museum of Vanished Voices” is a living, breathing complex, spread across a site that feels heavy with meaning. I see it as three interwoven parts: a memorial wing to honor those we’ve lost, an academic wing to dig into truth, and a public zone where everyone can feel welcome.

The memorial wing is where you pause and feel. There are quiet galleries that wrap you in thought, empty spaces—memory voids—that ache with absence, a wall of names that makes every life real, and soft light wells that cast gentle glows, like whispers of hope. It’s a place that doesn’t just show you the past; it sits with you in it.

The academic wing is for those who want to understand and act. I picture lecture halls buzzing with eager students, small research rooms where scholars piece together stories, and cozy residences for thinkers from all over the world. There’s an archive filled with voices waiting to be heard and a genocide prevention institute working to stop these horrors before they begin. It’s a place where knowledge fuels change.

Then there’s the public engagement zone, open to everyone. Imagine a sunny courtyard where you can sit and reflect, interactive exhibits that pull you into the story, a library for diving deeper, a bookshop to carry stories home, and a café where conversations flow over warm drinks. It’s a space that feels like a community, inviting all kinds of people to connect and share.

The building itself needs to feel solid, like it’s meant to last. I’d use strong concrete and rough, local stone to give it that sense of forever. Sustainability matters, so I’d lean on materials from nearby, keeping the earth in mind. The spaces would be hushed with soundproofing, and light would come in just right—through skylights and tall openings—shifting between shadow and brightness to guide you through the emotions.

To keep it kind to the planet, I’d add passive cooling to save energy, green roofs that blend into nature, and ways to catch rainwater. Accessibility is non-negotiable—ramps everywhere, tactile paths for those who can’t see, and sensory details for anyone who needs them. I’d also design parts of it to be flexible, so the museum can grow as new stories and truths come to light.

This project is my way of building something that matters—a place that holds onto memories, inspires learning, and calls us to do better. It’s about keeping the past alive and empowering us to protect the future.