The Architecture we Inherit

Communist era homebuilding and its constraints.

Residential architecture in communist Czechoslovakia was never just about providing shelter—it was an instrument of ideology. The vast housing estates, with their rigidly organised cityscapes and standardised layouts, embodied the principles of collective living, efficiency, and uniformity. Designed to house as many people as possible in a controlled and predictable environment, these prefabricated blocks left little room for individuality.

Yet beyond the state’s rigid framework, another kind of architecture existed—one that was built not by state planners, but by the hands of the people who lived in it. Private homes, often constructed under significant restrictions and material shortages, became spaces of quiet resistance. They were shaped by necessity, ingenuity, and personal expression in a system that sought to suppress all three. What can these homes tell us about life under communism that the prefabricated apartment blocks cannot? And how did the limitations imposed by the state influence the ways people adapted, built, and ultimately made these spaces their own? 

To find out, I spoke to two people from a small village in central Slovakia who built their own home in the 1970s.

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"The Nitra [river] used to flow through the village, they redirected it sometime in the 60s. When we decided to build the house, my wife’s father was still alive, so he came with her to see the site. At the time, it looked like a garbage dump—the old riverbed filled with anything and everything people wanted to throw out. He took one look and said, 'For God's sake, here? In a dump like this? It’ll never look right.' If he could see it now, he’d think differently. But he wasn’t wrong—it really did look awful. Just an abandoned plot of land and the remains of the old riverbed. If ecologists today tried to rehabilitate it, it would probably cost millions, all of that hazardous waste. Back then, people didn’t think that way. Was there a pit? Well, then, let’s throw everything we can find in there.”

Ladislav and Ida both grew up in Poluvsie—a small, rural village tucked away in eastern Czechoslovakia. They were both born during the communist regime, a decade after it began. Ladislav studied to become an electrician, while Ida became an accountant. Like many in their generation, they decided to stay in the village where they were raised.

Ladislav's family house. Photograph taken circa 1960.

Maps of Poluvsie from 1783, 1955 and 1964. Maps courtesy of staremapy.sk

Ladislav and his brother Ján inherited a small plot of land on the southern end of the village, and in the late 1970s, they decided to build a duplex house. However, the plot was too small—not only for a single detached house but especially for a duplex. This situation wasn’t uncommon. The common solution was to request that neighboring plots of land be sold to you by their respective owners.

A feature of communism—or at least that of a socialist republic—was that you never truly owned anything. Public buildings, roads, or squares were often built on "privately" owned land. In many cases, the "owners" were neither compensated nor even informed that something would be built on "their" land.

Thus, when it came to extending one’s property lines for an important reason—such as housing—owners of neighboring plots were given two options:

1. Sell the land at a fair price within its market value.

2. Refuse, in which case the state would sell it for them at the bare minimum price.

When I asked Ladislav about the process of building the house and the limitations or issues they faced, he laughed. From a lack of materials and funds to finding dozens of creative solutions to accomplish something people today would deem primitive, the process was anything but simple. 

“Before we even started building, we had to find a design to replicate. Still, a design that fit within what already existed on our street - for example, everyone had flat roofs, so a pitched roof was out of the question. Hiring an architect was never an option—it would have been incredibly expensive, and either way, it was unheard of. Architects worked on large-scale buildings; no one hired an architect to design a simple family house. That’s what the catalogs were for. We picked out a design, paid a symbolic fee, submitted it to the building regulations office, and once it was approved, we started building. Naturally, we changed many things along the way—that was illegal, but everyone did it anyway.”

A photograph of an existing house on the street: when building, they had to follow a similar style. 1978.

An initiative started by the Czechoslovak government was put in place to incentivise young newly-weds to settle down, have children and secure housing. The initiative came in the form of an interest-free loan of about 20 000 Kčs (Czechoslovak crowns) - approximately 1,163.68 € adjusted for inflation (Although, adjusted for inflation, the sum doesn’t reflect the purchasing power of 20 000 Kčs in the 1970s - according to the official exchange rates and inflation trends from the National Bank of Slovakia NBS and the Eurpoean Central Bank ECB, the estimated purchasing power would be equivalent to around 20 000 € in 2025).

Securing the funds and finalizing a design was only the first step. The real challenge came with the actual construction. Just as architects primarily worked on state-funded projects, so did construction companies. Hiring professionals for private homebuilding was not just uncommon—it was prohibitively expensive. As a result, most people had to rely on family, friends, and their own labor to get the job done.

Access to construction equipment posed another obstacle. Renting heavy machinery like excavators, concrete mixers, or dump trucks was simply not an option for the average person. These machines were typically reserved for large-scale, state-approved projects, and private individuals could only access them if they happened to know someone who owned one—a rare privilege. In the absence of such resources, the work had to be done by hand.

A photograph of Ján and Ladislav's wives with their first-born children. 1984.

Ladislav, Ján, and their father took on most of the work themselves, occasionally enlisting the help of relatives or neighbors. This informal, communal approach to homebuilding wasn’t unique to them; it was a necessity for many in similar situations. There were three unwritten rules when agreeing to help on someone’s construction site: lunch, alcohol, and quid pro quo.

“At the beginning of every month, when we got our payslips, we set some money aside to buy a couple of bottles of borovička—a traditional juniper brandy. We used this stash to convince people to come help us, to keep them helping us, and to thank them.”

When I asked Ladislav how much labour he owed to those who had helped him, it was Ida who responded.

“It was as if I didn’t have a husband for fifteen years. We got married, built the house—which was exhausting—and then, for what felt like every single day for fifteen years, he’d be gone. He worked during the day, and afterward, he was helping out on various construction sites around the village. I only saw him late at night and on the occasional afternoon.”

The “most important” necessities for life—water, energy, food, and housing—were incredibly affordable during the communist regime. For example, 100 kg of coal cost only 21 Kčs (around 10 €, adjusted for inflation), energy bills were about 90 Kčs per month (roughly 45 €, adjusted for inflation), and a two-bedroom apartment could be purchased for 55,000 Kčs (equivalent to 22,000–33,000 €, adjusted for inflation).

In contrast, luxuries such as cars and televisions were practically unattainable. For instance, the Czechoslovak Škoda Favorit sold for around 65,000 Kčs (26,000–39,000 €, adjusted for inflation)—a price higher than the cost of building an entire house.

With money scarce and resources even scarcer, Ladislav and Ján had to get creative with their approach to construction. They found that the most affordable materials for the foundation were rock and sand. 

"The rocks were a bit more difficult to come by—we didn’t have a quarry nearby, so I had to borrow a friend’s truck to transport them. Sand, on the other hand, was much easier to get. The village is surrounded by fields, and back then, sand was commonly used to improve the soil at a low cost. So, using the same truck, we just went out one day and loaded it up with sand. It’s not like no one saw us—they just didn’t care.”

Czechoslovakia as a whole produced a significant amount of building materials during the communist regime. However, as it was an export-oriented economy, almost all of those materials were being exported to the West, or used for state-funded projects.

Generally, building materials, especially in large quantities, weren’t available in hardware stores - or at least the single hardware store in the region. Their availability often depended on whether or not they were being produced in that region. Luckily, bricks were abundant for Ladislav and Ján. However, gathering anything besides that was a more complicated process.

“I went in to the only hardware store in our area to inquire about a specific material we needed - it wasn’t even much, I just wanted to know when they’d have it in stock next. The person behind the counter told me they actually have a consignment coming in in exactly a week. I showed up on the day, right when they opened, and when I asked about the material, the shop clerk told me they already didn’t have it. The consignment arrived, but never reached the shop. That’s when I found out that all the large companies had prior agreements with the hardware store to pick up and buy the materials the moment the freight train pulled into the station. So, I had the money, I was so willing to spend it, but I never even had the chance.”

A feature Ladislav wanted to implement in the house was floor heating. By that time, it was a relatively well-known heating system in Western countries, but in Czechoslovakia, only a handful of people had even heard of it. Naturally, PEX pipes weren’t available, so instead, they used something more accessible—beer hoses. They ordered over 2,000 meters of tubing and wound each heating circuit twice, unsure whether it would hold up over time.

“When we were furnishing the house, our options—like clothes and other ‘non-essentials’—were extremely limited. For the kitchen, we had a choice between red and green. We chose green and placed an order with the shop clerk. But as it turned out, the green one wasn’t available and wouldn’t be anytime soon. So, we ended up with a red kitchen instead. Even that wasn’t simple—everything involved waiting. You stood in line just to get on a waiting list. Though, in a way, it had one advantage: you simply didn’t get decision fatigue”

The house took about two years to build, but as Ladislav explained, that was just the main structure. Over the next several years—and even to this day—they continued working on it, furnishing the rooms, refining small details, finishing the facades, and eventually renovating parts of it.

Illustrative plan of the ground floor of Ladislav's side of the house as it stands now.

Today, their house sits on the bank of the Nitra River, sheltered by a large ash tree. A small hedge divides the land into two—one side for Ladislav’s family and the other for his brother Ján’s. The back garden, seemingly unchanged, is home to a variety of plants and trees, some of them exotic. The kitchen, no longer red, was renovated a few years ago, along with the addition of a new sofa. The side of the house now features a small slanted-roof patio, which serves as a frame for several solar panels.

Illustrative plan of the first floor of Ladislav's side of the house as it stands now.

The house that Ladislav and Ján built stands as more than just a home—it is a testament to perseverance in the face of scarcity, a quiet act of defiance against a system that sought to standardise life. Every brick, every workaround, and every compromise tells a story of ingenuity and endurance. While the prefabricated apartment blocks of communist Czechoslovakia embodied uniformity, homes like theirs reveal a different narrative—one of personal agency, determination, and the ability to carve out individuality within a rigid system.

Decades later, the house remains, evolving with time, shaped by the same resourcefulness that brought it into existence. It is a reminder that architecture is more than just walls and roofs—it is the physical imprint of the lives that shaped it.

A photograph of the front facade of the duplex house, as it stands today. 2024.