Built to Last: Memory, imagination, and the architecture of Mariam Issoufou

 

Kibo Ngowi

Mariam Issoufou’s architecture is distinct. Perhaps because it looks so familiar yet so unusual at the same time. 

Where the earth speaks: Housing in Niamey, Niger, designed by Mariam Issoufou, doesn’t ape Western suburban architecture but uses local materials and aesthetics, including thick walls so the spaces are cool without air-conditioning. 

A wall might be made of compressed earth but curve like concrete. A window might be shaped like an arch you once saw in a medieval city, or a village courtyard or both.

Her buildings carry the weight of memory and the clarity of invention. 

They seem to belong as much to the past as they do to a future — not yet fully realised, straddling the realm between imagination, antiquity and reality.

There is a kind of silence to her structures. The kind that settles over a space when it has been designed with care and patience. 

In Dandaji — a village on the arid western plains of her home country, Niger — a library stands beside a mosque and both are built of earth pulled from the ground just metres away. It doesn’t feel symbolic. It feels natural. As if the village decided to rise taller and Issoufou simply gave it form.

In Niamey, a housing block built for the city’s growing middle class doesn’t mimic Western suburbia. Instead, it offers courtyards for gathering, thick walls that cool the air without machines, passages that bend and open like market alleys. 

The lines are sharp but the logic is organic. The geometry never feels forced. You could run your hand along the walls and feel stories pressed into them.

In her hands, architecture doesn’t just shelter. It speaks. It honours. It reflects. Her buildings don’t shout but they sure don’t whisper either. They have the presence of something that knows where it came from and is confidently deciding where to go.“I think the biggest trap we’ve fallen into is conflating modernity and Westernity,” she told Justin McGuirk, director of the Design Museum’s Future Observatory, during a live interview at the recent Abu Dhabi Culture Summit in the United Arab Emirates. 

“This idea that somehow modernity has a style has been, to me, the most bewildering realisation, because there is no such thing. 

“There is modernism, which is something that came out of the West.

“Modernity itself is a principle; it’s something that can be quite universal and that we can all claim. And it absolutely does not have an aesthetic to me, it’s a mindset. It’s a way of thinking of yourself in the present, and of projecting yourself into the future.”

“And, for me, it’s straightforward to go from an architecture that is rooted to learn from what came before, but then make a new interpretation of it that can exist in the present, and can then evolve into something new for the future.”

To explore Issoufou’s work and ideas is to discover how much they challenge conventional wisdom about modern architecture and what form that should take in the Global South. Yet somehow her work has been embraced in Africa and beyond.

Established in 2014, her architecture and research firm Mariam Issoufou Architects has offices in Niamey, New York and Zurich. One of its crowning achievements was the Hikma Community Complex in Dandaji, which won two Global LafargeHolcim Awards for sustainable architecture.

Further afield, in the Kaolack region of Senegal, Issoufou is building the Bët-bi Museum of Contemporary Art and Culture. 

In Sharjah, United Arab Emirates, she’s developing the Hayyan Housing Project and Lifestyle Centre. And in Monrovia, Liberia, she’s leading the design of the Ellen Johnson Sirleaf Presidential Centre for Women and Development in collaboration with fellow architects Sumayya Vally and Karen Richards Barnes.

In preparing to speak to Issoufou, I framed many of my questions around the use of “traditional African architecture” but, the more I reflected, the more I realised how much even that choice of words is loaded with assumptions.

I grew up in Gaborone, Botswana, during a boom time when it was among the fastest-growing cities on the continent and, in large part, that meant importing the structures of skyscrapers, imposingly tall buildings made of glass and concrete, from Europe and North America. This was progress. This was development.

Meanwhile, the kind of architecture that naturally grew out of the Botswana environment, the rondavels and the thatch roofs, rarely featured into the new vision of how Gaborone would grow to become a world-class city. Because that was traditional. That was outdated. 

Reflecting on this led me to ask Issoufou if she had faced pushback in her efforts to institute her perspective into her architectural practice.

“Yes, of course,” she says. “But, at the end of the day, what I ended up realising is that you really have to empathise with where people are coming from. 

“So, it’s not really about wanting to institute anything. 

“I think, for me, I was more focused on having the conversation and then really challenging those views.

“Like, when I first started talking about earth architecture, people literally laughed in my face. 

“They’d say, ‘You’re trying to set us back 200 years. Like, what do you think this is? We’re not trying to live in the past.’” 

“And we had to have this conversation about the fact that it has nothing to do with the past. And again, that’s why I like to give wood as an example, or stone. These are materials that we’ve used forever. And in places where they grow and they’re abundant.”

One thing that has helped Issoufou’s cause is the undeniable benefits that come with using earth in terms of both practicality and sustainability. For the Hikma Community Complex in Dandaji, most of the project materials were sourced within a less than 5km radius from the site, while concrete was limited to structural elements such as columns and lintels. 

The project introduced compressed-earth bricks made with laterite soil found on site. 

The thermal mass of these bricks made natural ventilation possible, keeping indoor temperatures comfortable and removing the need for air conditioning.

“We tend to think of certain types of materials as being non-modern and feel somehow we have to explain them in contemporary terms or have to justify their use,” Issoufou says. 

“And I think that’s the first trap we fall in, because there is nothing inherently traditional about any materials versus others.

“When we build with wood, we don’t think of wood as being a traditional material. So, there’s certain stigmas that we associate with certain materials and earth is definitely one of them. 

“But I don’t think of materials in terms of modern or not. I think of them in terms of practicality, in terms of what makes sense to me. 

“It’s not an aesthetic response at all. It’s just a logical response to the local conditions. And the climate is just one of the dimensions of those conditions.”

The Hikma Community Complex combines the restoration of old buildings with the addition of new structures. An existing mosque has been renovated and adapted as a library, with study spaces, classrooms and workshop areas in the gardens, and a larger new mosque building has been added.

“Earth is the exact same in its usefulness as wood or stone but somehow the only material that has that stigma is earth. And why is that? 

“What we have all internalised in a profound manner is our inferiority. We have an ingrained inferiority complex. So, we accept things as being valuable if they are valuable in the West or if the West has decided that they’re valuable.”

Mariam Issoufou’s journey to becoming an internationally lauded architect wasn’t straightforward. She began her working life pursuing a career as a computer engineer, earning a bachelor’s degree in technical computing from Purdue University in Indiana in the US in 2001, and then a master’s degree in computer science from New York University in 2004.

“I wanted to be an architect very early on, but it kind of didn’t make sense to me, because I didn’t really know anybody who was an architect,” she reflects. 

“I was privileged enough to be sent to the US to study and it felt a bit obscene to study something like architecture because it takes a lot of effort and money. 

“For this education I was receiving, I felt like I needed to study something that would have a good return on investment.

“How I grew up, it was either you have to become a doctor or lawyer. And this is very typical, I think, of most immigrant families. 

“And at the time, it was the late Nineties, so I just looked around and tried to see what seemed like a solid career. That’s why I studied computer science — because it was around the time of the internet boom. It was a good decision. I believe I don’t regret doing that first before coming to architecture.”

She worked in the computing field for seven years before deciding to become an architect to fulfil her childhood aspirations. 

In 2013, Issoufou earned her master’s degree in architecture from the University of Washington. The following year she founded Mariam Issoufou Architects. 

Her career took off swiftly. In addition to leading an architecture firm with a presence on three continents, Issoufou is also a professor of architecture heritage and sustainability at ETH Zurich in Switzerland, one of the most prestigious architecture schools in the world.

She’s a 2019 laureate of the Prince Claus Award and was named as one of 15 Creative Women of Our Time by The New York Times in 2020.

At the heart of Issoufou’s practice is a deep belief in collaboration and continuity. For her, architecture is not just about building structures, it’s about building systems of knowledge and opportunity that can outlast the project itself.

When renovating the old mosque as part of the Hikma Community Complex, she brought in the original masons who constructed the building decades earlier. Rather than simply restoring the space to its former state, the team taught these masons how to work with adobe-enhancing additives and erosion-protection techniques, updating their traditional craft with new layers of resilience.

The approach was not about preservation for its own sake but about growth: “We don’t look for artisans because they already know how to make what we want,” Issoufou explains. “We study what they can do and then we design something new that pushes that skill forward.”

She recalls a metalworker who had never bent thick iron pipes into curved structural forms before. When faced with the design for a market structure, he laughed at the model and asked if she had pulled the concept from the internet. 

But, after testing a prototype together, he travelled to Benin to purchase a machine. Now, he’s one of only two people in Niger with that capacity and his business has grown as a result.

It’s a ripple effect. “Even if we stop a project, the skills don’t stop,” Issoufou says. 

Her masons have since been contracted for work in Senegal and Mali. Her brick-makers are being called in for international jobs. 

The process is just as important as the product, and the people who shape the project — brick by brick, weld by weld — are not treated as footnotes. They’re credited in publications, in images, in the very narrative of the work.

“We make sure that their names are known,” Issoufou says. “That a photographer from Tahoua, or a contractor from Niamey, can be found and called and offered more work. That matters to us.” 

For her, architecture is never just about what is built. It’s about who builds it, and what they’re able to build next.

The past few years in Niger have been marked by political instability. In July 2023, a military coup ousted the democratically elected president, one of several power shifts to shake the Sahel region. Borders closed, international aid froze and sweeping sanctions followed. For many, it felt like the future had been put on hold.

Among the stalled projects was a major cultural work in Niamey led by Issoufou’s firm — an elegant composition of elliptical towers built of  compressed earth, designed as both a civic landmark and a communal heart. 

“It was an extinction event for the firm, honestly,” Issoufou admits. “We were about to break ground. And then everything stopped.”

Yet despite the upheaval, her practice did not collapse: “What saved us was that we were already working in so many different countries nearby,” she explains. “Most of the projects were already outside Niger.” 

While the Niamey project remains on pause, the firm has pushed forward with work in Senegal, Ghana, Benin and Liberia, including the Bët-bi Museum and the Ellen Johnson Sirleaf Presidential Centre, which are breaking ground this year.

This regional spread is no accident. Issoufou has designed her practice to be flexible and cross-continental. 

“Over the past decade and more, we’ve built an incredibly robust remote working system,” she says. 

“That’s a legacy from my computer science background. It means I can draw, review and collaborate, regardless of where I am.”

Still, her commitment to Niger remains unwavering. 

“The headquarters of the firm being there is incredibly important to me,” she says firmly. “There’s no scenario where that’s not the case.” 

Rather than despair, she sees the crisis through a lens shaped by lived experience: “We come from a part of the world where the ground is always unstable to some extent. So, you build systems of resilience, both professionally and personally.”

For Issoufou, that isn’t about resistance alone; it’s about readiness. 

“You can’t run out of patience when things flip,” she says. “You have to understand that the chaos will end and you have to be ready to pick up the pieces afterward. This is temporary. It will pass.”

Issoufou’s architecture defies categorisation and reframes the conversation entirely. Rooted in the soil of her home country, yet expansive in its reach, it proposes an alternative vision of modernity, one that honours the past not by preserving it in amber, but by folding it into new futures.

In a world quick to flatten tradition into stereotype or discard it altogether in the pursuit of progress, Issoufou’s buildings whisper a different kind of intelligence, one born of listening closely to place, to people and to materials often overlooked.

Maybe that’s the quiet radicalism at the heart of her practice. From Dandaji to Monrovia, from earth bricks to elliptical towers, her crafting goes beyond architecture and encompasses a methodology of care, a politics of presence.

In uncertain times, her work reminds us true modernity doesn’t come from erasure or mimicry but from the courage to imagine continuity. It’s not about where you build, but how, and with whom. And it’s in that grounded imagination that Issoufou’s vision finds its most enduring form.

Why do some societies become creative powerhouses while others stagnate?

 

Johan Norberg

Any decent artist could have created realistic characters, with volume, physical weight and a spatial presence, with the use light and color to suggest distance, because that is after all, what the world looks like. So why was the Renaissance painter Giotto the first one to do it in 900 years?

Or take the flying shuttle, which helped to make weaving much more productive during the Industrial Revolution. It required no special knowledge and only took some string and two wooden boxes on either side. And yet, for 5,000 years, no weaver tried it.

Why do we suddenly get an explosion of creativity and progress in certain places and moments – and why do they end? That is what I examine in my book Peak Human: What We Can Learn from the Rise and Fall of Golden Ages (Atlantic Books). 

I have learned that ages become golden because they imitate and innovate. They first emerge because of cheating. They didn’t come up with all the innovations that made them prosper; instead they took them from others.

Athenian, Italian and Dutch merchants picked up new ideas on their business trips. Like the Borg of Star Trek, the Romans constantly absorbed peoples, ideas and methods by conquest, and Abbasid Baghdad actively sponsored a translation project to lay their hands on the world’s knowledge and science.

But there is a limit to how far imitation can get you. To make this progress self-propelling, these cultures had to combine these inputs with their own thoughts to create innovations, from higher agricultural yields to artistic rebellions. This takes inclusivity back home. People have to be allowed to try new things. Free speech, free markets and a rule of law that constrains the arbitrary actions of rulers leave room for this. 

But get Giotto and the flying shuttle, it takes something more: a broader culture of optimism. Innovation is difficult and controversial, and the results are never guaranteed. Therefore, you need a sense that there is hope and possibility, and you need role models around you who have shown the way, to make it seem like it is worth trying. Others to be inspired by, learn from, and to compete with.

This progress sometimes became self-sustaining because, at a certain point, it started transforming the self-identity of these cultures. That is why we often see clusters of creativity, like philosophy in Athens, art during the Renaissance, classical music in Vienna and technology in Silicon Valley.

Pessimism, the sense that it is hopeless, is a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is a clue to the decline and fall of golden ages.

It is as if history has a Great Status Quo Filter (similar to the hypothesis about the Fermi paradox on why we have not encountered alien life despite the likelihood that it exists). Civilizations in every era have tried to break away from the shackles of oppression and scarcity, but increasingly they faced opposite forces, and sooner or later these dragged them back to earth.

Elites who have benefited from the innovation that elevated them want to kick away the ladder behind them, groups threatened by change try to fossilize culture into an orthodoxy, and aggressive neighbors are attracted to the wealth of the achievers and try to kill the goose to steal its golden eggs. However, outsiders can kill and destroy, but they can’t kill curiosity and creativity. Only we can do that to ourselves.

When under threat, we often seek stability and predictability, shutting out that which is different and unpredictable. All these golden ages experienced a death-to-Socrates moment in times of crisis, when they soured on their previous commitment to open intellectual exchange. They started to support strongmen, control the economy and abandon international exchange. This made the fear of disaster self-fulfilling, since those barriers limited access to other possibilities and restricted the adaptation and innovation that could have helped them deal with the threat.

Where does that leave our civilization? The present Anglosphere age, started by the Industrial Revolution and carried on by the American Revolution and the liberal world order after the Second World War has been the most golden so far, since it has also been global. For the first time, improvements in living standards and opportunities have not been limited to one region.

Since 1820, the share of people in extreme poverty globally has been reduced from more than 8 out of 10 to fewer than 1 out of 10, and life expectancy shot up from 30 to 74.

As we have learned from history, however, nothing is forever. The question is, is the great filter in front of us or behind us? My conclusion is that it is never behind us once and for all, because the forces of reaction and tribalism exists within human nature and we carry it with us wherever we go. It can return and threaten us at the most unexpected moment, but it does not mean that it will win.

I don’t think that the American-led world order will be destroyed from the outside. There are too many countries and populations who see their interest in open trade and a rules-based order, and that choice gives them more innovation and growth in the long run. But it can all be torn down from the inside, by regulations and unsustainable debts, by erecting walls, trade barriers and unconstitutional strongman rule.  

As Abraham Lincoln said about the risk of an end to the American experiment in 1838: “It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.”

That is our choice today as well. But we have an advantage over earlier golden ages, because we can learn from their successes and their mistakes. We know what we should do, to try and rediscover that sense of life, that sense of wonder, and fight for openness and liberty, to rebuild a culture of optimism. In the end, golden ages are a choice.

“Open Socrates” encourages us to recognize how little we know, and to start thinking

 

In “Open Socrates,” the scholar Agnes Callard argues that the ancient Greek philosopher offers a blueprint for an ethical life.

Jennifer Szalai

Maybe this is the year that you have resolved to drink less and exercise more. Or maybe you want to be kinder, gentler and more caring to the people around you.

In “Open Socrates,” Agnes Callard suggests that self-improvement, at least as we usually understand the term, isn’t so much a matter of willpower, but of ideas. It’s not that we are weak-willed creatures, who know what “the good” is and then fail to pursue it; it’s that we haven’t given enough thought to what “the good” is in the first place. “The hard work of struggling to be a good, virtuous, ethical person” is, “first and foremost, intellectual work,” she writes.

Callard, a philosopher at the University of Chicago, is aware that “more intellectualism!” isn’t exactly an easy sell, which is undoubtedly why she waits until Page 129 to describe her chosen approach as “hard-line intellectualist.” But she is so earnestly excited by her subject that even a skeptical reader is bound to feel a swell of enthusiasm as she makes her full-throated case for a life of the mind. She wants her book to do double duty: advance a “neo-Socratic ethics” that can pass muster with her fellow philosophers, and offer lay readers an accessible introduction to how “living a truly philosophical life” can “make people freer and more equal; more romantic; and more courageous.”

This is a book that is charming, intelligent and occasionally annoying. The irritation is wholly appropriate: Socrates, whom Callard affectionately calls a “wet blanket,” was known for challenging his interlocutors to the point of exasperation, pushing them to think harder about whether what they had just said was what they truly meant. “I realized, to my sorrow and alarm, that I was getting unpopular,” Socrates ruefully reflected, after having alienated a number of powerful politicians in Athens and before being sentenced to death. Callard was so enthralled by Socratic philosophy as a college student that she wanted to “be Socrates” and set out to hound strangers at an art museum with big questions about the meaning of life. “They felt trapped,” she recalls now, “and I felt not at all like Socrates.”

Socrates died in 399 B.C., and it’s not as if there’s a shortage of writing about him or his thought. But Callard says that Socrates has too often been “diluted”: treated like a “sauce” that could enhance one’s critical thinking instead of as the main event, whose ethics, if properly understood, were nothing short of radical. He called himself a “gadfly” and also a “midwife” — refuting his interlocutors’ falsehoods but also helping them bring true ideas into being. The acts of destruction and creation were connected, arguably even one and the same. Refutation was never to be done for its own sake; only by helping to peel the scales from people’s eyes could they see the world anew.

Following Socrates’ example is a lifelong pursuit. All too often, Callard says, we react instinctively to “savage commands”: doing something because it is dictated to us in the moment by our body (to pursue pleasure and avoid pain) or by social bonds (to pursue pride and avoid shame). Such commands make us “waver,” she says, and contradict ourselves: “They might give us a loud, clear answer as to what we ought to do, but the answers don’t last.”

The question of time comes up a lot in “Open Socrates.” There is, most obviously, the matter of our limited time on Earth, and Callard agrees with Socrates that philosophy is preparation for death. Thinking more deeply about what we know and what we don’t pushes us beyond our usual (unthinking) habit of “getting through the next 15 minutes.” She opens her book with the example of Tolstoy, in his “Confession,” recalling how his 50-year-old self suddenly wasn’t sure what any of it — love, children, worldly success — was for.

Callard’s name may be familiar to those who have read a profile of her in The New Yorker. She left her first marriage, to another philosopher, to marry a graduate student, also a philosopher. She talks as if love is an ecstatically intellectual pursuit, at least when it’s going well. In “Open Socrates,” she describes how we can get so caught up in our own thoughts that we don’t let evidence from the world in; another person can reveal to us our own blind spots, nudging us just so in order to see what we were missing. Socratic inquiry, with its emphasis on dialogue, reveals thinking as a communal process: “In the presence of others, something becomes possible that isn’t possible when you are alone.”

I find this notion inspiring, even if I’m not as confident as Callard that “our most fundamental wish” is to be treated “as an intellectual thing.” She puts so much stock in the power of thought that she suggests it can get us out of the most intractable dilemmas: “What appears to be a difficulty with life” is “in fact a difficulty in our thinking about life.”

But she also allows that “thinking about life” isn’t necessarily guaranteed to yield the knowledge one seeks. Socrates used to say that he knew nothing other than the fact of his own ignorance. Despite some of her grander pronouncements, Callard invites us to think alongside her. “Open Socrates” encourages us to recognize how little we know, and to start thinking.

The West should be worried: “DeepSeek” hints that China has mastered the art of kaizen

 

he Japanese concept of continuous industrial improvement helps explain Beijing's technological success.

Leo Lewis

During the height of the space race, America spent millions of taxpayer dollars developing a pen that would work in zero gravity. Faced with the same problem, the Russians used … a pencil.

This is, in fact, a fictional tale. Both sides first tried pens and eventually used the Space Pen, a product developed entirely by the private sector. But the myth often returns as an industrial, geopolitical, and ideological parable, because it encapsulates the fear that runs through all of these realms: that the opposing company, position, or economic model might be better structured to work smarter and cheaper.

Did the Space Pen meme make a comeback this week, as investors and governments were wowed by China's supposedly low-cost model of artificial intelligence [AI]? DeepSeek, wondering if US export controls had backfired and losing faith in the billions invested in the more expensive American approach to the same problem? Of course they have.

But the most worrying term of the moment has to be kaizen – the Japanese concept of “continuous improvement” that once struck fear into the hearts of corporate America and which China, in one way or another, seems to have quietly mastered – in part by hiring Japanese kaizen masters who were undervalued in their own economy.

Kaizen became a real part of the international business lexicon in the 80s, when American and European companies needed to understand why Japanese companies were beating them – both on price and quality – in industries such as automotive, consumer electronics and semiconductors. Both sides identified the difference as a patient and deeply Japanese improvement of product and process.

The practical effects of kaizen were extraordinary: they were one of the main reasons why Japan's economy became a superpower in the 1970s and 80s and why many of its companies still remain global competitors in a wide range of manufacturing sectors.

But perhaps even more remarkable is the evolution of kaizen during Japan’s decades of economic stagnation after the bursting of the financial bubble. As the era of financial excesses faded, kaizen became a survival superpower: a mechanism for simultaneously increasing quality and reducing costs in tough times. Deflation and the inability of Japanese manufacturers to secure pricing power in their domestic market turned cost-cutting into a veritable art.

Chinese manufacturers, long focused on cost and technology, have carefully observed this entire process and found ways to make kaizen a part of them. DeepSeek may represent a major advancement in software, but it is an achievement built on the foundations of a hardware sector that is moving forward relentlessly and continuously.

Many would argue that China’s technology acquisition has been, at best, opportunistic and, at worst, dishonest. When outright theft or coercion is not to blame (which is often the case), foreign companies have lost key technologies due to poor transfer agreements or over-optimism about their ability to protect intellectual property. But that doesn’t explain everything.

In China’s most recent and visible industrial achievements – the production of low-cost, competitively priced electric cars, consumer electronics, industrial machinery, high-speed trains and robots – a version of kaizen is already at work. And there is reason to suspect that the Chinese version could work for a faster, more disruptive period and with more visible results than the Japanese original.

First, China has the human resources and talent to apply kaizen on a much larger scale than Japan ever achieved. Incremental improvements work best when there are lots of them.

Second, this is happening in an era where consumers are much quicker to identify and communicate when a product is not exactly what they would like.

But third, China may be able to pay for speed. In addition to observing kaizen in action firsthand in Japanese manufacturing operations, Chinese companies, according to recruitment agents in Tokyo, have found that they can attract Japanese engineers specializing in semiconductors, railways and robotics as consultants. This is nothing new, the agents say, but it is now accelerating significantly.

Japanese corporations tend to retire highly skilled employees relatively early, who have not been paid particularly well during the deflationary years and have failed to create the sense of loyalty they might have hoped for. Such an engineer may be well paid by a Chinese company, and without directly revealing industrial secrets, his value remains immense: kaizen is essentially a process of trial and error, and an experienced engineer can offer invaluable advice on what has been tried and what has not worked.

Bosses don’t care about your Ivy League degree anymore

Callum Borchers

It’s hard to get a job at Charlie Gipple’s financial advisory firm if you went to the wrong college—like Harvard, Yale or Princeton.

The chief executive of CG Financial Group in Johnston, Iowa, says academic credentials don’t impress him like they used to. He worked with many graduates of top-tier colleges in previous jobs at MetLife and ING Groep, where he was a vice president, and says they too often approach clients’ challenges like textbook case studies, rather than real-world problems.

“If I were hiring somebody to be my right-hand person today, there’s not a chance in hell it would be an Ivy League person,” says Gipple, who graduated from the University of Northern Iowa and manages a network of about 500 advisers.

Traditionally a springboard to the top of the résumé pile, a degree from a prestigious university can now prompt questions about its value or even work against job seekers.

In extreme cases, it’s disqualifying. A group of 13 federal judges signed a letter in May saying they will not hire law clerks who enrolled at Columbia Law School this fall because of how the school has handled campus protests. A spokeswoman for the university referred me to a statement issued when the letter was publicized, which says the school’s graduates “are consistently sought out by leading employers in the private and public sectors, including the judiciary.”

More often, people who studied at Ivies and similarly elite schools like Stanford, Duke and the University of Chicago say they’re used to snide remarks about their alma maters being woke or elitist.

That skepticism has intensified in the last year after a landmark Supreme Court case exposed inner workings of elite-college admissions and upended affirmative action. Evidence presented in the case revealed, among other things, that 43% of accepted white applicants at Harvard were recruited athletes or children of alumni, donors, faculty or staff.

Bryan Mark Rigg, president of Rigg Wealth Management in Dallas, says his Ivy League degree used to command universal respect from clients and colleagues.

“Going to Yale has opened up doors left and right,” he says.

He says he now gets mixed responses when people learn where he went to college. Diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives on campus have gone too far, in his view. And while Rigg, who is Jewish, says he never caught a whiff of antisemitism as a student, he considers anti-Jewish bias a big problem at top universities, citing campus protests against Israel’s conduct in the war in Gaza.

“Some people will say to me ‘Would you ever send your kid to an Ivy? They’ve lost their way,’ ” says Rigg, 53. “I have to agree with them.”

America’s changing perception of elite universities was evident on the campaign trail. President-elect Donald Trump, who holds an Ivy League degree himself from the University of Pennsylvania, chose as his running mate Ohio Sen. JD Vance, who has bashed selective colleges, despite having graduated from Yale Law School.

Looking elsewhere for talent

Karen Berman grew up in a working-class family, lost her father in high school, then went on to earn a bachelor’s degree at Harvard and an M.B.A. from the Wharton School at Penn. She says her Ivy pedigree represents perseverance.

The nonprofit consultant has grown concerned about whether students at her old stomping grounds are developing critical-thinking skills on campuses that consistently land near the bottom of free-speech rankings. An internal Harvard report last month found roughly half of professors and students are afraid to express their views on controversial issues.

Berman says she feels the loss of open dialogue and civil debate takes some of the shine off her credentials.

“What should I do—take it off my résumé?” she asked when I pressed about what it feels like to be an alum and a critic of these institutions. It was a rhetorical question because, truth be told, the advantages of brand-name diplomas generally outweigh the drawbacks.

For proof, look no further than the booming market for college admissions help, which can cost tens of thousands of dollars a year. Even sharp Ivy League critics, like hedge-fund billionaire Bill Ackman, acknowledge the value of alumni networks, and blue-chip banks and consulting firms continue to prize graduates of what their recruiters call target schools.

Bain & Co. still recruits from “the usual suspects” but the share of new hires who come from those schools is shrinking, says Keith Bevans, the firm’s head of consultant recruiting.

That’s partly because those few dozen schools don’t produce enough high-quality graduates to keep up with Bain’s head count needs. And, he adds, the firm has started conducting Zoom interviews where the interviewer doesn’t know the job candidate’s university affiliation.

“You’re purely judged on the merits of how you did in the interview, not my preconceived notions of how many people I should expect to like on a certain campus,” Bevans says.

McKinsey & Co. uses a problem-solving game to weed out job candidates whose skills don’t live up to their credentials, and to identify talented people that might have been overlooked in the past. The firm’s latest crop of business analysts includes graduates of tiny Grinnell College in Iowa and Santa Clara University, which admits almost half of applicants.

Broadened recruiting is partly a response to the way some elite universities have de-emphasized grades and SAT scores, says Blair Ciesil, a partner who co-leads recruiting at McKinsey. Grade inflation makes a sparkling GPA at a prestigious college less meaningful, she says. (For instance, about 80% of the grades awarded to Yale undergrads in recent years have been an A or A minus, according to a university report.) With a lot of top colleges no longer requiring applicants to submit standardized-test scores, McKinsey is sometimes missing a data point that historically informed hiring decisions.

I told Ciesil that the McKinsey game, called “Solve,” sounds like a contemporary version of the chalkboard that reveals a surprise genius in “Good Will Hunting,” a movie in which the janitor is more gifted than the students at MIT.

“I’m stealing that analogy,” she said. “Wouldn’t we be lucky to find our Matt Damon through the test?”

New York real estate attorney Adam Leitman Bailey doesn’t bother with games. He simply refuses to hire recent Ivy League grads, mostly because he thinks a lot of them get by on connections instead of talent and grit.

He notes that some top law schools, including Harvard and Yale, don’t rank students or give letter grades. Bailey, who got his law degree at Syracuse University, says he prefers to hire associates who rose to the top of less-glamorous schools because he believes competition prepares them for legal battles.

“It’s wonderful that we have these incredible institutions like Harvard and Yale, who produce presidents and leaders and big thinkers,” he says. “But that’s not what I do for a living, and it’s not the type of lawyer I need.”