Prague’s first panelák, a type of prefabricated apartment building, opened 70 years ago this month. On July 1, 1955, residents moved into Prefa 771 in Ďáblice. This concrete block was designed by architect Miloslav Wimmer, who also moved in. His new “skeleton panel” system paved the way for a nationwide effort to build fast, affordable housing after the war.
Love or hate them, these sprawling gray Communist-era housing estates lining the outskirts of Prague, Brno, Ostrava, and other Czech cities remain an enduring part of the landscape. Though some predicted they’d be abandoned or demolished after 1989, they’ve proven surprisingly resilient and a steadfast cultural touchpoint.
Far from just being remnants of the Soviet era, today’s paneláky have changed with the time. Facades now showcase evocative murals and street art, Instagram accounts tell their stories, past, present, and future to a new audience. Even a newly released video game captures the grim aspects of life behind the prefab walls.
To understand their lasting imprint on Czech cities, it’s essential to look back at the origins of paneláky and the political and social forces that shaped their rise.
Made for speed, scale, and socialism
Between 1959 and 1995, over a million panelák flats were built in the Czech lands. Some estates, like Jižní Město or Bratislava’s Petržalka, became self-contained urban worlds that housed tens of thousands. While Václav Havel famously called them “rabbit pens,” these flats often offered improvements over what came before indoor plumbing, central heating, and more natural light.
Despite having cemented a certain Brutalist chic, pre-fab housing estates were never intended to be aesthetic. Their origins lie in post-war practicality.
After World War II, Czechoslovakia faced a massive housing shortage. Nikita Khrushchev’s push in the mid-1950s for fast, affordable building methods influenced Czech and Slovak architects to use prefabricated concrete. The resulting buildings could be assembled cheaply, quickly, and in large numbers like Lego sets.
But it wasn’t just about housing; ideology influenced every aspect of panelák life. The Communist government thought that identical apartment blocks would help build a more equal society, with uniform homes for uniform citizens.
For anyone who wants to see the absurdity of Soviet idealism in action, Věra Chytilová’s 1979 tragicomedy Prefab Story illustrates how this utopian dream went wrong, exposing everyday life lived amid concrete slabs, mud, and garbage in the colossal Jižní Město sídliště.
Around the same time, photographer Jaromír Čejka captured a kinder, gentler (though no less riveting) housing-estate existence in black and white.
Paneláky revival
About a third of Czechs, roughly 3 million people, still live in panel housing. Jižní Město, Prague’s largest housing estate, is home to up to 100,000 people, about the size of Newton, Massachusetts.
Once seen as symbols of dull uniformity, paneláky are experiencing a revival during the country’s growing housing crisis. Renovated interiors now showcase minimalist, modern styles. At around CZK 6.6 million for a typical 70-square-meter flat, they are cheaper than brick buildings or new construction and often sell faster. Prices have more than doubled since 2015.
Today, the conversation isn’t about tearing them down – it’s about making them more livable. Local governments are investing in infrastructure, green spaces, and community life. For many middle-class families, a renovated panelák flat remains a practical and accessible home.
Developers and architects are also rethinking the public spaces around these blocks. In Jižní Město, the neglected Opatov metro stop is being revamped.
Architect Václav Hlaváček’s Nový Opatov project adds shops, housing, and green space to the area. “When your child is born somewhere, your parents die somewhere, and you get your first kiss somewhere, you have to love that place. That is home,” says Hlaváček.”
Panel life: A personal story
For millions of Czechs, these buildings are exactly that: a home for multiple generations. I should know. I lived in one for years.
When I first moved to the Jižní Město landscape of Chytilová’s nightmare almost two decades ago, the terrain felt a bit Martian. I mistook the tall metal frames outside the buildings for abandoned playgrounds; they were actually rug beaters.
By the time I arrived, the area captured Čejka’s nostalgic photos had changed. Back then, my husband was growing up among the concrete blocks, roaming freely over building sites. During the years we spent there with our own toddlers, there was a playground just outside, with a doctor’s office, metro station, and school all within a stone’s throw.
Our apartment was spacious. There was a weekly farmer’s market. The building was tucked into a patchwork of greenery, forest trails, and the optimistically named Centrální park. My kids took their first steps there. I practiced my Czech with other moms on the playground.
When I told friends where I lived, I got the usual raised eyebrows. “What do you even do out there?” they’d ask from the comfort of leafy Letná or trendy Vršovice. The answer: I read. I wrote. I raised my kids. I cooked. And gradually, I gained a deeper understanding of the country I called home.