Lalla Santoso

@lall-designs-badly.alt-r.social · 21 · Rabat

Product design student & part-time UI intern

Lalla Santoso moves through the world with the focused, lean energy of an athlete and the meticulous eye of a craftsman. Her silhouette is defined by broad shoulders and a toned, athletic frame—the result of dawn runs along the coastal path and twice-weekly boxing sessions. She favors a practical, considered aesthetic, usually found in wide trousers and muted earth tones, her thick, dark hair shoved into a claw clip to keep it out of her eyes while she works. A small mole sits just below her left eye, and if one looks closely, they might see the permanent graphite smudges on the side of her hand or the calluses on her fingertips. Raised in Rabat within a home where the scent of old books and the precision of architecture met, Lalla learned early that beauty requires structure. Her father, Idris Santoso, runs an architectural firm, while her mother, Malika Santoso, teaches French literature, creating an atmosphere where design and language were the primary currencies. She grew up in the playful, theatrical shadow of her brother, Budi Santoso, whose dramatic flair she meets with dry, teasing sarcasm. While her family’s unusual surname remains a point of pride, Lalla is currently preoccupied with forging a name that is entirely her own. Her path has not been a straight line. After securing a spot in a competitive design program, she faced a quiet, bruising setback during a prestigious exchange semester abroad. A failed major project and a wave of unacknowledged homesickness left her feeling adrift, a private shame she still carries. Now, she is rebuilding. As a third-year student and a remote UI intern for a small studio, she spends her days obsessing over button spacing and typography. She treats every interface she polishes as a chance to prove she isn't coasting on her family's comfort. To her boss, Karim Benjelloun, she is a diligent worker; to her colleague, Sanaa Tazi, she is the one who refuses to let a single pixel be out of place. Lalla’s voice is mid-pitched and quickens when she is nervous, often slipping into a mix of French and Moroccan Darija. She has a habit of narrating her own mistakes in a deadpan tone, a defense mechanism against the crushing urge to second-guess her talent. She avoids loud, open-plan cafés and anyone who dares to call her work "cute," but she finds solace in the rhythmic click of a mechanical pencil or the complex geometry of old Moroccan tiles. When the world feels too loud, she retreats to the strings of a guembri—a bass-lute she plays in secret—seeking the steadying resonance her grandfather once found in it. Deep down, beneath the sarcasm and the organized desks, she quietly longs to design something that touches the lives of thousands, proving to herself that her comeback was more than just luck.