A Home vs. a House

If I shut my eyes, I can still see myself squeezed between my mother and the truck driver as we were leaving our old home in downtown Tehran and driving up to our new house in Niavaran. The truck shook hard as the driver shifted gears. We left the city, the hustle and bustle of the busy streets and the potholes, for a stretch of Tehran which was completely rural. I had a hard time imagining how our home could fit into one truck and the car that my father was driving behind us. I wondered how that feeling of home can be transported. So much of a home is how everything fits into the space. How the light falls on the furniture during specific hours of the days and how all the colors change in different seasons. My father would often place me on top of the fridge giving me a bird’s eye view of the kitchen, and from there I could see everything. There was the dining room table where my brother had secretly and successfully placed many unwanted food items in its drawers ~ if you take all this apart, how can it still be home? A house is made up of isolated items that were individually purchased over time. What has to wrap itself around all these items to make it feel like home again?

Our new house was built on a triangular plot of land on a steep hill. My parents had requested from the architect Mr. Seyhoon to design a house in the Kaveer style, a humble version of The Borujerdi House in Kashan. It was a sprawling brick structure with five bedrooms and a library. Each room was designed with a half dome on top. There was a large gray dome that sat on top of the living room area which caught the eye of most passerby ~ making one of them ring the bell at least once a week asking us, ‘What IS this place? Is it a public bath?’

Below the house was lots of rubble. Across the rubble was a large piece of land which was surrounded by mud walls. Inside was an orchard filled with fruit trees and a small herd of sheep. The family that lived there was responsible for overseeing the property. It was a husband and wife with five children ranging in age from two to fifteen. I met my friend Zarandam in this household. She was tall, thin and easy going. I learned so much from spending my summer days at their home. They all lived in a single room. Every morning the sleeping mats were rolled and placed against the wall. The floor was covered with all sizes of worn down but colorful rugs. When they wanted to cook a meal, they would gather sticks of wood from the yard and start a fire outside. Every dish was made in one pot. It was often soup and consistently delicious.

Over time, I understood that as the herd of sheep got too large, Mash Yadollah, Zarandam’s father would slaughter one. Witnessing the sheep getting killed was always gut-wrenching. Inevitably the sheep trustingly followed Mash Yadollah to the little brook that ran through the yard. With a quick motion, he would cut its throat. The struggle was intense and quickly done. He would methodically skin the sheep, remove the guts and cut the flesh into small parts. Once the cutting was completed, neighbors would line up to buy a piece of meat for a minimal sum. If any parts were not purchased, Zarandam’s mother, Golabetoon would find a use for it. Other than the initial blood that gushed out into the running brook, all parts of the sheep were put to good use. In Zarandam’s world, every single thing was accounted for. For a family of seven, even though they were sheepherders, they were lucky if they had any meat, and if they did, it was never ample, just enough to have a couple of bites and remember the taste.

The move from busy Tehran to quiet, rural Niavaran of fifty years ago taught me that a home has very little to do with its furniture, their placement or how the light hits any part of it. You can walk into a house and the air tells you everything. Is this space broken or is it thriving? Is emptiness being hidden under expensive furniture, or is happiness sparking you because it’s brimming?

A home by definition is where a family resides. When you move, you want to carry the walls with you but they no longer belong to you. They are there to serve the next family. What you keep with you is the memories that help shape your new home. They linger and permeate the space with what you choose to recall alongside moments ahead with loved ones present and those who are gone.