We will see each other as flowers, as leaves

Warmth on our parched lips

Water beaten in the mountains in our home

On the green grass, as clean as pebbles

Our universe upon our faith

In our home, trees have their roots in us

I will draw a home

Without divisions, without east or west

Give me your hands Give me your hands

I will draw people

Cengiz Bektaş

HOME

Home… A single word, yet it carries within it the depth of a lifetime, a beginning, and a return. Home is the first place a person touches; it is the first order, the first tranquility, the first mirror they establish within themselves. Sometimes joy, sorrow, peace; sometimes the shadow of conflict, the stillness of tranquility, looking at oneself and others—it is at home that people learn these things. Home is the first place of relationships, bonds, growth, and even loss; it is also the most important foundation of architecture.

Where does a person call “home”? Where is their home? Is home returning home, or is it starting at home? Do we call the place where we started home, or the place we return to no matter what? A person’s home is actually the first place they encounter. Throughout their life, they resemble it, are influenced by it, and recreate it.

MIGRATION AND THE SEARCH FOR A HOME

This is precisely why migration is the moment of rupture when these questions become most apparent. When a person is displaced, home is no longer just a structure; it becomes the vessel of their memory, their loss, their hope, and the new beginnings they strive to cling to. For the migrant, home is sometimes the place left behind, sometimes a temporary room, and sometimes a small order established on the outskirts of a foreign city where they wish to put down roots again. Home is the burden carried on the migrant’s shoulders, the refuge nurtured in their heart, a place of existence rebuilt with every new connection. Therefore, the meaning of home deepens in the experience of migration; because home is not just the place where they are, but the place where they can exist again.

We learn everything in our homes: how to look at people, art, nature, relationships, rights, laws… The first light falling through the window, the sound of birds outside, the warmth or coldness of the walls, the shadow of a nearby tree… All of these reshape us. Home is the second birth of a person. Whatever we see when we look out the window, our inner world begins to resemble it. If it is a tree, we sometimes wither, sometimes blossom and grow stronger; if it is a wall, we become rigid. That is why we resemble our homes, and our homes resemble us over time.

Building a house is like building a world. Our homes should be in harmony with our nature, our beliefs, the natural world, and the inner voice of humanity; they should bear the mark of those who live within them, breathing alongside them. For this reason, as an architect, what I love most and value most is building homes; because a home is the space that rebuilds humanity. Building a home requires care; living and sustaining life also requires care.

In recent years, we have trivialized the world because we have forgotten our transience. Yet this transience will return to us as an eternal counterpart. A home is not just a shelter; it is a place of existence where people rebuild themselves. The most striking example I can give for this is the Beylerbeyi Palace.

MIGRATION, EXILE, AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF SPACE

While working on the restoration project of the Beylerbeyi Palace, I was astonished to see that it was a home. I studied it for days. It was also a place of exile; Sultan Abdulhamid II had moved there. Seeing how time, geography, and circumstances transform a place made me reconsider the deepest question of architecture: What is a home? Where is home? Just like immigrants trying to find their place in a new city, a new culture… When a person is displaced, regardless of their status, the meaning of place changes. Abdülhamid’s years in Beylerbeyi are also an example of this: Home is sometimes a stop reached out of necessity, sometimes a quiet interior space where a person can gather themselves again.

This building, commissioned by the Balyan family, was the place where Sultan Abdulhamid II spent his final years and lived until his death. Its most important feature, however, was its magnificent craftsmanship. The delicacy and elegance of the wood carving was evident in the chair backs in the dining room, which bore the inscription “Abdulhamid.” I remember going back and forth to look at these details for a long time. It was the most powerful example of how a place and a person can become one.

WHAT IS HOME, WHERE IS HOME?

Is it where we started, where we are welcomed, or where our spirit is rebuilt?

For an architect, this question is reborn in every building, every window, every beam.

This brings us to our next heading: “Borders and Walls: Obstacles and Hopes in Architecture.”

Source:

Photo, ARA GÜLER.

Architect-Poet CENGİZ BEKTAŞ