Mahabad Is the Home of My Heart By Goya Roshan

Mahabad Is the Home of My Heart

Mahabad is not just a city that exists on a map; it beats in the gentle rhythm of my heart. Every alley holds a memory, every morning brings a new light, and every evening whispers sweet recollections. Mahabad is not merely a name to me—it is a feeling… a feeling of earth, of sound, of love.

This home is bound to my soul. Although it carries some bitter memories, its beauty remains more alive than ever in my mind.

I can still hear my mother’s voice echoing through the alley, smell the food that no one else can cook the same way, hear my brothers’ voices, the laughter of children, and their carefree games. This is my Mahabad.

Every street and every narrow lane is filled with pure and simple memories: games that lasted late into the night, my mother calling me home, and a hand gently wiping the dust from my face. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can still hear that voice—soft, kind, and full of comfort.

As the holiday approached, the house would come alive. The sun had not yet risen, but the kitchen lights were already on. My mother would be preparing the festive meal. The aroma of rice and fresh herbs, mixed with the sound of running water, filled the yard and the heart of the home, promising a special day ahead. These moments are the pillars of my soul—pillars that remain vivid and enchanting, even if I spend a lifetime far from home.

And the picnics… those cool mornings with my father and brothers, the occasional bursts of laughter, running freely on the grass beneath the long morning shadows. Or the pilgrimages with my mother—among the most beautiful moments of my life. My grandfather and grandmother, the heart of our family, my aunts’ laughter, my uncles’ warm conversations, my cousins… all of them are part of who I am. Every scent, every sound, every movement is like a thread connecting me to my homeland. Even years of distance have not been able to break this bond.

Mahabad is not just a city to me. Mahabad is the home of my heart—a home where every morning, every celebration, and every loving smile was filled with light and life. A land that, even after years of separation, I remember through the scent of its soil, the aroma of its food, and the sound of my mother’s voice.

And perhaps it is precisely this distance that makes these memories so precious. Whenever I think of Mahabad, my heart beats faster, reminding me that true home always lives within a person’s heart—wherever they may be.