Open Call: What is Home to You?

This photograph was taken in my grandfather's majlis. It is a place filled with childhood memories, long conversations, and the sound of the oud. Today, the space is quiet, but it still holds what once lived there. The floating instruments represent sounds and moments that are no longer present, yet never truly gone. To me, home is not just a physical place—it is a feeling that remains, even after the room falls silent.

Living in Qatar from 1995 ever since I was born, my life has been a series of departures and longings. After years of separation following my father's resignation in 2000, seeing the Qatar Airways logo on the wing in 2003 signaled our family's reunion. Even as leaving for university in 2013, and a 22-month COVID-19 exile pulled me back to India, my heart remained in Qatar. Returning in 2021 felt like 2003 all over again. For a Third Culture Kid, home isn't a map coordinate; it's the safe space built by parents— the place where your heart finally exhales.

My grandfather was the meaning of home, not just a person who lived in it. His presence gave the place a warmth and safety unlike anything else. When he passed away, the house remained standing, but its soul left with him. The rooms became quieter, as if they missed his voice and laughter. Every corner reminds me of him, and every empty chair carries his image. We did not lose a person only; we lost a complete feeling of comfort and peace. With time, I realised that my grandfather never truly left the house, but stayed within it as a beautiful memory living in our hearts and giving us strength whenever we miss him.

We grew up in this house filling it with laughter, voices, and small stories. We used to gather without thinking, enjoy the simplest moments, and feel that time did not matter as long as we were together. Today everything has changed; we grew up and went our separate ways, and the house remains the only witness to those days. Every wall holds a memory, and every room keeps a secret from our childhood. The house has become full of longing, as if memories live in it more than we do. Despite the absence of people, laughter still lives in the place, reminding us that once we were one family and one heart.

This piece was inspired by my love for animals, especially the rescue cats who've become part of my life. It captures a tender moment: a cat curled in sleep, its posture shaped by a quiet yearning. Not for comfort, but for something less visible—belonging, familiarity, home. Caring for animals that come from fear or displacement has taught me that even the smallest lives hold stories of longing. This piece honours that truth—that stillness, too, can carry memory and hope. It's soft and warm, like the little lives that inspired it.

What is home? For an Egyptian born and raised in Qatar—the daughter of a mother who was also born and raised here—home is not a single coordinate, but a constant tug between two lands. Every summer, when my family returns to Egypt, we are surrounded by our house, our relatives, and our heritage. Yet, even there, I find myself longing for the streets and the rhythm of Qatar. I am "home," yet I am homesick. This diptych explores that internal displacement through the very skin of the earth. The Qatar map is crafted using sand from the Qatari desert and handmade paper derived from local palm trees, featuring a physical house key representing the tangible security of the life I know. The Egypt map is created with paper made from Egyptian palm trees and adorned with native flora, representing the ancestral home that exists in my blood and my memories. By utilising the tactile elements of both landscapes—the sand, the fibre, and the plants—I am documenting the sensation of belonging to two places at once, and the quiet ache of being incomplete in both.