Kabootar Khaneh Villa

Perhaps what sets this building apart is its new look at biophilic architecture, Architects have always paid attention to the use of plants and light and water. But this house has become a place for more interaction; birds. This is a house for humans and birds. In this respect, inspired by Iranian historical dovecotes, a part of interior space was dedicated for this purpose.The interior spaces is formed around the patio where the birds live, by creating cross-sectional play and level differences in the spaces, as well as the special design of the stairs and the holes inside it.

This villa has been sold out. therefore, the future plan is out of designer's hand.

3-4 months.

It was commissioned by clients.

This villa has been sold out.

The widespread of birds exist in the project's site has been the source of the idea.

A young couple.

Perhaps what sets this building apart is its new look at biophilic architecture, Architects have always paid attention to the use of plants and light and water. But this house has become a place for more interaction with birds. This is a house for humans and birds. In this respect, inspired by Iranian historical dovecotes, a part of interior space was dedicated for this purpose. The interior spaces is formed around the patio where the birds live, by creating cross-sectional play and level differences in the spaces, as well as the special design of the stairs and the holes inside it.

Kabootar means bird and Kabootar Khaneh is the name of an ancient Iranian building which has provided nesting space for 4000 birds.

Hand sketch, modeling & Rendering programs (3D max, Revit, Autocad)

With the structure engineer and mechanical installation consultant .

The role of technology in Kabootar Khaneh villa is to collect the absorbed water for the domestic use. But generally, because of the limitation of the budget ,indigenous material has been used in this project.

Kabootar Khaneh villa is influenced by Kabootar Khaneh in Iranian architecture which is a splendid functioning structure left over from the Qajar Dynasty, for all tourists and travelers to see.
This particular example, with its fine brick work, is around 200 years old and provided nesting space for 4000 birds.

Every project is a new practice which makes us face many different challenges and we try to find or create the best solution to influence the society.

I had participated in A design competition times before and I find it a well organized competition .So it is a good experience to participate here every time.

One of the most valuable lessons I have learned from studying traditional architecture is that heritage should not be copied; it should be understood. Traditional buildings are not important simply because of their forms, but because they embody generations of accumulated intelligence about climate, culture, human behavior and spatial experience. My interest in Iranian dovecotes was therefore never about recreating their physical appearance. What fascinated me was the way they organized relationships—between void and mass, humans and nature, movement and stillness.This way of thinking gradually shifted our design process away from treating architecture as a composition of façades and plans. Instead, we began designing the project through its sections.For me, the section is one of the most powerful yet underestimated tools in architecture. A plan tells us where spaces are located, but a section reveals how life unfolds through them. It describes relationships rather than boundaries. It connects vision, movement, gravity, light and atmosphere into a single spatial experience. In Kabootar Khaneh, almost every important architectural decision emerged through sectional thinking rather than formal composition.The historical dovecotes inspired this approach because they were never experienced as flat objects. Their spatial richness came from vertical relationships, internal cavities, layered volumes and constantly changing perceptions as one moved through them. We translated that principle into a contemporary residential environment instead of replicating its historical language.As the project evolved, we intentionally abandoned the idea of perfectly stacked floors connected only by a conventional staircase. Real life is not experienced in isolated horizontal layers. We move continuously between moments, views and levels. Therefore, the architecture should reflect that continuity rather than interrupt it.This led to a sequence of carefully calibrated level changes that create gradual transitions instead of abrupt separations. Each shift in height subtly transforms the relationship between the inhabitant, the central bird sanctuary, natural light and the surrounding landscape. Sometimes the birds are at eye level; sometimes they are viewed from above or below. Sometimes they are clearly visible, while at other moments they are only perceived through movement or sound. These constantly changing perspectives create an architecture that is discovered progressively rather than understood instantly.This idea also influenced the staircase, which eventually became much more than a circulation device. I often believe that stairs are among the most overlooked architectural spaces. They are frequently reduced to engineering requirements, yet they possess extraordinary potential to shape perception. In Kabootar Khaneh, the staircase became a spatial journey where every landing introduces a slightly different relationship with light, volume and the surrounding spaces. Instead of simply connecting floors, it connects experiences.Equally important was the role of visual continuity. We carefully positioned openings so that views rarely terminate at a wall. Instead, they extend through multiple spatial layers. A small opening may frame another window, which in turn frames a tree, the sky or the bird sanctuary beyond. This layering of perspectives encourages curiosity. Rather than revealing everything immediately, the house constantly invites exploration. I have always believed that architecture should reward movement. A building should not reveal its entire identity from a single viewpoint. As people walk, climb, pause or turn around, architecture should continue offering new discoveries. This creates an emotional engagement that remains alive long after the novelty of a new building has disappeared.There is also a psychological dimension to sectional design that interests me deeply. Contemporary life is often characterised by speed, predictability and visual overload. We immediately consume images without truly experiencing places. Architecture has the opportunity to resist this condition by slowing perception. Changes in level, carefully framed views and gradual spatial sequences encourage people to become more attentive to their surroundings. The building quietly asks its inhabitants not only to move through space, but to notice it.In Kabootar Khaneh, this slower rhythm becomes part of everyday life. Morning light enters differently from evening light because each opening responds to a particular sectional condition. Shadows move across walls and stairs in constantly changing patterns. Seasonal changes alter the appearance of the central courtyard, while the movements of birds introduce an additional layer of unpredictability. As a result, everyday routines never become entirely repetitive because the architecture itself continues to evolve through time.Looking back, I believe the sectional organization of Kabootar Khaneh ultimately became a way of designing experience rather than designing form. The level differences are not gestures intended to create visual complexity. They exist because each one contributes to a richer dialogue between the inhabitants, nature, light and movement. Perhaps this reflects a broader architectural belief that continues to guide my work today. Buildings should not simply accommodate activities; they should cultivate awareness. They should encourage people to observe more carefully, move more consciously and reconnect with qualities of everyday life that often go unnoticed.If Kabootar Khaneh succeeds in creating memorable experiences, I do not think it is because of its geometry alone. It is because the geometry was always developed in service of human perception. Ultimately, architecture becomes meaningful not when people admire its form, but when the spaces quietly transform the way they experience ordinary moments. For me, that is the enduring value of designing through sections rather than merely designing objects.And perhaps we can even mention the concept of parallax in this sensory and psychological effect of the section game.

One of the recurring questions in architecture is whether a building should honestly express every technical requirement or whether technology can quietly disappear into the architecture itself. In Kabootar Khaneh, we deliberately chose the second approach. We wanted the technical performance of the building to remain highly effective without becoming visually dominant.The project is located in northern Iran, a region characterized by abundant rainfall, high humidity and climatic conditions that have shaped its vernacular architecture for centuries. Traditionally, steep pitched roofs are an essential response to this environment, and for very good reasons. They efficiently shed rainwater, protect building envelopes and contribute to long-term durability.At the same time, however, the conceptual language of Kabootar Khaneh was based on the idea of a calm, minimal and almost archetypal cubic volume. This purity was not pursued as a stylistic preference alone. We believed that reducing the visual complexity of the exterior would allow greater attention to be directed toward the spatial experiences unfolding inside the building and toward its dialogue with nature. The challenge, therefore, was not choosing between a pitched roof and a cubic form—it was finding a way for both to coexist. Rather than treating climate and architectural expression as competing priorities, we asked whether they could reinforce one another.This question led us to develop a concealed sloping roof system positioned behind the perimeter walls of the cube. From the outside, the building maintains a quiet and restrained silhouette. Yet behind that apparent simplicity lies a carefully engineered roof geometry that efficiently manages heavy rainfall while preserving the architectural concept.Although the solution appears visually effortless, it required considerable coordination throughout the design process. Every change in roof geometry affected structural relationships, waterproofing details, drainage routes and construction sequencing. The greatest challenge was ensuring that none of these technical necessities compromised the clarity of the overall architectural idea.For me, this reflects an important principle in design. Simplicity is rarely achieved by removing complexity; it is achieved by absorbing complexity.The cleaner an architectural form appears, the more carefully its hidden systems usually have to be resolved. In that sense, minimalism should never be confused with reduction alone. Genuine simplicity often demands a higher level of technical discipline because every detail becomes more visible and every imperfection more apparent.Rainwater management became another opportunity for integration rather than concealment. Instead of allowing water simply to leave the building, we considered it as part of a broader environmental cycle. The concealed drainage system collects rainwater and directs it toward landscape irrigation, allowing one of the site's most abundant natural resources to continue contributing to the life of the project after every rainfall. This strategy may appear modest, but I believe sustainability is often most meaningful when it becomes an ordinary part of everyday building performance rather than an isolated technological statement.The hidden roof also allowed us to create an accessible green rooftop that offers an entirely different spatial experience from the exterior image of the house. This contrast interested me greatly. From outside, the building presents a restrained and almost silent presence within its surroundings. Once inside, however, the architecture gradually unfolds into a sequence of unexpected spaces, culminating in a roof landscape that reconnects the inhabitants with the surrounding trees and sky.I have always been interested in architecture that reveals itself progressively rather than immediately. Contemporary visual culture often encourages buildings to communicate everything through a single photograph. Yet architecture is not experienced in one image. It is experienced through movement, discovery and time. In Kabootar Khaneh, concealing the roof became another way of rewarding exploration instead of instant consumption.This project also reinforced an important lesson for our practice. Innovation does not necessarily mean inventing completely new technologies. Sometimes innovation lies in reorganizing familiar knowledge in response to a specific context. The pitched roof itself is not new. The cube is not new. Rainwater harvesting is not new. What interested us was how these familiar architectural ideas could be combined into a coherent system that simultaneously addressed climate, sustainability, spatial quality and architectural identity.Looking back, I believe the hidden roof represents something larger than a technical solution. It embodies a design philosophy that continues to guide our work today: architecture should never force people to choose between beauty and performance. When a project is developed through an integrated design process, technical intelligence and architectural expression stop competing with one another. They become different manifestations of the same idea.Ultimately, I hope Kabootar Khaneh demonstrates that some of the most meaningful aspects of architecture are the ones people never immediately notice. A visitor may remember the purity of the white volume, but that visual calm is only possible because an invisible layer of technical thinking is working continuously in the background. To me, this is one of architecture's greatest achievements—not when technology asks to be admired, but when it quietly enables a richer and more enduring human experience.

When sustainability is discussed today, the conversation often revolves around certifications, advanced technologies or high-performance materials. While these aspects are undoubtedly important, I believe sustainability begins much earlier, with a fundamental question that every architect should ask before drawing the first line: What already exists here, and how can architecture work with it rather than against it?For me, sustainability is not simply about reducing environmental impact. It is about recognizing the value that already exists in a place—its materials, its climate, its cultural memory and even its imperfections. Architecture should not begin by replacing everything. It should begin by understanding.This mindset shaped many decisions throughout Kabootar Khaneh.Instead of treating materials as products selected from a catalogue, we approached them as carriers of history. The reclaimed timber used for parts of the façade and roof structure came from older local buildings that had already lived one life before becoming part of this project. We were not interested in recycling merely because it reduced waste, although that was certainly beneficial. More importantly, these pieces of wood carried traces of time that no newly manufactured material could reproduce.Weathering, texture and subtle irregularities give materials a kind of honesty that industrial perfection often lacks. They remind us that architecture is part of a continuous cycle rather than an isolated event. By allowing those materials to continue their journey in a new building, we were also preserving fragments of the region's material memory.The same philosophy guided our use of indigenous sedimentary rocks collected from the surrounding area for the landscape design. Transporting imported stone from distant locations would have increased both environmental cost and visual detachment from the site. Instead, using local stone allowed the landscape to appear as though it had always belonged there. Rather than imposing an entirely new identity onto the land, we tried to reveal qualities that were already present.This distinction is important to me. I believe architecture should contribute to the identity of a place without erasing the identity that already exists.Interestingly, these decisions also influenced the overall aesthetic language of the project in ways we did not initially predict. The architecture is often described as minimalist because of its restrained white cubic form. However, I have never understood minimalism as the elimination of character. For me, minimalism is about reducing unnecessary visual noise so that the essential qualities of space, light and material can be experienced more clearly.In Kabootar Khaneh, the quiet white volume creates a calm architectural background against which the warmth of reclaimed wood, the natural texture of local stone, the movement of birds and the changing colours of vegetation become much more perceptible. The building itself intentionally avoids competing with these elements. Instead, it frames them.This relationship between simplicity and material authenticity became one of the project's most rewarding discoveries. The fewer materials we used, the more responsibility each material carried. Every surface had to communicate something meaningful because there was nothing unnecessary to distract the eye. In this sense, minimalism actually demanded greater precision rather than less effort.The limited budget of the project also reinforced this way of thinking. Financial constraints encouraged us to ask more intelligent questions instead of searching for more expensive solutions. Rather than asking what additional materials we could introduce, we focused on how fewer materials could perform multiple roles simultaneously—environmentally, structurally, emotionally and aesthetically. Looking back, I believe these limitations ultimately strengthened the architectural clarity of the project.There is another aspect of sustainability that I consider equally important but that is discussed less frequently: emotional durability. A building cannot truly be called sustainable if people stop caring about it after only a few years. Architecture should create lasting emotional connections that encourage preservation instead of replacement.Natural materials play a significant role in achieving this. Unlike synthetic surfaces that often remain visually unchanged until they deteriorate, wood and stone continue to evolve throughout the life of a building. They respond to sunlight, moisture, touch and time. Rather than resisting ageing, they record it. I find this quality deeply human because people also change over time. Buildings should have the ability to age with dignity alongside their inhabitants.This perspective reflects a broader philosophy that guides much of our work at Keivani Architects. We try to see architecture not as the production of objects, but as the creation of long-term relationships—between people and place, between contemporary life and cultural memory, and between the built environment and the natural world.Ultimately, I do not believe the success of Kabootar Khaneh lies in the fact that recycled wood or local stone were used. Those are only visible outcomes of a deeper way of thinking. The real objective was to create an architecture that consumes less by understanding more; an architecture that respects what already exists before introducing something new.Perhaps that is the quiet lesson this project has taught us. Sustainability is not defined by how many technologies a building contains, but by how thoughtfully it enters the life of a place. When architecture learns to value existing resources—both material and cultural—it not only reduces environmental impact, but also creates spaces with greater authenticity, resilience and meaning. In the end, the most sustainable buildings may not be those that appear the most technological, but those that feel as though they have always belonged where they stand.

I have never considered windows to be simple openings in a wall. For me, they are instruments that shape perception. They determine not only what we see, but also how we experience time, movement and atmosphere. In Kabootar Khaneh, the windows were never designed independently from the architecture. They emerged from the sectional organization of the house, becoming an essential part of its spatial narrative rather than isolated façade elements.Very early in the design process, we decided that every window should have a specific purpose. None of them exist simply to satisfy a façade composition or to maximize daylight. Each opening establishes a particular relationship between the inhabitant, the birds, the surrounding landscape, the changing sky and the movement through the house. In this way, light itself became a design material rather than merely an environmental condition.I often say that architecture is one of the few disciplines that works with materials that cannot be touched. Space, silence, shadow, wind and light are all intangible, yet they shape our emotions as profoundly as concrete, stone or timber. Among these invisible materials, light has always fascinated me the most because it is never static. It transforms architecture every minute without altering a single physical element.That continuous transformation was central to the experience we wanted to create.Instead of filling the interior with uniform illumination, we carefully positioned the openings to allow light to enter from different directions and at different heights throughout the day. As the sun moves, the house slowly changes its character. Morning light introduces calmness and clarity, while afternoon light creates stronger contrasts and deeper shadows. By evening, the atmosphere becomes softer and more contemplative. The architecture itself remains unchanged, yet the emotional experience constantly evolves.This is why we described it as a "dance of light." It is not a decorative effect but an ever-changing dialogue between architecture and nature.Equally important was the relationship between light and movement. Because the windows respond to the sectional composition rather than a repetitive façade rhythm, light accompanies people differently as they move through the building. Climbing the staircase, entering a bedroom, pausing beside the central patio or looking across different levels all produce distinct encounters with daylight. The inhabitant never experiences the same light twice because every position in the house offers a slightly different spatial condition.This variability was intentional. Contemporary buildings often strive for complete visual consistency, but human experience is rarely consistent. Our emotional lives are shaped by variation, surprise and subtle change. I believe architecture should embrace these qualities rather than eliminate them.Another aspect that interested us was the relationship between light and anticipation. Not every window reveals a complete view. Some frame only fragments of the landscape. Others capture the movement of birds, a tree beyond the courtyard or a portion of the sky. These carefully edited views encourage curiosity rather than instant visual consumption. The mind naturally completes what the eye cannot fully see, making the inhabitant an active participant in the experience of the space.This principle extends beyond vision. As daylight changes, it also alters how materials are perceived. Reclaimed wood reveals different textures under oblique light than it does under direct sunlight. White walls become surfaces for moving shadows. The changing brightness inside the bird sanctuary subtly influences how its presence is perceived from surrounding rooms. In this sense, light does not simply illuminate architecture; it continuously reinterprets it.I also believe that changing light affects our psychological relationship with time. Many contemporary interiors are designed to maintain identical lighting conditions throughout the day, creating environments that feel disconnected from natural rhythms. While this may offer visual consistency, it can also distance people from the subtle cycles that have shaped human life for thousands of years.In Kabootar Khaneh, we deliberately chose a different approach. The changing quality of daylight reminds the inhabitants that time is passing, seasons are shifting and nature remains present in everyday life. The architecture becomes a quiet calendar, recording the movement of the sun without requiring clocks or screens.Perhaps this explains why many people describe certain spaces as peaceful without immediately knowing why. Often, it is not the furniture or the materials that create this feeling, but the gentle alignment between architecture and natural rhythms. When a building allows people to unconsciously reconnect with these rhythms, it supports not only physical comfort but also psychological well-being.Looking back, I think the windows in Kabootar Khaneh perform a role far beyond providing views or daylight. They choreograph relationships—between interior and exterior, between movement and stillness, between observation and imagination, and perhaps most importantly, between human life and the passage of time.Ultimately, I believe architecture should not seek to freeze beautiful moments. It should create conditions where beautiful moments can continue to emerge on their own. Light is one of the few architectural materials that is renewed every single day without any intervention from the architect. Designing with light therefore requires a certain humility. We design the framework, but nature completes the architecture. To me, that collaboration between human intention and the changing forces of nature is one of the most meaningful forms of beauty architecture can offer.

In many residential buildings, the staircase is treated simply as a functional necessity—a device that connects one floor to another as efficiently as possible. From the very beginning of Kabootar Khaneh, however, we wanted the staircase to play a far more meaningful role. Rather than being a neutral circulation element, it became an integral part of the architectural experience and one of the project's primary spatial protagonists.This decision emerged naturally from the overall concept of the house. Since the central bird sanctuary was conceived as the living heart of the project, we did not want people to encounter it from a single fixed viewpoint. We wanted their relationship with it to evolve continuously as they moved through the building. The staircase therefore became the architectural instrument that choreographs this evolving dialogue.Instead of repeating the same geometry on every level, each floor slightly transforms the staircase and the spaces surrounding it. These subtle changes create different visual relationships between the inhabitant, the birds, the patio and the exterior landscape. As one ascends through the house, perspectives constantly shift. At one moment, the birds are experienced through filtered openings; at another, they become part of a broader spatial composition framed by natural light, the surrounding rooms and distant views toward the trees outside.This constantly changing sequence was intentional because I believe movement is one of architecture's most powerful design materials.Unlike a painting, architecture is never experienced from a single position. We understand buildings through walking, climbing, turning, pausing and looking back. Every step slightly changes our perception. Yet surprisingly, movement itself is often underdesigned. Many buildings prioritize what they look like in photographs rather than how they unfold through the body of the person experiencing them. Kabootar Khaneh was designed in the opposite direction.Instead of asking how the staircase should appear, we asked how people should feel while moving through it. We wanted every transition between floors to become an opportunity for discovery rather than simply a change in elevation. This is why the staircase gradually reveals different spatial relationships instead of repeating the same experience on every level.One small detail illustrates this philosophy particularly well. From one of the bedrooms, an opening connects visually to the staircase, which then frames a much larger exterior window overlooking a tree beyond the courtyard. Although the inhabitant is physically inside the room, the sequence of framed spaces extends perception far beyond its immediate boundaries. This layered visual connection transforms an ordinary circulation space into an active participant in everyday life.The relationship with the birds also benefits from this approach. Importantly, our intention was never to display the birds as if they were objects in an exhibition. We were careful to preserve their independence and sense of security. Instead of constant exposure, the architecture creates moments of encounter. Sometimes the birds are close, sometimes distant; sometimes visible, sometimes only heard. These variations make every encounter feel authentic because they occur naturally rather than being forced by the design.This idea reflects something I find increasingly important in architecture: meaningful experiences often emerge through anticipation rather than continuous visibility. When everything is immediately revealed, curiosity disappears. By allowing moments of concealment and gradual discovery, architecture encourages people to remain attentive to their surroundings.The staircase also became an important mediator between vertical movement and natural light. Because each landing occupies a slightly different spatial condition, daylight enters from varying directions and heights throughout the journey. Shadows shift across the walls as the sun moves, while the changing perspectives toward the central patio continuously alter the atmosphere. Consequently, the experience of ascending the staircase in the morning differs subtly from climbing it in the afternoon or evening. The architecture remains physically unchanged, yet the journey is never exactly the same.Looking back, I believe the staircase ultimately became a reflection of the project's broader philosophy. It is not merely a route between destinations; it is a sequence of relationships. It connects floors, but it also connects people with light, movement, nature and moments of unexpected discovery.More broadly, I believe architects should think of circulation not as the space between important places, but as architecture itself. Some of our strongest memories of buildings are formed while moving through them rather than while standing still. The path is often more memorable than the destination.Perhaps that is why the staircase became one of my favorite elements of Kabootar Khaneh. It quietly reminds us that architecture is not only about where we arrive, but also about how we journey through space. When movement itself becomes meaningful, the building begins to participate in everyday life instead of simply containing it. For me, that transformation—from circulation to experience—is where architecture reveals one of its greatest potentials.

From the beginning, we understood that coexistence could not simply be declared as an architectural concept—it had to be carefully designed. If the birds felt constantly exposed, they would abandon the space. If the residents felt their privacy was compromised, the house would fail as a home. The real challenge, therefore, was not bringing humans and birds closer together, but finding the right architectural distance between them.I believe coexistence is sustained not by eliminating boundaries, but by designing intelligent boundaries.This distinction became one of the guiding principles of Kabootar Khaneh. We were never interested in creating an environment where people could continuously observe birds as if they were part of an exhibition. Nor did we want the birds to become decorative features integrated into the architecture. That would simply replace one form of domination with another.Instead, we tried to create conditions in which both species could maintain their own autonomy while remaining aware of one another.The central bird sanctuary was therefore conceived as an independent habitat embedded within the spatial organization of the house rather than absorbed into its daily activities. It remains visually connected to many interior spaces, yet physically protected. Transparency creates awareness, while separation preserves security. This balance was essential because genuine coexistence requires mutual respect rather than constant interaction.The same philosophy influenced many seemingly small architectural decisions. Openings were carefully positioned to allow selective visual connections instead of uninterrupted exposure. The sectional organization offers changing perspectives toward the birds without making them permanently visible. The staircase introduces moments of encounter as residents move through the building, yet these encounters remain brief and naturally integrated into everyday routines. Even sound became part of the architectural experience. Often the birds are heard before they are seen, creating a subtle awareness of another living presence without demanding visual attention.I find this quality particularly meaningful because relationships are often strengthened through gentle presence rather than continuous contact.Architecture frequently attempts to maximize everything—more visibility, more openness, more interaction. Yet life teaches us that healthy relationships often depend on balance rather than intensity. Respect requires distance as much as proximity. I believe architecture should understand this emotional principle just as carefully as it understands structural principles.Another important consideration was ensuring that neither species became dependent upon the other. The birds should be able to continue their natural behaviours without adapting to human routines, and the residents should experience the birds as companions within a shared environment rather than as responsibilities that constantly require attention. This independence was fundamental because coexistence should never become captivity disguised as design.Throughout the project, we often asked ourselves a simple question: If architecture disappeared for a moment, would both forms of life still feel naturally supported? This question helped us evaluate many design decisions. Whenever an element appeared to privilege one inhabitant at the expense of the other, we reconsidered it. Gradually, the project evolved toward a quieter and more balanced relationship.Looking back, I realize that Kabootar Khaneh is not really about birds alone. The birds simply made a broader architectural question visible. They encouraged us to reconsider an assumption that has shaped much of contemporary building culture—the belief that architecture exists exclusively for human use.Of course, buildings are created to serve people. However, human well-being is deeply connected to the health of the larger ecosystems that surround us. When architecture acknowledges the presence of other forms of life, it also enriches the human experience. The residents are constantly reminded that they are not isolated occupants of a private object, but participants in a living environment that extends beyond themselves.This subtle shift has profound psychological consequences. Instead of experiencing nature as something observed through a window, people begin to perceive themselves as one component within a larger ecological network. I believe this awareness quietly nurtures empathy. And empathy, perhaps more than any technological innovation, is essential for building a more sustainable future.In many ways, Kabootar Khaneh challenged us to redefine what hospitality means in architecture. We usually associate hospitality with welcoming human guests, yet perhaps architecture can also express hospitality toward the living world that already exists around us. That does not mean erasing distinctions between species. On the contrary, true hospitality begins by respecting difference.Ultimately, I believe the project succeeds not because humans and birds occupy the same building, but because neither one is forced to surrender its own identity. The architecture does not dissolve the boundary between them; it gives that boundary meaning. It transforms separation into connection, distance into awareness and coexistence into a daily experience rather than an abstract idea.Perhaps this is the lesson Kabootar Khaneh has left with me most deeply: architecture reaches its highest potential not when it demonstrates control over nature, but when it creates the conditions for different forms of life to flourish together with dignity. In the end, the measure of a truly humane architecture may not be how exclusively it serves humanity, but how generously it makes room for life itself.

In many contemporary houses, the courtyard or patio is often understood simply as an outdoor space that brings daylight and ventilation into the building. While these functions are important, we envisioned the central patio of Kabootar Khaneh as something much more fundamental. It was not designed as an empty space left between rooms; it became the conceptual heart from which the entire architecture emerged.From the earliest sketches, we deliberately avoided thinking of the patio as a void surrounded by architecture. Instead, we considered it a living space around which architecture could organize itself. This subtle shift completely changed the design process. Rather than placing rooms beside a courtyard, we allowed the courtyard to shape the relationships between all interior spaces.In this project, the patio is not an absence of building. It is the presence that gives meaning to the building.This idea was deeply influenced by traditional Iranian architecture, where courtyards have historically served not merely as climatic devices but as mediators between different worlds. They create transitions instead of abrupt separations. They negotiate relationships between interior and exterior, private and collective, built form and nature. What interested us was not reproducing their historical appearance, but reinterpreting this mediating role within a contemporary house.In Kabootar Khaneh, the patio became precisely such a mediator.Because it accommodates the bird sanctuary while remaining visually connected to the surrounding rooms, it establishes a relationship that is based on awareness rather than occupation. The inhabitants never completely possess this space, and the birds are never isolated from the life of the house. Instead, both remain connected through carefully designed visual, spatial and atmospheric relationships while preserving their individual territories.This distinction is essential because I believe architecture should not always strive to erase boundaries. Sometimes its greater responsibility is to transform boundaries into places of dialogue.Today we often celebrate openness as an unquestionable architectural value. Yet complete openness can sometimes eliminate the very sense of discovery, privacy and respect that gives spaces emotional richness. In Kabootar Khaneh, transparency and separation were designed to work together rather than oppose one another. Glass allows visual continuity, while physical distance protects both human life and the birds' natural behaviour. The architecture therefore communicates connection without demanding intrusion.The patio also became the environmental core of the house. Light enters through it, shadows travel across it, natural ventilation benefits from it, seasonal changes become visible through it, and the sounds of birds quietly spread throughout the surrounding spaces. In this way, the patio does not simply occupy the centre of the plan; it becomes the centre of the building's daily rhythms.I have always been interested in architecture that engages all the senses rather than relying exclusively on vision. We often think of space as something we see, yet much of our emotional experience comes from qualities that are less obvious: the changing sound of birds in the morning, the subtle movement of air, shifting reflections on glass, or the gradual transformation of light throughout the day. The patio became the place where these invisible experiences could naturally unfold.Another aspect that gradually revealed itself during the project was the psychological role of the central space. Contemporary homes often encourage people to withdraw into separate rooms, each functioning as an independent world. By organizing the house around a shared living core, we sought to create gentle moments of reconnection. Even when family members occupy different parts of the house, they remain visually and emotionally linked through the presence of the central patio. At the same time, the birds continue their own independent life within that shared environment, subtly reminding the inhabitants that home extends beyond purely human occupation.Looking back, I realise that the patio ultimately became more than an architectural element. It became a spatial expression of balance. It balances openness with protection, interaction with independence, movement with stillness, and human life with the rhythms of nature. Every surrounding room establishes a different relationship with this central space, ensuring that the experience never becomes repetitive. As people move through the house, the patio is continuously rediscovered from new perspectives, reinforcing the idea that architecture should unfold gradually rather than reveal itself all at once.More broadly, I believe meaningful architecture is rarely created by designing objects alone. It is created by designing relationships. Walls, roofs and windows certainly matter, but what people ultimately remember is how spaces relate to one another and how those relationships shape everyday life.For me, the patio of Kabootar Khaneh represents this belief more clearly than any other element of the project. It is not simply the center of the house; it is the place where architecture quietly negotiates coexistence. It demonstrates that the most meaningful boundaries are not those that separate worlds, but those that allow different worlds to encounter one another with mutual respect.Ultimately, I hope the project suggests that architecture does not need to choose between connection and separation. When thoughtfully designed, the space in between can become the most meaningful place of all. In many ways, that is what the patio truly represents—not a void inside the building, but the living threshold where architecture, nature and everyday life continuously meet.

I have always been cautious about claiming that a single project can change the future of architecture. Architecture evolves through the collective efforts of many designers, researchers, communities and cultures over long periods of time. Kabootar Khaneh is only one small contribution to a much larger conversation. However, I do hope it encourages architects to ask different questions.For many decades, architectural innovation has often been measured through technology, formal experimentation or increasingly sophisticated building systems. These advances have undoubtedly expanded the possibilities of our profession. Yet I believe another equally important challenge now lies before us: rethinking the relationships that architecture creates.Buildings do much more than shelter human activities. Whether intentionally or not, they continuously shape relationships—between people and nature, private life and public life, culture and environment, permanence and change. In many cases, architecture has become exceptionally successful at controlling its surroundings, but perhaps it has become less skilled at collaborating with them.Kabootar Khaneh emerged from a simple observation during our first visit to the site: the place was already inhabited before we arrived. That realization fundamentally altered our role as architects. Instead of imagining ourselves as creators of an entirely new world, we began to think of ourselves as participants entering an existing one.Looking ahead, I believe this shift in perspective may become increasingly important.The environmental challenges we face today cannot be addressed solely by making buildings more efficient. Efficiency is essential, but it is only one part of the equation. Equally important is developing an architectural culture that recognizes existing ecosystems as active participants in the design process rather than as conditions to be managed or obstacles to be overcome.This does not necessarily require spectacular architectural gestures. In fact, I believe some of the most meaningful changes may emerge through modest interventions that fundamentally reconsider how buildings occupy land, respond to climate and acknowledge other forms of life.The idea explored in Kabootar Khaneh was never about designing a house specifically for birds. That would be far too narrow an interpretation. The larger question was whether residential architecture could become more attentive to the networks of life that already exist around it. Birds happened to make that question visible, but the principle itself extends much further. Every site possesses ecological relationships that architecture can either weaken or strengthen.I hope future architectural practice will increasingly move beyond viewing nature as scenery surrounding buildings. Nature is not merely the background against which architecture is photographed. It is an active system within which architecture inevitably operates. Once we begin from that understanding, many design decisions naturally change—from site planning and material selection to spatial organization and long-term environmental responsibility.At the same time, I believe the future of architecture depends not only on environmental awareness but also on cultural continuity. Traditional architecture across many parts of the world contains profound knowledge about coexistence, climate adaptation and resource management. The challenge is not to imitate historical forms, but to reinterpret the intelligence embedded within them. Innovation becomes most meaningful when it grows from cultural understanding rather than stylistic novelty.This has been an important lesson throughout my own practice. The most valuable architectural ideas often emerge not from trying to invent something completely unprecedented, but from observing familiar realities more carefully. Sometimes innovation begins simply by noticing what everyone else has overlooked.If Kabootar Khaneh contributes anything to future architectural thinking, I hope it is this attitude of observation. Before architects transform places, perhaps we should first learn to listen to them. Every site already contains stories, histories, rhythms, climates, materials and living communities. Architecture becomes richer when it begins by discovering those qualities rather than replacing them.Ultimately, I do not believe the future of architecture will be defined by buildings that appear increasingly complex. I believe it will be shaped by buildings that understand relationships more deeply. Relationships between people and place. Between technology and ecology. Between memory and innovation. Between individual experience and collective responsibility.Perhaps the greatest opportunity for our profession is not to design ever more extraordinary objects, but to cultivate more meaningful connections. If architecture can help people rediscover that they are part of a larger living world rather than separate from it, then even small residential projects can have an influence far beyond their physical scale.Looking back, I see Kabootar Khaneh less as an answer and more as a question—one that I hope remains relevant for many years to come. How might architecture evolve if we measured its success not only by what it builds, but also by the quality of the relationships it makes possible? I believe that question may become increasingly significant as our profession continues to redefine its responsibilities in the decades ahead.

Every architect appreciates the freedom that generous budgets can provide. They allow access to advanced technologies, sophisticated construction methods and a wider range of materials. However, I have also learned that abundance does not automatically produce better architecture. In fact, some of the most meaningful lessons in my professional life have emerged from projects where resources were limited. Kabootar Khaneh was one of those projects.From the outset, we understood that the project could not rely on expensive materials, complex construction techniques or spectacular architectural gestures. Instead of asking what we could add, we repeatedly asked ourselves what was truly essential. Surprisingly, those two questions lead to very different kinds of architecture.I have always believed that limitations should not be viewed simply as obstacles. They are design conditions. Every project has them. Sometimes they are financial, sometimes climatic, cultural, technical or environmental. Creativity begins when architects stop resisting those realities and start designing with them.In Kabootar Khaneh, the limited budget encouraged us to think with greater clarity and discipline. Every decision had to justify its existence. Every material had to perform more than one role. Every square metre had to contribute not only functionally but also emotionally to the experience of the house. Rather than reducing ambition, the constraints refined it.This way of working gradually reinforced our commitment to simplicity—not as a visual style, but as a design methodology.Minimalism is often misunderstood as doing less. For me, it has always meant understanding more. It is the process of removing everything that does not strengthen the central idea of the project. When unnecessary elements disappear, what remains must carry greater meaning. Simplicity therefore demands confidence, because there is nothing left to hide behind.The financial limitations also encouraged us to make better use of resources that already existed around us. Reclaimed timber from older local buildings, indigenous stone from the site and passive environmental strategies were not chosen simply because they were economical. They became part of a broader design philosophy that sought intelligence before consumption. Instead of compensating for limited resources through expensive technology, we tried to achieve richer architectural experiences through careful observation, thoughtful planning and precise spatial relationships.Looking back, I realise that many of the qualities people now associate with Kabootar Khaneh—the calm architectural language, the emphasis on light, the sectional richness, the central patio and the careful dialogue with nature—did not emerge despite the project's limitations. In many ways, they emerged because of them.Constraints encouraged us to concentrate on the aspects of architecture that remain valuable regardless of budget: proportion, light, space, movement, atmosphere and human experience. These are qualities that cannot simply be purchased. They must be designed.This project also reinforced something that has become increasingly important in my own architectural thinking. I no longer see architecture as the art of creating unlimited possibilities. I see it as the discipline of making thoughtful decisions within real conditions. Every project asks architects to negotiate between aspiration and reality. The quality of architecture depends not on avoiding those negotiations, but on embracing them with imagination and integrity.Perhaps this perspective is particularly relevant today. Around the world, architects are being asked to respond to increasingly complex environmental, economic and social challenges. Under such circumstances, creativity can no longer depend on excess. It must emerge from resourcefulness. The future of architecture may well belong to those who can achieve more with less—not by compromising quality, but by redefining where quality truly comes from.Kabootar Khaneh reminded me that architecture is rarely improved by adding more elements. More often, it is improved by understanding which elements are indispensable. Every design decision should strengthen the central idea rather than compete with it. In this project, the budget became an unexpected editor. It constantly challenged us to distinguish between what was desirable and what was genuinely necessary.If there is one lesson I continue to carry from Kabootar Khaneh, it is that constraints are not the opposite of creativity—they are often its origin. They compel architects to observe more carefully, think more critically and design more responsibly. When approached with curiosity rather than frustration, limitations reveal opportunities that unlimited freedom can easily conceal.Ultimately, I believe the value of a building should never be measured by how many resources were consumed to create it, but by the richness of the life it makes possible. Kabootar Khaneh taught us that architecture does not become meaningful because it has everything. It becomes meaningful when everything it has serves a clear purpose. In the end, the greatest luxury in architecture is not excess, but clarity—clarity of thought, clarity of intention and clarity of experience.