When my late grandfather, Hamood Nashir Yahya Al-Khanshali was 13, his father died. He was left in the care of his older brothers, who, unfortunately, mistreated him. After feeling neglected and frustrated, he decided to take a risk and walk 1,200 km up to Mecca, Saudi Arabia. One day while selling Zam Zam water, he saw a house on a hill and was stunned by its magnificence. He promised himself he would build a house just like it. Forty years later, he came up with the design by memory. Any architect who visits always comments on how strange its design is. Two staircases, an unorthodox layout for rooms, and hyper-specialized materials for everything. He could have finished it in a year but instead took over ten years, taking his time to source and build everything his way. Looking back, I don’t think it was ever about finishing. It was about the process and having a purpose.
I grew up there as it was being built and would work on all types of projects with it. He would send me on missions where I would be tasked to go with carpenters to go find a specific type of tree from the forests of Udain, get truckloads of special stone boulders from the Warazan valley in Taiz, choose the designs and colors that skilled artisans would hand carve and decorate our ceilings with... the list goes on.
The house was always full of people; anyone coming up to Sanaa or going down to Ibb or Aden would make a stop. We were raised there serving guests, and our majlis always had people. It was a place where disputes were settled, laughter overflowed, and our family would be together.
My grandfather lived his best years in that house. Looking back, I think he was happiest being around his grandchildren. He loved talking to us, telling us stories of our ancestors and prophets. He had an infinite amount of proverbs, aphorisms, and incredible wisdom. He got into our heads, built our mental fortitude, and challenged us to be our best versions. In many ways, he built in us a strong sense of identity and self-worth. A strong foundation, as he did for that house.
I don’t think he ever wanted to finish building that house. He would finish a floor and decide to build another and another, add an outdoor tea room, change the layout of another floor, and so on. The house had a powerful magnetic field that brought so many together, and my grandfather loved being in the center, especially with his grandchildren.
When the war began, and bombs dropped, he was forced to return to California and be with our family. Within a few short years, he aged significantly. I remember one afternoon going to visit him and hearing him start to say things that were a bit incoherent. He started to ask me about a new shipment of marble for the second floor of our home in Ibb; I was confused, then I looked at him, smiled, and told him it was on the way. When I was alone in my car, I cried all the way back to San Francisco. Months later, he was diagnosed with cancer. I remember spending New Year’s Eve 2021 with him in the hospital. Sitting alone with him, holding his hand and hearing his life story, his adventures to Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Liverpool, Jamaica Queens, and Modesto, California. Most of all, about his home. He passed away a couple of weeks later.
It’s hard for me to go into that house now, a ghost of its lively past. My grandfather’s voice still echoes in its now empty hallways. So many memories and so many lessons in one place.
I still miss you, Grandpa, then, now, and forever.
رحمك الله يا جد واسكنك فسيح جناته.
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