“Ie wa Kokoro no Furusato” and “Baiti Jannati”: Home in Two Languages of the Heart
By: Ali Syarief
In a quiet corner of Kyoto, an elderly woman sits cross-legged on a tatami mat, gazing at a small, well-tended garden outside her home. Crimson maple leaves fall slowly, dancing in the crisp air of autumn. She sips warm green tea and whispers gently, “Ie wa kokoro no furusato.” The home, she says, is the hometown of the heart.
Meanwhile, on a different morning in Yogyakarta, a mother finishes sweeping the small front yard of her house and calls her children for the dawn prayer. The aroma of cinnamon and coffee wafts from the kitchen. In the living room, a simple calligraphy hangs on the wall: “Baiti Jannati.” My home is my heaven.
Two cultures. Two languages. Two ways of living. Yet both convey the same universal truth: a home is more than a shelter—it is a spiritual place. A space where the soul returns. Where love resides. Where our truest selves are welcomed, embraced, and remembered.
Japan’s Quiet that Heals
In Japanese culture, the home is not merely a residence. It is an extension of nature, a temple of tranquility. Silent sliding doors, minimalist spaces, a garden within—every detail is designed to soothe the heart.
“We are taught that a home must breathe with nature. A noisy house can cloud the heart,” says Prof. Hiroshi Ishii, a cultural researcher at Kyoto University.
The phrase ie wa kokoro no furusato captures this sensibility: a house as the hometown of the heart. Even the architecture of traditional Japanese homes leaves room for stillness and reflection. A home, in this sense, is where the soul finds shelter from the storm of the outside world.
Islam’s Warmth that Nourishes
In Islam, the home is the heart of spiritual life. It is where mercy, tranquility, and blessings dwell. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) once said, “My home is my paradise.” And this wasn’t metaphorical—it was a vision of how homes should be: sanctuaries of peace, filled with prayer, love, and kindness.
Dr. Haidar Bagir, a contemporary Muslim thinker, once wrote, “The idea of ‘baiti jannati’ is not only spiritual but social. The home must be a space of compassion, education, protection, and care.”
Hence, beautifying a home in Islam doesn’t necessarily mean decorating it luxuriously. It means building an atmosphere where faith breathes, hearts are nourished, and souls feel safe.
One Purpose, Two Expressions
What’s striking is how both cultures—despite their differences—treat the home as more than a structure. For Japan, it is the space of silent introspection. For Islam, it is the warmth of sacred presence. One leans toward stillness, the other toward vibrancy. Yet both serve the same human longing: to belong.
In today’s fast-paced, noisy world, it is easy to feel alienated even within one’s own walls. We often forget that home is not just a destination—it is where we are returned to our most grounded selves. To memory, gratitude, and grace.
As the Japanese say, “ie wa kokoro no furusato,” and as Muslims believe, “baiti jannati.” A true home is not made with hands, but with the heart. It doesn’t need to be spacious, but it must be spacious enough for love. It need not be luxurious, but it must make the soul feel rich.
And perhaps, in a home like that, we all taste a little piece of heaven—here on earth.
