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 aliv...