When a family arrives in Israel from America or England or South Africa—carrying with them decades of taste-formation, comfort habits, and spatial expectations shaped by an entirely different climate and culture—the first question they ask is not “Where shall we build?” but “Will this place understand me?”
A home that answers this question honestly is neither a replica of what they left behind nor a capitulation to what they’ve found. It is a translation. Not a literal word-for-word conversion, but an honest rendering that honors both the original and the receptor language.
What translation requires
Translation is not substitution. It requires understanding both languages so deeply that you can feel where they align and where they diverge—and then making a choice that serves neither language at the expense of the other, but rather creates a third language that belongs to both.
In architectural terms, this means:
Understanding the land’s voice. Israeli domestic architecture evolved over centuries in response to specific conditions: intense solar heat, water scarcity, limestone as the only abundant building material, and a building culture rooted in Arabic vernacular translated through a Jewish lens. The thick walls, the interior courtyards, the deep window seats, the relationship of the home to the street—these emerged not from aesthetic theory but from lived necessity and centuries of wisdom.
Understanding the family’s roots. Anglo-American families bring with them specific needs and desires: open kitchens where cooking is visible; light-filled spaces that feel expansive; a separation between public and private zones; storage that vanishes; bathrooms that feel luxurious. These are not arbitrary preferences—they reflect genuine values about family life, hospitality, and the relationship between shelter and identity.
Finding the bridge. The work is to ask: Where do these two languages already speak to each other? Both traditions value material truth. Both value permanence. Both believe a home should express the character of its inhabitants and its location. Start there. Build from there.
The work in practice
When we restored the home in Talbieh, we did not introduce air conditioning (American efficiency) but we did create cross-ventilation and shading devices (Israeli wisdom + contemporary comfort). We did not replicate the open-plan kitchen of suburban America, but we did open the kitchen to the living spaces in a way that would feel natural in a Mediterranean home where cooking and gathering are unified activities.
When we designed the Yemin Moshe renovation, we created a home that is quiet and intimate—reflecting the family’s desire for refuge and rest—but also porous to the neighborhood, respecting the public/private balance of Jerusalem’s historic quarters.
In both cases, we were translating not apologizing. The families were not giving up America; they were not becoming something other. They were becoming fluent in a new language while remaining native speakers of the old one.
What this teaches us
The deepest design work is not about style—it is about listening. Listening to the place. Listening to the family. Listening to the point where they meet and can understand each other.
A home built from that listening does not feel like a compromise. It feels like arrival.
This is what “belonging” means. Not the erasure of where you came from. But the patient work of translation that allows you to bring yourself fully into a new place—carrying your history, your values, your memories—and finding them all reflected back to you in stone and light.