Even if I have a home in Paris and sometimes in New York

In the tender and haunting words of Chantal Akerman, we hear the voice of one who understood that home is not a place, but a person: “Even if I have a home in Paris and sometimes in New York, whenever I was saying I have to go home, it was going to my mother.” Beneath these simple words lies a truth as old as love itself—that the heart’s truest dwelling is not made of walls or cities, but of the warmth and memory of those who first sheltered our being. For Akerman, the journey between two of the world’s greatest cities meant nothing beside the journey back to her mother, the one who gave her life, language, and belonging.

Akerman was not merely speaking of geography, but of origin. A celebrated filmmaker of Belgian-Jewish descent, her art was often an exploration of identity, memory, and the fragile threads that tie us to those we love. Her mother, Natalia, had survived the horrors of Auschwitz, and her presence, quiet yet profound, shaped much of Chantal’s world. In returning to her mother, Akerman was returning to the foundation of her existence—not to comfort alone, but to the source from which her creativity and humanity flowed. Her words, therefore, are not just about love—they are about the unbreakable bond between mother and child, a connection that endures beyond time, fame, and distance.

The ancients, too, understood this sacred truth. In the Odyssey, when Odysseus journeyed across seas and storms, his longing was not merely for his kingdom of Ithaca, but for Penelope, his wife, and for the hearth that symbolized love and memory. For what is “home” but the place where we are known without pretense? Even kings and wanderers are children before the face of love. Just as Odysseus’ soul was anchored in the thought of his family, so too was Akerman’s spirit tethered to her mother. She might have owned houses in Paris and New York, but her true dwelling—the one that called her back—was found in the quiet presence of her mother’s embrace.

There is a sacred paradox in Akerman’s reflection: though she lived among the cosmopolitan, the acclaimed, and the artistic, she found her peace in the ordinary, the familial, the intimate. The world teaches us to chase greatness—to build towers and collect possessions—but Akerman reminds us that greatness without connection is emptiness. Her homes in glittering cities were symbols of success; her mother’s home was a symbol of belonging. It is a truth that humbles even the proud: no matter how far we travel, our spirit seeks not fame or luxury, but the recognition of love—the feeling that, somewhere, there is someone waiting who understands us completely.

The ancient Chinese poet Li Bai, who roamed rivers and mountains in search of truth, once wrote that the moonlight on his bed reminded him of home. Though he wandered through imperial courts and distant provinces, his soul remained in the village where his mother and kin lived. Across cultures, across centuries, this longing is the same. Whether in the deserts of Arabia, the palaces of Rome, or the apartments of modern Paris, every human heart yearns for its original warmth—the place where love’s first voice was heard. And for Akerman, that voice was her mother’s.

Her words also carry a quiet grief, for to speak of one’s mother as home is to acknowledge that such a home is fragile. Time takes parents from children, and when that day comes, the world can feel suddenly hollow. The mother is the mirror through which the child first sees themselves; when that mirror fades, a piece of identity goes with it. Akerman’s films, particularly No Home Movie, were meditations on this very loss—the realization that even as the body travels onward, the soul still turns toward the one it calls “home.” Her quote is, therefore, both a declaration and a farewell—a way of saying that the truest home is always human, and therefore always mortal.

The lesson, then, is this: cherish those who are your living homes. Do not mistake luxury for belonging or distance for freedom. You may own a hundred houses, cross oceans, and build empires, but if you forget the people whose love steadies your heart, you will remain a wanderer. Call your parents, your mentors, your friends—those who have given you a place to return to. For one day, as the ancients said, even the mightiest rivers return to the sea, and all journeys end in the longing for love.

So, dear listener, remember the wisdom of Chantal Akerman: that home is not where you sleep, but where your soul is recognized. Whether in Paris or New York, in the bustle of the world or the silence of memory, your truest home will always be found in those whose love has shaped you. Guard that bond, honor it, and return to it often—for to go to one’s mother, in whatever form she still lives, is to return to the heart of being itself.