I’d Rather Be Homeless Than Owned

I’d Rather Be Homeless Than Owned

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

When Mephistopheles looked at me with those piercing, transactional eyes and said, “I own your home, so I expect you to be loyal to me you shall be loyal to me,” I felt something ancient stir within my bones. Something primal. Something divine. It wasn’t just the audacity of the statement that made me tremble it was the quiet realization that what he claimed to own was not simply four walls and a roof, but a sanctuary. A temple. A sacred reflection of my soul.

What is a home if not a mirror of the spirit? Spiritually, a home is more than shelter it is an altar, a compass, a space where soul meets silence and breath finds purpose. It is a living diary of values, an energy field shaped by belief, prayer, pain, and triumph.

 A home is where sacred incense burns not only in physical form, but in how we treat each other. Where the pictures on the walls are more than decoration they are lineage, legacy, memory. The root of the word “home,” ham, once meant simply “dwelling place,” but it has come to mean far more a place to build, a place to love, a place to be.

So when he said he owned my home, what I heard was, “I own your peace. I own your values. I own your alignment with the divine.” And in that moment, something stood tall in me. I had to ask myself what is the price of comfort when the cost is my soul? What is the value of shelter if it becomes a cage dressed in convenience and compromise? What good is wealth if it comes gilded in silence and bound by loyalty to lies?

So I chose homelessness not the kind defined by absence of structure, but the kind defined by presence of truth.

 I stepped outside of norms, away from the false warmth of conformity, and chose instead the raw, unpaved road of spiritual independence.

 I would rather sleep beneath stars honest and free than recline on a throne built by control. I would rather wear the robe of humility than wrap myself in the synthetic luxury of a life not aligned with my spirit. I would rather walk barefoot in truth than wear designer shoes laced with compromise.

You see, this world sells us cubic zirconia and calls it diamond. It offers us illusions of sustainability while robbing us of our essence. It whispers, “Settle down,” when our spirits are screaming, “Rise up.” And many accept this trade because the house is nice, the bed is soft, and the comfort is convincing. But I’ve learned some homes are built not on love, but on quiet surrender. On the slow erosion of authenticity.

When Mephistopheles demanded loyalty in exchange for shelter, I realized that he misunderstood the essence of home. A home cannot be possessed it is cultivated. A home is not something given it is something grown from within. It is the temple built on the altar of soul, and no devil, no darkness, no deceiver has the authority to own that. They may seize the structure, but they can never claim the spirit that lived in it.

So I became a spiritual nomad. I walk in the wilderness of authenticity. I carry my altar within me. My soul is my sanctuary, and wherever I rest, I make holy ground. For home is not location it is revelation. It is the knowing that you are aligned with something greater, something eternal, something unshakable. It is knowing that though the world may strip you of titles, comforts, and things, it can never steal your truth.

I say this to anyone who feels trapped in the illusion of what home “should” be: If the price of staying is your peace, it’s too expensive. If the roof above you costs you your roots in truth, step outside. Let the rain anoint you. Let the wind speak to you. Let the stars remind you that your soul has never needed permission to shine.

I chose to be spiritually homeless, not because I lack a place, but because I refuse to live in a space owned by the enemy of my essence. I’d rather walk with the Creator in the open than sleep in a palace where my spirit is silent. I’d rather lose comfort than lose connection. I’d rather be homeless… than owned.