The architectural fabric of homes—whether in industrial or non-industrial societies—profoundly shapes behavior, psychology, and, consequently, the culture and collective life of a society.
Architecture is not merely the construction of walls and roofs; it is the visible manifestation of a society’s psyche—its character, its habits, its capacity for motion or stagnation in time and space. In stagnant societies, where dynamism has long departed, people become prisoners of rigid frameworks. A person who spends most of their life within the confines of a “home” inevitably absorbs and reflects its essence. In other words, the mental health of individuals is intimately tied to the space in which they find peace—or fail to find it.
Every human being carries within them the quiet certainty that somewhere, a home awaits: a place to set aside the burdens of labor and thought, to return to oneself, and to exchange the warmth of daily life with family. But when that space ceases to provide rest—when the home is stripped of its architectural and psychological harmony—then tranquility itself loses meaning.
If we leave the world aside for a moment and turn our gaze toward crisis-stricken Iran, even a brief look at the intersection of architecture, urban design, and the nation’s collective psyche leads us straight into pain—and, ultimately, headache.
First, it must be said clearly: in today’s Iran, architecture and urban culture are inseparable from the country’s ruined economy, itself born of political deadlock and the pervasive influence of religion on governance. A genuine, wide-reaching study of how architecture impacts mental health is almost impossible. The current rulers evaluate every research attempt through the dark lens of “security,” placing a barrier before every independent scholar.
Where peace, safety, and minimal welfare exist, architecture takes one form; where conflict reigns, it takes another. Architecture mirrors the behavior and priorities of its society. Compare, for instance, a city whose officials strive to provide calm and order for citizens with one whose authorities show indifference—two contrasting physical worlds emerge. By that measure, the architecture of pre-revolutionary Iran differs sharply from what came after.
The transformation began during the first Pahlavi era and accelerated under the second. Western-educated architects returning from Europe and the U.S.—some having studied modernism as early as Reza Shah’s reign—sought to merge Iranian tradition with modern urban design. Their legacy remains visible: a deliberate synthesis of past and present.
Figures such as Master Jayhoon, who designed the mausoleums of Avicenna, Khayyam, Nader Shah Afshar, Ferdowsi, and Kamal-ol-Molk, and Hossein Amanat, the architect of Tehran’s Shahyad (Azadi) Tower and the Cultural Heritage building, exemplified this ethos. Beyond their architectural masterpieces, they trained students to view design as a cultural dialogue—an extension of collective memory. The homes built during that era combined durability, livability, and aesthetic calm—a blend of modernity and heritage. Though clerics and traditionalists denounced this as “importing Western culture,” the result was a humane architecture deeply tied to well-being.
But the focus of this essay is not nostalgia—it is the relationship between architectural design and psychological health.
Modern Iranian architecture suffers from a profound disconnect between design and human psychology. The field has fallen hostage to corruption, unqualified developers, and hollow slogans about “authentic Islamic-Iranian identity.” The result is a landscape of soulless buildings—constructed without expertise, aesthetics, or even concern for residents’ peace of mind. Class inequality widens the divide: design quality now mirrors income rather than culture or creativity.
Children are among the silent victims of this architectural decay. The absence of safe play spaces—both indoors and outdoors—deprives them of joy, replacing curiosity with tension, and harmony with aggression. The home, once a cradle of comfort, has become a source of collective strain.
After the Islamic Revolution, the state’s emphasis on “Islamic identity” combined with economic collapse to produce a flood of poorly built housing. Iranians found themselves confined in lifeless boxes, where dignity and identity were mocked by the very walls meant to shelter them. The clearest example is the “Maskan-e Mehr” housing project—universally condemned by experts and residents as one of the worst architectural experiments in Iran’s modern history.
Equally troubling is the regime’s neglect of disaster-conscious design. The earthquakes and floods of 2018–2019 revealed the cost: 80–90 percent destruction in many affected areas. Such failure raises a grim question—how much do Iranian officials value the safety, durability, and beauty of the spaces where citizens spend most of their lives?
Durability and architecture are inseparable; when endurance is ignored, design itself loses meaning.
In traditional Iranian homes, one could find courtyards with ponds, fountains, terraces, cellars with colored glass, and rooms flooded with natural light. This architecture not only brightened the hours spent at home but inspired poets, novelists, and songwriters—its imagery echoing through literature and cinema alike. For many, such spaces have become the emotional landscape of nostalgia.
Compare that to today’s apartment blocks: cramped, airless, devoid of taste or durability. Even the city’s skin—its outer architecture—feels battered and colorless. The neglect of green space adds to the psychological toll. Once, the design of a home created harmony between inner and outer space; now, apartment towers rise like mushrooms, windowless and joyless, crowding out privacy and light.
This degradation is not aesthetic alone—it is psychological. Architecture and mental health are inseparable. When that bond is severed, societies fracture inwardly.
Do Iranian architecture students collaborate with global universities? Rarely. The field exists in a climate of suspicion; research partnerships are viewed through a “security” lens. The government’s self-imposed isolation has suffocated growth—even in disciplines as apolitical as design.
The stress of modern life is global, but in Iran’s current state, it is multiplied. The chaotic, nonstandard design of cities and homes heightens tension and fear. Only the upper class can now afford to think about the psychological quality of their surroundings. Yet the environments we create define us: they hold fragments of our identity, shaping mood and behavior. The ugly, haphazard construction boom of recent decades has damaged both Iran’s architectural heritage and its citizens’ mental equilibrium.
To understand how architecture affects the human mind, one must start with the basics: how environmental stimuli influence the brain. Humans, as thinking beings, are hardwired to seek pleasure and safety. In prehistoric times, that meant shelter, food, and reproduction. In modern life, it means psychological harmony within the spaces we inhabit.
Pleasure, happiness, and satisfaction arise from these moments of harmony. Yet the paths to such feelings are mental and cultural—they depend on how our environments have evolved. The stresses of modern humans differ from those of our ancestors: no longer weather or predators, but traffic, jobs, relationships, and architecture itself.
The contrast between the rich and the poor is striking. The person choosing designer faucets is worlds apart from one desperately seeking any roof to survive under. Economic pressure forces millions into unhealthy environments, amplifying despair.
According to recent reports, 73% of suicides in Iran occur among the urban poor—a chilling indicator of how environment and hopelessness intertwine. Stress must be analyzed in its context of time and place. Architecture is not the only factor, but it is a heavy one.
If architecture and urban planning ignore the human psyche—if they neglect color, creativity, and psychological ease—then invisible tensions accumulate, hardening into a national malaise.
Even historically, architectural styles evolved from the logic of their times. When a person chooses a home, they instinctively evaluate its design, space, and beauty in relation to their financial, cultural, and emotional identity. That interplay between the built environment and mental health should be the foundation of urban design policy.
Institutions dedicated to urban design and mental health could guide policymakers, planners, and architects toward healthier cities. By integrating public health principles into architecture, they could promote emotional balance through design.
At its core, such planning must revolve around four key concepts:
- Green Spaces — Access to nature improves psychological well-being. Daily exposure to greenery within neighborhoods sustains mental balance and recovery.
- Active Spaces — Physical activity and mental health are intertwined. Urban design must create areas for exercise and social interaction, weaving movement into everyday life.
- Social Spaces — Cities should foster inclusion and belonging, especially for vulnerable groups—refugees, migrants, youth, the elderly—through open, accessible public areas that invite participation.
- Safe Spaces — A sense of safety is essential to mental well-being. From the design of homes to city planning, security and comfort form the backbone of psychological health.
These four dimensions intertwine throughout life. Yet in more than four decades of authoritarian rule, Iran’s regime has ignored them all. How familiar, then, are we—its citizens—with their true meaning?
What we see in Iran today is the gradual collapse of the quality of life. And at its heart lies the same neglected truth: that mental health begins not only in the mind, but in the walls, streets, and spaces we call home.