In a war zone, the art of home is stripped down to its basics. As an army officer deployed to Afghanistan, I am stationed at a base in Kabul, where my and my fellow soldiers’ homes are simple shipping containers, stacked up, wired with electricity, fitted with an HVAC unit, and furnished with a twin bed and a wall locker. The same trailers we make homes out of serve also as fortress walls, Laundromats, latrines, shower facilities, and storage. For obvious reasons, we call our makeshift apartment complex Legoland, and when I’m not interacting with my Afghan counterparts, I spend much of my time inside its blocks. On routine convoys throughout Kabul, I see trailers converted into small shops, apartment-style quarters, business offices—even goat barns. The city may be a far cry from the modern world, but sustainability and modularity are here on display.

Recognizing that we are soldiers first, the immediate availability of body armor, helmet, boots, and primary weapon is the most essential need. With this met, however, there are no rules governing the design and layout of one’s personal space other than that it be kept clean and orderly.

With access to a lumberyard and basic tools, the members of my unit have built everything they can think of to make their quarters more livable. For some, it’s a bunk bed; for others, a television stand, wall unit, or bench. For me, it’s a place to read, to write, to reflect, and, if possible, to stretch away some of the stress of the day.

In my eight-by-eight-foot home, I constructed a lift for my bed to create more space, and a bookshelf to hold my professional and personal library. I purchased an adjustable computer desk, as well as lighting to offset the harsh fluorescent tubes that come with every room. Over time, I added colorful Afghan textiles to warm the sterile walls and several paintings by Ahmad Farhad, a local artist, for ambience. Despite its limitations, my shipping container has become a home.

Back in Oregon, I live with my wife and two sons in a spacious 4,000-square-foot 1950s ranch house that sits on a beautiful, lush plot of land. In contrast to the small cell in which I’ve lived for the past eight months, it seems that distant home provides far more than I could ever need—after all, I arrived in Kabul with only a footlocker, two duffel bags, and a rucksack. But even here, in a country facing nearly it’s 30th year of conflict since 1979, the basic needs for survival do not override the desire for comfort or personal aesthetics. Survival may be first, but for all of us, there is always a need to feel at home.