MANILA, Philippines - A few weeks back, the Republican presidential candidate John McCain got into a bit of trouble when he was asked how many homes he owned, and he admitted he couldn’t remember. The Democrats used this to highlight McCain’s being wealthy, maybe too wealthy, the multiple homes being more disturbing at a time when so many Americans are in danger of losing their homes.

Wealthy people throughout the world share McCain’s situation. It’s not accidental that a synonym for wealth is to be “propertied”: one’s wealth is measured, in large part, by ownership of land and homes. And the more you had of wealth, the more “homes” you bought, and set aside, which is why I have quotation marks around the word. All those properties are there not as homes, but as investments.

For the Juan and Juana de la Cruzes of the world, the one big aspiration in life is to have a home. One’s enough, as long as it is a home.

This dream for a home is fairly simple, definitely not tied to size. When I used to rent a 90 square meter apartment, visiting friends would go, “Ang laki! Nakakatakot!"—it’s too big, it’s scary. The Filipino wants a home that’s cozy, even congested, not just with people but with clothes and furniture and wall hangings and pets.

More than showing off though, having stuff out is a way of sharing. My architect Ning Encarnacion-Tan says that’s a hallmark of Pinoy homes. No matter how humble, a Filipino home is laid out in a way as to tell people you’re willing to share.

Our homes map out our friendships: Acquaintances are entertained at the doorstep, or the kitchen, where we do offer food and some hospitality. Closer friends reach the living room, where they can be more relaxed before we invite them to a meal. The most intimate of friends, well, we just tell them, “Hindi ka ibang tao,”—you’re one of us, so roam the house, raid the fridge, sleep on my bed (okay, with some limits).

In fact, for many Filipino homes, doors don’t mean anything. Much to the chagrin of visiting foreigners, and a younger generation of Filipinos who value privacy, Filipinos walk in and out of people’s rooms without knocking because that’s the way homes are perceived.

The less propertied the home’s owner, the more sharing you’re bound to see. For example, if you visit someone in a rural village and leave your slippers at the door, as is the custom, don’t be surprised if, after the visit, you find your slippers have walked away with someone else from the household, or even another visitor.

How does home ownership figure in all this?

Raquel Florendo, head of the Department of Clothing, Textiles and Interior Design at UP, is finishing up research on the notions Filipinos have about a home, and it was she who who pointed out to me that a Filipino home is not just a place that we live in (nakatira), but a place we return to (uwian).

What do we return to? Florendo showed me excerpts from her interviews. One informant said we come home to memories. How true. Whenever I go through glossy magazines for home interiors, I think, “Goodness, these homes can’t be Filipino. They’re too neat, too sterile. No kids, no pets, no memories.”

Homes allow us to choose our memories: of children before they turned into problem adolescents, of graduations, marriages, of Bantay and Moning, together with more concrete memorabilia, stuffed animals being particularly favored.

There are more than memories. A tirahan is a shelter; an uwian provides security. It’s not security in the sense of a financial speculative investment but a feeling one can stay on, one can come home, go home, every day. One can own a home, but if it’s in an area plagued by burglars and crime, it’s no longer an uwian. A friend of mine with a townhouse that had been robbed while she was away says that months after, she still gets anxious going home, and sleeping in her room.

We go home to a refuge, not just in the sense of a place to escape to, or to find solace in, but of having someone who will listen to you, who offers a shoulder to cry on, or who’s ready to boogie with you as you bring home good news.

The home—whether one is renting, paying monthly amortizations, or has finished the last installment—represents sweat and tears. Real estate developers know one potential market is that of overseas workers, who want to see their money going into buying a home, or improving on existing property. But again, the home isn’t just a physical structure to prove one’s ability to bring home the bacon; it’s more often the product of collective labor, of Tatay and Nanay slaving away in some remote corner of the world to build that home.

And being away from home, whether for the household helper from Masbate now working in Manila, or for a young Filipino from Makati working in Dubai, the dream is not just to build that home, but to return to it someday. One of Florendo’s informants summarizes it: “Ang bahay mo ay buhay mo (Your home is your life).”