How a Pile of Dirt Built More Community Than Twitter Ever Did
Superadobe: The Art of Building Homes and Building Bonds
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I never thought my midlife crisis would involve stacking bags of dirt in the California desert. But there I was—shoveling soil, sweating under the sun, and wondering how exactly my life had led to this moment.
See, I had grown so tired of the endless political soap opera of the so-called Iranian opposition that even watching paint dry seemed like a more productive use of my time. I needed a break—something meaningful, something real. So, naturally, I decided to trade Twitter debates and armchair activism for a hands-on crash course in survival architecture. And that’s how I ended up in Hesperia, a small town northeast of Los Angeles, learning how to build domes out of sandbags while questioning every decision that had led me to this point.
Now, you may or may not have read LA Times’ latest story about Superadobe—those futuristic hobbit homes designed to survive earthquakes, wildfires, and possibly even an alien invasion. I was curious. Could I, too, master the art of building an indestructible mud igloo? My wife and I packed our bags and joined a group of 15 other adventurous souls—some interested in sustainability, some looking to help others, and at least one guy (me) who was very obviously just avoiding his day job.
The goal? Learn how to build these disaster-proof, eco-friendly homes and, ideally, not break my back in the process.
Michelle and Brandon, our instructors, somehow managed to wrangle our group of enthusiastic learners—herding us like a bunch of overexcited cats and actually getting us to work. The physical labor was no joke, especially for someone like me—someone with fibromyalgia and a history of back pain. But despite my body’s protests, I felt obliged to push through and do my best.
On top of that, I was also juggling another task—shooting videos and stepping in front of my own camera to produce episodes for my show about water and how to adapt to a changing climate. Because why not add multitasking to the mix while trying to survive a weekend of manual labor?
The ever failing Iranian Opposition
A few weeks ago, I had pitched the idea of producing episodes about Superadobe—the brilliant, nature-inspired masterpiece of the late Nader Khalili, an architect with a vision for sustainable living. I reached out to members of the so-called opposition, hoping they would sponsor my journey so I could attend the workshop and film the process. The goal? To educate my fellow Iranians about this simple yet revolutionary technology that could help families build homes at minimal cost and escape homelessness.
But, as expected, the political drama crowd had far more “important” things to do—like arguing in circles, attending yet another conference that would lead to another conference, and then another, all culminating in a final, groundbreaking conclusion: "Let's have another conference!" So instead of waiting for these professional panelists to bless me with their wisdom (or funding), I decided to make it happen on my own.
What amazed me most during the workshop wasn’t just learning how to build a dome or mastering the art of Superadobe. It was watching a group of strangers, armed with nothing but bags of dirt and sheer determination, transform into a real community. Suddenly, everyone cared—adjusting each other’s posture while lifting sandbags, finding small ways to help without being asked. It was as if the simple act of stacking dirt rewired our brains to function as one.
Who knew mud could be such a powerful social glue?
This was the opposite of the Iranian opposition—a group so united in division that they’ve practically perfected the art of achieving nothing. While we were piecing together a dome, they remained a pile of scattered puzzle pieces, forever unable (or unwilling) to form a coalition. We built something tangible in a matter of days. Meanwhile, they’ve been at it for decades, and the only structure they’ve managed to construct is an endless loop of debates, panels, and roundtables.
To better understand how this magical transformation happened, let’s take a little history lesson.
Who Was Nader Khalili?
Nader Khalili wasn’t just an architect—he was a visionary who looked at a pile of dirt and thought, “I can turn that into affordable, disaster-proof housing.” Born in Iran in 1936, Khalili followed a traditional architectural path, studying in Iran, Turkey, and the U.S. But instead of settling into a cushy office job designing overpriced skyscrapers, he hopped on a motorcycle and wandered the Iranian desert. Because, why not?
During his travels, he studied how desert communities had been building homes for centuries—without bulldozers, cement trucks, or expensive consultants. That’s when he had his eureka moment: Superadobe—a technique using sandbags and barbed wire to create structures that could withstand earthquakes, wildfires, and possibly even the apocalypse. NASA took notice, thinking, “This could work on the Moon!” But Khalili, ever the practical genius, thought, “Let’s start with saving people on Earth first.”
Determined to turn his vision into reality, he founded CalEarth, where he spent his life proving that dirt—yes, actual dirt—could solve housing crises. His legacy lives on, showing that you don’t need billions of dollars, government bureaucracy, or endless Zoom meetings to build something meaningful. You just need earth, effort, and a group of people willing to lift sandbags (without complaining too much).
After his passing, his son Dastan and daughter Sheefteh have carried on his mission, committed to saving the planet—one sustainable home at a time. And so, decades later, there I was, in the middle of the desert, stacking dirt and realizing that sometimes, the most radical act of change isn’t debating on Twitter—it’s actually doing something.
The LA Times Story
As we were busy shoveling dirt into bags and building our own Superadobe structures, LA Times caught wind of the growing interest in homes that don’t turn into kindling during wildfire season. It turns out, some people from areas recently scorched by fires are now on a mission to replace their burned-down houses with something a little more… fireproof. You know, because rebuilding the same flammable structures over and over again is starting to feel like a bad habit.
The writer who visited CalEarth highlighted one of its remarkable homes, noting:
“… what’s most notable about this structure is something visitors can’t see: The house is capable of withstanding a colossal natural disaster, whether that be a tornado, hurricane, earthquake, or fire.”
They recognized Nader Khalili’s mission to provide shelter for the homeless, a noble cause indeed. But what I couldn’t find in the LA Times story was something even more powerful—the community aspect of building Superadobes.
Imagine this: the residents of Pacific Palisades and Altadena, rolling up their sleeves, working together to build homes—not just for themselves, but for each other. Neighbors deciding, for once, that they should actually be neighbors. Picture Brad Pitt out there, trading his Hollywood mansion for a pile of sandbags, sweat dripping down his perfect face as he helps construct tiny Superadobes for LA’s homeless. Now that would be a headline.
Or better yet, imagine thousands of LA residents learning this technique and finally tackling one of California’s biggest challenges—affordable, fireproof, disaster-resistant housing. Instead of waiting for another overpriced development or another government report, people could just start doing it themselves. Because let’s face it, if a bunch of weekend workshop attendees—many of whom had never so much as built an Ikea bookshelf—can figure it out in a few days, maybe the solution isn’t as complicated as we’ve been told.
Of course, convincing people to swap their yoga mats and oat milk lattes for shovels and sandbags might be harder than getting a Hollywood agent to answer your call. But just imagine the ripple effect—if even a handful of LA residents put down their overpriced matcha and picked up a trowel, entire neighborhoods could be transformed. Homeless encampments could be replaced with sturdy, dignified homes. Fire-prone mansions could finally stop acting like over-glorified bonfires. And maybe, just maybe, instead of solving the housing crisis by tweeting about it from a co-working space, people could actually get their hands dirty—literally. Who knew that the secret to fixing California’s problems wasn’t in a think tank, but in a bag of dirt?
During those days, I learned a lot from the other participants—some from within the U.S. and some from beyond. David, a former NFL player, shared something that stuck with me. Despite having been in team sports since before elementary school, he said he had never experienced teamwork quite like this.
Here, in the middle of the desert, stacking bags of dirt, he found himself relying on his teammates without a second thought. He could stand on top of the dome, balancing on a structure made of nothing but earth and sweat, managing the bags and pouring in dirt without worrying about falling. Why? Because he knew—without hesitation—that everyone had his back. No contracts, no playbooks, no post-game press conferences—just a group of people working together, bound by nothing but trust, a shared goal, and a whole lot of mud.