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Black like Iran.
Black like the bitter thought of what they left behind. Black like the religious oppression from which they fled, perhaps never to return. The Iranians of Florence dream of Iran. They may have left it, but they have never forgotten it. Nostalgia and regret.
Persia lives on in their eyes. It hides behind a turn of phrase, takes root in the form of passions. They carry the bittersweet burden of Iran and it is the black box that frames them. Then, in the background, lies Florence, the Italian city with the highest percentage of Iranian population.
Fifteen images retrace their tales. They tell of Florence and they tell of Iran. They paint a picture of two worlds that are ever so far from each other and yet so very near. Doctors, entrepreneurs, shopkeepers, students, musicians, carpet sellers, Florentine Historic Football players, aestheticians and bartenders. In their minds, the name Iran does not signify nuclear, it means taharof. They say that Florence is their future but, always, Persia is there, waiting, hand poised to knock at the doors of their hearts, oppressed and unforgettable, beautiful and impossible. 
Persia, mon amour.

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