Aqela, twenty-nine years old, waits for us on the street. She wears a black coat and a long black skirt. A black scarf leaves uncovered only her wonderful blue eyes. We walk with her down a street too narrow and steep for cars. We cross a gate and two small courtyards, and then we slip into a room. The room is gloomy. The red carpet on the floor is worn out. A mezzanine barely allows you to stand. There is only one window, very small, hidden by the curtains. A neon light makes the faces and her story more heartbreaking (...)

Laleh is a graceful girl, small in stature, with a sad if not desperate expression. Three years ago her husband died in an explosion. They searched for the body without finding any evidence of it. Since then, she has been left alone with her children: a girl aged ten, a boy aged nine and a girl aged four (...)