"Prima della Rivoluzione iraniana, una dimora ancestrale si trasforma gradualmente in una casa-museo, piena di antichi manufatti raccolti nel corso di decenni. Un archeologo iraniano attende il ritorno di sua moglie francese da un lungo viaggio. Mentre le stanze si riempiono di oggetti, la rivoluzione raggiunge le mura della casa, portando il tumulto del mondo esterno all'interno. Tra l'incertezza, la coppia lotta per preservare sia la propria relazione che le memorie incastonate nella casa.

Questo documentario è un trittico silenzioso realizzato senza dialoghi, attinge a trent'anni di lettere archiviate scambiate tra la coppia, offrendo una riflessione poetica e contemplativa su come le memorie personali e storiche si intreccino, e su come gli spazi diventino depositari di storie sia private che collettive. Questo film è una forma silenziosa di resistenza."

My motivation for making this documentary is deeply personal. The Moghaddam House reminds me of my childhood home – the evocation of objects, memories, and details lost when its lights went out. Returning to it, caring for it, and revisiting what remains has become a significant, inspiring, and forward-driving encounter for me. This experience, I believe, is universally relatable: the idea of having a home and a homeland. A land that has, time and again, cast us out, only to call us back again. This film is my effort to resist forgetting. It is about a human relationship that unfolds in silence, grows through the smallest of details, and lingers in the empty spaces between the lines of old letters. The documentary is built around a series of private letters exchanged between Mohsen Moghadam, a professor of archaeology, and Selma Kouyoumjian, his Armenian wife and companion. These letters span more than three decades. I have not tried to build a linear or historical narrative of their lives. Instead, the film takes the shape of a visual essay – a sensory experience seeking to discover the inner rhythm of their relationship. The story flows in silence. Words and voices are carried into the film not through dialogue, but through textures, light, objects, and stillness.

And yet, the “great silence” is always drawing near. A distant crane, a fleeting threat, a quiet force of destruction that slowly and steadily threatens the emotional and mental structures we hold dear. The film breathes in this tension: between the desire to preserve beauty and the awareness of its impermanence.

This is a film about the “possibility of care” for a home, a relationship, a memory. It is about a quiet, persistent form of resistance.