Your name
Jalal Shamsazaran
Place of birth
Tabriz, Iran
Place where you live now
Tabriz, Iran
3 words to describe you
Free, sensitive, bold
Why do you take pictures?
I’m not sure. Maybe because it’s the only thing I can truly do. I love traveling and photography. People’s stories and concerns are important and fascinating to me. My photos make me look again, and I get excited by new discoveries. The visual world reveals the hidden meanings of life to me.
Where do you get your inspiration?
Mostly from the stories and poems I read. I’m also influenced by everyday life, people, and the environment around me. Sometimes, delving into childhood memories and the past becomes a source of inspiration.
Who are your influences?
Poets and writers like Yannis Ritsos and Gholam-Hossein Sa’edi, and filmmakers like Béla Tarr, who challenge the inner layers of human nature and the world through melancholic imagery.
What determines the subject matter you choose?
The events and crises around me, which have a mutual impact on each other and on me—like the drying of Lake Urmia or my father’s Alzheimer’s. Choosing a subject is usually not a sudden process for me; it slowly seeps into my mind. Sometimes I feel like the subjects choose me, and it becomes a journey we must take together.
What impact would you like your art to have?
I want my work to spark a renewed way of seeing in myself and others—to challenge how people imagine and relate to the world around them and be informative. I hope my art raises questions and awakens empathy in people.
What artwork do you never get bored with?
Reading poetry and exploring artworks that have a poetic view of the world.
Is there anything you want to add?
Thank you

The Wind Will Take Us Away
Project statement

The wind starts early in Sistan and Balouchestan, sweeping across dry fields and abandoned farms, carrying with it not just dust and salt but the weight of a people’s despair. Life here revolves around what’s been lost: water, crops, and hope.

The once-thriving Hamoun Lake, which made this region a fertile agricultural hub, is now a memory. Its dry, cracked bed stretches as far as the eye can see.

Migration has become a silent epidemic here. Over three million people, according to unofficial estimates, have packed what little they own and moved to other parts of Iran. Mohammad doesn’t want to be next. “My father farmed this land. My grandfather did too. Where will I go?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

In the villages, survival hinges on community. Women gather to share what water they have, while children play in the shadows, their laughter muffled by the constant winds. But even laughter is scarce in homes like Zahra’s. Her husband, once a proud rancher, lost his livestock to drought. Now, they rely on her sewing work to get by. “Sometimes, I dream of rain,” she says, her needle darting in and out of fabric. “Just one good rain to make us believe again.”

The air here isn’t just dry—it’s dangerous. Salt and dust storms have become part of daily life, filling homes, lungs, and hospital beds.

Still, life goes on. Children learn to navigate school closures caused by storms. Families ration food and water. People gather in the evenings to talk, share stories, and remind themselves that they’re not alone. “We’ve survived this long,” says Zahra. “We will survive a little longer.”

But the cracks are widening—on the land, in the homes, and in the hearts of those who stay. The winds carry the dust far beyond Sistan and Balouchestan, spreading its story across borders and reminding the world of a truth too often ignored: climate change is not a distant threat but a present reality, written in the lives of those who live where the rain no longer falls.

jalal shamsazaran
@jalalshamsazaran