UNESCO-listed musical instrument stifled in Afghanistan
Wood shavings covered the floor of Sakhi's small workshop in Herat, Afghanistan, as he skillfully shaped another rubab, the national musical instrument of his homeland. For decades, Sakhi has crafted two rubabs each month, refusing to abandon his tools despite the Taliban's crackdown on music.
"I know only this work, and I need to make a living," Sakhi said, surrounded by rubabs at various stages of completion. Yet, more than financial necessity drives him; it's the "cultural value." In his fifties, and using a pseudonym for safety, he emphasized, "The heritage must not be lost."
UNESCO recognized this sentiment in December, declaring the art of crafting and playing the rubab as intangible cultural heritage in Afghanistan, Iran, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. Made from dried mulberry wood and often adorned with mother-of-pearl, the rubab is one of the oldest instruments in the region, its resonant sound echoing through centuries.
However, this rich heritage is at risk under the Taliban's near-total ban on music, deemed corrupting by their strict interpretation of Islamic law. Since regaining power in 2021, the Taliban has prohibited public music, from performances to background tracks in restaurants and broadcasts. They have closed music schools and destroyed instruments.
Many Afghan musicians have fled, fearing for their safety or simply seeking work in a country where jobs are scarce. The Taliban has urged former musicians to redirect their talents towards Islamic poetry and unaccompanied vocal chants—music forms permitted under their earlier rule from 1996 to 2001.
'Peace to the Soul'
Amateur rubab player Gull Agha holds a photo of his teacher from the previous regime, the remnants of his rubab broken by Taliban enforcers resting in his lap. Since the Taliban's return, they have destroyed one of his rubabs and forced him to promise to stop playing. Yet, he occasionally strums a self-made rubab for tourists in Herat, a city renowned for its artistic heritage, even though it often slips out of tune.
"My main motivation is to contribute to Afghanistan—we must not forget our skills," he stated. However, as professional musicians have gone into exile and his former students see no future in music, he worries that the craft will fade away. "It's our duty to pass on our local music to the next generations," the 40-year-old added. "Rubab is an art... and art brings peace to the soul."
Gull began playing over 20 years ago during a music revival following the previous Taliban regime. At that time, organizations supporting artists flourished.
Mohsen, a veteran member of an artists' union, recalled with emotion how musicians had been integral to joyful moments in people's lives. "Unfortunately, happiness has been taken from this nation and its artists," he lamented. Despite the grim situation, Mohsen remains hopeful for the rubab's future, believing musicians—both inside and outside the country—are dedicated to preserving traditional music. "People now play not for money but to bring joy to others, ensuring the music survives," he noted. "No force, no person, no system can silence its sound."
'Never Lost'
Majid, a rubab player who was once a staple of Kabul's music scene, hadn't played in over three years due to fear of being overheard. But one December afternoon, he picked up a rubab in a house near a street of now-closed music shops. As he smiled and struck the strings, he abruptly stopped when the courtyard door banged open, worried it was the Taliban.
The neck of his 35-year-old rubab had been broken during a raid by morality police after the Taliban takeover. He repaired it as best he could and continues to care for his "dear rubab." "As long as I live, I will keep it with me, and I hope my children will too... but no matter what, rubab culture will not be lost," the 46-year-old affirmed. "Music is never lost. As they say, 'There can never be a death without tears or a wedding without music.'"
