The Admirable Silence
By: Wheeler Sparks

One evening many years ago, a small nomadic caravan bivouacked on the outskirts of Yakawlang, a forgotten village nestled in the foothills of Bamiyan. As the sun went down and the fire took, they eased into the night by removing dusty instruments from their beasts of burden. Music began to flow. From an adobe hut in the nearby village, an adolescent boy named Safdar Tawakoli heard the thin mountain air reverberate, and awoke from a deep sleep. He had never seen nor heard music before that night. The local mullahs condemned it as an unpleasant pastime at best, the gateway to debauchery at worst. Stirring to music by moonlight, then hearing the nomads playing and singing from afar, young Tawakoli woke and wandered down to their campfire, where they welcomed him. He sat at their feet in an awful daze, the music transporting him to another world. When he left the campfire late that night, the nomadic band was so taken with his admiration, they bequeathed him a derelict, three-stringed tanbur, the likes of which no one in his village had ever known. Concealing it from prying eyes and ears, he hid it in his room, and when no one was around, taught himself to play it. Years of clandestine practice eventually found him with an underground reputation as a talented singer. He would later rise to national prominence and become one of Afghanistan’s most revered musicians. And so fate remains.

The bleakness he escaped in Yakawlang later swallowed the country whole. I met up with Tawakoli nearly ten years ago, on a voyage to better understand the role of music censorship in my own life. My story pales in comparison with his own, but we shared one thing in common: A faith in the power of music to inspire and ennoble the human spirit. In his youth, the pressure in Yakawlang motivated Tawakoli to migrate to the big city, where Radio Kabul held auditions for common musicians to test their merits on a national audience. And so he left his home to pursue a dream. When we spoke, his sad eyes glowed like disks by the light of an open window that overlooked the Kabul River. He’s a small, gentle man, his face lined with worry. “When I left [my village], the music left with me,” he said.

Now it’s common knowledge: When the Taliban first rose to power in 1996, they harshly enforced a long-standing, conservative animus against all forms of secular music, especially any and all musical accompaniment, which is to say, the use of any musical instruments whatsoever. Ancient and beautiful, pearl-inlaid rubabs and tanburs that once serenaded kings ended in a flaming pyre; the Taliban symbolically shredded and hung at intersections tape recordings of irreplaceable performances, the silent remnants twisting in the wind as unfortunate omens. Some dissidents of the Taliban buried their instruments in deep earthen graves, and held the occasional clandestine concert in their own homes, while those whose livelihoods depended on music mostly fled the country. Tawakoli chose to stay behind.

In 2010, I took an odyssey across Afghanistan, as a non-embedded journalist, to document how music had changed since the fall of the Taliban. Kabul Radio peppered the countryside with original music, fostering a distinct multi-cultural identity to counterbalance the destructive forces of decades of tribal in-fighting. If there was no peace in the country, it was still possible to encounter a weary peace in the music. In my experience, which was admittedly limited, the common Afghan resented and actively resisted sanctions against his or her music, for reasons intensely personal and cultural.  My interviews with Afghan civilians and prominent musicians revealed a more important truth: the abiding presence of music as a unifying force, perhaps the unifying force, the force of listening in a country dominated by powerful, vocal pundits. Perhaps more than anything, the extreme measures the Taliban brought to bear in order to eradicate secular music, ultimately galvanized its antithesis: This admirable silence. The overarching love of listening, at once a love for music, came to represent for me, a universal bond shared by people who otherwise faced something akin to cultural annihilation. 

From the northern peaks to the desert plateau, Afghan silence testifies to the fact that no matter who takes power in the country, a majority of the population will hold dear old refrains, composing new lines and broadcasting both to the joy of nostalgic expatriates worldwide. After all, the ad hoc borders that compose this fledgling state continue to blur in the presence of the internet. Global, viral technology has a heartbeat stronger than the Taliban would care to admit. In 2010, cell phones whisked new music from village to village, while television audiences gathered to watch and text in votes for the next “Afghan Star,” the local version of “American Idol.”  Technology and viral communications empowered people to reclaim their cultural identity right under the Taliban’s nose, much like the Arab Spring. One result of technology is an unprecedented surge of genuine grassroots democracy, a form of unity that decades of United States financial and military intervention could not establish. Near the turn of the century, when the Taliban’s first ascendance to power waned, it became evident that they would say nearly anything to gain popularity. And so they began exploring new models of influence. In one such vein, several Taliban followers kidnapped Safdar Tawakoli, the man from Yakawlang, now a national icon, and forced him to sing his most popular song over the national radio. 

Now, to really understand the humiliation of this act, several things must be made clear. Tawakoli belongs to the Hazara, the descendents of Genghis Khan, a Mongoloid minority who has been the proverbial ugly duckling in Afghan national politics for years. Hazara people are widely discriminated against, and particularly by the Taliban. The destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas, which represented the heart of the Hazara’s historic culture, was an ethnic as much as a religious statement. The Taliban, largely hailing from the Pashto majority, needed to demonstrate their superiority over someone, and who better than the Hazara minority, whom they viewed as culturally backwards, with a clear reputation for resisting outside influences. Over the years, the Taliban committed numerous human rights violations against the Hazara. And they did not stop with the Hazara, outlawing their very own Atan, a traditional male dance that the Pashto once performed at wedding ceremonies and social gatherings.

In 1996, when the Taliban stormed Radio Kabul (then Radio Afghanistan), and censored all music making, they made an exception, of course, for purely vocal music which generously represented their cause. During the twilight of their first regime, when they started sweating for public support, suspecting perhaps that the U.S. would intervene and they could lose their claim to power, they made use of this young Hazara star, Safdar Tawakoli, by kidnapping him from his home, and forcing him to the now silent radio station to sing his most popular song. Why did he stay behind? He tells me it was for loyalty to his people.

Prior to the Taliban takeover, his popular music had for all intents and purposes gone viral the old way -- people heard it and loved it, calling into the radio station from around the country to hear it again and again. A no-name Hazara who learned music from the fortuitous orbit of nomadic caravans sky-rocketed to national success. The music traveled on tapes and radiowaves and mp3 sticks. Now vying to remain in power, the Taliban knew that its fractured populace had once found itself singing Tawakoli’s song, so in one of many last ditch efforts to maintain relevance before they fell, they kidnapped him and forced him to sing his most popular song, roughly translated: “Whether from Bamiyan or Kandahar, we are brothers.” Which is to say, “Whether you are Hazara or Pashto, we are brothers.” On that censored radio, a bold and compassionate statement rang out from a suffering artist at the height of his persecutor’s power. 

Now, the average citizen knew that Tawakoli’s genius, being forced to sing on the Taliban controlled radio, did not represent the same ideals as the Taliban. Yet they employed his genius for their limited means, which they are wont to do as long as they are in power. The irony was not lost on Tawakoli, whose dark eyes drifted over the distant story. He had no choice but to comply, true -- they threatened his family. And yet, as he sang the song, even now, he assured me: The Afghan people know the real meaning behind the words, they do not confuse the means for the end. In fact, for many, hearing that voice (his voice) on that radio could have been a glimpse of an undying light, the rare gift of a true artist, bringing solace to pain.

As a Thomas J. Watson Fellow, I experienced first-hand music’s ability to transcend differences and cultivate solidarity. Through the universal language of music, I fostered international friendships, understood communities and felt the heartbeat of distant cultures. In Afghanistan, a country infamous for violence, I traveled without affiliation, from east to west, interviewing musicians, mullahs and the common Afghan. The languages and songs were new, but the essential music was vital and familiar. These stories and conversations are remarkable.  Like Tawakoli, whom former President Hamid Karzai later named “the [Afghan] symbol of national unity,” Afghanistan’s artists and musicians endured exile, imprisonment and continued threats upon their lives. Each one offers a powerful testament to humanity’s resilience and willpower, working together to unify a country otherwise hopelessly splintered by war.  

“It is difficult to change people by weapons, by money, by force -- all of these things,” said internationally renowned musician Abdullah Maqury. “But through music, slowly, we can bring peace.” He struck a chord on a harmonium at Radio Kabul, surrounded by an ensemble of gifted musicians and friends. Yet even then, he lived in exile with his family, returning on sporadic occasions to sing and play for an Afghan audience. “These people who censor music, if they catch me, they will kill me,” he said. Then he added with a laugh and wry grin, “But as long as I am alive, I will do this.”

Where are you now, dear musicians, dear friends? My heart goes out to you.