Dambura melodies: An artist’s journey into exile
By Azada*
This narrative was told to Azada in a phone interview:
My name is Mahbuba Haidari. For 12 years, I have been singing in the local style of Bamyan province.
My artistic journey began at Marefat High School. I was attracted to its music department because I had a good voice. Over the years, my fascination with music intensified. Indeed, I was passionate about all forms of art; it was as if artistry had been woven into the very fabric of my being.
When it came time to take the university entrance exam, I selected four disciplines at the fine arts faculty of Kabul University. I made a pact with myself: if I secured admission to this faculty, I would stay in the realm of art and music to the exclusion of all other fields. Fortuitously, I was accepted into the theatre department. Though this filled me with immense joy, my family didn’t share my enthusiasm or approve of my pursuit in this discipline.
It took four years for me to obtain my graduation certificate. Alongside my studies, I was also pursuing music. I studied music professionally for a year and learned to play a string instrument called a dambura at an institution established by the Aga Khan Foundation. Going there was very difficult for me because my family wouldn’t let me sing or play the dambura. Many think that female artists and singers are prostitutes. For this reason, my family strongly opposed my singing. They said that people were talking behind my back, which is true; at parties, relatives hinted to my brother that my singing was undesirable and that such a person should be cast away. To hide my studies, I told my family that I was attending an English course when, in fact, I was learning music.
Despite these discussions, family objections, and societal constraints, I continued in my musical training. With the assistance of my teacher, Wahid Qasemi, a renowned singer in the country, I formed a local music group called Shahmama, which sought to promote the development of Hazara music. We received national recognition for our endeavours, which was a testament to the impact of our efforts. I always wrote songs about popular subjects, using patriotic and social themes.
During my performances, I wanted to represent Hazara culture along with music, so I tried to wear traditional Hazara clothes and adorn myself with original Hazara ornaments. In addition, I wanted to convince critics and opponents that singing and playing musical instruments are not gender-specific, though it still took a long time for traditional musicians to accept a female artist. I sang and played the dambura at many festivals and cultural ceremonies, including the Gul Kachalu festival in Bamyan province. It was unusual for a girl to play the dambura but I was encouraged by provincial cultural figures. Yet, some local sheiks and mullahs insulted and defamed me on social media, and accused me and my music group of promoting obscenity.
Even though the former republican government imposed numerous challenges for women, we persevered. However, everything changed with the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan. Threats and obstacles against artists severely restricted our ability to work, to the point that I no longer participated in public events. I was perpetually in fear while hiding in Kabul. The ring sound of my phone sent chills down my spine. The Taliban’s brutal stance on art and artists intensified my fears of being arrested or assassinated. Every day, I heard news about the arrest of singers and the destruction of their musical instruments – the Taliban had indeed outlawed all forms of artistic activities in Afghanistan.
The constant stream of such horrific news took a heavy toll on my mental well-being. I began having nightmares, and, even during the day, the mere knock on the door of my house would make my hands and feet shake uncontrollably. I constantly told myself that it must be the Taliban, that they had come to arrest me. I spent days arguing with myself, unable to accept the reality of living in fear, confined to my house.
Eventually, with the support of my husband, I decided to record two of my favorite songs in a small, dimly lit studio in Kabul. That act of publishing my songs stripped me of what little peace and security I had left and ultimately drove me to leave Afghanistan. Upon my arrival in Iran, a border official asked why I was entering Iran. With a lump in my throat, I admitted, “I am a stateless refugee, seeking refuge in Iran to save my life.”
Yet even here, fear and anxiety continue to shadow me. My future appears bleak, and I feel utterly lost. It’s as if I’ve tumbled into a deep, dark abyss with no visible exit. My fervent wish is for my home country’s situation to improve, enabling me to return and reignite joy and hope with the melodies of my dambura.
*Azada is a pseudonym for a female journalist in Afghanistan.
