Expressing joy and sorrow through song and melody: A woman’s right
Not long ago, my grandmother sent a video to congratulate my brother on his wedding, and watching it took me back in time. In the video, my grandmother held a white dayereh (a traditional frame drum), which has the image of a woman with disheveled hair in its centre. She sang to the beat of the drum. Her voice was not as loud or fresh as it once was. She herself noticed the difference in her voice. At the end of the video, she said, “Sorry, I can’t raise my voice like before. The neighbors here don’t like noise and call the police. I sang this just for you.” She lives in the West. I called her on WhatsApp and said, “Bibi, don’t hold back your longing, you did well to take your drum. Sing more.” My grandmother replied, “Yes, my child,” and looked out the window of her room. She was silent for a few seconds, and in that moment, memories of the wedding parties we used to hold at home before the Taliban’s rule came flooding back to me.
Writing this, those memories have come to life again. I remember a room full of women dressed in colourful and glittering clothes. There’s a strange buzz and noise in the air. In the middle of the room, a few middle-aged and young women sit, holding drums, playing so loudly that the whole room fills with excitement. A woman gets up to dance, her large, floral skirt twirling around her. She dances and stomps her feet until she’s exhausted, then another woman takes her place.
One woman dances in the centre of the group, while another sings with the drum, and other women accompany her. The singer pulls her white scarf over her hair, drinks tea, and recites a new couplet. Whoever sings the most heartfelt verses gets encouragement from the others: “Bless you, you touched our hearts.”
These were ordinary women, not professional singers. They had sung at gatherings for many years and danced to the beat of each other’s drums. Sometimes they faced opposition from the men in the family, but no one seriously stopped them. Over the years, women have preserved the tradition of singing and dancing. Despite many restrictions and threats, they have never given up their joy at gathering at a party.
In September 2023, I was sitting in the large, brightly lit hall of our home after the end of my sister’s henna ceremony. One by one, the guests were heading home. When only a few people, including myself, remained, a pregnant woman, whose prominent belly indicated she was in her late months, came to me and said, “Play the drum song for me. I am longing to dance to the sound of the dayereh.” She danced with her purple bead-embroidered dress like a branch full of leaves swaying in the wind, moving her hands and feet swiftly and lightly as she twirled. She loved dancing, but, since some women consider it inappropriate for a pregnant woman to dance, had decided to dance among our smaller group. A few young girls cheered her on with delight, amazed at how gracefully and effortlessly she danced.
Even before the Taliban’s rule, the presence and voice of women in public were often frowned upon by men. My uncle used to say about my sister, “This girl is very shameless and immodest; when she hears music, she can’t stay still. Even in front of me, she taps her foot to the rhythm of the music; if she doesn’t, she hums along with the singer under her breath, and I don’t like it.”
My grandmother and all the women who played drums, sang, and danced at weddings or during Nowruz faced such judgments and were never allowed to listen to or sing romantic songs openly. But they listened and sang anyway.
In August 2024, the Taliban issued a new law declaring that women’s voices is ‘awrat (something to be concealed), thus adding another layer of restriction to the already numerous limitations placed on women. Our women have long faced such mindsets, but the official sanctioning of these backward beliefs into law is still disturbing. In the past, women hoped for official support to break through social and cultural barriers. Their hopes for the futures of their daughters were raised by seeing that educated and urban segments of society were taking steps to support women’s presence in public life. Over the past century, we have had women who climbed the cultural and political ladders from home to school and university, and from there to workplaces, overcoming obstacles with the help of government policies that supported women’s social participation.
Now, social backwardness has aligned with official restrictions, and even worse, the ruling group is more regressive than the population on many issues, actively hindering people’s progress.
The Taliban’s inhumane policies have been met with strong opposition from women. Women protest against every restrictive and discriminatory action taken by the Taliban, raising their voices whenever they have the opportunity, letting their fellow citizens and the world hear their resistance.
The new law has also sparked fierce protests from women and human rights defenders. The social media campaign “A woman’s voice is not awrat” was launched. A group of women sang and recited poems to show that a woman’s voice is not something to be hidden. These voices remind me of my grandmother and the women who play drums and sing folk couplets. These protests bring to mind the decades of resistance of women against cultural and social oppression, and how, despite all the familial, religious, and cultural opposition to women’s voices over the years, millions of women have never stopped singing. They have always found a way to express their joy and sorrow through song and melody.
Maryam Mahjoba is a freelance writer.
