In a modest workshop in Herat, Afghanistan, wood shavings cover the floor as Sakhi continues his lifelong craft of making rubabs, Afghanistan’s national musical instrument. Despite the Taliban’s strict ban on music, Sakhi, a master craftsman in his fifties, remains committed to preserving this cultural heritage.
“I only know this work, and I have to earn a living,” he said, surrounded by rubabs in various stages of completion. But for Sakhi, the significance of his craft goes far beyond financial survival. “The value of this work for me is… the heritage it holds. The heritage must not be lost.”
The rubab, a lute-like instrument carved from dried mulberry wood and often adorned with mother-of-pearl, holds a history spanning thousands of years. In December, UNESCO recognized the crafting and playing of the rubab as an intangible cultural heritage shared by Afghanistan, Iran, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan.
This heritage faces immense challenges under the Taliban’s near-total ban on music. Since their return to power in 2021, the Taliban have prohibited public music performances and playing music in restaurants, cars, and media broadcasts. Music schools have been shut down, and countless instruments destroyed.
Amateur rubab player Gull Agha recalls the destruction of his teacher’s instrument during the Taliban’s earlier rule from 1996 to 2001. Recently, morality police destroyed one of his rubabs and forced him to promise he would stop playing.
Still, Gull Agha persists. He occasionally plays a self-made rubab for tourists in Herat, though it frequently goes out of tune. “The main thing that motivates me to continue playing is to contribute to Afghanistan. We should not let the skills of our country be forgotten,” he said.
However, with professional musicians fleeing and young learners discouraged, Gull Agha fears the craft may fade away. “It’s our duty to pass on our local music to the next generations, as our ancestors passed it down to us,” he added. “Rubab is an art… art brings peace to the soul.”
Majid, once a prominent rubab player in Kabul, has not performed publicly for over three years. The neck of his 35-year-old rubab was broken during a morality police raid after the Taliban’s takeover. Despite the risks, Majid carefully repaired the instrument and keeps it close, tending to it regularly.
On one December afternoon, he dared to play it in a private home near a street filled with shuttered music shops. Smiling as he struck the strings, his joy turned to fear when the courtyard door suddenly swung open. “As long as I live, I will keep it with me, and I hope my children will keep it,” he said. “But no matter what, rubab culture will not be lost. Music is never lost.”
During Afghanistan’s brief post-2001 music revival, organizations supported musicians and fostered a vibrant cultural scene. Mohsen, a long-time member of an artists’ union, fondly recalls those days when musicians were an integral part of life’s celebrations.
“Unfortunately, happiness has been taken from this nation as well as from the artists,” he said, holding back tears. Despite this, Mohsen believes the spirit of Afghan music endures. “People don’t play for money now; they play to bring joy to others and ensure the music survives. No force, no person, no system can silence its sound.”
As the rubab faces challenges under the current regime, its defenders remain steadfast, ensuring that this centuries-old instrument continues to sing the story of Afghanistan’s rich cultural heritage.
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