Against a dark background, surrounded by flames, Afghan pop musician Elaha Soroor is seen breaking shackles in her latest music video, released last month, in collaboration with Afghan rapper Sonita Alizada. Their Persian words, sung in a deep melodious voice, translate to: “I have power as much as they; know my strength and see my way. Pregnant with the uprising; patience is not my thing.”
The powerful lyrics, written by Soroor and Alizada, are punctuated by the chorus chant of ‘Naan, Kar, Azadi!’ (bread, work, freedom!) – the title of their song, and a homage to the slogans by the women protestors in Afghanistan in the aftermath of the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan in August 2021.
Since coming to power, the insurgent group has severely restricted women’s rights and freedoms in the country, simultaneously crushing all public dissent and criticism. Yet, despite threats of violence, many small pockets of resistance, largely led by women, continue to simmer inside Afghanistan. And it is this movement that inspires much of the new music produced by Afghan musicians in the post-Taliban era.
This latest song is Soroor’s first collaboration with Alizada, whose 2014 biographical track Daughters For Sale, about the evils of child marriage in Afghanistan, made international headlines. Although, the two women have never met in person, Soroor says they were both drawn to each other’s music and will to amplify the stories of Afghan women.
For Soroor, who was recently named one of the BBC’s 100 Women of 2024, music is a form of non-violent rebellion. “The Taliban are targeting music and artists so they can isolate us,” she says. “They can take our [language], our culture from us, so people can no longer relate to us. So I feel producing music is a way to fight back in this cultural war, to the keep the world connected to us.”
She is not alone. In a country where music is illegal – and women’s voices have even been banned from public spaces – the Taliban’s restrictions have only strengthened the resolve of Afghan musicians, particularly women, to sing louder – sometimes under cover, other times from exile.
Inside Afghanistan, women are mobilising in groups to sing songs and recite poetry in protest. Many even record and upload videos of them singing, some under the cover of a veil, others openly defying the Taliban’s ban.
“I am not weak like the willow that blows with every wind. I am from Afghanistan and I have to suffer, but one day I will break this cage, leave this humiliation, and sing with happiness,” sings an Afghan woman named Taiba Sulaimani.
Another anonymous duo from Afghanistan has gained widespread popularity for their renditions of powerful women poets. The sisters regularly record themselves fully covered by the traditional blue Afghan burqa, singing songs highlighting the struggles of Afghan women.
This wholesome embrace of music, especially poetry, has always been integral to Afghan culture, Soroor explains. “It isn’t common in our culture for women to always speak about themselves but we preserve our stories, generation after generation, through folk songs. So many different stories are passed along in this way, mainly about sadness, but also happiness.”
In 2019, Soroor recorded the album Songs Of Our Mothers, a collection of folk songs that she grew up with and which have been performed traditionally by women of Afghanistan. “This music helped me understand my mother, our history,” she says. “It was like therapy for me.”
But much of the music Afghan musicians produce today focuses on preserving history and identities the Taliban are trying to erase. “As musicians we are like storytellers,” says Soroor. “We are recording the history of Afghanistan and its culture through our music; through the melodies, the words, even the diverse languages and accents. I want to preserve what the Taliban are trying suppress.”
Many of her songs are sung in Persian but they also feature poetry in other Afghan languages and dialects, such as Pashto and Hazaragi. She also makes use of a medley of Afghan instruments alongside Western instruments. “I want to tell society that I exist, I’m part of this environment. I cannot be erased,” she says.
Soroor rose to fame in a very different, albeit challenging, Afghanistan, as a candidate on a music show called Afghan Star (a similar format to American Idol) in 2008. Even in the best of times, being a woman musician in Afghanistan was never easy. She recalls the discrimination, harassment and abuse that eventually led to her exile.
In a very traumatic experience, a pornographic video that circulated on the Afghan social media was falsely attributed to her, threatening her life and reputation in a deeply conservative society, forcing her to flee her country due to security threats. She first left for India in 2010 and has since resettled in the UK.
Soroor feels an obligation to share these experiences as a testimony to the complex history of Afghan music for the younger generation. “There is one line in the song Saburi Nesta Karam. Saburi means patience and is often used in a positive context,” she explains. “Here in this song, we say no longer want to be patient, we don’t want to be that woman anymore,” she says. “We have to keep shouting, keep rebelling, keep producing [music].”
Ruchi Kumar is a freelance journalist based in India. She has previously lived and worked in Kabul, Afghanistan, and writes about the region for publications including The Guardian, Foreign Policy and NPR
