For Afghan exiles, the music they grew up with remains the magic tie that binds them to Afghanistan.
Like countless souls scattered from the soil of Afghanistan, I have wandered across borders and years, carrying the ache of exile in my chest. Through every chapter of this nomadic life, music has been my companion—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a thunderous river—always flowing, always present. This playlist is not merely a collection of songs; it is a diary etched in melody, a map of memory. Each track offers a glimpse into the turbulence and tenderness of a homeland I hold close, even from afar.
Click playlist to listen as you read.
Childhood
The very first song I ever heard was probably on our family’s old radio. I think Ahmad Wali’s “Blue Eyes, Rose-like Face” (چشمان آبی، چهره گلابی). It was the first song that I remember listening to. I didn’t understand the words, yet the music embedded itself somewhere in my child’s heart. From those early days, certain voices engraved themselves into my memory.
I grew up in Kabul in the 1970s. Childhood in Kabul came with snatches of song on the streets, different voices and moods at various steps of the city. It was a place that buzzed with the voices of legendary artists. Each song has the ability to take me back to a certain alley or landmark of my beloved home town.
I grew up in Kabul in the 1970s. Childhood in Kabul came with snatches of song on the streets, different voices and moods at various steps of the city. It was a place that buzzed with the voices of legendary artists. Each song has the ability to take me back to a certain alley or landmark of my beloved home town.
Ahmad Zahir’s song “O My Love, I Am Your Captive” (ای جان من اسیرت) carries me back to the small bazaar of Shahr-e Arā, to the corner teahouse whose speakers poured the legendary singer’s voice out onto the street. Ahmad Zahir was the Afghan Elvis, a stylish icon whose voice has cast its spell over multiple generations. For me, he stands for the uncomplicated happiness of being a kid, and a childhood when my home was the center of my world. I had no idea of the times I would have to leave and return then.
The other singer from that time is Jalil Zaland, honoured with the title Ustad Zaland. He was a pioneer of Afghan music, starting the first amateur band for Radio Afghanistan. “My Heart Is Lonely” (دلم تنهاست) the melody mingles with my memories of Kabul’s spring rains tapping on the windows of our rented home.
Adolescence
As I grew older, I was a fan of the legendary bands of our generation: the music band of Sitara ha (Stars), and the melodies of Wahid Qasemi and his band called Shine, Zahir Howida, and Rahim Jahani. There was also a Pashto song from the black and white Pakistani movie Meilma, called “Sanga Zamana Showa” (How has life changed) by legendary singer Hedayatullah.
But music was also a way to experience the world, and in Afghanistan during the 1970s, it was possible to listen to songs from across the world. I remember hearing the legendary Pakistani singer Noor Jahan sing in Persian during Afghanistan’s Independence Day celebration in 1974. I remember my father, who was deeply attached to music, being overcome with emotion as she sang the ghazal “Zad ze berahmi ba teigham, yar o Yari ra bebin”
He struck me without mercy with my own blade
Now look at my beloved, and at the love between us.
There were also the rhythms of pop: the voices of Nazia and Zohaib Hassan, with their “Lekin Mera Dil” (But my heart is weeping), carried the pulse of youth. This was a time when Afghanistan had good relations with Pakistan. Politics has changed, but the music remains.
Music of the Hippy Trail
Kabul in the 1970s was the heart of the hippy trail. We were used to seeing flower children from Europe arrive in buses and spend months in Kabul, around Chicken Street. So western pop came with an air of cool glamor. I listened to artists like the Beatles and Boney M, Tom Jones and Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra and Bob Marley, Demis Roussos, Mireille Mathieu, Enrico Macias, and Charles Aznavour.
It was around this time that I first discovered Iranian music. In the film Sultan-e-Ghalbhaa (Sultan of Hearts), I heard Aref, one of Iran’s pioneering pop singers of the 1960s and 1970s, and his voice carried me on a romantic journey I had never experienced before. Later, through my cousin Arif Kayhan—himself a musician—I began exploring the great women artists of our region: Googoosh, the legendary singer and actress who defined Iran’s pre-revolution pop scene; Leila Forouhar, who started as a child performer and grew into one of the country’s leading pop singers; and Noosh Afarin, another prominent 1970s pop voice.
At the same time, politically charged songs started to reach me, shaping how I understood society. Hashsangul Naraghi’s “Mara Bebus” (Kiss Me Goodbye) and Farhad Mehrad’s “Jomeh-ye Siah” (Black Friday), performed with the Black Cats band before his solo career, planted seeds of awareness and transformed the way I saw the world.
Moscow, the City of Music
In 1982, I moved to Moscow to study film at the VGIK institute. I had already heard Soviet music in Kabul, but living in Moscow made it real. As soon as I landed, I heard Alla Pugacheva singing “A Million Scarlet Roses”. I didn’t know Russian yet, but I could sing along by heart. I also heard classical music: Shostakovich’s “Second Waltz” and Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake.” I discovered Russian rock and alternative music for the first time: Time Machine (Mashina Vremeni), Aquarium, and the raw, socially conscious songs of Vladimir Vysotsky. In the rainy streets of Moscow, I listened to Julio Iglesias, Toto Cutugno, and Adriano Celentano.
From Central Asia, Yalla, the Uzbek pop-folk group formed in the 1970s, drew me back to the East with “Chaykhana Teashop”, which blended traditional Uzbek melodies with modern instruments. From Tajikistan, Daler Nazarov, with his mystical and poetic voice, conveyed deep emotion and cultural heritage, while Tolib-khon Shakhidi, a prominent Tajik composer and conductor, brought the richness of Tajik history and literature into symphonic works. Their music reminded me of the depth and continuity of the cultural world I had grown up with, even far from home.
Daler Nazarov remained a part of my career. He provided music for my 2008 movie, Opium War, a collaboration that I valued as the soundtrack was such an important part of the film.
India, the Land of Songs
Music from India has been a constant in my life, from childhood until now. The artists have changed, but there is something timeless about the music. From my earliest years, Indian music flowed all around me—through homes, shops, restaurants, cinemas, and the airwaves of Kabul.
K.L. Saigal, one of the pioneers of Indian film music, called out from teahouses. At six, bedridden with illness, my kind uncle brought me a small gramophone with blue vinyl records. The first song I played was “Parde Mein Rehne Do, Parda Na Uthao” (Don’t lift the veil) from the 1949 film Shair. That was my first memory of the voice of Mohammed Rafi. I kept listening to record after record, and each one seemed to ease the pain of sickness. Since then, I have listened to the songs of playback singers Kishore Kumar, Asha Bhosle, and Lata Mangeshkar – they ease the stress of life for me even now.
The music of the 1972 film Shor, especially the haunting ballad “Ek Pyar Ka Nagma Hai” (Life is a song of love), is a song I return to time and again.
Indian music has a particular association for many Afghans: it feels culturally close, almost like shared pop culture across the region. One friend had a strong belief during the civil war in Afghanistan: when we were out fighting, if he heard Mohammed Rafi on the radio, our side would advance; if a song by his rival playback singer Mukesh came on, the other side would. Even now, he calls to say, “My day was terrible, I heard Mukesh early in the morning.”
Today
The years have passed—bitter and sweet, cold and warm—and music has always been a part of life. Once again, I am living away from my country, and music is the magic tie that binds me to Afghanistan. I listen to new talents, most of them living abroad now, like Farhad Darya and Aryana Sayeed. I also listen to singers from across the world, especially Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Atif Aslam from Pakistan, Mosen Yeganeh and Mohsen Namjoo.
Indian film songs with a new generation of playback singers also play in my house, thanks to my children. I would also like to highlight voices from the new generation of Afghanistan’s music, Akhtar Shoukat and Mozhgan Azimi, whose work carries the spirit of renewal and cultural pride. From Tajikistan, Daler Nazarov and Nigina Amonqulova continue to inspire with their powerful artistry and deep connection to heritage.
But the singer I keep returning to is probably Ahmad Zahir, who has been part of my life at every stage. His music is the constant in a life of change and movement.
For me, music is a boundless sea — sometimes calm, sometimes stormy. Each time I surrender to it, it carries me away and leaves me on a new shore of inspiration.
