HERAT: Pieces of wood litter the floor of Sakhi’s cramped workshop in the Afghan city of Herat as another rubab, the national musical instrument of his homeland, takes shape under his deft hands.
Sakhi has been making two rubabs a month for decades, and he refused to put his tools down even as a Taliban crackdown stifled music in Afghanistan.
“I just know this job and I need to make money somehow,” Sakhi said.
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But for him, what is much more important than money is “cultural value,” said the craftsman in his 50s, whose name has been changed for his safety along with others interviewed by AFP. , said.
“The value of this work for me is… the legacy it holds. Heritage must not be lost,” he said.
The United Nations agency UNESCO agrees, recognizing the art of making and playing rubab in December as intangible cultural heritage in Afghanistan, Iran, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.
Made of dried mulberry wood and often inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the lute-like rubab is one of the oldest musical instruments in the region, its twanging sound spanning thousands of years.
But that legacy is under threat in Afghanistan under the Taliban government’s near-total ban on music, seen as corrupting its strict interpretation of Islamic law.
Since coming to power in 2021, the Taliban government has banned music in public places, from performances to playing music in restaurants, in cars or on radio and television stations.
They closed music schools and destroyed or burned musical instruments and sound systems.
Many Afghan musicians have fled out of fear or need of work after losing their livelihoods in one of the world’s poorest countries, where jobs are scarce.
The Taliban government has encouraged former musicians to turn their talents to Islamic poetry and unaccompanied chants – also the only forms of music allowed under their previous rule from 1996-2001. .
Amateur rubab player Gull Agha has a photo of his teacher at that time, pieces of rubab broken by the Taliban government placed in his lap.
Since their return, the Taliban morality police have also destroyed one of Gull Agha’s rubabs and made him swear to stop playing.
But sometimes he still plays the rubab he made for tourists visiting Herat, the long-time cradle of art and culture in Afghanistan, although he laments that it easily gets out of tune.
“The main thing that motivates me to continue playing rubab is to contribute to Afghanistan – we should not let our country’s skills be forgotten,” he said.
But as professional musicians went into exile and his former students saw no future in their practice, he feared the profession would atrophy.
“Music never goes away. As people often say: ‘There is never a death without tears or a wedding without music'”.
“Our mission is to pass on local music to the next generations as our ancestors passed it down to us,” said the 40-year-old.
“Rubab is an art… art that brings peace to the soul.”
He started playing more than 20 years ago during a musical revival in Afghanistan after the end of the previous Taliban regime.
At that time, artist support organizations sprang up in the country.
Mohsen, a longtime artist association member, choked back tears as he recalled how their musicians were always “the ones who recorded the happy moments in people’s lives.”
“Unfortunately, happiness has been taken away from this country as well as from artists,” he said.
Mohsen remains optimistic about the future of the rubab in Afghanistan, saying that musicians at home and abroad have been motivated to keep the country’s traditional music alive.
“Now people don’t play for money, they play to bring joy to others and that’s why the music still exists,” he said.
“No force, no person, no system can silence its sound.”
Player Rubab Majid was a fixture at many musical performances in Kabul.
But he didn’t play rubab for more than three years for fear of being overheard, until one December afternoon, when he picked up a rubab in a house near a street of now-closed music stores.
Smiling, he pulled the rope but suddenly stopped when the yard door opened, fearing it was the Taliban.
The neck of his 35-year-old rubab was previously broken when morality police raided homes after the Taliban took over.
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He repaired it as best he could and still regularly takes care of his “dear rubab,” he said, gently running his hand over the instrument.
“As long as I live, I will keep it with me, and I hope my children will keep it… but no matter what, rubab culture will not be lost,” the 46-year-old man said.
“Music never goes away. As people often say: ‘There is never a death without tears or a wedding without music'”.