The stage lights in a modest London wedding hall were unforgiving, a world away from the grand concert venues of her past. But when Naghma appeared, a whirlwind of shimmering rhinestones and a gold-trimmed shawl, the room transcended its humble setting. The audience, a tapestry of generations of Afghans, erupted not just in applause, but in a cathartic release of memory and longing. In that moment, Naghma was not merely a singer; she was the living embodiment of a homeland they carry in their hearts—a symbol of its beauty, its resilience, and its silenced melodies.
Now in her early sixties, Naghma has been the soundtrack to her people’s lives for over four decades, her voice a constant through war, exile, and religious tyranny. She has shared their pain, and that pain is deeply personal. “My life story is truly tragic,” she revealed backstage during an interval in her summer concert. “We were five brothers and three sisters. All of my brothers were killed serving in the army. One sister was killed in Kabul. Only one sister is still alive.”
Yet, in public, Naghma is vivacious, defying her sorrow with a ready laugh and a dazzling smile that belies the weight of her history. She continues to tour and record across the globe, a musical ambassador for a nation in crisis. But since the Taliban seized control of Kabul in 2021, reinstating their ban on music and erasing women from public life, her voice has been formally exiled from the soil it once celebrated.
A Voice Forged in Conflict
Naghma’s journey mirrors the tumultuous modern history of Afghanistan. Born Shah Pari in the southern city of Kandahar, she was the child of a mixed marriage—her father a Persian-speaking doctor from the north, her mother a Pashtun. Her father’s early death left the family struggling, but young Shah Pari discovered an unwavering passion for poetry and song, writing her first poem at 13. In the deeply conservative culture, her ambition was a provocation; she recalls being beaten by her mother for persisting in her singing.
At 16, she moved to Kabul to live with her uncle and audaciously auditioned at Radio Afghanistan, the nation’s epicenter of musical creativity. She was accepted, adopting the stage name Naghma, meaning “melody.” There, she formed a legendary duo with a fellow musician, Mangal, whom she later married. Their repertoire of folk and romantic songs captured the nation’s heart. “In those days,” she recalled wistfully, “everything was about love.”
But love was soon overshadowed by ideology. Under the communist governments of the 1980s, music was both promoted and politicized. Naghma and Mangal were enlisted into the Interior Ministry musical troupe, their talents used for propaganda and to bolster the morale of the Afghan Army. This association made them targets of the anti-communist mujahedeen, who began a campaign of assassinations.
The political became devastatingly personal in the early 1990s when assassins, whom Naghma believes were targeting her, entered her home and killed her 17-year-old sister, Gulpari. “I believe they killed her because of me,” Naghma said, the grief still raw decades later. In the shadow of this tragedy, the government compelled her to record one of her most famous songs, “Beloved Pilot,” a morale-boosting anthem for the failing army. The resulting video shows a miserable woman, her eyes hollow with loss. “We were part of the Interior Ministry and we had to obey them,” she explained. “If they told us to sing a song, we had to sing.”
Exile and a Nuanced Defiance
Soon after, she fled Kabul with her four children, beginning a life in exile that would take her to Dubai, Pakistan, and eventually the United States. Her personal life was as turbulent as her professional one; she divorced Mangal and later married Muhammad Sharif, the son of a famous mujahedeen commander, a union that also ended.
From abroad, her relationship with her homeland and its power brokers grew more complex. While loved by millions, she has her critics. Some in Afghanistan’s divided society note her greater popularity among Pashtuns, and other musicians have accused her of being soft on the Taliban or overly commercial.
Yet, her defiance has taken a strategic, distinctly Afghan form. As early as 2013, when the Taliban was an insurgent force, she directly challenged them with a courageous a cappella video, singing: “Please don’t destroy my school, / I need to be educated, / I am an Afghan girl.” In deference to their ban on music, she used only her voice, weaponizing her platform to advocate for girls’ education—a cause she continues to champion through song.
This nuanced approach has allowed her to become a unique figure. While many of her fans express contempt for the politicians whose collapse enabled the Taliban’s return, they see artists like Naghma as true champions. She has raised money for earthquake victims and consistently used her voice for social good, navigating a path that, astonishingly, has earned her fans even among the former mujahedeen and the Taliban.
The Unyielding Melody
Today, living with her surviving sister in Sacramento, California, Naghma grapples with a profound sense of hopelessness. “With leaders like the current ones, how can I give women a message when I’m sitting here and over there the girls are not able to go to school and the women have no rights?” she asked, her voice heavy with frustration.
But on stage in London, that despair transforms into unyielding resolve. Tossing her lustrous black hair and blowing kisses to the crowd, she is undaunted. “I want to sing for you songs that will take you back to Afghanistan and give you love for one another,” she told her enraptured audience.
As her voice filled the hall with an old folk song—“From these high mountains / I will fill your laps / With mulberries, pine nuts, / And blessings, poured freely”—she was doing more than performing. She was defying erasure, mending the fractured soul of a nation with each note, proving that even in exile, a melody can be a most powerful weapon.
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If there were ever a time to join us, it is now. Every contribution, however big or small, powers our journalism and sustains our future. Support the Dawat Media Center from as little as $/€10 – it only takes a minute. If you can, please consider supporting us with a regular amount each month. Thank you
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