54M
eena couldn’t believe
her luck when, as
a teenager, she got
hold of a ticket to
an Ahmad Zahir
concert. She dressed in her best orange
bell-bottom flares and a red flowery
blouse, and squeezed into a minibus with
20 or so sisters and cousins. “We were
clapping and dancing,” she recalled. “It
was just amazing.” Girls threw handker-
chiefs on stage, hoping he’d sign them,
and drank from a glass he’d put down.
The concert was in Kabul, around- At that time, many singing stars
were performing in Afghanistan, but
only one who moved with the music
on stage and got the room screaming –
who mixed Afghan instruments such as
rubab and harmonium with saxophone
and electronic keyboards, trumpet
with bongo drums.
Afghanistan’s first and biggest pop
superstar died in a car crash in the
mountains north of Kabul on 14 June
1979 – his 33rd birthday – at the height
of his stratospheric fame. In a brief
but brilliant public life of only about
a decade he’d released more than 20
albums. Some were recorded by Radio
Afghanistan, the national broadcaster
that reached almost every corner of the
country. Others were made by private
studios and released on cassette, trucked
out to the provinces and passed from
house to house. There were also scores
of homemade tapes of tours, parties and
jamming sessions – hundreds of tracks
in all. Ahmad Zahir was everywhere.
Publicity photos show him in his stylish
red car, or looking soulful in casual
fashion, every inch the modern man.
Ahmad Zahir was born in Lagh-
man, east of Kabul, in 1946, when
Afghanistan was an absolute monarchy
experimenting with new and progressive
ideas. His father, Abdul Zahir, was court
doctor, and later prime minister between
1971 and 1972; he had been one of
many intellectuals involved in creating
the Afghan Constitution of 1964 that
enshrined a limited parliamentary de-
mocracy, universal suffrage and a bill of
rights for all. These were changing times- uncertain but thrilling – and you can
hear it all in Ahmad Zahir’s songs.
He formed his first band while still
at school. He played first for family and
friends before he emerged as a public
performer – something unheard of for
someone of his social standing.
The nickname ‘Afghan Elvis’ began
to stick after he covered ‘It’s Now or
Never’ with his own snare drum and
trumpet opening. But he was an
absorber, not an imitator, and he had
ears everywhere. His assimilating of
styles, languages and traditions pro-
pelled his musical odyssey through pop
and jazz to Persian poetry and classical
Afghan ghazal. He sang mostly in the
languages of Afghanistan – Dari and
Pashtu – but also in Hindi and English.
Anecdotes abound of Ahmad Zahir’s
sympathy for those less fortunate. He
gave cash to the hungry, and supported
inclusive social causes such as helping the
impoverished Sikh community. Some
of his songs reflect his social concerns,
obliquely addressing the mercurial poli-
tics of his time, particularly following the
1973 coup that overthrew the monarchy.
In April 1978, the good times came
shuddering to a bloody halt when the
communist People’s Democratic Party
of Afghanistan seized power. A little over
a year later, Ahmad Zahir was dead.
When the news of that fatal car crash
reached Kabul, it seemed impossible that
Ahmad Zahir, so full of life, was gone.
Rumours that he had been assassinated
began to circulate at once, and continue
to this day: the case was never investi-
gated, and it remains one of thousands
of mysterious deaths and disappearances
during this period. Tens of thousands of
mourners turned out for his funeral,
processing through the streets of the
capital, crying and carrying flowers.
Six months after his death, the Soviet
Union invaded, purportedly aiming
to bring stability. Instead, the invasion
ushered in 40 years of bloodshed that
Afghans still live with today.
What might have happened had
Ahmad Zahir lived? He might have
hung on in Kabul through the com-
munist years, making the compromises
many musicians did. He surely could
not have survived the music-hating
Taliban: one of that regime’s first acts on
taking Kabul in 1996 was to blow up his
grave. It seems likely that he would have
left for a place of greater safety, perhaps
playing in Los Angeles along with other
Afghan musicians in exile. And who
knows? He might have been among the
brave souls who returned to help rebuild
their country in the 21st century.Monica Whitlock is a writer and broadcasterListen to the BBC World Service documentary
Remembering Afghanistan’s Elvis at
bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3csz4kdDISCOVER MOREИЗП
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