There’s a quiet defiance in every note that rises from Dr. Ahmad Sarmast’s world — a sound that refuses to fade, even when surrounded by silence. For Sarmast, founder of the Afghanistan National Institute of Music (ANIM), music has never been just art; it’s been a form of resistance, a reclamation of culture, and a bridge to the soul of a nation that has fought to hear itself again.
When he speaks about music, it’s with the reverence of someone who’s seen it both thrive and nearly disappear. His story begins in a different Afghanistan — one that feels distant today. “Kabul was once a vibrant city,” he recalls. “There was freedom, equality, and a thriving music scene.” In those years, before the wars and bans and displacement, Afghan radio filled homes with melodies that connected generations. For a young boy surrounded by rhythm, the dream of making music felt natural.
Sarmast’s earliest fascination came from a local band called The Four Brothers, whose sound reminded him of the Beatles. “That was when I first felt the power of sound,” he said once — a moment that turned household utensils into makeshift percussion instruments. But what began as childhood curiosity became a lifelong calling when his father, Ustad Salim Sarmast, himself a renowned composer and conductor, encouraged him to pursue formal music training. In a family of seven siblings, Ahmad was the only one to choose that path. His father, understanding both the beauty and the burden of a musical life, supported him fully.
That support would set the tone for everything that followed — the belief that music could change a life, and through it, a country.
A Culture Written in Melody
Long before political borders and modern headlines, music was central to Afghanistan’s identity. Sarmast, both as a scholar and practitioner, speaks often about this deeper lineage. “Music has always been part of who we are,” he says. “Even when people tried to erase it, it found ways to survive.”
From the Aryan settlers to the Persian courts, from the ghazals of poets to the lutes carved by hand in local markets, Afghan music has carried the stories of empires, migrations, and memories. In cities like Kabul, Herat, and Mazar-e-Sharif, musical sophistication flourished — a far cry from the restrictive perceptions that later took hold in more conservative rural communities. Sarmast often points to this contrast: that music in Afghanistan was never just entertainment, but history, faith, and philosophy intertwined.
His research traces this evolution through centuries of cultural expression — from folk traditions unique to each ethnic group, to classical music influenced by Indian ragas and Persian tonal systems, to the modern popular era of the 20th century that introduced harmonium, tabla, and Western orchestration to Afghan airwaves. Despite the loss of archives and the destruction of musical artifacts, Sarmast insists there’s enough evidence — in literature, paintings, poetry, and oral tradition — to piece together an unbroken story of sound. “Our music,” he once said, “is older than our wars.”
A Return Against All Odds
After years abroad studying ethnomusicology in Australia, Sarmast could have chosen the easier path — safety, stability, distance. But in 2008, he made a decision that would redefine Afghan cultural history: he returned to Kabul to rebuild what had been silenced.
At the time, music education in Afghanistan was almost nonexistent. Decades of conflict had erased institutions and driven musicians underground. Instruments were destroyed, and a generation grew up without hearing live performance. What Sarmast envisioned — a national institute where boys and girls could study side by side, learning both Afghan and Western traditions — was unprecedented. It was also dangerous.
The Afghanistan National Institute of Music (ANIM) opened as a pilot project for disadvantaged children — orphans, street workers, and those from marginalized backgrounds. “I wanted to create opportunity through art,” Sarmast said. “To give children not only an education, but a voice.” It wasn’t only about reviving melodies — it was about rebuilding dignity. The classrooms echoed with tabla rhythms and violin practice, instruments once banned now symbolizing hope.
As the school grew, so did its impact. Concerts by the Afghan Youth Orchestra captured global attention. Students toured internationally, performing at venues like the Kennedy Center and Carnegie Hall. For the first time, the world saw a different image of Afghanistan — not of war, but of harmony.
The Sound of Equality: Zohra Orchestra
In 2015, Sarmast and ANIM introduced another bold idea: the Zohra Orchestra, Afghanistan’s first all-female ensemble. In a country where women had long been excluded from public performance, this was nothing short of revolutionary. The young women of Zohra didn’t just play music — they redefined what was possible.
Named after a Persian goddess of music, Zohra became an emblem of empowerment. Their performances carried not only melodies but messages — that women’s voices belonged in every space, that culture could lead social change. For Sarmast, this wasn’t a political act but a deeply human one. “Music is a right,” he often says, “and so is equality.”
But such defiance came at a cost. In 2014, a year before Zohra’s founding, Sarmast survived a suicide attack during a school concert in Kabul. The explosion targeted him directly — a message from extremists who saw his work as a threat. He spent months recovering, but returned to the classroom as soon as he could. “If I stop,” he said, “then they win.”
Exile and Advocacy
The Taliban’s return in 2021 shattered the fragile progress Afghan musicians had made. Instruments were again banned. Artists went into hiding. The sound of silence returned — this time, heavier than before.
For Sarmast, the fall of Kabul was both a personal and collective heartbreak. Yet, within weeks, he organized one of the largest evacuations of musicians in modern history — helping more than 270 students, teachers, and their families escape. Among them were the members of the Zohra Orchestra and the Afghan Youth Orchestra. Their departure marked not just a physical journey, but the continuation of a mission in exile.
Today, ANIM operates across several countries, continuing its classes and performances virtually and abroad. Its orchestras play in global concert halls, carrying with them the melodies of a homeland they can no longer freely perform in. “We are now the voice of the silenced,” Sarmast says. “Our music is our protest.”
Even in exile, he remains tireless. From Lisbon to Toronto, he performs and lectures — not for profit, but for awareness. Every concert becomes a reminder: Afghan music lives, even if its stage has changed.
Echoes That Endure
When we think about the story of Afghan music, it’s impossible not to hear Ahmad Sarmast’s name reverberating through it. His work embodies what Echoes stands for — not just preservation, but renewal. Through his teaching, advocacy, and unyielding hope, he’s shown that even in exile, art remains a form of return.
In every rehearsal hall where ANIM students tune their instruments, in every stage where Zohra’s musicians perform, Afghanistan is still singing. It’s a melody of resistance — of a people who refuse to let their culture be buried.
Dr. Sarmast’s journey is not just about music. It’s about the audacity to rebuild beauty after destruction, to answer violence with art, and to prove that sound — once silenced — can find its way back into the world.
And as the echoes of that sound continue to spread, one truth remains: Afghanistan’s music, much like Sarmast himself, has never truly stopped playing.
