In a conversation that bridges continents, memories, and generations, I had the privilege of speaking with researcher Dr. Mejgan Massoumi to explore the living history of Afghan music and radio. Our discussion explored Afghanistan’s cultural golden age of the 1960s and 1970s, through years of censorship, conflict, migration, and into the resilient present—where music continues to pulse in Afghan communities around the world.
At the center of our conversation was a question that continues to shape Afghan cultural identity: How does music survive when a nation is repeatedly silenced?
For Dr. Massoumi, the story began far from music. Trained in architecture and urban planning in hopes of going to Afghanistan and helping with the physical reconstruction of the country, she found herself drawn toward the soundscape of Afghanistan through her academic journey, particularly radio. Her research revealed that radio was not merely entertainment; it was a national connective tissue.
But researching Afghan music and media history is no simple task.
Decades of war have fractured archives, scattered recordings, and erased institutional memory. To reconstruct history, she turned to oral accounts—diaspora elders, former musicians, scholars, and individuals who carried fragments of Afghanistan’s soundscape in their own memories.
“Afghanistan’s musical heritage is like a vessel of memory,” she explained—passed down through stories, gatherings, shared songs, and recollections.
We spoke in depth about one of Afghanistan’s great musical artists, Ahmad Zahir. Dr. Massoumi helped paint a realistic picture of the privileged man who was the son of the Prime Minister and while he had access to a lot more than many in the country, in the music world, he wasn’t above censorship and control. He drew from global literature and revolutionary poetry, embedding meaning between the lines and using double meaning or triple meaning to get his message across.
Music became a form of dissent, a whisper that refused to be erased.
Women were also integral to Afghanistan’s musical and broadcasting landscape, though their contributions are often minimized. In the 60s and 70s, women on the radio hosted programs on poetry, storytelling, and cultural education, and female performers pushed against social limitations simply by being heard. Their work reshaped what was imaginable for women in public life. Yet, they also navigated scrutiny and resistance—barriers that echo into the present.
What stayed with me most from this conversation is the idea that Afghan music is not frozen in time. It is changing, shaped by migration and memory, but it is still alive. The songs we carry—whether heard in taxis in Kabul, weddings in Toronto, or through scratchy recordings on YouTube—remain vessels of identity. Even when regimes attempt to erase culture, it finds ways to return. Afghan music persists because we continue to remember it, sing it, share it, and ask where it came from.
Despite the challenges facing Afghan music today, Dr. Massoumi expressed optimism.
New artists are emerging. Old songs are being remixed. Young Afghans, including those who have never lived in Afghanistan, are rediscovering the voices that shaped their parents’ and grandparents’ worlds.
Music continues to find its way back.
Music carries emotion. Identity. Memory. Belonging.
