Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan: Anomalous Visions of History and Form (Iranian Studies)

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

With the unleashing of the “War on Terror” in the aftermath of 9/11, Afghanistan has become prominent in the news. However, we need to appreciate that no substantive understanding of contemporary history, politics and society of this country can be achieved without a thorough analysis of the Afghan encounter with cultural and literary modernity and modernization. Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan does just that. The book offers a balanced and interdisciplinary analysis of the rich and admirable contemporary poetry and fiction of a land long tormented by wars and invasions. It sets out to demonstrate that, within the trajectory of the union between modern aesthetic imagination and politics, creativity and production, and representation and history, the modernist intervention enabled many contemporary poets and writers of fiction to resist the overt politicization of the literary field, without evading politics or disavowing the modern state. The interpretative moves and nuanced readings of a series of literary texts make this book a major contribution to a rather neglected area of research and study. It is essential reading for students and scholars in comparative literary analysis, Middle East and Central Asian cultural studies and the emergent Afghanistan studies. Wali Ahmadi is Associate Professor of Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley, USA.

Iranian Studies Edited by: Homa Katouzian University of Oxford and

Mohamad Tavakoli University of Toronto

Since 1967 the International Society for Iranian Studies (ISIS) has been a leading learned society for the advancement of new approaches in the study of Iranian society, history, culture, and literature. The new ISIS Iranian Studies series published by Routledge will provide a venue for the publication of original and innovative scholarly works in all areas of Iranian and Persianate Studies. 1. Journalism in Iran From mission to profession Hossein Shahidi 2. Sadeq Hedayat His work and his wondrous world Homa Katouzian 3. Iran in the 21st Century Politics, economics and confrontation Homa Katouzian and Hossein Shahidi 4. Media, Culture and Society in Iran Living with globalization and the Islamic state Mehdi Semati 5. Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Anomalous visions of history and form Wali Ahmadi

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Anomalous visions of history and form

Wali Ahmadi

First published 2008 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2008 Wali Ahmadi All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ahmadi, Wali. Modern Persian literature in Afghanistan : anomalous visions of history and form / Wali Ahmadi. p. cm—(Iranian studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Persian literature—Afghanistan—History and criticism. 2. Persian literature—Political aspects—Afghanistan. 3. Politics and literature—Afghanistan. I. Title. PK6427.6.A3A33 2008 891′.55099581—dc22 2007036608 ISBN 0-203-94602-2 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 10: 0–415–43778–4 (hbk) ISBN 10: 0–203–94602–2 (ebk) ISBN 13: 978–0–415–43778–3 (hbk) ISBN 13: 978–0–203–94602–2 (ebk)

To the memory of my parents and to Geeta, Yassna, and Yamna

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction: the conundrum of modernity 1

viii 1

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”: ordering the culture of modernity

16

2

The poetics of (national) truth content

38

3

Perilous ends of history: the rhetoric of commitment and the poetics of nationalism

62

Literature of Commandement and the crisis of commitment

88

4

5

De-centering dissent

114

Epilogue: contending with history

141

Notes Bibliography Index

148 169 181

Acknowledgments

In the writing of this book, much gratitude is owed to many. I am particularly grateful to Amin Banani for his continued interest in, and unfailing support of, my research and scholarly endeavors over the years. I have benefited greatly from his encouragement and incisively subtle suggestions about my approach to contemporary literature in Persian. I have also learned much from the late Ali Razawi’s vast knowledge of literary and intellectual trends in Afghanistan. He was undoubtedly a genuine representative of modern Afghan literature and culture. The debt I owe to Wasef Bakhtari is, as it has always been, so immense that it is impossible to define or measure. His critical writings, his poetry, and his intellectual example have been a constant inspiration to me. My colleagues at the Near Eastern Studies department in Berkeley have provided me with a warm collegiate atmosphere in which to finish this project. I am also indebted to my editor Kathryn Summer Drabinski. I should gratefully acknowledge that in the preparation of this book I received generous support from the Hillman Family Faculty Fund and a crucial sabbatical grant from the University of California’s Committee on Research. I dedicate the book to the memory of my parents and to my loving wife and daughters. I am deeply grateful to Geeta for her amazing patience, her charm, and her faith in my work. She endured so much while several drafts of the manuscript were being written, rewritten, and revised. No words can express the depth of my endless love and affection for my precious and adorable little angels Yassna and Yamna. Heartfelt thanks also go to my supportive sisters and brothers and delightful nieces and nephews. Wali Ahmadi

Introduction The conundrum of modernity

All works of art, including those that pretend to be completely harmonious, belong to a complex of problems. As such they participate in history, transcending their uniqueness. Theodor W. Adorno

On October 1, 1901 the “Iron Amı¯r”
Abd al-Rahma¯ n died in Kabul. In the wake of the catastrophic events of September 11, 2001 in America, the iron rule of the Taliban in Afghanistan came to a violent end. The intervening hundred years—the tumultuous twentieth century—constitute Afghanistan’s intricate and often tortuous encounter with modernity. This book is not a study of Afghan modernity, in all its varied and complex facets, in a social context where aspects that are considered hallmarks of modernity remain full of paradoxes, contradictions, and twists and turns. Rather, as the first full-length analysis of a hitherto neglected area in the fields of contemporary comparative, post-colonial, and Persian literary studies, it is a study of the experience of cultural modernity as projected and expressed in the elaborate interweaving of texts and their socio-historical contexts in a “Third-World” society. More specifically, it elucidates the dynamic conjunction of intellectual and literary-aesthetic discourses with history and politics in the peculiar propagation and reception of modernity in Afghanistan. The experience of modernity can function to make historical development and social vitality more visible; literature has contributed to that experience throughout the twentieth century. Afghan writers of poetry and fiction were more than aware that the introduction of an array of continuous literary innovations radically reinforced the development of a modern literaryaesthetic discourse and the concomitant destabilization of traditional discursive frames. Nevertheless, in what reveals the vigor as well as the protean nature of modernity, as inheritors of a long-preserved cultural legacy and literary tradition, these writers attempted to integrate a number of specific traditional literary forms and sensibilities within the emergent aesthetics. A distinguishing aspect of the new aesthetics consisted of the impulse towards synthesizing formal laws that derived from traditional literature—and

2

Introduction

constituted the purported inherent autonomy of a work of literature—and its inexorable entwinement with the realms of ideological constructions, intellectual machinations, and social/political praxes. Therefore, as the following chapters demonstrate, throughout the twentieth century, the Afghan reception of modernism has been characterized by the complex dialectic between poetics and politics, between textuality and historicity, between aesthetic autonomy and aesthetic purposiveness, and between literaryformalist innovations and socially-conscious commitments. It should be mentioned that modern Afghanistan has been officially a bilingual country. Both Persian (Dari) and Pashtu are considered the official languages of the state. Although a splendid array of modernist writings exist in Pashtu, the discourse of cultural and literary-aesthetic modernity in Afghanistan has been predominantly articulated in the Persian language.1 Despite institutional patronage of Pashtu throughout the twentieth century, Persian has remained the cohesive cultural force throughout the land. Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan: Anomalous visions of history and form engages with works of Afghan writers and poets in the Persian language, but the discursive strategies that are symptomatic of modern Persian literature, powerfully reverberate in the modern Pashtu literature as well, and some prominent poets and writers (including some whose writings are studied here) also produce, with equal versatility and adaptability, in Pashtu.

Modernity: identity and hybridity Few concepts in the human sciences have proved as dynamic and complex, as well as so contested, as the concept of modernity. Generally referring to a belief in reason, the doctrine of progress, and confidence in perpetual human possibilities, modernity’s characteristics are said to include “disintegration and reformation, fragmentation and rapid change, ephemerality and insecurity. [Modernity] involves certain new understandings of time and space: speed, mobility, communication, travel, dynamism, chaos, and cultural revolution.”2 “Western discourse on modernity,” as Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar has suggested, “[has been] a shifting, hybrid configuration consisting of different, often conflicting, theories, norms, historical experiences, utopic fantasies, and ideological commitments.”3 On a global scale, the project of modernity initially professed an “enlightened” reception of the presence and distinctiveness of the non-Western other.4 Yet, most proponents of modernity in the West have increasingly stressed that its universality draws from the specific sense that all human societies will inevitably, and irreversibly, be the same. They foresee the necessary triumph and successful transmission and diffusion of this particular reading of modernity over the encumbrances of traditional forms of cultural manifestations, social values and norms, and institutions of political authority everywhere. Clearly, in the universe of “pure modernity,” while non-Western societies experience a necessary and inevitable process of “de-traditionalization,” the unique sovereignty and

Introduction

3

cultural superiority of the West remains intact.5 A relatively recent elaboration of the universalist order of modernity (measured primarily through purportedly quantifiable economic development, scientific advances, and social progress) is found in theories of “modernization” and “development” in the social sciences.6 Characterized by an “evolutionary logic,” these theories are meant “to reinforce a conceptual field wherein the non-West never emerges in its commensurate ‘coevalness’ but as an eager aspirant to a preconstituted ideal.”7 The conundrum of modernity’s teleological grasp is that, in the context of non-Western regions of the world, modernity signifies a process that is continually deferred and incessantly belated. The “other” of the West remains perpetually a peripheral dependency of the West.8 Such a view of modernity, despite its prevalence, goes against the hypothesis that modernity, being itself inherently dynamic and flexible—“a maelstrom of perpetual disintegration and renewal, of struggle and contradiction, of ambiguity and anguish”9—needs not to be applied uniformly in non-Western contexts. Furthermore, it reinforces the view that the Western monopoly over the definition of the course of modernity is aimed to perpetuate and maintain the West’s position of superiority as the focal point of global hegemony and domination. Western colonial and imperial expansion in the modern era has provided sufficient ground to validate this point. It has given impetus, in conjunction with the formation of anti-colonial liberation movements, to the growth of a forceful discourse of cultural resistance persistently presented in the anti-colonial thought emerging from the (former) colonies. Premised on a concept of impermeable identity (the “self ”) and essential difference (the “other”) this project (later to be culminated in the postcolonial agenda) is derived from, and nourished by, the notion of irreducible cultural identity and authenticity. This notion, according to the Arab political philosopher Aziz Al-Azmeh, designates the self in contradistinction to the other, the essential as against the accidental, the natural as opposed to the artificial. Only thus can individuality and specificity properly be said to designate any genuine distinctiveness in opposition to “the loss of distinctiveness and dissolution in another specificity [i.e. the West] which claims universality.”10 A mirror reflection of the notion of modernity as triumphal Westernization, the dehistoricized discourse of authenticity delineates that there is a different “order of truth” found in non-Western culture(s), signifying an undiluted identity that can be defined in terms of “a sort of collective ‘one true self,’ hiding inside the many other, more superficial or artificially imposed ‘selves,’ which people with a shared history and ancestry hold in common.”11 What most proponents of the discourse of cultural authenticity have tended to ignore is that the emergence and consolidation of Western

4

Introduction

modernity could not have happened in the absence of a vast, though often unacknowledged, structural process that required the active, material presence and contributions of the non-Western world. In other words, the course of modern history of the West could not have been shaped without the contributions of “the people without history.”12 Historically, the non-Western world (for instance, the “Orient”) has been consistently “not only adjacent to Europe; it is also the place of Europe’s greatest and richest and oldest colonies, the source of its civilizations and languages, its cultural contestant, and one of its deepest and most recurring images of the [o]ther.” It has also been “an integral part of European material civilization and culture.”13 This inescapable factor undermines the Eurocentricity of modernity per se. Not confined to the West, modernity has become a radically polycentric, polyvalent project, with manifold participants. Instead of a singular, “ordinary” modernity, then, one may appropriately suggest that there are “multiple modernities,”14 “alternative modernities,”15 or, considering the structural composition of the non-Western societies, “belated modernities.”16 To acknowledge the multiplicity and diversity of modernity implies that modernity is now entrenched, in a recognizable way, in the social fabric of vast areas in the non-Western world. Most of these societies have long been engaged productively in negotiating with modernity—in whose selfdefinition and legitimation they have played a crucial role.17 As the discussion above demonstrates, the inherent diversity of global modernity makes its reception in the non-Western contexts more than the reproduction of the historical and intellectual situation of the West. Modernity in non-Western contexts does not follow some abstract “original” Western blueprint with the aim of producing a “faithful duplication of Western prototypes.”18 To suggest—as I do in this book—that the twentieth century constitutes the era of modernity in a society like Afghanistan is not to imply that the project of modernity, as defined and manufactured in the West, was ingrained, in toto and systematically, in a marginal(ized) traditional setting. However, by scrutinizing the literature of Afghanistan within the prevailing intellectual discourses of the twentieth century, this study does imply that a certain modality of modernity, derived from a perceptible shift in “time categories” and a comprehensive “temporal-sequential concept of history,” assumed privilege over “mythical and recurrent models”19 and culminated in the preponderance and ubiquity of a variegated, multifaceted form of modernity throughout nearly every space of enunciation in the Afghan society. This transformative act obviously means that the dissemination of modernity in a remote peripheral society like Afghanistan has been—and, indeed, must be—necessarily a selective process. It gives credence to the contention that the project of modernity of the periphery may be profoundly uneven, deeply ambiguous, and infinitely shifting. Such a project may also be consistently agonized by the sense of its own historical anomalies. This agony is felt most deeply and reflected most elaborately in the field of modern literature as an intellectual practice.

Introduction

5

Aesthetics and forms of authenticity Cultural modernity in general, and literary-aesthetic modernism in particular, is difficult to define. Although it is acknowledged that it would be “invidious to have to say what [m]odernism [is] precisely because any history or definition insinuates many implicit exclusions,”20 and “[d]espite the overwhelming evidence that modernism defies reduction to simple common denominators,”21 numerous attempts have been made to proceed with providing a general definition of literary modernism. “What critics present as a set of distinctive features is usually always only a selective modeling of modernism, determined by the critic’s special purposes and perspectives.”22 The complexity and heterogeneity of modernism becomes especially discernible when one considers its manifestations as a literary-aesthetic movement and analyzes its mechanisms as an intellectual project of modernity within the larger cultural system in the context of non-Western societies. The study of modernism in non-Western literatures often draws from an essentially binary perspective, from certain generalizations that insist on the dichotomous and inherently antagonistic relations between such abstractions as autochthonous (native) traditions and imported (Western) innovations, and assumes a view where either literary innovation irreversibly triumphs over various manifestations of démodé traditions, or indigenous heritage resists the penetration of some gratuitous novelty. In the latter case, which is directly relevant to my discussion of literary modernity in a contemporary “Third-World” society (Afghanistan), one finds an evocative thesis which insists that only in so far as a text has its roots in the pre-modern, precolonial encounter (whether in oral myths and legends or, as in the case of Afghanistan, in the almost unlimited reservoir of classical textual heritage in Persian) can it represent the authentic non-Western self and be regarded as a true work of literature. Whatever is “influenced” (i.e. diluted) by Western literary works and movements ought to be discarded as inauthentic and unoriginal. Since modernity is regarded as an imposed order that came about in conjunction with Western colonial encroachment and imperial domination, modernism and modernist aesthetics and poetics are also seen as alien, expressing the alienated selves of a few deracinated writers and poets who are intellectually disconnected from the masses, the vast subaltern classes, and their collective history, memory, and identity. Frantz Fanon’s postulations, especially in The Wretched of the Earth (considered a foundational thesis of the cultural discourse of post-colonialism), exemplify a project of “Manichean aesthetics” that is prone to privilege counter-modernist works that reflect a rather strict definition of identity in the (former) colonies.23 Theoretically, this project represents the rigorous, counter-hegemonic, and subversive resistance in part of the (formerly) colonized people against the continuing cultural domination of the hegemonic Western imperial structures ingrained in the minds of the subjugated natives. Dealing primarily with the production and reproduction of the cultural sphere, the discourse

6

Introduction

of post-colonial criticism thus defined inevitably “force[s] a radical rethinking and re-formulation of forms of knowledge and social identities authored and authorized by colonialism and Western domination.”24 The case of twentieth century literature in Afghanistan demonstrates that contemporary poets and writers live and write in a world of multiple determinations, not of single or predominant ones. The Afghan stance towards the dissemination of cultural and literary-aesthetic modernity effectively evaded the dual points of a “Manichean” cultural position—namely, that the “passionate search for [an authentic] national culture” by native writers and poets in colonial societies “finds its legitimate reason in [their] anxiety to shrink away from that Western culture in which they all risk being swamped” and that these literati realize that they are in danger of “becoming lost to their people.”25 In the domain of literary-critical practice in Afghanistan, to reclaim an exclusive self-identity has proven highly improbable, mainly because of the realization on the part of Afghan writers that such a “project usually posits precisely the impossibility of that identity ever being ‘uncontaminated’.”26 By focusing on the industrious and prolific literature of a marginalized area (Afghanistan) within the larger Persian literature, a central aim of the present study is, therefore, to see literary modernity (determined by the “generic field” in which it is situated) as a particularly effective subject of literary transmission and aesthetic transference across and within cultural traditions in modern history. As Mineke Schipper maintains, New approaches to literature leave ample room for the intercultural comparative study of literature, whether this involves relationships of contact (influences, for example) or of typological similarities (genre characteristics, for instance). Profiting from developments in semiotics, the study of literature has begun to liberate itself from the old approach with its inflexible Western norms and values that characterized so many researches for so long.27 The point that needs to be emphasized here is that modern literary forms proliferate when they travel far and wide from their purported original homes, to the extent that they can no longer claim to be representative of any one specific cultural tradition. After all, as a literary sociologist has put it succinctly, “[w]hereas art forms owe their birth to a specific social [and national] context, they are not tied to the context of their origin or to a social situation that is analogous to it, for the truth is that they can take on different functions in varying social contexts.”28 It is from such a critical perspective that Michael Beard, in his discussion of the seminal Persian novel The Blind Owl, for instance, emphatically rejects as “ambiguous gesture” the view that bestows upon (Third-World) writers a strong, autochthonous cultural identity immune to Western influence: “On the one hand [such a view] portrays them as self-sufficient, as possessors of an indigenous

Introduction

7

narrative tradition that obviates importations; on the other hand it puts a wedge between our world and theirs, which prevents the possibility of comparison on equal terms, and in a sense forestalls taking them with complete seriousness.”29 Let us not lose sight of the fundamental fact that because of the imperial structures of power, the center/periphery bifurcation of the global cultural economy is indeed real and that the “world literary system,” in its present constitution, is profoundly marked by “a relationship of growing inequality.”30 It is true that “[l]iterature has for too long been a given institution; it has been accepted for a very long time, especially in the Western world, that most of what is called world literature is necessarily Western literature.”31 Similarly, the transferring into non-Western literatures of literary forms and genres that originated (in complex historical circumstances) in the West is certainly a difficult process, as much charting new territories as excluding existent ones. The modern novel can be a case in point here. On the one hand, “as a challenge to preexistent narrative forms . . . [the novel] made available certain narratives or discursive possibilities.” Yet, at the same time, “it foreclosed other possibilities and postulated them as impossibilities or aporias.”32 Therefore, an enormous challenge to the scholar of literature, especially one of comparative literature, would be to radically re-evaluate “the conceptual structure of the category modernism, its limits and internal organization”33 not only vis-à-vis various forms of Western modernism but also in relation to the modernity of the periphery as “emblematic and symptomatic” of a diverse and heterogeneous modernist literary movement. Such a revaluation would find the phenomenon of “pluralizing poetics” essential to any conceptualization of literature(s). But “the model of poetics here [should be] rhizomatous, not arborescent: it is not a question with either ‘general literature’ or with national literature of a major trunk and minor branches, but of horizontal networks variously intersecting.”34 In concert with the discussion of modernity above, the present study maintains that there are necessarily differences among various cultural traditions of modernism (as there are within each tradition), but these differences ought to be seen primarily as notional and definitional rather than fundamental and national.35

Alter(nation)ing allegories The analysis of the relations between cultural production and national identity and ideals has been the subject of a number of influential critical studies.36 The idea of the nation in modern intellectual and literary discourse in Afghanistan has been pervasive ever since the country inherited the foremost ubiquitous form of polity in modernity: the nation-state. If a nation is assumed to be “a collectivity existing within a clearly demarcated territory, which is subject to a unitary administration, reflexively monitored both by the internal state apparatus and those of other states,”37 and a state, in its

8

Introduction

part, is “[a] compulsory political organization with continuous operations (politischer Anstaltsbetrieb) [where] its administrative staff successfully upholds the claims to the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force in the enforcement of its order,”38 Afghanistan emerged as a nation-state only towards the end of the nineteenth century, during the reign of Amı¯r
Abd al-Rahma¯ n (1880–1901). Although the Amı¯r was a major beneficiary of British financial aid and well served their interests in the region, the modern Afghan state was not a direct colonial construct built upon old colonial models of polity and governance. Unlike most states that emerged in the post-colonial era, notwithstanding the Soviet occupation during the 1980s, Afghanistan was never run by foreign administrators or their native acolytes. Thus, the conjunction of culture and politics in twentieth century Afghanistan has been, in so many ways, markedly unique. Part of my argument in this book is to evaluate the many promises as well as the perils of post-colonial cultural theories in explaining notions of identity and alterity in complex historical contexts such as Afghanistan. The socio-historical condition of non- or semi-coloniality in Afghanistan meant that a post- (in the sense of after) colonial discourse of cultural authenticity stemming from the entwinement of a politics of anti-colonial national resistance and a counter-modernist aesthetics proved itself only marginally influential. It was rather the establishment of the modern state and its corollary agencies that meant, on the one hand, an incessant, though often incoherent and unsystematic, expansion of a vast (and overwhelmingly dysfunctional) administrative bureaucracy and, on the other hand, a military of enormous power capable of large-scale violence.39 The essence of the intricate ideological association of literature and politics in Afghanistan during most of the twentieth century lies (in addition to the abundance of the idea of national identity, integrity, and congruity) in the evolving conjunction of the sphere of the literary with structures of domination and the charting of the institutional perimeters of an Afghan polity. Thus, there emerged at the forefront of what may be termed an alternative modernity, a small but determined group of intellectuals (whose formation and social fortitude owed so much to the modernization efforts of the state) who emphasized and promoted modern literature’s purposiveness—its social function and its commitment to political practice—and, to this end, explored literature, both as an imaginative enterprise and as a linguistic system, in order to offer a radical cultural critique of the state and society. In the controversial article “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism” (originally published in Social Text) Fredric Jameson contends that, in the realist and modernist literary texts in the West—the “First-World”—there is “a radical split between the private and the public, between the poetic and the political, between what we have come to think of as the domain of sexuality and the unconscious and that of the public world of classes, of the economic, and of the secular political power.” “We have been trained in a deep cultural conviction that the lived experience of our

Introduction

9

private existences is somehow incommensurable with the abstractions of economic science and political dynamics,” he affirms.40 In contrast, “ThirdWorld” texts—“even those which are seemingly private . . .—necessarily project a political dimension in the form of national allegory.”41 For the sake of my argument, the pertinence of Jameson’s thesis to the case of modern literature in Afghanistan can be seen not so much in its obviously sweeping argument that “[a]ll third-world texts are necessarily . . . allegorical, and [are] to be read as . . . national allegories,” but rather in its insightful accentuation that “the story of the private individual destiny is always an allegory of the embattled situation of the public third-world culture and society.”42 Equally significantly, in a move away from the conventional meaning of the term “allegory,” he defines allegory as “an elaborate set of figures and personifications to be read against some one-to-one table of equivalences: that is, so to speak, as a one-dimensional view of this signifying process.”43 For my discussion of modern literature in Afghanistan, I find Jameson’s revisiting of the term allegory regarding “Third-World” literatures to be especially apposite. An “allegorical” reading of the nation, then, would not necessarily mean that one is dealing with the over-abundance of the idea of the nation in literature in some overtly simplistic, directly expressivist, purely doctrinal, and ideologically dogmatic forms (although plenty such works do exist in the literature of Afghanistan). Rather, “the allegorical spirit is [or can be] profoundly discontinuous, a matter of breaks and heterogeneities, of the multiple polysemia of the dream rather than the homogeneous representation of the symbol.”44 With such a view of allegory in mind, I contend that modern literature in Afghanistan can indeed be read as an allegory, an allegory, however, that is “national”—because it imagines and narrates the national community/society of modernity—but is also, in a strict sense, profoundly “political.” It is precisely this latter sense that presents a substantial ground of distinction between the officially sanctioned delineation of the nation (as a conventional allegory) prescribed by the dominant state and inculcated by its affiliated cultural institutions and the imagination of the nation as a deeply political allegory as part of an overall critical/oppositional project. Despite their broad consensus as national allegories the two forms are to be distinguished by their anomalous, incompatible envisioning of the nation of modernity. Such a differentiation is significant for it reveals that, in its ambivalent position vis-à-vis Western hegemonic imperialism and residues of colonial incursions, the Afghan cultural encounter with modernity has indeed been allegorizing “the embattled situation” of contemporary Afghan society in its complex relations to the dominant form(s) of modern polity.

The principle of aesthetic purposiveness The allegorization of the Afghan nation propagated by the ruling state conveyed an overwhelmingly strategic position: to impinge upon the nation a

10

Introduction

form of imagination that legitimated the hegemonic designs of a state intent on expanding the paradigm of its domination and governance through devising a union of “citizens” rather than pure “subjects.” To portend that such a collectivity derives its power and legitimacy, at least theoretically, from the “people,” the state wished to dominate the propagation of the nation, the mapping of its identity, the delineation of its language(s), the construction of its shared historical memory, and the constitution of its future destiny. Its monopoly over the implementation of development programs enabled the state to establish and effectively control modern schools, universities, teacher training colleges, cultural centers, literary associations, historical institutes, archeological departments, publication houses, scholarly journals, seminars, conferences, symposia, etc. As a result of these modernizing steps in the twentieth century, Afghanistan witnessed the exceeding expansion of an educated elite, most of whom subscribed to the state’s official views of the nation. In the meantime, the state attempted to subordinate, or at least manage, potentially different readings of the nation, to manipulate alternative processes of national allegorization. This move would require the use of the educational and cultural reservoir at its disposal in capitalizing its claim of intellectual and moral leadership. After all, at least within the time frame analyzed in this study, the intellectuals in Afghanistan did not constitute an entity independent of the state but were actually practical employees and salaried functionaries of the state. Theoretically, the fact that an overwhelming majority of the emergent intellectuals were products of, and absorbed by, state institutions should have enabled the state and its ruling elites to exercise at least some form of hegemonic leadership. From the start, however, the project pursued by the state suffered from a number of structural deficiencies and historical anomalies. In the early decades of the twentieth century—especially during the reign of the “enlightened” Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h in the 1920s—the discourse of modernity was dominated by calls to salvage the decrepit nation and thrust the backward society forward on a new, culturally advanced and economically developed phase. The ruling state and the emergent intellectuals found themselves in tacit agreement that only the institution of the state was sufficiently capable of formulating tangible modern development and introducing social change in Afghanistan. It appears that they both saw the state as essential in constructing the imaginative trajectory of the nation in conjunction with the cultivation of a broad, comprehensive civil society. In the subsequent decades (during the Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynastic rule, 1929–1978), the concerns and visions of the intellectuals radically and widely diverged from those pursued by the state. This period saw not only the appearance of a group of educated elites who, by and large, subscribed to the state cultural agenda and proposed gradual change within existing political structures, it also saw the development of an exceeding number of intellectuals—poets, writers, artists, publicists, pamphleteers, and, to a large extent, teachers, scholars, and academics—who increasingly contended that the actual existing state, with its capitalization

Introduction

11

of authoritarian rule, had hardly proven itself an effective instrument of realizing genuine modernity and promoting civil society. Rather, through its development schemes of limited scope and increasingly diminishing impact, it made Afghanistan a miserable case of protracted belatedness in incorporating modernity, where no effective public sphere could operate and no civil society be achieved. In their contentious and adversarial encounter vis-à-vis the dominant state, intellectuals, therefore, could be described in terms no less than dissident, oppositional, and resistant. Throughout most of the twentieth century, the dominant Afghan state was ever determined to exercise its prerogative to silence and subjugate dissident intellectuals. In their resisting the coercive measures taken by the state, the intellectuals, in their part as a potent social movement, advocated nothing short of a radical cultural agenda that meant the inevitable involvement of all forms of cultural and literary production in politics, in order to bring about comprehensive social change and propel the nation forward towards what they considered “genuine” modernity. It was their understanding of modernity, both as a social and economic phenomenon as well as a fundamentally cultural-political project, that made their modernizing efforts so vastly different from those of the dominant state. The social responsibility of the intellectuals (in the case of the present study, primarily poets and writers of fiction) inevitably involved their commitment to the evolution of a purposive aesthetics that was principally engaged with the development of the nation and the state or, more precisely, the political formation of the nation-state—the ever paradigmatic hyphenated structure that, as a quintessentially disciplinary institution, has overwhelmed the domain of politics and public authority in modernity and cast its long shadow over the sphere of literature and culture. But what could be considered genuine modernity? For most of the intellectuals who were dissatisfied with the modernizing efforts of the state, genuine modernity consisted of expanding the modern culture to the vast number of ordinary masses in society leading to the empowerment, collective agency, and social awareness of the “people” or the “masses” (mardum, khalq, tudah). The true function of the modern polity should be the inculcation of a cultural revolution, to awaken the “people” from their historical lethargy, to revitalize them not simply through gradual improvement of their material circumstances or further Westernization, but through the genuine transformation of their ossified consciousness; in short, to make them aware of themselves-as-their-own-true-selves. Nothing short of such a transformative act would constitute genuine modernity. Nowhere did the discourse of the people and the aim of enlightening the masses to push them forward on the progressive track of historical development come to prominence more elaborately than in the field of literary production, where a whole range of oppositional and subversive literatures flourished. Literary writing became the sine qua non of intellectual practice and the poet and writer as intellectual identified his/her own omniscient

12 Introduction subject with the absolute subject of history. Thus, Afghan literature of modernity has been paradigmatically inundated, implicitly or explicitly, with the flowing idea of a predestined telos of historical progress. Modern literature, in order to contribute to the process of social transformation and change, is supposed to serve as an instrument in fulfilling a cultural as well as a political agenda: to assume a socially practical function, to convey objective historical facts, to express progressive principles—in short, to turn essentially teleological.45 Therefore, with such a view of literary function, throughout most of the twentieth century, the emphasis on an authorial subject—who was, all at once, the same as the authoritative subject—clearly meant that rhetorical techniques and stylistic innovations in modern literature were often ignored, concealed, or undermined, although the principle of formal autonomy of the aesthetic field was never abandoned within the poetics of determinacy. The function of literature and the responsibility of the intellectual, who was supposed to possess superior subjective capacity and agency, were to reintroduce the people as the true actors on the arena of history, the undeniable subjects (rather than the passive objects) of social change and political transformation. As the chapters of the present book attempt to make clear, in Afghanistan, at least until the late 1970s, the role of literature—and cultural production in general—in engendering and envisioning this transformation had been momentous.

Purposiveness in fragments Until the latter part of the 1970s, the principle of aesthetic purposiveness, in conjunction with the transmission of radical political ideologies, pervaded the texture of modern literary texts in Afghanistan. As the chapters that follow show, the view that the literary-aesthetic domain should be engaged with socio-political factors and historical context had been predicated, consciously or unconsciously, on the base-superstructure dualistic paradigm propagated by traditional Marxist criticism.46 This paradigm employed a certain kind of causality in defining relations between the social reality and the form(s) of literature, a view which assumed that literature is determined by the socio-economic conditions in which it is produced and which it, in its part, reproduces through authentic “verisimilar,” “mimetic,” and “reflective” representation. As part of the ambivalent relationship of the “ThirdWorld” writer and poet in embodying literary modernity, the writers and poets of Afghanistan tended to transcend the sociologism inherent in the above model and inject into it a profoundly political, “utopian” worldview. Thus, literature not only reflects reality, it reflects upon reality. In other words, literature draws from the existing reality but never fails to envision an ideal reality, the realization of which may be, ironically, perpetually deferred. That is precisely why genres that were more conducive to the notion of linguistic transparence and proved capacious enough to incorporate literature’s commitment to convey an explicit doctrine or a “message”—such

Introduction

13

as social(ist) realism in fiction and revolutionary populist romanticism in poetry—assumed a canonical position until the late 1970s. By this period, however, partly in response to the excessive interest in literature’s didactic function, the epistemological foundation of the revolutionary-romantic tradition of poetry was destabilized and the representational modes and mechanisms of the social(ist)-realistic narrative unraveled. From a literaryhistorical perspective, this move to transcend the hitherto dominant boundaries of the literature/politics conjunction signaled the unveiling of an inherently ideological crisis of the poetics of determinacy and the resultant paradigm of aesthetics purposiveness. In poetry, for instance, experimental attempts were made not only to go beyond the conventions of traditional Persian poetry, but perceptible breaks were also made with the now established practice of “New Poetry” (shi
r-i naw) that had been introduced earlier in Afghanistan through the writings of the Iranian poet Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j. The pinnacle of the social(ist)-realistic fiction, too, coincided with the conception of the first tangible seeds of a modernist, experimentalist literature and the start of a conscious effort in part of a small “avant-garde” group of writers to transcend the domain of authorial/authoritative and representational subjectivity. Under the shattering effects of a succession of traumatic events of unprecedented historical proportion—namely the “communist” revolution of April 1978, years of devastating Soviet occupation and proxy wars, a most uncivil “civil war,” and the incessant violence of the Taliban rule—fundamental changes in the composition of the modalities of power occurred in Afghanistan. Throughout most of the twentieth century, as a remedy to cover up its own structural deficiencies, the Afghan state had at least attempted to appear to be an effective agency managing “the conduct of conduct,” that is, a gouvernement, in the particular sense meant by Michel Foucault who sought to explain modernity (“our present”) not so much in the sense of “the statization [étatisation] of society” than as “the ‘governmentalization’ of the state.”47 With the “communist” seizure of power and the subsequent Soviet intervention in December 1979, the state fast turned into (what the philosopher and critic Achille Mbembe has called in the context of the postcolonial polity in contemporary Africa) a regime of commandement. In the new regime, more than ever before, “[p]ower was reduced to the right to demand, to force, to ban, to compel, to authorize, to punish, to reward, to be obeyed—in short, to enjoin and to direct. The key characteristic of [‘communist’] rule was thus to issue orders and have them carried out.”48 Above all, after the “communist” military coup, the discourse of aesthetic purposiveness and literary commitment, which had long constituted the proper cultural project of counter-establishment oppositional intellectuals, was at once co-opted and converted into the now dominant discourse of the “revolutionary” state. With the imposition of an all-encompassing, rigid doctrine of cultural and literary production, the conception of experimenting with novel literary forms, genres, and themes that had started to take

14

Introduction

shape in the latter part of the 1970s came to an end. New literary movements had to turn subterranean in the face of the ascendance of a dogmatic doctrine of “revolutionary” aesthetics championed by the newly founded state-supported Writers’ Union (Ittiha¯ diyah-i Nivı¯sandaga¯n). Thus, during the 1980s, the poetic was to be completely subordinated to the political, and literature was to be subsumed officially as an absolute ancillary of the dominant state ideology. A crude form of “literature-of-and-for-the party” was officially propagated and alternative forms of literary expression (particularly modernist interventions) were systematically discarded, debunked, or at least criticized and discouraged. As far as the literary-cultural sphere was concerned, a closer reading of the officially endorsed literature of the 1980s clearly demonstrates that “[t]he signs, vocabulary, and narratives that the commandement produces are meant not merely to be symbols; they are officially invested with a surplus of meanings that are not negotiable and that one is officially forbidden to depart from or challenge.”49 Ironically, such an aesthetic was replicated, albeit in an inverted form, in the “resistance” literature that used to be overtly sympathetic towards the “anti-communist” opposition, the so-called Muja¯ hidı¯n “freedom fighters.” In addition to attempting to silence the adversary, even by resorting to “the systematic application of pain,” both sides were actively inventing entire constellations of contrasting ideas and adopted distinct sets of powerful cultural repertoires that, as predominantly monologic and monoaccentual discursive orders, were meant not just to overwhelm the vast expanse of the cultural field but also to totally shatter the sign, and completely subdue the voice of the “other” from accentuating itself. In these trying circumstances, in a curious way, modernist and experimentalist literature that had emerged but not effloresced during the 1970s, re-engaged many poets and writers—albeit in a subversive, subterranean manner—inside Afghanistan and, as part of the increasing diasporic literature, in exile. The context of its production, however, convinced its practitioners to turn ever more modernist and experimental and explore new rhetorical devices. Such a conscious move signified the disillusionment of the intellectuals with the overtly political and openly ideological literature of their times, but it did not necessarily mean the dismantling of the principles of purposive and committed literature that had long dominated twentieth-century literary discourses. It meant, however, the destabilization of fundamental premises of the hitherto dominant paradigm of mimetic, representational fiction as well as romantic, heroic poetry. What is significant is that, precisely in such a crucial historical juncture, defined by social crises, political rivalry, and revolutionary change—where the survivability of Afghanistan as a nation-state became a question of paramount importance, and the intellectuals and literati have encountered profound despair and disillusionment—it is literature that embodies, to use Bakhtinian terms, the kernel of its “inner dialectic quality” and “maintains

Introduction

15

its vitality and dynamism and the capacity for further development.”50 In the experience of literary modernity in Afghanistan, in the gradual (almost paradigmatic) redirection of the course of literary creativity, one can, perhaps for the first time, speak of multiaccentuality of literature. What can be said with a fair degree of certainty is that, while in the realm of “the Real,” the traumatic events of the recent past have made visions of an Idealsymbolic future appear perhaps like an outlandish landscape of pure utopia, in the literary-aesthetic field—at the level of narrative, concept, metaphor, or simile, where “real” social conflicts and contradictions are resolved— “anticipatory” utopic visions still survive.51 Such visions are fundamentally subsumed by the historical situation that gives the work of literature its ideological coherence but also provides the conditions of its deconstruction. History has been reconfigured, but it has not turned into a “subject-less” discursive trope. It still remains integral to literary representation, although not as a traditional totality, but as a deterministic “grand narrative.” It is in the nebulous space between politics and poetics, between society and aesthetics, between History and history that the genuine modernity of Afghan literature and culture perpetually radiates itself, now dimly, now brilliantly, yet constantly retaining its margins of critical possibility by transforming and changing itself. As the present study shows, now more than ever, the aesthetic experience of modernism resists turning into a reified, sclerotic gesture; it is rather engaged in continuing formal innovations and social application—a dialectic moment of imagination and production characterized by literature’s ultimate potential towards the realization of a progressive, emancipatory, and ever critical praxis.

1

Beyond “Mist and Pebble” Ordering the culture of modernity

Now that the canoe of the sky floats in the stream of blood, and the broad desert is the falling place of conviction— now that beyond our thirsty sight are only mist and pebble, you may pause and second guess —O my fellow traveler— but I have no desire to remain in the four corners of the night. Nawzar Elia¯ s

Dravot’s fall on the edge of Empire In Rudyard Kipling’s “The Man Who Would Be King” Peachey Carnehan and Daniel Dravot, two European adventurers, open up the kingdom of Kafiristan—“[b]y my reckoning,” as Dravot says, “it’s the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan.” The two British subjects in Kafiristan are drawn into “sweep[ing] the valley so there isn’t a bug in a blanket left!”1 Their grandiose exploits come to naught as they are ultimately consumed by their own avarice, personal ambition, and, above all, obliviousness to the demands of the “natives.” Even when he is revealed to be “[n]either God nor Devil but a man!” and in spite of Carnehan’s warning that “[t]his business is our Fifty-Seven,” Dravot obdurately proclaims that “[a]n Emperor am I [and] next year I shall be a Knight of the Queen.”2 This dream never materializes as he loses his life. His friend is scarred by the misadventure for as long as he lives. “The Man Who Would Be King” may signify a “complex negotiation between the embedded adventure and the frame [that] exteriorizes cultural and historical conflicts between the desire to colonize, connect, and possess (country and woman) and the warning against such desire, between the glorification of imperial adventure and the cynical debunking of its origins in greed, self-aggrandizement, and childlike games of power.”3 One may

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”

17

also regard the downfall of Dravot and the destruction of Carnehan as the result of their failure to “secure equivalent dominion over an internal landscape” of homophilia and heterosexual desire.4 Above all, the story can be read inevitably as a commentary on the intricacies of British colonial designs and imperialist ambitions. As Edward Said remarks in Culture and Imperialism, Kipling in his oeuvres “is writing not just from the dominating viewpoint of a white man in a colonial possession, but from the perspective of a massive colonial system whose economy, functioning, and history had acquired the status of a virtual fact of nature.”5 Kipling seems to allude to the danger of “degeneracy” immanent in the “over-extension” of European colonial interventions in certain parts of the world.6 What stands out in “The Man Who Would Be King” is not so much what happened to the two British men intriguing in the midst of some “natives” than its inherent allegorization of the British system of “adventures” in the volatile region between Central and South Asia, between Turkistan and Hindustan. The fall of Dravot, then, may signify less the collapse of the imperial (dis)order than the necessity of a sensible, methodic approach to the moral mapping of the colonial “sweep.” As an essentially Orientalist representation of “the other,” “The Man Who Would Be King” attributes such traits to the “Kafirs” that were largely reserved for the “Afghans” in the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century British imagination.7 What needs to be emphasized is that effective colonial management of the “rebellious” and “disorderly” Afghanistan—as Kipling’s Kafiristan—would require the re-determination and re-imposition of British power based on calculated imperial strategizing and not on crafty adventures or slapdash schemes. Indeed, what proved to be quite significant in the course of the Afghan encounter with modernity is the fact that, in the classic age of European imperial ventures, Afghanistan evaded the experience of direct colonial rule. This is not to say that it remained immune from the global contests of power and domination. The historical specificity of the Afghan situation vis-à-vis European encroachment led to its emergence as a peculiar “buffer” state situated on the periphery of the “jewel of the [British] Empire” (India) as well as the principal pawn in the Anglo-Russian “Great Game” in the region. Twice during the course of the nineteenth century (1839–42 and 1879–80 respectively) the Afghans resisted the juggernaut of British military might. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, as the British opted to “orientalize” their policies especially in the aftermath of the “business” of “Fifty-Seven”—a reference to the Indian “Sepoy” revolt of 1857—they perceived that the most orderly and convenient way to exercise their power over “the land of the Afghans” was not through its direct annexation but rather through advancing an intricate policy of “indigenization” of colonial dominance.8 Considering the Orient as “either a motley collection of local, ascriptive communities or as a form of generalized slavery controlled by despots,” the imperial system of rule would effectively resort to the discourse of Orientalism with its “ontological essences and vast

18 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan generalizations about [other] civilizations.”9 To the British imperialists, in the “Oriental” world of Afghanistan, which “supposedly lack[ed] the sense of history, vitality, organization, or altruism needed to construct genuine national communities,”10 the construction of a national-territorial order would require, above all, the establishment of an indigenous “despotic” authority. Precisely as part of this political objective, the British actively assisted the assumption to power in Kabul, in 1880, of the “Iron Amı¯r”
Abd al-Rahma¯ n. The Amı¯r was given complete autonomy in internal affairs so long as he “consigned his foreign policy to British tutelage and agreed to conduct diplomatic relations with them only.”11 The authoritarian reign of the “Iron Amı¯r” became paradigmatic of state oppressive rule in Afghanistan. The impact of such rule far exceeded the arena of politics and shaped a discursive practice that, during most of the twentieth century, substantially encroached upon the domain of cultural production. It is within this intrinsically political-cultural framework that notions of social commitment and aesthetic purposiveness in modern literature of Afghan should be configured. Amı¯r
Abd al-Rahma¯ n’s despotism transformed the traditional kingdom of Afghanistan into “a new species of state,” a modern institution principally concerned with disciplining “subjects.”12 Describing his chief task as putting “in order all those hundreds of petty thieves, plunderers, robbers, and cut-throats [and] breaking down the feudal and tribal system and substituting one grand community under one law and one rule,”13
Abd al-Rahma¯ n concentrated, almost exclusively, on the use of pure violence to effectively subdue contending and competing forces that could potentially challenge his authority. “His desire,” as the anthropologist David Edwards writes, “was to see gratitude reflected in the eyes of his subjects, and if it was not forthcoming, then he would at least see fear. The desire to have his authority confirmed in the expression and posture of those he ruled led him to exercise ever greater increments of force.”14 Relying on sizeable subsidies as well as on substantial supplies of arms from the British authorities in India, the Amı¯r was able to build a “horrific, oppressive, yet powerful and evil” state apparatus intent on quashing internal dissent and, if deemed necessary, “relieving whenever he willed the shoulders of those who resisted his rule from the ‘burdensome’ weight of their heads.”15 Thus, Afghanistan, a land that had long been the focal point of several civilizations, entered the twentieth century a territorially unified but socio-economically backward, remote, isolated country, with traumatized, disoriented, and culturally insulated inhabitants. Yet, as the rest of this chapter attempts to demonstrate, paradoxically, the early decades of the twentieth century also marked the introduction and reception of the ethos of modernity—in all its intricacies, ambiguities, and antinomies—in Afghanistan.

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”

19

Remapping knowledges of modernity In the specific context of Afghanistan, the introduction, dissemination, and reception of modernity coincided with the imposition of the nation-state as the paradigmatic and ubiquitous form of political authority and the emergence of a sense of Afghan collective identity. In fact, as some scholars have pointed out, the constitution of modernity outside Europe has been charted primarily in conjunction with the development of nationalism and the institution of the nation-state formation as “the predominant, and soon almost the only legitimate form of political organization, as well as the dominant vehicle of collective identity.”16 Yet, in Postcolonialism, which is intended as a standard text on the subject of post-colonial studies, Robert J. C. Young contends that nationalism in Afghanistan was part of the category of “some forms of anti-colonial nationalism . . . which were expressed as antimodernist, anti-secular, cultural and religious revivals.”17 Nevertheless, while the historical nature of Afghan modernity was not unaffected by the exceptional historical nature of the Afghan encounter with the colonial order and imperial hegemony, Postcolonialism’s contentions that “Afghanistan was nationalist without ever being reformist or ‘progressive’,” and that Afghan conditions reflected a “radical nationalism derived from tradition and opposed to modernity,”18 fall into the category of studies that, in dealing with the issue of modernity in non-Western societies, often draw from facile generalizations and schematic simplifications that insist on the dichotomous relations between such abstractions as innovation and tradition, or progress and reaction, often pointing to their irreconcilability and necessarily, if implicitly, privileging one over the other.19 In fact, the historical context of Afghan nationalism in the era of modernity signifies that early twentieth-century proponents of modernity were predominantly neither “anti-modernist” nor even “anti-secular,” and they largely refused to articulate an overtly anti- or counter-modern(ist) discourse of “authenticity.” This can be explained, at least in part, by the fact that even though the process of Western penetration in Afghanistan was deeply bound to colonial designs and imperial cartographies, the experience of modernity was not a direct reflection of the colonial-imperial enterprise. Therefore, with the relative absence of explicit colonial mediation, a colonially-determined social consciousness, derived from the dichotomy of a West—with its “civilizing” mission, and an East—that needed to be “civilized” or modernized, was not formulated in the modern history of Afghanistan, although Afghan intellectuals of the early twentieth century were critical of European colonial encroachments in the rest of the world and felt sympathetic towards colonies that were being “swallowed up” by various European powers. Given the context of the introduction of modernity in non-Western regions of the globe, nearly all modern “Third-World” or “post-colonial” responses to Western domination and imperial rule have been summarily

20 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan categorized as taking place within one (or more) of the following paradigms: an uncritical embrace of modernity as a Western model designed to completely supplant and reshape the local cultures and traditions; a shift to a liberationist, emancipatory ideology that critiques imperial domination and justifies struggles for national sovereignty but still fundamentally adheres to the project of modernity and its universality; and/or a turn towards an “authenticist” discourse on the part of the local indigenous intelligentsia, a form of “reverse-orientalism.”20 But the reception and diffusion of modernity can be manifestly variegated and heterogeneous. Modernity, by its very essence, cannot constitute a consistent and coherent totality—neither in its original form of germination in Europe nor in its subsequent, implanted forms elsewhere in the “Third-World.” It is within the purview of this dynamic inconstancy and flux that one can discover how the cultural dialectic of modernity works itself out. In elaborating “alternative modernities” Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar introduces the idea of “creative adaptation,” which he astutely considers to be a distinctive reflection of the “manifold ways in which a people question the present.” “[Creative adaptation] is the site where people ‘make’ themselves modern, as opposed to being ‘made’ modern by alien and impersonal forces, and where they give themselves an identity and a destiny.”21 The writings of Afghan intellectuals of the early twentieth century, primarily in the pages of the journal Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r (1911–1918), show that the way these intellectuals questioned and complicated the past heritage, explored alternative routes to cultural change, and positioned themselves as vanguards of modernity and modernization, was not along the exclusive lines of either assuming or rejecting a modern identity. It consisted, to a large extent, of “creative adaptations” within a “site-specific” context.22 When Amı¯r
Abd al-Rahma¯ n’s son Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h assumed power in 1901, his principle objective was still, not unlike his father’s, “an Afghan monarchy absolute in its authority.”23 Nonetheless, he allowed some degree of reforms to be broadly implemented. It was during this period that Habı¯biyah College, the first modern educational institution in the country, was inaugurated. Concomitant with this development, the versatile intellectual Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ (1866–1935)—who had returned to Afghanistan after nearly two decades of life in exile in the Ottoman territory—and his associates launched the bi-weekly journal Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r.24 Nowhere was a distinctive trajectory of Afghan modernity, with particular emphasis on the nature and structure of modernity and its mode and fashion of reception, more cogently epitomized than in the pages of Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r. The lasting legacy of this pioneering journal was that it charted the intellectual framework of the subject of modernity and the modern subject throughout the course of twentieth-century Afghanistan.

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”

21

Tradition and its dynamics Not unlike some of their contemporaries elsewhere in the Muslim world who also encountered the challenge of Western colonial and imperial designs,25 Afghan intellectuals, as part of their broadly defined “adaptation” of modernity, configured their task to be precisely “a constellation of practices used to subvert the center-periphery model by showing the provisionality and instability at the heart of both positions.”26 These intellectuals did not mount a discourse of wholesale imitation of the West and hardly saw modernization as an inexorable process of social transformation ending in direct importation and far-reaching reproduction of Western paradigms. They believed, rather paradoxically, that tradition and change could, and indeed do, coexist and effectively work together.27 Afghan modernity, in the process of its own self-legitimation, maintained a resilient and supple ambivalence towards tradition. At times, it sought to negate and repudiate past traditions; often times, it creatively drew from traditions of the past in order to redefine the cultural project of modernity. Thus, in this strict sense, modern intellectuals were not revolutionary innovators with explicit anti-traditional views. They insisted on the essential (if not always structural) compatibility of the repository of Afghan autochthonous exigencies and the requisites of modernity and on the conscious, albeit selective, use of tradition in the appropriation and reception of modernity. They lived within the dynamics of traditional social norms and patterns and, in their views on the question of modernity, by no means could they avoid the pull of tradition—especially Islamic religious precepts and dominant ideological principles—and the symbolic capital that accompanied it. Although Tarzı¯ and his colleagues questioned the premise of the categorical polarity of religion—as a foremost component of tradition—vis-à-vis modernity, in a treatise published as a compendium to Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r, religion (Islam, to be precise) is seen as an essential, though not the only, element that contains the identity, and comprises the character of the “patriotic youth of Afghanistan.”28 While there are numerous “nations” within the greater collectivity of the Muslim world, those who profess the Islamic faith constitute one single ummah. Observing the conditions of his contemporary Muslim world, Tarzı¯ saw the ummah as being in a dire state, subjugated and (except in a few cases) colonized by European powers. Tarzı¯ conceded that, in the entire Muslim world, only three “famous” independent nation-states had been able to escape direct colonial rule: the increasingly shrinking Ottoman state, the Persian state of Iran, and Afghanistan. All three states, however, suffered from endemic internal disunity and divisions, and were “in constant danger of being swallowed up” from the north by the “sı¯la¯ b-i billa¯ -ma a¯ b-i dawlat-i Ru¯ s” (the unprecedented Russian flood [i.e. onslaught]) and from the south and east by the “nihang-i a¯ hanı¯n va azhdaha¯ -i nafas-a¯ tashı¯n-i Inglı¯s” (the British iron whale and fiery dragon).29 What is to be done, “in these perilous times,” to improve the conditions of

22

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

the Muslims? How will the ummah be able to transcend its present state of affliction and hardship? For his part, Tarzı¯ offered two related solutions to the contemporary dilemmas facing the Muslim world: promote Islamic unity and, more relevant to our discussion here, capture the core of Europe’s progress, that is, induce Muslims to seriously incorporate modern sciences. For Tarzı¯, the promotion of “Islamic unity” meant primarily “to enhance progress, development, civilization, and assistance [among the Muslims]” who were subjected to the onslaught of Western incursions.30 Considering the encounter between the Islamic East and the European West, Tarzı¯ wrote that while it is an article of faith for the Muslims to become united in helping and assisting each other, they fail to do so in reality. Rather, it is the “others”—the non-Muslim Europeans—who actually hold on to the unity of purpose and practice mutual assistance among themselves. In contemporary history, we find all European nations, gathered as a party of affinity [bazm-i uns], in a luminous, grand ballroom, ready to devour Eastern countries like delicious, elaborate food. Whenever one of the [European] nations swallows a bite, the rest express much joy. . . . Despite national differences, ethnic dissimilarities, and religious divisions, whenever the question of the East concerns them, they all put aside their political, ethnic, and religious differences and unite in their actions and thoughts, and solve the [Eastern] problem amongst themselves to their own best satisfaction.31 What should be the response of the Muslim ummah in reaction to this unified European total front? Insisting on the need for the unity of all Muslims in the era of modernity, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ significantly refused to pit a unified Islamic entity contra the West purely on religious grounds. Since the ummah constitutes principally a supranational entity, Tarzı¯ refrained from proposing the revival of one single Islamic state—in the form of a centralized Caliphate, for example. Equally significantly, Tarzı¯, despite his call for Islamic unity, could not endorse either a strategic “clash of civilizations” (in the present-day nomenclature) or an epistemological Manichean Weltanschauung. “Our aim [in unifying Muslims] is not that suddenly the Muslims, without any compelling reason, take out their swords and rise to rebellion and fight those who don’t share their faith. Our aim is that [through unity] the Muslims should start to know one another . . . and come to one another’s assistance.”32 The promotion of Islamic unity, Tarzı¯ contended, therefore, should not alarm the non-Muslim West for it is meant not as a challenge but rather as a corrective to enhance East-West relations. “The question of Islamic unity creates an [unwarranted and] unconscious (ghayr-i ikhtiya¯ rı¯) concern and wariness in the West (farangista¯ n). The fact is that our intention and the intention of the rest of Muslims in proposing Islamic unity is not that Muslims should join together and revolt against the Christians. Never!”33

Beyond “Mist and Pebble” 23 Well aware of the emergence of distinctive nationalisms and the establishment of nation-states as increasingly accepted political formations throughout the Muslim world, Tarzı¯ proposed that, in seeking unity and solidarity, Muslims should rely not on their common faith alone. In addition to the central role that Islam plays for the Muslim ummah, one should not loose sight of three other intrinsic elements that define the identity of Muslims in the era of modernity, namely, the state (dawlat), the nation (millat), and the homeland (vatan). None of these distinctive elements ought to be considered as a hindrance towards the realization of Islamic unity. In fact, they can complement and even reinforce unity among the faithful. An Afghan can be a productive member of the Muslim ummah but also remain, first and foremost, an Afghan, distinguishable from the rest of the Muslims by virtue of his “nationality,” his Afghan-hood (Afgha¯ niyat). Similarly, he reasoned, a Muslim in India or China, for instance, can be a member of the ummah and actively take part in the making of its future course without being compelled to renounce his proper “nationality” as an Indian or Chinese. It is precisely to prove this point that Tarzı¯ insisted, in a variety of terms, that “inciting” the Muslim subjects of predominantly non-Islamic states like India or China (or anywhere else where Muslims are legitimately in the minority) would be counter-productive to the idea of unity and would prove no less than a “very horrific crime” (jina¯ yat-i bisya¯ r fajı¯
).34

The imaginary of scientific progress In overcoming Western domination, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ contended that the Islamic faith could play a crucial role, not in the form of military confrontation—as in waging a “jihad” for instance—but through discovering and ultimately mastering the “secrets” of Western material ascendancy and military might. And where could one search to find the secrets of the superiority of the West over the rest of the world except in Europe’s constant, unabated pursuit of knowledge, its unstoppable quest for supremacy and dominance over the world and everything in it? The Muslims, then, should also earnestly pursue modern knowledge and incessantly incorporate contemporary sciences into their educational curricula. Only then will the abject state of societies in the Muslim world be remedied. True to his rationalist worldview, Tarzı¯ was adamant that the cause of Muslim degradation and subjugation in his contemporary world could not be explained in terms of some “inherent” regression in the character of Islam as a religion. In fact, he asked, does not Islam by itself mean true knowledge? And is not science Islam’s real foundation? Does not Islam consider seeking knowledge the greatest of all professions and the noblest form of all worship? Is not reason the essence of Islam? Thus, who can dare suggest that a religion whose Prophet is attributed to have said that “One’s religion is one’s reason; those who lack reason, have no religion,” a religion “which has made reason its guide” can be “adverse to progress”?35

24

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Tarzı¯ did not refrain from repeating the point made by many Muslim thinkers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century that, historically, Islam preserved the “light of knowledge” and, at the time when “the Europeans were wandering in the midst of absolute darkness of ignobility and irrationality,”36 the Muslims “used to propagate civilization throughout the world.”37 At the end of the “golden age” of Islam, according to Tarzı¯’s narrative of Muslim decline, the Europeans (for reasons that Tarzı¯ failed, or rather avoided, to address) discovered that they should assiduously acquire knowledge of the sciences from the Muslims and put it into practical use. In the meantime, the Islamic world—until then the cradle of civilization— started to disintegrate, suffering from disunity and divisions, as well as religious, sectarian, and regional differences, to the extent that the “purity” and “integrity” of previous eras were utterly lost. Consequently, the Muslim pursuit of knowledge considerably lessened as the Islamic world was plunged into intellectual inertia, lethargy, and scientific dilapidation.38 Tarzı¯, like so many Muslim apologists of his time, thought that the true revivification of Islam in the modern world would require a constant endeavor to acquire unlimited knowledge, for only knowledge could cure the ills of Muslims and engender unity among them. Tarzı¯ was keen to distinguish between “religious” knowledge and “practical” (utilitarian) knowledge (or positive science). The question that inevitably arises from Tarzı¯’s argument for the pursuit of knowledge would be what sort of knowledge should Muslims pursue? He rhetorically asked, “Why we the Muslims, despite numerous Qur  anic proscriptions to seek and acquire unlimited knowledge, have devoted ourselves solely to the knowledge of the after-life and remained insipid with regard to worldly affairs and, consequently, been overtaken by the Europeans, the Americans, and the Japanese?”39 He insisted that, obviously, “all Muslims ought to learn the gist of [religious] sciences” to the furthest extent of their ability.40 However, “if they waste their time on [numerous] commentaries and explications of commentaries of religious texts, they will not adequately master even a single branch of the sciences during the span of their entire lives.” Seeking scientific knowledge, in addition to mastering the field of religion, however, does not mean that Tarzı¯ had (at least explicitly) an agenda to promote secularism. Since Islam and modern scientific discoveries are not incongruous and need not contradict each other, scientific knowledge, although strictly non-religious in nature, would hardly mean “secular” (and, by implication, anti-religious) knowledge. Boundaries of knowledge are limitless, but Muslims should seek the sort of knowledge that best serves their actual, tangible, worldly needs. What Muslims are in extraordinary need of is useful, practical sciences.41 It is this particular type of knowledge that leads to enlightenment; and enlightenment engenders not only fraternal affinities among Muslims but also leads to national cohesion, patriotism, social progress, and political stability. Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ justified this point on the basis of purely pragmatic reasons: “If the Muslims fail to master the

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[latter] sciences, they will remain perpetually maghlu¯ b (subjected), mahku¯ m (condemned), and muhta¯ j (indigent) and, thus, shall not achieve ra¯ hat (comfort), rafa¯ hiyat (contentment), sarvat (affluence), and quvvat (strength). Their countries shall not prosper and they will never remain safe from the evil [deeds] of their adversaries.”42 Thus, what may even be considered “secular” sciences are key to the preservation of “the foundation of the castle of [Islamic] religion from the earthshaking events of this calamitous world.”43 These points are further elaborated, in a more specific manner, in Tarzı¯’s attempt to explore the possibility of Afghanistan emerging as an emblematic modern Islamic nation-state. As a powerful antidote to the “poisonous” propaganda of Europeans who considered Islamic societies inherently devoid of progress and development, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ saw Afghanistan as possessing the exceptional potential to turn itself into a model modern Islamic society. In his discussion of the prospects of modernity in the context of Afghan society, Tarzı¯, in a series of articles entitled “Sleeping in the Dark,” saw “enlightenment” as the state of wakefulness and its opposite—“ignorance”—as the state of “sleeping in the dark.” Those afflicted by darkness “suffer from perpetual and incurable damnation,” he wrote.44 In the present age, whereas the West embodies enlightenment and privileges “reason, industry, innovation, and the arts,” “we [the Afghans] are overwhelmed by darkness. This darkness has had an oppressive impact on our [collective] psyche. It has put us in inertia, in a state of heavy sleep. It has drowned our thoughts in an unusual, sinister whirlwind.”45 The tragedy that had engulfed Afghanistan, then, was the prevailing ignorance resulting from the “illiteracy” of its inhabitants and the “narrow-mindedness” of its leaders, especially its religious leaders.46 Only by “seeking knowledge through the use of reason” does any hope lie for deliverance. What is to be done to ameliorate this dire situation is to inaugurate numerous new schools with modern curricula, to prepare useful textbooks, and to widen the sphere of progress in other respects. As far as religious education is concerned, people are encouraged to study religion, but “our dear country contains a plethora of experts in sacred sciences,” Tarzı¯ wrote. “There is no need to coach any more of them in this domain.”47 He further asserted that the premise that Islam was in essential agreement with modernity had been unfortunately shrouded in obscurity over time by the conservative clerical elements—“ ‘ulama¯ -i su¯ ’ ” (malevolent religious scholars) and “shaykha¯ n-i gumra¯ h” (deluded elders).48 To the project of modernity expounded by Tarzı¯ and his intellectual colleagues, scientific-technological advances and social-economic developments complemented each other and progress in the field of technology not only meant extensive social transformations but also, “in the perilous times we live in, provides our religion (dı¯n) and our state (dawlat) an armor; our homeland (vatan) and our nation (millat) a protective shield.”49 Such advancement is inherently advantageous to the future of both “our religion” and “our nation,” for it “preserves us from the shameful servitude to the

26

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enemies of our religion and bestows on us [as a nation] a lofty position of dignity and pride.” It also “delivers us from the bondage of, and dependency on, foreigners and instead enriches us through [exploring] the valuable and unlimited resources of nature.”50 Using metaphors whose military allusions are hardly mistaken, Tarzı¯ was keen to point out that the kind of knowledge that the project of modernity he adhered to and promoted in Afghanistan would prove both protective and defensive as well as practically active and offensive: It is the kind of knowledge that will turn iron in our fists into mere wax and enable us to conquer the higher levels of the atmosphere. It is the knowledge that will provide our homeland with impenetrable borders, so that heavy artillery of our enemies could be rendered useless, but the heavier artillery from our side breach through the enemy lines. It is the knowledge that will give us railways that, in a brief span of time, will transport hundreds of thousands of our troops across vast territories and provide us telegraph lines that instantly inform us of our enemies’ movements.51 As can be seen from the discussion above, Tarzı¯ wrote under a considerable shadow of the European worldview of nineteenth-century “scientism”—a worldview that not only reflected faith in progress through scientific reason, technical innovations, and achievements in industry, but also believed that advances in science solve individual human dilemmas, create and strengthen national resolve, engender cultural florescence, and put an end to economic backwardness and social ills. Although Tarzı¯ was certainly aware that science is susceptible to turning utterly destructive, he never lost faith in ideas of technical progress, development, and modernization. For him, Europe on the eve of the First World War remained “the city of civilization,” “the steam engine of the great factory of the world”—an engine, nonetheless, that was beginning to tremble, a machine with a broken valve, a civilization heading for calamity and devastation.52 However, simultaneous with “the maximum progress achieved” due to unprecedented scientific discoveries was “the onset of the decline of life.”53 With the outbreak of the First World War, Tarzı¯’s notable admiration for Europe’s successful striving for progress seemed to have been replaced by a trenchant criticism of the European “war-mongering” civilization, colonialism, and imperialism. In a sense, Tarzı¯ arrived at the conclusion that the ever efficacious evolution of modernity and modernization, and unlimited advances in sciences and industry, may actually render human interaction entirely solitary, utilitarian, and impersonal, and create a community devoid of its “ideal and spiritual capacity” (quvvah-i ma
naviyah va ru¯ ha¯ niyah).54 In order to avoid such a fate of “disenchantment” in the emergent nationstates outside Europe, Tarzı¯ acknowledged the creative incorporation and adaptation of modernization as well as the need for the preservation and

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perpetuation of certain traditions in these societies. In the specific case of Afghanistan, he proposed that his ideal society would be a progressive Islamic society—a fundamentally synthetic and syncretic polity, where Islam and modernity engaged not in excluding each other but rather in creative convergence with each other to such an extent that they would become indistinguishable. Precisely with this aim in mind, Tarzı¯ and his associates considered the mission and operation of cultural (including literary) production to be vital to any effective articulation of modernity in the context of Afghanistan. It was quite apparent from early on, however, that the cultural project of modernity, as referred to before, could not truly succeed unless accompanied by a structural reformulation and modernization of the political sphere, the reconstruction of the contours of the modern nation-state as an inclusive institutional polity. Culture is intrinsically related not only (and most obviously) to certain ideals that are structured as narratives of national imagination, but also, and equally importantly, to a certain idea of the state. It was discovered that a nation is not only cultural—that is, a “cultural artifact,” an “imagined community” where metaphysical, abstract criteria such as purported common heritage, aspirations, values, as well as symbolic forms and shared historical memories and experiences pervade—but also “an imagined political community.”55 Thus, while modernity started to take shape primarily as an effective cultural project, it soon involved—and demanded—a redefinition of the sphere of politics. The emergent institution of the nation-state—being modern yet drawing from the past heritage of Afghanistan—would constitute both a polity and a cultural collectivity, thus necessitating the negotiation and resolution of the authority-legitimacy dialectic inherent within Afghan historical context. As the following discussion aims to illustrate, the cultural-political thesis first formulated in Tarzı¯’s and his colleagues’ writings greatly influenced how and why Afghan intellectuals and literati—even of contending ideological inclinations—saw themselves as genuinely conscious agents of socio-political change and cultural transformation in the modern history of Afghanistan.

Modern polity and the cultural anxieties of legitimation Culture is of paramount importance in the shaping of modern polity in nonWestern societies because it provides the intellectuals of these societies with the ability “to understand their ‘backwardness’ as well as to try to overcome it.”56 This political process would require “recourse to models, copying, imagining, representation, interpretation—the very devices of culture.”57 The advent and promulgation of modernity in Afghanistan corroborates the central role played by the intellectuals in self-consciously transforming and reconfiguring the discursive contours of the society and polity of their times. Whereas in this period the vast majority of ordinary Afghans—as “subjects” —remained outside the domain of politics and only remotely participated in

28

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the affairs of the institution of the state that was imposed upon them, there appeared one small but extremely significant social group—the intellectuals —who proved instrumental in formulating and propagating the cultural agenda for a project of modernity that, theoretically, would encompass such a structure of political authority that would be in congruence with a sense of Afghan nationalism as well as with at least some rudimentary requirements of a working civil society. The intellectuals of the early twentieth century sought, on the one hand, to uncover a common national ground, a distinctive social bond, an integrative political cohesiveness among various economic classes, social strata, ethnic groups, and linguistic regions. On the other hand, with the memories of Amı¯r
Abd al-Rahma¯ n’s horrendous reign still fresh in their minds, to these intellectuals, political authority needed to be complemented with legitimacy because, as they argued in essence, “[a] stable state requires that, for whatever reason, most of the people most the time will accept its rule.”58 In other words, as a “regime of domination,” to be authoritative and effectively enforced, the state “must at least appear to confer on people organized into political communities ‘a higher sphere of ethical life, historical personality, and collective agency’.”59 The main objective of the intellectuals was to reformulate a dynamic cultural-political agenda for a potential shift from coercive state domination to a more benign, more viable, more persuasive (and, therefore, more hegemonic) kind of infrastructural power of the modern, centralized national polity within the bounds of a civil society. Only then, it was argued, could social progress, economic development, and scientific advances that are the landmarks of modernity be achieved. To Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯, as to the rest of the early twentieth-century Afghan intellectuals, as far as culture was concerned, Afghanistan was certainly not inferior to the West. In “spiritual” matters, in fact, it was even superior to the West. The intellectuals often ardently advanced the argument that, in material affairs, too, Islam (as the quintessence of their culture) had anticipated basic features of modern Western civilization and, if it willed, could again surpass Western advantage. They saw qualities in their traditional culture that were invested with some of the same “superior” characteristics that the West claimed for itself. According to the cultural thesis of the intellectuals, these qualities could be ideologically appropriated and prove advantageous to the nation-state in defining and redefining the terms of its own modernity, its own present. Well aware of the political essence of the community they imagined, Afghan intellectuals of the early twentieth century found themselves dealing quintessentially with the power, structure, and authority of the state, fundamentally because the mechanisms of modern state seemed the most efficient means towards facilitating the concoction of an imaginary order that would encompass comprehensive cultural traits on a broad national terrain. The modern state, defined as “a set of institutional forms of governance maintaining an administrative monopoly over a territory with demarcated boundaries and borders, its rule being sanctioned by

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29

law and direct control of the means of internal and external violence,”60 productively represents, extends, and at times also severely delimits the penultimate imaginary of the nation. In a number of ways, Afghan intellectuals of the early twentieth century contributed profoundly to the promulgation and discursive consolidation of a state formation that assumed a dominant role in shaping the course of modernity and modernization for decades to come. Conversely, the early twentieth-century state in Afghanistan was convinced that it (and it alone) embodied the necessary agency to promulgate modernity. It expected that the few modernizing measures it took—including the creation of a state-affiliated centralized machinery of modern education—should prove sufficient to reinforce its dominance and strengthen its operative apparatuses with the ultimate aim of bridging the divide between the state and society. Therefore, the emergent intellectuals who advocated modernity were expected to adhere to the official modernizing agenda of the state. In practice, however, the method, manner, and intensity in which these intellectuals advocated their views on modernity differed considerably. For instance, despite some pungent criticisms of the status quo, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ advocated a formidable, strong polity ruled by an “enlightened” sovereign in concert with the consolidation of an effective civil society. In the pages of Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r he never failed to acknowledge Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h and the elites of the royal court in Afghanistan as the main motivating force in introducing modernity, setting forth a course of modernization, and heralding the desperate nation towards a brighter future to the extent that Afghanistan would become an emblematic modern Islamic state to be emulated by other nations. As Gregorian stresses, “[e]ach reform and modernization plan of the Amı¯r, however modest, was hailed, publicized, and cast into historical perspective by Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r. Numerous articles lauded the Amı¯r, who was characterized as an exemplary and progressive ruler, a man who had gained the respect and gratitude of the Islamic world, an ‘architect of progress,’ a ‘shining star’.”61 Some of Tarzı¯’s contemporary intellectuals—including his younger, and more radical, acolytes—were convinced that modernity should be promoted through a state-promulgated procedure, but they were less inclined towards the view that the dominant Afghan state of their times possessed the desire or the vigor to embark upon meaningful modernization projects that would direct the nation towards a new era. The established writer and poet Muhammad Sarvar Va¯ sif, who was a leading member of a group of liberal faculty and students at Habı¯biyah, and an occasional contributor to Sira¯ j alAkhba¯ r, wrote a famous qası¯dah where he praised Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h under whose rule, Furu¯ gh-i jawhar-i da¯ nish furu¯ bigrift
a¯ lam ra¯ Siva¯ d-i jahl shud az lawhah-i ja¯ n-i jaha¯ n fa¯ nı¯.62 The light of the essence of knowledge has overwhelmed the globe

30 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan The darkness of ignorance has disappeared from the tabula of the world’s soul. However, Va¯ sif did not fail to pinpoint the “amazing” achievements of the rest of the world, compared to whom the modernization efforts of the Afghan ruler remained negligible: Yakı¯ ba¯ dı¯dah-i
ibrat bibı¯n aqva¯ m-i dunya¯ ra¯ Ki az ghayrat hamı¯ gardad zuhu¯ l az da¯ man afsha¯ nı¯ . . . Bibı¯n asna¯ f-i
a¯ lam ra¯ taraqqı¯ ha¯ -i pay-dar-pay Chi Namsa¯ -u Faransa¯ -u chi Jarma¯ nı¯ chi Ja¯ pa¯ nı¯. Observe with a discerning eye the nations of the world So immense is their pride that they forget to celebrate it. See the continuous progress of other groups Whether Austrian or French, German or Japanese. Japan, an Asian state just like Afghanistan, provided a perfect model for “the youth of [our] nation” to emulate. Referring to the successful modernization of Japan—to the extent that even “haughty Europe” now acknowledged its “supremacy” and was impressed by its “miraculous” progress—Va¯ sif implicitly pointed out that it was conceivable that a fellow Asian country like Afghanistan, too, could genuinely realize modernity: Nigar iqlı¯m-i Ja¯ pa¯ n ra¯ ki ba¯ a¯ n fatrat-u fitrat Chisa¯ n bar awj-i raf
at kard bunya¯ d-i parafsha¯ nı¯ Auropa¯ fakhr kardı¯ bar jaha¯ n dar sibqat-u aknu¯ n Zi rasm-i Ishiya¯ ufta¯ d dar girda¯ b-i hayra¯ nı¯ Na tanha¯ U¯ ru¯ p az awza¯
-i sha¯ n ufta¯ d dar hayrat Ki mahw-i khı¯shtan shud Ishiya¯ zı¯n rasm-i Ja¯ pa¯ nı¯. Observe the clime of Japan, how with all its ups and downs It made a flight to the height of achievements. Europe boasted of its supremacy but now It has turned stupefied by the great strides of Asia. Not only Europe is bewildered by its progress The entire Asia has been awakened by Japan’s ways. Genuine modernity, as discussed already, far exceeds the importation and incorporation of technology or the introduction of scientific discoveries. In noticeable variance to Tarzı¯’s cautious, and rather elitist, approach to the issue of the state and its rulers in promoting and directing the project of modernity, intellectuals like Va¯ sif argued that the state should help create such imperatives that would incorporate modernity through engendering pervasive consensual ties within society rather than consolidating and

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31

reinforcing the dominant state (as was the case under the late Amı¯r
Abd alRahma¯ n). The more radical intellectuals attempted to simultaneously conjoin the notion of a distinctive Afghan identity—as an essentially cultural phenomenon in contradistinction to other nations—with the political entity of the state as well as with the emergence, formulation, and strengthening of the civil society. In this regard, these intellectuals found it unavoidable to advocate some form of constitutionalism where the state had a prominent, yet legally confined, degree of power and the ruler possessed a regulated ability to exercise this power.63 The idea of constitutionalism (mashru¯ tiyat)—aiming at limiting, constraining, and regulating the highly arbitrary powers of the monarchy—was the earliest instance where the intricate conjunction of politics and literature came to the forefront of modernity debates in Afghanistan. Although far from being coherently conceived, unambiguously presented, or uniformly received, mashru¯ tiyat was seen as a necessary precondition to bridge the classic chasm between the state and society, and to create the consensual foundations for the emergence of a thriving cultural polity, a viable nationstate. One of the foremost intellectual advocates of constitutional rule in the beginning of the twentieth-century Afghanistan was Muhammad Sarvar Va¯ sif. He was the principal author of a famous letter to Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h that was probably meant as the manifesto of the constitutionalists. “In certain countries,” the letter stated in quite unambiguous terms, “the enlightened ruler agrees, at his own accord, to introduce foundations of legal rule and constitutional authority.” As a sign of the genuine process of modernity, the Afghan Amı¯r (as the “learned and progressive” leader that he claimed himself to be) was urged to “willingly” move away from “absolute order of monarchy” and embark upon the path of “constitutional rule.” However, the letter demanded, “in some other cases [when the ruler fails to implement meaningful reforms] the people, using force and by recourse to violence, change the state system according to the wishes of the nation, and transform it into constitutional authority.”64 The accomplishment of this task is especially incumbent upon the “patriotic forces,” the “enlightened individuals,” and the “progressive youths”—in short, the intellectuals. The letter implicitly stated that, unless change comes to the structure of authority in Afghanistan, the state should rightfully, and will inevitably, be overthrown. Because of this thinly veiled threat, as well as his longstanding constitutionalist activities, Va¯ sif (along with a number of his followers) was arrested and was blown up at the barrel of a canon in 1909. Before his death, he purportedly requested a pen and paper and wrote the following line in verse: Tark-i ma¯ l-u tark-i ja¯ n-u tark-i sar Dar rah-i mashru¯ tah avval manzil ast.65 Forsaking one’s property, one’s soul, and one’s head Is only the first step towards achieving constitutional rule.

32 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Thus, as the exemplary intellectual of modernity who never “betrayed” or “deluded” the people, Va¯ sif became the earliest embodiment of the idealtypical public intellectual, a true inspiration to generations of intellectuals in the succeeding decades of the twentieth century. As the teacher, the thinker, the poet, and the political activist who selflessly and dramatically sacrificed his life for the sake of his beliefs and ideals, he epitomized the conscience of the people and acquired the profoundly symbolic, even mythical, status of the intellectual-as-martyr. His case manifested that it was incumbent upon the enlightened members of the society (rushan-fikra¯ n) who knew, and reflected upon, the twists and turns of history, to disseminate the virtues and promises of their “enlightenment” in the wider society. The intellectual of modernity, as an omniscient historical subject, foresees the dilemmas and predilections of the society and is obligated to “alarm” them, to “warn” them of the tortuous path of history. In a famous poem,
Abd al-Ha¯ dı¯ Da¯ vı¯ (under the pseudonym Parisha¯ n) (1895–1982)—a student of Va¯ sif at Habı¯biyah and a young colleague of Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ in Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r—did not refrain from unabashedly admonishing the masses for being “ignorant” of their unlimited collective power, of being “gullible,” “stupefied,” and “duped” into submission and acquiescence to the status quo. What could be done to ameliorate this wretched state depended on the effectiveness of the introduction and dissemination of meaningful, modern education in the country. Only education (in the specific sense of Bildung) shall “cure” the “ills” of individuals and advance society. Adhering to the epistemology that objective change can occur only through subjective, inner reform, Da¯ vı¯ insisted on the significance of modern education: Dar vatan gar ma
rifat bisya¯ r mishud, bud nabu¯ d Cha¯ rah-i ı¯n millat-i bı¯ma¯ r mishud, bad nabu¯ d.66 It would be better if education expanded in the homeland [and] this infirm nation were all cured. Considering the status quo as “shab-i ghiflat” (night of languor) and wishing that “ı¯n shab-i ghiflat ki ta¯ r-u ma¯ r mishud, bad nabu¯ d” (it would be better if this night of languor is utterly shattered), the poet did not refrain from criticizing the rule of the despotic Amı¯r who was “intoxicated” only with power: Chashm-i pur-kha¯ bat agar bı¯da¯ r mishud, bad nabu¯ d. Kallah-i mastat agar hushya¯ r mishud, bad nabu¯ d. It would be better if your sleepy eyes were awakened And your drunken head was sober. Da¯ vı¯’s indictment of the Amı¯r included his criticism of the latter’s policies in the wake of the First World War, where, in his refusal to join the weakened

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”

33

Ottomans and the Axis powers against Britain and its allies, the Amı¯r, taking a “neutral” stand, effectively severed ties with “friends” and joined the ranks of the “enemies” of the Afghan nation. He advised the Amı¯r thus: Du¯ r az ahba¯ b raftah ba¯
adu¯ payvastah-yi Bar umı¯d-i ka¯ r ha¯ -i dı¯gara¯ n dil bastah-yi Gar tu ra¯ himmat mummid-i ka¯ r mishud, bad nabu¯ d. You have distanced yourself from friends and joined in with enemies You have put your trust in the deeds of others It would be better, instead, if you chose decisiveness as your aid. Da¯ vı¯’s fellow intellectual activist,
Abd al-Rahma¯ n Lu¯ dı¯n, who also was a regular contributor to Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r, went even further in his criticism of the powers of the Amı¯r, pointing not only to his lack of determination in implementing “genuine” modernization in the country and to his despotism, but also to his “reliance” on foreigners and his compromise of the independence of the “national homeland.”67 In a poem written in the traditional Persian mukhammas (a verse form containing five strophes) Lu¯ dı¯n portrayed the Amı¯r as a dismal ruler who, despite his many claims to being the sovereign leader of an independent state, depended on foreign powers. He, too, criticized the supposed “neutral” stance of the Amı¯r during the War, a war that Lu¯ dı¯n, like so many others in the non-European world, saw as an opportunity to depose colonial/imperial domination. He touched not only upon the “intentions” of foreign powers to thwart Afghanistan’s independence, but also attacked especially harshly the policies of the Amı¯r that enabled such interference to take place. As an intellectual, he appealed to the masses of the nation—those who have been duped into lives of “ignorance, inattentiveness, inertia, and lies”—to become “aware of the conditions of the homeland”: Ay millat az bara¯ -i khuda¯ zu¯ d-tar shavı¯d Az sharr-i makr-u hı¯lah-i dushman khabar shavı¯d Ta¯ az sada¯ -i sa¯
iqah ash gung-u kar shavı¯d V  a¯ nga¯ h chu¯ ra
d na
rah zana¯ n dar-ba-dar shavı¯d Ma¯ nand-i barq jilvah kuna¯ n dar nazar shavı¯d. . . .68 O the nation, for God’s sake, hurry up! Beware of the evils of the enemy’s trickery Before you turn deaf and dumb from the sound of its thunder Before you turn hopeless, fleeing from it in every direction Before you disappear just like a glimpse of light! Lu¯ dı¯n had no doubt who the “enemy” of the Afghan “nation” was: he unreservedly called “Inglı¯z” (Britain)—which was the colonial power in India to the south—as Afghanistan’s “great enemy” followed by “Ru¯ s”

34 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan (Russia)—whose sphere of domination now included the old khanates of Central Asia to the north. Lu¯ dı¯n pointedly urged his countrymen: Ta¯ halq-i Inglı¯z fisha¯ rı¯d-u na¯ y-i Ru¯ s Dar ja¯ ghur-i tufang guza¯ rı¯d ka¯ rtu¯ s Chu¯ n shir ra¯ st su¯ y-i mukha¯ lif badar shavı¯d. Squeeze the throat of the English and the gully of the Russian Place cartridges in the grooves of your rifles Move towards the enemy in unison, firm like a lion. The intensity of the nationalist sentiments of the poet here is matched only by his mockery of the fashion by which the Amı¯r ruled. In other words, instead of demanding the total independence of the country, the Amı¯r busied himself with signing “treaties” with the very enemies of the nation and spent his time idly, without concern for the gravity and urgency of the national predicament. In the same poem Lu¯ dı¯n engaged directly in questioning the Amı¯r, addressing him rhetorically thus: Ay gha¯ fil az zama¯ nah-u sha¯ ghil ba lahw-i galf Ba dushman-i khabı¯s kasi kardah ast half? Khud fikr kun,
adu¯ nakunad chu¯ n zi
ahd khalf? Ba¯ yad girı¯st bar sar-i in ahmaqı¯-u jalf Ta¯ chand bahr-i dı¯dan-i haqq ku¯ r-u kar shavı¯d! O you—oblivious to the [needs] of the times and busy playing golf— Can one ever make treaties with evil enemies? Think right, can the enemy not undermine your trust? One should shed tears over your idiocy and recklessness, How long will you remain blind and deaf and not see the truth? Referring to the inadequate nature of Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h’s modernization efforts, the poet insisted that one should not expect that a country ruled by such a monarch could ever to become an enlightened society. In a despotic, absolutist state order not only the ruler but the entire apparatus of governance is corrupt: Bar naqd-u jins-i ma¯ lı¯-i ma¯ kha¯  ina¯ n amı¯n Dar majlis-i siya¯ sı¯-i ma¯ ja¯ hila¯ n makı¯n Na fikr-u hu¯ sh-u qalb-u na vijda¯ n-u
aql-u dı¯n Ta bahr-i intiba¯ h sada¯ -i kashad chunı¯n: K  ay gha¯ fila¯ n, zi kha¯ b-i tana
um badar shavı¯d. The Trustees of our finances are traitors Our political assembly is run by fools.

Beyond “Mist and Pebble” 35 Without brains, without insight, without hearing, without conscience, without reason, and without faith To cry thus even if as a warning: O’ the ignorant ones, wake up from the lethargy of ease and comfort!69

Intellectuals and the ends of the state The dawning of the new era with the rise to power of Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h (1919–1929) offered many promises, as well as vast new challenges, to the emergent intellectuals of early twentieth-century Afghanistan. In concert with the wishes of the intellectuals, Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h, who had been influenced by Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ and Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r, embarked upon a forceful program of modernization. What appealed to the intellectuals of the period was the Sha¯ h’s stated aim of moving away from the traditional “despotic” power held by his father and grandfather towards some kind of “infrastructural” power of the state.70 In a significant move that appeased many intellectuals, [f]rom the beginning of his reign Ama¯ n Alla¯ h took measures to strengthen the legality and accountability of the state [in order] to establish a complete legal basis for state power. He gave Afghanistan its first constitution (1921), according to which even the king’s actions were, in principle, subordinated to law, and he promulgated written administrative regulations for all operations of government.71 The state had achieved, largely due to the effects of the normative paradigm offered earlier by Tarzı¯ and Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r, an unprecedented degree of conceptual legitimacy among the intellectuals who saw progress conceivable most naturally via the agency of the state. They adhered to the centrality of the state in the reception and incorporation of modernity and were keen to promote their views within a state-supported, state-enforced, statepromulgated apparatus. As the state began to overwhelm nearly all aspects of cultural production, the broadly culturalist agenda of the intellectuals (however incoherently defined) turned into an established component of state cultural policy and ideology. This process of assimilation led many intellectuals to stipulate that a ground upon which a viable civil society could be established had indeed emerged. Impressed favorably by the new political order in the 1920s which intended, at least theoretically, to lay the grounds for an emergent civil society in modernity, most of the small but influential groups of intellectuals who rose to prominence in the previous decade turned into elites and became high functionaries of the state.72 Unlike most contemporary discussions of the concept civil society, where the state and society are normally contrasted, and the strengthening of the latter against the imperatives of the former is warranted, Afghan intellectuals conceived of the two as being thoroughly complementary rather than antagonistic.73

36 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan In the modern form of polity devised by the early intellectuals and promoted, at least in appearance, by Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s regime, a “civic space” was slowly developing “in which otherwise destructive struggles might be smoothed over and making the nation-state the arena in which stable solidarities could evolve.” Thus, the nation-state was meant precisely to become a stable civil society, “a historical subject in its own right, over and above competing classes, ethnic groups, and their identity politics.”74 The question of Afghan national identity remained a significant issue, but it was formulated within the larger, more comprehensive, and more inclusive debates about civil society where particularist criteria were supposed to be subsumed under the overall notion of citizenship. In theory, at least, there seemed to be a general consensus as to who was an Afghan and that all those who considered themselves Afghans—irrespective of their ethnic or religious affiliation, their regional or linguistic identities—should be regarded so and be given equal rights. A more malleable, differentiated, and all-encompassing national identity within a thriving civil society, then, would be the best imperative towards national unity. In a curious way, the discourse of this emergent identity was expressive of a quite resilient view of “ethnicity”— the primary element of identity formation in a multi-ethnic society like Afghanistan. While the term “Afghan” was (and in some ways still is) used to refer to the Pashtuns, now it assumed a more comprehensive meaning in the vocabulary of intellectuals. Indeed, this identity was clearly premised on a “fictive ethnicity” (to borrow the term as used by Etienne Balibar)—a clearly socially acquired, yet inclusive national community “represented in the past or in the future as if they formed a natural community, possessing of itself an identity of origins, culture, and interests which transcends individuals and social conditions.”75 The intellectuals of the 1920s, irrespective of their distinctive ethnic backgrounds, often subscribed to this “fictive ethnicity” and were pleased that the ruling elite cultural machinery also buttressed it. Not surprisingly, they were greatly disheartened and disillusioned by the fall of Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h in 1929 in the face of a rural-based, short-lived, subaltern rebellion. The quick and brutal suppression of the Habı¯b Alla¯ h (known as “Bachahi Saqa¯  ”) revolt did not translate into Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s resumption of power or the continuation of his modernization drive.76 It rather saw the ascension of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynasty (1929–1978) whose foremost act was—in contrast to the views and intentions of the intellectuals—to arrest the “excesses” of the policies of the former Sha¯ h. In what may be said to signify a paradigmatic shift during the reign of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n, as the consolidation of common nationhood and national identity became the central issue promulgated by the institution of the state, the efflorescence of a proper cultural-political entity—a civil society—was de-prioritized. From the 1930s onwards, the state insisted that all forms of social/communal identities should be absorbed into a vigorous, ideologically all-encompassing, even primordial, and eternal notion of Afghan national identity. Thus the

Beyond “Mist and Pebble”

37

erstwhile cultural debates stemming from a more resilient notion of Afghanness were largely muted in favor of the argument that Afghanistan must become a sovereign political territory congruent with a single, homogenous, historical nation, a unified community with shared linguistic, religious, and cultural-symbolic identity. Only after such a nation is realized, it was argued, would the cultural production of a viable civil society become a meaningful endeavor. Thus, the fact that the state decided the contours of the discourse of the nation and determined who had access to representation and delineated the forms within which representation took place, clearly meant that the civil society debate had to be suppressed or even abandoned. But, as it increasingly became clear, the act of defining the nation and its proper contours is intrinsically an act of imagination, and the formation of a national identity involves representation—a quintessential cultural phenomenon whose production is so indubitably the work of the literati and intellectuals. Cognizant of the enormity of the services the intellectuals could render towards the legitimation of an alternative cultural politics of the state, the Musa¯ hiba¯ n rulers opted to engage the intellectuals through either successfully co-opting them or silencing them by various means. To the intellectual advocates of modernity, this cultural move on the part of the state posed an acute dilemma: whether to acquiesce to the cultural policy of the regime and work within it, and implicitly strengthen the state institutions; or whether to strive to reshape the official ideology through dissent and cultural resistance. So potent and pervasive (even if at times banal) the “nationalist” discourse emanated by the state proved itself to be such that a great number of prominent intellectuals were indeed drawn to participate in it, although so many others continued to defy it and, instead, offered alternative modalities for socio-cultural change. As the above discussion makes clear modern cultural production in Afghanistan assumed two contending and divergent directions: a state-delineated institutional one and a largely oppositional, dissident one. For the intellectuals associated with either one of these courses, in spite of their vastly different ideological commitments and inclinations, modernity constituted a cultural-political project, where the sphere of aesthetics was not to be autonomous from the sphere of politics and was inseparably linked to the mechanisms and effects of power, to the extent that throughout most of the twentieth century the cultural and literary-aesthetic subject and the historical and ethico-political subject became effectively synonymous. The dynamics of this particular notion of modernity can be traced in the elaborate writings and reflections of Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ in the pages of Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r. The following chapter explores Tarzı¯’s cultural theories—especially with respect to the instructional and educational function of aesthetics—and evaluates his ideas about the purpose of literature and the commitment of poets and writers in conditions of emergent modernity.

2

The poetics of (national) truth content

The time for poetry [shi
r-u sha¯
irı¯] is all over the time for sorcery [sihr-u sa¯ hirı¯] is all over. It is time for action, effort, and endeavor the time for inertia and lethargy is all over. This is the century of cars, railways, and electricity, the sluggish pace of camel rides is all over. Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯

One day, I saw my 11-year-old son busy working on his school calligraphy project. So immersed was he in his work that he hardly looked away from the tablet he was holding on his lap! Having already finished two tablets, he started working on the third one. Can you imagine the enormity of the joy and pride of a father who witnesses such a scene? Unfortunately, for me, the joy and pride did not last long, as I instinctively approached my son to find out what he was copying on the tablets. As soon as I read the prototype, my hands began to shake and my body started to quiver. My heart felt much distressed and my head turned dizzy: what I saw was that, to improve his pupils’ skills in penmanship, the unfair a¯ khund had the knowledge-seeking youth copy repeatedly the following lines of poetry from the esteemed poet Qa¯  a¯ nı¯: Man ar shara¯ b mı¯khuram, ba ba¯ ng-i ku¯ s mı¯khuram Ba ba¯ rga¯ h-i tahmatan, ba bazm-i tu¯ s mı¯khuram. Piya¯ lah-ha¯ -i dah manı¯,
al  al-ru  u¯ s mı¯khuram Shara¯ b-i gabr mı¯chasham, may-i maju¯ s mı¯khuram. Na ju¯ gı¯-am ki khu¯ kunam ba barg-i ku¯ knar-ha¯ . If I drink wine, I drink to music of the battle cry, In the presence of the hero Rustam, at the feast of Tus, the heroic Goblet after goblet, I drink down in the open— I taste the Magi’s wine; I drink from the Zoroastrian’s cup. I am no Yogi to be satisfied with mere poppy leaves.

The poetics of (national) truth content

39

I have no quarrel with how “good” or “bad” this poem is. Perhaps, in the proper context, these lines are superior in terms of poetic talent. What disturbs me, however, is how come such a poem is being used as a prototype for our youth to practice [the art of] calligraphy and learn penmanship?1 Thus reads the anecdote that precedes a poem in Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s collection of eclectic poetry Para¯ kandah. “Of course,” Tarzı¯ continues, “I felt compelled to tear into pieces the paper on which [Qa¯  a¯ nı¯’s poem] was initially inscribed. I then promptly improvised the following poem and directed my son to copy it.” These didactic, pedagogically “correct” lines follow: Shara¯ b a¯ b-i sharr buvad, shara¯ r-i a¯ tashash bida¯ n Makhur, makhur ki mı¯shavı¯ tu ba¯ junu¯ n ham
ina¯ n. Zi gabr mı¯shavı¯ battar, maju¯ s mı¯shavı¯
aya¯ n Ba nazd-i khalq-u haqq shavı¯ tu sharmsa¯ r dar jaha¯ n. Zi ku¯ kna¯ r-u bang-u chars, kina¯ rah gı¯r har zama¯ n Ki mikunad tu ra¯ zabu¯ n, chu¯ ju¯ giya¯ n ba ka¯ r-ha¯ . Wine is the water of evil, a burning, raging fire Never drink wine, for you’ll lose your mind You’ll become a Zoroastrian; even worse than the magi You’ll disgrace God and his people; shame alone will follow you. Never indulge in opium, hemp, or poppy Consider well: they’ll only make you wretched like the Yogis! Even if one assumes that Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s anecdote is almost certainly fictitious, it nonetheless expresses a complex array of topics that embodies the dilemmas and predilections of intellectuals and literati of Afghanistan during the early twentieth century, a critical period in the introduction of cultural modernity in the country. As Tarzı¯’s account above shows, he is overjoyed that his young son is assiduously “seeking knowledge.” Throughout his oeuvres (both in verse and prose) Tarzı¯ regarded schools as “the guarantor of faiz (exuberance), sa
a¯ dat (felicity), taraqqı¯ (progress), and
izzat (glory),” of the nation and “the spring of knowledge” and “the water of life” of the people.2 Education (ma
a¯ rif) is the path towards liberating oneself from “darkness” within one’s individual self and from “ignorance” in the larger, collective community and society. Not only “[Divine] truth” but also “worldly riches and fortune” can be pursued and accomplished through education. As an advocate of modern education, however, Tarzı¯ was critical of the traditional methods of instruction where pupils were required to perform verbatim tasks such as copying lines of poetry to excel in the craft of calligraphy—without being directed or required to either discover the “inner” meaning of the poem or to appreciate the “true” beauty of the art. His choice of the term “a¯ khund” (referring to

40

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

an instructor at traditional religious madrasas) instead of “mu
allim” (usually a teacher in modern educational institutions) is revealing in this regard, for the former best embodies the old school of education (based, in his view, on démodé forms of instruction) whereas the latter represents the rapidly expanding modern schooling drawn from new pedagogical models. Tarzı¯ was obviously an advocate of the latter, but he acknowledged that a real, comprehensive shift in the educational system could take place primarily within a larger project of cultural transformation. And this transformation could not succeed without the vigorous support of the institution of the state, the only agency capable of fostering cultural change (including regulating education and normative schooling) on an all-encompassing national basis. The project of modernity—and its corollary, modernization—whose premises prevailed throughout most of twentieth-century Afghanistan, involved a historically intricate liaison between the spheres of culture and politics. In conjunction with the idea of the modern state enters the notion of the national imaginary—an apposite “national” culture and literary tradition and history—to map a distinctive, reified cultural space and determine the contours of proper nationhood and national identity in Afghanistan. In this respect, then, it could not have been coincidental that Tarzı¯, implying the dissociation of Persian literature in Afghanistan from the larger field of Persian literary production in the neighboring state of Iran, chose Mı¯rza¯ Habı¯b Alla¯ h Qa¯  a¯ nı¯—the famous Persian poet of the Qajar period and a central figure in the so-called “Literary Return Movement” in the nineteenth century3—precisely as the poet whose verses should not be used, let alone emulated, in the schools of Afghanistan. In criticizing the inculcation of an Iranian poet in Afghan schools, however, Tarzı¯ was more than censuring Qa¯  a¯ nı¯’s traditional poetics; he was claiming an independent identity for Persian literature produced in Afghanistan—an enterprise that abounds with, and should be sufficiently proud of, its own “national” luminaries—as an autonomous development within the larger expanse of Persian literature. As for evaluating the merit of Qa¯  a¯ nı¯’s poetry, Tarzı¯’s views were not much different from those of modern critics writing within Iran where, since the middle of the nineteenth century, and more forcefully than in Afghanistan, “a growing number of voices” had began to deride “the existing poetic practice, characterizing it now as incomprehensible, nonsensical, and ineffective, now as positively hurtful, a cause (even the cause) of Iran’s backwardness and misery.”4 In Karimi-Hakkak’s assessment, “Qa¯  a¯ nı¯ [was] perhaps as appropriate a figure as any through whom to gain entry into the poetic practice against which the new Iranian intellectuals began to voice their objections as well as share their vision of a new kind of poetry.”5 The main criticism Tarzı¯ offered of traditional poetry was not formal or topical; it was mainly concerned with its failure to be the embodiment of morality and ethics, and to act as a pedagogical device. This failure of poetry could prove extremely important because, as Tarzı¯ further asked in the

The poetics of (national) truth content

41

anecdote above, “Is this not a fact that primary education in our beloved country [and culture] starts with poetry—and reciting and writing poetry are consumed by the youth like the mother’s milk—and will end only when the soul leaves the body?”6 Furthermore, in pointing to the pre-eminence of poetry in Afghanistan, Tarzı¯ was also being critical of that pre-eminence. As I shall explore in detail later, he proposed a thorough alteration of the “content” of contemporary poetry to reflect the “truth” about the society, the nation, and the people of Afghanistan. Thus, he was critical of the type of poetry Qa¯  a¯ nı¯ wrote: that is, meticulously crafted lyrical verses and elegant panegyrics, with numerous references to a grand, imaginary, specifically preIslamic past but with no indication of dealing with issues of contemporary social significance. More specifically, in the anecdote above as well as in the rest of his writings on poetry, Tarzı¯’s aim is to demarcate the overall framework of a theory of culture and aesthetics, a theory that he was adamant about calling “modern” and his mode of theorizing these, a “scientific method.”7 In the emergence of this aesthetics, he proposed the delineation of a poetics of new sensibilities and novel genres of narrative fiction that would draw from the social function and national thematics of cultural production would prove essential.

Culture and the politics of subordination In a modern “imagined political community,” as Benedict Anderson conceives in his by now classic study Imagined Communities, the press (primarily, the printed book and the newspaper) plays a primary role in creating the possibility of social “simultaneity,” in enabling the periodic ritual performed in private by individual readers who are also aware of their participation in this ritual alongside numerous other individuals at the distant edges of national space, whom they do not know but with whom they will share an immediate, deep, “horizontal comradeship.”8 As the previous chapter demonstrated, in the case of early twentieth-century Afghanistan, the journal Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r considered itself a voice of modernity and enlightenment as well as a vehicle to uncover a common national ground to encompass and incorporate disparate elements while cementing the nation as a unified, coherent civil society. As “the interpreter of the psyche of the nation, the language of the homeland, the soul of [its] civilization,”9 Sira¯ j alAkhba¯ r “[aimed] to express the authentic meaning of homeland and patriotism to the people [of Afghanistan] and conveyed the necessity of inquisitiveness and dynamism to the continuing survival of the nation.”10 “The mission” of Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r consisted of nothing short of “awakening and encouraging its compatriotic readers to love their religion, their state, their nation, and their homeland.”11 Tarzı¯ was emphatic that the paper he edited “was devoted solely to the awakening and enlightening of the Afghan nation.”12 Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r was committed to “strengthen the nation,” “safeguard its independence,” and “expose and defame its enemies” in such a

42 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan forceful manner that it “would make the foes of the nation weep and its friends rejoice.”13 The question that inevitably arose for Tarzı¯ (and his intellectual collaborators in Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r) seems to have been the following: How, in the complex, heterogeneous, multi-ethnic, multilingual “national space” of Afghanistan, could a modern national polity and society be envisioned, created, and buttressed and strengthened? The obvious, natural component of an inclusive cultural nation in a society like Afghanistan would seem to be an appeal to the commonality of Islamic faith of its people. In this respect, Tarzı¯ was quick to point out that “it is necessary for the Muslims, strengthened by their total belief in the Qur  an, to sow the seed of unity, in the vast expanse of the Islamic world.”14 However noble and desirable this unity may be, it was ultimately proven insufficient and untenable in the long run. As a modern nationalist, Tarzı¯ believed that his contemporary era was an era where national identity superseded all other forms of identity, including religious identity. After all, as he put it anecdotally, in whatever land (Islamic or otherwise) a person from Afghanistan travels, the main feature that will distinguish him or her from others would be his or her “Afghanness” and not his or her Muslim beliefs. Thus, the nation is defined not through purely religious identity—where all Muslim believers constitute one, singular millat—but rather through the more inclusive prism of modern nationalism, according to which, at least theoretically, religion is only one of several constituent components. For Tarzı¯ and his colleagues, the convergence of polity and culture is essential and a national homeland (vatan) is inherently a politico-juridical and cultural entity. Tarzı¯’s projected modern national polity was premised upon the thesis that, on the one hand, “vatan refers to the totality of all the areas, territories, cities, towns, and villages where the authority of one state and one government is established and enforced.”15 On the other hand, concurrent with—if not prior to—becoming a “political” and “juridical” entity, vatan must be embodied as a “cultural” nation whose elaboration presumes a trans-historical Volksgeist, whereby a Volk becomes a natural division of the human race, a community sui generis. Thus, he prescribed to a view not dissimilar to the theories proposed by the German philosopher of history Johann G. Herder and his Romantic followers who argued that a Rechtstaat had to be simultaneously a Kulturstaat.16 In any viable socio-political association, according to Herder, national consciousness and national character are the necessary cohesive force that binds the community through spiritual ties and traditions. It is not entirely implausible that Tarzı¯ had been exposed to the work of Herder and other Romantic proponents of cultural nationalism during his stay in the Ottoman realm. Like most promoters of nationalist ideals, Tarzı¯ resorted to the most common of nationalist “myths” by tracing the inhabitants of the land perennially in history, or even prehistory. Foreshadowing modern constructivist theories of nationality, Tarzı¯ insisted that Afghan nationalism and

The poetics of (national) truth content

43

patriotism “are not something artificial, invented, or conjectural. Rather, they are practical, active, and spiritual.”17 That there existed for a very long time a territory called Afghanistan seemed an indisputable fact to Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯. Tarzı¯ and his colleagues surmised that there long had been an everpresent, shared sense of “nationhood,” “national dignity,” and “patriotism” among all inhabitants of the country.18 In addition, “love of the homeland is inherently and quintessentially molded in the very core of the Afghan nation.” Those who see the Afghan national homeland merely as “an imaginary line drawn by some cartographers upon a piece of paper” possess a “weak conviction” and “abject, desolate conscience.”19 In spite of his many pronouncements concerning the existence of a unified, indivisible Afghan nation throughout history, Tarzı¯ seemed fully aware of the precariousness of collective identities in the diverse society of Afghanistan. Whether the Afghanistan of the early twentieth century had the capacity, or the propensity, to transform itself into a cultural nation posed a serious challenge to Tarzı¯ and, as such, affected his formulation of the problematic of (emergent) nation building and the inevitable role of culture in it. “Afghanistan is a vast Central Asian territory and history testifies to its existence from very ancient times,”20 and the Afghans are “one of the ancient qawms [tribal groups] of the world that has lived exactly in the very land of Afghanistan—then called Kabulistan and Zabulistan—from even before the rise of [formal] religions.”21 As an established, “independent” political entity, however, Afghanistan was founded, in 1747, when Ahmad Khan, “one of the leaders of Afghaniyah tribes” declared independence in Kandahar and the rest of the tribes and clans accepted him as Ahmad Shah [the king] and he started his many wars of conquest and expansion.”22 But who were these “Afghaniyah” tribes and clans whose name provides the appellation for the land they declared independent? These Afghans, Tarzı¯ suggested, “originally called themselves Pakhtun or Pashtun.”23 Aware of the fact that, through unequivocal rendering of the “land of the Afghans” as “the land of the Pashtuns”—and implying that the Pashtuns were the “original” Afghans—he was weakening his own cultural-political logic of the nation, and possibly undermining the emergence of a unified nation of modernity, Tarzı¯ pointedly conceded that the Pashtuns, in fact, constituted only one of the several “ancient qawms” that inhabited Afghanistan, the shared “homeland” of several qawms (tribes) and
ashı¯rahs (clans). Tarzı¯’s aim here seems to be that, for Afghanistan to emerge as a proper nation in its transition to modernity, it would need to rise above ethnic affiliations and cement (that is, invent, construct, and imagine) a coherent, modern, all-inclusive “Afghan” nation (millat)—a nation that, in relation to the outside world, defines itself as a broadly unified, homogeneous ethnonation. Inside the national homeland, the forgetting (or, in this case, the denying) of ethnicity, or at most treating it as a localized tribal or clan issue, would be the appropriate way of transcending and transgressing (and, ideally, dissolving) ethnic differences. For Tarzı¯, the term “the Afghan

44

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

nation” then assumes a more inclusive meaning, referring to “the people who inhabit and dwell in the pure, holy land of Afghanistan and who are subject of [the laws of] its single state and unitary government.”24 Therefore, not only Pashtuns but also “Tajiks, Turks [i.e. Turkomans], Uzbeks, Hazarahs, Kuhistanis, Panjshirirs, etc., etc. are all collectively embrace the Afghan nation. They share one homeland, are subjects of one ruler, abide to one set of laws, and are citizens of one state. Their homeland is the holy country of Afghanistan; their state is the independent state of Afghanistan.”25 Thus, Tarzı¯ avoided prescribing to the then—and to some extent still— prevalent view of ethnicity as the definition of individual members of society according to a set of certain fixed, inalienable, and primordial characteristics (or identities) defined by both cultural and biological heritage. On practical grounds, however, Tarzı¯ could not have seen—or refused to see—that in a composite society such as Afghanistan, the superimposition of an identity that was inherently heterogeneous under the pretense of national homogeneity was potentially open to all kinds of manipulation and inevitably involved processes of exclusion and closure. The history of Afghanistan throughout the twentieth century bears the prominent signature of such processes, processes that were intrinsically related to the development and imposition of the modern institution of the state. Through invoking the importance of the state authority (dawlat) and its mechanisms of governance in defining modern nationalism, national identity, and national frontiers, Tarzı¯’s formula for the delineation of an integral cultural nation—which, to him, is equivalent to the nation-state of modernity—comes full circle. The state is “a ruling force”—an authoritative body—which must be bound to a given people’s homeland, nationality, and religion and whose primary concern should be “to effectively administer and regulate justice, welfare, prosperity, happiness, development, and progress of the nation and the homeland.”26 The modern state can best function when it manifests itself as an agency of assimilation and reconciliation in conjunction with a common national culture and language and the promotion of shared cultural values and norms. These values and norms may be—and often are—drawn from prior cultural forms and traditions. In the case of diverse societies (such as Afghanistan), as it is often the case, an appeal to the discourse of culture not only legitimizes the state, it implicitly helps cement an officially sanctioned cultural nation and create a culturally aware citizenry. “Culture” in this latter sense is considered “as a process of cultivation, the gradual formation of an ethical human subject, characterized by disinterested reflection and universally valid judgments. . . . Culture, accordingly, is not confined in its objects to the artistic, or, more narrowly, the literary, but aims rather at the harmonious cultivation of all the capacities of the human subject.”27

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45

Antinomies of the monolingual nation To refer to culture in the sense elaborated above, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ used the term adab—rather than the term farhang currently in use in the Persian language. Adab is admittedly a complicated, and somewhat confusing, concept in the Perso-Islamic tradition. It can be variously translated as proper demeanor, good conduct, good speech, virtue, and graciousness. It also refers to belles-lettres, in general, and to “[a] special kind of literature . . . namely instruction on correct and successful behavior in any given situation, [that is] ethical-didactic literature.”28 Tarzı¯, for his part, defines adab strictly as a component of rhetoric, as “a special science [or technique], with which errors and shortcomings are detected and erased from the language, so that no deficiency remains either in speech (lafz) and script (khatt) or in meaning (ma
nı¯).”29 Nonetheless, his definition of culture is meant more comprehensively to refer to both civilization (that is, when a given collectivity becomes “cultivated” or “civilized”) as well as to education (or Bildung, meaning human intellectual formation and progress). Culture, then, embodies the sum total of human thoughts and deeds, as the way for the healthy moral growth of “the whole person,” for welcome ideals, clear vision, disposition to reflection, and a sense of social purposefulness. The domain of adab far exceeds rectifying rhetorical and linguistic faults and deficiencies. It refers also to “the cleansing of the soul (nafs) from evil (badı¯).” “It is something that the human being uses in order to embellish the soul, so that wickedness and defects are thwarted. Thus, it encompasses all ensuing human behavior, deeds, and practices.”30 After establishing adab as the proper equivalent of what is meant by culture, Tarzı¯ moves on to the analysis of sukhan (imaginative discourse), zaba¯ n (language), and ultimately adabiya¯ t (literature). Throughout this elaborate scheme, he invokes the seminal role played by the modern polity (the state) in institutionalizing and transmitting culture. Conversely, he insists that cultural and literary productions have been singularly important in the representation and solidification of the modern nation-state. In an argument that remains Herderian in essence, Tarzı¯ put forward the view that sukhan is a unique feature of language, and language (zaba¯ n) is not only a medium of expression but also the clearest manifestation of a social worldview, distinguishing nations and peoples. Furthermore, since literature is essentially a linguistic craft, through the process of embellishment and improvement, it proves crucial in strengthening the language in which it is written and, consequently, in fortifying the nation. Unless there is an incessant production of imaginative discourse, and unless literature is involved in the constant enhancement of language, a language (any language) will turn sterile over time and, consequently, the survival of the nation will be directly endangered.31 Literature, in effect, rescues the nation’s language—and by implication the nation itself—from destruction and decadence by subjecting it to continual modification, regeneration, and recomposition.32

46 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan In discussing the importance of language in the process of political and cultural integration of the nation, Tarzı¯ found himself inevitably tackling the question of the status of the “Afghani” language (that is, Pashtu) in Afghanistan. How to deal with the dilemma of having (at least) two languages present in a shared nation-state?33 Based on the “authority of books” in such fields as “ethnography,” Tarzı¯ contended, one should consider the “Afghani” language as the “origin” of the rest of the languages that comprise the Caucasian family of languages. To “authenticate” this claim, he resorted to a rather elaborate, lengthy discussion of the “common roots” of a number of words in Pashtu (“Afghani”) and other languages.34 However, since its inception Pashtu has been of limited use and very much confined to the mountainous territories in present-day Afghanistan from where it sprang long ago. As “our official state language” has always remained Persian (Farsi), “Afghani” has been largely neglected in the very “land of the Afghans.” Tarzı¯, writing in Persian, insisted that it is the “Afghani” language that should constitute the proper “national” language of the Afghans. Maintaining that “one of the good virtues of any nation is the preservation and reformation of its language,”35 he advocated the strengthening of the “Afghani” language. By pointing out the common “origin” of all inhabitants of the territory that encompasses Afghanistan, irrespective of their “tribal” affinity, Tarzı¯ made it incumbent upon all contemporary Afghans to learn the “Afghani” language as their “national” language and to protect and preserve it at all costs. He proposed that certain institutions be established to promote the learning of the “Afghani” language. “In our schools, the most important of the subjects should be the ‘Afghani’ language—it should be given priority over such languages as English, Urdu, Turkish, and even Persian.”36 He recommended that, “in our humble opinion, the only objective of the Department of Education should be the reformation, propagation, and promotion of the national ‘Afghani’ language.”37 But does the emphasis on the significance of Pashtu (“Afghani”) mean that, as the “national” language, it should also attain the status of the “official” language of the state, the medium of governance? Tarzı¯’s response to this question was not devoid of ambiguity. He presumed that, in the nation-state of modernity, the effective administration of citizens demands universal basic education. The most effective means of achieving this would be the raising of levels of literacy in a single language rather than in the full range of languages and dialects within the territory of the nation-state. It is only through a system of centralized, state-sponsored mass education that the chosen language of the bureaucratic state could be imposed upon the people. Tarzı¯ felt that, obviously, the language of the “nation”—that is, Pashtu— should also be adopted and promoted as the “official” language of the state. However, as will be considered in more detail later, Tarzı¯ thought that, at the particular historical juncture he was writing, only Persian had the capacity to act as the language of the state in a nation composed of a poly-vernacular and largely illiterate citizenry. Consequently, he opted for the continuing

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preservation of Persian as the “official” language of Afghanistan as well as one of its two “national” languages. By making a distinction between the official bureaucratic language and the national language in the interests of state efficiency and governance, Tarzı¯ explicitly avoided what Deleuze and Guattari would later aptly call “minoritarian phenomena that could be termed ‘nationalitarian’ ” as one of the many artifices implied in the emergence of nations.38 In his discussion of the politico-ideological element in linguistic nationalism in Nations and Nationalism since 1780, the eminent historian Eric Hobsbawm writes that “problems of power, status, politics, and ideology, and not of communication or even culture, lie at the heart of the nationalism of language.”39 As Tarzı¯ tackled the question of language, the issue of the productive entanglement of literature with the nation and the purported national language increasingly posed a dilemma for him. The dilemma Tarzı¯ encountered was the supposition that “since the entire world knows our nation as ‘Afghan,’ there remains little doubt that [as far as literature in Afghanistan is concerned] the term ‘Afghani national literature’ appears more befitting and the term ‘Persian national literature’ sounds incongruous.”40 The reason it sounds incongruous is fundamentally political and ideological: “Persian literature” denotes literature produced in the “Persian” kingdom of Iran—Afghanistan’s neighboring state to the West. Thus, in what language Afghan national poetry is to be expressed—the “Afghani” language or the “Persian” language—becomes a question of paramount importance. The question would have appeared as ancillary, perhaps even futile, to the literati of the generation that just preceded Tarzı¯ and Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r for whom the idea of each nation possessing its distinctive national language barely figured. Well aware of the fact that Persian literature was a shared tradition in which writers and poets who sprang from the territory of Afghanistan had a formidable and undeniable presence, Tarzı¯ modified significantly his previous stance vis-à-vis the necessity of promoting one, single “Afghani” language (and literature) in Afghanistan. In doing so, he used the metaphor of zarf (container) and mazru¯ f (content): “a nation is a mazru¯ f whose zarf is the homeland,” he wrote. “In other words, the homeland is like a container that is filled by the nation. Some containers can be filled with a transparent object, like water. Some containers are filled by an amalgam of objects. Still others are filled by a mixture of two objects. Because our Afghan compatriots generally speak two languages, our national literature, too, should naturally be in both Persian and ‘Afghani’.” “Persian has the added advantage of being the official language of our sacred state (dawlat-i muqaddasah) for a long time,” thus making it especially worthy of being called our “national language” and the enormous literary treasures written in it to constitute our “national literature.” Besides, the number of poets and literati in the Persian language in Afghanistan far exceeds those who write in “Afghani.” No less importantly, Tarzı¯ argues, “our”

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talented poets in Persian easily rival poets from the neighboring, fellow Persian-speaking state of Iran. “What we mean by national literature,” then, “refers to that body of literature which is produced in the Persian and ‘Afghani’ languages by none other than the poets and literati hailing from our own dear homeland of Afghanistan.”41 Considering Persian as quintessentially “our” language and the foundational element in making “our” national-cultural identity, Tarzı¯ lamented that this “sweet language”—once on ascendance in various corners of the Asian continent, from the Ganges to Constantinople—is now confined only to Iran and Afghanistan.42 Acutely aware of the complexity of the ethnic (or “tribal,” as Tarzı¯ would say) and linguistic composition of Afghanistan, Tarzı¯ pointed out clearly that, after all, “in our pure, beloved land, only Afghan [Pashtun] qawms, whose language would be Afghani, do not reside. There are numerous peoples from many other qawms whose language is Persian but who are counted, from their origin, as part of the [unified] Afghan nation.”43 Since Persian has long served as the all-encompassing lingua franca of all these disparate groups, Tarzı¯ justified the continuing dominance of Persian at the “official” level, as well as its inclusion as a “national” literary language. What is important in this respect is also Tarzı¯’s assertion that Persian requires no institutional support in Afghanistan because “the Persian language, in comparison to the ‘Afghani’ language, is [already] quite pervasive and widespread.” Pashtu, on the other hand, is in desperate need of institutional promulgation, provision, and promotion for the basic reason that “the ‘Afghani’ language is limited to the pure land of the Afghans and is spoken only by a few million Afghans.” “The Persian language, on the other hand, is the dominant language all over our neighboring country of Iran, and is also famous and current throughout the Transoxiana, India, and even the Ottoman territory.”44 One suspects that the reason Tarzı¯, despite his recommendation on behalf of the institutional promotion of “Afghani,” avoided advocating a deliberate policy of promulgating Pashtu as both the “official” as well the only “national” language in the country, was that such an attempt would prove practically ineffectual, for Persian cultural domination and linguistic appeal (among all inhabitants of Afghanistan, irrespective of their “mother” tongues or regions) were too pervasive and too firmly established to be transformed or challenged effectively and durably by government decrees. He seemed to be aware that changing the order of languages would be tantamount to altering the language of order. The Afghan state had neither the capacity nor the resources to undertake such an endeavor, notwithstanding the fact that most of the ruling “Pashtun” elites either could no longer speak their native “Pashtu” language or felt much more at ease with Persian and had a deep-rooted grasp of the Persian literary tradition. As will be explained in chapter three, it was during the early part of the Musahiba¯ n rule in Afghanistan, especially in the 1930s and 1940s, that vigorous attempts were made to promote Pashtu and “Afghanize” literary production in Afghanistan. That experiment utterly failed and, subsequent to the

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49

constitutional changes in 1964, the project of making Afghanistan officially a monolingual state was dully abandoned.

Modern literature and the ends of poetry Having established Persian as both an “official” as well as a “national” language in Afghanistan, and claiming a considerable presence of Afghan literati in the formation and elaboration of Persian literary tradition, Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯, in the pages of Sira¯ j al-Akhbar, ventured into a detailed discussion of literature (adabiya¯ t), a category hitherto undefined and theoretically unexplored among the literati of Afghanistan. On the surface, Tarzı¯’s reflections on literature derived from a broad formulation that insisted that “adabiya¯ t consists primarily of pleasant poems, elegant prose, delicate imagination, subtle thoughts, and meaningful insights whose aim is to delight the hearts and absorb the heads of our esteemed readers.”45 Of all forms of literary expressions in the history of literature, Tarzı¯ claimed, poetry was of paramount importance. “There is no nation amongst the existing human communities that lacks poetry,” he contended. “One may deduce from this assertion that poetry is a unique, innate characteristic of all the children of Adam.”46 As a foundational component of human essence, poetry must always remain authentic and natural. A poem is natural when it is written spontaneously and unaffectedly. “Scholars consider a poem to be spontaneous,” Tarzı¯ maintained, “when it is a product of [a poet’s] nature and essence (tabı¯
at va fitrat), divulging certain innate faculty (quvvah-i malikah), without recourse to artificiality or cumbersomeness.”47 A “natural” poem—in contradistinction from an “artificial” (san
ı¯) or “difficult” (takallufı¯) poem—stirs and moves human emotions far more effectively. To further stress that the sublime is indeed the beautiful, Tarzı¯ uses the imagery of a diamond in a mine. When a piece of diamond appears in the midst of coals and stones in a mine, its natural beauty makes it splendidly attractive and appealing. When it is removed from its natural surroundings, and is thoroughly polished and placed gently in a jewelry store along with many other precious stones, it becomes artificial. A carefully crafted poem is not unlike an ornate diamond ring. A natural poem, on the other hand, is like an unpolished piece of diamond, shining in the midst of a mine.48 As an example, Tarzı¯ cites a poem from Mı¯rza¯
Abd al-Qa¯ dir Bı¯dil (c. 1644–c. 1720), the pre-eminent figure in the so-called “Indian school” of Persian poetry.49 He acknowledges the unsurpassed elegance of Bı¯dil’s poem, its striking imagery, and the poet’s enormous power of imagination. Nonetheless, he finds the poem so polished, so refined, and so skillfully elegant that he could only consider it an “artificial” piece and not a “natural” one.50 Having made clear the distinction between “natural” and “artificial” poetry (and privileging the former over the latter), Tarzı¯ conjoined his aesthetic formulations with the overall ideology of his nationalist project. Since the nation is naturally the simplest, the most authentic form of human

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affections and affiliations, “national poetry” (shi
r-i millı¯) can be described as the best “natural poetry” (shi
r-i tabı¯
ı¯). National poetry is devoid of artificiality and complexity precisely because “it springs from the language of the people who comprise the nation and, with the passage of time [and the further consolidation of the nation], it gains widespread circulation.”51 As a “language art” or “linguistic craft,” national poetry adheres to the principle of conveying the language of a people and a nation naturally, that is, in its most real, pure, undiluted manner.52 Furthermore, national poetry contains references to various events and incidents that have occurred throughout the collective history of a given nation. It can be a wonderful reservoir for preserving national memory and history. In addition, because national poetry is natural, it best reflects “the national genius, mores, customs, and deeds.”53 In his description of the “natural” poetry in Persian, Tarzı¯ came close to, but specifically avoided, a call for the abandonment or transforming of formal requirements for poetry. Even “national” poetry cannot escape the long held conventions of metrics and prosody. A distinctive characteristic of national poetry is its “peculiar form of musicality,” which is not the same as (but also not quite different from) the traditional craft of Persian poetry.” Poetry in Persian should strictly observe rhyme and rhythm and any competent poet who possesses an innate poetic faculty should be able “to express [his] heartfelt, poignant emotions in accordance to the conventions of rhyme and rhythm in metered verse.”54 Although following the traditional metrics and prosody is obligatory for the poet of today, following traditional themes and topics is not, Tarzı¯ insisted. The novelty of a poem, thus, is judged not by its contravening of formal conventions but by adhering to “the necessities of the [present] time” (zarurat-i zama¯ n). Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s own Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah (also called Adab dar Fann), which appeared as a component of the collection of poems Para¯ kandah, was intended by the author precisely as a work that adhered to such necessities. He wrote Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah in response to the more famous Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah, the third of the five-part book Panj Kita¯ b, a popular instructional manual taught in traditional schools in Afghanistan (and elsewhere in the Persian-speaking lands). In the introductory note, Tarzı¯ distinguished his work from its predecessor of the same title thus: “In terms of radı¯f (refrain) and the number of lines of each ghazal my text follows almost exactly the pattern of the earlier Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah. In terms of the subject matter (mawzu¯
), however, many differences exist between the two works. Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah of Panj Kita¯ b speaks a great deal of the pleasures of wine and goblet, of roses and tulips, of beauty and charm, etc. . . . The new Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah, on the other hand, is filled with rough and hard to enunciate words (ghalı¯zah va saqı¯lah) such as tank, rifle, coal, electricity, boycott, telegraph, rail, and other words that are devoid of any sign of tenderness and charm.”55 “Are you not ashamed to call this rough and heavy utterance of yours poetry (shi
r) and, after mixing it with this coarse thing called ‘technology,’ present it to the public?” Tarzı¯ expected his detractors to ask. “What could

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51

conceivably be the connection between poetry and coal? Between literature and tank and rifle?”56 After all, the critics who have long believed in the superiority of conventional classical Persian poetry would say, “the foundation of poetry is the power of imagination and the intricacy of feeling [to appreciate and express] the beauty and charm of fairy-like beloved ones. Poetry should speak of the tavern, intoxicating wine, and the boiling wine decanter. No one has heard or read a poem that is adorned with improper clothes wrapped around difficult [terms derived from] technology.”57 Tarzı¯ did not engage directly with his detractors on the purely “literary” merits of his own poetry. In fact he implicitly agreed with them that his Mahmu¯ dna¯ mah may well not pass the lofty standards set by the upholders of traditional poetry, for whom the earlier Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah conformed fully to the necessary conventions of prosody, poetic forms, and techniques of diction. Since his poetry moved considerably away from the traditional model, he anticipated the literary establishment to accuse him of being an “inept poet” for lacking the appropriate mastery of classical tradition of poetry in Persian. Nevertheless, instead of writing “graceful,” “elegant,” and “polished” poems, he consciously opted to compose “mediocre” poetry on such topics as coal, telegraph, railways, and airplanes. Yet he was fully aware of the fact that he was subverting and trespassing not only the boundaries of conventional diction in Persian, but also the entire poetic Weltanschauung itself at a pace that no one else had done before in Afghanistan. He was quick to point out, however, that classical poetry may be of little value in-and-of itself because in Persian literature, “from a very long time, poetry has been [conventionally] characterized by the description of wine drinking and enamoring of the beloved. In particular, the form ghazal never fails to speak of wine and the beloved, of flowers and intoxication.”58 But, the question would inevitably arise, how could one justify that, in the modern era, a work such as the classical Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah that “praises wine and amorous affection become part of the instructional manuals of the youth of the nation, whose minds—no more than a tabula rasa—are impressionable and so easily open to manipulation?”59 Tarzı¯ seemed confident that, precisely for its emphatic didactic nature and its reflection of its own Zeitgeist, his Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah was indeed superior to the earlier text of the same title. Tarzı¯ justified writing about technological inventions not only because “ours is the age of technology, the time of exerting effort and [attaining] progress,”60 but also because to write of “science and technology” and to encourage their dissemination means no less than a deeply moral-spiritual deed, even a religious call, an attempt “to explain the artwork of God Almighty” and “to progress towards achieving [unity with] God.”61 “I may have transgressed [in my poems] from the path of adab (both by rebuking acknowledged cultural conventions as well of transcending strict rules of classical poetry),” Tarzı¯ admitted. He immediately added, “but others have not always observed the proper rules of adab [in the ethical sense of the term] either. What is given to feed the hunger

52

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

[for knowledge] of our primary school pupils is not honey but bitter poison. Perhaps no profit is gained from my poems, but at least I am not encouraging my readers to do things that are morally objectionable and ethically prohibited.”62 Should writing about the wonders of wine, then, be considered more commendable than describing the “extraordinary, miraculous” invention of the telegraph? Should lauding the beauty of the beloved be more praiseworthy than acclaiming electricity—“this newly born child that has already conquered the rest of the world but has yet to shine its presence upon us?”63 Can a poet not rejoice in seeing how dark coal (zugha¯ li sang) produces “immaculate light” that transforms “the darkness of the night into daylight?”64 Do not railways—“one of the many wonders of our epoch”—look like “life-giving veins” to a poet, emanating from the “capital” (the central station) like “a heart that sends messengers to all directions” and generating “comfort, riches, and fortune” for the nation as a whole?65 Despite being critical of traditional conventions of Persian poetry, Tarzı¯ did not avoid writing about the theme of love (
ishq)—undoubtedly the preeminent theme throughout the history of Persian poetry. As a rare “love song” (nashı¯dah-i
a¯ shiqa¯ nah) in the collection Para¯ kandah shows,66 for Tarzı¯, the object of his love was neither a physical, corporeal being nor a transcendental, metaphysical being (like those that so pervade classical Sufi poetry). He was emphatic that his beloved is indeed the “homeland” (vatan). The poem is in effect about his decision to return to his native Afghanistan from a long period of exile in the Ottoman Damascus, a decision that was reproved by some as no less than “madness.” In the poem, Tarzı¯ acknowledges that his “patriotic” action was indeed an act of passion, a result of his incessant love for his native country. But, is not a passionate love for one’s homeland the most “rational” of all acts, the best that “reason” would demand and dictate? After all, Har kas ki dil ba
ishq-i vatan kard mubtala¯ Ima¯ n-u
aql-u dı¯n nashavad hı¯ch az-u juda¯ . That one who is ever consumed by love for his homeland: Faith, reason, and belief shall never abandon him. The poet insists that even if he was continually “castigated, scorned, criticized, and accused of madness” for his love of his homeland, “I accept all the accusations as long I remain a patriot (vatan-parast).”67 Love for one’s homeland has little to do with one’s physical environment as characterized by elements that are considered “accidentals” (
a¯ rizah) and not “essentials” (jawhar) to one’s identity. The formation of patriotic feelings and a sense of national belongingness is due to the bio-psychological factors that first affect the five essential human senses, factors that have a lasting effect on the formation of one’s personality. Thus, it is only in one’s place of birth and

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53

early upbringing, among one’s own compatriots, that one naturally grows a sense of belongingness: Pas
ishq-i tu chi sa¯ n zi sar-i man badar shavad Ba¯ shı¯r andaru¯ n shud-u ba¯ ja¯ n badar shavad. Oh my homeland, how could my love for you ever diminish? It nourished me as infant’s milk and will remain till my soul departs this earth.

Towards the novelization of narratives The poem “Bugzasht-u raft” (It is over), which appears in Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah, may be considered Tarzı¯’s manifesto for the “end” of poetry and the new “beginning” of narrative prose in the Persian literature in Afghanistan. One finds in this poem a well-crafted literary schema that appears to be paradoxical: using precisely the vehicle of poetry to express himself, Tarzı¯ calls for nothing short of “abandoning,” even “abolishing,” poetry as traditionally practiced in the Persian literary milieu: Vaqt-i shi
r-u sha¯
irı¯ bugzasht-u raft Vaqt-i sihr-u sa¯ hirı¯ bugzasht-u raft. Vaqt-i iqda¯ m ast-u sa
y-u jidd-u jahd Ghiflat-u tanparvarı¯ bugzasht-u raft.
Asr,
asr-i mu¯ tar-u rail ast-u barq Ga¯ m-ha¯ -i ushturı¯ bugzasht-u raft. Kı¯miya¯ az jumlah ashya¯  zar kashad Vaqt-i aksı¯r a¯ varı¯ bugzasht-u raft. .............. Tilgira¯ f a¯ rad khabar az sharq-u gharb Qa¯ sid-u na¯ mah barı¯ bugzasht-u raft. Sı¯ma¯ han dar sukhan a¯ mad zi barq Tilfu¯ n bishnaw, karı¯ bugzasht-u raft.68 The time for poetry and versification is over The time for magic and sorcery is over Now is the time for effort, action, and striving The time for laziness and lethargy is over Now is the age of motor, rail, and electric The age of the camel, that slow-gaited creature, is over Now chemistry transforms objects into gold The time for alchemy is over ........... The telegraph connects East and West The age of traveling messengers is over.

54

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan A metallic rod is the modern harbinger Listen to the telephone; the time of speechlessness is over . . .

Tarzı¯’s call for the “passing” of poetry is not tantamount to the “death” of the poet. The poet persists. It is poetry as a “profession” that undergoes transformation and is no longer the artistic expression par excellence as it used to be in the predominantly court-centered canonical literature of classical Persian. It is rather to assume its position as an art of the present, to become contemporary with its own times, to be enmeshed with the events of the day. The end of traditional poetry and its new beginning, however, also meant a concurrent burgeoning (admittedly not short of a host of impediments) of new genres of literary prose, especially the modern narrative fiction. With respect to modern fiction, reading stories—or listening to stories, in a culture where orality still persevered—would be “an unnecessary necessity” (la¯ zimah or lava¯ zima¯ t-i bi-luzu¯ m) for all human beings.69 In other words, the absence of poetry and fiction effectively changes nothing, but “human ears and thoughts, from the early stages of childhood, are so drawn to [stories]” that fiction becomes a “necessary aspect” of human lives.70 On a larger, collective scale, Tarzı¯ asserted, “[t]here is no nation which is not used to telling and listening to stories. There is no language in which stories are not produced.”71 In defining literature and literary production as such, Tarzı¯ put forward the view that there can be only one, universally applicable sense of “literariness,” and that both Eastern and Western conceptions of literature necessarily converge.72 Thus, he legitimized the reception and incorporation of apparently Western genres and modes into Eastern (including Afghan) literature and literary traditions and, conversely, justified the reception of the writings of Persian literary figures in Europe. Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ was, by all accounts, the first person in Afghanistan to critically engage the meaning and function of modern fiction and to seriously probe the historical prevalence of such traditional Persian narrative forms as hika¯ yah (story) and afsa¯ nah (tale, legend). According to Tarzı¯, the beginning of traditional Persian prose fiction follows uniformly the conventional format of “Tellers of tales and conveyors of events inform us that, once upon a time, during the reign of so-and-so a caliph, in such-and-such a city, there lived a merchant who . . .”73 Thus continue the stories, with no interruption, no real narrative progression, no character development, and no attempt at creating a clear narrative space. They customarily close with the stock-in-trade expression, “May God grant them their wishes and may He grant us ours.”74 The case of (popular) verse fiction in Persian is not so different: it normally begins with lofty, philosophical contemplations, using the highly metaphorical, intricate language of poetry, with little attempt to develop the plot persuasively or delve into convincing treatment of the characters. To Tarzı¯, the requisite refinement of poetic diction in verse narratives may well produce a formally “admirable and flawless” poetry, but it also creates such a complicated web of imposed structures, patterns, and conventions

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55

that it ultimately “fails to fulfill [the] main objective [of any narrative],” that is, providing “delight” (istilza¯ z) in listening to, or reading, stories.75 In his criticism of traditional narratives in Persian (whether in prose or in verse) Tarzı¯ singled out the typical incorporation of poetry, maxims, and aphorisms into the prose text as a way of embellishing the events and aggrandizing their significance. He also pointed to their inadequate treatment of what may be principally described as the notion of narrative voice. In traditional narratives, the narrator is an omnipresent voice, forming and transforming the sequence of events, not by developing a steady temporal progression of cause and effect but rather by constantly, and arbitrarily, moving between narrative spaces and tenses. The narrator’s omniscience emanates, above all, from his professional performative role within the domain of culture, the community’s social knowledge, customs, and collective mores. Most importantly, in traditional popular narratives, the idea of individuality or personality—corresponding to a large extent with the notions of interiority and subjectivity in modern literature—is usually absent or only marginally emphasized. A character’s actions determine his (or her) destiny, but this determination results from the predestined limits imposed by super-human effects.76 In addition to the narrative voice, Tarzı¯ found the narrative language in traditional stories problematic. This language is not straightforward and transparent. It seems to be convoluted, generically complex, and often times an amalgamation of inter-generic (and intertextual) elements which, paradoxically, makes it resemble some more recent modernist literary trends in Afghanistan. It is important to point out that Tarzı¯’s typology of Eastern (or “Oriental”) fiction as practiced in Afghanistan is characterized by an implicit, though strong, tension between “high” and “low” cultures. Tarzı¯ insisted that the traditional art of storytelling (naqa¯ lı¯) that draws uniformly from melodramatic narratives of a legendary past, adventurous romances, and amazing, highly improbable, and at times grotesque incidents belonging to the realm of decadent, “low” culture, serving no apparent purpose other than the mere entertainment of a largely uneducated audience. Tarzı¯ understood popular, oral, polyvalent narratives as the antithesis of modern narrative, repeatedly attacking the former (“low” literature) as both a cause and a symptom of the corruption of the masses. To him, the social context of naqa¯ lı¯ reinforced the indolent habits of the masses. The marvelous, magical, and fantastic themes of popular tales and folk legends contributed to their intellectual lethargy and gullibility and, by extension, to the backwardness of the society. Tarzı¯ maintained that in order to offer [aesthetic] pleasure to their readers (or listeners) classical authors often took “their readers’ sense of favoring hyperbole [muba¯ lighah-pisandı¯] and interest in hearing extraordinary, magical things” for granted. Thus, they produced works that were full of “disproportionate nonsense” (khura¯ fah ha¯ -i kha¯ riqah-numa¯ ). They wrote of “odd creatures, supernatural beings such as fairies and equip them with the ability to fly like birds.” They made their abode an imaginary place

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

called Ku¯ h-i Qa¯ f where a human prince falls in love with a winged fairy.77 Affected by the dominant “rationalist” modernizing worldviews of his time, Tarzı¯, while agreeing that a main objective of any narrative fiction is to be read (or heard) in order to bring comfort, relaxation, and peace of mind to the reader (or auditor), suggested that with “modern scientific inventions” where humanity has become “the real dominant force in the globe,” fiction must deal with materials that are ordinary and humanly possible; in short, fiction must be realistic. Stories that transcend the human boundaries and transgress the realm of the real will not be of any serious consequence.78 A realist work of literature is inevitably a product of human imagination, but because of its mimetic nature and referentiality it is superior to a fantastic work of imagination. One can assume, then, that reading realism in fiction is more “comforting” and “relaxing,” and by extension, more “delightful” than reading fantastic fiction. After all, as Tarzı¯’s argument goes, is not the representation of a more imaginable world also more imaginative? Tarzı¯ rarely discussed the mimetic nature of realist fiction or its depiction of a slice from the totality of social life. He nonetheless insisted that in the rapidly modernizing world, as reality overwhelms fantasy, only literary realism (from the epistemological as well as genetic points of view) could claim to adequately capture the “truth.” And realism is nowhere dealt with better than in the form and content of modern European novelistic tradition.79 Precisely for the reasons enumerated above, Tarzı¯ insisted on importing such European genres as ruma¯ n (roman) or na¯ vul (novel) in the literature of Afghanistan. Traces of na¯ vul and ruma¯ n are certainly found in classical Persian—for instance in such “most valuable and most useful” classics (in verse) as Firdawsı¯’s Shahna¯ mah, Niza¯ mı¯’s romances collectively called the Khamsah, and in traditional popular stories (in prose) such as Baha¯ r-i Da¯ nish, Shams-i Qahqihah, and Alf Laylah. However, “in recent centuries, as everything moved to Europe and the inhabitants of our vast globe have felt the need to follow and imitate the European lead in their everyday affairs, literary narrative, too, especially in the past century [i.e. the nineteenth century], like the rest of the sciences, arts, and industries, has tended to acquire a new, fashionable European dress.”80 Persian narrative fiction has not remained—and cannot remain—unaffected by this “Europeanization of fiction.”81 Although Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s use of the Western literary tradition in his elaboration of the nature and function of literature remained comparatively modest, it is clear that he was an avid reader of nineteenth-century European (especially Russian) fiction and translated a number of such works (primarily from the Turkish) into Persian. However, as the choice of the works he chose to translate—such as the fiction of Jules Verne and the lesser known writer Xavier de Montepin’s novel Les Viveurs de Paris—shows, he must have been unaware of, and/or unsympathetic towards, modernist experiments in the European literature of his times. Nevertheless, Tarzı¯ and his colleagues in the Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r were pioneering the introduction of not

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57

only works from European literature but also the history of Western literature in Afghanistan. For instance, Tarzı¯ devoted a number of articles on explaining European Classicism (“kila¯ sı¯zm”) and Romanticism (“ruma¯ ntı¯zm”), using a variety of examples from French, German, Russian, and Scandinavian literatures. He also wrote extensively on Realism (“riya¯ lı¯zm” or “haqı¯qı¯yah”) in the nineteenth-century European novel. In one of the final issues of the journal, he pointed to the necessity of comparative literary analysis and promised that “if the opportunity arises—God willing—I will offer discussions concerning the comparisons (tatbı¯qa¯ t) between Eastern and Western literatures.”82 Such an opportunity, however, never arose for the paper ceased publication in December 1918.

Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s and “The Craft of Fiction” Not long after the appearance of Tarzı¯’s pronouncements concerning the function and necessity of modern fiction, Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s, another recently returned émigré, wrote a number of articles on the art of fiction (“Fann-i Qissah”).83 Anı¯s was born in Egypt of Afghan parentage and returned to Afghanistan in 1921. His name is prominently associated with the first, prestigious, and continuously published newspaper in Kabul: the Anı¯s Daily.84 A versatile writer and journalist, Anı¯s wrote on a variety of topics. His Nida-i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif ya¯ Huqu¯ q-i Millat (The Call of the pursuers of education or the rights of the nation) ingeniously explores, in a series of dialogues, the forms and nature of juridical and political institutions in a modern state, the kind of state that the intellectuals of the time wished to establish in Afghanistan.85 As far as Anı¯s’s writings on literature are concerned, he considered the most proper definition of “fiction” (qissah) to be “the foremost art and the most ancient of human teachers.”86 In periods where schools were not abundant, “to convey (talqı¯n) arguments and information in the form of stories was the best and perhaps the only instrument of constructing behavioral and subjective unity of the nation.”87 Human progress in recent times has further expanded the depth and scopes of the art of fiction, Anı¯s insisted. Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s contended that “literature always represents and is subordinate to the rational and psychological character (maza¯ j-i
aqlı¯ va ru¯ hı¯) of the human subjects.” Since fiction is a primary component of literature, “a society’s fiction should be considered the principal revealer of its rational and behavioral (khulqı¯) character.”88 Therefore, “in the same manner that the endless science of psychology has made us aware of the mental intricacies of [individual] human beings, fiction can inform us of the collective psychology of societies. So far as an author has not been immersed into the wide sea of psychological insights, he/she could hardly produce a small drop of fiction.”89 Thus, in a major departure from the views of Tarzı¯—who was, as previously shown, skeptical about the value of traditional fiction and was sharply critical of the old-fashioned (and in his view “démodé”)

58

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structures of classical Persian narratives—Anı¯s regarded traditional, popular fiction to be indispensable to our understanding of “the culture, ethics, and even experiences” of “our forefathers” for whom the form of fiction largely served what publication houses and the press serve today.90 “If we desire to understand the ethics and rational characteristics of our predecessors, we must study their stories, especially stories produced by the lower and middle strata of society, for it is the majority of the people who represent the natural and authentic characteristic of our heterogeneous communities.”91 Precisely for this reason, Anı¯s considered such classics as Kalı¯lah va Dimnah or Muslih al-Dı¯n Sa
dı¯’s Gulista¯ n and Busta¯ n—that is, stories which bear “mentality of the environment” (
aqliya¯ t-i muhı¯t)—as “the collection of morality and the psyche” of previous generations. These earlier works are significant and “we should discover in them the arguments and rational and behavioral characteristics of our forefathers and propagate them to the extent that the interlinking of yesterday and today are not broken.”92 Furthermore, “our aim at collecting these arguments and examples of our forefathers’ mental and behavioral characteristics should not be only to guarantee the perpetuity of these characteristics or linking the past to the present. Rather, if, due to the requirements of times, reform and change are needed, we should not hesitate to implement them, for not every old logic and mental state is to be followed with no alterations made in our own times.”93 Mindful of the prevalence of poetry in classical Persian literature, Anı¯s was quick to point out that fiction should not be restricted to prose only but should be inclusive of verse narratives. “Most of the literary works [in Persian] that have reached us are poetic fiction or narratives in poetry. This proper genre had been transformed into a particular craft and a profound form of art . . . [Traditionally,] special gatherings were established for poets to compose and recite their stories and people came together to listen to them.”94 What is the status of fiction in our literature at the present time? Anı¯s asked. In response to this question, he adroitly, and significantly for the sake of the present discussion, connected the current state of fiction writing with the development of modernity. “I am not asking whether the writing and creation of fiction is part of our [current] literary production or not,” he wrote. “I do know, like everyone else does, that ever since the East gave up dynamism in the field of life, like in so many other neglected areas, fiction, as the oldest and most original of human teachers, also fell into disrepute.”95 It is only in the larger context of cultural modernity that Anı¯s perceptibly shifted the terms of his argument from the generic qissah to ruma¯ n (i.e. the European roman or novel). “What is the status of ruma¯ n—the most ancient of arts and teachers of mankind—in our eyes today? How much value do we entail to [this sort of] fiction?” The available responses to these questions, in Anı¯s’s view, range from the “comical” to the “disappointing.” Some of the “egregious accusations” we hear today about ruma¯ n—the perfect type of modern fiction—include such “nonsense” as “(1) it makes people ‘imaginative’; (2) it leads to the reader’s waste of time; and (3) it makes one distaste

The poetics of (national) truth content

59

what is properly one’s own and look, instead, upon others with [undue] favor.” Anı¯s discounts all of these points as “inappropriate.” An expansive imagination is, in fact, a good thing and no one could say that it will make a person “delusional” or “dysfunctional.” The question of functionality in life has no correspondence to the growth of imagination as a result of reading novels. As for the “waste of time” argument, what could be a more effective way of spending one’s time than to penetratingly “observe” objects (whether sensually or intellectually) and to draw “inferences” from one’s observations? What better instrument for observation and inference than a ruma¯ n? For Anı¯s, reading ruma¯ ns is not unlike embarking on a fascinating trip, a new adventure, meeting new characters, and learning from their complex experiences. If one is interested in human conditions and human personalities, one must incline towards reading ruma¯ ns. As for the remaining concern—which implies that reading fiction will make one disapprove of one’s own culture and unnecessarily emulate foreign cultures that are represented in novels (that is, literally, “to self-sacrifice for the sake of extolling others,” that is, khud-kush-i bı¯ga¯ nah-parast)—Anı¯s praised the sentiment and acknowledged that “no threat is more grave in the East than the danger of turning into ‘khud-kush-i bı¯ga¯ nah-parast’.”96 He was quick to point out, though, that there is no conceivable correlation between this perceived “dangerous” phenomenon and the reading of foreign fiction and ruma¯ ns. Anı¯s is adamant that “we should read stories of those who do not share the same customs and culture with us. Reading [foreign] fiction [can be] full of excitement and will increase our understanding and knowledge.”97 After all, in reading foreign fiction, one is simply encountering a mirror that reflects the behavioral and rational characters of a foreign people. If this fiction affects readers from other cultural surroundings, the effect will be just like the effects a journey to any foreign land might have on a traveler. If it actually leads one to give up one’s own cultural and national character, this development would be the consequence of the reader’s own lack of resoluteness and weakness of character, and cannot be attributed to one’s reading of foreign fiction. If someone’s mind is not filled with his/her own national character and native panorama, that person may become a “stranger” with or without taking a journey elsewhere—or, in other words, with or without reading foreign novels. Thus, instead of rejecting foreign fiction, it is important to discover the means through which our own national characters and cultural coordinates are strengthened. The introduction of modern literary genres and forms, especially the novel, will greatly facilitate this task. In pointing to the necessity of writing “native” fiction, Anı¯s wrote: “Let us hope that our novelists will emerge who would depict our psyches and mentalities and represent our lives. In the absence of such a depiction and representation, we may spend our entire lives observing others without ever looking into our own selves.”98 In a move that can be seen as another significant departure from Tarzı¯’s views on the function of modern literary works, Anı¯s rejected the notion that

60 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan the chief purpose of literature (fiction, for instance) should be “instructional.” Tarzı¯, as I discussed above, advocated a fiction that realistically portrays social life. Anı¯s insisted that modern fiction certainly depicts social reality, but he was no less emphatic about the power of imagination in writing fiction when he asserted that “fiction must make the reader not only read about reality as is, but also to reflect on what it could and ought to be.” Imagined reality, in this case, is not the same as fantasy or non-reality. By maintaining that “fiction is meant to be the picture of life [and] the representation of reality” and, in depicting life in all its diversity, writers usually intermingle with people belonging to different strata of society, Anı¯s hardly meant to privilege mimetic representation in fiction. At the same time, “fiction encompasses poetic meanings, philosophy, wisdom, as well as life’s sweet and sour [experiences], happiness and sorrow, victory and defeat.”99 As such, fiction is supposed to be neither completely “true” nor completely “fictitious.” Rather, it “should be to some extent close to reality and to some extent distant from imagination.”100 “A reader [of fiction] must not find himself in a fanciful wonderland of imagination only,” Anı¯s wrote. “Yet, at the same time, the reader must discover in a story things that he/she could not otherwise encounter in the conventional sense [of reality]. In other words, whatever the reader sees should be considered realistic but [only] from behind the glass of imagination and the discerning eyes of the writer.”101 In the seminal essay “Conjectures on World Literature” the literary theorist Franco Moretti argues that at the heart of any attempt into “distant reading” and comparative literary study lies a sense of anti-nationalism. “The point is that there is no other justification for the study of world literature . . . but this: to be a thorn in the side, a permanent intellectual challenge to national literatures—especially the local literature. If comparative literature is not this, it’s nothing.”102 Both Tarzı¯ and Anı¯s were keen to introduce European literature and literary forms to the literary scene in Afghanistan. It would be a tenuous argument to say that their intended project of comparative analyses of Eastern and Western literatures was meant to mount “a permanent intellectual challenge to national literatures.” On the contrary, just like most liberal reformist intellectuals and authors in the rest of the Middle East and Central Asia who were concerned about the belatedness of their societies, they believed that the introduction of modern European models of writing should significantly strengthen modern culture and contribute to the emergence and consolidation of a truly national(ist) literature in Afghanistan. Tarzı¯, in particular, emphasized that appropriate “Europeanized” fiction will educate and improve the collective character of the Afghans and prepare them for citizenship in the modern nation-state and membership in the inter-state cultural arena. Meanwhile, his conjectures on the need to institutionalize literature largely ensured the constitution and promulgation of a state-sanctioned, officially adopted nationalist cultural policy. Within the contours of this statist (and aestheticized) social order all literary and cultural productions were defined, regulated, and coordinated

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61

on a national terrain where, as a literary theorist put it about a case not too different from that of Afghanistan at the time, “individuals are released from epistemological, economic, and political constraints so that they can experience an undifferentiated identity and escape the enervating antinomies of modernity.”103 Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s, for his part, was critical of the form, structure, and content of most classical Persian narrative fiction—whether in verse or in prose—yet he clearly avoided making sweeping judgments that privileged European novelistic models over native narrative models. Furthermore, by defining fiction not in absolute, totalistic terms, Anı¯s, in contrast to Tarzı¯, offered a more nuanced view where the reception of modernity could coincide with—rather than contradict—traditional narrative modes in the literature of Afghanistan. Anı¯s certainly read traditional fiction in a way that served his own modern schemes and interests, but he also acknowledged that tradition intrinsically shapes the formation of the discourses of modernity. Delving beneath the metanarrative of Afghan cultural and literary modernity reveals continuing ties to tradition at the level of how modern discourses were used as responses to underlying epistemological and historical problems. Notwithstanding Anı¯s’s original contributions to an emergent theory of fiction in Afghanistan, it was Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s theoretical interventions that inevitably engaged modern Afghan writers and delineated the articulation of a new order of literature both as a discursive realm and as an authoritative national institution in Afghanistan, a process whose crucial impact became increasingly manifested in Afghan letters and society during most of the twentieth century. Despite its official nation-statist packaging and its complicity with the dominant culture and structures of power, Tarzı¯’s purposive aesthetics greatly influenced the formulation of an ideologically progressive, densely social, and intensely “committed” literature. His critical—if speculative—ideas about the necessity of reconciling poetry with the “needs of times” and producing essentially mimetic works of realist fiction helped advance a literary discourse whereby “the category of the purely fictional” was not to be disjointed from, let alone antithetical to, the “category of the purely factual” but rather reflective of it.104 The authenticity and modernity of literature can be measured by the degree of its commitment to a formula of reflectiveness. Accordingly, in the belated conditions of Afghan society, for poetry to be privileged as “modern,” it would need to be didactic and instructional; for fiction to remain “modern” it would have to be mimetic, allegorical of the social world, and referential. Thus emerged, largely in the shadows of Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s hypotheses, an aesthetics that stressed the representational nature of literary genres and insisted on the conjunction of literary works with the world of public events and society. It was this aesthetics that, in many revealing ways, profoundly colored both literary production and literary criticism in Afghanistan—until very recently.

3

Perilous ends of history The rhetoric of commitment and the poetics of nationalism

Traditional Persian views on ars poetica explicitly acknowledged the insufficiency of language and maintained that language cannot exhaust meaning. Instead, it favored a kind of poetic language that resisted direct, unambiguous expressions. The few extant manuals of classical poetics in Persian rarely addressed the authorial omniscience of the “author” as the unquestionable subject of literary-cultural creation and innovation. In concealing subjectivity, they were able to concentrate on the technical refinement, stylistic elegance, and rhetorical sophistication of aesthetics and poetic writing.1 In contrast to classical Persian poetics, the communicative nature of modern poetics establishes the notion of subjective directness.2 In the case of literature in Afghanistan since the early decades of the twentieth century, the subjective intention of the poet to convey or express certain principles has assumed a paradigmatic tendency. Perceiving subjectivity as a quintessential aspect of the project of modernity, twentieth-century intellectuals located in its expressive authority not only the distinctive modernity and innovation of literary writing and cultural practice but also the power to achieve national development, historical progress, and social improvement. The intellectual proponents of modernity in Afghanistan considered themselves to be omniscient subjects entrusted with the formidable, yet necessary, task of enlightening the people and advancing the historical effort for social emancipation and liberation. This tendency, concurrent with the political radicalization of society, gave rise to a unique, modern discursive formation whereby literature and history—that is, the literary subject and the historical subject or the representational mode of writing and the historical message—became intrinsically and unavoidably interlinked, to the extent that they appeared as one and the same entity. So far as representation signified and embodied historicization, even what may be called the most “aesthetic” of representations and applications that evoked and resonated with the so-called “self-expressiveness” of literature, necessarily assumed a socially practical objective and ideological orientation. The teleological agenda of the purposive aesthetics that epitomized literature as an intellectual practice heralded what would become the primary principle and the widely accepted criterion for evaluating and

Perilous ends of history

63

appraising the modernity of poetry and fiction in contemporary nation-state of Afghanistan.

Mastering the poetics of nationalism For early twentieth-century intellectuals who believed that only the redemptive force of modernity could push the languorous nation forward on the progressive track of history and chart its future development, the institutionalization of the cultural field seemed a most apposite conduit for successful change. This process of institutionalization would be promoted most effectively within state promulgated procedures, they argued. As elaborated in the previous chapter, during the 1920s, the interests of the intellectuals and the interests of the new state—under Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h, who declared the country’s full sovereignty from the British and embarked on an ambitious and arduous path towards modernization—seemed to correspond if not completely concur. Many intellectuals were convinced that the establishment of cultural and educational organizations by the new “progressive” state, led by an “enlightened” monarch, would strengthen processes of modernization and development and result in tangible changes in society. The principal issue of concern to the several new papers and magazines that started to appear after Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r ceased publication—and most of its regular staff joined the new state administration—was the strengthening of the nation-state and the consolidation of the emergent nationalist sentiments in the wake of “independence.” As a manifestation of the extensive permeation of the idea of purposive aesthetics—an aesthetics whose intellectual map was delineated first in the pages of the journal Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r—the prominent poet
Abd al-
Alı¯ Mustaghnı¯ (1875–1933), who was extremely well-versed in classical poetic tradition in Persian, rejected the conventions of classical poetry, instead encouraging his reader to: Na shi
r sara¯ ba¯ sh-u na tarz-i sukhan a¯ mu¯ z Jahdi kun-u az bahr-i vatan
ilm-u fann a¯ mu¯ z Na mu¯ -i miya¯ nı¯-u na cha¯ h-i ziqanı¯ gu¯ y
Ilm-i ki ba ka¯ r a¯ yadat ay chashm-i man a¯ mu¯ z Ka¯ hil mashav-u bı¯-hunar-u kha¯ nah-nishı¯nı¯ Chu¯ n rail pay-i
ilm-u hunar ta¯ khtan a¯ mu¯ z . . .3 Don’t compose traditional verse; leave behind devices of rhetoric Instead, take up science and the arts in the name of your homeland Don’t day dream about the beloved’s slender waist, her porcelain chin Instead, learn a useful science, oh pupil of my eyes Don’t become artless and lazy, holed up like a hermit Like a train, hasten in pursuit of science and the arts!

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

These lines from a longer poem illustrate a conspicuous shift from traditional views on literature to a modern literary discourse in the early twentieth century nationalist era in Afghanistan. Many poets and critics argued that the conventional practice of poetry had meant simply using longestablished rhetorical figures and worn-out devices, dealing with such “trivia” as the description and praise of the physical beauty of the perpetually unattainable beloved. The contemporary relevance of such poetry, which remained oblivious to the real “needs of the time,” was considered negligible. Mustaghnı¯, for his part, urged a new brand of poetry, where contemporary themes are explored by the “poet of the present,” who is unmistakably the proper “poet of the nation”: Tashbı¯h-u isti
a¯ rah-i chandı¯n haza¯ r sa¯ l Bigza¯ r-u shi
r gu¯ y ba tarz-i digar kunu¯ n Ra¯ h-i ki sayr ghashtah chandı¯n haza¯ r ba¯ r Ra¯ h-i digar bigı¯r-u az a¯ n dar-guzar kunu¯ n Bigzasht-u raft qissah-i ma¯ zı¯ digar magu¯ y Mustaqbal ast-u ha¯ l zama¯ n mu
tabar kunu¯ n . . . La¯ zim buvad muna¯ sib-i har
asr ka¯ r-u ba¯ r
Asr-i digar buvad tu¯ -u ka¯ r-i digar kunu¯ n.4 Leave aside well-worn similes and metaphors Write poetry in a new style Abandon the road that’s been trod a thousand times Choose a different path Don’t repeat the same story yet again—it’s already been told Only the present and the future are worthy Every time should embody its proper requisites New is the age; let our poetry also be new. Similarly, Ghula¯ m Hazrat Sha¯  iq-Jama¯ l (1905–1974), another noted modern poet, while directly addressing his own “heart” (dil) in the lines that follow, unreservedly admonished those colleagues of his who used poetic “clichés” and devoted their insights to composing typical verses about an illusory, imaginary beloved: Ta¯ kay ay dil vasf-i zulf-i khu¯ bru¯ ya¯ n mı¯-kunı¯ Fikr-i mardum ra¯ chura¯ a¯ khar parı¯sha¯ n mı¯-kunı¯? Chand ba¯ mah nisbat-i rukhsa¯ r-i ja¯ na¯ n mı¯-kunı¯ Az chi ba¯ khanjar bara¯ bar tı¯r-i muzhga¯ n mı¯-kunı¯? Ta¯ ba kay ta
rı¯f-i a¯ n lab ha¯ -i khanda¯ n mı¯-kunı¯ Ta¯ kuja¯ tawsı¯f-i gul ha¯ -i gulista¯ n mı¯-kunı¯?5 Oh my heart, how long will you wax lyrical about the hair of the beautiful ones,

Perilous ends of history

65

Why do you distract and confuse people so? How long will you compare the beloved’s cheeks to the moon, Or her eyelids, with a dagger? How long will you praise her smiling lips, How long will you extol the beautiful flowers in the gardens? Contraposing “new” and “old” poetry within the larger intellectual framework of tradition-modernity debates widely current at the time, Sha¯  iq-Jama¯ l, following the prevalent aesthetic views of his time, considered the proper task of poetry to be primarily instructive and pedagogical, and to deal with higher, nobler ends: Man
-i ikhva¯ n az nifa¯ q-u jahl mazmu¯ n-i khush ast Kha¯ mah-at na¯ sih chu ba¯ shad harbah-i dushman-kush ast. Keeping countrymen from disunity and ignorance is poetry’s noble endeavor When advice flows from your pen, the pen, like a weapon, enemies will sever The “novelty” of poetry lies precisely in its sense of stylistic innovation as well as in its commitment to the enlightening (“the awakening”) of the poet’s “compatriots.” Poets are thus counseled: Dar tarı¯q-i sha¯
irı¯ sabk-i jadı¯d a¯ gha¯ z kun Chashm-i ikhva¯ n-i vatan az khwa¯ b-i ghaflat ba¯ z kun! When you write poetry, write with new flare and style Rouse your fellow countrymen from the long sleep of laziness! Mirza¯ Muhammad Sharı¯f, a contemporary poet and a clerk in the office of Government Press, went so far as to bestow praise only upon those whose sole aim was to serve the nation and the homeland. The poet recognized “sacrificing for the sake of the nation” to mean no less than “achieving immortality.” But the love of nation by itself cannot be sufficient: it has to be complemented with progress in the realm of culture and education, with the cultivation of
ilm and hunar (science and the arts). Sharı¯f was adamant to point out that: Ba¯ shad taraqqı¯-i vatan az
ilm-u az hunar Gardad buland zı¯n du sukhan shuhrat-i vatan Sa¯ hib-kama¯ l-u bı¯-hunar az yak qabı¯lah and ¯ n ba¯
is-i taraqqı¯-u ı¯n zillat-i vatan A
Ilm ast khastah dil ki furu¯ gh-i kama¯ l-i
ilm Ru¯ shan chu¯ a¯ fta¯ b kunad zulmat-i vatan.6

66

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan The nation’s progress depends upon the achievements of science and the arts When the nation nourishes these two pursuits, its fame will flourish and grow A people can either be cultured or coarse If cultured, the nation will advance; if coarse, the nation will decline Oh hopeless one, when science’s perfect rays shine down, They will illuminate the nation like the midday sun.

The novel romancing the nation It is generally recognized in literary-critical circles that, of the various narrative forms, the novel is most fundamentally conjoined with the idea of the nation as well as with the dynamics of modernity. As Benedict Anderson elucidates in his influential Imagined Communities, there is a dynamic dialectical link between the formation of the historical consciousness of nationalism and the establishment of print media and narrative genres, particularly with the novel. A nation is essentially a community “to be distinguished not by [its] falsity/genuineness,” i.e. on the basis of tangible historical circumstances rather than “by the style [it is] imagined,” i.e. on the basis of a productive imaginative narrative that fosters and consolidates “the embryo of the nationally-imagined community” into “a deep horizontal comradeship.”7 “It was the novel that historically accompanied the rise of nations,” surmises Timothy Brennan, following Anderson’s thesis. “Socially, the novel joined the newspaper as the major vehicle of the national print media, helping to standardize language, encourage literacy, and remove mutual incomprehensibility. But it did much more than that. Its manner of presentation allowed people to imagine the special community that was the nation.”8 In the case of literature in Afghanistan, what Mary Layoun terms “the narrative technologies” of the novel corresponded with national imagination and poetics of modernity.9 Early novels rose to prominence in the context of the dominant nationalist discourse of the 1920s when several new papers and magazines started to appear, both in the capital Kabul and—significant for our discussion of national imagination—also in the provinces.10 Novels (and novellas) were published as installments in these papers and magazines and provided what may be considered “a condition of possibility of imagining something like a nation.”11 It must be emphasized that, from early on, the novel was not only indisputably affiliated with the emergence and consolidation of the idea of the nation but it also showed an intricate and unique affiliation with the institution of the modern state.12 Early Afghan novels and novellas tended to plot and accommodate historical subject matters. In fact, they reinforced the purported objective depictions of the past, as prescribed to in conventional historical accounts. Like most historical novels produced elsewhere in the Persian-speaking world at the time, in their fictional representations of historical events and

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developments, these narratives generally conformed to the comprehensive exposition typically associated with the historical novel.13 The plot of a historical novel, as Avrom Fleishman argues in his comprehensive discussion of the topic, “must include a number of ‘historical’ events, particularly those in the public sphere (war, politics, economic change, etc.), mingled with and affecting the personal fortunes of the characters” and the setting of the fiction should incorporate realistic details in respect to events, characters, and places. “When life is seen in the context of history, we have a novel,” writes Fleishman, but “when the novel’s characters live in the same world with historical persons, we have a historical novel.”14 As an indication of the burgeoning of modern narrative fiction in the form of the historical novel, the newly founded magazine Mu
arrif-i Ma
a¯ rif published Jiha¯ d-i Akbar (The Greatest strive) between 1919 and 1921, perhaps the earliest specimen of Persian novel in Afghanistan. Its author, Muhammad Husayn (who also served as the editor of Mu
arrif-i Ma
a¯ rif ), considered his work to be “the first na¯ vul of the Afghan nation [sic] that is written in the style of new stories for the sake of entertainment, as well as the benefit, of its readers.”15 The setting of Jiha¯ d-i Akbar is the first Anglo-Afghan war (1839–42), the central character is the historical figure of the anti-British Vazı¯r Akbar Kha¯ n, and the plot involves the resistance of the Afghans against the invading army. An early novelistic exercise in modern fiction in Afghanistan, the plot of Jiha¯ d-i Akbar is linear and the narrative perspective follows the articulation of the omniscient point of view, as one perceptive critic has pointed out.16 Nevertheless, characters—even the minor ones— do not possess undifferentiated traits and features derived from totalizing explanations and established binarisms. The story is not devoid of irony, episodic complications, or narrative entanglement. Its denouement involves the resolution of a romantic liaison between a young British woman and an Afghan man, culminating in the former’s subsequent conversion and devotion to Islam. As a paradigmatic nationalist narrative, Jiha¯ d-i Akbar adheres to the synthetic formation of the nation, an amalgamation of religious identity, cultural affiliation, and the sense of natural belongingness to a particular place and a distinctive people. Not long after the appearance of Jiha¯ d-i Akbar, a Persian translation of the novella Jashn-i Istiqla¯ l dar Bolivia (Independence Day celebrations in Bolivia)—written originally in English by an Afghan author Murtaza¯ Ahmad Muhammadzai)—appeared, in installments, in the Kabul newspaper Ama¯ ni Afghan.17 Set in the Latin American country of Bolivia—a place far from Central Asia but, curiously, the home of many expatriate Afghans—the story still preserves a palpable nationalist aura. The protagonist is Ahmad Gul, an Afghan merchant capitalist who falls in love with a Bolivian beauty but finds a potent adversary in a local politician. After Ahmad Gul triumphs over the politician in a duel called by the latter, the jealous adversary succeeds in passing a law through the Bolivian National Congress. According to the new law all foreigners whose native countries have had no diplomatic

68 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan ties with Bolivia had to be expelled from the country. In despair over the loss of his love and livelihood, the protagonist readies to leave Bolivia. In an extraordinary turn of events, and in a clear reference to what is officially known in Afghanistan as “the Third Anglo-Afghan War” or “the War of Independence” of 1919, Ahmad Gul is informed that his “beloved homeland” has won its full independence and has just established diplomatic relations with Bolivia. Upon further inquiry, he finds out that, indeed, the general consul of Afghanistan had just taken residence in a fashionable La Paz hotel. He rushes to meet the envoy and informs him of the law. With his expulsion order annulled, he has his wedding day coincide with the “auspicious” celebration of the independence of his “national” homeland. The story ends with cries of “long live Afghanistan’s independence” and “long live the Afghan king.” It is significant that the above slogans that appear at the end of Jashn-i Istiqla¯ l are expressed in Pashtu and not in Persian (the language in which the text was actually rendered). As a novel, Jashn-i Istiqla¯ l accompanied the consolidation of the nation of modernity in Afghanistan “by objectifying the ‘one, yet many’ of national life, and by mimicking the structure of the nation, a clearly bordered jumble of languages and styles.”18 Thus, in the productive realm of the novelization of the nation, while many differences, anomalies, and contradictions are necessarily ignored or dissolved, the contours of the nation may be more effectively—and realistically—“mimicked” when the heterogeneity and diversity of the nation as an imagined community are acknowledged and even underscored. As a central thematic element in the Afghan fiction of this period, the nation holds the narrative plots together and shapes and deliberates the resolutions of the stories. Shared in all of these works of fiction was the representation of an abstract collectivity, a grand entity, defined as a singular—even if diverse and heterogeneous—nation in its objective social relations. Yet, from the outset, the configuration of the novelistic schematization of this singular nation meant both to reflect the firmness and the resilience of the national setting. To “resolve” and “settle” the contradictions and disparities of the nation, the novel had to reveal precisely the multifarious yet inclusive, all-encompassing, and unavoidably synthetic nature of the nation of modernity. It is important to note that, in these modern narratives, the almost dialogic blending of the common “national homeland” signified that commitment to its “soul” and its “soil” exceeded exclusivist agendas based on narrower definitions of ethnicity, language (Persian or Pashtu), or even religious identity. Towards the end of Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s reign, reflecting rising general discontent in society, many of the erstwhile intellectual supporters of the regime became increasingly disenchanted with the monarchy and grew critical of its modernization efforts, which they found both inadequate and inconsistent. The intellectuals felt that, although the state widely endorsed nationalist poetics, it had abandoned the establishment of what was considered an ethico-political order whereby the objective change of social

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relations would correspond with the engendering and strengthening of integrative cultural ties within the larger and more diverse public sphere. This fact can be ascertained by the preponderance of what one literary observer calls “a literature of despair” (adabiya¯ t-i ya’s) in the latter years of the 1920s.19 Nowhere was the critical agenda of the intellectual proponents of modernity more clearly expressed and succinctly elaborated than in Nida¯ -i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif ya¯ Huqu¯ q-i Millat (The Call of the pursuers of education or the rights of the nation), a highly didactic novel by the social critic and journalist Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s. The novel—the first to be printed in its entirety in one tome rather than to be published in installments in papers— consists of nine chapters (or nine “meetings”). In each meeting (ijtima¯
), a group of “students of modern schools” (talabah-i ma
a¯ rif ) discuss a specific topic concerning “the rights of the nation” (huqu¯ q-i millat) and the ways to delineate, preserve, and protect those rights within the confines of the law. A thriving civil society guarantees personal freedom (hurriyat-i shakhsı¯), freedom of property (hurriyat-i tamalluk), freedom of writing [and speech] (hurriyat-i tahrir), and freedom of association (hurriyat-i ijtima¯
).20 In Nida¯ -i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif the interlocutors of the young students include conservative religious scholars and notables (shaykh, ha¯ jı¯, mawlavı¯) who engage the students and adamantly, yet surprisingly convincingly at times, oppose the ideas of the “enlightened” youth and refuse to accept their models of a “modern” society. To Anı¯s, the concept of the nation rarely enters into the discussions, not because it is unimportant but because it is so palpably present that addressing it will only be superfluous. Instead, the “people” assume supremacy. “In countries where laws are observed [and followed], all rules and obligations derive directly from the people” and for Afghanistan to turn into a civil society based on the universal rules of law, the “rights of citizen” and the “duties of the state” must be clarified and enforced accordingly.21 Such a development could hardly produce results unless the people turn towards the path of “progress” (taraqqı¯). “The professor”—who acts as the mentor to the talabah-i ma
a¯ rif—defines taraqqı¯ not as “possessing perfect comfort with regard to mobility, dress, food, and the rest of life’s necessities, which, in point of fact, are only consequences of progress.” In fact, genuine taraqqı¯ is much more abstract. According to “the professor,” it refers to “the intimacy and harmony of the souls [that compose] the nation” (ta nus va ta luf-i arva¯ h-i millat) from whose coalescing would emerge “a grand soul” (ru¯ h-i
azı¯m) that is simply the collective “soul of the people” (ru¯ h-i sha
b). Material progress can occur concretely and profoundly only when progress in the latter sense is achieved.22

Deconstructing the poetics of nationalism After the succumbing of Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s regime and the subsequent usurpation of power by the Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynasty (1929–1978), while the nation remained of paramount importance, socio-economic development

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was reconstituted as the central goal of the expanding state agenda of modernization. In the promulgation of this agenda, the post-Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h state, with the aim of extending its hegemony over all forms of cultural and intellectual production, sanctioned the establishment and consolidation of a number of educational and literary-cultural institutions. During the Musa¯ hiba¯ n rule, literary societies, historical and archeological organizations, faculties of letters within institutions of higher learning, academic journals, etc. were established and flourished.23 In facilitating the foundation of such institutions, the state aimed to appropriate the discourse of modernity. Associating modernity primarily with material progress and economic development, it placed little emphasis upon the necessity of the emergence of a viable civil society in conjunction with the establishment of a comprehensive cultural sphere. Therefore, while many intellectuals implicitly benefited from state cultural establishments, they still viewed the very structure of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n power as an obstacle and an impediment towards the incorporation of a genuine cultural modernity. The incongruities they perceived in state-society relations reflected the degree of these intellectuals’ dissent and discontent vis-à-vis the apparatuses of state governance and, to modern poets and writers, defined the nature and intensity of their ensuing oppositional political involvement. With the intellectuals increasingly challenging and resisting the cultural apparatuses and ideological machinery of the dominant state, and the poets and writers offering alternative modalities of literary creativity, the Musa¯ hiba¯ n showed little hesitation in using not only forms of manipulation but also such means as censor, intimidation, imprisonment, torture, and outright physical elimination of active “dissidents,” especially those who were deemed “subversive” poets and writers.24 During the rule of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n, the state discouraged and even suppressed civil society debates while the official media generated and publicized numerous patriotic poems and nationalist fiction that celebrated freedom and liberty and praised the Afghans’ “inherent penchant” for independence. In effect, as an indicator that the nation had achieved a near sacrosanct position as being theoretically over and above ideological entanglements and political machination, the strengthening of the national body became the chief objective of both the state and the dissident intellectuals. Yet, upon closer investigation of most of the nationalist literary manifestations, including irony, ambiguity, double entendre, and ambivalence, one can certainly discern vastly contrasting and conflicting readings of the nation and national conditions. For instance, the state endorsed a nationalist poetics that highlighted its position as the sovereign agency safeguarding national freedom and independence. In contrast, the intellectuals also sanctioned such a poetics but precisely for the opposite ideological reason: to detect in it validation of the claim that the nation was, collectively, in dire need of “real” freedom and that the ruling state was not truly sovereign and, therefore, rightfully subject to resistance, reform, and even a revolution.

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Taking into consideration anomalies inherent in the nationalist discourse, an allegorical poem with such apparently obvious themes as freedom and liberty, for instance, could be expressed either denotatively or connotatively. The literal, direct meaning of the denotative expression—almost, but not necessarily always—leaves no room for ambiguity or evasiveness. On the other hand, the more abstract connotative expression may embody a more introspective, philosophical meaning. Such an expression definitely also connotes something more. Its emphasis on personal, individual freedom could be read as the earnest longing of an individual prisoner of conscience who is in chains for his political views and activities. It may be read further as a metaphor for (or against) collective, supra-individual, national liberation and social emancipation. In the latter case, it may well involve the question of whether the dominant state clearly fulfilled its mandate and actually safeguarded national liberty or rather betrayed and compromised the cause of national struggle. An official reading of a nationalist work of poetry would prefer a poem with denotative meaning. Such a poem is seen unequivocally as a contribution towards the national agenda advocated and promulgated by the state. Alternatively, the official reading may limit itself to the layer of allegorical abstraction and evaluate the poem as a philosophical contemplation on the theme of freedom in general. Such a reading may well involve a vivid and highly rewarding act of interpretation. But nationalist poetics, whether manifestly or latently, is in fact a multifaceted, plastic poetics. It often renders itself to deeply incompatible readings and evaluations. Therefore, a counter-official reading of the same allegorical poem may penetrate deeper into its intricate linguistic and rhetorical devices, discovering alternative meanings that would essentially change the allegory itself altogether. To elucidate this point, a few examples will follow. A famous qit
ah (a “fragment” or a concise poem with one single theme) by the prolific and admired poet laureate (malik al-shu
ara¯ )
Abd al-Haq Bı¯ta¯ b (1266–1349/1888–1971) serves as evidence of the complexity and intricacy of nationalist poetics. Bı¯ta¯ b wrote how enduring all kinds of hardships is worthwhile so long as one has no “other” or “foreigner” (ghayr) as one’s master or proprietor: Ba sakhtı¯ dar siyah cha¯ h a¯ ramı¯dan Ba kunj-i tang-i zinda¯ n dar-khazı¯dan Zi a¯ b-i zindaganı¯ dast shustan Umid-i
a¯ fiyat az ja¯ n burı¯dan Rah-i sı¯la¯ b az kha¯ sha¯ k bastan Ba mu¯ ku¯ h-i gira¯ ni ra¯ kashı¯dan Khazaf ra¯ gawhar-i shahwa¯ r kardan Ba muzhga¯ n sang-i khara¯ ra¯ burı¯dan . . . Zi sakhtı¯ ha¯ -i charkh-i fitna andı¯sh Ba zı¯r-i a¯ siya¯ sangı¯ khazı¯dan Naba¯ shad an qadar ha¯ sakht-u mushkil Ki khud ra¯ zı¯r-i dast-i ghayr dı¯dan!25

72

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Lying crumpled in a shadowy well Crawling into a tight corner of one’s cell Separated from the fountain of life With no hope of recovery Resisting the torrential flood with a straw Supporting the tallest mountain on a single strand of one’s hair Transforming the plain pot into a majestic pearl Slicing solid rocks with a mere blink of the eyelashes . . . Seeking refuge from the dangers in one’s path Creeping in between the mill stones: None of these dangers threaten freedom As much as When one is subservient to the will of “another!”

To the state cultural authorities who widely anthologized this poem and included it in school textbooks, Bı¯ta¯ b’s poem praised the Afghan overthrow of foreign rule and, implicitly, legitimated the state order as the guarantor of hard-won national liberty. To most contemporary readers, the “subservience to the will of an ‘other’ ” in Bı¯ta¯ b’s poem was interpreted entirely differently and subversively: it was intended as a reference both to the intellectuals who were co-opted by, and acquiesced to, the official line propagated by the authorities in power as well as to the continuing “national subservience” to foreign rule, the (Musa¯ hiba¯ n’s) relinquishing of the hard-won right to “selfdetermination” to “others.” Therefore, even though the voice that fills the poem seems a wholly personal one, enumerating the challenges and tribulations associated with being the master of one’s individual fate, in the context of modern Afghan history the apparently innocuous personal can hardly remain isolated from the social, or the individual from the collective. As such, not only the political, or ideological, reading inundates literary texts but these texts also—precisely because of their rhetorical weaving and metaphoric language—inevitably open themselves up to such readings. Other prominent poets too dealt extensively with the theme of freedom as part of a comprehensive national poetics. Ziya¯ Qa¯ rı¯za¯ dah (b. 1921), for instance, wrote a poem in which he also recounted the difficulties associated with the quest for freedom. Nonetheless, he preferred freedom over a “single second of being a hand-tool of others.” The larger “national” and “collective” connotation of the following qit
ah, too, could have hardly been missed by its contemporary readers: Za¯ r-u na¯ chı¯z-u na¯ tava¯ n bu¯ dan Kha¯ r dar chashm-i ı¯n-u a¯ n bu¯ dan . . . Sa¯ l ha¯ dar hazı¯z-i mihnat-u ranj Mawrid-i khashm-i a¯ sma¯ n bu¯ dan . . . Tashnah-u gursinah ba sar burdan Ga¯ h chun ı¯n-u gah chun-a¯ n bu¯ dan:

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73

Bihtar az a¯ n buvad Ziya¯ ki damı¯ ¯ lat-i dast-i dı¯gara¯ n bu¯ dan!26 A To be wretched and powerless— To appear miserable in everyone’s eyes but one’s own— To endure, for years, fate’s fury And the depths of disappointment— Dry with thirst Mad with hunger: Oh Ziya¯ , all this is much better Than being, for a single second, a tool in the hands of others! Using a number of effective poetic devices such as the puns ghayr(at) (both as “pride” and “zeal” and as “foreigner” and “alien”) and da¯ r (as “gallows” as well as “house”) in the lines that follow—and an admirable sense of jeu de mots, Muhammad Ibra¯ hı¯m Khalı¯l (1907–1987), a poet, calligrapher, and historian who had suffered over a decade of adversity in notorious state prisons, memorably expressed his views on the theme of freedom in much more concrete terms: Az a¯ n qasr gu¯ r-i kuhan bihtar ast Ki dar ikhtiya¯ r-i kas-i dı¯gar ast. Dila, gar ba tab
-i tu¯ ghayrat buvad Naba¯ yad ita¯
at ba ghayrat buvad. Khalı¯l ast khushtar az a¯ n da¯ r, da¯ r Ki ba¯ shad aja¯ nib dar an hukm-da¯ r.27 An old grave is much better than a palace— If that palace is ruled by another Oh my heart, if even a shred of pride still exists in you You will never submit to a foreigner Oh Khalı¯l, you should choose the gallows Before choosing to live in a house ruled by a foreigner As an incessantly productive enterprise, nationalist poetics encompassed select historical events and incidents from the “national” past. The AngloAfghan encounters during the course of the nineteenth century offered a fertile thematic ground to be explored in composing longer, narrative poems, exalting the patriotism of the Afghans in battling foreign occupiers. In his ¯ rya¯  ı¯ Suru¯ d: A ¯ kharı¯n Sava¯ r” (The Aryan song: the last horseman), Khalı¯l “A Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯ (whose poetry will be discussed in detail in Chapter Five), for instance, wrote of the obliteration of an entire retreating regiment of the “blue-eyed European” (British) army in Afghanistan during the winter of 1842. Like most patriotic poems, Khalı¯lı¯’s work illustrates the persistence of a dichotomous relation, an essentially binary opposition, between the

74 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan rightful resistance of the Afghans (who defended their homeland) and the British colonial conquest. While a liberationist anti-colonial rhetoric per¯ rya¯  ı¯ Suru¯ d: A ¯ kharı¯n Sava¯ r” and makes it appear as a typical vades “A national parable, the poem can be seen as no less than a subtle, crafty case of rich irony. What is intriguing is that, paradoxically, this seemingly unequivocal nationalist poem effectively contains no Afghan “voice.” Rather, Khalı¯lı¯ has the British general awaiting the arrival of the sole survivor of the debacle mournfully—yet movingly—acknowledging the superior “moral” case of the Afghan resistance. What distinguishes the poem is that, rather than “us” gloating in the glory of victory, it is the enemy “other” who, in the poignant melancholic voice of the vanquished, concedes the bravery of the “valorous, lion-like” Afghans: ¯ b-i ı¯n marz buvad a¯ tash-za¯ A Kha¯ k-i in qawm buvad ghayrat-khı¯z Ku¯ h ba¯ shand gira¯ n, vaqt-i suba¯ t Ba¯ d ba¯ shand sabuk, ru¯ z-i sitı¯z.28 The water of this land breeds fire The soil of these people cultivates pride When at standstill, they settle like thunderous mountains When springing into battle, they fly agile and light as the winds. ¯ rya¯  ı¯ Suru¯ d: A ¯ kharı¯n Sava¯ r,”
Abd alPrecisely in contrast to Khalı¯lı¯’s “A Husayn Tawfı¯q’s melodramatic narrative verse “Zalmai Namurdah Ast” (Zalmai is not dead) is a far more straightforward and unambiguous case of nationalistic and patriotic poetry. The setting of this poem is also an undefined anti-colonial “war of independence” in Afghanistan. A young fighter (Zalmai) dies in the battlefield and his despaired sister is mourning his death. To recognize the lost soldiers and venerate their contributions to the nation, the graves of the fallen heroes are adorned by tri-color national flags as well as countless flowers during the ceremonies celebrating the ensuing independence. The sister rejoices when “martyred warriors” for independence are memorialized by emissaries from the “city” (undoubtedly a reference to the state capital) as well as local “elders.”29 As was pointed ¯ rya¯  ı¯ Suru¯ d: A ¯ kharı¯n Sava¯ r” dexterout previously, Khalı¯lı¯’s narration in “A ously avoided becoming overwhelmed by a convenient, narrow, monologic patriotism. As a reflection of the author’s introspective view of history, the poem remains especially ambivalent and uncertain as to the consequences of independence, that is, who actually reaps the fruits of victory after the invading “other” absconds. In Tawfı¯q’s poem, however, the protagonist achieves immortality in the collective imagination of the nation (as well as closure in the eyes of his own sister) precisely upon the symbolic act of acknowledgment of his sacrifice by state officials and elders, the very institution that, during the Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynastic rule, claimed to have monopoly over

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75

legitimately upholding and safeguarding the authenticity of the movement of anti-colonial resistance. In other words, Tawfı¯q seems to celebrate the “nation” but could not do so without inculcating the dominant “state.”

The novel as national allegory Just as in the poetry of the early Musa¯ hiba¯ n period, the nation continued to preserve its pre-eminence in fiction, too, and new novels dealt with nationalist themes and tropes in such a manner that encompassed an unmistakable nation-statist motif. For instance, the novel Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯ (Dark dusk, bright dawn), by Muhammad Ibra¯ hı¯m Kha¯ n
A (b. 1906), despite touching upon some social issues of the times, can be read as an exemplary nationalist allegory with a strong statist agenda. The novel epitomizes, in a number of important ways, the continuing predominance of national imagination as a discursive formation in the literature of Afghanistan during the 1930s.30 The setting of Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan is somewhere in the province of Ghazni, one of the turbulent areas in the country infested by “rebellions” and “revolutions” against the centralizing authority of the state in Kabul. Strongly resembling a conventional Bildungsroman, the story narrates the travails of a young man,
Abdulla¯ h, the principal character of the story, and how he transcends tremendous obstacles, including the loss of his father, a life of pecuniary problems, a forced conscription into the army, and a troubled love affair in the prime of his youth. The eventful rebellion of 1929 inserts itself within the narrative frame of the novel as the principal cause of vast chaos and anarchy throughout the nation. However, Kabul—the center of power—is soon “rescued” by the forces of General Muhammad Na¯ dir (Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s former defense chief and the founder of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynasty). As the “savior” of the nation and “upholder” of its independence, Na¯ dir promptly subdues disruptive rebellious and revolutionary “bandits and brigands” and restores peace throughout the country. The triumphant General dispatches a letter to the people of Ghazni, and calm is restored. National peace generates social harmony and personal tranquility. As such, the long awaited marriage of
Abdulla¯ h with his childhood sweetheart Azı¯zah becomes intricately entangled with the successful resolution of the turbulences that had engulfed Afghan society in the last years of the 1920s. ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯ moved considerably and In Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan
A perceptively away from traditional conventions of narrative fiction in Afghanistan by setting the plot of the story in a remote province, by choosing his characters from the lower strata of society whose speech obviously betrayed their social standing and class status, by concentrating on the plight of women and providing them with at least some degree of subjectivity and agency, and by conjoining the fates of the individual (or group of individuals) to the collective fate of the nation at large. As a novel, Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan is an intense work of fiction that is also cognizant of

76

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan

some critical social norms and issues of its time. Nevertheless, in terms of motif, setting, and characterization, it clearly adheres to the paradigmatic framework of a unified nation and a strong state. ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯’s Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Not long after the serialization of
A Rushan, the newspaper Isla¯ h published, in installments, the novella Fı¯ru¯ z by Gul Muhammad Zhivandai.31 This novella too shows the persistence of ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯s work. Firu¯ z, the a number of themes dealt with previously in
A protagonist, is the only son of a brave warrior killed in the 1870s battles against foreign (i.e. British) aggressors. With the loss of his father (and later on, of his loyal family servant) the young man and his mother barely manage to survive the incessant adversities of life. The mother works menial jobs in the houses of the rich while Firu¯ z becomes a victim of wrongful accusations that land him in jail. Only after Firu¯ z joins the newlyestablished army and graduates from the military academy does the family’s upward social mobility ensues and their lot improves. The military academy represents the efforts of the central state to improve the rug-tag army (to which Firu¯ z’s father belonged) and transform it into a standing, national army—a vital component, and a qualitative criterion of any modern national state.

Poetry of purpose and the politics of progress In part because of the intense interweaving of literature and politics in the cultural sphere, where the function of literature was to engage with the dialectical complex of social struggles and reflect upon the progressive development of history, the purposive aesthetics that characterized the work of critical and dissident writers and poets in Afghanistan increasingly fashioned itself as an aesthetics of resistance and opposition to the state and its official cultural agendas. The view of a sanctified nation that was shared by the state and the critical intellectuals could hardly conceal the deep ideological fault lines that divided the domains of official culture and the antiestablishment outputs of dissident writers and poets. Perhaps as a reaction to the persistent endeavors of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n state to stretch its cultural hegemony in the name of the nation, a poet and art historian like
Abd alRu  u¯ f Fikrı¯-Salju¯ qı¯ (1909–1968) could not refrain from inviting his fellow intellectuals to unreservedly enunciate a counter-ideal and unabashedly act upon it: Ay qaqnus-i a¯ tash nafas, shu¯ r-u nava¯ bunya¯ d kun Buksha¯ y ra¯ h-i na¯ lah ra¯ , farya¯ d kun, farya¯ d kun. Rasm-i nava¯ amukhtı¯, yak
umr khas andukhtı¯ ¯ tash bar ı¯n kha¯ sha¯ k zan, bı¯da¯ d kun, bı¯da¯ d kun.32 A Oh fire-breathing phoenix, stir an upheaval Begin to cry out, shout, shout!

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You’ve spent a lifetime learning to cry, collecting mere straws Now’s the time to set fire to these twigs; demolish them, demolish them! And Ba¯ qı¯ Qa¯  ilza¯ dah (1913–1961), a noted poet who was blinded, and languished in prison for his political activism, had famously observed in one of his ruba¯
ı¯s (quatrains) that what underlies the alluring glamour of the ruling elites is not always pleasant: ¯ n ja¯ ki zi qasr ha¯ nisha¯ n mı¯bı¯nam A Dar kunj-u kina¯ rash ustukhwa¯ n mı¯bı¯nam. Kha¯ kash hamah dast-u pa¯ -u gu¯ sh-u lab-u dil Gar khu¯ b nazar kunı¯m, a¯ n mı¯bı¯nam.33 Wherever I find remnants of palaces I also find remnants of human beings: Strewn about in the soil are hands, feet, ears, lips, hearts. Observe with sensitive eyes, and you too, will find these. During the early 1950s, especially after a soon-to-be-aborted, state-led endeavor to introduce “constitutional” rule in the country, the concept of republicanism (jumhu¯ ri-khwa¯ hı¯) became of paramount concern to most of the intellectuals.34 The poet and radical religious figure Sayyid Isma¯
ı¯l Balkhı¯ (1916–1968), for instance, regularly called for the abolition of the “despotic” and “autocratic” monarchy and advocated a representative republican form of government.35 In one of his famous qası¯dahs he writes: ¯ tash-i ı¯n fitnah ha¯ sha¯ hı¯-u istibda¯ d bu¯ d A Kaz shara¯ rash paikar-i vahdat mu
ara¯ mı¯shavad . . . Ha¯ l ham vaqt ast ba¯ darma¯ n-i jumhu¯ riyatı¯ Kam kam az kha¯ siyatash har dı¯dah bı¯na¯ mı¯shavad.36 The fires of monarchy and despotism spread evil Their flames defile the unity of the national body, turning it to ash But it is not too late: the nation might heal with the birth of a republic For the cool essence of a republic cures blind, smoke-filled eyes. In the conditions of despotic rule, the poet laments, social progress cannot be achieved (and modernity, as expected, will always remain belated), leading to an obvious conundrum: Sahm-i ma¯ hı¯ch shud az qarn-i musha
sha
, Balkhı¯ Guiya¯ kishvar-i ma¯ mahbas-i isti
da¯ d ast.37 Oh Balkhı¯, all our efforts came to nothing, even in this era of enlightenment

78 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Our country is like a prison, caging the peoples’ resplendent talents. Perhaps the best forum where republican ideals were circulated most widely was the journal A¯ za¯ d Afghanistan which was edited by the eminent literary scholar
Abd al-Hayy Habı¯bı¯ (1910–1984) and published in exile across the border in the newly-independent country of Pakistan. There, a ¯ tifı¯-Afghanı¯ (presumably a pseudonym), in what is intended poet named
A as a rallying slogan for the cause, wrote thus: Ba¯ z bishnaw qissah-i khu¯ n-i jigar khwa¯ him kard ¯ mil-i zulm-u sitam ra¯ darbadar khwa¯ him kard.
A Dushman-i jumhu¯ riyat ra¯ rı¯shah kan khwa¯ hı¯m kard Ka¯ kh-i istibda¯ d ra¯ zı¯r-u zabar khwa¯ hı¯m kard.38 Listen again, we shall tell the story of heart-felt pain We shall put to flight the agent of oppression. We shall uproot the enemy of the republic, We shall tear down the palace of repression. A more refined poet named Kha¯ varı¯ (also a pseudonym) not only advocated a republican regime in lieu of the dominant monarchical despotism, he explicitly called for no less than a revolution, which he considered the quintessence of any tangible socio-political progress and modern cultural transformation: Tulu¯
-i mihr-i taraqqı¯ zi rukh niqa¯ b gushu¯ d Niza¯ m-kha¯ nah-i gı¯tı¯ ba har zamı¯n farsu¯ d Shuku¯ h-i
azmat-i sha¯ ha¯ n fisa¯ nah shud imru¯ z Guzashtah nawbat-i isha¯ n, nama¯ nd har chı¯ ki bu¯ d Bira¯ dara¯ n-i vatan ta¯ ba kay ba khwa¯ b-i gira¯ n? Fikandah du¯ r chi ma¯ ra¯ zi manzil-i maqsu¯ d? Chira¯ zi ni
mat-i jumhu¯ riyat hamah mahru¯ m? Huqu¯ q-i millat-i Afghan chira¯ shavad mafqu¯ d?39 The sun of progress has risen, unveiling itself The old world system has crumbled to useless dust The age of great kings exists now only in legend; Their time has passed, for nothing lives eternally Oh brother compatriots, how long will we sleep? What has led us astray, away from salvation’s path? Why are we deprived the blessing of a republic? Why is the right of the Afghan nation always brushed aside? Thus, despite the attempts made by the state to erase all cultural contradictions and contain, incorporate, and co-opt intellectuals, there existed

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alternative discursive modalities that challenged the primacy of statepromulgated intellectual paradigms. In fact, many intellectuals continued to adhere to their position of dissidence and emphasized their own roles as potent vanguards in bringing “enlightenment” and heralding the backward society towards new historical horizons. The radical poet and literary historian
Abd al-Karı¯m Nazı¯hı¯-Jilvah (1905–1983), for instance, urged the “courageous youth” of the nation to rise up and dismantle not the effects but the “source of oppression”: Ta¯ kay az jawr-u sitam shikvah-u farya¯ d kunı¯d? Sa
y-i barhamzadan-i mansha  -i bı¯da¯ d kunı¯d Dast-i ma¯ da¯ man-i ta¯ n ba¯ d, java¯ na¯ n-i ghuyu¯ r Ki az ı¯n zillat-u khwa¯ rı¯ hamah a¯ za¯ d kunı¯d Kha¯ numa¯ n kard tabah, ta¯ shavad a¯ ba¯ d khudash Kha¯ nah-i zulm-u sitam yaksarah barba¯ d kunı¯d . . . Nang da¯ rad bashariyat zi chunı¯n kuhna rizhı¯m Tarh-i vayra¯ nı¯-i ı¯n bungah zi bunya¯ d kunı¯d.40 How long will you complain of oppression and tyranny? Instead, you should strive to destroy the source of cruelty. We call on you, courageous young men of the nation, To deliver us all from our misery and gloom! Tyranny stole our strength and built itself up; Once and for all, destroy the cornerstone of tyranny’s house . . . For shame, all humanity hides its face from this ancient regime Therefore, take action and destroy this body at its very root. The poet directly addresses the formidable “youth” to take the initiative and deliver the nation from the claws of “usurpers”—undoubtedly a reference to the circumstances of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n rise to power: Ay java¯ na¯ n, sitam-i murtaji
a¯ n chand kashı¯d Ta¯ ba kay rahm ba ı¯n dastah-i shayya¯ d kunı¯d? Ta¯ shavad bar hamagan amn-u
ada¯ lat qa¯  im ¯ lami naw zi musa¯ va¯ t-u haqq ija¯ d kunı¯d
A Chashm-i umı¯d ba tu nasl-i java¯ n dukhtah am Dar khur-i sha  n-u sharaf mamlikat a¯ ba¯ d kunı¯d. Oh young compatriots, how long will you endure the reactionaries’ tyranny? How long will you show mercy to these cheating usurpers? Create a new world, where equality and truth rule And calmness and fairness encompass all My hopes rest with you, the new generation Restore our country so that it may be worthy of virtue and veneration.

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Beyond nationalist poetics: purposive aesthetics and literary commitment As the discussion above established, as part of the examination of the relationship between aesthetics and modern politics in Afghanistan, writing started to be perceived by its practitioners as a form of complex praxis that implicated literature not only in the nationalist poetics but also in an intricate web of social ideals and political objectives—an indicator of the prevalence of a comprehensive purposive aesthetics. To many intellectuals the adherence of imaginative writings to a metanarrative of nationalism continued unabated but the manner in which the nationalist project was defined, delineated, and expounded by the ruling state authority and its cultural institutions hardly seemed to engage meaningfully with noticeable structural transformations of Afghan society since the advent of modernity. Increasingly, nationalist poetics was perceived insufficient in-and-of itself in confronting the deluge of new, modern challenges—the “burning social issues” and “urgent political ordeals” of the times. In the meantime, the surfacing of hitherto latent social tensions, economic disparities, political conflicts, and existential anxieties provided writers and poets a virtually unlimited reservoir of topics for incorporation, evaluation, and examination. Thus, especially from the 1960s onwards, there surfaced a vociferous emergent poetics that culminated in what soon came to be known as literary commitment (ta
ahud- or iltiza¯ m-i adabı¯) within the purview of purposive aesthetics from the 1960s onwards. Although the term commitment was a neologism, as the previous chapter attempted to establish, an abstract understanding of commitment had existed in the discourse of purposive aesthetics formulated early on in Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s theories of poetics and aesthetics in the early decades of the twentieth century. During the latter part of the 1960s, especially with the relative relaxation of state oppressive apparatuses and the further politicization of intellectual discourses, literature continued to visibly and directly engage itself with grand narratives of national independence, progress and development, and the inception of a modern civil society as well as with more minute issues that widely affected the public sphere, namely gender and class, the plight of the subaltern groups hitherto peripheralized in literary works, the poor and the dispossessed, peasants, women of lower social strata, the fast-growing urban “lumpen proletariat,” the school teacher, the student, the petty civil servant, etc. The aesthetics and poetics of commitment envisaged the proper function of literature to be its obligatory engagement with social themes and political visions. Yet, intellectuals embraced these topics seldom in disjunction from incisive, if scathing, critique of the structure of polity, the exercise of power, and the institutional practice of governance. The proponents of commitment insisted that the political-literary nexus should embody the unfolding dynamics of the grand subject of history and,

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no less significantly, reflect and reflect upon the agency of the historical subject. One of the inevitable effects of this project of cultural critique was the propensity to apotheosize the “people” or the “masses” (variously called khalq, tu¯ dah, mardum in Persian). The masses embodied the progressive unfolding of history, and literature, as the representation of the objective historical reality, was to genuinely reflect this process. To its practitioners in the 1960s, committed writing was required to overcome literature’s distance and intellectual alienation from the masses. Instead, it should seek successful means of identity (or at least affinity) with the masses. Increasingly, Sartre’s contention that “[l]iterature has need of being universal,” and that “[t]he writer ought therefore to range himself on the side of the greatest number— of the two thousand million starving—if it wishes to address itself to all and to bread by all” convinced many writers and poets to consciously avoid contributing to a literature of hexis in favor of a literature of praxis.41 This task proved paradoxical, however, for it simultaneously involved a subtle sense of elitism as well as romantic populism. The contemporary writer and poet had a dual mission of bringing “enlightenment” to the masses as well as to be motivated by the aspirations and hopes of the very same masses who needed to be “enlightened.” Was he/she a faithful transmitter, a loyal conveyer, of an accumulated history of “the toiling masses,” of a collective tradition of “the heroic people”? Or, alternatively, was he/she, by virtue of embodying a superior literary subjectivity and possessing authorial omniscience, able to stand outside this tradition and narrate it creatively and imaginatively? On the one hand, the poet and the writer were said to idealize and romanticize the glorious masses as a true, authentic community, a genuinely authoritative body that—precisely by preserving past ideals and traditions— possessed a superior moral economy derived from a sense of collective cohesion and communal ethos. Such cohesion and ethos enabled them to overcome the tortuous pathways and arduous criss-crosses of history. The people, as Maxim Gorky—whose works proved extremely influential in introducing Afghan intellectuals to the Soviet “socialist realist” version of Marxian theory of culture—would say, “are not merely the force which has created all material values, they are the exclusive and inexhaustible source of spiritual values. [T]hey are, collectively, the first and foremost philosopher and poet, creator of all great poems that exist, all the tragedies in the world, and, greatest among these tragedies, the history of world culture.”42 The proper mission of the committed poet and writer, therefore, would be to depict this fact in a “truthful,” that is, realistic, manner. On the other hand, modern literature was said to adhere to a strong sense of didacticism and engage itself with a radical criticism of traditional practices that betrayed popular devotion to démodé social mores, superstitions, regressive ways of thinking, as well as people’s ignorance and blind submissiveness to uncomprehending, vacuous customs, etc. After all, only an “enlightened” people could attain proper subject-hood in modernity, realize

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their “epoch-making” capacity, revamp their collective energy, and refurbish their native creativity. The work of Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq (b. 1930), an eminent poet of the 1960s, shows that the committed poetry of this era hardly ever failed to venerate, often times in an abstract way, the unsurpassed grandeur of the people. La¯  iq epitomized the discursive apotheosization of the masses compounded with a romantic sense of populist nationalist posture. He complemented this populist stance by invoking patriotic sentiments and nationalistic fervor. The question of history—the chronicle as well as the commemoration of collective actions of the national community or society—is an element of considerable significance to the poetic sensibilities of La¯  iq. Nevertheless, convinced that the officially sanctioned readings of history had been selective and necessarily partial towards the ruling classes and their interests, La¯ iq intended to retrieve alternative histories in order to recover the proper status of “the people” within the exclusionary narrative of official national history. In the poem “Ghaznı¯n-i Kha¯ mu¯ sh” (Silent Ghaznı¯n) for instance, La¯  iq pondered the momentous past of the ancient city of Ghazni (now in the south-east of Afghanistan), a city conventionally connected with the names and actions of such historical figures as the early eleventh-century Ghaznavı¯d emperor Sulta¯ n Mahmu¯ d who ruled there with pomp and glory, conquering lands and destroying rival empires. To the modern committed poet, Mahmu¯ d and all his famous courtiers and warriors comprise only a footnote to history, merely as a “legendary tale” (afsa¯ nah) in the “memory of times” (kha¯ tirah-i zama¯ nah), a “shadow” (sa¯ yah) lost in the darkness of the “night of history” (shab-i ta rı¯kh). The ruined city may be silent now, yet it is a living testimony to the reality that the actions of heroes and kings in history books are inscribed by “the blood of the masses”: Ay Ghaznah, ay khara¯ bah-i kha¯ mu¯ sh-u bı¯ sada¯ Ay kishtı¯-i shikastah-i darya¯ -i ruzga¯ r ¯ ya¯ kuja shudand A ¯ n jang-a¯ vara¯ n, A ¯ n ha¯ i-u-hu¯ gara¯ n, A ¯ n ha¯ ki az Tukha¯ r-u Harı¯ ta¯ ba marz-i Hind A Ba¯ khu¯ n-i khalq shuhrat-i khud ra¯ nabishtah and?43 Oh Ghazna, oh silent one, voiceless city in ruins Oh wrecked ship floating on the ocean of history Where have those furious men gone, those warriors Who, from Tukhar and Herat, all the way to the frontiers of India, Wrote their fame with the blood of the masses? Similarly, in “Sha¯ m-i Ghamangı¯z” (Gloomy evening) the poet reflects on the past predicaments of Harı¯, the historical Khurasani city of Herat in western Afghanistan. The city has endured, from ancient times to the

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present, the whimsical designs of exploitative landowners, the rule of merciless invaders, and the incessant destructive power of various oppressive rulers. Yet, despite the fact that “ı¯n shahr-i ba¯ sta¯ nı¯-u ı¯n marz-i zu¯ rgı¯r/ ı¯n va¯ dı¯-i bihishtı¯-u ı¯n khittah-i shahı¯r/ zı¯r-i ghirı¯v-i summ-i sutu¯ ra¯ n shudast pı¯r” (this ancient bastion of resistance to force / this heavenly valley, this famous land/ has aged under the fury of horses’ hooves), Harı¯ has refused to succumb to death and decay. Rather: Likan hanu¯ z mardumak-i shahr-ha¯ : Harı¯ Ista¯ dah ja¯ -ba-ja¯ ¯ ra¯ m-u ustava¯ r A Ya
nı¯ nagashtah mahv zi gha¯ ratgar-i zama¯ n Az ja¯ naraftah az sitam-u qahr-i fa¯ tiha¯ n Da¯ rad hanu¯ z mardum-i a¯ ga¯ h-u qahrama¯ n. Shamshı¯r-i ja¯ bira¯ n natava¯ n kusht ru¯ h-i khalq Bar va¯ dı¯-i Harı¯ Ta  rı¯kh sha¯ hid ast ¯ mad haza¯ r mawj-u najunbı¯d ku¯ h-i khalq A Hargiz namurd zı¯r-i sitam ha¯ guru¯ h-i khalq Pa¯ yandah ba¯ d zindagı¯-i ba¯ shuku¯ h-i khalq.44 Yet, still, Herat—that city upon which all other cities jealously gaze, Stands firm, calm, and confident. Neither erased by the pillages of time Nor disturbed by the conquerors’ oppression and anger Its people stand watchful, ever indomitable, ever proud. The oppressor’s sword can never conquer the peoples’ spirit. History has witnessed that In the valleys of Herat Although a thousand enemies appeared, the people stood their ground, Neither surrendering nor succumbing under oppression’s hand. May the people live and forever flourish. Thus, Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq, as a committed poet of the 1960s, created a highly lyrical poetry that is not formally bound to traditional Persian prosody and expresses an unequivocal leftist-nationalist ideology compounded with an uncompromising belief in the “epoch-making” capacity, “collective” energy, and “native” creativity of the khalq. However, in repudiating the dominant elitism of conventional historiography, La¯  iq’s own engagement with history, like that of most of his contemporary colleagues, could not elude the overwhelming specter of historical determinism. His ideological doctrinal certainties, profoundly influenced by a Weltanschauung that neither possesses nor attempts to possess much irony or ambiguity, prevent him from

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seeing history as a contingent process, a perpetually unfolding, infinite dynamism, a telos with no end, a cause with no closure. It could not occur to La¯  iq, or to most proponents and practitioners of committed literature at the time, that an acknowledgment of the heterogeneity of historical experience and diversity of historical progress need not culminate in the disavowal of Marxian ideology. Within the theoretical contours of committed literature, the notion that, perhaps, dialectical thinking is most resilient and most progressive when it is immanently dialogical, had little resonance.

Modern fiction and the logic of closure Concurrent with their changing views of the dominant polity whose statist impulse and objectives they found at variance with their own culturalpolitical ideals, many writers in Afghanistan who sought to redefine the novel as the pre-eminent modern form of fiction, instead, discovered new genres and forms. It is important to point out that, to the proponents of commitment, a genuine “renovation” of literature involved exploring alternative literary forms and frameworks in order to encompass simultaneously the renovation of the form as well as the content of literary works. As far as modern poetry was concerned, the poetics of commitment—as represented in the work of Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq, for instance—was keen to disrupt the formulaic metrics of classical Persian prosody and embrace, instead, the movement of what is called “new poetry” (shi
r-i naw), associated chiefly with the pioneering Iranian poet Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j’s (1895–1959) innovative literary project.45 As far as fiction was concerned, considering the elaborate intertwinement of earlier novels with the officially sanctioned nationalist imagination, it was maintained that the form of short story (da¯ sta¯ n-i ku¯ tah) more ideally epitomized the incorporation of novel themes and topics that engaged committed writers. In the reception and dissemination of what the intellectuals considered the culture of modernity that could accommodate the evolving contexts of Afghan society and politics, many new, as well as some established, writers of the period saw the trajectory of the short story genre as the venue most appropriate for literary exploration.46 That the short story emerged as the dominant form of modern fiction from the 1960s onwards manifested the extent of the constraints the official nationalist poetics had placed on the novel, and thus impeded its real efflorescence. The novel is, as Mikhail Bakhtin rightly suggests, supposed to be “the genre of becoming,” a constantly “developing genre,” a genre resistant to stable, identifiable attributes.47 The novel, as Tony Bennett points out in a discerning discussion of Bakhtin, “should be conceived less as a definite form than as a set of processes operative within the field of writing. The novel . . . exists only as a loosely coordinated set of processes through which the ‘novelization’ of the field of writing is effected, renewing, extending, and enriching its possibilities.”48 The nationalist poetics in the literature of Afghanistan, however, treated the novel precisely as “a definite form,” “an

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already completed genre,” and isolated in it “a single definite, stable characteristic.”49 This monological tendency served the nationalist poetics’ demand for a singular, authoritative genre expressed in a coherent language, although such a demand was antithetical to the essence of the novel, which must always remain heteroglossic, dialogic, and profoundly anticanonical. In fact, proper novelizing practices found a more fertile ground for exploration less in the form of the novel itself and more in the form of short story. Since “novelization” affects not only the novel but other genres as well,50 a kind of novelized short story proved precisely the forum necessary to engage with society, to contest forms of authority, to interrogate the conjunction of politics and aesthetics, and to enclose the interface of history and representation.51 To most writers of the 1960s, contesting forms of authority and adherence to political commitment of literature appeared as a crucial component of the genre of the short story. Precisely for this reason, they were keen to distinguish their short stories (da¯ sta¯ n-i ku¯ tah)—with their focus on a single episode and a single effect of everyday reality—from the tale-telling (qissah-gu¯ yı¯) of earlier pioneers of the form. Concurrently, they were more intensely engaged with issues that were assumed in the intellectual discourse of the time to be indispensable: the travails of lower social strata, the plight of the peasantry, the harsh lives of the urban poor, inequality, illiteracy, ignorance, corruption, the prevalence of superstitions as well as such antiquated practices as gender segregation, arranged marriages, etc. These issues—along with reflections on the institutional structures of a state that served the interests of (and drew strength from) exploitative classes— provided the subject matter for most of the short fiction of this period. As a criterion of commitment, the discourse of the narrative fiction of the 1960s insisted—in addition to the apotheosization of the people, which it shared with revolutionary romanticism of most poets of the era—on the faithful, realistic representation of the contemporary society. Faith in the common masses and fidelity to reality (no matter how abstractly defined and configured) as the most significant aspects of writing characterize the fiction of Asad Alla¯ h Habı¯b (b. 1942), perhaps the foremost “committed” writer of short fiction to emerge during the 1960s. In the polemical “Preface” to his collection of stories Sih Muzdu¯ r (Three laborers) (1965), he eloquently enunciated the responsibility of contemporary writer and the function of modern fiction in the following terms: The time is past that we should write the tall tales of our false loves. The time is past that we weep by the feet of imaginary lovers and ignore the presence of hapless people around us who can hardly fill their bellies. The time is past that, in order to entertain a few amusement lovers (tafrı¯h-parasta¯ n), we make ourselves foolishly resort to lies and distortions and become the object of their laughter. For the sake of supporting the men in bondage, and for the sake of the fact that man has never intended to invent art in order to destroy himself, it is our task as writers

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Thus, the paradigm that had acquired dominance in the practice of writing fiction in Afghanistan was, and in some crucial ways still is, a representational one. The epistemological configuration of this paradigm assumed “the unmediated voice” of the author to consistently and coherently represent an essentially objective and re-presentable reality. To depict the “abjectness” of the lives of “the hapless people” and “the men and women in bondage,” to portray their individual as well as collective struggles, endeavors, and inevitable emancipation and liberation constituted the core of realist fiction and, in the meantime, indicated the extent of the intellectual commitment of the modern fiction writer. This commitment could be best embodied in literary practice insofar as the author possessed the potent capacity to simultaneously subjectively textualize and historicize the objective world. Injected with the notion of commitment on the part of the writer, the act of realist narration—just like the poetry of this period—explicitly meant to transcend the nationalist framework and convey and vocalize, at least theoretically, the development of the human subject, both individually and in the collective progress of society, in accordance with an exact logic of historical modernity, a triumphal teleological scheme, ever leading to a “higher” and “nobler” end.53 It became infinitely clear that because of the authority and omniscience the poetics of realism afforded to the voice and point of view of the author—that is, the conscious, enlightened narrative subject of modernity—the author possessed the potential to determine the objective contours of any realistic narration, hence rendering reality susceptible to an array of narratorial manipulations and maneuvers and the representation of reality into an ideological venture.54 Clearly, however, realist fiction could not be perceived to have no other function than to be a mimetic depiction of reality where the “meaning” or “content” of a work could be as unambiguously perceived and as effortlessly digested as possible. Realist fiction should be concerned not only with the is of national/communal society but also with the ought of its history, and herein lays the proper visionary mission of any literature. In retrospect, there emerged on the margins of the literature of commitment an intellectual current and a literary movement that, holding to a critical, varied, and modular view of history and historical progress, critiqued the self-sufficiency of representative realism in fiction and revolutionary romanticism in poetry. Viewing life as determined by multiple and contradictory impulses, and seldom experienced in a direct, straightforward manner, the proponents of the new movement subscribed neither to the theory of radical aesthetic autonomy of literature nor to the discourse of absolute commitment of literature—and they never saw their own works to

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be apolitical or socially emasculated: a mournful lament for past “forms” and a sorrowful longing for lost “contents.” Thus, as the following chapter will examine in detail, during the 1970s, one may claim that modern literature in Afghanistan entered its modernist phase: without losing sight of its own historicity, it subjected itself to an ineluctable move toward a profound consciousness of its textual-linguistic constructiveness as well as the deeper psychological interiority of its producers and personae. It marked a noticeable shift toward experimenting with self-reflectivity, self-referentiality, and alternative narrative expressions. With the “Glorious Proletarian Revolution” of April 1978, which soon led to the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the deluge of an openly ideological “aesthetics of socialism” inundated the literary plains and overwhelmed the production of literature. Concurrently, an equally ideological literature of “resistance” to foreign occupation began to be generated. Only on the margins of such grand narratives as revolution and resistance, flourished a modernist literature—whether inside the country or in exile and diaspora. Such a literature never achieved dominance over the literary scene, but, inherently conjoined with the historical transformations that engulfed it, it proved surprisingly resilient in delineating an alternative literature of modernity in Afghanistan.

4

Literature of Commandement and the crisis of commitment

Committed works all too readily credit themselves with every noble value, and then manipulate them at their ease. . . . The notion of a “message” in art, even when politically radical, already contains an accommodation to the world: the stance of the lecturer conceals a clandestine entente with the listeners, who could only be truly rescued from illusions by refusal of it. Theodor W. Adorno

“[T]he creative state of art is always at war, actually or potentially, with the crafty art of the state,” notes the Kenyan novelist and playwright Ngu˜ gı˜ wa Thiang  o in a Clarendon lecture at Oxford University. “Is there, in the very character of the state as a state and that of art as art, mutual antagonism?” he asks.1 “It would seem to me,” he replies to his own query, “that the state, when functioning to its logical conclusion as the state, and art functioning as art are antagonistic. They are continuously at war.”2 Yet, Ngu˜ gı˜ is well aware that the state and art “do not always function in their logical absolutes” and, on occasions, they forge an alliance. It is not difficult to see why the state would, at times, embrace artists. “The state would like it better if the arts and artists became its willing allies,” Ngu˜ gı˜ asserts. “In fact more often than not it will try to find ways of exercising control over the demons of imagination.”3 However, as the discussion of literature in Afghanistan during the tumultuous decade of the 1980s will reveal, it is more complicated to investigate why, at certain junctures, artists abandon the “logical conclusion” of their function and “come to feel and act” in alliance with the dominant order of the state. The petty officers affiliated with the People’s Democratic Party who stormed the Presidential Palace in Kabul in the morning of April 28, 1978 and proclaimed the victory of “the proletariat” in the largely peasant society of Afghanistan were intent on creating a future society where “class antagonism” would be abolished and “the toiling masses” paving the way for the rapid demise of “the bourgeoisie.” This military coup—known as the “Glorious Sawr Revolution” in official state propaganda—and the subsequent Soviet occupation of Afghanistan signified a precise moment in

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history that was “pregnant with possibilities” to some Afghan writers and poets who were vociferous proponents of literary commitment. The selfproclaimed “revolutionary” state appeared “as if it [were] the harbinger of a new tomorrow.” “In such situations,” as Ngu˜ gı˜ also astutely generalizes in his lecture, “art and the state may see themselves reflected in each other, fellow travelers so to speak.”4 In order to achieve legitimation and extend its hegemony, the new state had to deal with problems of subjection and discipline, problems that proved political in essence. It soon became clear that the emergent “democratic socialist” state was no less than an authoritarian polity, a form of commandement that was, as described incisively by Achille Mmembe in a different yet pertinent context, comprised of “a series of corporate institutions and a political machinery that, once in place, constitute[d] a distinctive regime of violence.”5 Such a regime was propelled to “invent entire constellations of ideas [and] adopt a distinct set of cultural repertoires and powerfully evocative concepts.”6 In spite of its attempts to suppress potentially rival discursive formations and create and institutionalize a “master code” as part of a comprehensive political-cultural agenda, the Afghan commandement inevitably demonstrated the “banality” of its own power as it increasingly resorted to an unprecedented “aesthetics of vulgarity.”7 As the following discussion demonstrates, the proponents of this kind of aesthetics showed themselves to be more imprudent sloganeers than sophisticated intellectuals. As the propaganda machine of the commandement at the time insisted, new laws of radical socio-economic transformation in societies such as Afghanistan were “discovered” because of the “exceptional insight” of Nu¯ r Muhammad Tarakı¯ (1913–1979)—who was portrayed not only as the principal founder, in 1965, of the People’s Democratic Party and the genuinely unrivaled leader of Afghan masses but also as an accomplished novelist and short story writer in the Pashtu language.8 The end result of Tarakı¯’s purported discovery was a hasty traversing of the plains of history. Using the great leader’s “unprecedented knowledge about the social existence and social psychology of [his] people,”9 the Party chose to equip the “armed forces [with] the epoch-making scientific ideology of the working class”10 in order to bring about, in the form of a violent military coup, a “typically Afghan form of proletarian revolution” as a leap from a “pre-capitalist” socio-economic formation to advanced “socialism.”11 In the official rhetoric emanating from the vanguard revolutionary leaders of the new state, “the unimpeded struggle of the masses to destroy the conventional reactionary politics of feudal lords, kings, and earlier state structures” was premised upon an unrivaled source of support: “the well-established and tremendously strong reservoir of a progressive and epoch-making scientific ideology.”12 This ideology—the sole contemporary “scientific philosophy” to offer “an effective theoretical weapon” in the struggle of the proletariat to advance towards the formation of a classless society—was none other than the rigid, dogmatic version of Marxism disguised as “dialectical materialism.”13

90 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Party leaders and prominent “theoreticians” who considered themselves intellectuals and claimed to have understood the complexities of Afghan society as well as the intricacies of Marxist (-Leninist) philosophy, were hardly unaware of the fallacy that their interminably “developing” society had either a nascent bourgeoisie or a proletariat. Nonetheless, in their claim to possess an immeasurable degree of enthusiasm to render their services to the newly found cause of the working masses, these “revolutionary” intellectuals—including some well-known committed writers and poets of the pre-revolution era—seemed unaware of or unimpressed by Marx’s hypothesis in A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy (1859) that “[n]o social order ever perishes before all the productive forces for which there is room in it have developed; and new, higher relations of production never appear before the material conditions of their existence have matured in the womb of the old society itself.”14 In the case of Afghanistan, with the preconditions for a successful transition to “higher relations of production” virtually absent, the “revolutionary” zeal of the elites, acting as progressive intellectuals, prevented them from loosening some of their cardinal dogmas and “letting history run its proper course.” The consequence of this rigidity meant the beginning of an interminable cycle of catastrophic tragedies that have shaken the Afghan society to its very core and fundamentally affected the culture of the state and the state of cultural and literary production in the latter part of the twentieth century. To the ideologues of the People’s Democratic Party, the continuation of an unreconstructed pre-revolutionary past plagued by “conservatism, superstition, anachronism, and feudalism” prevented the masses from appreciating the political progress and economic reforms undertaken by the revolutionary regime. It therefore became incumbent upon the Party to act in their name as well as to transform the masses into historically viable forces and conscious agents. Thus, the Party leadership embarked on an ambitious and wide-ranging cultural campaign to transform the “lethargic” masses into a “vigilant” proletariat supporting the regime. The implementation of a new “educational, instructional, and cultural” policy, with the aim of endowing the toiling masses with “faith in the progressive ideas of our age, international solidarity [with fellow “socialist” states], and an adamant refusal to reconcile with the remnants of feudalism as well as residues of bourgeois and [extreme] nationalistic ideologies” became the cornerstone of the state cultural agenda.15 To further this policy, “all poets, writers, story writers, playwrights, and patriotic prolocutors of the country” were invited to undertake the following tasks: to assiduously wage “an antagonistic war against the degraded feudalistic and aristocratic literature”; to “portray the severe and sanguinary battle of the peasants against the landowners, antirevolutionaries, and adherents of superstitions of the middle ages in their works”; to “describe skillfully and attractively the courage and moral heroism of military forces, military officers, guardians of the revolution, teachers, city artisans and craftsmen, border militiamen, and national volunteers in

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their literary and artistic works”; to “sing the tune of the labor and struggle of the epoch-making revolutionary workers, these irreconcilable enemies of imperialism. . .”; and to “help arouse and motivate the peace-loving masses of Afghanistan [and] instigate hatred, malevolence, and anger against reactionary forces and war-mongering imperialist circles.”16 Nowhere is the polemics of this cultural campaign more starkly presented in, and epitomized by, than the state organized, sanctioned, and supported Writers’ Union of Afghanistan.

The Writers’ Union: a poetics with no irony Many writers, including those who work in the capacity of responsible editors or occupy important posts in the Writers’ Union, think that politics is the business of the government and the Central Committee. As for writers, it is not their business to occupy themselves with politics. A work if written well, artistically, beautifully—gives it a start, regardless of the fact that it has rotten passages that disorient our youth and poison them. We demand that our comrades, both those who give leadership in the literary field and those who write, be guided by that without which the Soviet order cannot live, i.e., by politics, so that our youth may be brought up not in a devil-may-care spirit, but in a vigorous and revolutionary spirit. Andrei A. Zhdanov Throughout the twentieth century, there emerged no independent literary associations or cultural societies in Afghanistan. In fact, not much effort was put in to establish such independent unions. The creation of a few literary associations (such as Anjuman-i Adabı¯ Ka¯ bul and Anjuman-i Adabı¯ Hera¯ t) in the early decades of the twentieth century was intrinsically, albeit implicitly, related to the efforts of the modern Afghan state to institutionalize the literary and cultural fields and regulate their productions in the country. After the Sawr Revolution, however, the politico-ideological rigor and extent of state efforts to establish cultural institutions and foundations that advanced, in an elaborate manner, the aims and objectives of the ruling regime achieved an unprecedented level in the modern cultural history of Afghanistan. Nevertheless, increasingly bitter inter-Party factionalism hindered early attempts to conceive an official “revolutionary union” of Afghan writers and poets. It was only after the Soviet invasion of December 1979— an event that steered “the second, evolutionary period of the Glorious Revolution”—that a Writers’ Union based on the prototype of increasingly ossified literary establishments in the (former) Soviet Union was inaugurated. Similar associations for fine artists, musicians, and journalists were also created. In October 1980, the first congress of the Writers’ Union met in Kabul and approved a constitution and elected a central body of membership.

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On March 21, 1983, to mark the fifth anniversary of the Sawr Revolution, a three-day conference was organized on the state of revolutionary literature in Afghanistan. At the conclusion of the conference, participants issued a message in which they expressed “their belief in a bright future for humanity, progress of the process [undertaken by] the Sawr Revolution, and the blossoming of literature, arts, and national culture of [our] country.”17 Asserting that “art as a form of social awareness plays a creative and active role in the development of society and in the change of social existence,” they maintained that “the revolutionary literary movement . . . [had] opened up the colorful horizon [sic] for the conscious struggle of millions of peasants, tens of thousands of epoch-making workers, and hundreds of thousands of revolutionary intellectuals, artisans, and all the toiling masses of the country for . . . a new progressive culture.”18 The emergent culture, buttressed by a heroic, hierarchically organized “vanguard” party that was headed by a cadre of “infallible” and “indestructible” leaders, offered a trenchant and systematic criticism of “idealistic” and “subjectivist” ideologies, and attempted instead to impose a discourse of collectivist ideals. Such a transformation most often entailed full submission to the political authority of the state that dominated the discourse of the masses and spoke for them with it. To the proponents (and practitioners) of “revolutionary” art within the new progressive culture, the idea of “art for art’s sake” had to be rejected for the reason that “art and literature can never be isolated from politics, social life, class struggle.” “Unpolitical and unclassed [sic] art will, no doubt, serve exploitation of man by man and the perpetuation of the oppressor’s domination. This kind of art [as in the “art for art’s sake”] will benefit, first of all, imperialist monopolies and owners of vast riches of the capitalist world.”19 In the revolutionary polemics emanating from the Writers’ Union, “apolitical and non-class based literature only serves the continuing exploitation in society and the preservation of oppression, reaction, and imperialism.”20 The same theme resonates, almost verbatim, in the pronouncements of the participants of the conference on literature and revolution referred to above: “Those who want art for the sake of art are thinking vain thoughts. [In claiming] that art should satisfy only an individual’s aesthetic taste, they try in vain to isolate art from the progressive reality, social dynamism, and class struggle, and to make it void of revolutionary content.”21 As a form of literary production, “art for art’s sake”—which was also referred to as “pure art”—must have been potent enough a challenge to the Party cultural establishment. In an official précis of the accomplishments of the Writers’ Union, its one time President, Dastgı¯r Panjshı¯rı¯, contended that “there are [still] specific trends towards producing pure art. However, the proponents of such trends try in vain to empty art of the social life, of the ceaseless class struggle, of evolving world events, and of revolutionary content.” The establishment of the Writers’ Union enabled “the creative intellectuals” to dismiss “art for art’s sake” and herald “new literary horizons.”22

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The new cultural paradigm propagated by the Writers’ Union obviously meant to privilege a particular form of politically committed art and literature in contemporary Afghanistan. But this political commitment, as discussed above, constituted a “function,” a more or less precise “task” to be performed. Specifically, this task meant total adherence to the ideals of the revolution, the policies of the dominant regime, and the commandement of the People’s Democratic Party. In the words of the prominent contemporary writer and critic Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “the two chief aims of the Writers’ Union included the enhancement and explicit propagation of state official cultural policy and the constant, if implicit, supervision and censor of all literary activities that prevaricated co-optation by the state policy.”23 In the early years of the inception of the Writers’ Union, the theoreticians of the Party were adamant that writers should make their “stance” vis-à-vis the revolution as clear as possible. A writer or poet could be either revolutionary or counter-revolutionary. No deviation from such dogmatic binary schematization was desired or allowed. “In such circumstances,” Zarya¯ b maintains, “to remain outside the confines of dominant political maneuverings proved to be very grueling. Writers [and poets] who maintained such a stance definitely walked on a very tight rope.”24 Nevertheless, in an attempt to mask the dogmatic nature of their literary views drawn from a simplistic and reductionist reading of Marxian aesthetic theory, cultural authorities of the Party insisted on the “autonomy” or “relative autonomy” of the superstructure, including modes of cultural manifestations and works of art, from the base—the dominant mode of production in the society. Thus, they put forward, without any meaningful elaboration, the view that “[a]rt and society should combinely [sic] work together, and by doing so, the other method called aesthetic should also be accomplished.”25 After all, they maintained, “the assessment of the country’s literary course to depend only on economic factors, simplifies the intricate, long, deep rooted, and complex process of art, and to consider the economic [foundation] the cause of all courses and trends without taking into consideration various political, cultural, and other social elements is a big and misleading blunder.”26 In practice, however, the architects of the official cultural policy of the regime rarely utilized this critical insight when producing or evaluating literary works. For instance, the journal Zhivandu¯ n, the official periodical of the Writers’ Union, published numerous articles (in Persian translation) by Soviet cultural theorists who were often exponents of the Plekhanovian-Gorkyan-Zhdanovite doctrinaire trends in Marxian aesthetics. The journal never dealt with the writings of Russian theorists associated with the Bakhtin Circle or with the Formalist Circle. Above all, it adamantly refused to engage with radical cultural theory expounded by Neo-Marxian critical projects.

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The trauma of “social(ist) realism” Optimism as cult fiction As the previous chapter pointed out, prior to the Sawr Revolution, a broadly defined social realism with a perceptible naturalistic effect had dominated the writing of modern fiction in Afghanistan. Most writers of fiction considered themselves realists in the sense that they largely adhered to the mimetic and representational function of literature and wrote primarily about the historical conflict between competing values and institutions that reflected the dichotomous relations among social strata and economic classes. As a method as well as a tendency, and a style as well as an ideology, the realist perspective had succeeded in extending its influence over the large landscape of literary production. It was presupposed that fiction, in reflecting and reproducing social reality, should be essentially content-oriented and must endeavor to convey emancipatory messages and explore the possibility of individual and collective liberation in the era of modernity. Such a presupposition, however, did not mean that realism necessarily precluded formal experimentations and narrative innovations. Realism encoded a specific social ontology that was being instituted and actualized concurrently with the articulation of a broad social modernity. Realist authors were not only writers with a political agenda but also literary modernists intent on radically, and perhaps iconoclastically, breaking with the traditional modes of narrative canon in Persian literature. In the discursive formation of the Writers’ Union in 1980, however, the cherishing of social realism as a didactic form meant the embracing, or even consecration, of socialist realist fiction. Socialist realism maintained close links with earlier forms of realism by emphasizing the notion of the concrete representation of objective reality—however problematically defined. At the same time, it differed from those forms in its insistence on authoritative and inherently optimistic observation, description, and narration of reality, the ideological transformation of the masses through instruction and cultivation, and the capturing of the revolutionary development of society in accordance with the scientific laws of “dialectical materialism.” Socialist realism, in its official guise, referred to an “attitude” and embodied not only the political-critical “method” of earlier realists but also the grand socialist “outlook” drawn from a preconceived, predetermined, and unassailably straightforward pattern.27 As such, it rendered itself easily to what the Austrian Marxist critic Ernst Fischer perceptively calls “propagandistic idealizations.”28 In the case of contemporary fiction in Afghanistan, it was maintained that no authority other than the People’s Democratic Party and its cultural czars could possess the ultimate right to decide whether a literary work would be deemed sufficiently “progressive” and adequately “committed” to the official aesthetic criteria set by the commandement. As part of the literary shift to socialist realism that occurred after the Sawr

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Revolution, the Writers’ Union required authors to produce works of fiction that adhered to the paradigmatic master plot of socialist realism and reflected the lives of workers, peasants, farmers, and, above all, the armed forces that defended the regime and safeguarded the revolution. Anticipating the necessary demise of “evil forces” of reaction and the dawn of a bright future, these works were expected to deal with the development of a revolutionary hero who overcomes all odds and, even if he—and only rarely she—is not to see the fruit of his endeavors, plants the seeds of hope for the future of the masses at large.29 Their stock characters were inevitably reflective of the attempt to enhance the state agenda within the cultural sphere and contribute towards the triumph of the commandement. These characters were generally selfless, overly altruistic, and idealistic revolutionaries intent on propagating the message of the revolution and leading the masses from ignorance to knowledge and, when necessary, ready to sacrifice their lives for the sake of the noble cause. Babrak Arghand’s story “Tak Marmı¯” (The Single bullet), for instance, is an exemplar work of officially sanctioned, committed, and socialist realist fiction.30 The plot of this story (which was written in the early years of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan) involves an armed confrontation between “reactionary” insurgents and Soviet soldiers who, in order to fulfill their “internationalist” duties, assist the new socialist state in Afghanistan. The Soviets inflict heavy casualties on the rebels and kill them all, except one. Faqı¯r, the main character of the story, is wounded and presumed dead by Soviet soldiers who leave the scene hastily in victory. After gaining consciousness, Faqı¯r feels the burden of a heavy body and the moaning of another wounded person nearby. The other man is none other than a Soviet lieutenant whose body is left in the battlefield by his own regiment. Faqı¯r has one single bullet left to kill the wounded enemy, but, looking at the bluegreen eyes of the wounded Russian, he is deeply moved. He comes to the sudden realization that fighting such a worthy enemy was no good cause. Faqı¯r falls unconscious again, but when he regains consciousness, he finds himself in a hospital. Alongside him is the bed of the very Russian lieutenant he had chosen not to kill earlier. The humane, compassionate care he receives at the hands of Russian medics further convinces him that the Russians are no enemies of the Afghans and one must not oppose their “benevolent” occupation of one’s country. With Faqı¯r released from the hospital, the Russian officer, too, leaves to further fulfill his “internationalist” duties and kill as many “counter-revolutionaries” as possible. One day, the officer is presented with a newspaper where the picture of a “familiar face” appears. The picture is, expectedly, that of Faqı¯r, who is now a brigadier in the regime’s “revolutionary armed forces” and has achieved high praise for his bravery in fighting his erstwhile “counter-revolutionary” bandits. With the conjoining of the paths of the Soviet officer and the Afghan soldier, the story seems to reconcile, in a rather facile manner, all contradictions and dissolve all oppositions. Such reconciliation and dissolution, along with the

96 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan coming-to-revolutionary-consciousness of Faqı¯r show that, in the “socialist realist” fiction of this period, the primary concern of the writer was to prove that the revolution eventually would succeed and that the counterrevolution would be liquidated entirely either by force or through its own realization of the vainness of its “reactionary” cause. In a manner similar to Arghand’s “Tak Marmı¯,” Husayn Fakhrı¯’s “Dar Changa¯ l-i Duzhkhı¯m” (In the Claws of the executioner) narrates the ambush of a group of dedicated members of the Party by the insurgents and, as a result of the ensuing gunfight, the capture of one of the partisans, named Nazargul, by the enemy.31 Nazargul is taken to the headquarters of the ruthless counter-revolutionaries and subjected to tormenting investigation and horrendous physical torture. In a show of unbreakable resolve, defiance, and bravery, he never ceases to defend the “revolution” or to criticize his comrades. He disdainfully conveys to his captors that “You are worthy of all curses and your actions are nothing but thievery, murder, destruction. You have no regard to religion and you are the enemies of progress of the country.” Incensed, the rebels condemn him to death by hanging. The climax of the story is when Nazargul himself proudly puts the ropes around his neck and dies a glorious death in a highly symbolic act of crucifixion. Such a scene prompts one of the rebels to comment shrilly, “if all party members are like this one, then our efforts will come to naught.” In a sense, only when the enemy comes to such a realization, when the rebels come to the consciousness of their own state and discover the vainness of their already doomed cause, will there be a real revolution. But such a realization cannot be achieved unless the already conscious revolutionaries are prepared to die heroic deaths, alone yet gloriously. Qadı¯r Habı¯b’s story “Zamı¯n” (The Land) is another example that fits well in the paradigm of consciousness attainment on the part of the hero.32 The story involves the landowner Kamaluddı¯n whose huge vineyards are soon to be confiscated by the new, revolutionary regime and given away to landless peasants as part of the land distribution program of the state. In his own mind, Kamaluddı¯n has always been a generous person, helpful to his farmers and just in his treatment of them. It pains him tremendously to see his old world coming to an end, his territory carved up, and his reputation destroyed. Whether his own farmers will accept the new deal and, from his perspective, stab him in the back in order to gain a piece of his land constantly torments Kamaluddı¯n. He hence decides to avenge those whom he sees as responsible for his impending misery. He organizes a group of militants and intends to kill Gul-Muhammad, the local head of state-regulated cooperatives, who is to oversee the distribution of land. Hanı¯f, his long time servant, is supposed to raid the house of Gul-Muhammad, the idealistic, energetic representative of the egalitarian, socialist policies of the central state. However, Hanı¯f finds out that according to the Government plan, he, as a low-income servant, will actually inherit a piece of the land. This realization—this coming-to-consciousness—prevents him from according

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Kamaluddı¯n his wishes. After seeing Kamaluddı¯n later brutalize GulMuhammad’s child and cause his pregnant wife to suffer an abortion, Hanı¯f resolves to realize where his interest really lies: with the new regime that provides him with a piece of land, or with the old landowner who acts in brutal manner to preserve the status quo? It is precisely because of this coming-to-consciousness that Hanı¯f eventually releases the state-appointed head of the rural cooperatives and kills his brutal, and at times sadistic, benefactor Kamaluddı¯n. The regime thus succeeds in its rural reform program and the deserving, but landless peasants, too, achieve their lifelong dream of “reaping the harvest of their own labor.” The ousting of the “old guard” within the People’s Democratic Party and the coming to power of Najı¯bulla¯ h in 1986 opened a relatively relaxed space for the writers of Afghanistan. Events of international proportions such as Mikhail Gorbachev’s launching of glasnost in the Soviet Union (the patron of the regime in Kabul) and a sequence of rapid geopolitical developments in the Eastern block—which led to the eventual, unceremonious elimination of the Soviet-style state socialist system—radically affected the course of the revolution in Afghanistan. With the relative opening up of the political and cultural sphere, the rigid constitution and guidelines of the Writers’ Union were modified and the hold of the state over the Union loosened considerably. More importantly, the regime implicitly allowed a number of nonofficial or semi-official literary associations to function. It also permitted the publication of new papers especially in Kabul but also elsewhere in the country.33 “With the opening up of the rigid [literary] atmosphere in the latter part of 1980s,” writes the author Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “the official political-agitative position that had dominated the field of literature before became more and more repellent,” prompting many intellectuals to find alternative routes to express themselves.34 Thus, realizing that the revolution had come to an impasse, many of the authors who actively propagated the cause of socialist realist fiction before shifted away from producing tightly ideological works and abandoned the highly idealized revolutionary schemes they erstwhile espoused in their writings. For instance, Babrak Arghand published his collection of short stories called Marja¯ n, where, unlike his previous stories, a good degree of ambiguity and ambivalence towards the ideals pursued by the revolutionary regime, and the adequacy of committed aesthetics and poetics in general, can be clearly detected.35 Husayn Fakhrı¯, too, came to profoundly revisit his one-time doctrinaire ideological principles and aesthetic attitudes. He later chose exile and published a number of “critical” stories and novels. His 1999 testimonial narrative, Shu¯ kara¯ n dar Sa¯ tgı¯n-i Surkh (Poison in a red goblet), can be read as much as a novel against the dogmas pursued by the former regime apparatchiks as an attempt to critically revaluate the complicity of the socialist realist narrative paradigm in presenting and maintaining a defunct and oppressive power structure.36 And Qadı¯r Habı¯b, perhaps the more promising of the three writers whose works were considered above, left the “abode

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of revolution” altogether and, after migrating to Europe and abandoning the writing of fiction for some years, has just began to produce a handful of promising short stories and novellas.

“Committed” poetry and the perplexities of politics In the socio-culturally dynamic era just prior to the Sawr Revolution of 1978, poetry—perhaps more so than fiction—was understood as essentially an instrument or mechanism to express and promulgate specific political visions and ideals. Whether formally adhering to the lexical patterns and conventions of classical Persian poetics or experimenting with new, innovative structural configurations, poetry was generally projected to be, implicitly or explicitly, in opposition to the cultural ideology disseminated by the dominant state. Nevertheless, most contemporary poets associated with the movement for purposive aesthetics were not inclined to subject their writings entirely to the protocols of literary didacticism. Neither did critics evaluate poetry mechanically against a set of clearly demarcated social agendas or political strategies. Instead, poets and critics who attended intensely to the practical and political function of poetry also insisted on what they perceived to be its proper aesthetic value. Poetry could be determinedly both politically committed and genuinely receptive of various aesthetic criteria, linguistic display, poetic embellishments, rhetorical subtleties, ambiguity, ambivalence, and, above all, irony. For the most part, it was maintained that a poem could be no less committed when it is simultaneously a political expression and the expression of a deeply felt, authentic “pain” or “anguish” in the “heart” of the poet. Since the ultimate aim of literature was to transmit meaning, in as precise a language as possible, through the subjective intention of the author, the gist of poetry was therefore inseparable from the feeling, the supple “kernel” or “essence” that pervades the writings of all accomplished as well as aspirant poets. Convinced that the modern age—that is, “the age of the conquest of the moon”—demands modern poetry, the scholar and poet Ma¯  il Hiravı¯ insisted, in a poem that best captures the dominant views within literary circles of the time, that contemporary poetry can be neither mere versification and verbal jugglery nor an open expression and a signifier of some extra-literary signified. In other words, no genuine poetry (shi
r) should be reduced to mere slogans (shu
a¯ r), even though many a shu
a¯ r pretends to be shi
r: Zi man ba sha¯
ir-i
asr-i qamar bigu ba adab Ki shi
r-i khu¯ b na a¯ n ast ki shararza¯ nı¯st. Ba khu¯ n-i dil sukhan-i khwı¯sh a¯ b-u rang bidih Agar zi dil nakhurad a¯ b shi
r gı¯ra¯ nı¯st . . . Zi ru¯ -i qa¯ fiyah bigzar ası¯r-i lafz maba¯ sh Tala¯ sh-i ma
nı¯-i ba¯ rı¯k ja¯ wda¯ nı¯ kun.

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Ba khakiya¯ n tu¯ paya¯ mi zi qudsiya¯ n a¯ var Jaha¯ n tu¯ pur zi nava¯ ha¯ -i a¯ sma¯ nı¯ kun.37 Deliver this gentle reminder to the modern poet: Poetry shouldn’t leave the human spirit unignited Paint your verse with the blood of your heart Without vibrant life blood, poetry is listless and dull . . . Go beyond metrics, don’t be restrained by diction Always strive to convey the most delicate meanings Deliver a message, oh poet, from the heavens to the earth Fill the whole universe with celestial melodies. In the aftermath of the Sawr Revolution, in part because of the guidelines set by the Writers’ Union and enforced by Party cultural ideologues, the function of contemporary poetry was reduced to a highly formulaic and deterministic practice. The purposive poetry of the previous few decades was largely derided for being inadequately committed and dismissed as insufficiently revolutionary, still suffering from residues of “sheer sentimentalism” and remainders of “self-indulgent whimsy.” To become relevant within the framework of its new, revolutionary context, poetry had to undergo a manifest change: it had to devote itself in a direct, explicit, and unambiguous manner to the ideals of the revolution and to a future full of promises and possibilities under the guidance of the Party. Thus, such already established and versatile “revolutionary” poets—and veteran leaders of the Party—as Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq (b. 1309/1930) and Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯ (b. 1310/1931), who had previously shown a desire for inclusiveness and formal expansiveness and even a degree of poetic indeterminacy in their works, turned into influential campaigners for the commandement and copiously produced a corpus of writing that served mainly as a prototype to be emulated by other adherents to the ideals of the Sawr Revolution. The result was the over-abundance of officially authorized poetry that was in essence little more than a well-regulated register of revolutionary polemics, political slogans, and poetic clichés. As the discussion of Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq’s poetry in the previous chapter suggested, nationalist sentiments had long constituted an important component of his “progressive” poetry before the Sawr Revolution. After the revolution, the presence of nationalism continued unabated in his writings, albeit in a more derivative and formulaic manner. Subsequent to the occupation of the “motherland” by the troops of the (former) Soviet Union, for example, La¯  iq praised patriotism and national independence only in terms set by the regime, a regime that was predominantly subservient to the interests and demands of its foreign patrons. The poet had once boasted of his homeland’s “sarguzasht-i zindah-i ja¯ vı¯d va ba¯ farhang” (eternal, living, and enlightened (hi)story) and pronounced with some significant degree of pride:

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Du¯ st da¯ ram ı¯n vatan ra¯ Du¯ st da¯ ram sang-i u-ra¯ , ku¯ h-i u-ra¯ Du¯ st da¯ ram qalb-i khud ra¯ , kha¯ nah-i andu¯ h-i u-ra¯ Du¯ st da¯ ram ı¯n vatan ra¯ Kha¯ k-i u-ra¯ Abr ha¯ -i mast-u haybatna¯ k-i u-ra¯ Bar fara¯ z-i ku¯ hsa¯ ra¯ n a¯ sma¯ n-i pa¯ k-i u- ra¯ .38 I love this homeland I love its rocks, its mountains I love my own heart, the abode of my nation’s sorrows I love this homeland: Its earth, its mighty, subliminal clouds The spotless sky upon its mountains.

Now, however, the same poet characterized the real history of the nation starting only with the “thunderous” Sawr Revolution, which he considered the single most important event the country had ever witnessed: Ma¯ ba¯ sala¯ h-i kishtı¯-i Sawr-i shuku¯ hmand Da¯ m-u tilism-u haybat-i shab ha¯ shikastah ı¯m Ma¯ ba¯ jaha¯ n-i kuhnah-i andı¯shah-u
amal Pul ha¯ shikastah ı¯m-u
ala¯  iq gusastah ı¯m . . . Ma¯ dar nabard-i Sawr hunar ra¯ shina¯ khtı¯m Zawq-i tala¯ sh-u shu¯ r-i zafar ra¯ shina¯ khtı¯m.39 Armed only with the weapon of the glorious Sawr We broke the snare, the spell, and all fear of darkness We burned all bridges and severed all affinities With old world ideas and actions . . . Only when we fought the Sawr Revolution Did we gain true appreciation for art, The zeal to persevere, And the desire to succeed. The theme that the Sawr Revolution delivered “the nation” from “centuries of destitution and slavery” also runs through many of the writings of Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯, who was also a prominent figure in the People’s Democratic Party’s inner circle and, undoubtedly, an early exponent of “new poetry” in Afghan literature. To Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯, the revolution was of far-reaching consequence precisely because, for the first time in history, Arı¯, dar ı¯n diya¯ r Dihqa¯ n-u ka¯ rgar Marda¯ n-i ka¯ rza¯ r Dar rawshanı¯-i da¯ nish-i hizb-i kabı¯r-i khwı¯sh

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Az ba
d-i qarn ha¯ Az ba
d-i qarn ha¯ -i fara¯ va¯ n-i bandagı¯ V  -az ba
d-i qarn ha¯ -i fara¯ va¯ n-i bardagı¯ Yak ba¯ rah pardah ha¯ -i niza¯ m-i kuhan darı¯d Nazm-i naw-u jaha¯ n-i naw,
asr-i naw a¯ farı¯d.40 In this land The peasant and the worker The men of struggle Aided by the great Party’s light of knowledge Suddenly, after many centuries of destitution and slavery Tore to shreds the curtain of the old order And created a new order, a new world, a new age. It was incumbent upon all of the “progressive” forces in the nation to preserve the revolution and safeguard its gains with resolve, even if it meant the violent “sacrifice” of “a thousand souls.” After all, it is in the nature of the revolution to seek full justice: Chu¯ inqila¯ b shavad, pa¯ y-i da¯ r da¯ dgahist Ki ranjbar zi tava¯ ngar hisa¯ b mı¯khwa¯ had.41 When the revolution descends, the gallows becomes a court of justice Where all those who’ve suffered ask the powerful for restitution. In the poem “Ba Pı¯sh!” (Forward!), the poet goes so far as to justify the perpetuation of revolutionary terror: Az tan burı¯dah ba¯ d ba farma¯ n-i inqila¯ b ¯ n sar ki nı¯st bar sar-i payma¯ n-i inqila¯ b! A Har dam haza¯ r ja¯ n talabam ta¯ haza¯ r ba¯ r Sa¯ zam fida¯ -i mardum-u qurba¯ n-i inqila¯ b!42 By order of the revolution: Any head which does not nod in agreement with the revolution should be severed! I pray that a thousand souls be sacrificed a thousand times For the sake of the people and the revolution! Elsewhere, Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯ compares the revolutionaries to the phoenix—a seasoned bird of fire—who will not be deterred by adversities in the path it pursues: Ma¯ murgh-i a¯ tashı¯m Dar ma¯ hira¯ s nı¯st zi sardı¯-u tı¯ragı¯ Ma¯ az sapı¯dah ha¯ -i duru¯ ghı¯n guzashtah ı¯m.

102

Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Ma¯ murgh-i a¯ tashı¯m Ba¯ ba¯ l-i shu
lah ha¯ -i furu¯ za¯ n-i inqila¯ b Chu¯ n a¯ tashı¯n
uqa¯ b Ta¯ qullah ha¯ -i sarkash-i awj-i zama¯ nah ha¯ Ta¯ bı¯kira¯ nah ha¯ Parva¯ z mı¯kunı¯m.43 We are the Phoenix: We fear neither chill nor darkness We have conquered false dawns. We are the Phoenix: Our wings, the beating, burning flames of Revolution Carry us like fiery eagles We fly ever upward toward eternal heights, Toward the limitless horizon.

So enormous was the influence of established poets like La¯  iq and Ba¯ riqShafı¯
ı¯ on their younger acolytes and older fellow travelers that there emerged, largely in their shadows, a strident group of poets who wrote extensively the kind of “new” poetry which they championed and which the official Writers’ Union prescribed. Contrasting his work with the traditionally dominant poetry that was supposedly devoid of any social message, a poet like Sa¯ lih Muhammad Khalı¯q wrote vividly: Manam sha¯
ir, valı¯ na bastah-i andı¯shah ha¯ -i qarn ha¯ -i pı¯sh Va chashm anda¯ z-i man a¯ n rang ku¯ chak nı¯st Ki tanha¯ az bara¯ -i lu
bati, ya¯ ri, niga¯ ri shi
r bisra¯ yam. Ba dunya¯ -i suru¯ dam dı¯gara¯ n ra¯ nı¯z ja¯ -yi hast . . . Zamı¯n ra¯ nı¯z hamchu¯ n dilbara¯ nam du¯ st mı¯da¯ ram, Va har-kas ra¯ ki hamchu¯ n ka¯ rgar, dihqa¯ n Kunad ba¯ dast-i pur az a¯ blah zı¯ba¯ va a¯ ba¯ dash, Kunad ba¯ ashk-i pı¯sha¯ nı¯-i khud sarsabz-u sha¯ da¯ bash.44 I am a poet, but am not tied down by conventions of centuries past My perspective is not so limited that I would only compose love poems to woo my beloved In the vast universe of my poetry, there’s room for other tomes . . . I love this earth as much as I love my beautiful beloved And I love anyone who puts his calloused hands to the task of building and beautifying it, As the worker and the farmer do. Using highly Manichean symbols and allusions, in a poem entitled “Sha¯
ira¯ n-i Bı¯da¯ r” (The Awakened poets), Khalı¯q considered “old” poets to remain largely “asleep” and, therefore, personified “night-worship”:

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Zama¯ n-i sha¯
ira¯ n-i khuftah dar shab ha¯ -i zulma¯ nı¯ Tulu¯
-i ba¯ mda¯ da¯ n-i furu¯ ghı¯n ra¯ chu¯ shab tasvı¯r mı¯kardand. Va andar ta¯ blu¯ ha¯ -i ghuba¯ ra¯ lu¯ d-i gahna¯ mah-i insa¯ n-i sha¯ n tanha¯ khutu¯ t-i gung-i bazm-i
ishrat-i kishvargusha¯ ya¯ n ya¯ sala¯ tı¯n sa¯ yah mı¯afkand . . . Zama¯ n-i sha¯
ira¯ n-i khuftah dar shab ha¯ -i zulma¯ nı¯ Ba vasf-i vahmna¯ k ashba¯ h-i ka¯ bu¯ s-i khiya¯ l-i khwı¯sh Suru¯ d-i marg mı¯kha¯ ndand Va hamchu¯ n shab parasta¯ n Laju¯ ja¯ nah zi ru¯ z-u a¯ fta¯ b inka¯ r mı¯kardand.45 Poets once slept through dark nights And dreaming, mistook the night for dawn Upon the shady pages of their calendars They attended only the occasions of conquerors and kings Praising those dreadful illusory phantoms All the while singing songs of death. Like night-worshipers They vehemently denied the dawning of the sun. Against the “dreadful” and “nightmarish” imagination of the “poets of death,” “awakened poets” resisted the temptation to turn away from the sun. Rather, Yakhı¯n ashba¯ h-i ta¯ rı¯k-i khiya¯ l-i shabparasta¯ n ra¯ Ba shahrista¯ n-i garm-i ru¯ z Ba pı¯sh-i ma
bad-i pur az shuku¯ h-i a¯ fta¯ b Ba da¯ r-i kha¯ mah ha¯ -i a¯ tashı¯n-i khwı¯sh halq-a¯ vı¯z mı¯sazand.46 In daylight’s warm city In the presence of the glorious sun The Awakened Ones, with their fiery pens, Melt the night-worshiper’s icy illusions. Similarly,
Abd al-Qa¯ dir Abhar, in a poem entitled “Sipa¯ h-i Sulh” (The Army of Peace), reiterated that the mission of the poet of today consisted of bringing proper consciousness to the people and preparing them to effectively reconcile their acts with the organized “liberating ideology” of the working class: Zama¯ nah mı¯ravad ba pı¯sh Va ma¯ ba pı¯sh mı¯ravı¯m. Ba su¯ -i a¯ rma¯ n-i nı¯k-u bı¯zavva¯ l-i tu¯ dah-ha¯ Ki zı¯r-i yu¯ gh-i dardza¯ -i bardagı¯

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Kashı¯dah and bihisa¯ b ranj-ha¯ . . . Rava¯ nah im: Ba la¯ bala¯ -i zindagı¯-i khalq ha¯ Ba har kuja¯ , ba har taraf Ki a¯ fta¯ b-i a¯ tashı¯n-i inqila¯ b Kunad tulu¯
.47 The times are progressing As are we: Marching ever onward toward the lofty, enduring ideals of the masses Who have suffered great hardships Under the painful yoke of slavery . . . We march forward To the depth of people’s lives In any direction Where shines the blazing sun of revolution.

The theme of collective action of the people, by which the “I” of the individual poet immerses into the identity of the masses, appears essential in a well-known poem by Rahı¯m Ilha¯ m [Elha¯ m]. In an attempt “to blind the eyes of the inauspicious owl of reaction and ignorance,” the poet promised that “we” will build a new world and sing a new song: Qasam ba na¯ m-i ranjbar! Qasam ba na¯ n-i barzgar! Qasam ba da¯ nish-u hunar! . . . Ki har-chi vahshat ast, dahshat ast, Zillat-u nida¯ mat ast Ba zu¯ r-i khanjar-i baya¯ n-i khud Zi ba¯ gh-i zindagı¯-i khalq-i khwı¯sh du¯ r mı¯kunı¯m. Va ba¯ sala¯ h-i arjumand-i bı¯gazand-i da¯ nish-u hunar Ba hukm-i inqila¯ b-i Sawr Zindagı¯-i naghz-u ta¯ zah ju¯ r mı¯kunı¯m.48 In the name of the noble worker, In the spirit of sustaining the farmer In the name of knowledge and the arts . . . I swear that we will banish Fear, terror, Helplessness and regret From our community’s garden. With the indestructible weapon of knowledge In the name of the Sawr Revolution We will birth ourselves anew, elegant and prosperous.

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The revolution has to be defended for, after such long, dark, miserable times, it has brought unlimited happiness and equality to the nation, fulfilling everyone’s dream. In the poem “Bibı¯n Dawra¯ n-i Gulba¯ ra¯ n” (See the era strewn with flowers), Bı¯rang Kuhda¯ manı¯ captured well the utopian, egalitarian visions the Sawr Revolution: Pas az chandı¯n siyah ru¯ zı¯, pas az chandı¯n shakı¯ba¯  ı¯ Bibı¯n ru¯ za¯ n-i gulba¯ ra¯ n, nigar shab ha¯ -i ru¯  ya¯  ı¯ Darakht-i a¯ rzu¯ dı¯gar shuku¯ fa¯ n ast-u ba¯ ra¯ var, Az a¯ n
azm-u az a¯ n razm-u az a¯ n ima¯ n-i kha¯ ra¯  ı¯ Hamah yaktan, hamah yaksa¯ n, hamah khurram, hamah khanda¯ n Na pa¯ ya¯ nı¯, na ba¯ la¯  ı¯, na muzdu¯ rı¯, na mawla¯  ı¯.49 After countless dark days of endless patience: Look! The flowers show their faces to the sun, and greet the gentle nights . . . For so long we’ve been watering the tree of our hope With resolve, struggle, and faith, and now it has burst into blossom. All are one, equal, happy, and smiling There is no inferior, or superior; no servant and no master. If, as in Bı¯rang Kuhda¯ manı¯’s celebratory poem, the revolution has already achieved its aims and “flower-filled days” of “equality” had already been realized, Fazl-Haqq Fikrat, in a poem entitled “Chashmah-i Khurshı¯d” (The Sun fountain), evaluates the revolution as a longer process that has yet to realize its goals. With the strong sense of conviction that: Inqila¯ b-i khalq ha¯ Fikrat namı¯gardad zavva¯ l Nı¯st hargiz qahr-u khashm-i hamchu¯ tufa¯ n ra¯ shikast,50 The people’s revolution will march forward forever Since our fury and fervor, like a wild storm, is unstoppable, the poet still acknowledges the great challenges ahead, but he is certain that: Ma¯ bina¯ -i bardagı¯ az bı¯kh vayra¯ n mı¯kunı¯m Ka¯ kh-i istisma¯ r ra¯ ba¯ kha¯ k yaksa¯ n mı¯kunı¯m Zarbah ha¯ bar paykar-i arba¯ b-i za¯ lim mı¯zanı¯m Dard-i dihqa¯ n-i vatan yak ba¯ rah darma¯ n mı¯kunı¯m . . . Ta¯ shavad darva¯ zah ha¯ -i ma
rifat bar khalq ba¯ z Bastah ba¯ khalq-i vatan dar ha¯ -i zinda¯ n mı¯kunı¯m. Ba
d az ı¯n khandad ba ru¯ yat zindagı¯, ay hamvatan Chu¯ n ki na¯ n-u maskan-u ka¯ la¯ farava¯ n mı¯kunı¯m.51

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan We will destroy slavery at its root We will level exploitation’s palace We will strike the oppressive landowner And heal our peasants’ wounds . . . So that the gates of knowledge will open wide for all people We will board up the prison doors . . . Oh compatriot, life will greet you smiling from now on, For all will have food, a roof, and warm clothing!

A bright tomorrow is fast approaching, as “Khurshı¯d-i Kha¯ varı¯” (Eastern sun)—a poem by
Abd al-Razza¯ q Sa¯
id—espouses: Har chand abr ha¯ -i tı¯rah-u chirkı¯n ghunu¯ dah ast Bar awj-i a¯ sma¯ n-i tu, ay maihan-i azı¯z V  -ı¯n pardah ha¯ -i ya¯ ’s Az har kira¯ nah-i Bar dı¯daga¯ n-i ma¯ Basta  -ast ra¯ h-i jilvah-i khurshı¯d-u ma¯ hta¯ b. Amma¯ bida¯ n ki ma¯ — Ma¯ tarjuma¯ n-i jabhah-i a¯ va¯ raga¯ n-i dahr Naqqa¯ sh-i zindagı¯-i pur az ranj-i tu¯ dah-ha¯ ¯In tu¯ dah ha¯ -i fa¯ qah-u lukht-u birahnah-pa¯ Ba¯ in hamah ba partaw-i khurshı¯d mı¯rası¯m. ¯ rı¯, bida¯ n ki ma¯ A Taslı¯m-i ı¯n siya¯ hı¯-i mı¯rı¯ndah nı¯stı¯m . . . Farda¯ rası¯danı¯st Farda¯ -i pur furu¯ gh K  -ı¯n shahr-u in diya¯ r Dar partaw-i durakhshish-i khurshı¯d-i kha¯ varı¯ Ru¯ shantar az safa¯ -i dilangı¯z-i shahr-i khwı¯sh Ta¯ bindah mı¯shavad Rukhshindah mı¯shavad.52 Although dark, filthy clouds have conquered your skies, My beloved country— And though from every which way These shutters of despair Have closed the path of sun and moon, Still, don’t forget: We, the interpreters of wanderers of the globe We, the painters who depict the miseries of the people —the hungry, naked, bare-footed people— We, like a prism, shall capture the rays of the sun. Remember: We will not succumb to this vanishing darkness . . .

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For tomorrow is eminent A gleaming tomorrow And this city and country In the blinding light of the Eastern sun Will glow pure and unblemished, ripening in the warmth of love. But the eventual success of the revolution in Afghanistan would be achieved only because the Afghan revolutionaries chose the path solidly set by their Soviet prototypes, and the Afghan state depended on the “internationalist” assistance of the “friendly,” “fraternal” Soviet soldiers, for whose sacrifices for the sake of “peace,” all “patriots” and “nationalists” in Afghanistan—whose blood is now intrinsically mixed with the blood of the Russian—shall remain forever thankful.53 In fact, insistence upon the “historical friendship” between the “masses” of Afghanistan and the (former) Soviet Union appeared as a crucial component of what actually made a poem revolutionary. Thus, in one of his lyrics, the “revolutionary” poet Jamı¯l Zarı¯fı¯, for instance, boasted that: Inqila¯ b-i Sawr-i ma¯ ra¯ khalq-i shu¯ ra¯ ha¯ mahı¯n Mı¯kunad ba¯ khu¯ n-i khud hamra¯ h-i ma¯ hamsangarı¯. Har du¯ millat ra¯ buvvad payvand-i t  a¯ rı¯khı¯ baham Dar tuja¯ rat, dar hunar, hatta¯ ba shi
r-u sha¯
irı¯ . . . Du¯ stı¯ ba¯ khalq-i shu¯ ra¯ ha¯ Zarı¯fı¯ zindah ba¯ d Sulh ba¯ shad pa¯ yda¯ r-u ham
ada¯ lat gustarı¯.54 In sustaining the Sawr Revolution Our noble Soviet brothers have also lost blood. Our two nations are united through History, trade, the arts Even poetry . . . Long live our friendship with the Soviet people So that peace is preserved, and justice.

Conjuring alternative commitments In the Preface to a collection of poetry by a lesser known poet, the distinguished critic and poet Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯ points to some of the major hurdles in the poetry of Afghanistan after the Sawr Revolution. In a specific reference to “versified slogans” (shu
a¯ r ha¯ -i manzu¯ m) that dominated poetic expressions, Na¯ zimı¯ maintains that: Unfortunately, it has been some time since two excruciating tendencies are hurting the soul of contemporary Dari [Persian] poetry. Firstly, there is total dedication to pure content, a tendency that especially predominates our political and social verse. Secondly, there is pure formalism,

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan which constitutes the essence of a non-ideational, deracinated poetry. In the first case, social ideals have been painfully confined to the strictures of rhyme and rhythm without adequate attention to allusions, metaphoric language, artistic presentation, and the use of imagery, metaphors, and allegory. In such imitating, repetitive verses one finds no heart-felt voice of sincerity and no bright human vision. In the latter case, pure formalism has meant not only lack of interest in social ideals but also estrangement from the maja¯ zı¯ (figurative) and kina¯  ı¯ (allusive) conventions of the language and keeping away from the creative fountain of outpouring emotions [for the sake of] observing formal requirements of versification.55

In Na¯ zimı¯’s view, neither complete devotion to content nor excessive interest in formalism “ever possesses the essence of true poetry, [and] often times contemporary poems meet their miserable death while their authors still breathe life.”56 Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯’s own poetry differed significantly from most of what was produced and labeled as “committed” poetry in the literature at the time. Ideologically, he was initially impressed by the “revolutionary” rhetoric of the regime and the ruling commandement. The highly lyrical poem “Bar Fa¯ tiha¯ n-i Fasl-i Baha¯ ra¯ n” (To the Champions of the spring season), in the collection Sa¯ yah va Murda¯ b (The Shadow and the lagoon), is filled with allusions and references to events following the Sawr Revolution. Despite the refined expressive language of the poem, the collective, overtly optimistic voice inherent in it, betrays its affinity to the category of the “revolutionary” poems sanctioned by the official Writers’ Union: Ma¯ bandaga¯ n-i rastah zi bandı¯m Ma¯ ra¯ hiya¯ n-i ja¯ dah-i nu¯ rı¯m Kishtı¯nishı¯n-i shatt-i ghuru¯ rı¯m . . . Ma¯ , ı¯n kabu¯ tara¯ n-i musa¯ fir Dar shahr-i a¯ fta¯ b safar da¯ rı¯m. Dar musht ha¯ -i bastah-i ma¯ n, inak: Sad ha¯ darafsh-i surkh-i bisha¯ rat. Bar sha¯ nah ha¯ -i khastah-i ma¯ n, inak: Putk-i gira¯ n-i ba¯ var-i insa¯ n. Ma¯ su¯ -i shahr-i ru¯ shan-i a¯ za¯ dı¯ Ma¯ bar fara¯ z-i qullah-i mı¯
a¯ d Rah mı¯zanı¯m-u bar lab-i man ja¯ rist: Hama¯ sah-i raha¯  ı¯-i insa¯ n.57 We are slaves newly freed from bondage We are pilgrims on light’s way, Shipmates on pride’s wide river . . . We are messenger pigeons,

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Traveling towards the city of the sun. Enclosed in our fists are A hundred red banners of glad tidings. Upon our tired shoulders, we bear The burden of hope in humanity. Towards that bright city of freedom, Towards the pinnacle of our covenant, We go We move forward, and the song on our lips Is the ballad of human freedom. Nevertheless, even in the same collection of poetry, many of Na¯ zimı¯’s pieces clearly show the progressive dismantling of the committed poet’s erstwhile revolutionary fervor. The poet discovers that a veil of oppression (a “red snow,” that is) has spread itself upon “the city of freedom” and turned “visions” into “nightmares.” He now witnesses that: Tan-i
urya¯ n-u zakhma¯ gı¯n-i shahr-i khastah-i ma¯ ra¯ Tama¯ m-i ru¯ z barf-i surkh mı¯pu¯ shı¯d Va shab ba¯ surmah-i ba¯ ru¯ t chashmash ra¯ siyah mı¯kard . . . Sitarvan abr ha¯ az bı¯m dar parva¯ z Buland-i qa¯ mat-i har ka¯ j-i ka¯ jista¯ n-i a¯ za¯ di Shaba¯ ngah hı¯mah-i dar kurah-i bı¯da¯ d Na rasta¯ khı¯z-u ghawgha¯ -i Na ima¯ ni ba farda¯ -i Na paygha¯ m-i zi Varja¯ vand.58 The naked, wounded body of our helpless city Has been buried under a stain of red snow Night darkens her eyes with gunpowder Barren clouds scatter, adrift and afraid. The tall pine of liberation Is burning in night’s cruel flames The streets are barren; no insurrection, no commotion Faith is in short supply And no word comes from the Varjavand. A poem that appears in one of Na¯ zimı¯’s later collections of poetry published in Germany—where the poet eventually chose to live in exile— mounts an uncompromising indictment of the messengers of “false dawns”: Ba shahr a¯ madah bu¯ dand Giya¯ h-i harzah-i tardı¯d-i sa¯ lkhurdah ba musht Ba qiblah ha¯ -i duru¯ ghı¯n nama¯ z mı¯kha¯ ndand.

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Ba shahr a¯ madah bu¯ dand Ba khandah mı¯guftand: “Parandah, chashm-i tu ru¯ shan, baha¯ r mı¯a¯ yad Va ma¯ du¯ ba¯ rah sabad ha¯ -i
ishq-u a¯ za¯ dı¯ Zi ba¯ gh ha¯ -i shaqa¯  iq ba shahr mı¯a¯ rı¯m.” Ba shahr a¯ madah bu¯ dand Valı¯ baha¯ r naya¯ mad Va ba¯ gh ha-i shaqa¯  iq hamah sitarvan ma¯ nd . . . Va shi
r-i ja¯ ri-i lab ha¯ hamah qası¯dah-i khu¯ n.59 They came to the city Clasping useless doubts like plucked grass When they prayed, it was towards a false kiblah. They came to the city proclaiming joyfully, “Oh bird, rejoice, for spring is coming And we will bring baskets woven of love and freedom From the lively tulip gardens, to the city.” They came to the city But spring never did arrive. The tulip gardens remained barren and lifeless And joyful poems turned to bloody odes on our lips . . .

And in a clear biographical note, the poet continues to write: Chi ta¯ q ha¯ -i zafar ki nı¯mka¯ rah raha¯ shud Chi jı¯b ha¯ ki digar az yaqı¯n tuhı¯ gardı¯d Va ma¯ ba mantiq-i surkh-i gulu¯ lah khandı¯dı¯m Va ghamgina¯ nah ba shahr-i ghuru¯ b ku¯ chı¯dı¯m. How many arches of triumph were left half finished? How many walls of certainty crumbled? As bullets splashed redness like clockwork, we laughed And morosely crept toward the bloodied horizon. If a politically engaged poet like Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯ initially entertained, but later abandoned in despair, the cultural dogma of the regime, an equally engaged poet like Wa¯ sef [Va¯ sif] Ba¯ khtarı¯ refused to ever adhere to such a dogma. The kind of committed poetry Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯ produced exhibited a profound sense of awareness of the need for a critical, exploratory, and evaluative stance with respect to the intricate dynamics of the relations between poetry and politics, poetics and history at a time when commitment overwhelmingly meant adherence to the cultural rules of the commandement. ¯ fta¯ b Namı¯mı¯rad” (The Sun dies not), in a Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯’s poem “Va A

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collection of poetry bearing the same title, is a resonant expression of political belief derived from a visionary historical consciousness. In this poem, a “wandering, sorrowful shadow” (sa¯ yah-i andu¯ hna¯ k-i sargarda¯ n) converses with the wind (ba¯ d) concerning the wretched state of the fallen city (shahr-i futa¯ dah zi pa¯ y), where: Va khashm ha¯ na¯ -za¯ y Va khwa¯ b-ha¯ sangı¯n Sapı¯dah ha¯ -i duru¯ ghı¯n ba chashm ha¯ khı¯rah . . . Na hı¯ch ba¯ d-i az su¯ -i kha¯ vara¯ n barkha¯ st Na hı¯ch abr-i dar su¯ g-i a¯ fta¯ b girı¯st . . .60 Furies are fruitless Sleep is drowsy False dawns rise again and again before our eyes . . . Not a single wind rises from the East Not a single cloud weeps at the sun’s bloody death . . . Against the hopelessness of the shadow, the wind is convinced that the sun shall return in triumph. It invites its disheartened interlocutor to seek “the path towards the green jungle of hope” (ra¯ h-i jangal-i sabz-i umı¯d): Ba ba¯ gh-i qarn guza¯ ri kun . . . Shiha¯ b-i zu¯ dguzar shud agar sita¯ rah-i tu¯ Sita¯ rah-i digarı¯ a¯ fta¯ b khwa¯ had shud Va a¯ fta¯ b namı¯mı¯rad. Visit the garden of the century . . . If your star has begun to fade Then someone else’s star shall brighten into a sun For the Sun never dies. In a later collection of poetry entitled Dı¯ba¯ chah-i dar Farja¯ m (A Prologue to the end of times), Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯ took issue with all established notions of historical permanence and ideological absoluteness in an elaborate, selfreflexive manner. He went so far as to lament that so many intellectuals of his generation held to “the soothing message” of durable dogmas, Dar a¯ n lahzah Daftar-i shu¯ khgu¯ n-i ba¯ varam ra¯ Dast-i muqaddas-i shakk varaq nazad.61 In that moment The sacred hand of doubt did not leaf through The witty book of my convictions.

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The poet further alluded to his former beliefs and his subsequent realization of how transitory and delusory such beliefs can be. While an intensely personal and vastly more nuanced tone pervades his poetry after the revolutionary debacle of 1980s, Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯ seemed to destabilize the official perspective on commitment and, instead, showed critical ambivalence towards the human capacity to encounter, and conquer and command, the contingencies of history. As for the writing of fiction during this period, concurrent with the efforts of such poets as Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯ and Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯ to skillfully adopt an increasingly open, polyvocal form of poetry that not only radically differed from but actually attempted to subvert the line of literary production set by the cultural authorities within the commandement, the renowned and prolific fiction writer Rahnavard Zarya¯ b and a group of younger writers experimented with new, modernist forms of narrative. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b started as a realist in the sense that he wrote about the historical conflict between social groups and institutions, but his inscription of this conflict did not exclusively revolve around the irrepressibly optimistic revolutionary hero and end with the requisite signposts pointing the way to the new utopia as so many novels and stories of the time did. His vision was more nuanced and complex than this, as was his use of language and narrative structure. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b came to particular prominence with the publication of his 1971 novella Naqsh ha¯ va Pinda¯ r ha¯ (Images and perceptions), an early, successful avant-garde experimentation in Afghan fiction. Within a narrative frame that encompasses a kind of fantastic, adventurous travelogue across time and space into a multifaceted realm between dream and reality, the plot of the story involves the narrator’s beguiling, though ultimately futile, search for truth (haqı¯qat). During the search, the narrator discovers that he can never break from the elusive and deceptive, yet unavoidable, boundaries of words (kalima¯ t) that purportedly define and circumscribe the truth. Throughout Naqsh ha¯ va Pinda¯ r ha¯ , the reader is constantly challenged with various kinds of mishaps, misrecognized identities, and unconventional realities.62 Of Zarya¯ b’s fiction after the Sawr Revolution, the long, “carnivalesque” short story “Yasaman ha¯ Su¯ khtand” (The Jasmines burned), for instance, involves intricate serio-comical narratives amalgamated with fantasy, recurrent dreams, and the non-consequential and apparently grotesque adventures of various protagonists.63 Yet, the story significantly reveals that, despite its deliberate sense of ambiguity and fragmentary formal characteristics, it contains an overall associative logic and textual integrity—a sort of unity that contains subtle references and allusions to the effects and consequences of the revolution in Afghanistan. Therefore, Zarya¯ b’s fiction can be described both as a modernist intervention as well as a compelling engagement with the complex historical realities of its times, without lapsing into the reductive, clichéd socialist realism propagated by the regime and its cultural functionaries.

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Throughout the 1980s, such modern poets and writers as Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯, and Rahnavard Zarya¯ b self-consciously experimented with new poetic forms and novel narrative techniques and genres without loosing sight of the ideological and ontological efficacy of possessing a strong visionary and an emancipatory capacity in their literary works. Their aim was to implicitly resist, challenge, and, to some extent, destabilize the ossified literary establishment associated with the commandement’s official cultural-political dogmas. They were in varying degrees politically motivated intellectuals, but they considered themselves literary iconoclasts at a crucial juncture of the cultural and historical encounter with modernity. At a time when state-enforced poetic and aesthetic imperatives rejected and resisted modernist introspection and interiority, they were keen on refracting and negotiating subjectivity and interior moral and psychological landscapes. The writings of these critical intellectuals and modernist writers, therefore, increasingly signified the emergence of a literature of dissidence and nonconformity. Concurrent with this development, as the following chapter will reveal, a politically charged and sharply ideological literature of resistance also came into being.

5

De-centering dissent

He who wishes to know the truth about life in its immediacy must scrutinize its estranged form, the objective powers that determine individual existence even in its most hidden recesses. Theodor W. Adorno

The impact of the conflict in Afghanistan over the past quarter of a century on the country’s socio-economic texture, political institutions, and processes of cultural production has proven to be enormous, and enormously destructive. Although the events that took place during this period have been treated in most analyses of the contemporary Afghan situation as distinctive and exceptional phenomena, the conflict, however, is not beyond historical contextualization. Following the coup d’état of April 1978 (the Sawr Revolution) that brought the People’s Democratic Party to power, the ensuing Afghan conflict has been intrinsically related to and perpetuated by the policies and apparatuses of the Kabul regime locked in a devastating confrontation with its armed adversaries (the Muja¯ hidı¯n) as well as to the detrimental role of foreign powers (the former Soviet Union and the United States) involved, via proxy, in an imperial game of global hegemony. The excesses of the “radical” and “revolutionary” policies of the “communist” commandement in the purportedly “deeply conservative” society of Afghanistan continuously alienated the vast majority of the Afghan population, leading to significant, yet scattered, revolts throughout the country and seriously destabilizing the regime.1 As was mentioned in the previous chapter, in December 1979, the (former) Soviet Union, as part of what it considered to be its “internationalist duty,” sent a large contingent of troops to invade Afghanistan in order to “save” the regime from its own internal squabbles and from the “forces of reaction and regression.” However, the magnitude of the revolts and rebellions dramatically increased following the occupation, most often in the form of widespread, though uncoordinated, peasant revolts in the countryside.2 As the Soviets augmented the level of their brutal campaign in Afghanistan, the United States, for its part, directed its military and financial assistance to the predominantly Pakistan-based

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Afghan guerrilla groups and conveniently co-opted the leadership of the resistance. In the light of these intra- as well as inter-national developments, the process of reinforcing the dynamics of Afghan nationalism and national imaginary was largely suspended. Doubtless, throughout the twentieth century, the modern Afghan state had been involved in a complex process of generating and superimposing a sense of official nationalism in the country. Precisely because of the statecentric and state-sanctioned nature of this process, as well as the historical divergence of the objectives of the polity and the interests of society, the development of an Afghan national imaginary and collective consciousness within a viable public sphere proved to be tenuous and strained by multiple contradictions, anomalies, and tensions. On the contrary, the shared traumatic experiences that resulted from the viciousness of the Soviet occupation, and the rapid collapse of the institution of the modern Afghan state, had probably offered an unparalleled historical opportunity to the people of Afghanistan to imagine themselves as a more or less genuine, integrated community, to create symbolic forms grounded in a tangible sense of togetherness vis-à-vis the invading forces, and to devise a corresponding metanarrative that would encompass, even if partially, this collectivity of the nation. However, under laborious Pakistani-Saudi tutelage, along with a tacit U.S. blessing, a potentially emergent movement for national liberation increasingly assumed a narrowly delineated, strictly religious definition. Identifying with Islam and reinforcing one’s Islamic credentials became the raison d’être of various, often competing, groups within the resistance. As for the processes of cultural production in the volatile decade of 1980s, one may be led to suppose that the absolute ideological hostility between the regime and the opposition engendered, to borrow from Franz Fanon’s penetrating discussion of violence in The Wretched of the Earth, a “Manichean” worldview where two irreconcilable objectives with a “totalitarian character” were locked in constant “negation” and “counter-negation” of each other.3 The discussion that follows aims to establish that, just as it is impossible—as was argued in the previous chapter—to speak of a coherent, internally homogeneous official literature sanctioned by the dominant regime, it is equally impossible to consider the literature of resistance against the Soviet occupation to offer a consistent, unilinear poetics betraying a stable, uniform ideological perspective. The literature of resistance—despite its “Manichean” manifestations—embodied both the discernible visions of the resistance as well as the less obvious predicaments and quandaries with which narratives of resistance are (perhaps always already) entangled. In fact, literature produced during this ideologically explosive historical climate in Afghanistan, whether in its official-conformist or resistance-oppositional guise, proved a site that both allowed and defied, articulated and deconstructed, embodied and critiqued any centralizing efforts of a master discourse that would overwhelmingly, and overbearingly, produce a body of literature to be conveniently and unambiguously divided into binary

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divisions of either collaboration with or resistance to foreign occupation. A closer reading of these works of literature demonstrates that, no matter how “Manichean” they may appear to be, the subtlety, irony, and ambiguity inherent in these works render their apparent direct meanings indeterminate, indefinite, and open to a variety of interpretations. Contrary to the ideological rigidity of the political and military resistance against occupation, the literature of resistance remained a remarkably flexible and fluid phenomenon. Through a complex process of appropriation and incorporation, this literature contained a multitude of contrasting forms and shapes, pointing to the diversity of the anti-colonial and anti-imperial imagination, the multiplicity of visions of liberation and emancipation, and the incongruity of views on how to realize and enhance an ideal post-colonial condition.

The romance and reconfiguration of dissidence A clear indication of the heterogeneity of cultural and literary production in Afghanistan in the 1980s was that, despite the attempts of the pro-Soviet regime, the Party-appointed and approved secretariat of the Writers’ Union did not succeed either in homogenizing imaginative writings or in exercising a monopoly over literary production. Clearly, not every work penned by those who had become its members, willingly or otherwise, was necessarily a clichéd reworking of some single aesthetic perspective or conventional poetic formula. Not every literary work produced during the dominance of the Writers’ Union insisted on a poetry “committed” to the ideals of the “revolution” nor on the “reflective,” “representational” nature of fiction. In a significant article published in
Irfa¯ n, the official journal of the Ministry of Education, a “humanist” aesthetic paradigm was proposed as the core of most truly “progressive” forms of art in direct theoretical contrast to the official aesthetics represented by the Writers’ Union.4 In lieu of debunking a literature that adhered to “aesthetic” standards and “formal” composition of what is conventionally considered literary, the article insisted that no contradiction need exist between the aesthetic refinement and formal excellence of a work of art and literature and its ideological message as the proper art of the masses. After all, “the art of the masses is, by necessity, the most beautiful of the arts,” the article contended. This contention stemmed from the view that “true art is a deeply human art.” Furthermore, “art is not simply the representation of objective reality, but is also the reflection of the depth of human emotions.”5 Contradicting the so-called economic determinism of the official cultural paradigm propagated by the regime, the article asserted that mass art, as a genuinely humanistic project, “has a certain specific autonomy in relation to life [hastı¯],”6 an autonomy that preserves the aesthetic-formal specificity of modern art and literature and establishes the flexible and shifting boundaries of its politico-ideological framework. The limited opening up of the political atmosphere following the qualified changes in the leadership of the People’s Democratic Party in 1986, which

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paved the way for the eventual departure of Soviet troops from Afghanistan two years later, led to the relative relaxation of censorship exercised by the commandement. This development enabled writers to guardedly defy older rigid strictures of the official aesthetics delineated by the regime’s cultural apparatuses. While a number of writers and poets continued to adhere to the officially demarcated cultural lines, many others—including those who had actually joined the Writers’ Union—consciously deviated from them and, instead, chose to traverse alternative routes. In the meantime, unofficial literary associations (anjuman), usually bearing names of canonical (and, for that matter, neutral) literary figures from the past of Persian literature, also started to appear both in Kabul and in some provinces. Without any official support, these unions soon turned into alternatives to the Writers’ Union and attracted many dissident voices. Whether this particular kind of dissident literature, i.e. oppositional literature produced inside the country, can be said to constitute a literature of resistance or not has pervaded recent discussions among Afghan intellectuals. To the dissidents themselves, resistance literature should not be monopolized by writings produced primarily outside of the country. There were many “insiders,” too, whose works were inspired by the heroism of the anti-Soviet fighters, and their writings, therefore, should be classified properly as resistance literature.7 ¯ sı¯ (1335–1373/1956–1994) was The exceedingly prolific poet Qaha¯ r
A perhaps the most prominent voice of dissidence inside the country. Early in his career as a poet, he daringly wrote highly lyrical verses in praise of the armed resistance against the Soviets and the regime they had installed in Kabul at a time when many of his peers suffered incarceration, torture, and even death at the hands of the secret police. His poetry was trapped in expressing the binary opposition of good versus evil, freedom versus servitude, liberation versus colonial rule, emancipation versus imperial domin¯ sı¯, the “muja¯ hids” represented a genuine, home-grown guerrilla ation. To
A movement, albeit one that was motivated by pure religious sentiments. He lauded their bravery and heroism and eagerly awaited their triumphant entry from the mountain tops into the gates of the city: Shukuftah az jigar-i sang ha¯ sada¯ -i muja¯ hid Fara¯ z-i gardanah ha¯ mı¯tapad luva¯ -i muja¯ hid Az a¯ sta¯ n-i falak mı¯darakhshad a¯ tash-i sabzi Ba pı¯shva¯ z-i bulandakhtara¯ n bara¯ -i muja¯ hid Suru¯ dsa¯ z-i shab-u ru¯ z-i a¯ tash-u ı¯ma¯ n Zi ra¯ h mı¯-rasad-u mı¯-kashad nava¯ -i muja¯ hid . . . Vu-ra¯ ki da¯
iyah a¯ za¯ dı¯ ast-u ja¯ m-i shaha¯ dat Haza¯ r martabah ja¯ n-u dilam fida¯ -i muja¯ hid.8 From the heart of the mountain resound the voices of freedom fighters High atop the peaks fly their proud banners From the horizon, a green flame sparks into being

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan To welcome these fortunate ones The composer of fire and faith arrives and Lets loose the echoing song of freedom fighters May my heart and soul be ransomed countless times For those who desire to drink from the cup of martyrdom.

¯ sı¯’s poetic voice dramatically changed, however, after the unceremoni
A ous demise of the regime left behind by the Soviets and the Muja¯ hidı¯n assumption of power in the spring of 1992. After initially requesting the wind (ba¯ d) to carry with its eyes (dı¯dah) the “dust of the path passed by the caravan of my chevaliers” (gard-i ra¯ h-i savara¯ n-i ka¯ rva¯ n-i mara¯ ) upon the sky and dissolve it into the eminence of the sun (a¯ fta¯ b), the actions of his ¯ sı¯ wary of their true intentions. With the erstwhile heroes in power made
A heroic warriors turning into “qa¯ tila¯ n-i mardum-i Kabul” (the killers of the ¯ sı¯ addressed them defiantly: people of Kabul),
A Kha¯ nah-i ra¯ ki saza¯ va¯ r-i parastı¯dan bu¯ d Marg-i ta¯ n ba¯ d ki khastid-u kaba¯ bash kardı¯d . . . Har kasi ra¯ ki umı¯di-u tamanna¯ -i da¯ sht Ma¯ tami da¯ dah-u ba¯ zakhm muja¯ bash kardı¯d.9 May death come to you who pillaged and burned The house that deserved to be worshipped . . . You brought misery to all those Who still had hopes and wishes. In the face of the horrors gripping his beloved city in the claws of the ¯ sı¯ abandoned defiance and “liberators” he used to so much admire before,
A turned introspective, expressing despair and solipsism at the turn of historical events. He pondered whether “kha¯ mu¯ shı¯” (silence) and “fara¯ mu¯ shı¯” (forgetfulness) were not the only options left to him with “the adverse change of seasons”: Taqvı¯m-i sa¯ l ba¯ z ba ham khurdah-st Barba¯ dı¯-i shuku¯ h-i sapı¯da¯ ra¯ n Agha¯ z gashtah . . . Amma¯ chi su¯ d, Fasl, Gu¯ r-i digar ba kha¯ tir-i kha¯ mu¯ shı¯-st Fasl-i digar bara¯ -i fara¯ mu¯ shı¯-st.10 The season has turned once more, And the death’s fingers have begun to touch the glorious trees . . . What is the point of a change in seasons if It simply brings more death

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Silence and Forgetfulness. In the fall of 1994, as the vicious internecine “civil war” among “holy warriors” had reached the height of its brutality, with Kabul residents bearing ¯ sı¯ fell victim to a mortar shell fired from the brunt of the fighting, Qaha¯ r
A the outskirts of the city. The poet who had vocalized the cause of the resistance in Afghanistan perhaps more stridently than any other dissident poet during the years of the anti-Soviet struggle, was silenced and soon forgotten by the very forces whom he had celebrated not long before.

Forms of fury Resistance and the under-grounding of history The early years of the Soviet occupation in Afghanistan saw the emergence outside of the country of a variegated and heterogeneous literature of resistance (adabiya¯ t-i muqa¯ vvamat) associated largely with anti-occupation revolts alongside the increasingly vociferous literature of dissidence inside ¯ sı¯. the country as embodied in the writings of poets such as Qaha¯ r
A Obviously, despite the continual presence of dissident poets (and writers) who, against various odds, chose to remain inside Afghanistan, the horrific nature of the Soviet occupation and the stifling social and cultural atmosphere, created by the regime and maintained by its repressive apparatuses, drove countless intellectuals (including many poets and writers) to choose life in exile, either in the neighboring states of Iran and Pakistan or in Europe and America.11 The degree of the commitment and contribution of these intellectuals to the anti-occupation struggle varied considerably. Those who took refuge in Iran and Pakistan where the military resistance was headquartered and financially managed were often involved in creative literary activities that showed, to a large extent, explicit affinity with the positions of the Islamic warriors, the Muja¯ hidı¯n. Most of the intellectuals who migrated to the West—primarily Europe and the United States—however, often times either abandoned their literary careers altogether or started to be influenced by their new environments and languages to the extent that their interests increasingly acquired the status of a distinct body of exilic-diasporic writings. If the Afghan struggle against the Soviet invasion ever had a poet whose panorama of imagination encompassed the visions and reified the ideals of the resistance, that poet was Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯ (1286–1366/1908–1987). Reflecting on the far-reaching political upheavals and reversals in the 1980s, the poetry Khalı¯lı¯ wrote during the final decade of his life became profoundly engaged with the historical contingencies of his time. Khalı¯lı¯’s already undisputed mastery of classical Persian poetry and his prominent institutional status as a formidable scholar and teacher of Persian contributed

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immensely to the political relevance, intellectual profundity, and poetic poignancy of what could best be described as the literature of resistance. Critics distinguish two periods in Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯’s long literary career. The initial period concerns the production, over the span of nearly half a century, of a vast body of highly refined and technically unblemished, traditional poetry modeled especially after the classical Khurasani style of Persian literature. This body of works earned Khalı¯lı¯ the critical acclamation of “the ablest living Persian poet in the traditional style.”12 As part of a remarkable cultural movement in Persian that was concerned with the penetration, reception, or imposition of cultural modernity, Khalı¯lı¯’s poetry insisted on the need for achieving novelty but only with a minimal rupture from canonical traditions. His prolific early compositions epitomized literary modalities that adhered to poetic innovativeness while preserving the continuity of past heritage. As his highly versatile Diva¯ n (collection of poems) manifests, Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯’s perspective on Persian poetics in the first phase of his literary creativity was closely linked with his ideological views on the totality of modernity as a global project of inter-dependent cultural-historical transformation. He wrote mainly lyrics suffused with the concept of “love” (
ishq), the dominant theme in Persian literary tradition. He considered the disposition and creativity of any genuine poet, whether modern or classical, to be shaped in accordance to
ishq—the wishes and desires of his/her heart. As a superior form of art, the best poetry would be that which expressed most naturally and spontaneously the outpouring of love from the depth of a sincerely moved heart: Shi
r k  az suz-i dil buvad
a¯ rı¯ Nı¯st juz daftar-i siyah ka¯ rı¯ Shi
r a¯ za¯ d naghmah-i ru¯ h ast Na¯ lah-i sı¯nah ha¯ -i majru¯ h ast Tarjuma¯ n-i
ava¯ tif-i bashar ast Guhar-i ta¯ j-i ta¯ rak-i hunar ast.13 Poetry that pours forth from an undisturbed heart Is nothing but a recounting of evil exploits. Poetry is the soul’s unfettered song: The grief-stricken lament of a wounded heart The interpreter of all human emotions And the loftiest of all arts. Thus, the poet proclaims and venerates his own subservience to the wishes of his heart: Sar zi farma¯ n-i dil na mı¯pı¯cham Hukm-i dil hukm-i pa¯ dsha¯ h-i man ast.14

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I shall never rebel against my heart For its desires are one and the same as the Lord’s desires. The encroachment of modernity, however, dramatically challenges the revered status of love. The long enduring thematic dominance of love over the texture of poetic creativity must contend with the unsettling trials of modern life. Precisely ever since the introduction of modernity and its widespread, and often uncritical, reception in the remotest areas of the globe,
Ishq murd-u mihr murd-u mardumı¯ Ghutah dar dunya¯ -i khu¯ n da¯ rı¯m ma¯ Dast-u pa¯ -i
aql dar zanjı¯r shud Ba¯ hamah da¯ nish junu¯ n da¯ rı¯m ma¯ .15 Love died, devotion died, affection perished We are drowning in a sea of blood. Wisdom, made weak and impotent, bows low under heavy chains Even with all our knowledge, we are no less foolish. In tradition-bound societies such as Afghanistan, Khalı¯lı¯ maintained, the advent of modernity can be compared to the coming of a “roaring viper” (af
ı¯-i khuru¯ sha¯ n), intent on “swallowing a whole world in each breathing” (bal
ı¯dah ba har nafas jaha¯ ni).16 Such a perspective on the encroachment of modernity was based not so much on an insular indigenist reaction to a radical alien scheme than on the critical view that an unquestionable embracing of modernity would lead to the degeneration of human conditions, the erosion of long-held noble values, and the utter rationalization of society, thus creating a spiritually bleak and morally desolate world. But, as Khalı¯lı¯’s poetry shows, modernity proves itself an inherently double-edged phenomenon, a perilous adventure fraught with uncertainty and danger. Is not modernity simultaneously the metaphoric imprisonment of the individual within “fortified walls” as well as the liberating “sailing towards unbound shores”? In a famous mukhammas (pentameter) Khalı¯lı¯ contemplates the meaning of modernity in contemporary history. Here history appears to be devoid of any teleological essence beyond its own mysterious, incomprehensible determinants. Modernity, as an evolving project of the radical progression of history, turns out to be an inescapable “enigma” (mu amma¯ ). Full of devious twists and turns, modernity forces us to potentially go astray and become “wayfarers” with “no obvious destination”: Ma¯ dar safarı¯m-u rah
aya¯ n nı¯st Naqsh-i qadami zi raftaga¯ n nı¯st. Yak rawzan-i nu¯ r dar jaha¯ n nı¯st Ra¯ hi ba harı¯m-i a¯ sma¯ n nı¯st Charkh ast buland-u nardba¯ n nı¯st.

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Gardu¯ nah-i tı¯z gard-i ayya¯ m Rah mı¯siparad zi ba¯ m ta¯ sha¯ m Yak dam zi kashish nada¯ rad a¯ ra¯ m Ma¯ ra¯ ba kuja¯ barad saranja¯ m Ma¯ ra¯ hraw-u hadaf
aya¯ n nı¯st.17 We are wanderers traveling down an unknown road The footprints of those who’ve gone before, invisible. The sky will not open up and show us the way No secret passageway exists there. The sky is far removed from us; no ladder exists between heaven and earth. Time’s wheel turns swift and continual From morning to night and night to morn Pausing not even for a single moment Where, ultimately, is it leading us? We are wayfarers traversing an undiscovered road.

In the poetic universe of Khalı¯lı¯, it is the seemingly unsolvable “enigma,” created by the unstoppable avalanche of modernity that enfolds the essence of life: Zindaga¯ nı¯ chi turfah tu¯ ma¯ r ast La¯ ba la¯ , tah ba tah, pur asra¯ r ast ¯In mu
amma¯ chi sihr a¯ sa¯ r ast Hall-i ı¯n ra¯ z sakht dushva¯ r ast.18 What is life, this perplexing rolled history? Every moment holds a mystery Every mystery contains a trace of magic Understanding the whole is riddled with difficulty. Yet, the advent of modernity also means the realization of a necessarily problematic entry into—and subsequent conceptual entanglement with— history proper. After all, the plain flow of integrated, fixed, eternal time that characterized traditional concepts of history would hardly be conceived as history per se, in part because its trajectory was devoid of dynamic, timely transgressions of established boundaries—not so much spatially (in terms of terrains and territories) as temporally (in terms of allegorical dwelling in the present moment). Paradoxically, in conditions of modernity, history appears not so much as the passing of chronological time, nor does it appear to possess a clear sense of meaningful telos. Human destiny, then, becomes condemned to a cycle of purposelessness. Life consistently turns into turmoil, characterized by erratic declines and ascents, with no consequential salvation in sight:

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Bı¯cha¯ rah a¯ damı¯ ki pas az qarn-ha¯ naya¯ ft Ra¯ zi ki rah dihad ba su¯ -i rastaga¯ rı¯-ash Afsa¯ nah-i mukaddar-i ta  rı¯kh bu¯ d hayf Dunya¯ -i ma¯ -u khushdilı¯-u su¯ gva¯ rı¯-ash. Ba¯ zı¯chah bu¯ d-u halqah-i da¯ m a¯ n chi guftah-and Ta¯ j-i khadı¯vı¯-u kamar-i shahrya¯ rı¯-ash Ruzi shavad buland sarı¯ri bar asma¯ n Ruzi digar ba kha¯ k bibı¯nı¯-u kharı¯-ash.19 How wretched the condition of humanity: Never able to find the key to salvation and eternity. The wheel of history turns, alas, always the same, Here in this realm of false hope, despair, and pain. Only a play, a vicious circle This game of crowned kings and armed princes One day a throne rises to the heights Only to be smashed to smithereens the next. Although always a political conservative with a deep suspicion of radical ideologies associated with the advent of modernity, Khalı¯lı¯ was nevertheless a visionary romantic with a keen interest in the development of his society. In fact, he acknowledged the profundity of the modern venture and admitted the inevitability of historical-cultural transformation and socio-economic progress even in the most traditional of societies. He disapproved of the devastating impact of radical forms of modernity, yet he resisted clinging uncritically to past traditions for the sake of counterbalancing the weight of modernity. In revisiting the priorities of the past and subordinating time to the determining historicity of the present, he discovered: Guzashtah da¯ m-i bala¯ bu¯ d-u tangna¯ -i farı¯b Ba halqah ha¯ -i shab-u ru¯ z bast ba¯ l-u param.20 The past—a snare of calamity, a narrow route of sham, ties my existence to the cycle of passing days and nights. In the context of tradition-bound societies, modernity’s self-described capacity to extricate the human individual from the “snare” (da¯ m) and “narrow pass” (tangna¯ ) of the past remains tenuous precisely because modernity remains an enforced and imposed paradigm and, therefore, a paradoxical amalgamation of anxiety and deliverance, of alienation and salvation. In these conditions of imposed modernity: Ba¯ har tapish ki bara¯ -i nija¯ t-i khud kardam Fushurd halqah-i ı¯n da¯ m-i shu¯ m tang-taram.

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As Khalı¯lı¯’s early writings show, he regarded the sustained path towards development and progress to be found in the measured, selective reception of modernity. He insisted on the confusion of the past and the present, of tradition and modernity. The reconciliation of the past and the demands of the present may lead, he argues, to the reappropriation of love, in both its liberating and regulating effects. Such a reappropriation would also offer the means to potentially disentangle the mysteries of modernity and to decelerate the devastating effects of imposed modernization in traditional social contexts. The process of selective modernity does not mean to stay behind the “alien caravan” of modern times but to join it with “open eyes,” to accept the “beautiful” but discard the “unseemly,” to consume the “honey” but refuse the “poison” that pervades modernity: ¯Inak a¯ mad ka¯ rva¯ n-i ghayr, chashmat ba¯ z da¯ r Zisht-u zı¯ba¯ -yash bibı¯n, ı¯nash bigı¯r, a¯ nash magı¯r . . . Shahd-i vay ba¯ zahr makhlu¯ t ast tahlı¯lash numa¯ Shahd-i shı¯rı¯nash binush-u zahr-i pinha¯ nash magı¯r ¯In kita¯ b-i
asr-i ma¯ ba¯ shad mu  amma¯ -i shigift Hu¯ sh da¯ r, ı¯n dars dushva¯ r ast, a¯ sa¯ nash magı¯r.22 The foreign caravan has arrived in our midst, open your eyes. Observe its ugliness and beauty: accept the second, but refuse the first. Its honey is mixed with hidden poison; be careful! Eat of its sweetness, but refuse its bitter venom. Our own chapter in history is full of wondrous mystery But beware, its lessons are difficult; don’t take them lightly. Therefore, the poet urges his readers to embrace modernity but to traverse the path of progress only at their own pace and tempo: Ra¯ h khud raw ki rahrava¯ n raftand Na chuna¯ n raw ki dı¯gara¯ n raftand Ba tu da¯ dand chu¯ n niga¯ h-i navı¯n Justuju¯ kun, biju¯ i ra¯ h-i navı¯n . . . Ba¯ z kun ra¯ h ra¯ ba nı¯ru¯ -yat Shir-vash takiyah kun ba ba¯ zu¯ -yat Ra¯ h du¯ r ast, pı¯sh ba¯ yad raft Lik ba pa¯ -i khı¯sh ba¯ yad raft.23

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Proceed just as those who’ve already traversed the road, Not as strangers, unknowing and unknown You’ve been gifted with new visions Therefore, seek out a new path . . . Be strong: create your own path Rely on your own limbs, like a lion The way is long, yet you must keep going But only on your own two feet.

The return of the political The latter poetry of Khalı¯lı¯ represents a radically transformed poetics, a poetics that becomes subsumed by a particular political vision. While his early poetry was never devoid of political references, symbolisms, and allusions, it explicitly articulated an acute distrust of political activism. Khalı¯lı¯ considered himself primarily “a poet, a writer, a scribe” (sha¯
ir, ka¯ tib, dabı¯r, respectively) in contradistinction to the politician and political activist, whom he invectively referred to as “a juggler and a snake-charmer” (shu
badahba¯ z va ma¯ rgı¯r).24 “The organ of politics,” he maintained, produces only “a disharmonious cacophony” (sa¯ z-i kaj-a¯ hang) and never “a joyous melody” (naghmah-i sha¯ dı¯). Politics is no less than “an idol-house of treachery” (sanamkha¯ nah-i nayrang) full of “statues of deception” (but ha¯ -i farı¯b).25 The catastrophe of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan and its devastating effects became the principal rationale that effectively grounded Khalı¯lı¯’s later poetics in contemporary history and gave it a decidedly political dimension. Ever since, as the poet addresses his heart, Ay dil mara¯ maja¯ l na-da¯ dı¯ ki sar kunam Gulba¯ ng-i shawq-u sa¯ z-u nava¯ -i sukhanvarı¯ . . . Shi
r-i mara¯ ki sha¯ hid-i ayya¯ m-i sulh bu¯ d Jang-a¯ farin namu¯ dı¯-u razmı¯-u sangarı¯. 26 Oh my heart, you no longer allow me to sing Those melodious and passionate songs of the dawn . . . You’ve turned my soft, tranquil words To battle chants, belligerent, hard. Khalı¯lı¯’s later poetry was inevitably preoccupied with identifying the Soviet invasion of his homeland as an act of violent transgression, a calamity (musı¯bat). The placing of “the bezel of Solomon’s ring onto the finger of the devil” (nigı¯n-i mulk-i sulayma¯ n ba kilk-i ahrı¯man)27 was an act, however, that was essentially a consequence of modernity itself. It was in the context of this cataclysmic event which directly affected the poet’s own homeland that Khalı¯lı¯’s Weltanschauung started to undergo a dramatic shift from an erstwhile receptive view of modernity (in the form of selective modernity) to

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the enunciation of a pronouncedly antagonistic view towards it. How could one possibly adhere to the promises and predictions of modernity when the latter, as a phenomenon of global significance, engenders and ideologically justifies colonial domination and imperial hegemony by the powerful West (including the Soviet Union) over the Rest? More precisely, as Khalı¯lı¯’s postSoviet invasion writings suggest, the advent of history in modernity did not necessarily embody the transformative progress of society as promised by modernity but rather the imperial aggression that symbolized both the violent slashing of present time and the irreparable destruction of past memory. In this context, “justice” and “revenge” turned into central themes in Khalı¯lı¯’s later poetry, where the rightful (and righteous) dispossessed confronts the mighty and the powerful. Hence, his writings assume the status of what may be regarded as the literature of resistance—“a fighting verse, belligerent and aggressive” (jang-a¯ farı¯n, razmı¯ va sangarı¯).28 History, whose genesis is no doubt a consequence of modernity, now needs to be saved from modernity itself. Khalı¯lı¯ had previously written poetry of protest against modern colonialism. In an early poem dedicated to the victims of the brutal French rule in Algeria, for instance, he probed a number of questions that were aimed to undermine Western modernity’s self-promoted ethos of mission civilisantrice. He considered the Algerians “oppressed” (sitamzadah) and “heartbroken” (dilshikastah) and wondered whether “one day the palaces of the oppressors [ka¯ kh ha¯ -i sitamgara¯ n] / will be shaken by the weeping of the oppressed [zı¯n figha¯ n dar taka¯ n nakha¯ had shud]?” He further asked if one day: Parcham-i shu¯ m-i zulm-u isti
ma¯ r Va¯ zhgu¯ n az jaha¯ n nakha¯ had shud?29 Will the inauspicious banner of colonialism Be destroyed all over the universe? The response to this question was certainly a negative one. In fact, the Soviet occupation of the poet’s homeland some two decades after this poem was written proved to be an act of tremendous violence performed by the strong engaged in the annihilation of the weak. It reinforced his view that Western colonial aggressions still stir a “deadly hurricane” (tu¯ fa¯ n-i margkhı¯z) with no sign of subsiding: Tufa¯ n-i marg-khı¯z-i hava¯ dis fara¯ rası¯d Ra¯ h-i nija¯ t-i ma¯ ba yamı¯n-u yasa¯ r nı¯st.30 The deadly hurricane of events entered our midst Closing off all escapes, all exits.

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Now, the homeland, inhabited by “ma¯ tamzadah” people, has turned into a “kishvar-i khu¯ nı¯n kafana¯ n” (the land of [those with] bloodied burial robes). “In [its] rivulets, instead of water waves, blood boils” and “the rays of the sun emanate the smell of death.”31 The poet urges his reader “to see city upon city, stream upon stream, the blood of martyrs and field upon field, piles and piles of corpses.”32 The reader should not be oblivious that “In our cities, instead of water, tears and blood flow/ in our plains fire and iron pour” (ba shahr ha¯ hamah bar ja¯ -i a¯ b a¯ tash-u khu¯ n/ ba dasht ha¯ hamah ba¯ ra¯ n-i a¯ tash-u a¯ han).33 Therefore, no redemption can possibly be achieved in the midst of such helplessness, despondence, and despair: Miya¯ n-i sı¯nah-i su¯ za¯ n ba ghayr-i a¯ h nada¯ ram Chu sham
-i murdah umı¯di ba subhga¯ h nada¯ ram.34 In my burning chest, I can only heave a sigh Like a dying candle, I’ve lost all hope in dawn’s arrival. Using the religious figure of Ka
bah (the holiest of Muslim places) he laments that “the sign [shu
a¯ r] of sickle and hammer [i.e. the symbols of the old Soviet power] has been forced upon the Ka
bah of our hearts / the smoke columns of atheism and tyranny rise over and above our houses and alleys.”35 In an obvious attempt to stir the religious sentiments of the readers, the poet points to how religion has been desecrated and violated: Qur  a¯ n-i khuda¯ ra¯ ba tah-i pa¯ shnah su¯ dand Ba¯ da¯ s-i jafa¯ kisht-i umı¯d-i tu daru¯ dand ¯ mı¯khtah ba¯ zahr faza¯ -i tu namu¯ dand A ¯ sa¯ r-i giranqadr-i tu ra¯ jumlah rabu¯ dand A Bar pa¯ -u sar-i shir bibastand rasan, va¯ y! Ay va¯ y, vatan, va¯ y!36 The invaders defile God’s holy Qur  an with the heel of their foot And with their cruel sickle, sever your harvest of hope They’ve poisoned your air Stolen your treasures Once you were like a lion; now your neck is tied to a rope Oh for shame, my homeland, for shame! It should be noted that Khalı¯lı¯ wrote his poetry of resistance entirely in exile. Exile offers no stable home, but is a temporary abode, a nomadic place of encampment. The poet’s sense of homelessness plays prominently in his poetic compositions. He describes his relation to “home,” a home which is “elsewhere,” a home invaded and its sanctity violated by the merciless enemy. He considers himself in exile a “featherless prey” away from his “nest,” a “wandering eagle” seeking his lost “native summits,” a “messenger

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of pain and sorrow, a poet of tears, an ambassador of lament” (qa¯ sid-i dardu gham, sha¯
ir-i ashk, safı¯r-i ma¯ tam.” In exile, it is in words, in verbal expressions and discourse (sukhan), that one finds symbolic refuge: Gar chi du¯ ram az diya¯ r-i khı¯shtan Dar khiya¯ lash zindaga¯ nı¯ mı¯kunam Ba sukhan ı¯n nushda¯ ru¯ -i haya¯ t Khı¯shtan ra¯ javda¯ nı¯ mı¯kunam.37 Though I am many miles from my homeland I dwell there in dreams. Through words—the sweet balm for life’s cruelty— I eternalize myself in memory. Yet, even sukhan pales in confronting the extent of the present calamity:
Andalı¯bam, ashiya¯ nam sukhtand Pa¯ y ta¯ sar, ustukha¯ nam sukhtand . . . Chu¯ n nay-i bishkistah am dar kha¯ k-i ra¯ h Bar lab-i man na¯ lah-u bar sı¯nah a¯ h! . . . Ta¯ kunad junbish dar angushtam qalam mı¯shavad ashk-i siyah-ruza¯ n raqam Ta¯ sukhan sar mı¯nama¯ yam khu¯ n shavad Ta¯ kunam harfi raqam, gulgu¯ n shavad Shi
r-i man khu¯ na¯ bah-i dil gashtah ast Na¯ lah-u farya¯ d-i bismil gashtah ast . . .38 I am a nightingale whose nest they burned, Whose lineage they destroyed . . . I am a broken flute abandoned amidst the rubble My heart knows only sighing; my voice, crying . . . As the pen moves my hand Dark, inky teardrops spill onto the page Blood intermingles with ink My poetry is the bleeding of this broken heart, The lamenting outcry of this wounded soul . . . As the examples above demonstrate, Khalı¯lı¯’s poetry of resistance can be said to be often trapped in a seemingly contradictory rhetoric of victimhood and despair as well as in a triumphal ideology of patriotism and nationalism drawn from the view that “daftar-i zulm-u sitam barchı¯danı¯-st”39 (the chapter of oppression and tyranny is bound to be closed soon) where the poetic voice prominently merges with the collective destiny and experience of the people. On the one hand, he sees the individual national subject dispossessed

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of the agency necessary to attain emancipation and liberation. Here, as shown above, the poet mourns the loss of the homeland and laments the destruction of its people. On the other hand, he affords the individual the capacity and the consciousness to act, as a sovereign subject empowered with concrete, tangible agency. Even in the most trying of circumstances, Khalı¯lı¯ consciously chooses to embrace the liberation movement and embody the collective will of the community and the nation, to turn into the bard of triumph, the messenger of a certain victory to come. He lionizes the “materially poor,” “barefooted,” and “ill-equipped” resistance fighters and praises their power of conviction and commitment to their faith. He acknowledge that “in the middle of the night” when “the barrack of the enemy / is exposed to fire,” only “the soldiers of the nation”—the “epochcreating, legend-making army of the barefooted” (birahnah pa¯ -i ta rı¯kha¯ farı¯n-i da¯ sta¯ n-angı¯z)—can deserve to personify the heroism of this act of rebellion. “What image could be more beautiful in the eyes of history,” he asks, than when one of the poet’s “brave countrymen is holding a dagger in hand and an enemy has collapsed at his feet?”40 Elsewhere, Khalı¯lı¯ is even more emphatic that the liberation struggle can succeed more effectively when there is a unity of blood on a broad, national level. And he has no illusion that, against all odds, “our” collective struggle will succeed primarily because: Millat-i ma¯ andarı¯n sakht a¯ zmu¯ n Kardah sa¯ bit vahdat-i khud ra¯ ba khu¯ n . . . Millat-i imru¯ z chu¯ n dı¯ru¯ z nı¯st Shir-i sangar murgh-i dast-a¯ mu¯ z nı¯st ¯In
uqa¯ b-i tı¯zchashm-i khashmgı¯n Nı¯st dı¯gar dast-bı¯n-i a¯ n-u ı¯n.41 In this difficult trial Our nation has affirmed its brotherhood through blood . . . Our nation today is not as it was yesterday: Today it is a lion, powerful and proud; not yesterday’s caged bird, terrified and cowed. Self-reliant, shrewd, and fierce like the eagle; No longer beggar at the door of others. Yet, the question remains, is the poet consistently as resolute and unwavering in clinging to a triumphant nationalist tone as he appears above? A more discerning analysis of his later writings will reveal that Khalı¯lı¯’s poetry of resistance evades being confined to the enunciation of a single voice or overarching discourse of resistance. It betrays a degree of complexity, subtlety, and multivalence that ultimately problematizes—and perhaps even undermines— the apparent coherence and consistency of his writings. For instance, on the one hand, he considers “our” struggle to be a unified “war of liberation”:

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Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan Millat-i ma¯ khurdah ju¯ sh-i ittiha¯ d Dar miya¯ n-i ku¯ rah-i khu¯ n dar jiha¯ d Khu¯ n-u a¯ tash qawm ra¯ yak-dast kard Darz ha¯ -i zisht ra¯ payvast kard.42 All factions of our nation have melted together In the boiling furnace of blood and struggle. Blood and fire have unified the people, The age-old divisions finally made whole.

On the other hand, he fears that “our” people are not truly united as a single, national force in opposing the common enemy. His poetry is not devoid of critically addressing the complexity of the resistance movement, the potential of its fragmentation, and the possibility of its disintegration and decay. Often falling into a contemplative, overtly pessimistic perspective, he seems dismayed by the fact that regional, ethnic, and sectarian divisions of the homeland hindered the emergence of a truly unified, national struggle against a strong, superior enemy. In the case of Afghanistan, the challenge the nation faced was even greater because Soviet imperial ambitions found an opportune ally, a fifth-columnist force, an “evil within” in the body of People’s Democratic Party whose “blind submission” to what came to be a horrific “mirage” (sara¯ b) of a “luring” alien ideology (Soviet communism) proved detrimental to the nation. In a sense, by maintaining that “the enemy is hidden in our own midst”—thus rendering “the buildings of defensive fences and walls” obsolete43—the poet crucially destabilizes the binary ideology of his own aesthetics drawn from a clearly demarcated “us” versus a clearly identifiable “them.” He goes even further and asks, in a rather despondent tone, whether “we,” through our own “self-destructive” actions, have not undermined our “unity” and served the interests of our “enemies.” Can anyone deny that, Ma¯ khud ba tı¯gh sı¯nah-i khud ra¯ shikaftı¯m Mardi digar ba kha¯ nah-i ma¯ ı¯n jigar na-kard.44 We have torn our national heart with the blade of our own dagger. It is no stranger, but we ourselves, who has brought this terrible calamity. In acknowledging the heterogeneous essence and contradictory nature of “us,” Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯ implies that a literature of resistance, perhaps in opposition to its own stated objectives, cannot be a simple recounting of a neatly defined battle between colonial domination and anti-colonial liberation. If the fragmented nation hopes once more to achieve unity and restore its independence, however, it would need to become resolute in its liberation struggle, to discover by itself the “good” and “evil” forces of

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history. Otherwise, the national struggle for liberation could—and indeed has—become susceptible to internal corruption and turn subservient to foreign “aid” and “influence”: Ba¯ z kun ra¯ h ra¯ ba nı¯ru¯ yat Shir-vash takiyah kun ba ba¯ zu¯ -yat Ra¯ h du¯ r ast, pı¯sh ba¯ yad raft Lik ba¯ pa¯ y-i khı¯sh ba¯ yad raft Gar na ı¯n rah ba khud barı¯ pa¯ ya¯ n Mı¯barandat kasha¯ n-kasha¯ n digara¯ n Mı¯barand a¯ n chuna¯ n ki kha¯ ha¯ nand Mı¯kunand a¯ n chi dar pay-i a¯ n and.45 Take a new path, but rely on your own strength. Like a lion, carry your own weight. The way is long and arduous, but you must walk On your own two feet. If you don’t, Others will drag you along like a cripple, Taking from you whatever they desire Cheating you out of what’s rightfully yours. Warning against the degeneration of the national movement Khalı¯lı¯ often draws from the “glorious” past of the nation to serve as the guide towards achieving a genuinely promising collective future: Vatanda¯ r-i dilı¯r-i man, niga¯ hi kun ba ta  rı¯khat Ki ru¯ zi iftikha¯ r-i du¯ dma¯ n-i asiya¯ bu¯ dı¯ Zi tu¯ fa¯ n ha¯ -i dahshatba¯ r-i kha¯ ra¯ kan na tarsı¯dı¯ Ba pa¯ ista¯ da¯ h chu¯ n ku¯ h-i bulandat ja¯ ba ja¯ bu¯ dı¯.46 My brave countrymen, turn the pages of your history And see how once you were the pride of all Asia Never frightened of horrific torrential storms, You rose, towering above the sea and plain, as a great mountain. Obviously, even though he pronounces himself a nationalist, the intensity of the catastrophic “termination of spring” and “germination of autumn” makes him doubtful whether the fragmented and dismembered nation can ever be restored and re-membered. It is in the context of this ambivalence and vulnerability that the poet abandons—or at least questions—the triumphalism of the nationalist view of the post-colonial conditions. He instead chooses to cling to what clearly exemplifies a sense of utter fatalism that borders on ahistorical, metaphysical idealism. If triumph over colonial order is to be possible where the national subject has no adequate agency

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and capacity to generate it, then it has to be engendered entirely through “the grace of God.” In considering what should constitute the overriding motivation of the war of liberation, Khalı¯lı¯ contends that adherence to the tenets of the Islamic faith would offer a sufficient ground for formulating a historically specific modality of resistance for facing the sophisticated machinery of colonial occupation. A nationalist movement for liberation would then be most effective when it is strongly imbued with religion. After all, in the context of Afghanistan, Khalı¯lı¯ maintains: Dı¯n-u aza¯ dı¯-st dar zarra¯ t-i khu¯ n-i ma¯ niha¯ n Ma¯ va ı¯n payma¯ n-i ma¯ ta¯ ja¯ n shavad az tan buru¯ n.47 Faith and freedom are infused in every drop of our blood Until the day death comes for us, such is our covenant. “The dark night,” he writes, will inevitably give way to “bright dawn,” but this transformation can only come through divine intervention when “the shining sun of the Qur  an” becomes the “essence” of the new, mature—postcolonial—nation: Dusta¯ n, ı¯n ha¯ l ha¯ gardı¯danı¯-st Daftar-i zulm-u sitam barchı¯danı¯-st Gar zama¯ nah bastah bar ma¯ ba¯ b ha¯ Gar musalma¯ n ra¯ rabu¯ dah kha¯ b ha¯ Ka¯ rgarda¯ n-i umu¯ r-i ma¯ khuda¯ -st Hall-i ı¯n mushkil ba dast-i kibriya¯ -st Rishtah-i ma¯ az khuda¯ bigsastah nı¯st Asma¯ n ra¯ ba¯ b-i rahmat bastah nı¯st.48 Friends, our circumstances will change The book of tyranny and coercion will end Even if fate has slammed the door on us; Even if our fellow Muslims remain asleep; Our guide is God Himself. The key to this lock is held by Divine hands. Our friendship with God is eternal The door of salvation is never shut. While “the acumen of the heart-conscious elders” and “the sword of brave patriots” prove valuable in the struggle for liberation, ultimately it is “the lantern of the pristine, divine religion” that “will eternally enlighten our path” towards repelling the aggressors and reclaiming the reserves of the homeland: Shavı¯m az lutf-i ı¯zad bahrah andu¯ z

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Zi da¯ nish ha¯ -i nı¯ru¯ bakhsh-i imru¯ z Az a¯ n kha¯ k-i tava¯ ngar zar bara¯ rı¯m Zi kuhsa¯ r-i vatan gawhar bara¯ rı¯m.49 We will benefit both from God’s grace And the fortifying of modern science From our abundant land, we’ll mine gold, And in its mountains, precious gems behold: Whether optimistic about the resistance or pessimistic about its performance and prospects, Khalı¯lı¯ wanted to be a poet who was a “representation” of Afghanistan. The poetry he wrote in the last decade of his life was an admixture of the individual voice of the poet—the inner subjective life of consciousness—with what was constitutive of the objective contemporary reality, the conditions of national collectivity in the anti-colonial struggle, and the envisioning of a post-colonial identity. Khalı¯lı¯ adopted the visionary stance of the seer who wishes to see beyond the mere phenomenal appearances of things and events. As such, he determined his own position as a subject of consciousness as well as a subject of history, endowed with the power of agency. His poetry, in turn, became the site where the poet attempted to weave the subject and the society into an organic whole, a national totality. However, a closer reading of his resistance poetry manifests that such a totality remained a profoundly ambiguous construction. In its post-colonial phase following the realization of national liberation, the nation will be left to re-member itself in order to become a truly emancipated totality. It will also have the potential to be challenged by a rift, a fissure, a disjunction that will sever it at its core and threaten its very being. Khalı¯lı¯ obviously preferred the former, but he was not so naïve as to overlook the serious danger of the latter. Therefore, Khalı¯lı¯ acknowledged that becoming a bard of “joyous days” to come can only be an illusion, even though a literature of resistance, by definition, requires the poet to assume such a role. Khalı¯lı¯, however, while aspiring to remain “the bard of resistance,” appears as a “messenger of pain and sorrow” and “a poet of tears and mourning.” Observing the extent of the calamity surrounding his homeland, the poet vacillates between two contradictory positions: a fighting youth who writes heroic verses prophesying the splendid victory of the “good” over “evil;” and a thoughtful, circumspect prophet who is not only the seer of the “good” but also the messenger of the “bad.” As he celebrates the success of the “good,” he remains well aware of the dangers ahead. Should he not warn of the complications of the struggle, the illusions of power, the dangers of hollow promises and false dawns, and the persistence of heavy shadows of the night? Willingly or not, Khalı¯lı¯ is often the prophet of doom, the chronicler of defeats, and the taciturn seer of sour days ahead. So enormous is the depth and extent of the present tragedy that one cannot but contend oneself with what “destiny”

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crafts. In the ever-unfolding course of time some “momentary spark” cannot amend what is a community’s preconfigured historical destiny: Chu¯ n qismat-i ma¯ juzz shab-i ta¯ rı¯k nakardand Az ta¯ bish-i ı¯n gunbad-i davva¯ r chi khı¯zad?50 Since destiny has thrust us into this darkest night What solace is to be expected from the endless turning of time?

Re-framing resistance, re-negotiating history Notwithstanding the predominance of a rigorously “Islamic” oppositional literature in Afghanistan during the 1980s, the literature of resistance was hardly a monolithic enterprise that unproblematically mirrored the political and ideological commitments of a primarily religiously motivated, antiSoviet movement. An analysis of the contents of Ga¯ h-na¯ mah—a once thriving but short-lived oppositional cultural periodical—reinforces this important contention. A self-described “progressive” journal, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah was published in New Delhi (India) in mid-1980s. This was a period when antiSoviet Afghan intellectuals who did not subscribe to the “freedom fighting” mantra of the Muja¯ hidı¯n were continually shunned, actively marginalized, and at times physically eliminated in the neighboring states of Pakistan and Iran. Ga¯ h-na¯ mah, for its part, did not deny the religious motivations of the anti-Soviet struggle. What it attempted to emphasize was the “nationalpopular” composition of the Afghan struggle as a classic Third-World liberation front and the need to articulate a theory of cultural resistance necessary for the movement as a whole. In an article entitled “Junbish-i Muqa¯ vvamat va Hunar” (The Resistance movement and the arts) the journal Ga¯ h-na¯ mah reinstated the seminal importance of the cultural field in the struggle for independence: “Our resistance against Soviet colonial forces should be carried out not only in its military dimensions but also in its vast and perhaps more important social, political, historical, psychological, moral, and cultural dimensions.”51 Within the cultural sphere, “we need—indeed, desperately—an art of resistance,” the article read, “but a sizeable segment of the forces that comprise the core of our armed resistance pay little attention to this fact. Such neglect of culture and the arts could prove detrimental to our collective ideals.”52 In emphasizing the centrality of culture, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah went so far as to suggest that the stance of the various socio-economic groupings that comprised the movement vis-à-vis the question of culture dictated “the degree and intensity of their devotion to the larger cause of liberation.” In other words, “the particular way one perceived culture defined how one positioned oneself in the anti-Soviet, anti-colonial war.”53 What was supposed to be unique about the culture of resistance was the emergence of a formidable “art of resistance”—an art that “produces and

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refines a revolutionary conscience. It engenders a conscience of resistance— one that is resilient yet uncompromising.”54 “The art of resistance not only induces and energizes national and patriotic sentiments among the masses,” Ga¯ h-na¯ mah insisted, “it also radically alters the nature of the anti-colonial movement itself.” Principally, [. . .] the art of resistance transforms the relationship of the guerrilla warrior to his gun. The gun becomes not simply an object [for practical use]. It rather affects directly the core consciousness of its bearer, a transformative process with far-reaching, long lasting impact on the collective understanding of many generations to come.55 Ga¯ h-na¯ mah was keen to note that, during the war of liberation, the realm of culture turns into a vivid “theatre of operation,” where competing views of the past and the future vie for supremacy. Ga¯ h-na¯ mah’s historicist ideological stance would dictate that, according to the “evolutionary” logic of “social development,” the future is inevitably destined to succeed.56 Nevertheless, in the case of Afghanistan, at the particular historical juncture under consideration, the past needed to be preserved and nourished because it better and more effectively served the progressive culture of the present anticolonial cause. In contemplating the preservation of the past, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah essentially adhered to Frantz Fanon’s “Third-Worldist” discourse presented in The Wretched of the Earth that, under conditions of colonialism the past had to be defended against certain extinction for: [. . .] colonialism is not simply content to impose its rule upon the present and the future of a dominated country. Colonialism is not satisfied merely with holding a people in its grip and emptying the native’s brain of all form and content. By a kind of perverted logic, it turns to the past of the oppressed people, and distorts, disfigures, and destroys it. This work of devaluing pre-colonial history takes on a dialectical significance today.57 To circumvent such “perverted logic”—that is, to rescue the past from “distortion,” “disfiguration,” and “destruction” by colonialism—Ga¯ h-na¯ mah proposed that traditional cultural norms and literary forms should be maintained and even turned into a defining aspect of resistance to the dominant cultural and literary paradigms propagated by the colonial order and the regime in power. In other words, tradition should serve to cultivate the cause of revolution, a process that, paradoxically, always already contains the destabilization of that very same tradition. Privileging the past is not to mean the uncritical preservation of morbid memories or the reification of apparently démodé literary and cultural practices, however. Culture and literatures of resistance, in order to be successful, are not supposed to be “mummified in the worn-out layers of

136 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan bygone eras.”58 Rather, they seek to discover historical dynamics within the tradition. The reason for Ga¯ h-na¯ mah’s proclivity to draw from past cultural and literary conventions, therefore, was not to hold on to some archaic forms of culture but to counter the Soviet colonial power’s devaluing and disparaging of the long-established, deeply rooted pre-colonial history, traditions, and customs of Afghanistan. A return to the past—and, by extension, away from modernist cultural ventures and literary experiments—was therefore justified not because the former was inherently superior, but because such a return was truly a “re-conquest of popular imagination,”59 a kind of return to “authenticity” and to “history” at a time when colonial rule intended to undermine them systematically. In order to be truly of serious consequence, the culture of resistance “draws primarily from the historical treasures of our very own culture and faith. If it has its head towards the heavens [a clear reference to the religious, Islamic character of the resistance], its roots are deep in the materiality of the land.”60 Ga¯ h-na¯ mah argued that the reception of Islamic religion within the liberation movement should not be derived from some narrow, dogmatic, strictly doctrinal interpretation of the faith. Rather, it should draw creatively from the inherently “humanistic,” and by extension progressive, principles of religion. It should “brilliantly” blend “spiritual” and “material” aspects of life. No other socio-religious manifestation could possess this “humanist” essence better than mysticism (
irfa¯ n) as practiced by various Muslim Sufi orders (tarı¯qahs) in Afghanistan.61 The Sufi mystics, at least in the case of Afghanistan, had always remained “humanists” in the larger sense of the term and never disengaged from the contingencies of their times and social milieus, and neither were they now as the war of independence was raging. Alluding to the “worldly” and socio-politically activist message contained in the “spiritual” core of Islamic mysticism, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah insisted that the Sufis, who had served in the forefront of practical struggle for progress and national emancipation before, should be given the chance to do so again.62 By pinpointing a progressive element within the humanist composition of Sufi traditions, for instance, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah intended to highlight how, within the contours of the anti-Soviet cultural resistance, ancient indigenous cultural forms creatively integrate with modern ideals in order to serve “the material development of society.” To ignore this factor would generate a host of problems. Above all, it would mean that the emboldened forces of “reaction” might dematerialize the dynamics of cultural resistance, overwhelm the liberation movement, and hinder genuine social transformation once independence is gained. Concurrently, by injecting a progressive character into the anti-Soviet cultural resistance, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah intended to render Soviet cultural penetration and regime propaganda ineffective and thwart their attempts to present themselves as true “agents of change” and the resistance toto caelo as a “retrograde” group intent on obstructing revolutionary development and jeopardizing socio-cultural progress. To address the status of the arts—and particularly of poetry—within the

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anti-Soviet cultural resistance, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah, following an elaborate theoretical explanation, divided art into two categories: standard/academic and mass/popular. Such “abstract” literary forms as “modernist” poetry and “experimental” fiction belong to the first category. During the tumultuous period of resistance, the journal argued, there will be some deracinated pretenders in the cultural front who would continue to produce lofty works of literature. The fact remains, however, that only the “upper echelon” of society—the elites and the select educated members—who, for ideological reasons of their own, subscribed to the anti-colonial cause, appreciated standard/academic art and recognized its significance and innovations. Since the vast majority of the people who were actually involved in fighting the Soviet aggression remained “uneducated farmers and peasants,” this particular kind of art (i.e. standard/academic), despite its many merits, proved to be of little practical use or interest. It was “mass/popular” art that reflected the true aspirations and desires of the common people, even if its artistic “value” and its adherence to “literary criteria” were found to be “minimal” by the standards of critics’ taste. On the contrary, mass culture— which understandably remained oral and therefore in need of collecting and inscribing—avoided “ossifying” its own internal dynamics. During the strenuous years of liberation struggle, mass culture flourished in such forms as jokes, satire, parodies, lampoon, magical tales, allegories, and landais. Ga¯ h-na¯ mah not only privileged mass culture and popular literature, it also preferred poetry over fiction during the period of anti-colonial struggle. Reiterating the historical centrality of poetry in the Persian literary tradition, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah found poetry to be more reflective of—and more effective in meeting—contemporary challenges. Therefore, one would naturally expect poetry to dominate literary creativity associated with the liberation struggle of our people, to herald them towards better understanding of the present historical and social conditions, and to penetrate into the core of the rank-and-file of [anti-colonial] insurgency.63 Towards this objective, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah strategically positioned itself on the side of privileging “traditional” poetics over “modern” poetics. After all, it asked rhetorically, how many common readers of poetry today are able to understand and appreciate the innovations of “new poetry” (shi
r-i naw), even if this poetry intended to serve the cause of resistance? The vast majority of “our people” continue to remain avid consumers of “conventional” (that is, traditional) poetry in well-established classical forms. Therefore, for all practical purposes, in order for poetry to remain relevant to the cultural cause of resistance movement, it should abandon “modernist” affectations and “experimentalist” tendencies. Instead, as the argument continued, it should produce solely “conventional” poetic compositions.64 Such poetry (shi
r) will not be tantamount to revolutionary sloganeering (shu
a¯ r),

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however. The war of liberation requires a clear direction as well as consciousness, a slogan as well as poetry. A slogan shows the necessary “direction of action,” but poetry was thought to present the more fundamental “inner consciousness of action.”65 Poetry may well preserve its own “poeticity” at the same time as it embraces slogans and transforms them into expressions of “active consciousness.” Ga¯ h-na¯ mah was acutely aware that the appearance of privileging “traditional” poetics creates the impression that “modern” poetics, which had established itself gradually throughout the twentieth century, needed to be either overlooked or marginalized within the sphere of resistance literature. In fact, it argued, literature of resistance is not anathema to modernity. The contingencies of contemporary history demand that modern poetics should strive to “encompass history in its totality, to draw from the past precisely in order to effectively manage present-day historical [and existential] challenges.”66 Therefore, a return to the past in poetics can mean only a tactical move, a temporary measure. The proper literature of resistance is one that draws from the past but actually looks towards the future. “As the resistance grows in strength and increasingly gains confidence, modern poetry [and fiction] will find its rightful position in the cultural sphere again.”67 Writing ostensibly against the “nostalgic” stance of some traditionalists and religiously inclined conservative segments within the cultural struggle for liberation, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah argued that the modernist paradigm in literature would be recovered when independence was won and the post-colonial society would finally emerged. After all, “it will be a sheer fantasy to assume that, upon the successful end of the occupation and the expulsion of the foreign colonial forces, the post-colonial society will be remotely similar to the pre-colonial, pre-occupation social formation.” Meanwhile, “in the same manner that the post-war society will hardly resemble the social formation prior to the occupation, the poetry [and fiction] of the postindependence period will not remain stagnant and limited to the use of elegant, but admittedly largely ossified, traditional literary forms, such as qası¯dah, ruba¯
ı¯, or ghazal. . . .”68 The question that inevitably arises here would be what happens to post-colonial culture when, because of the prominence of certain deeply felt but tacitly ignored fault lines, the “moment of maneuver” and the “moment of arrival” (to borrow from Partha Chatterjee) become radically disjointed in the associated realm of politics?69 By pointing out that the post-war society will not remotely resemble the social formation prior to the occupation and war, Ga¯ h-na¯ mah presumed that progressive, left-democratic elements within the grand anti-colonial front would share the field of culture with the forces that held on to more conservative views of literature and culture. What it did not address was whether the conservatives and other reactionary forces, particularly given their insistence during the war of liberation on monopolizing the anti-Soviet struggle in the name of an all-encompassing dogma, would ever admit in their midst alternative positions such as those of the progressives, who also

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opposed Soviet domination in Afghanistan. More precisely, would a genuinely modern poetics within the emergent post-colonial culture be ever tolerated, let alone promoted? In fact, throughout the 1980s, as the call for an “Islamic revolution” on the part of reactionary Muja¯ hidı¯n forces was advanced in the West as the sole cultural agenda of the Afghan resistance against Soviet occupation, the already marginalized positions of progressive intellectuals became increasingly precarious, their cultural views deliberately distorted, and their broadly anti-imperialist agenda ignored or ostracized. As the subsequent turn of events after the end of direct Soviet occupation showed, at the time when the regime collapsed, the progressive element within the resistance movement had all but evaporated. In the cultural sphere, not only was the radical Third-Worldist agenda that publications like Ga¯ h-na¯ mah had proposed forsaken, but also scant attention was paid to the national-integrative cultural politics of even such a towering conservative figure as Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯. In the post-colonial period in Afghanistan, which coincided with the post-Cold War inter-imperialist global rivalry, erstwhile “freedom fighters” turned into vicious “warlords,” paving the way for the quick rise of the brutal Taliban. The glorious anti-Soviet revolution that was supposed to embody a volcanic eruption of spontaneous popular sentiments was fast transformed into a bitter, fizzling smoke. Yet, despite the calamitous history of the present as a never-ending chronicle of trauma and a revolving cycle of catastrophe, contemporary poetry and fiction in Afghanistan continue to epitomize both the promise and potential of visionary ideals and transformative ontologies of the future and the tantalizing temptation of ossifying archaeologies of the past. Overwhelmed by the contingencies of contemporary history, present-day proponents and practitioners of the Afghan literary modernity largely subscribe to the Blochean view in The Principle of Hope that “the rigid divisions between future and past thus themselves collapse, unbecome future becomes visible in the past, avenged and inherited, mediated and fulfilled past in the future.”70 And in such collapsing, mediation, and fulfillment lies the greatest challenge facing Afghan intellectuals.

Epilogue Contending with history

My relation to the sun is severed . . . I speak cautiously I write cautiously. I watchfully feed the pigeon of my conscience in the cage of democracy. Partaw Na¯ dirı¯

In the story “Kha¯ k-i But” (Dust of the statue) by the expatriate writer Zalmai Ba¯ ba¯ -Ku¯ hı¯, a group of jubilant Taliban men, after successfully demolishing the statue of the Buddha in the historical Bamyan valley, discover with astonishment that the white dust from the broken stones of the ancient statue is so firmly glued to their faces, hairs, and beards that no water washes it away. With the passing of the night in the valley, the now white-haired Taliban one by one turn into silent “idols,” silent, bloodless stones. Commanded to break anything resembling an idol, the rest of the men inevitably smash their metamorphosed colleagues. Overwhelmed with ¯ khund, the leader of the group, rushes fear and confusion, Mulla¯ Ja¯ na¯ n A to the Taliban headquarters to report the extraordinary incident to the reclusive Supreme Leader of the movement. As the Mulla¯ anxiously awaits the arrival of the “Prince of the Faithful,” a curtain is pulled aside and, to the great shock of the Mulla¯ , the Leader appears covered entirely with white dust!1 What happens when the ideological excessiveness of the zealots who swaggeringly break “idols” turns itself into a form of idol-worshipping? The dramatic rise of the Taliban (1995–2001) in the midst of a cataclysmic civil war raging among former CIA minions who were orphaned by the conclusion of the Cold War was undoubtedly linked to the strategic emergence of Afghanistan as a valuable conduit by which to explore and invest in the economically fertile Central Asian republics, themselves a lucrative target for multinational capital and the new global imperial order.2 However, as the Taliban movement became increasingly indistinguishable, both in intent and in practice, from the al-Qa¯
ida organization it had sheltered and allowed to operate from the Afghan territory, the tragedy of

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11 September 2001 occurred. Consequently, Afghanistan became a central piece of the US muscular doctrine of “fighting terror.” Abandoned by its patrons, partners, and promoters, the Taliban regime—whose military might was used primarily to oppress the people of Afghanistan—was inevitably unceremoniously dislodged. As the American war machine, in collusion with local stipendiaries and mercenary recruits, was attacking Taliban strongholds, a laboriously charted “democratic” government for Afghanistan was being mapped in earnest in Bonn, Germany, ready to take power in Kabul after the fall of the Taliban regime. The apparent success of this elaborate political scheme under US tutelage—a showcase for new “state building” in the nomenclature of the Bush Administration—meant the introduction in the war-battered society of a ruthless neo-liberal economic order, backed by hegemonic global capital and its closely affiliated financial and ideological institutions. Since the imposition of this economic order, notwithstanding the billions of dollars being spent on the “reconstruction” of the country, and the building of a few ostentatious towers and spacious houses on the lands forcibly seized from the poor by old warlords and new elites returning from the West, reconstruction efforts have been bungled and the infrastructure has remained shattered.3 Despite official touting about containing inflationary pressures and success in the counter-narcotics campaign, the drug trade continues, the black market expands rapidly, and unemployment remains staggering. The rampant corruption at every level of the government has engendered, and is complemented by, increasing poverty, the further shrinking of the already diminished middle-class, continuing uneven distribution of resources, and an endemic environmental decline and degradation. With the advent of the new politico-economic order came a new cultural order. In the post-Taliban era, progressive ideas, ideals, models, programs, aspirations, analyses, and critiques that used to characterize the historical experience of modernity to many Afghan intellectuals throughout the course of the twentieth century are increasingly seen as superfluous. As the chapters of the present study show, the complexity of the historically unique situation in modern Afghanistan had long generated modulated and differently inflected views on history, politics, and society. Despite the wide anomaly of historical visions, notions of social transformation, economic development, political liberties, and civic responsibilities dominated intellectual discourse as well as the intricate spheres of cultural and literary production. However, in the shadow of the imperial hegemony since the demise of the Taliban, these notions have been largely debunked and dismissed as démodé “grand narratives” and mere residues from a time long past. Instead, much is said about promoting such high-flown mechanisms as “conflict resolution,” “democratic governance,” “political pluralism,” “tolerance,” “reconciliation,” “the rule of law,” “respect for human rights,” etc. Such mechanisms, whose ideological undertone can hardly be concealed, are said to function most effectively in conditions of free enterprise, the burgeoning of market

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economy, and increasing privatization and deregulation. Not surprisingly, oftentimes, foreign contractors with shady pasts are hired to best help such conditions to emerge and properly solidify. Free enterprise has increasingly become the mantra of some Afghan intellectuals who previously had been active in progressive causes. In fact, carried by the recent waves of market globalization, these intellectuals have dully recanted their earlier claims and allegiances and, now transformed into sanctimonious theoreticians of “pragmatism,” have submitted to the will of the political and financial structure imposed by the empire. Earnestly collaborating with the regime in power, they—especially the ones who have returned from their Euro-American exile to assume high positions in the state administrative apparatus—are now supervising perhaps the most corrupt and inefficient bureaucratic organization in the modern history of Afghanistan. Furthermore, mesmerized by the glitter of capital and paid handsomely in dollars and euros, they have turned into local managerial and financial agents of Western corporations. Surrounded by the promulgators of globalization and creeping neo-liberal economics disguised as nongovernmental organizations (NGO), these intellectuals have been acting as the vanguard of a neo-comprador class whose chief aim is to nourish and manage imperial avarice and unfettered business domination. The already precarious field of cultural production and literary creativity in present-day Afghanistan has hardly remained unaffected by the wideranging effects of the new politico-economic order (disorder?) imposed on society. What is of paramount importance is that even during the past three decades of crises, while a painful and devastating war seriously threatened the survivability of Afghanistan and the national collectivity of the Afghan people, remarkable works of literature were continuously produced and disseminated as widely as practically possible. Whether produced inside Afghanistan or in exile, this diverse body of literary works was often able to embody a notable capacity for engaging dynamically with history and society. For instance, in the late 1980s, at the time when the former Soviet occupation forces were still in Afghanistan and the political atmosphere was extremely oppressive by any measure, the woman writer Sepuzhmay Zarya¯ b managed to publish a collection of complex, self-reflexive modernist stories entitled Dasht-i Qa¯ bı¯l (Cain’s plain) where not only a certain valorization and even empowerment of the feminine occurs but a powerful engagement with concrete historical impact of war and occupation is offered.4 Similarly, in Kha¯ kistar va Kha¯ k (Ashes and earth),
Atı¯q Rahı¯mı¯, offers a haunting narrative of devastating loss but celebrates the human capacity for perseverance. Using the second person singular, the author effectively translates for every individual reader the plight of an old man and his grandson (who is deaf from the sounds of the bombing of their village by the Soviet planes) in futile search through an arduous landscape for the coal mine where the old ¯ zarakhsh in man’s son (and the boy’s father) works.5 Meanwhile, Sarvar A ¯ Ava¯ r-i Shab (The Load of the night)—a collage of distantly related scenes, a

144

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myriad of events that read like abrupt journalistic reports—poignantly chronicles the difficult journey into exile of the young protagonist who is desperately seeking to leave behind a city burdened by the “load of the night,” that is, devastated by repeated squabbles among various “freedom fighters” in the early part of the 1990s.6 Even in the midst of Taliban rule, where literary institutions and cultural organizations were largely disbanded, the novelist Razza¯ q Ma  mu¯ n published the first volume of his dramatic war narrative
Asr-i Khudkushı¯ (Time of suicide). This novel recounts the plight of a resistance member imprisoned and tortured by the state secret police during the “Communist” rule in 1980s.7 In successfully interweaving history and memory,
Asr-i Khudkushı¯ is unmistakably also a work of historiography. The author not only chronicles particular events but, in representing violence in conjunction with the brutality of foreign occupation and the monstrosity of power and repression, he makes history as part of memory, both individual and collective. It was also during the Taliban control of Afghanistan that Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, the most accomplished of modernist poets in Persian in Afghanistan (whose work was discussed in Chapter Four), was forced to flee his homeland. In some curious ways, the years of living in exile in Peshawar, Pakistan, proved an unusually prolific period of creativity for the poet. During this period, he not only published several well acclaimed collections of poetry, he also worked extensively on philosophy and literary criticism. In his poetry of exile, especially in his long, parodic poem Baya¯ n-na¯ mah-i Va¯ risa¯ n-i Zamı¯n (Manifesto of the inheritors of the earth), Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯ offers an incisive and trenchant “ideology-critique” of the Taliban regime’s claim to represent the only true “inheritors of the earth” and possess exclusive “monopoly over the truth.”8 Equally prolific in terms of poetic creativity was Sami
Ha¯ mid, a promising poet who from early on in his career distinguished himself as a master of elegant lyrical poetry that was also extremely ideological (in the words of the poet, siya¯ sat-za¯ dah or politics-generated) yet consciously avoided falling into political dogmas (siya¯ sat-za¯ dah or politicsstricken).9 Younger poets like Azı¯z Alla¯ h Nihuftah and writers like Kha¯ lid Nawı¯sa¯ also lived in exile (in Pakistan) during the years of Taliban. Characterized by a clear emphasis not only on the referentiality but also on the textuality of poetry, the overtly experimental works of Nihuftah (especially in the collection Khwa¯ b-i Chashmah ha¯ -i Subh (The Dream of morning springs)) reveal a degree of self-consciousness in stylistic matters that, in some ways, is unprecedented in contemporary poetry in Afghanistan.10 Seeing himself primarily as an experimentalist writer of fiction, Nawı¯sa¯ cultivated a variety of complex modernist rhetorical devices and functions, including the use of satire, that were reflective of the traumatic experience of Afghanistan’s recent history.11 Whereas Afghan writers and poets in Pakistan constituted a literary community unto themselves and remained isolated, primarily because of linguistic reasons, from the larger literary currents in Urdu, those

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who settled in Iran (especially in and around Mashhad) were exceptionally aware of more recent currents in Persian literature in their host country. To some extent, they were recognized in Iranian literary circles and, at times, their works were well received and critically acclaimed. The writings of ¯ sif Sulta¯ nzadah, for instance, were especially recognized in the modernist A circles and his collection of short stories, Dar Gurı¯z Gum Mı¯shavı¯m (We Disappear in flight), won a prestigious literary award.12 The fiction of Sayyid Isha¯ q Shuja¯
ı¯ and the poetry of Ka¯ zim Ka¯ zimı¯, on the other hand, continued to be largely characterized by the preponderance of deep despair, despondency, and disillusionment associated with life in exile.13 After the downfall of the Taliban, it was often suggested that literary works would proliferate and artistic productivity and literary creativity would flourish with the advent of purported democratic liberties, including press freedom. It was expected that the traumatic events of the recent decades would provide enough themes and topics to be explored in the arts, poetry, and fiction. Contrary to such anticipations, the continuing imposition of the new politico-economic order in Afghanistan has actually led to the preponderance of a grave intellectual problematic that has been best described by one observer of the Afghan cultural scene as a “condition of antiliterature” (vaz
iyat-i zidd-i adabiya¯ t).14 Undoubtedly, during the euphoric early months of the new regime, numerous newspapers and magazines started to appear in Kabul and the provinces. This early cultural efflorescence has since dissipated. Literary journals that were launched specifically to feature the latest works of poets and writers either do not appear at all or appear quite irregularly.15 Unless financially supported by foreign or domestic organizations with a clear political affiliation, no independent periodical can withstand the challenge of the new, and rather contradictory, “marketplace of culture.”16 Furthermore, in the emergent Afghan democracy, some controversial authors and editors have faced threats of imprisonment, prosecution, and even exile for daring to publish pieces that are critical of the ruling elites—both the old warlords and their newly found “technocratic” bedfellows returning from the West.17 More significantly, however, a great number of Afghan literati and intellectuals find themselves afloat in the uncertainties and confusions of the new politico-economic state superimposed upon them after the second military occupation of their country in less than two decades by two different superpowers. Because of the pressing economic contingencies created by the monstrosity of the market, some of the most prolific and prominent contemporary poets and writers—who also happen to possess a rare commodity, i.e. knowledge of the English language, now indispensable for any fruitful pursuit of happiness in the evolving conditions of Afghan free enterprise—find themselves working for politically connected foreign corporations and their local subsidiary contractors. In such conditions, where industriousness principally refers to the aggrandizement of riches and monetary profits for one’s employer, one can hardly anticipate much meaningful

146 Modern Persian Literature in Afghanistan productivity from poets and writers. This may well explain why Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, Rahı¯mı¯, and Ka¯ zimı¯ have so far chosen to remain abroad. In Iran, Ka¯ zimı¯ continues to publish his collections of poetry and intermittently edit a literary journal.18 In Paris, Rahı¯mı¯ has published a second novel and directs and produces films and documentaries.19 Although less prolific than when he was in Peshawar, Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, now settled in Los Angeles, has published a remarkable collection of poetry (of “Third-World” poets) translated from English.20 In contrast, after publishing the novel Gulna¯ r va Ayı¯nah (Gulnar and the mirror) while still living in France, Rahnavard Zarya¯ b (whose fiction was discussed in Chapter Four) returned to Kabul but has so far published little more than selected excerpts from three different novels he has been working on for some time.21 Nawı¯sa¯ and Nihuftah as well as many established and emergent literary figures who have returned to Afghanistan from exile have managed to publish only a handful of short stories and poems in a widely disparate manner. Sidetracked by other projects of “immediate concern,” Razza¯ q Ma  mu¯ n has so far failed to publish the projected second volume of the novel
Asr-i Khudkushı¯. Throughout the twentieth century, as the present study demonstrates, many poets and fiction writers acknowledged the centrality of history as constitutive of modern/modernist works and propagated radical cultural and political transformation of society. Nevertheless, during the latter—and historically more volatile—part of the twentieth century, because of the specificities of the Afghan situation, modernist representations of history as a telos of progressive ends became increasingly grounded paradigmatically in ambivalent, open forms of composition and representation. In presentday Afghanistan, on the other hand, the involvement of literature with progressive principles and processes of socio-cultural transformation has become profoundly problematic. Recently produced works of literature clearly point to the continuation of the modernist emphasis on the formal and aesthetic composition of literature and the innovative use of rhetorical and stylistic techniques. Yet, the theater of culture (as a site of intellectual practice) and the intricate processes of literary production, dissemination, and reception have obfuscated the modernist endeavor to embody and represent history. Do modernist fiction and poetry no longer preserve the centrality of history and engage with contemporary society? Have they perhaps turned into a non-contextual project insufficiently attached to history and society? Alternatively, is the weight of modern trauma affecting the very core of the individual as well as the social being so enormous that history becomes essentially uncontainable and, precisely for this reason, is continually deferred? As far as the course of Afghan cultural and literary modernity is concerned, contemporary literature produced in Afghanistan has not been vacated of its radical nature. It still remains an expansive field of poetic testimony dealing with constant conflict between the polarities of domination and resistance. Despite the rigorous promulgation of the political and economic strategies

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formulated for the new Afghan state by its global patrons and native promoters, there have emerged clear signs that contemporary literature remains committed to critique the status quo and the implementation of a new order that has so far proven inherently ineffective, of limited scope, and negligible impact in the society at large. Efforts are made to destabilize cultural categories that accompany, and aim to justify the emergent paradigms of power and dependency in the name of democratic rule.22 The monumental challenge towards the formulation of a viable culture of dissent by contemporary Afghan intellectuals who see themselves as practitioners of a historically committed, yet modernist, literature would be to acknowledge that “[o]ntologies of the present demand archeologies of the future, not forecasts of the past.”23

Notes

Introduction: the conundrum of modernity 1. The territory that now comprises the nation-state of Afghanistan was undoubtedly one of the earliest centers of post-Islamic intellectual renaissance in the Persian-speaking world, and some of the greatest of literary luminaries hailed from this area. For a concise history of classical Persian literature in Afghanistan see the selection of articles from the monumental Da¯  irat al-Ma
a¯ rif-i Arya¯ na¯ [The Arya¯ na¯ Encyclopedia] (published intermittently in Kabul between 1949 and 1969), republished in Adabiya¯ t-i Afghanistan dar Adva¯ r-i Qadı¯mah [The literature of Afghanistan in the ancient times], ed. Muhammad Ka¯ zim Kahdu¯  ı¯ (Tehran: Al-Huda¯ , 1384/2005). Although literary production in the Persian language has historically transcended strictly nationally-defined territoriality, the discipline of Persian studies has remained largely Iran-centric and has failed to critically incorporate and integrate works from the rest of the Persianspeaking lands. I have explored this issue further elsewhere. See Wali Ahmadi, “Exclusionary Poetics: Approaches to the Afghan ‘Other’ in Contemporary Iranian Literary Discourse,” Iranian Studies 37, no. 3 (2004), 407–429. Although defined specifically as a study of “scenarios of poetic modernity” in Iran, Recasting Persian Poetry is one of the few instances where the multiplicity of Persian literary heritage is acknowledged and the need for studies of Persian modernity in literatures other than that of Iran is emphasized. See Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry: Scenarios of Poetic Modernity in Iran (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1995), 2. 2. Peter Childs, Modernism (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 14–15. 3. Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar, “On Alternative Modernities” in Alternative Modernities, ed. Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar (Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), 15. 4. See, for instance, Thierry Hentsch, Imagining the Middle East, trans. Fred A. Reed (Montreal and New York: Black Rose Books, 1992). 5. David Kolb, The Critique of Pure Modernity: Hegel, Heidegger, and After (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 237–255. 6. For an introduction to some of the influential modernization theories, see David Harrison, The Sociology of Modernization and Development (London: Unwin Hyman, 1988). See also John Rapley, Understanding Development: Theory and Practice in the Third World, 2nd ed. (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2002). In the context of the West, the need for the “reappropriation of tradition” as part of an “immanent critique of modernity” has been incisively argued in David Gross, The Past in Ruins: Tradition and the Critique of Modernity (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1992).

Notes

149

7. Olakunle George, Relocating Agency: Modernity and African Letter (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003), 74. 8. For an examination and pointed critique of this “Eurocentric” view of modernity, see James M. Blaut, The Colonizer’s Model of the World: Geographical Diffusionism and Eurocentric History (New York: Guilford, 2000). Similarly, for the critical interventions of the Subaltern Studies collective to “provincialize” Europe, see Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). See also Mapping Subaltern Studies and the Postcolonial, ed. Vinayak Chaturvedi (London: Verso, 2000). 9. Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Penguin, 1988), 15. 10. Aziz Al-Azmeh, Islams and Modernities (London and New York: Verso, 1993), 48. 11. Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Identity, Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1990), 223. 12. See Eric Wolf, Europe and the People Without History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982). 13. Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1979), 1–2. Emphasis original. 14. Peter J. Taylor, Modernities: A Geographical Interpretation (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999). 15. Charles Taylor, “Two Theories of Modernity,” in Alternative Modernities, ed. Gaonkar, 172–196. 16. Gregory Jusdanis, Belated Modernity and Aesthetic Culture: Inventing National Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991). 17. This is also the project pursued by the Iranian scholar Abbas Milani who, through detailed textual analysis, finds traces of modernity throughout Persian cultural history. See Abbas Milani, Tajaddud va Tajaddud-sitı¯zı¯ dar Iran [Mod¯ tiyah, 1378/1990). See also Abbas ernity and anti-modernity in Iran], (Tehran: A Milani, Rethinking Modernity in Iran (Washington, DC: Mage, 2004). 18. Jusdanis, Belated Modernity, xiii. 19. Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity (Durham: Duke University Press, 1987), 13. 20. Childs, 12. 21. Chana Kronfeld, On the Margins of Modernism: Decentering Literary Dynamics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 26. 22. Ibid., 27. Emphasis added. 23. See Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (New York: Grove Press, 1968). JanMohamed, extending Fanon’s hypothesis, considers the Manichean structure of African literature (in the form of totalism put forward by such binary doctrines as negritude, for instance) to be a romanticized valorization of indigenous cultures portraying “an idealized, monolithic, homogenized, and pasteurized ‘African’ past.” See Abdul R. JanMohamed, Manichean Aesthetics: The Politics of Literature in Colonial Africa (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1983), 118. 24. Gyan Prakash, “Postcolonial Criticism and Indian Historiography,” Social Text 31/32 (1992), 8. 25. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 209. 26. Linda Hutcheon, “ ‘Circling the Downspout of Empire’: Post-Colonialism and Postmodernism,” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 20, no. 4 (1989), 171. 27. Mineke Schipper, Beyond the Boundaries: African Literature and Literary Theory (London: Allison & Busby, 1989), 16.

150

Notes

28. Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 69. 29. Michael Beard, Hedayat’s Blind Owl as a Western Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 9. 30. Franco Moretti, “Conjectures on World Literature,” New Left Review 1 (2000), 56. 31. Mineke Schipper, Beyond the Boundaries, 17. 32. Mary N. Layoun, Travels of A Genre: The Modern Novel and Ideology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 11. 33. Kronfeld, 28. Emphasis original. 34. Vincent B. Leitch, Cultural Criticism, Literary Theory, Poststructuralism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 98. 35. In the field of contemporary Persian studies, an incisive demonstration of this point can be found in Michael Beard, Hedayat’s Blind Owl as a Western Novel. 36. The appearance of Benedict Anderson’s pioneering Imagined Communities especially delineated the productivist effect of aesthetics on the shaping of the national form. See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991). 37. Anthony Giddens, The Nation-State and Violence: Volume Two of A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism (Cambridge: Polity, 1985), 116. 38. Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich, vol. 1 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 54. 39. For an overview of the development of state in Afghanistan, see M. Nazif Shahrani, “State Building and Social Fragmentation in Afghanistan: A Historical Perspective,” in State, Religion, and Ethnic Politics: Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, ed. Ali Banuazizi and Myron Weiner (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1986), 23–74. See also Barnett R. Rubin, The Fragmentation of Afghanistan: State Formation and Collapse in the International System, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 17–105. 40. Fredric Jameson, “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism,” Social Text 15 (1986), 69. This important article has been the object of some severe criticism and even vilification. See Aijaz Ahmad, “Jameson’s Rhetoric of Otherness and the ‘National Allegory,’ ” in Aijaz Ahmad, In Theory: Classes, Nations, Literatures (New York and London: Verso, 1992), 95–122. See also Robert Bennett, “National Allegory or Carnivalesque Heteroglossia? Midnight’s Children’s Narration of Indian Identity,” in Bakhtin and the Nation, ed. Barry A. Brown et al. (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2000), 177–194. For a defense of Jameson’s thesis see Neil Lazarus, “Fredric Jameson on ‘ThirdWorld Literature’: A Qualified Defense,” in Fredric Jameson: A Critical Reader, ed. Sean Homer and Douglas Kellner (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 42–61. An extremely erudite reading of Jameson’s article is found in Imre Szeman, Zones of Instability: Literature, Postcolonialism, and the Nation (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 48–60. 41. Jameson, “Third-World Literature,” 69. 42. Ibid. Emphases original. 43. Ibid., 73. 44. Ibid. 45. From a relevant comparative perspective, Xiaobin Yang also points to a “culturo-political agenda” in Chinese modernity that “would become the primary principle and the widely accepted, though sometimes tacit, standard of modern Chinese literature . . .: the practical, or at least cognitive, function of literature.” See Xiaobin Yang, The Chinese Postmodern: Trauma and Irony

Notes

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

151

in Chinese Avant-Garde Fiction (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 6. For a concise discussion of the base-superstructure paradigm in Marxist literary theory see Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 75–82. Michel Foucault, The Essential Foucault: Selections from the Essential Works of Foucault 1954–1984, ed. Paul Rabinow and Nikolas Rose (New York and London: New Press, 2003), 244. Achille Mbembe, On the Postcolony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 32. Ibid., 103. V.N. Volosˇ inov, Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, trans. Ladislav Matejka and I.R. Titunik (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986), 22–23. Emphasis original. For a penetrating discussion of the ideological manipulation and utopian gratification as inseparable constituent of all cultural texts, see Fredric Jameson’s “Conclusion: The Dialectic of Utopia and Ideology,” in The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), 281–299.

1 Beyond “Mist and Pebble”: ordering of the culture of modernity 1. Rudyard Kipling, The Man Who Would Be King and Other Stories, ed. Louis Cornell (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 275. 2. Ibid., 274–275. 3. Zohreh T. Sullivan, Narratives of Empire: The Fictions of Rudyard Kipling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 100. 4. Christopher Lane, The Ruling Passion: British Colonial Allegory and the Paradox of Homosexual Desire (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995), 31. 5. Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Knopf, 1993), 134. 6. For a recent, historically contextualized reading of Kipling’s story see Edward Marx, “How We Lost Kafiristan,” Representations 67 (1999), 44–66. 7. For a detailed study of Kippling’s journalistic works on Afghanistan, especially with regard to the Afghan Boundary Commission, see Neil K. Moran, Kipling and Afghanistan (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2005). 8. For pioneering studies on the “re-orientalization” of the Orient, especially in the context of India, see Francis G. Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967) and Thomas R. Metcalf, Aftermath of Revolt: India, 1857–1870 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964). 9. Vasant Kaiwar and Sucheta Mazumdar, “Race, Orient, Nation in the TimeSpace of Modernity,” in Antinomies of Modernity: Essays on Race, Orient, Nation, ed. Vansant Kaiwar and Sucheta Mazumdar (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 278–79. 10. Ibid., 279. 11. Jeffery J. Roberts, The Origins of Conflict in Afghanistan (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2003), 20. 12. David B. Edwards, Heroes of the Age: Moral Fault Lines on the Afghan Frontier (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 122. 13. Louis Dupree, Afghanistan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 419. A historically detailed and comprehensive study of the reign of Amı¯r
Abd al-Rahma¯ n is Hasan Kawun Kakar, Government and Society in Afghanistan: The Reign of Amir Abd al-Rahman Khan (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1979). 14. Edwards, Heroes of the Age, 122.

152

Notes

15.
Abd al-Hayy Habı¯bı¯, “Ta  rı¯khchah-i Bı¯da¯ rı¯-i Siya¯ sı¯ dar Afghanistan” (A Brief history of political awakening in Afghanistan), A¯ za¯ d Afghanistan, 15 Hu¯ t 1330 (March 1951), 7. Qtd in
Abd al-Ha¯ dı¯ Ha¯  irı¯, A¯ za¯ dı¯ ha¯ -i Siya¯ sı¯ va Ijtima¯
ı¯ az Dı¯dga¯ h-i Andı¯shagara¯ n (Political and social liberties from the points of view of (some) thinkers) (Mashhad: Jiha¯ d-i Da¯ nishga¯ hı¯, 1374/1996), 147. 16. Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism and Modernism: A Critical Survey of Recent Theories of Nations and Nationalism (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 70. 17. Robert J. C. Young, Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001), 378. 18. Ibid. 19. A penetrating study that attempts to complicate the perceived neat dichotomy between tradition and modernity is David Gross, The Past in Ruins: Tradition and the Critique of Modernity (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1992). 20. Ali Mirsepassi, Intellectual Discourse and the Politics of Modernization: Negotiating Modernity in Iran (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press), 13. For a perceptive study of “otherness” and “authenticism” that bears a strong resemblance to the case of Afghan intellectuals’ take on modernity see Mehrzad Boroujerdi, Iranian Intellectuals and the West: The Tormented Triumph of Nativism (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1996). 21. Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar, “On Alternative Modernities,” in Alternative Modernities, ed. Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar (Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), 18. 22. Ibid. 23. Vartan Gregorian, The Emergence of Modern Afghanistan (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969), 181. 24. On the emergence of new trends in modern journalism in Afghanistan see ¯ hang, Sayr-i Journalism dar Afghanistan (The Evolution of Muhammad Ka¯ zim A journalism in Afghanistan), rev. ed. (Kabul: Saba¯ , 1383/2004). 25. See the classic scholarly study by Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age 1798–1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962). 26. Alexandra W. Schultheis, Regenerative Fictions: Postcolonialism, Psychoanalysis, and the Nation as Family (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 172. 27. For a useful collection of articles on this subject see Liberal Islam: A Sourcebook, ed. Charles Kurzman (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). A partial translation of Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s “What Is to Be Done?” (trans. Helena Malikyar) is included in Modernist Islam, 1840–1940: A Sourcebook, ed. Charles Kurzman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 126–130. 28. “Chi Ba¯ yad Kard?” (What is to be done?) in Maqa¯ la¯ t-i Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ dar Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r-i Afghaniyah (Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s articles in Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r-i Afgha¯ niyah), ed. A.G. Rava¯ n Farha¯ dı¯ (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1355/1976), 117–160. All references to Tarzı¯’s writings are from this invaluable collection. 29. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 135. 30. Ibid., 157. 31. Ibid., 219–220. 32. Ibid., 226. 33. Ibid., 157. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid., 207–208. 36. Ibid., 130 37. Ibid., 128. 38. Ibid., 132. 39. Ibid., 171–172.

Notes 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69.

153

Ibid., 174. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 184. Ibid., 202. Ibid., 204. Ibid., 212. Ibid., 213. Ibid., 215–216. Ibid., 183. Ibid. Ibid. May Schinasi, Afghanistan at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1979), 163. Ibid., 165. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 259. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991), 6. Emphasis added. Gregory Jusdanis, The Necessary Nation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 10. Ibid. Christopher Pierson, The Modern State, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), 17. Kaiwar and Mazumdar, “Race, Orient, Nation in the Time-Space of Modernity,” 281. Anthony Giddens, The Nation-State and Violence: Volume Two of A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism (Cambridge: Polity, 1985), 121. Gregorian, The Emergence of Modern Afghanistan, 179–180.
Abd al-Hayy Habı¯bı¯, Junbish-i Mashru¯ tiyat dar Afghanistan (The Constitutional movement in Afghanistan), rep. ed. (Washington, DC: Sazma¯ n-i Muha¯ jirı¯n-i Musalma¯ n-i Afghanistan, 1364/1986), 19–20. For a recent account of the Constitutional movement in Afghanistan see Sayyid Mas
u¯ d Pu¯ hanya¯ r, Zuhu¯ r-i Mashru¯ tiyat va Qurba¯ niya¯ n-i Istibda¯ d dar Afghanistan (The Emergence of constitutuionalism and the victims of despotism in Afghanistan), 2 vols. (Peshawar: Saba¯ , 1376/1997). Habı¯bı¯, Junbish-i Mashru¯ tiyat, 17. See also Mı¯r Ghula¯ m Muhammad Ghuba¯ r, Afghanistan dar Ması¯r-i Ta rı¯kh (Afghanistan in the path of history), vol. 1 (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1346/1968), 718. Habı¯bı¯, Junbish-i Mashru¯ tiyat, 15. Qtd in Ha¯  irı¯, A¯ za¯ dı¯ ha¯ -i Siya¯ sı¯ va Ijtima¯
ı¯, 176. See
Abd al-Qayu¯ m Qavı¯m, Muru¯ ri bar Adabiya¯ t-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ (An Overview of contemporary Dari literature), vol. 1 (Kabul: Fajr, 1385/2006), 35–36. Qtd in Ghuba¯ r, Afghanistan dar Ması¯r-i Ta rı¯kh, vol. 1, 721–22. Barely a generation earlier, Muhammad Sarvar Va¯ sif had “bravely” shown, both in words and in deeds, that the intellectual of modernity, as the conscience of the people, should not only encourage “the youth of the nation” to resist and depose despotic rulers, but should also act upon what he preaches. Perhaps it was for this reason that, when, during the birthday celebration of Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h in 1918, an unsuccessful attempt was made on his life,
Abd al-Rahma¯ n Lu¯ dı¯n and a number of other intellectuals were implicated in the plot and were imprisoned. It is worth noting that not long afterwards, in 19 February 1919, the Amı¯r was indeed murdered by some unknown assailant in a suspicious manner. Conspiracy theories about the incident abound. See Mı¯r M. Siddı¯q Farhang, Afghanistan dar Panj Qarn-i Akhı¯r (Afghanistan during the past five centuries),

154

70.

71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76.

Notes vol. 1 (Tehran:
Irfa¯ n, 1380/2001), 497–501. See also Ludwig W. Adamec, Afghanistan’s Foreign Affairs to the Mid-Twentieth Century (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1974), 42–46. The era of Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h has been the subject of a number of important studies. For example, see Leon B. Poullada, Reform and Rebellion in Afghanistan, 1919–1929: King Amanullah’s Failure to Modernize a Tribal Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1973). See also Senzil K. Nawid, Religious Response to Social Change in Afghanistan, 1919–1929: King Aman Allah and the Afghan Ulama (Costa Mesa, Calif.: Mazda, 1999). An invaluable source is Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s own speeches at various occasions throughout his reign. See Ha¯ kimiyat-i Qa¯ nu¯ n dar Afghanistan (The Rule of law in Afghanistan), ed. Habı¯b Alla¯ h Rafı¯
(Peshawar, 1999). Barnett R. Rubin, The Fragmentation of Afghanistan: State Formation and Collapse in the International System, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 55. Sha¯ h Ama¯ n Alla¯ h’s lucrative state administrative bureaucracy devoured many of the intellectuals. For instance, Tarzı¯ assumed the position of foreign minister; Da¯ vı¯ became a diplomat and later a cabinet minister; Lu¯ dı¯n became a mayor and a legislator. This view of state-civil society complementary constitutive logic has been explored in detail in Neera Chandhoke, The Conceits of Civil Society (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003). Kaiwar and Mazumdar, “Race, Orient, Nation in the Time-Space of Modernity,” 280. Etienne Balibar, “The Nation Form: History and Ideology” in Becoming National: A Reader, ed. Geoff Eley and Ronald Grigor Suny (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 140. Accounts vary as to the impact and consequences of this “subaltern” rebellion. An incisive analysis of the events is offered in Robert D. McChesney, Kabul Under Siege: Fayz Muhammad’s Account of the 1929 Uprising (Princeton: Markus Wiener, 1999).

2 The poetics of (national) truth content 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯, Para¯ kandah: Majmu¯
ah-i Ash
a¯ r (Collection of scattered poems) (Kabul:
Ina¯ yat Press, 1333 H [1294]/1915), 97–98. Ibid., 116–117. ¯ ryanpu¯ r, Az For a concise, critical account of Qa¯  a¯ nı¯ and his work see Yahya¯ A Saba¯ ta¯ Nı¯ma¯ (From Saba¯ to Nı¯ma¯ ), vol. 1 (Tehran: Kita¯ b ha¯ -i Jı¯bı¯, 1354/ 1975), 93–109. Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry: Scenarios of Poetic Modernity in Iran (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1995), 26. Emphasis in original. Ibid., 27. Tarzı¯, Para¯ kandah, 97–98. Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t-i Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯ dar Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r-i Afgha¯ niyah (Mahmu¯ d Tarzı¯’s articles in Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r-i Afgha¯ niyah), ed. Rava¯ n Farha¯ dı¯ (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1355/1976), 783. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 16. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 53. Ibid., 76–77. Ibid., 74. Ibid., 79.

Notes 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

155

Ibid., 54. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 147. Ibid., 320. For instance, see Johann Gottfried Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of History of Mankind, ed. Frank E. Manuel (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1968). Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 284. Ibid., 283. Ibid., 319. Ibid., 146. Ibid. Ibid., 147. Ibid., 146. Ibid., 343. Ibid. Ibid., 345. David Lloyd and Paul Thomas, Culture and the State (New York: Routledge, 1998), 2. Jan Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, ed. Karl Jahn (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968), 129–130. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 784. Ibid., 783–84. Ibid., 785. Ibid. The question of language in Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r has been treated, in brief, in Najı¯b Ma¯  il-Hiravı¯, Ta rı¯kh va Zaba¯ n dar Afghanistan (History and language in Afghanistan) (Tehran: Bunya¯ d-i Mawqu¯ fa¯ t-i Mahmu¯ d Afsha¯ r, 1362/1983), 144–165. Ibid., 758–59. Ibid., 770. Ibid., 774. Ibid. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 456. Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 110. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 786. Ibid., 786. Ibid., 769. Ibid., 772. Ibid., 773. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 720. Ibid., 728. Ibid. Ibid., 733–34. See Mawlana¯
Abd al-Qa¯ dir Bı¯dil Dihlavı¯, Kulliya¯ t (Collection of poems), 4 vols. ed. Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯ (Kabul: Viza¯ rat-i Ma
a¯ rif, 1341–1344/1962– 1965). For a pioneering contemporary evaluation of Bı¯dil’s poetry see Sala¯ h alDı¯n Salju¯ qı¯, Naqd-i Bı¯dil (Evaluating Bı¯dil) (Kabul: Viza¯ rat-i Ma
a¯ rif, 1343/ 1964). For a critical account of the “sabk-i Hindı¯” poetry in Persian see Jan Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 711–733. See also Mahmu¯ d Futu¯ hı¯’s incisive study Naqd-i Khiya¯ l: Naqd-i Adabı¯ dar Sabk-i Hindı¯ (Criteria of imagination: literary criticism in the Indian Style) (Tehran: Ru¯ zga¯ r, 1379/2000).

156 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78.

79. 80.

Notes Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 734. Ibid., 735. Ibid., 736. Ibid., 737. Ibid., 728. Tarzı¯, Para¯ kandah, 111. Ibid., 112. Ibid., 112–113. Ibid., 111–112. Ibid., 112. Ibid., 113. Ibid., 143. Ibid., 113. Ibid., 136. Ibid., 137. Ibid., 138. Ibid., 24–27. Ibid., 25. Ibid., 118. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 721. Ibid. Ibid., 722. Ibid., 720. Ibid., 722. Ibid. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 723. It should be mentioned that sentiments like Tarzı¯’s were echoed, perhaps even more vociferously, among Iranian advocates of modernity in Persian literature. ¯ qa¯ Kha¯ n Kirma¯ nı¯ (1853–1896)—who wrote not too long For instance, Mı¯rza¯ A before Tarzı¯—was of the opinion that “comparing modern European [Western] literature with the fine works of Iranian litterateurs is like comparing . . . elec¯ damiyat, Andı¯shah ha¯ -i Mı¯rza¯ A¯ qa¯ trical light to oil lamps.” See Farı¯du¯ n A ¯ qa¯ Kha¯ n Kirma¯ nı¯) (Tehran: Kita¯ bkha¯ nah-i Kha¯ n Kirma¯ nı¯ (The Ideas of Mı¯rza¯ A Tahu¯ rı¯, 1357/1979), 230. Parsinejad offers a comprehensive synopsis of Mı¯rza¯ ¯ qa¯ Kha¯ n’s views on literature. See Iraj Parsinejad, A History of Literary CritiA cism in Iran 1866–1951 (Bethesda, Maryland: IBEX Publishers, 2003), 67–93. For a recent critical overview of the literature of the Constitutional era in Iran ¯ ju¯ da¯ nı¯, Ya¯ Marg Ya¯ Tajaddud: Daftari dar Shi
r va Adab-i see Masha¯  Alla¯ h A Mashru¯ tah (Either modernity or death: on the poetry and literature of the Constitutional era) (Tehran: Akhtara¯ n, 1282/2003). A scholarly study of the impact of the Iranian Constitutional Movement on Afghan attempts to bring constitutional rule in the country has yet to be undertaken. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 724. In this regard, Tarzı¯’s views resemble those of the “enlightened reformer” Zayn ¯ bidı¯n Mara¯ gha  ı¯ (1838–1911) in Iran who, a generation earlier, had also al-
A demanded his contemporary writers not to follow “the previous generations” of Persians in producing “melancholy and useless fables and meaningless gibberish [which] would engender nothing but illusions.” Instead, they should model their writings after “European and Japanese” authors and “propagate ¯ bidı¯n Mara¯ gha  ı¯, Siya¯ hatnhumanistic thought to the public.” See Zayn al-
A a¯ mah-i Ibra¯ hı¯m Bik (Travelogues of Ibra¯ hı¯m Bik), ed. Ba¯ qir Mu  minı¯ (Tehran: Nashr-i Andı¯shah, 1353/1975), 257. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 726. Ibid., 722.

Notes

157

81. It should be mentioned that Christophe Balaÿ and Michel Cuypers’s Aux sources de la nouvelle persane (Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1983) as well as Balaÿ’s La genèse du roman persan moderne (Tehran: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, 1998) are significant contributions to the study of the “influence” of European fiction on early modern Persian fiction. In addition, Michael Beard offers a sophisticated theoretical intervention into the analysis of the processes of “influence” and “communication” between Persian and European literary cultures, particularly with regard to Sa¯ diq Hida¯ yat’s novel The Blind Owl. According to Beard, Persian contains a rich narrative tradition but there is no “self-sufficient, indigenous narrative tradition that obviates [Western] importations” (9). See Michael Beard, Hedayat’s Blind Owl as a Western Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 3–41. 82. Tarzı¯, Maqa¯ la¯ t, 754. 83. See Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s, “Fann-i Qissah” (The Craft of fiction) in Nasr-i Darı¯ Afghanistan: Sı¯ Qissah (Darı¯ literary prose in Afghanistan: thirty stories), ed.
Alı¯ Razavı¯-Ghaznavı¯ (Tehran: Bunya¯ d-i Farhang-i Iran, 1978), 73–81. 84. For further information about Anı¯s and his literary-journalistic accomplishments see Muhammad Na¯ sir Gharghasht, “Sarguzasht-i Anı¯s” (Anı¯s’s adventures) in Kita¯ b-i Sa¯ l-i Anı¯s (The Anı¯s yearbook), ed. Muhammad Bashı¯r Rafı¯q (Kabul: Anı¯s Publications, 1345/1966), 31–52. See also Muhammad Nası¯r Mihrı¯n, Ya¯ d-i az Anı¯s (In Memory of Anı¯s) (Hamburg: n.p, 1377/1998). 85. Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s, Nida¯ -i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif ya¯ Huqu¯ q-i Millat (The Call of the pursuers of education or the rights of the nation) (Herat: Matba
ah-i Huru¯ fı¯, 1302/1924), reprinted in Nukhustı¯n Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ -i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ Afghanistan (Early modern Darı¯ fiction in Afghanistan), ed. Farid Bezhan (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1367/1988), 80–191. The author wishes to express his gratitude to Dr. Bezhan (of The Asia Institute, Monash University) for providing this crucial reference material to him. 86. Anı¯s, “Fann-i Qissah,” 74. 87. Ibid., 76. 88. Ibid., 74. 89. Ibid., 79. 90. Ibid., 74–75. 91. Ibid., 75. 92. Ibid., 79. 93. Ibid. 94. Ibid. 95. Ibid., 77. 96. Ibid., 78. 97. Ibid., 80. 98. Ibid., 80. 99. Ibid., 79. 100. Ibid., 80. 101. Ibid., 80. 102. Franco Moretti, “Conjectures on World Literature,” New Left Review 1 (2000), 68. 103. Gregory Jusdanis, Belated Modernity and Aesthetic Culture: Inventing National Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 93. 104. This fact–fiction dichotomy has been well analyzed in Lennard J. Davis, “A Social History of Fact and Fiction: Authorial Disavowal in the Early English Novel,” in Literature and Society, ed. Edward W. Said (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 145.

158

Notes

3 Perilous ends of history: the rhetoric of commitment and the poetics of nationalism 1. For instance, see Muhammad b.
Umar al-Ra¯ duya¯ nı¯, Tarjuma¯ n al-Bala¯ ghah, ed. Ahmad Atash (Tehran: Asa¯ tı¯r, 1362/1983). See also Shams al-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Qays al-Ra¯ zı¯, Kita¯ b al-Mu
jam fi Ma
a¯ yı¯r Ash
a¯ r al-
Ajam, ed. Muhammad Qazvı¯nı¯ (Tehran: Da¯ nishga¯ h-i Tehran, 1338/1959) and Jerome Clinton, “Shams-i Qays on the Nature of Poetry,” Edebiyat, n.s. 1, no. 2 (1989), 101–128. Cf. William Smyth, “Early Persian Works on Poetics and their Relationship to Similar Studies in Arabic,” Studia Iranica 18, no. 1 (1989), 27–52. 2. The articulation of this crucial aspect of the modern literary movement in Persian proved a very complex process of appropriation, rejection, adaptation, and subversion of Western literary models. For an elaborate treatment of this topic see Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry: Scenarios of Poetic Modernity in Iran (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1995), 101–136. 3. Qtd in Ghula¯ m Muhammad La
lza¯ d, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ dar Afghanistan (Contemporary Dari poetry in Afghanistan) (Delhi: Bunya¯ d-i Farhang va Tamaddun-i Afghanistan, 1998), 45–46. For a partial list of poets who contributed to the project of purposive aesthetics in this period, see Bashı¯r Sakha¯ warz, Chand Maqqa¯ lah (Collection of essays) (Delhi: Salı¯m Ayubı¯, 1997), 10–12. 4. Qtd in Muhammad Haydar Zhu¯ bal, Ta rı¯kh-i Adabiya¯ t-i Afghanistan (History of Afghanistan’s literature) (Kabul: Mayvand, 1382/2003 (1336/1958)), 289–290. 5. Sharı¯f Husain Qa¯ smı¯, “Maza¯ ya¯ -i Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ Afghanistan” (Characteristics of contemporary Dari poetry in Afghanistan), in Adabiya¯ t-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ Afghanistan (Contemporary Dari literature of Afghanistan), ed. Sharı¯f Husain Qa¯ smı¯ (Delhi: Bakhsh-i Fa¯ rsı¯, Da¯ nishga¯ h-i Dihli, 1994), 118. 6. Qtd in Asad Alla¯ h Habı¯b, “Niga¯ h-i Ta  rı¯khı¯ bar Adabiya¯ t-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯” (A Historical glance at contemporary Dari literature), Salna¯ mah-i Afghanistan (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1359/1980), 987. 7. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 6, 44. 8. Timothy Brennan, “The National Longing for Form,” in Nation and Narration, ed. Homi K. Bhabha (London: Routledge, 1990), 49. 9. Mary N. Layoun, Travels of a Genre: The Modern Novel and Ideology (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 9. 10. On the publication of newspapers in various provinces see Muhammad Ka¯ zim ¯ hang, Sayr-i Journalism dar Afghanistan (The Evolution of journalism in A Afghanistan), 2nd ed. (Kabul: Kita¯ b-kha¯ nah-i Saba¯ , 1383/2004), 137–138. 11. Jonathan Culler, “Anderson and the Novel,” Diacrtics 29, no. 4 (1999), 37. As a ground-breaking work, Anderson’s Imagined Communities has been the subject of several important studies. For a critical study of his The Spectre of Comparisons: Nationalism, Southeast Asia, and the World (London and New York: Verso, 1998) see, for example, Grounds of Comparison: Around the Work of Benedict Anderson, ed. Pheng Cheah and Jonathan Culler (New York: Routledge, 2003). 12. The national theme pervaded the fiction of the period, despite the appearance of a successful early “social-realist” novel such as
Abd al-Qa¯ dir Afandı¯, Tasvı¯r-i
Ibrat (A Cautionary tale) (Madras, India: n. p., 1300/1922). For an informed critique of this novel see Muhammad Na¯ sir Rahya¯ b, Sapı¯dah-dam-i Da¯ sta¯ nnivı¯sı¯ (The Dawn of writing fiction in Afghanistan) (Mashhad: Tara¯ nah, 1383/ 2004), 57–76. 13. Two valuable recent works on the Persian historical novel are Muhammad Ghula¯ m, Ruma¯ n-i Ta rı¯khı¯: Sayr va Naqd va Tahlı¯l-i Ruma¯ n ha¯ -i Ta rı¯khı¯ Fa¯ rsı¯

Notes

14. 15.

16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

25.

26. 27. 28.

159

1284–1332 (Historical novel: evolution, critique, and analysis of Persian historical novels 1906–1953) (Tehran: Chashmah, 1380/2001). Cf. Ka¯ mra¯ n Sipihra¯ n, Radd-i Pa¯ -i Tazzalzul: Ruma¯ n-i Ta rı¯khı¯ Iran 1300–1320 (On the Footprints of instability: Iranian historical novel 1921–1941) (Tehran: Shı¯ra¯ zah, 1381/2002). For a critical appraisal of these sources see Wali Ahmadi, “Ruma¯ n-i ta  rı¯khı¯ dar Iran” (The Historical novel in Iran) Iran Namah 21, nos. 1–2 (2003), 185–202. Avrom Fleishman, The English Historical Novel: Walter Scott to Virginia Woolf (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1971), 4. Farid Bezhan, “Hafta¯ d Sa¯ l Da¯ sta¯ nparda¯ zı¯ Navı¯n dar Afghanistan” (Seventy years of writing modern fiction in Afghanistan), in Adabiya¯ t-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯, ed. Qa¯ smı¯, 128. For a brief discussion of this novel, see Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “Khamsah-i Avvaliyah: Niga¯ h-i ba Avvalı¯n Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ -i Navı¯n-i Afghanistan” (Earliest novellas: a glance at the first five new stories in Afghanistan), Khatt-i Sivum 3–4 (Spring–Summer 1382/2003), 236. Rahya¯ b, Sapı¯dah-dam-i Da¯ sta¯ n-nivı¯sı¯, 48. The novella was originally written as a drama. It was translated and rendered “with minor changes” by Ghula¯ m Nabı¯. See Nakhustı¯n Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ -i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ Afghanistan (Early modern Dari fiction in Afghanistan), ed. Farid Bezhan (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1367/1988), 74–93. Brennan, “The National Longing for Form,” 49. Asad Alla¯ h Habı¯b, “Niga¯ h-i Ta  rı¯khı¯ bar Adabiya¯ t-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯,” 985. Muhyi al-Dı¯n Anı¯s, Nida¯ -i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif ya¯ Huqu¯ q-i Millat (The Call of the pursuers of education or the rights of the nation) (Herat: Matba
ah-i Huru¯ fı¯, 1302/1924), reprinted in Nukhustı¯n Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ -i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ Afghanistan, ed. Bezhan, 190. Ibid., 89–91. Ibid., 189–190. Vartan Gregorian, The Emergence of Modern Afghanistan: Politics of Reform and Modernization 1880–1946 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969), 307–314, 351–361. For an institutional perspective on this topic, see Shafie Rahel, Cultural Policy in Afghanistan (Paris: UNESCO Press, 1975). Early in the days of Musa¯ hiba¯ n rule, from amongst the prominent intellectuals of the period, Lu¯ dı¯n was executed in the Royal Palace and Da¯ vı¯ was imprisoned for a long period of time. Anı¯s mysteriously died in prison – in spite of his approving of the Musa¯ hiba¯ n ouster of the “rebel” Amı¯r Habı¯b Alla¯ h (see Bahra¯ n va Naja¯ t (Crisis and salvation), Kabul: Anı¯s Publications, 1930). The second volume of Ghuba¯ r’s seminal Afghanistan dar Ması¯r-i Ta rı¯kh offers invaluable insights into how intellectuals of the early period of Musa¯ hiba¯ n rule considered the state apparatus and how they defined their own stance vis-à-vis the state. See Mı¯r Ghula¯ m M. Ghuba¯ r, Afghanistan dar Ması¯r-i Ta rı¯kh (Afghanistan in the path of history), vol. 2 (Virginia: n. p., 1999). Qtd in La
lza¯ d, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ dar Afghanistan (Contemporary Darı¯ poetry in Afghanistan), 67. Bı¯ta¯ b’s scholarly critical contributions to the field of Persian literary studies include
Abd al-Haqq Bı¯ta¯ b, Gufta¯ r-i Rava¯ n dar
Ilm-i Baya¯ n (A Lucid discourse on [Persian] rhetoric) (Kabul: Da¯ nishga¯ h-i Kabul, 1346/1967). Ziya¯ Qa¯ rı¯za¯ dah, Zaba¯ n-i Tabı¯
at (The Language of nature) (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1330/1951), 77. Qtd in La
lza¯ d, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ dar Afghanistan, 125. Qtd in Muhammad Sarvar Mawla¯  ı¯, ed., Barguzı¯dah-i Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Afghanistan (Selections from contemporary poetry in Afghanistan) (Tehran: Raz, 1350/ 1970), 78–83. Tawfı¯q’s collections of poetry include Khatti dar Dastht (A Line in the plain) (Kabul: Viza¯ rat-i Ittila¯
a¯ t va Kultu¯ r, 1367/1988) and Jariqqah ha¯ (Sparks) (Kabul: Mu  assisah-i Cha¯ p-i Kutub, 1344/1966).

160

Notes

29. Qtd in Mawla¯  ı¯, ed., Barguzı¯dah-i Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Afghanistan, 67–69. ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯, Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan (Dark 30. Muhammad Ibra¯ hı¯m Kha¯ n
A evening, bright morning), 1317/1938 (Kabul: Intisha¯ ra¯ t-i Kumı¯tah-i Dawlatı¯, 1367/1988). 31. This novella soon afterwards appeared in book form. See Gul Muhammad Zhivandai, Fı¯ru¯ z (Kabul: Matba
ah-i
Umu¯ mı¯, 1318/1939). 32. Qtd in Jala¯ l al-Dı¯n Siddı¯qı¯, “Problem-ha¯ -i ta  rı¯khnivı¯sı¯ dar Afghanistan” (Issues in Afghan historiography),
Irfa¯ n 62, nos. 9–10 (1363/1984), 13. For a brief description of the life and works of Fikrı¯-Salju¯ qı¯ see
Abd al-Ghanı¯ Nı¯ksiyar, “Fikrı¯-Salju¯ qı¯: Mu  arrikhi Nastu¯ h va Sha¯
iri Shiva¯ Kala¯ m” (Fikrı¯-Salju¯ qı¯: an indefatiguable historian and capable poet), Paya¯ m-i Ru¯ z 1, nos. 4–5 (April 2007). 33. Qtd in Sa¯ bir Mı¯rza¯ yiv and Sulta¯ n Pu¯ ya¯ n, “Payvand-i Adabiya¯ t-i Muttahahid ba¯ Falsafah-i Navı¯n” (The Conjunction of committed literature with modern [Marxist-Leninist] philosophy),
Irfan 62, nos. 11–12 (1363/1985), 93. 34. The 1949–1952 “democratic experiment” has been discussed in Louis Dupree, Afghanistan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 494–498. See also Mı¯r M. Siddı¯q Farhang, Afghanistan dar Panj Qarn-i Akhı¯r (Afghanistan during the past five centuries), vol. 2 (Tehran:
Irfa¯ n, 1380/2001), 689–696. 35. See Dı¯va¯ n-i
Alla¯ mah-i Shahı¯d Sayyid Isma¯
ı¯l Balkhı¯ (Collected poems of
Alla¯ mah Balkhı¯), ed. Sayyid H.
Alavı¯nizha¯ d and Sayyid M. Ha¯ shimı¯ (Mashhad: Nashr-i Sunbulah/ Markaz-i Muta¯ li
a¯ t va Tahqı¯qa¯ t-i
Alla¯ mah Balkhı¯), 1381/ 2002. For an analysis of Balkhı¯’s poetry and political ideas, see Sayyid Husayn Muwahhid-Balkhı¯, “Aknu¯ n ba ı¯n su  a¯ l biba¯ yad java¯ b-i naw” (Let us seek a new answer to this [old] question), Khatt-i Sivum 3–4 (Spring–Summer 1382/2003), 248. 36. Diva¯ n-i
Alla¯ mah-i Shahı¯d, 149. 37. Ibid., 208. 38. Qtd in
Abd al-Ha¯ dı¯ Ha¯  irı¯, A¯ za¯ dı¯ ha¯ -i Siya¯ sı¯ va Ijtima¯
ı¯ az Dı¯dga¯ h-i Andı¯shagara¯ n (Political and social liberties from the points of view of (some) thinkers) (Mashhad: Jiha¯ d-i Da¯ nishga¯ hı¯, 1374/1996), 212. 39. Ibid., 213. 40. Qtd in Mı¯r Ghula¯ m M, Ghuba¯ r, Afghanistan dar Ması¯r-i Ta rı¯kh, vol. 1, 836–837. 41. Qtd in David Caute, The Illusion: An Essay on Politics, Theatre, and the Novel (New York: Harper, 1971), 46. Sartre’s formulation of literary commitment is elaborated in detail in What Is Literature? And Other Essays, intro. Steven Ungar (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988). It deserves to be noted that the 1352/1973 Persian translation of Sartre’s polemical treatise proved extremely influential in Afghan literary environment. See Jean-Paul Sartre, Adabiya¯ t Chı¯st? Trans. Abu al-Hasan Najafı¯ and Mustafa¯ Rahı¯mı¯ (Tehran: Zama¯ n, 1352/1973). 42. Maxim Gorky, On Literature: Selected Articles (Moscow: Foreign Languages Publication House, 1960), 71. 43. Qtd in Mawla¯  ı¯, ed., Barguzı¯dah-i Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Afghanistan, 142 44. Ibid., 152. 45. Critical works on Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j are relatively rare in Persian. The following study is a major recent contribution towards understanding the significance of Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j: Sa
ı¯d Hamı¯dia¯ n, Da¯ sta¯ n-i Dı¯gardı¯sı¯ (An Account of a transformation) (Tehran: Nı¯lu¯ far, 1381/2002). See also Mahmu¯ d Falakı¯, Niga¯ h-i ba Shi
r-i Nı¯ma¯ (A Glance at Nı¯ma¯ ’s poetry) (Tehran: Murva¯ rı¯d, 1373/1994) and Sha¯ pu¯ r Jawrkash, Bu¯ tı¯qa¯ -i Shi
r-i Naw (The Poetics of “New Poetry”) (Tehran: Qaqnu¯ s, 1383/2004). In English, see Majid Nafici, Modernism and Ideology in Persian Literature: A Return to Nature in the Poetry of Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j (Lanham: University Press of America, 1997) as well as Essays on Nima Yushij: Animating

Notes

46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52.

53.

54.

161

Modernism in Persian Poetry, ed. Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak and Kamran Talattof (Leiden: Brill, 2004). For some early specimens of Persian short story writing in Afghanistan, see, for example, Muhammad Musa¯ Himmat, Payma¯ nah: Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ -i az Nivı¯sandaga¯ ni Mu
a¯ sir (The Goblet: stories from contemporary writers) (Kabul: Mu  assisah-i Cha¯ p va Nashr-i Kutub, 1342/1964) and Nasr-i Darı¯ Afghanistan: Sı¯ Qissah (Dari literary prose in Afghanistan: thirty stories), ed.
Ali Razavı¯-Ghaznavı¯ (Tehran: Bunya¯ d-i Farhang-i Iran, 1357/1978). Mikhail M. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1980), 22. Tony Bennett, Outside Literature (London and New York: Routledge, 1990), 96. Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, 8. Bennett, Outside Literature, 97. In the course of the development of the short story in modern Afghan fiction one prominent name is especially recognized as pioneering: Najib Alla¯ h Turva¯ ya¯ na¯ (1902–1965); see Husayn Fakhrı¯, Da¯ sta¯ n ha¯ va Dı¯dga¯ h ha¯ (Stories and perspectives) (Peshawar: Intisha¯ ra¯ t-i Jayha¯ nı¯, 1374/1995), 34–39. Yet the range of Turva¯ ya¯ na¯ ’s influence remained limited for the reason that he chose the themes and settings of his stories primarily from classical narratives and historical chronicles, canonical texts whose relevance to contemporary issues were only remotely discernible. As well his use of an authoritative, elegant, lofty language, full of allusions and references, betrayed the depth of this author’s indebtedness, as well as immersion, in the tradition of classical Persian literature. Furthermore, this choice of themes and language manifested a nostalgic relationship to an illusive, glamorous, and more or less harmonious past, divulging an acute sense of escapism from the realities of the present. Qtd in Nasr-i Darı¯ Afghanistan, ed. Razavı¯-Ghaznavı¯, 61–62. In addition to the collection Sih Muzdu¯ r (Three laborers) (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Dawlatı¯, 1344/ 1965), Habı¯b’s literary writings include the novella Sapı¯d Anda¯ m (Marble body) (Kabul: Mudı¯riyat-i
Umumı¯ Tashvı¯q-i Asa¯ r va Hunar, 1345/1966) and the poetry collection Vida¯
ba¯ Ta¯ rı¯kı¯: Suru¯ dah ha¯ -i az Dı¯ru¯ z va Imru¯ z (Farewell to darkness: poems from yesterday and today) (Kabul: Intisha¯ ra¯ t-i Kumı¯tah-i Dawlatı¯, 1354/1985). Asad Alla¯ h Habı¯b is currently living in Germany where he is engaged in research and writing on classical Persian poetry. This view of committed realism is analogous to what Xiabin Yang in another, not all together irrelevant, context within the larger intellectual discourse of the time perceptively calls “the reconciliation of consciousness and reality, of the perception and the perceived, and of the subjective and the objective.” See Xiaobin Yang, The Chinese Postmodern: Trauma and Irony in Chinese AvantGarde Fiction (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 12. Theodor Adorno, in his seminal text Aesthetic Theory, directly points to such an ideological complicity in the project of literary realism: “By appearing as art, that which insists that it is realistic injects meaning into reality, which such art is pledged to copy without illusion. In the face of reality this is a priori ideological. Today the impossibility of realism is not to be concluded on aesthetic grounds but equally on the basis of the historical constellation of art and reality.” See Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedermann, trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 322.

4 Literature of Commandement and the crisis of commitment 1. Ngu˜ gı˜ wa Thiong’o, Penpoints, Gunpoints, and Dreams: Towards a Critical Theory of the Arts and the State in Africa (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 10.

162 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

Notes Ibid., 28. Ibid., 30. Ibid. Achille Mbembe, On the Postcolony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 102. Ibid., 102–103. Ibid. Mbembe discusses this concept perceptively in On the Postcolony. See Chapter Three, “The Aesthetics of Vulgarity,” 102–140. For an incisive explanation of the context of the Sawr (April) Revolution and Tarakı¯’s curious cult of personality see David B. Edwards, Before Taliban: Genealogies of the Afghan Jihad (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002). For an elaborate history of the development of the People’s Democratic Party see Beverley Male, Revolutionary Afghanistan: A Reappraisal (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1982). For an account of the complexities involved during the Khalq-Parcham rule in Afghanistan see the proceedings of a seminar in August 1996, held in Köln, Germany collected in Farha¯ d Bisha¯ rat et. al., Zaru¯ rat-i Huzu¯ r-i Communism dar Afghanistan (The Necessity of communism in Afghanistan) (Köln: Hizb-i Communist-i Ka¯ rgarı¯ Iran, 1997). The demise and disintegration of the Party is the subject of a valuable critical re-evaluation by a former ranking Party member (and a poet in his own right). See Abdulla¯ h Na¯ ibı¯, “Gu¯ nah-yi Barrası¯ az Zindagı¯ va Furu¯ pa¯ shı¯ Hizb-i Democratic-i Khalq-i Afghanistan” (A Concise revaluation of the life and disintegration of the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan), Ayenda 1, no. 1 (May 2000). Available online: www.ayenda.org. For Na¯ ibı¯’s poetry in translation see La Virginité du Feu: choix de poemes, trans. Abdulla¯ h Na¯ ibı¯ and Bernard-Marie Garreau (Paris and Montreal: Harmattan, 1998). Hafı¯z Alla¯ h Amı¯n, “Text of the Speech,” Afghanistan Quarterly 32, no. 1 (Spring 1979), 21. Ibid., 24. Ibid., 24–25. Jala¯ l al-Dı¯n Siddı¯qı¯, “Barrası¯-i Nahvah-i Ta  rı¯kh-niga¯ rı¯ pas az Inqila¯ b-i Sawr” (A Revaluation of the historiographical methods since the Sawr Revolution),
Irfa¯ n 63, nos. 5–6 (1364/1985), 58. Sa¯ bir Mı¯rza¯ yiv and Sulta¯ n Pu¯ ya¯ n, “Payvand-i Adabiya¯ t-i Muttahahid ba¯ Falsafah-i Navı¯n” (The Conjunction of committed literature with modern [Marxist-Leninist] philosophy),
Irfa¯ n 62, nos. 11–12 (1363/1985), 85. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The Marx–Engels Reader, ed. Robert Tucker (New York: Norton, 1978), 5. Siddı¯qı¯, “Barrası¯-i Nahvah-i Ta  rı¯kh-niga¯ rı¯,” 58. Fahı¯ma Abda¯ lı¯, “The Sawr Revolution and Revolutionary Literature in Afghanistan,” Afghanistan Quarterly 36, no. 1 (Spring 1983), 75. Ibid., 71. Ibid., 72 Ibid., 73. Dastgı¯r Panjshı¯rı¯, “Adabiya¯ t-i Dawra¯ n-i Inqila¯ b-i Sawr” (The Literature of the Sawr Revolution), Zhivandu¯ n 7, no. 1 (1367/1988), 31. Fahı¯ma Abda¯ lı¯, “The Sawr Revolution and Revolutionary Literature,” 73. Dastgı¯r Panjshı¯rı¯, “Adabiya¯ t-i Dawra¯ n-i Inqila¯ b-i Sawr,” 31. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “Az Modern Sa¯ khtan ta¯ Modern Shudan” (From Making modern to becoming modern), Durr-i Darı¯ 2, no. 5 (Spring1377/1998), 10. Ibid., 13–14. Fahı¯ma Abda¯ lı¯, “The Sawr Revolution and Revolutionary Literature,” 72. Ibid., 73. Emphasis added. For an incisive and illuminating study of socialist realist fiction see Katerina

Notes

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

163

Clark, The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual, 3rd ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000). Ernst Fischer, The Necessity Of Art: A Marxist Approach, trans. Anna Bostock (New York: Penguin Books, 1963), 107. From a comparative perspective, just as in the Soviet Union where, especially after the 1934 Congress of Soviet Writers, as Terry Eagleton points out, the doctrine of “socialist realism” was adopted specifically to promulgate the view that “it was the writer’s duty ‘to provide a truthful, historico-concrete portrayal of reality in its revolutionary development,’ taking into account ‘the problem of ideological transformation and the education of the workers in the spirit of socialism,’ ” in Afghanistan, too, it was propagated that literature must be “tendentious, ‘party-minded,’ optimistic, and heroic; it should be infused with a ‘revolutionary romanticism,’ portraying heroes and prefiguring the future.” Terry Eagleton, Marxism and Literary Criticism (London: Methuen, 1976), 37–38. Babrak Arghand, “Tak Marmı¯” (A Single bullet), Zhivandu¯ n 1, no. 1 (1361/ 1982), 82–86. Husayn Fakhrı¯, “Dar Changa¯ l-i Duzhkhı¯m” (In the Claws of the executioner), Zhivandu¯ n 3, no. 2 (1363), 64–68. Qadı¯r Habı¯b, Zamı¯n (The Land) (Kabul: Ittiha¯ diyah-i Nivisandaga¯ n, 1364/ 1985). Isma¯
ı¯l Akbar, “Matbu
a¯ t va Rushanfikra¯ n” (The Press and the intellectuals), Durr-i Darı¯ 2, no. 6–7 (1377), 47. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “Az Modern Sa¯ khtan ta¯ Modern Shudan,” 14. Babrak Arghand, Marja¯ n (Kabul: Viza¯ rat-i Ittila¯
a¯ t va Farhang, 1369/1990). More recently in exile, Arghand has published a new novel entitled Pahlava¯ n Mura¯ d va Aspi ki Ası¯l Nabu¯ d (The Horseman Mura¯ d and the horse that was not noble) (Holland: Intisha¯ ra¯ t-i Ayendah, 1383/2005). A select number of Arghand’s short stories appears in www.ayanda.org, a site that represents the views of “reformed” members of the People’s Democratic Party currently living in Europe who continue to adhere to the ideals of the “Party of the masses” in spite of the many “historical blunders” it committed during its disastrous rule in Afghanistan. Husayn Fakhrı¯, Shukara¯ n dar Satgı¯n-i Surkh (Poison in a red goblet) (Peshawar: Maiwand, 1378/1999). Riza Ma¯  il-Hiravı¯, “Ba Sha¯
ir-i Naw” (To the Modern poet), in Ghula¯ m Muhammad La
lza¯ d, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯ dar Afghanistan (New Delhi: Bunya¯ d-i Farhang va Tamaddun-i Afghanistan, 1377/1998), 202–203. Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq, “Du¯ st Da¯ ram in Vatan Ra¯ ” (I Love this country), in La
lza¯ d, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯, 220–21. Sulayma¯ n La¯  iq, Ba¯ dba¯ n (Sail) (Kabul: Matba
ah-i Ta
lı¯m va Tarbiyah, 1360/ 1982). Qtd in La
lzad, Shi
r-i Mu
a¯ sir-i Darı¯, 217. Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯, “Shaipu¯ r-i Inqila¯ b” (The Clarion of revolution), in Payvand, ed. Mu  min Qina¯
at (Dushanbe:
Irfa¯ n, 1987), 24. Ibid. Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯, “Ba Pı¯sh!” (Forward!), in Payvand, 26–27. ¯ tash” (Phoenix), in Zhivandu¯ n 3, no. 3 (1363/1984), Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯, “Murgh-i A 45–46. Sa¯ lih Muhammad Khalı¯q, “Zamı¯n ra¯ Du¯ st Mı¯da¯ ram” (I Love the land), in Payvand, ed. Mu  min Qina¯
at, 53. Sa¯ lih Muhammad Khalı¯q, “Va Sha¯
ira¯ n-i Bı¯da¯ r” (The Awakened poets), in Payvand, 50–51. Ibid., 51.
Abd al-Qa¯ dir Abhar, “Sipa¯ h-i Sulh” (The Army of peace), in Payvand, 7.

164

Notes

48. Rahı¯m Ilha¯ m [Elha¯ m], “Sawgand” (Pledge), in Payvand, 14–15. 49. Bı¯rang Kuhda¯ manı¯, “Bibı¯n Dawra¯ n-i Gulba¯ ra¯ n” (The Era strewn with flowers), in Payvand, 34. 50. Fazl-Haqq Fikrat, “Chashmah-i Khurshı¯d” (The Sun fountain), in Payvand, 88. 51. Fazl-Haqq Fikrat, “
Ahd-u Payma¯ n” (Oath), in Payvand, 88–89. 52.
Abd al-Razza¯ q Sa¯
id, “Khurshı¯d-i Kha¯ varı¯” (Eastern sun), in Payvand, 70–71. 53. It was Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯
ı¯ who, perhaps more vociferously than any other poet of the time, persistently alluded to the commonality of the Afghan-Soviet struggle and became an early propagandist for the Soviet “fraternal” designs in Afghanistan. He once wrote: Zi shu¯ r-i Inqila¯ b-i Sawr gı¯tı¯ pur zi ghawgha¯ shud Chuna¯ n shu¯ ra¯ farı¯n pazhvak-i rasta¯ khı¯z-i October. In the wake of the Sawr Revolt, the entire world spun madly on its axis Just as it did when the revolution echoed during the October Uprising. He warns the common enemy of the two peoples—the Afghans and the Russians—to beware of the “giants” guarding the fruits of the revolution: Valı¯ gar yak qadam ı¯n su¯ -tar az marz-i yalla¯ n ma¯ nı¯ Haza¯ ra¯ n farsakhat az marg anda¯ zand a¯ n su¯ -tar Ke ı¯n-ja¯ pa¯ sba¯ na¯ n-i dilı¯r-i marz-i ta  rı¯khand Yalla¯ n-i Ru¯ s-u Afghan bihtarı¯n yara¯ n-i hamsangar. If you ever cross our border into this land of proud men We’ll catapult you back a thousand miles beyond death We courageously guard our historical territory We, the Russian and the Afghan–comrades in the trenches of battle In Zhivandu¯ n 4, no. 2 (1364/1985), 22. 54. Jamı¯l Zarı¯fı¯, “Manba
-i Sulh va Safa¯ ” (The Source of peace and tranquility), in Payvand, ed. Mu  min Qina¯
at, 77. 55. Latı¯f Na¯ zimı¯, “Ya¯ d-da¯ shti bar ı¯n Guzı¯nah” (A Note about a book of selected ¯ su¯ dah-Tahma¯ s, Ashk-i Qarn (The Tear of century) poetry), Preface to
Azı¯z A (Kabul: Anjuman-i Nivisandaga¯ n, 1366/1987), ii. 56. Ibid., iii. 57. Na¯ zimı¯, “Bar Fa¯ tiha¯ n-i Fasl-i Baha¯ ra¯ n” (To the Champions of the spring season), in Sa¯ yah va Murda¯ b (The Shadow and the lagoon) (Kabul: Anjuman-i Nivisandaga¯ n, 1365/1987), 92–94. 58. Na¯ zimı¯, “Barf-i Surkh” (Red snow), in Sa¯ yah va Murda¯ b, 106–108. 59. Na¯ zimı¯, Ba¯ d dar Fa¯ nu¯ s (Wind in the lantern) (Munich, Germany: n.p., 1991), 17–18. ¯ fta¯ b Namı¯mı¯rad” (The Sun dies not), in Va A¯ fta¯ b 60. Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, “Va A Namı¯mı¯rad (Kabul: Ittiha¯ diyah-i Nivisandaga¯ n, 1362/1984), 55–58. 61. Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, “Dar Suku¯ t-i Shamma¯ tah ha¯ ” (In the Silence of the clocks), in Dı¯ba¯ chah-i dar Farja¯ m (A Prologue to the end of times) (Peshawar: Kita¯ bkha¯ nah-i Saba¯ , 1375/1997), 39–40. 62. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, Naqsh ha¯ va Pinda¯ r ha¯ (Images and perceptions) [1349/ 1971] (Kabul: Anjuman-i Nivisandaga¯ n, 1366/1987). 63. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, “Ya¯ saman ha¯ Sukhtand” (The Jasmines burned), Zhivandu¯ n 8, no. 1 (1369/1991). 5 De-centering dissent 1. See, for example, Fred Halliday, “War and Revolution in Afghanistan,” New Left Review 119 (January–February 1980), 20–41. See also Antonio Giustozzi,

Notes

2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

165

War, Politics, and Society in Afghanistan 1978–1992 (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2000) as well as Gérard Chaliand, Report from Afghanistan, trans. Tamar Jacoby (New York: Penguin, 1982). For alternative views on the emergence of the resistance see M. Nazif Shahrani, “Marxist ‘Revolution’ and Islamic Resistance in Afghanistan,” in Revolutions & Rebellions in Afghanistan: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. M. Nazif Shahrani and Robert L. Canfield (Berkeley: Institute of International studies, 1984), 3–57. See also Rasul Bakhsh Rais, War Without Winners (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1994), 25–65. For a concise chronicle of Soviet atrocities in Afghanistan see Jeri Laber and Barnet Rubin, “A Nation Is Dying”: Afghanistan Under the Soviets 1979–1987 (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1988). For an account of the early anti-Soviet rebellions, see, in addition to Revolutions & Rebellions in Afghanistan: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. M. Nazif Shahrani and Robert L. Canfield (Berkeley: Institute of International studies, 1984), M. Hasan Kakar, Afghanistan: The Soviet Invasion and the Afghan Response 1979–1982 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). The question of why peasants “chose” to revolt against a “revolutionary” state that purportedly advanced their interests in Afghanistan has been treated in David Gibbs, “The Peasant as Counter-Revolutionary: The Rural Origins of the Afghan Insurgency,” Studies in Comparative International Development 21, no.1 (Spring 1986), 36–59. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Constance Farrington (New York: Grove Press, 1968), 41, 93. Tal
at Sa¯ lihuf, “Adabiya¯ t ba Masa¯ bah-i Shakli az Aga¯ hı¯-i Ijtima¯
ı¯ va Shina¯ kht-i Va¯ q
iyat” (Literature as a form of social consciousness and recognition of reality), trans. M. Labı¯b,
Irfa¯ n 63, no. 1 (1364/1985), 84–97. Ibid., 88. Ibid., 90. Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, “Dı¯ru¯ z, Imru¯ z, va Farda¯ -i Shi
r-i Afghanistan” (The Past, present, and future of Afghanistan’s poetry), Shi
r 14, no. 2 (1373/1994), 77. ¯ sı¯, Az A¯ tash az Barı¯sham (From fire, from silk), ed. Aya¯ m Barakı¯ Qaha¯ r
A (Slovakia: n.p., 1995), 53–54. Ibid., 95. Ibid., 94. For a recent, representative work on Afghan poetry in exile see Afghanistan dar Ghurbat (Afghanistan in exile), ed. Hasan Anu¯ shah and Hafı¯z Alla¯ h Sharı¯
atı¯ (Tehran: Nası¯m-i Bukha¯ ra¯ , 1382/2003). For Afghan short fiction in exile see the collection Ka¯ j ha¯ va Sarzamı¯n-i A¯ hak (Pine trees and the land of lime), ed. Ziya¯ Ahmad Siddı¯q-Afzalı¯ (Peshawar: Sayyid Jama¯ l al-Dı¯n, 1377/1999). See also the collection Muha¯ jira¯ n-i Fasl-i Diltangı¯ (The Migrants of a season of anguish), ed. Sayyid Isha¯ q Shuja¯
ı¯ (Tehran: Hawzah-i Hunarı¯, 1375/1997). Ehsan Yarshater, ed. Persian Literature (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), viii. Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯, “Naqsh-i Khiya¯ l” (Portrait of imagination), in Dı¯va¯ n (Collected poems), ed. Ibra¯ hı¯m Sharı¯
atı¯ (Tehran: Nashr-i
Irfa¯ n, 1378/1999), 351. ¯ tashı¯n” (Burning tears), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯, “Ashk-i A (Collection of poetry), ed.
Abd al-Hayy Khura¯ sa¯ nı¯ (Tehran: Nashr-i Balkh, 1378/1999), 8. Khalı¯lı¯, “Mujasimah-i Bamyan” (The Bamyan statue), in Dı¯va¯ n, 311. Khalı¯lı¯, “Sih Qatrah Ashk” (Three tear drops), in Dı¯va¯ n, 365. Khalı¯lı¯, “Musa¯ fir-i Sargarda¯ n” (Vagabond wayfarer), in Dı¯va¯ n, 259. Khalı¯lı¯, “Ba¯ ghba¯ n va khaza¯ n” (The Gardener and the autumn), in Dı¯va¯ n, 289. Khalı¯lı¯, “
Ishq va Para¯ kandagı¯” (Love and dispersion), in Dı¯va¯ n, 245.

166

Notes

20. Khalı¯lı¯, “Pı¯rı¯ va Rı¯khtan-i Danda¯ n” (Old age and falling teeth), in Dı¯va¯ n, 87. 21. Ibid., 87–89. 22. Muhammad Sarvar Mawla¯  ı¯, “Ba Ya¯ d-i Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯” (In Memory of Khalı¯l Alla¯ h Khalı¯lı¯), Preface to Khalı¯lı¯, Dı¯va¯ n, xxviii. 23. Khalı¯lı¯, “I
tima¯ d ba Khud” (Self-reliance), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 464. 24. Khalı¯lı¯, “Sih Qatrah Ashk,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 364. 25. Khalı¯lı¯, “Jigar-i Sang” (A Liver of rock), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 28. 26. Khalı¯lı¯, “Vatan va Darrah-i Zı¯ba¯ -i Marrı¯” (The Homeland and the Marrı¯ Gorge), in Dı¯va¯ n, 186. 27. Khalı¯lı¯, “Pa¯ sukh-i Khalı¯lı¯” (Khalı¯lı¯’s response), in Dı¯va¯ n, 267. 28. Khalı¯lı¯, “Vatan va Darrah-i Zı¯ba¯ -i Marrı¯,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 186. 29. Khalı¯lı¯, “Bar Rava¯ n-i Shuhadda¯ -i Aljaza¯ yir” (To the Memory of Algerian martyrs), in Dı¯va¯ n, 56. 30. Khalı¯lı¯, “Tufa¯ n-i Marg” (The Hurricane of death), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 9. 31. Khalı¯lı¯, “Baha¯ r-i Khu¯ n” (Spring of blood), in Dı¯va¯ n, 269. 32. Khalı¯lı¯, “Paya¯ m ba Millat-i Buzurg-i Iran” (A Message to the great nation of Iran), in Dı¯va¯ n, 221. The original Persian reads thus: Ba shahr shahr nigar ju¯ y ju¯ y khu¯ n-i shahı¯d Ba dasht dasht nigar pushtah pushtah az ajsa¯ m. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

Khalı¯lı¯, “Pa¯ sukh-i Khalı¯lı¯,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 267. Khalı¯lı¯, “Sı¯nah-i Suza¯ n” (Burning heart), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 22. Khalı¯lı¯, “Pa¯ sukh-i Khalı¯lı¯,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 267. ¯ varaga¯ n” (Refugees’ Nawru¯ z), in Dı¯va¯ n, 325. Khalı¯lı¯, “Nawru¯ z-i A Khalı¯lı¯, “Java¯ nı¯” (Youth), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 25. Khalı¯lı¯, “Safı¯r-i Ma¯ tam” (Envoy of sorrow), in Dı¯va¯ n, 405. Ibid., 408. The original Persian reads thus: Chi zı¯batar az ı¯n naqshi ki bı¯nad dı¯dah-i ta  rı¯kh Ki tu khanjar ba kaf, dushman fita¯ dah zı¯r-i pa¯ -i tu-st.

See Khalı¯lı¯, “Vatanda¯ r-i Dilı¯r-i Man” (My Courageous countryman), in Dı¯va¯ n, 276. 41. Khalı¯lı¯, “Millat va Dawlat” (The Nation and the state), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 524–525. 42. Ibid., 525. 43. The original Persian verse is: Dushman chu¯ naha¯ n ast ba zharfa¯ -i vuju¯ dam Az sa¯ khtan-i ba¯ rah-u dı¯va¯ r chi khı¯zad? 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

See Khalı¯lı¯, “Guharva¯ r” (Yielding jewels), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 13. Khalı¯lı¯, “Jina¯ zah-i Mazlu¯ m” (Funeral of the oppressed), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 13. Khalı¯lı¯, “I
tima¯ d ba Khud,” in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 464. Khalı¯lı¯, “Vatanda¯ r-i Dilı¯r-i Man,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 277. Khalı¯lı¯, “Du¯ dpı¯cha¯ n” (Swirling smoke), in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 29. Khalı¯lı¯, “Safı¯r-i Ma¯ tam,” in Dı¯va¯ n, 408. Khalı¯lı¯, “Vazı¯fah-i Sukhanvara¯ n-i Java¯ n” (The Duty of young littérateurs), in Dı¯va¯ n, 417. Khalı¯lı¯, “Guharva¯ r,” in Kulliya¯ t-i Ash
a¯ r, 13. “Junbish-i Muqa¯ vvamat va Hunar” (The Resistance movement and the arts), Ga¯ h-na¯ mah 2 (1985), 14. Ibid. “Ma¯ hiyat-i Farhang va Farhang-i Muqa¯ vvamat” (The Essence of culture and the culture of resistance), Ga¯ h-na¯ mah 2 (1985), 4.

Notes 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

167

“Junbish-i Muqa¯ vvamat va Hunar,” 14. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 17. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 210. “Junbish-i Muqa¯ vvamat va Hunar,” 16. Ibid. “Ma¯ hiyat-i Farhang va Farhang-i Muqa¯ vvamat,” Ga¯ h-na¯ mah 2 (1985), 4. “Ru¯ z-i Sivum-i Hu¯ t-i 58” (The Uprising of 23 February 1980), Ga¯ h-na¯ mah 2 (1985), 6. Ibid. The socio-political relevance of Islamic mysticism in contemporary history has increasingly been dealt with in Persian scholarship. For a concise presentation of the topic see Hamı¯d Hamı¯d, “Ya¯ d-da¯ sht ha¯ -i dar Ba¯ rah-i
Irfa¯ n-i Ijtima¯
ı¯” (Notes on the concept of “Social Mysticism”), Kanka¯ sh: A Persian Journal of History and Politics 7 (Winter 1991), 211–236. In response to Hamı¯d’s contentions ¯ za¯ d-andı¯shı¯, va Farhang-i Democratic’ (Mysticism, see A. K. Dasta¯ n, ‘
Irfa¯ n, A Free-Thinking, and Democratic Culture,” Kanka¯ sh 7 (Winter 1991), 237–244. “Junbish-i Muqa¯ vvamat va Hunar,” 16. Ibid. Ibid., 18. Ibid. Ibid., 17. Ibid. Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993). Ernst Bloch, The Principle of Hope, trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice, and Paul Knight, vol. 1 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1986), 8–9.

Epilogue: contending with history 1. Zalmai Ba¯ ba¯ -Ku¯ hı¯, “Kha¯ k-i But” (Dust of the statue), Naqd va Arma¯ n 12 & 13 (Autumn 2000–Spring 2001), 12–25. 2. A useful account of the emergence and rule of the Taliban is William Maley, ed., Fundamentalism Reborn? Afghanistan and the Taliban (New York: New York University Press, 1998). See also Ahmed Rashid, Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil, and Fundamentalism in Central Asia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000). 3. For an outstanding critical perspective on Afghanistan after the Bonn Conference see Chris Johnson and Jolyon Leslie, Afghanistan: The Mirage of Peace (London and New York: Zed, 2004). For a revealing account of how the lives of the ordinary people have been affected by recent political events see Ann Jones, Kabul in Winter: Life Without Peace in Afghanistan (New York: Metropolitan, 2006). 4. Sepu¯ zhmay Zarya¯ b, Dasht-i Qa¯ bı¯l (Cain’s plain) (Kabul: Matba
-i Dawlatı¯, 1367/1988). 5.
Atı¯q Rahı¯mı¯, Kha¯ kistar va Kha¯ k (Ashes and earth) (Paris: Khavaran, 1999). Translated into English as Earth and Ashes, trans. Erdag M. Goknar (New York: Harcourt, 2002). ¯ zarakhsh, A¯ va¯ r-i Shab (The Night load) (Peshawar: Saba¯ , 1376/1997). 6. Sarvar A 7. Razza¯ q Ma  mu¯ n,
Asr-i Khudkushı¯ (Time of suicide) (Peshawar: n.p., 1379/ 2000). 8. Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, Baya¯ n-na¯ mah-i Va¯ risa¯ n-i Zamı¯n (Manifesto of the inheritors of the earth), 2nd ed. (Kabul: Parniya¯ n, 1383/2004). 9. See, among his other publications, Sami
Ha¯ mid, Bugza¯ r Shab Hamı¯shah Bima¯ nad (Let the night last forever) (Peshawar, Saba¯ , 1377/1998). 10. Azı¯z Alla¯ h Nihuftah, Khwa¯ b-i Chashmah ha¯ -i Subh (The Dream of morning springs) (Peshawar: Sayyid Jama¯ l al-Dı¯n, 1377/1999).

168

Notes

11. Kha¯ lid Nawı¯sa¯ , Tasavvura¯ t-i Shab ha¯ -i Buland (Vagaries of long nights) (Peshawar: Saba¯ , 1378/1999). A French translation of Nawı¯sa¯ ’s short stories is also available. See Bonjour, Douleur!, trans. Amir Moghni (Paris: Éditions de l’aube, 2003). ¯ sif Sulta¯ nzadah, Dar Gurı¯z Gum Mı¯shavı¯m (We Disappear in flight) (Tehran: 12. A ¯ ga¯ h, 1379/2000). The title story of this collection appears in English translaA tion in Another Sea, Another Shore: Persian Stories of Migration, trans. and ed. Shouleh Vatanabadi and Mohammad Mehdi Khorrami (Northampton, Mass: Interlink Books, 2004). 13. See Sayyid Isha¯ q Shuja¯
ı¯, Sa¯ l ha¯ -i Barzakh va Ba¯ d (The Years of isthmus and storm) (Tehran: Hawzah-i Hunarı¯, 1377/1999). 14. Kha¯ lid Khusraw, “Vaz
iyat-i zidd-i adabiya¯ t” (The Anti-literature situation), Parniya¯ n 1, no. 2 (Summer 1383/2004), 71–73. 15. Appearing intermittently, the literary-cultural quarterly Parniya¯ n has barely managed to survive. Only a single issue of the quarterly Haza¯ r va Yak Shab, which is devoted to contemporary fiction, has so far appeared. See Haza¯ r va Yak Shab 1, no. 1 (Spring 1384/2005). 16. See Haru¯ n Najafı¯za¯ dah, “Vaqti Ru¯ zna¯ mah ha¯ az Ra¯ h narası¯dah Varshikast mı¯shavand” (When Newspapers go bankrupt before hitting the news-stands), in the Persian site of BBC (Sunday, April 2, 2006). 17. The publication of “provocative” articles in the newspaper A¯ fta¯ b in 2003 led to the brief imprisonment and trial of its editor-in-chief, Muhammad Mahdı¯ Mahda¯ vı¯. He was allowed to migrate to Canada where he now edits, irregularly, an online version of A¯ fta¯ b. More recently, Alı¯ Muhaqqiq-Nasab, the editor of a cultural journal for women, was tried for “heresy.” Only after he publicly recanted his “blasphemous allegations,” he was released. 18. Muhammad Ka¯ zim Ka¯ zimı¯, Hamzaba¯ nı¯ va Bı¯zaba¯ nı¯ (On Sharing a language but being unable to express it) (Tehran:
Irfa¯ n, 1382/2003). 19.
Atı¯q Rahı¯mı¯, Haza¯ rkha¯ nah-i Khwa¯ b va Ikhtina¯ q (A Thousand riddles of sleep and suffocation) (Paris: Khavaran, 1381/2002). 20. Wa¯ sef Ba¯ khtarı¯, A¯ b ha¯ -i Shi
r-i Jaha¯ n A¯ lu¯ dah Nı¯stand (Waters of world poetry are not polluted), intro. Wali Ahmadi (Kabul: Parniya¯ n, 1383/2005). 21. Rahnavard Zarya¯ b, Gulna¯ r dar A¯ yinah (Gulnar in the mirror) (Kabul, Saba¯ , 1382/2003). 22. Satire and parody are part of such an effort. For instance, see Shafı¯q Paya¯ m, Jashn-i Jina¯ zah (The Funeral party) (Kabul: Parniya¯ n, 1384/1996). 23. Fredric Jameson, A Singular Modernity: Essays on the Ontology of the Present (London: Verso, 2002), 215.

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Index

Abhar,
Abd al-Qa¯ dir: “Sipa¯ h-i Sulh” 103–4 adab 45, 51 adabiya¯ t 45, 49 adabiya¯ t-i ya’s 69 Abd al-Ra¯ hman, Amı¯r: death of 1; despotism 18, 32, 33; reign of 8, 18, 28, 31, 34 Adorno, Theodor W. 88, 114, 161 n. 54 aesthetic method 93 aesthetic purposiveness 9–15 aesthetics 5–7 Afandı¯,
Abd al-Qa¯ dir: Tasvı¯r-i
Ibrat 158 n. 12 Afghan national identity 36 “Afghani” language 45–6, 47–8 afsa¯ nah 54 ¯ lamsha¯ hı¯, Muhammad Ibra¯ hı¯m Kha¯ n:
A Sha¯ m-i Ta¯ rı¯k, Subh-i Rushan 75–6 Al-Azmeh, Aziz 3 Alf Laylah 56 Alla¯ h, Sha¯ h Ama¯ n 10, 35, 36, 63, 68, 69, 154 n. 72 allegory 9, 10, 71, 75–6 Ama¯ n-i Afgha¯ n 67 Anderson, Benedict: Imagined Communities 41, 66 Anglo-Afghan War, third 68 Anı¯s, Muhyi al-Dı¯n 57–61, 159 n. 24; Nida¯ -i Talabah-i Ma
a¯ rif ya¯ Huqu¯ qi Millat 57, 69 anjuman 117 Anjuman-i Adabı¯ Hera¯ t 91 Anjuman-i Adabı¯ Ka¯ bul 91 Arghand, Babrak: Marja¯ n 97; “Tak Marmı¯” 95–6 art of resistance 134–9 artificial poetry 49 ¯ sı¯, Qaha¯ r 117–19
A

¯ tifı¯-Afghanı¯ 78
A authenticity, forms of 5–7 ¯ zarakhsh, Sarvar: A¯ va¯ r-i Shab 143–4 A Ba¯ ba¯ -Ku¯ hı¯, Zalmai: “Kha¯ k-i But” 141 Baha¯ r-i Da¯ nish 56 Ba¯ khtarı¯, Wa¯ sef [Va¯ sif] 112, 113, 146; Baya¯ n-na¯ mah-i Va¯ risan-i Zamı¯n 144; Dı¯ba¯ chah-i dar Farja¯ m 111; ¯ fta¯ b Namı¯mı¯rad” 110–11 “Va A Bakhtin, Mikhail 84 Bakhtin Circle 93 Balibar, Etienne 36 Balkhı¯, Sayyid Isma¯
ı¯l 77 Ba¯ riq-Shafı¯’ı¯ 99, 100, 164 n. 53; “Ba Pı¯sh!” 101–2 Beard, Michael 6, 157 n. 81 Bennett, Tony 84 Bı¯dil, Mı¯rza¯
Abd al-Qa¯ dir 49 Bı¯ta¯ b,
Abd al-Haq 71–2 Brennan. Timothy 66 Chatterjee, Partha 138 civil society 35 clash of civilizations 22 Classicism 57 commandement 89, 94, 95, 99, 107, 112, 113, 114, 117 “committted” poetry 98–107 constitutionalism 31 creative adaptation 20 cultural critique 81 cultural identity 3 culture 27, 44, 45 da¯ sta¯ n-i ku¯ tah 84, 85 Da¯ vı¯,
Abd al-Ha¯ dı¯ (Parisha¯ n) 32–3, 159 n. 24 Deleuze, Gilles 47

182

Index

dialectical materialism 94 dissidence 116–19 economic determinism 116 Edwards, David 18 ethnicity 36 exile 127–8, 144–5 Fakhrı¯, Husayn: “Dar Changal-i Duzhkhı¯m” 96; Shu¯ kara¯ n dar Sa¯ tgı¯n-i Surkh 97 Fanon, Frantz: Wretched of the Earth, The 5, 115, 135 farhang 45 fictive ethnicity 36 Fikrat, Fazl-Haqq: “Chashmah-i Khurshı¯d” 105–6 Fikrı¯-Salju¯ qı¯,
Abd al-Ru  u¯ f 76–7 Firdawsı¯: Shahna¯ mah 56 Fischer, Ernst 94 Fleishman, Avrom 67 Formalist Circle 93 Foucault, Michel 13 Ga¯ h-na¯ mah 134–9 Gaonkar, Dilip Parameshwar 2, 20 “Glorious Proletarian Revolution” see Sawr Revolution Gorbachev, Mikhail 97 Gorky, Maxim 81 Gregorian 29 Guattari 47 Habı¯b Alla¯ h revolt 36 Habı¯b Alla¯ h, Amı¯r 20, 29, 31, 153 n. 69 Habı¯b, Asad Alla¯ h 85; Sih Muzdu¯ r 85–6 Habı¯b, Qadı¯r 97–8; “Zamı¯n” 96–7 Habı¯bı¯,
Abd al-Hayy 78 Habı¯biyah College 20 Ha¯ mid, Sami
144 Herder, Johann G. 42 hexis, literature of 81 Hida¯ yat, Sa¯ diq: Blind Owl, The 6, 157 n. 81 hika¯ yah 54 Hiravı¯, Ma¯  il 98–9 historical novel 67 historicization 62 Hobsbawm, Eric 47 Husayn, Muhammad: Jiha¯ d-i Akbar 67 identity 3 Ilha¯ m [Elha¯ m], Rahı¯m 104 Indian “Sepoy” revolt (1857) 17


Irfa¯ n 116 “Iron Amir” see Abd al-Rahma¯ n, Amı¯r
ishq (love) 120–1 Isla¯ h 76 Islamic unity 22–3 Ittiha¯ diyah-i Nivı¯sandaga¯ n see Writers’ Union of Afghanistan Jameson, Fredric 8–9 JanMohammed, Abdul R. 149 n. 23 Kalı¯lah va Dimnah 58 Karimi-Hakkak, Ahmad 40 Ka¯ zimı¯, Ka¯ zim 145, 146 Khalı¯l, Muhammad Ibra¯ hı¯m 73 Khalı¯lı¯, Khalı¯l Alla¯ h 119–34, 139; ¯ rya¯  ı¯ Suru¯ d: A ¯ kharı¯n Sava¯ r” “A 73–4; Diva¯ n 120 Khaliq, Sa¯ lih Muhammad 102; “Sha¯ r
ira¯ n-i Bı¯da¯ r” 102–3 khalq 83 Khamsah 56 Khan, Ahmad 43 Kha¯ varı¯ 78 Kipling, Rudyard: “Man Who Would Be King, The” 16–17 ¯ qa¯ Kha¯ n 156 n. 76 Kirma¯ nı¯, Mı¯rza¯ A Kuhda¯ manı¯, Bı¯rang: “Bibı¯n Dawra¯ n-i Gulba¯ ra¯ n” 105 La¯  iq, Sula¯ yman 82–4, 99–100, 102; “Ghaznı¯n-i Kha¯ mu¯ sh” 82; “Sha¯ m-i Ghamangı¯z” 82–3 language 45–8 Layoun, Mary 66 literary commitment 80–4 Literary Return Movement 40 Lu¯ dı¯n,
Abd al-Rahma¯ n 33–4, 153 n. 69, 159 n. 24 Mahda¯ vı¯, Muhammad Mahdı¯ 168 n. 17 Mahmu¯ d, Sulta¯ n 82 Ma  mu¯ n, Razza¯ q:
Asr-i Khudkushı¯ 144, 146 Manichean aesthetics 5, 6, 22, 115–16 ¯ bidı¯n 156 n. 78 Mara¯ gha  ı¯, Zayn al-
A Marx, Karl: Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, A 90 Marxism 93 Mbembe, Achille 13, 89 Milani, Abbas 149 n. 17 mission civilisantrice 126 modern polity 27–35

Index modernity 2–4, 10, 11, 19–20, 121–4, 125–6 Montepin, Xavier de: Viveurs de Paris, Les 56 Moretii, Franco: “Conjectures on World Literature” 60 Mu
arrif-i Ma
a¯ rif 67 Muhammadzai, Murtaza¯ Ahmad: Jashn-i Istigla¯ l dar Bolivia 67–8 Muja¯ hidı¯n 14, 114, 118, 119, 134 Musa¯ hiba¯ n dynasty 10, 36–7, 69–70 Mustaghniı¯,
Abd al-
Alı¯ 63–4 Na¯ dirı¯, Partaw 141 Najı¯bulla¯ h 97 narratives, traditional 55 national poetry 50 nationalism 19 nationalitarian phenomenon 47 nation-state 7–8, 11, 19, 36, 44 natural poetry 49–50 na¯ vul (novel) 56 Nawı¯sa¯ , Kha¯ lid 144, 146 Nazı¯hı¯-Jilvah,
Abd al-Karı¯m 79 Na¯ zimı¯, Latı¯f 107–8, 112, 113; “Bar Fa¯ tiha¯ n-i Fasl-i Baha¯ ra¯ n” 108–10; Sa¯ yah va Murda¯ b 108 Neo-Marxism 93 new poetry (“shir-i naw”) 84 Ngu¯ gı¯ wa Thiang  o 88–9 Nihuftah, Azı¯z Alla¯ h 144, 146; Khuwa¯ b-i Chashmah ha¯ -i Subh 144 Nı¯ma¯ Yu¯ shı¯j 13 non-governmental organizations (NGO) 143 novelization 84–5 optimism as cult fiction 94–8 Orientalism, discourse of 17–18 Panjshı¯rı¯, Dastgı¯r 92 Pashtu 2, 46, 48, 68, 89 patriotism 42–3 People’s Democratic Party 89, 90, 93, 94, 97, 100, 114, 116, 130 Persian language 46–8 poetics of nationalism 63–6 post-colonialism 19, 138, 139 praxis, literature of 81 Qa¯  a¯ nı¯, Mı¯rza¯ Habı¯b Alla¯ h 38–9, 40, 41 Qa¯  ilza¯ dah, Ba¯ qı¯ 77 Qa¯ rı¯za¯ dah, Ziya¯ 72–3 qissah-gu¯ yı¯ 85

183

Rahı¯mı¯,
Atı¯q 146; Kha¯ kistar va Kha¯ k 143 Realism 57 realistic narration 86 resistance 87, 119–25, 127–31, 134–9 reverse-orientalism 20 revolution, narrative of 87 Romanticism 57 ruma¯ n (roman) 56, 58–9 Sa
dı¯, Muslih al-Dı¯n: Gulista¯ n and Busta¯ n 58 Sa¯
id,
Abd al-Razza¯ q: “Khurshı¯d-i Kha¯ varı¯” 106–7 Said, Edward: Culture and Imperialism 17 Sawr Revolution (April 1978) 13–14, 87, 88, 91–2, 94–5, 98, 99, 100, 105, 107, 108, 112, 114 Schipper, Mineke 6 scientific progress 23–7 scientism 26 selective modernity 125 Sha¯  iq-Jama¯ l, Ghula¯ m Hazrat 64–5 Shams-i Qahqihah 56 Sharı¯f, Mı¯rza¯ Muhammad 65–6 shir-i naw 84 short story (da¯ sta¯ n-i ku¯ tah) 84, 85 Shuja¯
ı¯, Sayyid Isha¯ q 145 Sira¯ j al-Akhba¯ r 20, 21, 29, 32, 33, 35, 37, 41–2, 47, 63 slogans 137–8 social(ist) realism 94–8, 163 n. 29 Soviet occupation 8, 13, 87, 88–9, 91, 114–15, 117, 119, 125, 126, 138–9, 143 storytelling (naqa¯ lı¯) 55 Sufi mysticism 136 sukhan 45 ¯ sif: Dar Gurı¯z Gum Sulta¯ nzadah, A Mı¯shavı¯m 145 tale-telling (qissah-gu¯ yı¯) 85 Taliban 139, 141–2, 144, 145 Tarakı¯, Nu¯ r Muhammad 89 taraqqı¯ 69 Tarzı¯, Mahmu¯ d 20, 21, 22, 23–7, 28, 29, 30, 32, 35, 37, 38–41, 41–4, 45–8, 49–51, 52, 54–7, 59–60, 61, 80; “Bugzasht-u raft” 53–4; Mahmu¯ d-na¯ mah (Adab dar Fann) 50, 51, 53; Panj Kita¯ b 50; Para¯ kandah 39, 50, 52; “Sleeping in the Dark” 25

184

Index

Tawfı¯q,
Abd al-Husayn: “Zalmai Namurdah Ast” 74–5 tradition 21–3 Turva¯ ya¯ na¯ , Najib Alla¯ h 161 n. 51

Xiaobin Yang 150 n. 45, 161 n. 53

ummah 21, 22, 23

zaba¯ n (language) 45–6 Zarı¯fı¯, Jamı¯l 107 Zarya¯ b, Rahnavard 93, 97, 112, 113; Gulna¯ r va Ayı¯nah 146; Naqsh ha¯ va Pinda¯ r ha¯ 112; “Yasaman ha¯ Su¯ khtand” 112 Zarya¯ b, Sepuzhmay: Dasht-i Qa¯ bı¯l 143 Zhdanov, Andrei A. 91 Zhivadu¯ n 93 Zhivandai, Gul Muhammad: Fı¯ru¯ z 76

Va¯ sif, Muhammad Sarvar 29–30, 31–2, 153 n. 69 vatan 42 Verne, Jules 56 War of Independence (1919) 68 World War One 26 Writers’ Union of Afghanistan 14, 91–3, 94–5, 97, 99, 102, 108, 116, 117

Young, Robert J.C. 19 Yu¯ shı¯j, Nı¯ma¯ 84