The Khoshnawaz brothers, Herat's folk musicians who used to perform at weddings, have been exiled to Iran. Five generations of folk music in their family, the brothers only know their rubab, tabla and harmonium. They sing to survive.

As I watched the brothers prepare to perform, I replayed the scene that had gotten me here. On my way to Herat, I stayed on the bordering city of Mashad for two weeks with my cousin Isaaq. I focused on getting an interview with Ismail Khan and other political figures but Isaaq asked me to spend some time with the Khoshnawaz family.

"They need help. Maybe an article about them could inspire a sponsor in the U.S. to organize a concert for them," Isaaq hoped. "They're good. Listen for yourself."

We took a taxi to the southern part of the city. Like the rest of the world, the south is poorer than the north. Entering a rundown front yard, Rahim Khoshnawaz, the eldest brother, greeted us. Hand on his chest in a welcome gesture, Rahim wore traditional Afghan clothes with a blazer on top.

The master robab player exuded a musician's universal vibe, a spirit stuck in a body, freeing its soul with rhythm. Yet I thought I was looking at the Afghan Einstein for a minute - Rahim had strands of graying hair sticking out in different directions on his head, two-day-old beard stubble, tired eyes and defined lines on his forehead.

Isaaq and I took off our shoes and walked into the house. A piece of stained cloth separated the kitchen from the lobby.

"Our home is humble. Sorry we have no luxuries to offer," he apologized.

I reassured him that I did not covet luxury and sat down on a toshak with my full-body hijab, noticing that the room had turned into a semi-shrine for Rahim's 12-year-old son. The boy had drowned in a pool the previous year and now his bright brown eyes stared at me from a photograph hanging on the wall. A flower wreath was wrapped around the frame with plaques of Quranic verses tacked under the frame. Rahim explained that his wife went to the Imam Reza shrine and prayed for their son everyday and that's where she was now.

Offering my condolences, I wasn't sure this was the right time for a performance. Perhaps I would just ask him questions about his music. Rahim noticed my silence and quickly cheered up. He pointed to his memorabilia neatly organized at one of corner of the room: two grand robabs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, framed articles from French and British newspapers about Rahim's concerts in Europe and many black-and-white photographs of the band playing happily in Herat. Rahim asked his older son to bring tea while we waited for the rest of the band to arrive.

The Khoshnawaz brothers include Rahim, 56, tabla player Naim, 52, vocalist and harmonium player Mahmud, 40 and a brother who stayed behind in their hometown Salim, 43, also a tabla player. In Iran, Rahim's oldest son and cousin play with the trio.

As Rahim reminisced about his European tour to France, England and Switzerland in 1994, the other brothers and relatives walked in sporting Western slacks and blazers. They all exchange clothes at performances because each one has no more than two outfits.

I put my small tape recorder in front of them and told them to hit it. Their singing is soothing like lullabies - the repetitive lyrics, the predictable chime of the rubab - but the instruments do not hum.

They rock.

Naim beat on the tabla as Mahmud raised his whiny voice keeping his fingers tuned on the harmonium. Rahim skillfully strummed on the 21 strings of the original Afghan instrument. They gave it their best shot, hoping to impress their Afghan-American audience member. Isaaq and I leaned back and listened. He snapped his fingers and I clapped. In the hour they played, I was tempted many times to dance or move my body to the fast beats but I refrained. Eastern modesty and professionalism kept me clapping and nothing else.

I have always thought of musicians as lucky because they have found a way to release their creative energy. But the Khoshnawaz brothers do not play for enjoyment. Performing has become a duty, the only way to make money.

"Our hands work, our voice sings, but we're thinking of how to pay our next bill when the rent is due," Rahim said. "Music has become mechanical for us."

They do not see themselves as artists because in Afghanistan, folk musicians get no respect. They are branded as the low-class families and their trade is passed on through generations to keep their mouths fed. Rahim, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group, repeated an old Afghan saying that a musician has no clothes to wear when he's alive and no kafan (white cloth) to be covered in when he's dead. It is ironic how Afghans love music but we have only begun to appreciate it as art after living in the West. Indeed, foreigners hail and encourage our musicians more than we do.

In 1994, Rahim was invited by a French organization to perform in Europe. A tight-knit family, Rahim was disappointed to perform solo but he took the opportunity and remembers the 47-day tour as the happiest time in his life. The French had publicized his concerts so well that nearly all the performances, some with a thousand people, were sold out.

"I could not believe that Europeans could enjoy our music so much. I didn't want to come back, but I had to," he said.

Back at home, the Taliban kicked out the Khoshnawaz brothers after banning music in 1995. The family crossed the border to Mashad. Despite their fame, the brothers still struggle to support their families. For the last six years, they had a meager existence as refugees, borrowing money from friends, performing at private Afghan gatherings for a fee that pays only their electricity bill and fixing instruments for music shops. But Rahim has a couple of Iranian students and the band was invited to a gathering of official clerics in Tehran. They performed for Iranian President Mohammad Khatami.

The brothers are jolly, hospitable and humble. Rahim has been a robab player for nearly half a century, but he said he still has a lot to learn. The brothers dropped out of grade school and began playing with their father. Rahim was 12 when he played on his first robab. The brothers picked up their trade by watching their elders and mimicking. Later they learned their instruments professionally.

At age 32, Rahim studied robab under Ustad Omar and Naim played the tabla professionally with the legendary Ustad Sarahang. Their music aired on Kabul radio and television programs in the 1960s and 1970s.

John Baily, a British musicologist, came to Herat to study their music in the early 1970s. Baily continues to assist the brothers financially and professionally from Britain.

But those were their glory days.

Now they are wishing for one more chance to perform in the West. After they finished their interview and performance, the brothers looked at me with a glint in their eyes and asked if my article could make that possible. I sadly shrugged my shoulders. "I hope so." |