The Poetry of Afghanistan

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Portrait of Afghan poet Khalilullah Khalili
Afghan poet Khalilullah Khalili, whose verses remain deeply cherished across the Persian-speaking world

Amidst the crisis in Afghanistan, what cries out the most is its poetry. It is the heart and soul of life in this land and a source of inspiration for many. It is cherished by almost every group in Afghan society. Both in Persian (Dari) and Pashto, Afghan poetry dates back thousands of years.

Khalilullah Khalili, born in 1908 in the Kabul province, remains one of Afghanistan’s most beloved twentieth-century poets, historians and novelists of the modern era. Considered one of the last of the great Persian poets, his works, although almost entirely unknown in the Western world, are still recited by heart across the Persian-speaking world and remain a source of national pride for Afghanistan.

Writing on themes ranging from the power of faith to the beauty of love, Khalili touched the hearts of many, including legendary figures such as Ahmad Shah Massoud, Afghanistan’s national hero of the 1990s who fought against both the Soviets and the Taliban. Massoud often recited Khalili’s poetry from memory while fighting in the high mountains of the Panjshir Valley.

It speaks volumes about the tender, emotional side of this fighter that he drew inspiration from poetry while fighting for a cause. It also underscores how deeply poetry is entrenched in the Afghan psyche.

The heart of the Believer disdains fear of stormy events.
The Believer's heart knows only one ship captain: God.

Khalili wrote some of his most powerful poems on the darkness of war and the beauty of his native Afghanistan while he was living in exile after the Soviet invasion of the country.

Oh the cruel, the despot, the oppressor! I will not indeed be giving that to the one who wants to destroy me.
You will see me in another battle, another time,
Because God has given hope to my heart,
And this hope will bring me back to what I want to reach.

He later wrote:

Man does not die by death; death only steals his name.
As death renders eternal, how can he simply die?

…and my favourite:

We are the actors and spectators on life’s stage,
Perplexed in our work, bewildered at the riddle of the universe;
We are but small puppets in the hand of Time,
Dancing to the tunes of others!

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