It's the show that's rocking Afghanistan, but contestants on its answer to ' The X Factor'are risking not just humiliation, but their lives, writes SIMON BROUGHTONin Kabul
I WENT TO Afghanistan in January 2002, just a few months after the Taliban fled Kabul, to make a documentary for the BBC about the return of music to the capital. Despite the chaos, the hunger for music – prohibited under Taliban rule – was incredible. Cassettes and video players were brought out of hiding, while tapes and DVDs were hurriedly bussed in from the exiled Afghan community in Pakistan.
Three years later, Afghan Star, the country's equivalent of The X Factor, was launched by Tolo TV, Afghanistan's leading independent television company. By the time the third series came around last year, the show had become a national phenomenon, despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that some entrants were risking their lives by taking part. Women contestants, in particular, have been the object of much anger among religious conservatives. But the prize is considerable: as well as fame, the winner receives $7,000, which is around 10 times the average annual salary. Now hopes are high that this hit show can unite Afghanistan's diverse ethnic groups and help bring an end to conflict.
Daoud Sediqi, who presented the first three series, has said that the show’s aim was “to take people’s hands from weapons to music”. Sediqi – who rebelled against Taliban rule by secretly repairing people’s video recorders – wasn’t exaggerating Afghan Star’s huge influence. The final was watched by 11 million people, a third of the Afghan population, all voting for their favourite performer by mobile phone; for many, it was their first taste of democracy.
The progress of last year’s tumultuous series was followed by a British film crew. “We were incredibly lucky,” says director Havana Marking, whose documentary focuses on four contestants. “This was when the series became really big, and everything fell into place. In the final 10, selected by the judges, there were two women. And all the ethnic groups were represented.” In January, Marking’s documentary (also called Afghan Star) took two prizes in the Sundance film festival’s world-cinema category: best documentary director, and the audience documentary award.
There were just three women among the 2,000 people who auditioned for Afghan Star. The fact that two made the final 10 suggests a little positive discrimination was employed (judges whittle the numbers down to 10; text-messaging then decides the winner). The documentary follows these two women and two men. "I want to be famous so I can sing for my people," says Rafi Nabzaada, a 19-year-old Tajik. The most cocksure of the contestants, he is filmed going to the shrine of Hazrat Ali in his home city of Mazar-e-Sharif, where an imam prays for his victory.
Hameed Sakhizada, 20, is the most musical of the four. He is Hazara, from the centre of the country, where the Bamiyan Buddhas were blown up by the Taliban, and has an interest in traditional music. “But an artist has to follow the people,” he says. “If the people want pop, I have to give them pop.” Lema Sahar, 25, is a Pashtun singer from Kandahar, a Taliban stronghold. As a woman, she is taking a risk even entering the show. “Music is banned by religion,” she says. “But why should I hide it? Singing is in my tradition.” As the competition neared its climax, she claimed even the Taliban are voting for her – because she is Pashtun.
Finally, there is Setara Hussainzada, 22, from Herat, a conservative city in the west. “I believe there is no difference between a woman and a man,” she declares. “I am open-minded. I have no fear. I just want to be a famous singer.”
SADLY, MOST Afghans are not so open-minded. Setara, a single woman who lives alone (something that is almost unheard of), has much to fear. Although there is nothing in the Koran prohibiting music, many Islamists disapprove of music and dance as incitements to licentious behaviour. Already the show has received a warning from the Islamic Council, for “misleading the people”.
The performers in Afghan Star, both men and women, hardly move on stage. In Marking's documentary, you can hear a gasp of horror when Setara Hussainzada starts to dance. It is one of the most disturbing scenes in the film: we see her headscarf slip as she moves modestly to the music. It's so slight, and yet it causes a storm of protest, even among her fellow contestants. "Dancing may be liked overseas, but Afghans don't approve," says Rafi Nabzaada. Others go much further. "She brought shame to the Herati people," says a man on the streets of her home town. "She deserves to be killed." Fearing for her life, Hussainzada has gone into hiding.
Although Afghan Staris about pop, the music is very Afghan in character. Most of the songs are indistinguishable from commercial central-Asian pop, but the lyrics have a poetic quality, particularly the love songs: "Her eyebrows are like a bow shooting an arrow at me." National unity is another common topic – and there is no Simon Cowell-style humiliation. "They tried it," Marking says, "but the audience hated it." What's remarkable about Marking's film is not just the stories of these four contestants but the way it captures everyday life in Afghanistan – its street kids, the show's fans, people talking at street stalls.
"Afghan Staris better than politics," says one man in a teahouse. "Politics bring misery."
