My friend, the musician, is hiding from violent forces, when all he’d like to be doing is teach and perform music.

“My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if possible,
with Holland linen.
Do you not see the wounds I have
from my chest up to my neck?”

(From Romance Sonámbulo by Lorca)

For the past months I have been communicating with a man whom I now call my friend (and who for security reasons I will refer to as HZ). A man whose passion for art tears through in every message he writes to me. A man who fiercely believes in the power of music and its healing capabilities. A man who, after years and years of living in limbo in hostile Afghanistan, experiencing torture and unjust imprisonment, waiting for the world to give a helping hand, still has hope in his heart that art and love will prevail.

HZ wrote a letter to the world, which has been edited for translation reasons and clarity and from which, fragments can be read throughout this article. HZ’s beautiful music can also be heard throughout the article.

My friend is not originally from Afghanistan but some years ago he escaped to there after being imprisoned and harassed by his own government in Iran. The only thing he did wrong, in the eyes of the powerful, was to voice his opinion. Using his voice, in public and in music, led to him being arrested and suffering unspeakable things in prison. War-torn Afghanistan, at that time, became a safer place for him.

Homeland is another name for displacement, displacement is another name for homeland.” Every day many lands are drowned in black waters, they die on the shores of Tunisia, they are shot at the border of Turkey, they are quarantined on the Greek islands, they dry in trucks like pieces of meat, and what is buried may not be displacement, but the concept and meaning of the name land, homeland. And it is the house that dies. Without a future, without a home, without a homeland, insecure, without bread and freedom, on the verge of death, the one who speaks to you is me, little Iran, another name for displacement. Maybe this is my last word for you, but I use it with the last bit of strength that I still have, a handful of words to shout in praise of freedom.

While in Afghanistan, HZ, a long-time student of Persian master Mohammad Reza Shajarian, started teaching music to children, especially to young girls. He established an all-girls choral group that performed hymns and musical theater and he collaborated with an animal aid center and the Afghan Literary Association. He further created cultural and artistic television programs and musical theater works with young girls.

All these activities were voluntary.

After years of fear and hiding, I throw away my fear and doubt and scream again and again. Because a person trapped in such a world has nothing to lose. I wish words were enough to explain the suffering of slaps, beatings, humiliation, cursing and all kinds of tortures and rapes in the prisons of Iran and Afghanistan for the crime of seeking freedom or looking to obtain a document for the right to live on such a large land. With this description, there is no escape other than taking refuge in this cry.

Today my friend is not that man. He is not teaching, but instead hiding. Not playing music, but instead quiet. Not creating, but instead escaping harm.

He is in a village that is not his home, but instead a refuge. The place that once was safer than his homeland, has now become uncertain grounds. After the Taliban reclaimed control over the country, a couple of years ago, he, as a musician and foreigner, is in grave danger.

One typical message exchange between us starts with me checking up on him, asking how it’s going that day. After his usual warm greeting, he sends back a photo of his bloody, wounded shoulder. He was attacked for simply wearing his homeland on his skin. Could have been worse if they’d known he was a musician.

Before I have lost my last strength to think and see and speak, I want to write about the death and psychological destruction of comrades, women and men, who perished under torture. I write about being humiliated in the streets. About sleeping hungry for weeks and being homeless. From being discriminated against because of my language, accent, type, and nationality, not only from a hostile people on the streets or authorities, but also from the people responsible for my refugee case at the United Nations. I am talking about unanswered letters to local, regional and global human rights officials. About being alone and awaiting death.

For years, my friend has been reaching out to people and branches within the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees). He has sent countless applications to organisations that help at-risk artists. But today he is, painfully, still waiting for help. Without being able to work, and thus without being able to attend to his wounds, his health is deteriorating fast.

There are countless others like him. Countless artists, dissidents, activists, who only wish to provide for themselves and their family and color the world with their beautiful creations.

My friend tells me that he does not fear death, for he knows art will prevail. Sharing his songs and his story here is but only a small thing. Getting to know HZ has become a privilege for me; his optimism, his deep love for art, and his friendship has enriched my life. No one should have to suffer through the experiences that have been put upon him and any country should be so lucky to have him augment their culture with his music and teachings. If you, who are reading this, would like to help my friend further, so he can seek medical attention and, eventually, reach safer grounds, please contact me at halldor@shoutsmusic.blog or via Shouts’ social media.

But I didn’t say these words to find sadness. I write to keep the cry of protest alive. I have written so that everyone knows who are responsible for my death if I die. In the end, I shake the warm hand of my fellow sufferers and other wounded relatives, around the world, and I end my letter with this sentence of Forugh Farrokhzad:

“Remember to fly, the bird is a mortal”