PublicationNotes #17

Tuesday, July 22, 2025—In Tehran, curator Akram Ahmadi Tavana, visual artist and curator Maryam Kouhestani, and documentary filmmaker Hasan Noori came together to discuss the Afghan art scene and the experiences of migrant visual artists in Iran. Ahmadi Tavana, a curator and lecturer, has long worked with Afghan migrant communities, fostering cultural exchange and artistic visibility. Maryam Kouhestani is the curator of Nimrouz, the first exhibition of contemporary Afghan art held in Tehran in 2017. She lived and taught in Afghanistan time to time from 2015 to 2017, and her experiences provide a valuable starting point for the conversation. Hasan Noori, originally from Afghanistan, studied sociology in Tehran and has, in recent years, focused on documentary films that raise awareness for the Afghan community in Iran. Together, their distinct perspectives offer a multifaceted view of the challenges and opportunities Afghan artists face in Iran—and, more broadly, how migration shapes the artistic practices and expressions of displaced communities.

Akram Ahmadi Tavana: I suggest we begin our conversation by discussing the connections between artistic practice and the social structure of Afghanistan.

Hasan Noori: When discussing Afghanistan, we must consider its social structure and the basis for action within that society. My observation suggests that Afghan society has not fully undergone the process of nation-building. Therefore, instead of facing a unified Afghan nation, we are dealing with ethnic groups living together within one country, and most of their actions are driven by ethnicity.

What we call ethnic Asabiyyah,¹ a form of ethnic prejudice and exclusivism, has been continuously reproduced throughout the history of this country, from its establishment in the late nineteenth century. For example, the Pashtuns, who have always held power during this period, have considered other ethnicities as outsiders and migrants, constantly marginalizing them and seeking everything for their own group. They have imposed their own language, religion, customs, and traditions. And hence there are such persistent disputes over the Persian language or the Shi’a sect, and so on.

At the same time, even among the ethnic groups themselves, there are many divisions based on region and geography, and at another level, even within families, conflicts persist. This ethnic prejudice continually restricts and pushes back alternative possibilities, such as plurality and the coexistence of diverse ethnic, religious, and linguistic groups living alongside one another.

Maryam Kouhestani: The ethnic mindset is so strong that it shapes every aspect of culture. In my experience, people usually only support their own group — Hazara, Tajik, Pashtun — and tend to exclude others. And it’s something even children start learning from a very young age. As someone coming from an ethnic minority in Iran — I’m Baluch — I’ve noticed how different it feels here, how people from different groups in Iran come together and support each other in difficult times. That’s why I keep asking myself: Where does this division in Afghanistan really come from? I’ve also tried to make sense of it through literature and art, but I still haven’t found an answer . . .

HN: Broad access to higher education, urbanization, and the growth of major cities, the creation of real markets where people’s economic interests become tied together — all of these, over time, can weaken older bonds like ethnic or tribal ties, kinship, or regional loyalties and open the way for social change. What I want to stress is that we shouldn’t look at these issues just on the level of individuals. We need to understand them historically and structurally. Then, instead of judging people’s actions as good or bad, ugly or beautiful, we can recognize them as social realities.

AAT: The issue of “otherness” also affects relations between Iranians and Afghans. Even with long-standing coexistence and strong shared ties, a significant distance remains between our two peoples, despite many similarities. Right now, as we’re having this conversation, there’s a new, sweeping wave of deportations of Afghans by the Iranian government, and what’s painful is that much of the public supports it and shows violence toward the Afghan migrant community. Yet we don’t see that same prejudice directed at other peoples, for example, Europeans.

MK: From my experience over these years, even with so many shared ties, and even a common language, building lasting trust is difficult and fragile. After the Nimrouz project, I became discouraged about whether I could sustain and continue that connection.

AAT: Let’s explore that a little further. The Nimrouz exhibition in 2017 was a major, unprecedented showcase of contemporary Afghan artists. How did this project come together?

MK: When I traveled to Afghanistan, lived there, and worked closely with local communities and artists, I realized I might be able to bridge some connections. My wish was to see Afghan artists’ names recognized on the global art stage — in exhibitions and major auctions. On my second trip in 2015 (My first trip had been in 2001), I visited Kabul, Herat, and Mazar-i-Sharif. During that journey, I met Abdul Naser Sawabi, a well-known painter, and gave a lecture at Herat University. That marked the beginning of building meaningful connections. I spent time with artists and musicians, listening to their stories — how they had resisted during the dark days of the Taliban and preserved their art against all odds. I thought to myself, these stories need to be shared with the world. From that moment, I felt compelled to do everything I could to make sure the perseverance of Afghan artists was seen. For me, above all, this project had a profoundly human dimension.

AAT: Why didn’t Nimrouz continue? I’ve heard you had ideas to carry it forward.

MK: From the very start of the project until the last three months, when a proper team was finally in place, I handled almost everything on my own. The main problem was the lack of financial sponsorship. Even the friends who volunteered eventually became exhausted due to the economic pressures and the heavy workload, which was completely understandable. The challenges also went beyond finances. Getting artworks out of Afghanistan, collecting pieces from various countries, securing visas for the artists, arranging accommodation and transportation, framing works, and preparing the gallery were enormous tasks for a single person. The artists stayed at the home of the late artist Sadegh Tirafkan. One night, while preparing the exhibition, I was ill and recovering from surgery, and we couldn’t manage to prepare dinner — an incident that even led to a serious argument. On top of that, some people were upset after the project ended and saw its impression, questioning why the curator was an Iranian woman or an independent artist. Despite all these challenges, the exhibition went ahead and succeeded in shifting part of the Iranian art community’s perception of Afghanistan. It also had a positive impact on Afghan migrant cultural communities.

AAT: What was the curatorial idea behind the Nimrouz exhibition? How did you get to know the artists and collect their works?

MK: I was determined to hold an exhibition in Iran. At first, I found a small, newly established gallery that promised to support us, and from the very beginning, I titled it Contemporary Art of Afghanistan. Most people, both in Iran and Afghanistan, were skeptical. Since there was little awareness, they doubted whether Afghan art was ready for such a title. But I believed it was. I spent more than a year searching for Afghan artists on Facebook. Gradually, over the course of two years, I located artists from all corners of the world. The number of participating artists soon exceeded my initial expectations, and the venue was upgraded to a much larger and more prestigious space: Niavaran Cultural Center. Some of the artworks I personally brought from Afghanistan to Iran, while others were sent from different countries via mail or by travelers. Several artists and friends helped transport works from all over the world. The exhibition catalog was published by the Lajevardi Foundation. I should also mention that, although the project didn’t have a financial sponsor, everyone whose name or logo appears in the catalog contributed selflessly and sincerely toward this goal.

AAT: Were you able to gain support from Afghanistan’s wealthy and elite community?

MK: What was really disappointing was the complete indifference of the Afghan ambassador and the lack of action from the wealthy Afghan entrepreneurs. We received no support from them, and not a single artwork was purchased by Afghan businesspeople. In my view, one of the weaknesses in Afghanistan’s cultural sphere is that when it comes to art or education, people generally wait for outside support. For example, there are few Afghan collectors, dealers, or anyone who supports artists by buying their work. I had no personal gain, but my motivation was to introduce Afghan art, and fortunately, that goal was achieved. But for these same reasons, later projects we had planned, such as the Paris exhibition or the Bamiyan workshops with the presence of Iranian artists, could not be realized, also because of my illness and the lack of financial support.

HN: The Nimrouz exhibition was a remarkable event, and Maryam put in a tremendous amount of work. Given its scope, it’s only natural that there were some shortcomings and challenges along the way. Even something like the tension over a missed dinner has to be seen within the broader context of the strained relations between Iranians and Afghans, shaped by four decades of migration. These relations are laden with complex assumptions and stereotypes that surface whenever the two communities interact. It’s easy, for instance, for such moments to be read as an Iranian artist undervaluing an Afghan artist — one of many possible interpretations. Time and again, we encounter stories framed by dynamics of “dominance” and “subordination,” where those with greater access to resources engage with marginalized communities, complete their projects, and then move on. Such patterns naturally foster mistrust among vulnerable groups, and that mistrust inevitably seeps into interactions like those surrounding Nimrouz. When we acknowledge this history, we begin to see these incidents not simply as questions of identity, but as part of a larger structural and historical reality.

MK: It was a tough journey…

HN: Let’s acknowledge that the culture of collective effort and teamwork remains weak in both Afghanistan and Iran. So, in a sense, collaboration between Iranians and Afghans can feel like walking through a minefield. Yet genuine solidarity has to be grounded in something deeper than personal interest. It requires a belief in shared values that extend beyond individual relationships. There are deep and extensive bonds between the people of Afghanistan and Iran, ties woven into who we are. I’ve met many Afghans who, without hesitation, would even fight to defend Iran.

MK: My deepest experiences in Afghanistan were shaped through our shared language. The night in Mazar-i-Sharif, driving through the city while listening to Dariush Eghbali, seeing the love for Persian literature and cinema so widespread, and when you feel that warmth, the idea of any distance between us just stops making sense.

AAT: I believe we shouldn’t confuse individual temperament with the cultural or national traits of a country or its artistic community. The behavior of individuals in specific situations doesn’t necessarily represent their nationality. We need to look at the broader cultural structure. The question is: Does the kind of art we’re talking about today even register as “art” in the eyes of wealthy Afghans? And do prominent Afghan artists actually emerge from an active, dynamic artistic community? For that kind of experience to exist, there has to be a functioning art ecosystem — a community, educational institutions, and spaces that nurture and sustain artistic practice.

HN: We should remember that, for the past fifty years, Afghanistan has been in a state of constant conflict and upheaval, which has severely affected its cultural and social foundations. Moral life requires a person to be in a minimum of secure circumstances to be able to see beyond themselves and recognize the other. It is difficult for such a mechanism to develop under such circumstances. There are, then, certainly cases of individual artistic success, but has there ever truly been a functioning artistic field or infrastructure? During the two decades of the Republic, Afghan artists did gain some valuable experiences, yet the “art field” — as a chain connecting production, distribution, and reception — never fully took shape. Artists need access to education; the works they create require visibility and distribution, and that, in turn, depends on mediating institutions such as publications, galleries, performance spaces, and critics. The consumption of art also depends on the existence of an audience — a social class of cultural consumers — which again relies on education and institutions. What has pushed art to the margins in Afghanistan is precisely the destruction of this entire chain over decades of war and instability.

AAT: Given all these circumstances, perhaps we should turn to the question of whether Afghan artists can actually survive within Iran’s art scene. From what I’ve seen, it’s clear that Afghan artists are marginalized in Iran, and that makes it extremely difficult for them to sustain their practice. Nimrouz was like a brief storm, a momentary surge that temporarily broke through the barriers. But in general, how much space is there for an Afghan artist in Iran — to study, to find work, and to build a lasting presence?

HN: Broadly speaking, art can hardly be a concern of the lower classes. Artistic activity or aesthetic consumption requires a certain amount of freedom, which at the very least presupposes a middle-class position. So the question becomes: What social class do most Afghans in Iran belong to? If we look at the list of occupations legally permitted for Afghans, they are almost entirely low-income jobs. This naturally limits where they can live — usually in marginalized areas of the city. From here, we arrive at the broader issue of the center and the periphery, which isn’t only about being a migrant or a local. Poor citizens living on the periphery — whether Iranian or Afghan — are largely cut off from cultural resources: galleries, cinemas, theaters, concert halls, and, more generally, from access to cultural capital. Without these connections, how can anyone realistically enter the art scene? This structural and economic confinement drastically reduces the chances of artistic formation among Afghans. In addition, attending art schools is generally prohibited for them — except in rare cases where an exception is made. So, in effect, access to art education for Afghans is almost completely blocked. On top of that, art education is expensive and offers little economic prospect, making it even less accessible.

Beyond all this, we also need to consider the transmission of cultural capital through families. Given Afghanistan’s interrupted historical and cultural continuity, this chain has been broken. The education system, which should normally serve as a means for transferring cultural capital, is largely ineffective. And the media, which also plays a crucial role in this process, is practically absent. As a result, what remains are mostly chance encounters with art, things like street art, graffiti, theater, or street musicians. But even these have been taken away from marginal areas through the processes of monetization and commodification of art. Take, for example, a street musician: Their main aim is to earn money, but it really doesn’t happen in the outer districts. They finally have to go into the wealthy areas or the city center. The social and spatial structure is such that Afghans end up confined to the margins, a position that exposes them to multiple forms of vulnerability, one of which is being cut off from art altogether.

AAT: So, in effect, a structural condition is being created that situates the migrant in a space where they are persistently affected by its consequences.

HN: But if someone manages to overcome all these obstacles and actually enter the artistic sphere, in my experience, the path becomes somewhat easier. The tension between Iranians and Afghans is largely class-based and concentrated in the urban peripheries — it’s rooted in the economic conflict between Iranian and Afghan laborers. The Afghan art community, however, isn’t large enough to threaten the interests of Iran’s art scene. In fact, what we often encounter instead is a kind of supportive attitude — one that sometimes even takes on a charitable tone.

AAT: So, you mean if someone manages to go through all that and actually enter the professional art scene . . .

HN: They will be supported. For example, in my documentary film Forbidden Strings², all the crew members were professional filmmakers from Iran’s narrative cinema. Everyone agreed to dedicate their time, collaborate, and even offer discounts for the project.

MK: I’ve seen the same in my own experience.

HN: Now, I wonder: If Afghan artists gradually gain a larger presence in Iran and conflicts of interest begin to emerge, will this supportive dynamic still hold?

Translated by Helia Darabi