Afghan Punkzine: “What’s Afghan Punk Rock, Anyway?!”

Founded in 2018, What’s Afghan Punk Rock, Anyway? is a magazine that welcomes any and all liberatory struggles to its pages. Its creator, Armeghan Taheri, is wildly multi-hyphenated: Afghan-German, Berlin-based, writer-editor-artist, cultural-worker, story-teller…As the syntax suggests, she’s a connector of worlds. Each issue of the magazine approaches an eclectic range of Afghani experiences; existing in the diaspora, the phenomenon of ‘Half-Ghanism,’ and Othering. But much of its content explores more universal trials—futurist anxiety, addiction, mental health issues, trauma, love—human stories that are Afghan, too. The zine’s issues are rich with phenomenal art, punchy and interrogative pieces, and sardonic political cartoons – all inimitable in power, imagination, and vulnerability. Celebrating the full-blooded heterogeneity of Afghani stories, Dazed MENA gives Armeghan Taheri the floor to tell us what this zine is all about. 

What prompted you to start a magazine like this?

I started the magazine in 2018 in Berlin because there was a lack of emancipatory spaces for Afghan cultural and artistic production. A normalised phenomenon kept continuing Afghans as fascinating objects in front of the camera, and our stories were being commercialised, sold for emotional pay-off, typically framed within a set binary of ‘hero or oppressed, victim or perpetrator’—stereotypical and reductive narratives. Beneficiaries were often white journalists, artists, curators, photographers, and other people who project teary-eyed fantasies upon us. 

What was missing was a fully humanising form of storytelling. The labels placed on us felt uncomfortable, and confining, and left little room for us to exist authentically, to share our stories with each other—the good and the bad, the struggles and the beauty—without fear of being commodified or manipulated into narratives beyond our control. The goal was to create art and culture that is powerful, bold, and unapologetically ours; art that is loud and rebellious. 

And it’s ‘punk’? What does the term mean to you?

It is “punk” because the price I had to pay for going against norms is something a white punk with existential security would never have to face or experience. There is a different kind of boldness when you don’t have the structural, institutional, or societal safety net that will support you even if you choose to rebel against it. 

Throughout my life, I have always felt rebellious and like I never quite belonged, nor was I supported in choosing to fall out of the norms. I don’t mean in the stereotypical ‘between worlds’ sense, but rather because I felt out of place within my own experiences and fights—in my family, my community, and while challenging norms and rules. And all this was even worse within the dominant Western society that likes to believe itself to be so ‘progressive’ when it is nothing but a pile of racist and conformist repressed normies. I found myself constantly resisting and trying to break away from the standards imposed upon me. I wanted to carve out a space to talk about things that are often considered taboo: Mental health, addiction, pain, and angst, as well as notions of platonic, romantic, and collective love, prayer, God, care, and dreams. 

What has been the best part of it so far?

When I saw how many people were drawn to the idea after I called for submissions. As it grew bigger and found resonance with those who were starving for a space like this, I felt less alone. I never take it for granted; sometimes, I still struggle to think I deserve it.

People trust me with their vulnerable stories and their art, offering a generosity of spirit and creativity. Seeing that a magazine can foster something like community and solidarity is something I am deeply grateful for. 

What kind of change are you hoping to drive with the magazine?

I hope to disrupt the status quo by implementing, in small ways, a creative, artistic, and collectively driven approach to destroy classist notions of art and enhancing narratives of solidarity When people hear ‘What’s Afghan punk rock anyway?’ they often assume it’s only about Afghans. It is not; it’s inviting all types of liberation struggles. Yes, we as Afghans are at the forefront because our experiences of being used allows us to see the connectivity regarding how the world operates and the importance of sticking together to resist these systems. There’s a continuity of the same systems oppressing and terrorising our world and lives. So, this space is also about connecting over shared struggles who have the same denominators, roots, and motivators. 

How has your Afghan-German background fed this vision?

When we came to Germany, I was surrounded by friends and neighbours who shared a sense of solidarity, driven by our common social, political, and especially class experiences. I want to continue this form of politicisation. My parents, who were politically active in Afghanistan and paid the price for it, never politicised me in a way that used isolated rhetoric. Even back in the 70s, their organisation acknowledged the connectivity. It was always clear to me that our struggles are not isolated. What happened to us—our lives, our country—it’s not just about us; it’s part of a larger pattern of atrocities, imperial legacies, and the capitalistic blood machine. These issues are interconnected, and as long as we fight our struggles alone and follow the logic of separateness, the situation will only become more dire. There is no war but class war. 

It’s a supremely intersectional struggle and your magazine reflects that. 

Since the beginning, people have joined to share their stories side by side—Kurdish, Palestinian, Black, and Jewish struggles, among others, have been highlighted to emphasise that none of our struggles are separate. Of course, there is also a significant queer perspective throughout the project; in fact, it’s all inherently queer—just look at how loudly the cover screams. But I rarely highlight it because the fascination with queerness, especially when connected to Afghan identity, seems to attract a particularly Western obsession. It’s as if the idea of queerness existing everywhere is surprising or ‘intriguing’ to people, when in reality, queerness has always been a part of the struggle. 

What fuels your work the most?

Rage and political grief. I’m angry a lot and the only way I know how to channel that is by finding a way to collectively create meaning. Look at the world: I’d love to write cute little stories or take photos of trees, but that’s not what the work of an artist demands right now.

What would you like to see yourself ultimately achieving with the magazine?

I am committed to resisting the annihilation of our strong spirits through cultural practices. I want to create a space where imagination is unconditionally allowed, where revolution can be seen as a creative practice. It’s a space for people to read, get radicalised, imagine, feel, be moved, feel less alone, simply exist, and know that we are here—dreaming, imagining, fighting, loving, and standing strong. 

The magazine is currently running a community project with young people using our cultural heritage to reimagine ourselves and resist the erasure of a rich culture that is not defined solely by pain and trauma, but by diverse and resilient histories. This culture is being systematically eradicated, both within and outside of Afghanistan, and I aim to resist this through the power of cultural practices. 

My father, who was a political prisoner, always told me: ‘Even if you are in jail, no one can ever imprison your mind. Even if you lose everything and the walls close in, in your mind, you are always free until your last breath.’ This belief shaped me, and to me, there is nothing more revolutionary to teach and uphold during desperate times.