In the dimly lit confines of a small home nestled in a village near Taluqan, Northern Afghanistan, an age-old ritual unfolded. Men gathered, seeking solace from the cold night and the harsh realities of their world. Wrapped in thick blankets, they sat on red cushions, the air heavy with the scent of hashish, waiting for the evening’s entertainment to begin.
Amidst the flickering candlelight, a young boy emerged, offering warm water for hand washing, a gesture of hospitality that belied the complex dynamics at play. Dinner followed – a communal meal of meat stew, bread, and yogurt, shared in anticipation of the night’s true purpose. As the meal concluded, the host, a former Taliban commander, now allied with the Afghan government, produced bottles of vodka, initiating a round of toasts and drinks that loosened tongues and inhibitions.
The atmosphere shifted as a sitar’s melody filled the room, signaling the arrival of the dancer. Clad in a vibrant red skirt, flowing shirt, and sherwal pants, adorned with small silver bells, the figure moved gracefully. A red scarf concealed the dancer’s face, adding an air of mystery. The bells chimed with each step, the skirt swayed, and the men reached out, drawn to the spectacle. The sitar player’s love song, laced with themes of betrayal, set the emotional tone as the dancer mirrored the music, twisting and turning, the scarf eventually falling to reveal a young man’s face, barely touched by adolescence. The scarf was quickly retrieved, its scent eagerly inhaled by one of the men in the room.
This scene is a glimpse into the world of bacha bazi, a deeply rooted Afghan tradition, literally meaning “boy for play,” where young boys are dressed as women and trained to dance for men at private parties. Though outlawed during Taliban rule, bacha bazi has resurfaced and is now prevalent across Afghanistan, from rural villages to urban centers like Kabul, often featured at weddings and private gatherings.
These “bacha dancers” are frequently vulnerable children, often rejected by their families, falling into the hands of “owners” or “masters.” These men, both single and married, maintain the boys in a form of sexual servitude, akin to concubines. Typically, these boys are released around the age of 19, expected to reintegrate into society as men, marry, and shed the stigma of their past. However, the social scars of having been a bacha are profound and lasting. While Afghan authorities and human rights organizations are aware of the widespread exploitation inherent in bacha bazi, they seem unable to effectively combat this deeply entrenched practice.
In another room, the stark reality of this tradition was further exemplified by 16-year-old Mustafa’s preparation for his dance. His owner laid out the costume – a blue skirt, crimson shirt, leather straps, and bells. Mustafa, perched nervously on a table, smoked a cigarette, a stark image of forced adulthood. Two older men, their faces bearded and turbaned, dressed him with unsettling glee, giggling as they adorned him like a doll. One meticulously combed his hair, while the other took pride in fastening the straps and bells to his limbs.
After his performance, Mustafa recounted his story with a chilling matter-of-factness. “My grandfather warned me about men because I was handsome,” he began. “One day, a mechanic attacked me, and my family rejected me. I had to live with that man. Now I am with someone else, and he taught me how to dance.” He then detailed his acquisition of women’s clothing, the mundane details contrasting sharply with the underlying trauma. When asked about being dressed by men, he simply stated, “It’s OK.”
The demand for bacha bazi extends beyond private parties. In Kabul and other Afghan cities, street vendors openly sell CDs and DVDs featuring bacha dancers, catering to those who cannot afford live performances. Cafes often play grainy videos of boys dancing, providing a constant, if mediated, presence of this practice in Afghan society.
Kabul’s musicians, many of whom facilitate bacha bazi performances, gather in the city’s war-scarred southern district. In a dilapidated hotel, past a rusty gate and down a dark, foul-smelling staircase, lies a hub for this hidden world. The air is thick with the odors of hashish, opium, urine, and burnt oil. On Thursday afternoons, dancing boys and their owners congregate here, awaiting clients seeking entertainment for weddings and parties.
The hotel teems with musicians, including a contingent of 30 Pakistani Pashtun musicians who sought refuge in Kabul. One Pakistani musician, with meticulously styled hair, noted, “The Afghans like us as much as their own musicians. Even Kendeel Kuji [a famous Pakistani singer] is here.”
In this environment, the story of Habib, a dancer, offers a different perspective. Dressed in a pristine white salwar kameez, adorned with gold rings, Habib presented a polished image. “I love it. No one forced me – I love it,” he declared when asked about his profession.
Habib’s path into bacha bazi was marked by familial rejection at age 13, leading him to Peshawar with his lover, seeking refuge from the Taliban. “There, I learned how to dance. We could do everything there; I could dress like a woman and dance. Here in Kabul, we can’t do much; I can only put some red on my lips and dance.” He emphasized his agency, yet the underlying vulnerability remained.
Returning to Kabul after the Taliban’s fall, Habib established himself in a small hotel. He addressed the societal perceptions head-on: “People accuse us of being homosexuals and transsexuals, but we are not. We are not trying to be women, we are just dancers.” He acknowledged the dangers and exploitation inherent in the practice, stating, “Some men like my dancing and give me tips, but other men like to do other things with me. I have to be careful – they can be dangerous. I know how to maneuver to take their money and not let them harm me.”
Habib offered a rationale for the tradition: “Because men like women, and they are not available, so we act like women. We wink at the rich men in the room, we excite them, and they pay us.” He recounted an encounter where an elder offered him a substantial sum to become a lover and quit dancing, an offer he declined, choosing to remain a dancer while accepting a smaller sum and a continued relationship. “I am normal, but I like to walk and talk and to perform like a woman,” Habib concluded, highlighting the complex intersection of choice, coercion, and cultural expectations within the world of The Dancing Boys Of Afghanistan.
The tradition of bacha bazi, with its blend of cultural acceptance and inherent exploitation, persists in Afghanistan. It highlights the vulnerability of young boys in a society grappling with poverty, social stigma, and the legacy of conflict. While the stories of Mustafa and Habib offer individual glimpses into this world, they underscore the urgent need for greater awareness and effective action to protect these children from abuse and exploitation, and to challenge the cultural norms that perpetuate this harmful practice.
