Traditional crafts skills are in peril in Afghanistan

The village of Istalif sits high in the foothills of the Hindu Kush, looking out over clear mountain streams, grape orchards, crooked mudbrick houses and scattered walnut and mulberry trees. For hundreds of years, Kabulis – including the Emperor Babur himself – escaped the dusty capital for Istalif’s gardens and to shop in the famous bazaar, where the sole custodians of Afghanistan’s pottery tradition sold their wares: richly glazed ceramics in colours of emerald green, amber and turquoise.

In the late 1990s, this paradise was witness to tragedy. As the Taliban advanced on the armies of the Mujahideen, Istalif’s potters buried their equipment, packed up their possessions and fled to Pakistan. The Taliban burned large parts of the village to the ground. Istalif’s centuries-old pottery industry was snuffed out.

Among those fleeing Istalif that day was a young potter called Mansoor. Following the fall of the Taliban in 2001, Mansoor returned to Afghanistan with his family. Mansoor unburied his kick wheel and set about reviving Istalifi pottery. He learned how to harness the foraged desert shrub, ishkar, to create deep, characterful glazes, and how to produce products for a new audience that had arrived in Kabul – international aid workers, diplomats and journalists demanding high quality, consistent products, strong enough to survive their journey home.

During those years, I was fortunate to often visit Mansoor in Istalif. Watching him at work was hypnotic. He would enter a deep state of concentration as his foot would begin to drive the kick wheel, slowly, metronomically, his eyes focused on the slumped lump of clay before him. There was never any hesitation in his hands, no spare movement. Nothing in the world was important at that moment other than bringing a beautiful new object to life. Watching Mansoor was watching peace.

In August 2021, history repeated itself. With the arrival of the Taliban, Istalifi pottery once again faces a precarious future. Craft traditions are fragile. They are passed from one generation to another, until they’re not. If Mansoor leaves, so does his knowledge. This knowledge is not just in his hands, it is in thousands of tiny details that are specific to a place: how to source the right ishkar in Afghanistan, where to dig up the best clay in the hills, what is the right temperature for firing at Istalif’s altitude?

Traditions also survive on commerce and patronage, and what international market there was for Afghan pottery has disappeared overnight. Mansoor’s pottery once sold very well on Ishkar’s website and in our London shop, but with banks partially frozen we have no way of paying our partners in Afghanistan, and the logistics routes we used (already challenging) have now been cut off.

With the economy plummeting and food costs rising, there is no domestic market for craft either. Thoughts are on survival and necessities, not beautiful objects. Cash is in such short supply, one of our old colleagues has just sold their car. ‘But it is much worse than that,’ he tells me on WhatsApp. ‘Some people have had to sell a new-born baby. We are so tired.’

Already facing so much loss, craft is another victim of war Afghanistan cannot afford to lose. For its people, craft is a crucial cornerstone of cultural heritage, a source of pride stretching from bactrian gold to today’s handmade carpet industry, which is among the best in the world. Stamping ‘Made in Afghanistan’ on the back of a beautiful bowl means a lot to a people who are all too conscious that much of the world only knows Afghanistan for exporting opium and terrorism.

The collapse of the craft industry is also a grave economic loss. Ishkar works with hundreds of artisans across Afghanistan, each one connected to long value chains. Craft is also one of the largest employers of women in the country, and one of the few industries where women should be able to continue working unhindered by the Taliban’s new laws, as many crafts can be practised from home.

Despite the challenges, our hearts remain in Afghanistan. We are hopeful that we will eventually find a way to navigate the new banking and logistical barriers. But first we must be able to guarantee it is safe for our artisan partners to continue working, and that the money we send to Afghanistan ends up in the right hands. Until that day we are wrapping all our Istalifi pottery and Herati glass in thick reams of cotton wool. There is a real risk that once broken they might be lost forever.