Afghanistan's Knotted History

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Climb the elegant South Stairs  of the British Museum, and follow the Albukhary Foundation Gallery of the Islamic World to Gallery 43. At its far end, a compact and compelling display emerges: contemporary Afghan rugs presented alongside historical objects that speak to Afghanistan’s rich culture and turbulent recent history; an unexpected detour into a sub-branch of Afghan rug-making, revealing the country's many-layered past. 

The Albukhary Gallery provides a fresh and ambitious vision for Islamic art, offering new ways of seeing connections across time ands region. Within it, Afghanistan’s Knotted History—curated by Zeina Klink-Hoppe, Curator of the Modern Middle East at the British Museum—is a poignant reflection on how art and material things become records of conflict, survival, and adaptation.

Since the 1970s, decades of war and foreign intervention have displaced communities and fractured traditions. Many refugees fled to Pakistan and Iran, bringing together disparate ethnic groups—each with their own distinct weaving styles—mixing up aesthetic traditions and birthing hybrids that reflect new geopolitical realities.

Climb the elegant South Stairs of the British Museum, and follow the signs to the Albukhary Foundation Gallery of the Islamic World and Gallery 43. At its far end, a compact and compelling display emerges:

contemporary Afghan rugs presented alongside historical objects that speak of Afghanistan’s rich culture

and turbulent recent history; an unexpected detour into a sub-branch of Afghan rug-making, revealing the

country's many-layered past.

The Albukhary Gallery provides a fresh and ambitious vision for Islamic art, offering new ways of seeing

connections across time and regions. Within it, Afghanistan’s Knotted History — curated by Zeina Klink-

Hoppe, Curator of the Modern Middle East at the British Museum — is a poignant reflection on how art

and material things become records of conflict, survival, and adaptation.

Since the 1970s, decades of war and foreign intervention have displaced communities and fractured

traditions. Many refugees fled to Pakistan and Iran, bringing together disparate ethnic groups—each with

their own distinct weaving styles — mixing up aesthetic traditions and giving birth to hybrids that reflect

new geopolitical realities.

These transformations can be traced through the evolution of the ‘war rug’. While traditional Afghan rugs

feature floral and geometric motifs, war rugs have replaced birds and blossoms with tanks, poppies,

grenades, helicopters and even drones. They began as direct visual testimonies by those living through

war. Some scholars believe they may also have served as covert propaganda, potentially influenced by

Mujahideen factions or foreign intelligence agencies. As the British Museum notes, this fusion of craft

and current affairs effectively created a new genre: the Afghan war rug.

Responding to the refugee crisis, aid agencies such as USAID and UNHCR launched programmes to

stimulate economic activity in camps by reviving traditional skills. Weaving—an activity long carried out

by women—was central to this initiative. Space-saving vertical looms replaced horizontal ones, and

growing interest from diplomats, journalists, and aid workers generated a steady demand for souvenir

rugs to bring home.

Over time, production has increased. Rugs have been made in

larger sizes for collectors, and their visibility has spread

through platforms such as eBay. The political became

domestic. As Nina Power noted in The Spectator, ‘What, after

all, is more domestic than a rug? And what, in a continual war

zone, is more everyday than helicopters and military

equipment?’

Most of the weavers are women, often from nomadic groups

such as the Turkmen, Uzbeks, Baluch, or Hazara. Each brings

distinct motifs and weaving techniques. As they came to

coexist in the camps, so their designs merged. Traditional

motifs such as gols (floral medallions) and feel pay (elephant’s

foot patterns) were gradually overlaid with more eclectic,

narrative imagery. Some rugs reference specific battles or

technologies. Others take on mythic dimensions. In one, an

Afghan soldier confronts a Soviet enemy rendered as a horned

white demon — a modern echo of Rustam slaying the White

Div in the Shahnameh. Storytelling remains at the heart of the

craft, fusing tradition with the new reality.

Insights from Dr. Ghulam Mohsenzad, an Afghan academic, reveal further layers of meaning. On one rug

(above), he deciphers Dari inscriptions — misspelled as افغان نستان(Afghan Nistan), and اعسکک(A

Asskkar), which would correctly read افغانستان(Afghanistan) and عسکر(soldier). These misspellings

suggest that the weavers, often

illiterate, have followed visual guides

rather than written instructions.

Higher up on the same rug, the word

soldier) is this time spelt(عسکر

correctly, however it has been

erroneously mirrored — further

evidence that these were patterns

mimicked rather than understood,

letters abstracted to aesthetic

symbols.

The influence of the Italian artist

Alighiero Boetti (1940–1994), a

leading figure of Arte Povera, adds

another fascinating layer to the craft.

Alighiero Boetti, Mappa (Map), 1989, embroidery.

Boetti commissioned his embroidered Mappa series in Kabul in the early 1970s: maps to capture global

politics and conflicts (see example above right, not shown in the exhibition). After the Soviet invasion of

1979, production of the rugs moved to refugee camps in Peshawar, Pakistan, where Boetti collaborated

with Afghan women. Though strictly speaking his maps are embroidery, not weaving, his politically

conscious and collaborative approach may have paved the way for later practices that embedded the

subject of war into textile production.

This important exhibition at the British Museum shows the continued and evolving relevance of

traditional crafts. War rugs once rooted in ancestral designs now reflect shifting political identity. The

tradition continues: war rugs are still produced for Western markets. Today, many follow templates

supplied by US-based dealers and — despite Taliban rule — women in Afghanistan continue to weave,

often at great personal risk.

With the regime’s recent ban on depictions of living beings, the future of this artform is uncertain

however. What will emerge from this new phase of censorship an