Sohrab Fallah and Gholamhosein Jamshidi are skilled musicians and performers who specialize in playing the Karnā and Naqqāra, traditional musical instruments of the Abarkuh region in Iran.
Naqqāra: A Sonic Emblem of Sacred and Martial Rhythms
The Naqqāra (نقاره), a pair of small kettledrums struck with bent sticks, holds a central place in the percussive traditions of West and Central Asia, extending into the Indian subcontinent. Known under various names and local adaptations—from the Central Asian Naqara to the Indian nagara—this instrument has endured as a vehicle for both ceremonial and communicative music. In Iran, particularly in tribal and religious contexts, the Naqqāra transcends its material form, becoming a sound-marker of devotion, power, and collective identity.
From an ethnomusicological standpoint, the Naqqāra’s significance cannot be divorced from its social context. Among the Qashqai and Bakhtiari tribes of southern Iran, it often accompanies the Sornā (a loud double-reed aerophone) in festive or martial events, ranging from weddings and seasonal festivals to rituals of mourning and even pre-battle assemblies. In urban centers like Mashhad or Shiraz, it is still played atop the Naqqāra-Khāneh—a ceremonial platform near religious shrines—announcing times of prayer, procession, or the entrance of dignitaries. This dual presence, tribal and sacred, secular and religious, reflects the instrument’s deep integration into Iranian cultural life.
The construction of the naqqāra involves two hemispherical wooden or metal shells, usually made from copper or earthenware, covered with stretched goatskin. The drums are asymmetrical: one produces a higher-pitched tone while the other emits a deeper, more resonant voice. The tension of the skins is adjusted with cords or metal clamps. Players strike them with a pair of bent sticks, often fashioned from pomegranate or walnut wood. This bent shape allows for rapid alternating strokes that produce the rolling thunder characteristic of naqqāra performance.
Musically, the naqqāra functions as both timekeeper and mood-setter. In ensemble settings, particularly with the sornā, it lays down rhythmic cycles that vary regionally in structure and tempo. In Qashqai music, for instance, rhythms may mirror the gait of horses or the cadences of tribal dance. The combination of naqqāra and sornā is especially associated with the ceremonial practice of razmāwāz—the “battle dance”—a form of performative choreography symbolizing martial valor and communal solidarity.
There is a semiotic richness to the naqqāra. Its rhythms are not merely musical patterns but encoded messages. In many regions, different rhythmic signals convey specific meanings: a birth, a funeral, the arrival of honored guests. This was especially prominent before the spread of modern communication tools, when the sound of the naqqāra could ripple across valleys and deserts like a sonic semaphore.
In Mehrdasht, a village in Yazd province where we encountered Qashqai-style naqqāra, the instrument appears not as a relic but as a living heritage. Played by master percussionists like Gholamhossein Jamshidi, the naqqāra comes alive in open-air performances where tradition fuses with improvisation. The drumbeat, once used to summon warriors or accompany sword dances, now calls together the ghosts of memory, binding elders and youth in an acoustic genealogy.
Perhaps what most powerfully defines the naqqāra is its liminality. It sits at the threshold of the sacred and the profane, the historical and the contemporary, the personal and the collective. It is an ancient heart still beating at the center of ritual life.
In the sonic tapestry of Iran’s intangible heritage, the naqqāra is not merely an instrument. It is a voice—of ancestors, of festivals, of devotion—that continues to echo across time.
The Karnā: Echoes of War and Ritual Across Greater Iran
From the vast plateaus of Central Asia to the arid plains of Yazd, the deep, resonant sound of the karnā has long marked both the pulse of war and the heartbeat of ceremony. Linguistically, the word “karnā” is composed of two elements: kar, meaning war, and nāy, a generic term for reed or wind instrument. The result is a compound that directly evokes the “war horn” or “trumpet of battle”. Yet the karnā is more than just a martial instrument. As an ethnomusicologist focusing on the musical heritage of Greater Iran, I have traced this monumental instrument through oral traditions, ancient carvings, and contemporary rituals that preserve echoes of its primal power.
The origins of the karnā reach deep into antiquity. It is prominently featured in Achaemenid and Sasanian bas-reliefs, such as those at Persepolis and Taq-e Bostan, where long, straight trumpets are seen in ceremonial processions and royal iconography. These instruments were likely used in both courtly rituals and military campaigns, a dual identity that continues to define the karnā‘s presence across Persianate societies. With its majestic tone and elongated form, the karnā has remained a symbol of authority, divine invocation, and communal cohesion.
Structure and Acoustic Design
The karnā is typically a straight, end-blown trumpet, often measuring over two meters in length. It is constructed from brass or other metals, though in some regions—including rural areas of Tajikistan—traditional models are still made from natural materials such as wood and copper. The lack of finger holes limits its pitch range, typically to the harmonic series of its length, producing a bold and penetrating sound ideal for outdoor performance. Despite its simplicity, the karnā requires advanced breath control and embouchure technique, making mastery a marker of prestige among ritual musicians.
Tajikistan: The Ritual Karnā in the Pamir and Beyond
In Tajikistan, particularly in the Pamir region and the Ferghana Valley, the karnā plays a vital role in wedding processions and New Year (Nowruz) festivities. Performed in pairs, often accompanied by frame drums (doira), it signals transitions and communal joy. Its sound is believed to ward off evil and attract blessings. Ethnographic fieldwork reveals that karnā-players hold semi-sacred status in certain mountain communities, where their art is passed down orally through generations. This continuity makes the Tajik karnā tradition a living relic of the ancient Iranian world.
Lorestan: A Trumpet of Resistance and Celebration
Among the Lurs of western Iran, the karnā is closely associated with both mourning and celebration. It accompanies funeral rites, often invoking ancestral spirits, and also heralds the arrival of tribal leaders or the start of seasonal festivals. Paired with instruments such as the doohol (double-headed drum), the karnā resonates through mountainous landscapes, bridging the sacred and the secular. Its playing technique in Lorestan—marked by bursts of ascending notes and sustained drones—differs from the Tajik style and reflects the region’s unique musical dialect.
Khorasan and Beyond: Variants and Shared Heritage
Elsewhere in the Iranian cultural sphere, from northern Afghanistan to Khorasan and even parts of Baluchistan, the karnā exists in variant forms, often under different names. In some Sunni Sufi rituals, it is used to mark the entrance of dervishes or to punctuate dhikr ceremonies. In wedding and harvest contexts, the karnā functions as a sonic signal that summons the community. These uses, while regionally distinct, all reflect a deeper layer of Indo-Iranian cultural memory, preserved through sound.
Yazd: Karnā in Ritual and Continuity
In the central Iranian province of Yazd, the karnā continues to play an integral role in the region’s layered ceremonial life. During Muharram rituals, especially the night processions of Tasua and Ashura, the karnā is heard alongside the naqqāra and other percussive instruments, setting the sonic stage for acts of devotion and communal mourning. Its voice is both lament and call-to-arms, echoing ancient rhythms of sacrifice and solidarity.
One remarkable contemporary performance of the karnā was recorded in Mehrdasht, Yazd, by the Heirs of Saffron and Salt collective. This video linked here captures an outdoor performance in which two karnā players face one another across a courtyard, their sounds reverberating through the desert air. The musicians, dressed in ceremonial black, punctuate the evening silence with piercing calls that seem to summon not just memory, but presence—the presence of ancestors, of collective grief, and of endurance.
The performance exemplifies the karnā‘s function as a ritual mediator. Viewers will note the players’ use of circular breathing and the coordination with local drummers. These techniques, refined through years of apprenticeship, are part of an oral tradition that situates the karnā within a broader cosmology of music, spirit, and place. The acoustics of the courtyard amplify its voice, turning the performance into both sonic and spatial invocation.
Conclusion: Karnā as Cultural Resonance
Across Greater Iran, the karnā remains a bearer of continuity, bridging the sacred and the social, the historical and the living. Whether in the highlands of Tajikistan, the tribal regions of Lorestan, or the desert towns of Yazd, it announces presence—of life, of death, of community. Its tones remind us that instruments are not merely tools of music but vessels of memory, identity, and invocation.
As researchers, it is our responsibility to continue documenting such practices, ensuring that the echoes of the karnā—once heard in the courts of kings and the cries of battle—continue to resonate in the digital age.
Sword and Handkerchief Dance in Mehrdasht, Yazd
The sword dance (raqṣ-e shamshīr) and the handkerchief dance (raqṣ-e dastmāl) are two distinct but often complementary forms of ritual performance found in various regions of Iran, particularly in the central plateau. These dances are typically performed during communal celebrations, including weddings, harvest ceremonies, and in some cases, religious commemorations. In Mehrdasht, a town in the Yazd province formed by the merging of three villages, these traditions have survived with remarkable integrity. Their performances are communal, symbolic, and deeply embedded in the collective memory of the inhabitants.
Historical Context
The sword dance, as a ritual and martial display, has roots in ancient Iranian and Central Asian traditions. Historical accounts and iconography from the Achaemenid and Sassanian periods depict ceremonial or military dances involving bladed weapons, often symbolizing heroism, group solidarity, or rites of passage. In Islamic-era Iran, these dances persisted in various forms among tribal and rural populations. Ethnographic sources such as Henry Field (1939) and more recent work by Mohammad Reza Darvish emphasize the continuity of martial dances in Qashqai, Lur, and Bakhtiari cultures, where the sword dance often serves to re-enact battle scenes or ancestral myths.
In Mehrdasht, the sword dance seems to have retained a performative function rooted in both tribal memory and aesthetic competition. The dancers, often in pairs, engage in a choreographed duel, accompanied by live music performed on karnā (a long wind instrument) and naqqāra (paired kettle drums). The presence of such instruments, traditionally associated with heroic themes and festive occasions, strengthens the ritual and ceremonial aura of the dance.
Structure and Key Elements
1. Formation and Participants
The sword dance in Mehrdasht is performed primarily by men, usually in pairs. The performers hold traditional swords or sabres, sometimes symbolic replicas, and face each other in a circular or semi-circular space. The audience forms a natural boundary around the dancers, turning the performance into a shared community spectacle.
2. Musical Accompaniment
The music is central to the performance, typically led by a karnā player and one or two naqqāra drummers. The tempo guides the dancers’ movements—beginning slowly and increasing to a climax during the mock-duel phase. This gradual intensification serves both narrative and affective functions.
3. Choreography
The choreography follows a call-and-response pattern, where one dancer initiates a set of stylized offensive moves and the other responds defensively, often with mirrored gestures. The duel is theatrical and never intended to harm, though its martial aesthetics simulate combat. Between duels, group dances sometimes ensue, linking the performance to collective participation.
4. Handkerchief Dance Integration
Often, the sword dance is followed or complemented by the handkerchief dance, which is more inclusive and symbolic. In this form, men and women (or only men, depending on the cultural context) hold brightly colored handkerchiefs and perform fluid, rotational movements in duets or small groups. The contrast between the martial rigidity of the sword dance and the flowing grace of the handkerchief dance creates a compelling duality that reflects balance between strength and beauty.
Field Encounter: Mehrdasht, Yazd (Based on the Notes of Ali Ettehad)
Our fieldwork brought us to Mehrdasht during a mild evening, welcomed by local hosts including Mr. Gholamhossein Jamshidi and Sohrab Fallah. The performance was held at the Qal‘eh-ye Hasan Khan, a historical fortress at the heart of the town. The event began with intimate hospitality—tea, conversations, and preparations—before transitioning into the public performance.
The sword dance commenced with Mr. Sohrab Fallah blowing the karnā, followed by Mr. Jamshidi on the naqqāra. Almost instinctively, people began to gather, as if called by ancestral memory. The dance unfolded rapidly: pairs of men circled and faced off in stylized duels, among them a man named Mr. Eshqi, who twirled the sword with a veteran’s confidence. The sound of drums and horns echoed against the ancient walls of the citadel.
A notable moment occurred at the end of the formal performance. An individual—dressed in makeshift garments resembling female theatrical costumes—entered the space and danced solo, evoking Iran’s lost tradition of cross-gender theatrical play, once common in rural storytelling and mourning rituals. Though the dancer’s identity remained uncertain, his passion and fluency in gesture suggested deep cultural resonance, perhaps from childhood memories of forgotten spectacles.
As the sun set, we packed our equipment, surrounded by townspeople returning to their daily lives. The fortress gates closed, but the echoes of the music and the dance lingered. For a few hours, Mehrdasht had reawakened a fragment of its intangible heritage—a performative archive etched into its stones and people.
