Author Statement

The Adventures of Bunny – افسانهٔ خرگوش is an illustrated children’s book and musical folktale that began in 2019, while I was living and working in Kabul, Afghanistan. At the time, I was deeply engaged in music education and cultural programs — profoundly inspired and shaped by my students, their questions, and my own ongoing efforts to listen, reflect, and understand the layered meanings of music in this complex environment.

During that time, I was also connected to a research library system that circulated books across Afghanistan. Through this collaboration, I was asked to write a book about music — something that could travel throughout the country, to rural communities and reading circles.

At first, I struggled. Music was a tricky topic in Afghanistan. I wanted to write something that was relatable, respectful, welcome, and enjoyable — something that wouldn’t impose a point of view, but would invite connection, conversation, and imagination.

Back in the classroom, the one question I was asked more than any other — quietly, by students again and again, often in secret from their peers, and with utter sincerity, heaviness, and kindness — was: “Why is music bad?”

There were the obvious answers — that social constructs had declared it so, or the other, that, simply, music wasn’t bad. But in the eyes of a child, the searching question revealed something much deeper: just how layered, beautiful, and fragile our relationships with music and culture can be.

This book was born from those moments of curiosity, struggle, honesty, wonder, trust, and courage — from the untouched truth in the asking alone. And because my being knew this question deserved more than a simple answer, the book became what I could give instead: a reflection, a meditation, and an invitation to go deeper. 

Through Bunny’s journey, I wanted to create a story that invites readers of all ages into a conversation about music — not just as performance or sound, but as something ancient, relational, and alive within us.

In some communities, music was not always a welcome guest — especially not at a stranger’s door. Even those who privately enjoyed music might never allow their families to practice it — or at the very least, not openly admit to it. So it was important to approach the topic with care — not through performance, but through presence. 

I began with reflections on everyday sounds, the same reflections I incorporated into my lesson plans: birdsong, wind and water, nighttime and stillness — the sounds and silences of the natural world. These sounds are shared, recognizable, and safe.

From there, I leaned into another truth: musical instruments all have their beginnings in nature — percussive shells, hollowed bones, wooden frames, animal offerings. Their origins are humble, tactile, and rooted in the earth. Even something as ordinary as a handful of beans being sifted for stones carries its own rhythm — if one is listening.

It became essential for me to connect the concepts of music directly to nature — not only as metaphor, but as shared reality. In the story, rhythm is found in Turtle’s shell, melody in the wind over reeds, harmony in the presence of friends, and spirit in the mountain or alongside the Ancient Tree. These are the places where music has always lived — and where it can be remembered.

In my writing, I adapted rhyme and flow to reflect each scene and each character — drawing out lines with pauses, using short sentences for simplicity and depth, bouncing phrases with excitement, and layering rhythmic patterns that speak when the music speaks. Just as a piece of music holds emotional ebbs and flows, so does this narrative — and for those who listen closely, there are leitmotifs and subtle musical twists woven into the text. And for those who speak it aloud, the vibration of speech, the pause of breath, and the emotion carried through intonation alchemize into a music of its own — not played, but sourced from within.

When it came time to illustrate the book, I knew two things: the artwork needed to tell the full story — just as miniature paintings once conveyed entire epics to travelers and those who could not read, capturing whole worlds in a single page — and it needed to be created by an artist who deeply understood the soul of the story.

Years earlier, I had been introduced to the work of Afghan artist Kaihan Hamidi. His exceptional miniature and watercolor paintings struck a rare balance between tradition and imagination. I asked if he would merge those two styles for this book — and he agreed. In so many ways, Hamidi’s illustrations bring this book to life in ways the text alone never could. On every page, we journey alongside the characters in a visual imagining of Where the Music Lives.

As a musician and educator, it was never my place to declare, “Music is good.” My role was to listen — to what was needed, to what was being asked of me — and to turn that listening into something meaningful and relatable. This book honors the cultural histories and musical traditions I came to know about, while gently affirming that what we seek in the world is often something we already carry within. It has become an extension of that conversation — something we can return to, or pass along to others, in times of need. It is an offering, a safe space, and an invitation to reflect — and to discover where one’s music lives.

While the book was not finished in time to be shared widely in Afghanistan, I have never let go of its promise or intention. In fact, I believe this story may be more needed now than ever, as boundaries and restrictions on musical and personal expression continue to shift and deepen on a global scale.

I believe in the quiet, transformative power of stories — especially those that cross cultures, generations, and belief systems. Over time, I too have been a student of this book, learning through reflections on lived experience. And though it came from my pen, I know it is not mine; it is a message whispered on the winds and across time, a letter of love to wide-eyed curiosity, courage, truth, and friendship — and our shared experience of being human — through music.