In 1964, Afghanistan’s government made the fateful decision to officially rename the Farsi language to “Dari” in its constitution. Proponents at the time argued this would strengthen a unique Afghan identity and balance power between ethnic groups. Yet decades later, the Dari vs. Farsi debate remains heated, exposing deep cultural and political fault lines. Many Farsi-speaking Afghans (especially Tajiks, Hazaras, and Heratis) still prefer the name Farsi (Persian) and resent Dari as a label imposed by Pashtun-dominated regimes. Language, once a bridge, became a battleground for identity.
Let’s take a critical look at the 1964 renaming – exploring its historical context, the linguistic realities, and its consequences. While maintaining a neutral tone that honors both Farsi and Pashto as integral to Afghan heritage, we’ll see why the renaming was a misguided political maneuver. I argue that “Dari” as a separate identity has done more harm than good. Ultimately, Afghanistan’s future may lie in embracing its Persian linguistic ties alongside its proud Pashto and other languages, rather than pitting them against each other.
Historical Context: From Farsi to “Dari”
The term Dari is not new – historically, Dari (meaning “of the court”) referred to the Persian spoken at the Sassanid royal court in late antiquity. In the early Islamic era, Dari Persian was simply the courtly register of Persian, interchangeable with Parsi (Persian) in many texts. Over centuries, especially after Persian adopted the Arabic script, the name “Dari” fell out of common use, replaced by Farsi (the Arabic/Persian word for Persian). By the 20th century, Persian in Afghanistan was universally called Farsi – as it was in Iran – both by its speakers and in official documents.
The 1964 Compromise
Why then did Afghanistan’s 1964 constitution suddenly enshrine Dari as an official term? According to Mir Sediq Farhang – a historian and member of the 1964 constitutional drafting commission – it was a political compromise between Pashtun elites and Farsi-speaking leaders. Pashtun nationalists had been pushing to elevate Pashto as the sole official language, arguing that “Farsi” was the language of Iran and not inherently Afghan. Farsi-speaking delegates, unwilling to lose official status for their tongue, agreed to the name Dari as a concession. This way Farsi would remain co-equal with Pashto, but under a different label to appease Pashtun concerns. Essentially, Dari was a superficial rebranding of Farsi aimed at ensuring neither of the two major ethnic groups “lost” – Pashto would be recognized, and Farsi would continue under another name.
Official Recognition
Thus, Article 3 of the 1964 constitution declared Pashto and Dari as the official languages of Afghanistan. Earlier constitutions in the 20th century called the language Farsi, further evidence that the renaming was clearly new. The change may have been well-intentioned – a nation-building gesture to forge distinct Afghan nomenclature – but it was political rather than linguistic in nature. As one scholar notes, the 1964 renaming was driven “more [by] political…support [for] an Afghan state narrative” than by any genuine linguistic difference.
Farsi and Pashto in Afghan History
It’s important to recognize that both Farsi and Pashto are deeply rooted in Afghan history. Farsi had been the lingua franca of administration, literature, and education in the region for centuries – even Pashtun dynasties extensively used Farsi at court. From the Durrani Empire’s founder Ahmad Shah Durrani in the 18th century up to King Zahir Shah in the 20th, Afghan rulers of Pashtun origin were often bilingual or even primarily Farsi-speaking. Many were raised in Persianate cultural traditions, sometimes to the extent that their command of Pashto was limited. At the same time, Pashto itself boasts a rich literary heritage (e.g., the poetry of Khushal Khan Khattak and Rahman Baba) and is a core part of Afghan identity. The 1964 compromise officially recognized this dual heritage by making both languages official – a step intended to promote unity. However, as we will see, the symbolic renaming of Farsi to Dari introduced new challenges that reverberate to this day.
Cultural and Linguistic Bonds: One Persian Heritage
Afghanistan’s Persian dialect (whatever one calls it) is indistinguishable from Farsi in a linguistic sense. Linguists classify Dari as simply one of the regional varieties of the Farsi language, alongside Iranian Farsi and Tajik Farsi. They share the same grammar and literary canon and are mutually intelligible, with only minor differences in accent and vocabulary. In fact, the formal written Farsi used in Kabul or Herat is virtually the same language you would find in Tehran or Dushanbe. It is not an “Afghan-only” tongue – as Afghan poet Partaw Naderi bluntly puts it: “Dari is not the Afghan dialect of Farsi – it is Farsi”. Farsi speakers from Iran, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan can read each other’s newspapers and poetry with ease; the differences are often compared to those between British and American English in their subtlety.
“The Persian language boasts a shared literary heritage spanning a millennium, to which Afghans are central contributors.”
Because of this intrinsic unity, treating Dari as wholly separate has led to confusion and cultural disconnect. The Persian language boasts a shared literary heritage spanning a millennium, to which Afghans are central contributors. Many of the great Persian poets and thinkers hailed from what is now Afghanistan – for example, the 13th-century Sufi poet Rumi was born in Balkh, northern Afghanistan. Likewise, classic Persian literature like the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi or the ghazals of Hafez and Sa’di have been taught and treasured in Afghanistan as much as in Iran. By officially framing Afghanistan’s Persian as something separate called “Dari,” the government inadvertently marginalized these common cultural bonds. It created the impression that Afghanistan’s Persian-speaking communities were disconnected from the broader Persian literary world, when in reality they had been co-creators of that heritage. Afghan Persian writers – from medieval scholars in Herat to modern poets in Kabul – suddenly found their language relabeled in a way that obscured its relation to the works of Rumi or Hafez. This semantic distancing diminished Afghanistan’s own contributions in the eyes of some, as if Rumi’s Persian verses were Iranian “Farsi” literature alone rather than a shared legacy.
The renaming also sowed international misperceptions. Outside observers, unfamiliar with the politics, often assumed Dari must be an entirely different language. Even institutions like the U.S. State Department and universities long listed “Dari” and “Persian (Farsi)” as separate languages on forms and websites. Such distinctions reinforce the false notion that an Afghan traveling to Iran or an Iranian traveling to Kabul would face a language barrier; they obviously would not, with the exception of accent differences that could make it difficult to understand, but that is a reality faced by any language on the planet. The academic acceptance is that Dari and Farsi are one language by all scientific measures – a fact that the artificial name-change obscured. As a result, Afghanistan’s cultural affinity with the wider Persian world (including Iran and Tajikistan) became politically charged, as if acknowledging the link threatened Afghan identity. In truth, that transnational Persian identity has been a source of strength: it connects Afghanistan to a global community of over 120 million Persian speakers across several countries. From Tehran to Dushanbe to Kabul, Persian-speakers celebrate many of the same poets, holidays (like Nowruz), and historical legends. This wide shared culture is something to take pride in, not shy away from. Unfortunately, the insistence on “Dari” has often had the opposite effect – isolating Afghan Persian culture and diminishing the easy cultural exchange with neighbors that a common language facilitates.
Ethnic Tensions and “Dari” Politics
Why do so many Afghan Farsi speakers bristle at the word Dari? The answer lies in how language has been used in Afghan domestic politics. Many in the Farsi-speaking communities (Tajiks, Hazaras, Aimaqs, Heratis, and others) feel that Dari was foisted upon them by Pashtun-dominated governments as a means of asserting Pashtun supremacy and diluting the Farsi language’s status. It’s not the term itself but the intent behind it – an attempt, they believe, to distance Afghanistan from the broader Farsi-speaking world and emphasize a singular Afghan identity defined by the Pashtun narrative. Farsi speakers note that they did not choose the name Dari; it was chosen for them in 1964 as a political compromise, and later regimes enthusiastically embraced it as if to say, “See, we don’t speak Farsi (the language of Iran), we have our own language.” This sentiment is intertwined with ethnic politics: in a country with a history of Pashtun political dominance, non-Pashtun groups have often been wary of policies coming from Kabul that seem to sideline their culture.
Throughout the late 20th century, there were efforts to elevate Pashto in public life – sometimes at Farsi’s expense. For instance, during certain regimes, Farsi textbooks and signs were edited to replace Farsi words with Pashto neologisms. A telling example is the word for “university”: historically daneshgâh (دانشگاه) in Farsi, but Afghan authorities pushed the Pashto term pohantoon (پوهنتون) into official Farsi lexicon and signage. Many Farsi-speaking students and scholars resented such measures, seeing them as forced and unnatural. These policies reached an extreme under the Taliban. During the Taliban’s first regime (1996–2001) and again after their return in 2021, they undertook a campaign to remove Farsi from many public spheres. One of the first things the Taliban did upon seizing power in 2021 was to take down or repaint bilingual signs, issuing new ones only in Pashto. In Kabul and other cities, government billboards that once included Farsi alongside Pashto were replaced with Pashto-only text. Even the Farsi word daneshgâh was ordered removed from university banners countrywide, leaving only Pashto and English on official signage. Taliban officials have reportedly admonished journalists for using common Farsi words – for example, telling a reporter who said daneshgâh to use pohantun instead. This deliberate erasure of Farsi from government communication under the Taliban is seen by many as an extreme enforcement of ethnic and linguistic hierarchy.
Such moves have greatly exacerbated ethnic divisions. For Farsi-speaking Afghans, the suppression of their tongue in favor of Pashto is not a mere linguistic preference by authorities – it feels like an affront to their identity and a continuation of decades-long marginalization. Renaming the language to Dari in 1964 is often viewed as the thin end of the wedge: a seemingly benign label change that opened the door to further Pashto-centric policies. Indeed, critics argue that the Dari/Farsi split has been weaponized by ethnonationalists. It allowed Pashtun elites to claim a special “Afghan” language distinct from Farsi, thereby justifying measures to prioritize that language (Pashto) in national institutions. Over time, this contributed to resentment among Tajiks, Hazaras, Uzbeks and others who felt their mother tongue (Farsi) and culture were being systematically subordinated. As one analyst observed, debates over Dari versus Farsi are really identity politics masquerading as linguistics – a proxy for larger struggles over power and recognition. The linguistic tug-of-war became a symbol of which group’s heritage would define the Afghan nation.
Even at the highest levels of government, language has been politicized. Former President Ashraf Ghani, for example, was often accused by political rivals of Pashtun favoritism – including in language matters – though he denied it. In the National Unity Government era (2014–2019), with Ghani (an ethnic Pashtun) and Chief Executive Abdullah Abdullah (an ethnic Tajik) uneasily sharing power, the language question remained sensitive. Reports emerged of officials in Ghani’s administration allegedly instructing media not to use certain Farsi words seen as “too Iranian,” reflecting an effort to further distinguish Afghan Dari from Iranian Farsi. This only fueled suspicions among Farsi-speaking Afghans that their own government was policing their language. Today, under the Taliban, the bias is even more blatant: Pashto has effectively become the sole language of officialdom, despite the constitution (now largely moot under Taliban rule) recognizing Dari and Pashto equally. The Taliban’s cultural hostility toward Persian (some officials have gone so far as to say “Afghanistan does not need Persian literature”) is the clearest illustration yet that language in Afghanistan can be used as a tool of domination.
The tragedy is that Farsi and Pashto are both authentic Afghan languages with storied histories. Rather than celebrating bilingualism, past regimes turned language into a zero-sum game. The 1964 renaming, albeit moderate compared to Taliban measures, set a precedent for treating the Farsi tongue as something “foreign” that needed a new label. This precedent has been exploited by those seeking to elevate one group at the expense of another. In sum, what was framed in 1964 as a harmless compromise has, over time, deepened the very ethnic fissures it was meant to bridge.
“…what was framed in 1964 as a harmless compromise has, over time, deepened the very ethnic fissures it was meant to bridge.”
Fragmentation of a Common Language
One major consequence of the Dari renaming has been the fragmentation of the Farsi linguistic identity on the international stage. Today, the exact same language is referred to by three different names in three neighboring countries – Farsi in Iran, Dari in Afghanistan, and Tajik in Tajikistan. This trifurcation, largely driven by political history, has led many non-specialists to assume these are separate languages. In reality, the dialectal differences among them are minor – all are based on the same New Persian that has been in continuous use since the 10th century. They share roughly 80–90% of their vocabulary and essentially the entire literary canon. An Iranian, an Afghan, and a Tajik can converse with each other with no more than a few word adjustments. Yet, due to divergent naming, the sense of unity has eroded. As one commentator quipped, seeing “Persian (Farsi)” and “Dari” listed separately on menus or language lists is as odd as seeing American English and British English listed as if they were unrelated tongues.
“Arabic dialects vary far more dramatically (Moroccan Arabic and Iraqi Arabic, for instance, are barely mutually intelligible in spoken form), but Arabs still universally regard their language as singular – al-‘arabiyya.”
By contrast, consider the Arab world. Arabic dialects vary far more dramatically (Moroccan Arabic and Iraqi Arabic, for instance, are barely mutually intelligible in spoken form), but Arabs still universally regard their language as singular – al-‘arabiyya. Despite local colloquials, they maintain a unified standard and identity under the banner of one Arabic language. This shared linguistic identity has fostered a strong transnational Arab cultural sphere. The Farsi-speaking world, however, has been splintered by labels. The Soviet-influenced adoption of “Tajik” for Farsi in Tajikistan and the Afghan adoption of “Dari” have partitioned what is essentially a single language community. Culturally and academically, this fragmentation is harmful. Scholars in Kabul, Tehran, and Dushanbe sometimes face obstacles in collaboration because of differing terminology or even script (Tajik is written in Cyrillic script, a legacy of Soviet policy). Persian-language publications are often categorized separately by country, reducing the exchange of ideas. A poem or research paper written by an Afghan in “Dari” might not get the recognition it deserves in Iran simply because it’s labeled differently, and vice versa.
“A poem or research paper written by an Afghan in “Dari” might not get the recognition it deserves in Iran simply because it’s labeled differently, and vice versa.”
Afghanistan, by embracing the term Dari, inadvertently contributed to diluting the global stature of Persian. Instead of asserting itself as an equal member of a broad Persianate family, it appeared to step back into its own niche. This was counterproductive for a country that has produced luminaries of Persian civilization. Many in the Afghan diaspora find the Dari/Farsi split confusing as well – they grew up calling their mother tongue Farsi, and continue to do so abroad, because it reinforces their connection to the wider Farsi-speaking world (Iran, Tajikistan, etc.). Telling an Afghan refugee in Canada that her native language is something separate called “Dari” can feel like asking her to choose between her Afghan identity and her Persian cultural identity. Small wonder that diaspora groups have protested moves to emphasize the Dari label – for instance, when the BBC Persian service for Afghanistan re-branded to “BBC Dari,” it sparked outrage and campaigns by Afghans who felt it was driving a wedge between them and other Persian speakers. However, at the time of this writing, it appears that the BBC has reverted to correctly associating Farsi with Afghanistan and deprecated the categorical usage of Dari.
“…at the time of this writing, it appears that the BBC has reverted to correctly associating Farsi with Afghanistan and deprecated the categorical usage of Dari.”
The bottom line
Farsi is a pluricentric language rich enough to encompass local flavors (Iranian, Afghan, Tajik) without shattering into isolated pieces. The dialect differences are there – an Afghan might say “market” as bazaar while an Iranian says bâzâr, an Iranian might use toop for ball while an Afghan says gola, etc. – but these are surface details. The core is uniform. The name Dari, however, created a psychological and political distance that belies this unity. It has taken what should be a point of pride (Afghanistan’s role in the Persian cultural sphere) and turned it into a source of contention.
The Political Exploitation of Language
One of the most disturbing aspects of the Dari/Farsi issue is how it has been exploited by politicians and power-brokers. Language, which should be a neutral medium of communication and cultural expression, has been transformed into a tool for political messaging and division in Afghanistan.
“During periods of heightened tension with Iran or internal nationalist fervor, emphasizing “we speak Dari, not Farsi” becomes a dog whistle for a certain brand of Afghan nationalism.”
On one side, you have seen leaders who use the “Dari vs. Farsi” debate to rally nationalist sentiments. Pashtun-dominated governments have historically emphasized Dari to assert that Afghan identity is distinct from neighboring Iran. During periods of heightened tension with Iran or internal nationalist fervor, emphasizing “we speak Dari, not Farsi” becomes a dog whistle for a certain brand of Afghan nationalism. Ashraf Ghani, during his presidency (2014–2021), was often perceived (fairly or not) as favoring Pashto and downplaying Farsi to solidify support among Pashtun nationalists. This played into the hands of his opponents, who accused him of stoking ethnic tensions. Although Ghani denied such bias, the mere perception shows how politicized the language issue is – accusations of using more Pashto in official events or correspondence became a shorthand for alleging ethnic favoritism.
On the other side, non-Pashtun political figures have also leaned into the language issue. For instance, leaders from predominantly Farsi-speaking groups (Tajiks, Hazaras) would sometimes double down on using the term Farsi as a subtle assertion of their identity, or criticize government language policies as part of a larger narrative of Pashtunization. The very existence of a “Dari vs. Farsi” dispute gave ethnically-aligned politicians a convenient rallying cause. It diverted public discourse into us vs. them arguments about words, often masking deeper issues of governance, inequality, or corruption. As analyst Omar Samad explains, the debate basically pits “those who look at language as a shared heritage…against those who insist on a distinct identity”. Neither side is truly talking about linguistics; they are talking about identity and power.
“By purging Farsi from signs and institutions, they signal to their primarily Pashtun base that their culture is now firmly in charge. “
Under the Taliban, this dynamic has reached a new level. The Taliban regime, eager to legitimize its rule as the restoration of an “authentic” Afghan Islamic system, has taken a hard line with Pashto supremacy. By purging Farsi from signs and institutions, they signal to their primarily Pashtun base that their culture is now firmly in charge. This is despite the irony that Taliban officials themselves often speak Dari when it suits them (many Taliban leaders are bilingual, and Pashto-speaking Taliban from the south have had to learn some Dari to communicate in Kabul and northern provinces). The Taliban’s cultural commission even renamed or Arabized certain military unit names that were previously Persian or Pashto, in an effort to start with a “clean slate” free of non-Islamic (or non-Pashto) influences. It’s a form of extreme language engineering that has little to do with improving communication and everything to do with asserting control.
All of this points to a broader conclusion: language in Afghanistan has been taken hostage by politics. The focus on what to call the language – Dari or Farsi – and on enforcing one language over another in public spheres has been a distraction from urgent problems. While politicians and ideologues quibble over nomenclature or which term a journalist can use, ordinary Afghans face far more pressing issues: economic hardship, security, education, healthcare. As Omar Samad aptly put it, the whole Dari-Farsi tussle is “identity politics masquerading as linguistic scholarship”. The scholarly reality (that it’s the same language) is clear, but it gets obscured by political theater. Every minute spent debating this is a minute not spent on reconciliation or development.
Counterarguments: The Case for “Dari”
Supporters of the term Dari do have their reasons, and it’s important to present their perspective fairly. Those who advocate sticking with Dari (or who originally pushed for it) generally make two key arguments:
Safeguarding Afghan Identity and Culture
“By calling their language Dari, Afghans emphasize that their version of Persian has older local roots and is not subordinate to Iranian culture. “
Proponents argue that using a distinct name for Afghanistan’s Persian protects the country’s cultural sovereignty. They often point out that Afghanistan’s history and literary tradition, while overlapping with Iran’s, also have unique aspects. By calling their language Dari, Afghans emphasize that their version of Persian has older local roots and is not subordinate to Iranian culture. This view holds that Dari as a label reinforces an Afghan identity in the Persian-speaking world – one that can claim famous Eastern Persian poets and writers as its own. For example, supporters might note that Herat (a city in western Afghanistan) was a renowned center of Persian poetry in the 15th century, or that Afghanistan produced its own celebrated Persian literature (such as the poetry of Khwaja Abdullah Ansari or the writings of Sufi scholars). By using Dari, they feel Afghans can honor these indigenous contributions without the overshadowing influence of “Persian = Iran.” Additionally, Afghanistan’s cultural mosaic includes Pashto and many other languages; differentiating Dari is seen as a way to acknowledge that mosaic. Some will even invoke Pashto heritage – for instance, the Pashto literary tradition of poets like Khushal Khan Khattak – as something that stands alongside Dari/Persian. In other words, they argue that having two distinct official languages (Pashto and Dari) allows Afghanistan to celebrate a dual heritage: Persianate and Pashtun, without one eclipsing the other. Any move to rename Dari back to Farsi, in their eyes, could be interpreted as Afghanistan culturally aligning with Iran and dismissing its own uniqueness.
“Any move to rename Dari back to Farsi, in their eyes, could be interpreted as Afghanistan culturally aligning with Iran and dismissing its own uniqueness.”
Political Pragmatism and Unity
The second argument is more pragmatic – it contends that the 1964 introduction of Dari was a wise compromise to maintain national unity. At that time, ethnic tensions were real, and some believe that without the Dari/Farsi distinction, the constitution might have faced even fiercer opposition from Pashtun nationalists. By acknowledging Pashto and “Dari” as co-equals, King Zahir Shah’s government defused a potential conflict. This compromise ensured that neither major ethnic-linguistic group felt disenfranchised: Pashtuns got recognition for Pashto, and Persian speakers kept their language official (albeit under another name). Proponents say this decision averted possible unrest or rebellion back then. And subsequently, they argue, the use of Dari has become entrenched in Afghan state institutions – it appears in all laws, official gazettes, school curricula, etc. Changing it now could be more trouble than it’s worth, potentially reigniting ethnic debates. From this perspective, “Dari” is seen as a neutral, Afghan-brand term that both Pashtuns and Persian-speakers can accept, whereas calling it “Farsi” might provoke nationalist backlashes about Persian/Iranian influence. In short, the name Dari is defended as a symbol of compromise that has helped hold the country together linguistically. Why mess with it?
There is also an emotional undercurrent to the pro-Dari case. For some Afghans, especially Pashto speakers, the insistence by others on calling it Farsi can feel like a rejection of an Afghan national consensus. They might ask: “If our constitution says Dari, why not just call it that? We Afghans aren’t Iran’s appendage – our language might be the same Persian, but we have the right to name it differently.” Additionally, those supportive of Dari often stress that the term is not a fabrication; it has classical legitimacy (as noted, it dates to ancient times). So they bristle at the suggestion that Dari is a “political label” by responding that it’s actually an authentic historical name – one that Afghans revived to assert pride in their version of Persian.
These arguments cannot be simply dismissed. They come from a place of wanting respect for Afghanistan’s sovereignty and diversity. However, as the previous sections have shown, the cost of clinging to Dari may well outweigh these perceived benefits. In the next section I’ll address why many scholars and community leaders believe the pro-Dari stance, while understandable, is ultimately misguided.
Reality Check: Why the Renaming Falls Short
The case for “Dari” as a distinct name might have some rationale in theory, but in practice it does not hold up under scrutiny. Here’s why the above arguments largely fall flat, according to critics of the renaming:
Shared Language, Shared Strength
“Afghanistan was never culturally isolated; it has always been a part of the broader Persian-speaking realm by choice – its kings patronized Persian poets, its scholars contributed to Persian literature, and its people celebrated Persian culture, all while being proudly Afghan.”
First, the notion that using Farsi/Persian somehow undermines Afghan sovereignty is not supported by history or demographics. Persian’s “transnational” nature has long been a source of strength for Afghanistan, not a weakness. Afghanistan was never culturally isolated; it has always been a part of the broader Persian-speaking realm by choice – its kings patronized Persian poets, its scholars contributed to Persian literature, and its people celebrated Persian culture, all while being proudly Afghan. Recognizing that unity (for example, by calling the language Persian as the rest of the world does) doesn’t make Afghanistan any less unique. In fact, it amplifies Afghanistan’s voice among over 120 million Persian speakers worldwide. Afghans can take pride in the fact that when they speak Farsi, they are understood from the Bosphorus to the Pamirs. This global cultural connection is an asset in diplomacy, trade, and academia. Attempts to “protect” Afghan identity by linguistically isolating it (e.g. insisting on a different name, purging Iranian loanwords, etc.) have only bred insularity and confusion. They deny Afghans the full recognition of their role in a vast cultural commonwealth.
Historical “Dari” Was Symbolic
Secondly, the idea that Dari was needed as a compromise might have been valid to an extent in 1964, but even the architect of that compromise, Mir Sediq Farhang, later acknowledged it was merely a “superficial distinction”. It papered over the issue rather than truly resolving it. Yes, it avoided ruffling some feathers in the short term, but at what long-term cost? Decades later, we see that it didn’t eliminate ethnic tension at all – Persian-speaking communities still feel aggrieved, and Pashtun hardliners still attempt to impose their language. In other words, the compromise did not create lasting harmony; it simply renamed the battlefield. Moreover, Persian was so entrenched as a common language that its official recognition was inevitable with or without the name change. Even today, Dari/Persian remains the lingua franca for an estimated 78% of Afghans (either as a first or second language). You can call it whatever you want in the constitution, but the fact is a huge majority of Afghanistan’s people use Farsi daily to communicate across ethnic lines. Given this reality, elevating Pashto was never a zero-sum necessity – Persian could retain a prominent official place simply because the people demanded it by usage. In short, the compromise of 1964 was solving a political dilemma that perhaps could have been solved by leadership and education, rather than by lexical trickery.
No Escape from Politics
“…calling our language Farsi would not suddenly make Afghans pledge allegiance to Tehran. It would simply acknowledge the linguistic reality. Afghanistan’s sovereignty or national character is not so fragile that a name change could crack it.”
Importantly, the fear that reverting to Farsi would hand Iran some cultural victory is unfounded. Afghan Persian speakers largely have their own identity and don’t need Iran to tell them who they are. As The Diplomat magazine noted, most Persian-speaking Afghans (and their leaders) are Sunni Muslims (unlike predominantly Shia Iran) and have distinct local loyalties; their geopolitical orientation often leans toward Central or South Asia, not Iran. In other words, calling our language Farsi would not suddenly make Afghans pledge allegiance to Tehran. It would simply acknowledge the linguistic reality. Afghanistan’s sovereignty or national character is not so fragile that a name change could crack it. Tajikistan’s example is instructive: during Soviet times they called the language Tajik, yet after independence many Tajik intellectuals freely acknowledge it’s the same Persian (forsi) and have even considered reverting the name. Tajikistan cooperates with Iran on Persian language matters despite having its own name for the tongue. Their sovereignty remains intact. Afghanistan too can confidently call its language Farsi and still celebrate what is uniquely Afghan about it.
Finally, I ask: what tangible benefit has the term “Dari” brought Afghanistan? Beyond appeasing some political rhetoric, it’s hard to find a positive. It did not make Afghans more united – if anything, it added a new layer of division. It did not make the language any richer or more “Afghan” – the language remained Persian in all but name, and Afghans continued to borrow and lend words with Iranians and Tajiks as before. It certainly did not convince the world that Afghan Dari is fundamentally different – linguists and savvy observers always knew it’s Persian, and those who didn’t were simply confused by the terminology. In practical terms, “Dari” offered no advantage except a symbolic one, and symbols can cut both ways. The symbol ended up exploited by those who wanted to minimize the Persian element of Afghan culture. In retrospect, the renaming appears as an empty gesture: it pleased some nationalist sentiment momentarily, but left a legacy of dispute.
Moving Forward: Bridging the Divide
The controversy over Dari vs. Farsi has persisted for over half a century. It’s clear that clinging to this linguistic schism is not benefiting Afghanistan or its people. To heal the wounds caused by the divide and to strengthen national cohesion, bold steps are needed. Below are several measures that scholars and cultural leaders in the Afghan diaspora and at home have proposed:
Reinstate “Farsi” as the Official Designation
Afghanistan can amend its laws and constitution to recognize the language by its international and historical name, Farsi, rather than exclusively Dari. This move would be more than symbolic – it would reaffirm Afghanistan’s place in the broader Persian-speaking world and restore the linguistic continuity that was broken in 1964. Crucially, this change would not negate local dialectal nuances; Afghan Persian will still have its distinctive accent and idioms (just as American vs. British English do), and those can be honored. But under one name, the unity and shared roots become clear. Adopting “Persian/Farsi” officially would signal that Afghanistan is proud of speaking one of the world’s great languages, alongside Iran and Tajikistan, without any inferiority complex. There is little risk in doing so – as one analysis noted, renaming Dari to Farsi poses no threat to Afghan sovereignty or identity. Afghans know who they are; they won’t become less Afghan by calling their language Farsi.
Promote True Bilingual Education
“A Herati child can learn Pashto without feeling it’s a “hostile” tongue, and a Pashtun child can become fluent in Farsi (as so many have been) without seeing it as betrayal of his heritage”
Rather than favoring one language at the expense of the other, Afghanistan should embrace bilingualism as a national asset. Schools and universities can ensure that all students gain proficiency in both Farsi and Pashto, regardless of their mother tongue. Historically many educated Afghans were comfortably bilingual – this should be the norm again. Equal emphasis on Farsi and Pashto in curricula (as mediums of instruction, in literature, etc.) would send the message that both languages belong to everyone. A Herati child can learn Pashto without feeling it’s a “hostile” tongue, and a Pashtun child can become fluent in Farsi (as so many have been) without seeing it as betrayal of his heritage. Bilingual education, done right, will foster mutual respect and national unity. It also reflects Afghan history, where poets would write in Farsi but sing folk songs in Pashto – each language enriching the other. Empowering the next generation in both official languages ensures that no group feels left out, and it strengthens the country’s human capital. In short, Farsi and Pashto should be presented as complementary pillars of Afghan identity, not competitors.
Address Ethnic Grievances in Governance
Language is often a proxy for deeper issues. The government (current or future) must tangibly include and empower Afghanistan’s diverse ethnic communities in power structures. This means measures like equitable power-sharing, fair hiring in civil services, and recognition of all major languages (Uzbek, Turkmen, Baluchi, etc. alongside Pashto and Farsi) in local governance. When people feel heard and represented, linguistic terminology becomes less of a battlefield. Policies should celebrate Afghanistan’s diversity rather than enforce any hierarchy. For instance, road signs can be multilingual; national TV can broadcast in multiple languages; public ceremonies can include greetings in various tongues. Such inclusivity lessens the perception that one language = one group’s dominance. The goal should be that no Afghan community feels its identity is being suppressed by the state. Healing the rift over Dari/Farsi is inseparable from improving ethnic relations overall. This includes acknowledging past wrongs (like the coercive Pashtunization under certain regimes) and assuring all groups that their culture and language are respected in today’s Afghanistan.
Revise Constitutional Language to Reflect Unity
Amending the constitution and laws to use inclusive terminology can help undo decades of divisive rhetoric. For example, the constitution could state that “Persian (Dari) and Pashto are the official languages” – putting Persian up front as the broader category that Dari is a part of. Alternatively, it might list “Farsi” to explicitly affirm they are the same. Such wording would counter the narrative that they are different languages. Remember, Afghanistan’s own Mir Sediq Farhang admitted “Dari” was a superficial compromise; by updating the terminology, the state would finally align with linguistic reality. This legal change would also pave the way for correcting school textbooks, official forms, and signage to use the term Farsi in appropriate contexts (while perhaps retaining “Dari” in descriptions for historical context). It is a strong signal that Afghanistan refuses to let ethnopolitical agendas define its languages any longer. Granted, constitutional change is difficult (especially under current political conditions), but this is a long-term recommendation for any representative Afghan government that emerges.
Engage the Global Persianate Community
Afghanistan stands to gain immensely from closer cultural and academic ties with Tajikistan, Iran, and the Farsi-speaking diaspora worldwide. Rather than viewing the Persian language as a zero-sum struggle with Iran, Afghans can actively collaborate on preserving and promoting their shared heritage. This could mean co-hosting literary festivals that celebrate Rumi or Ferdowsi, participating in the creation of standardized Persian dictionaries that include Afghan vocabulary, or student exchange programs among Kabul, Tehran, and Dushanbe. There have already been steps in this direction – for instance, Nowruz (Persian New Year) is jointly celebrated by Afghanistan, Iran, Tajikistan and other countries as a UNESCO-listed cultural heritage. Building on such initiatives, Afghanistan can carve out a leadership role in the Persian cultural sphere. By engaging internationally, Afghan scholars and artists ensure that their voices are part of the global Persian discourse, rather than isolated under the “Dari” label. This not only enriches Afghan culture but also asserts a positive Afghan presence on the world stage. The message becomes: Afghanistan is a proud bearer of Persian civilization, not a distant cousin of it.
“By engaging internationally, Afghan scholars and artists ensure that their voices are part of the global Persian discourse, rather than isolated under the “Dari” label. This not only enriches Afghan culture but also asserts a positive Afghan presence on the world stage. The message becomes: Afghanistan is a proud bearer of Persian civilization, not a distant cousin of it.”
Each of these steps requires political will and public support. They will not happen overnight. But they offer a roadmap to move beyond the stale Dari/Farsi conflict toward a future where language is a bridge, not a barrier.
Conclusion
The 1964 renaming of Farsi to “Dari” may have been well-intentioned – born out of a desire for national unity and short-term political expediency – but in hindsight it was a deeply flawed policy. It attempted to carve up a millennia-old linguistic continuum for the sake of optics, and the results have been counterproductive. Instead of forging a singular Afghan identity, it fragmented Afghanistan’s cultural identity and created an enduring source of friction. By severing the explicit link to the broader Persian heritage, Afghanistan inadvertently weakened its cultural leverage and left a vacuum too often filled by ethnonationalist narratives. The name Dari, whatever its historical pedigree, has in modern times become associated with division – a line drawn between “us” and “them” where none truly existed linguistically.
Yet, there is cause for optimism. Recognizing Farsi as a unifying thread does not mean erasing or diminishing Pashto or any other language of Afghanistan. Embracing Farsi as a bridge can actually enhance inter-ethnic harmony and regional connectivity. Afghanistan can honor its Persian literary legacy and its Pashto and Turkic and other legacies all at once – these are not mutually exclusive loyalties. In fact, multilingualism and multiculturalism have always been at the heart of Afghan society. The way forward lies in transcending politicized labels. By reclaiming the common name of Farsi, Afghans would be affirming that their language is not a political pawn, but a rich cultural inheritance shared with neighbors and passed down from their ancestors.
In the end, whether one says Dari or Farsi, the language itself remains the same beautiful medium that carries the poems of Rumi, the prose of Khalilullah Khalili, the folk stories and everyday conversations of millions of Afghans. What matters is removing the stigma and false walls that have been built around these words. An Afghanistan at peace with the name Farsi for its Persian speech would be one that is confident in its identity – secure enough to join hands with kin across borders without feeling overshadowed. It would also be an Afghanistan that gives equal respect to Pashto and all its languages, recognizing that unity in diversity is far more powerful than unity imposed by division.
Half a century of experience has shown that renaming Persian to Dari did not solve Afghanistan’s identity debates; if anything, it compounded them. It’s time to close that chapter. By restoring clarity in language policy and focusing on inclusion, Afghanistan can turn the page to a future where linguistic heritage is a source of pride and connection – within the country and with the wider Farsi-speaking world – rather than a source of dispute. In that future, we might finally see the day when this long-simmering argument is put to rest, and Afghans can simply say, “We speak Farsi – our Farsi – and we are proud of it,” while cherishing every other thread of the rich legacy that is Afghan culture.
