The flag—an emblem condensing the political and collective identity of a nation—has held an unstable and turbulent place in Afghanistan’s modern history. Over the course of nearly a century, Afghanistan has changed its national flag more than twenty times. These changes did not emerge from a gradual national evolution or broad social consensus, but rather from abrupt political shifts, coups, revolutions, and military defeats. This cycle reflects a persistent gap between state and society, and the inability of political elites to create a shared symbol of national identity.
During the reign of King Amanullah Khan (1919–1929), which marked early attempts at modernization and centralization, the black–red–green tricolor was introduced as a symbol of newly won independence from Britain. Yet even then, the flag functioned more as a display of central authority than as an expression of social cohesion. Under King Zahir Shah (1933–1973), the tricolor was repeatedly redesigned, with royal and Islamic emblems alternating—changes driven less by national transformation than by shifting elite interpretations of monarchical legitimacy.
The 1973 coup led by Mohammad Daoud Khan ended the monarchy and introduced a republican flag, but it, too, was short-lived. The communist revolution of 1978 triggered another wave of changes. During the communist governments (1978–1992), the flag was altered four times, ranging from a red banner with a yellow star and wheat wreath to black–red–green variations combining Islamic and socialist symbols. Each rebranding sought to legitimize a regime facing widespread resistance and reliant on Soviet support.
The mujahideen’s victory in 1992 reinstated the traditional tricolor with an Islamic emblem. Yet the absence of broad agreement among rival factions meant that even this flag lacked unified legitimacy. Civil war shattered national cohesion, turning the flag into a marker of factional alignment. When the Taliban took power in 1996, their plain white flag with the Islamic creed replaced all previous emblems. For the Taliban, it symbolized religious purity; for opponents and non-Pashtun communities, it represented exclusion and repression.
Following the Taliban’s fall in 2001 and the establishment of the Islamic Republic, the historical tricolor returned and became Afghanistan’s official flag for the next two decades. It was celebrated by many as a symbol of resilience and hope for a freer future, but others—especially in Taliban-influenced areas—viewed it as tied to foreign military presence and detached from local culture. This divide prevented the flag from achieving truly national status, even as it gained prominence in international forums and among the global Afghan diaspora.
The Taliban’s return to power in August 2021, and the reinstatement of their white flag, pulled Afghanistan back into another cycle of symbolic transformation. The Taliban regard this flag as a sign of “legitimate Islamic rule,” but for many Afghans—particularly the urban youth—it symbolizes the erasure of ethnic, linguistic, and religious diversity. This divide not only echoes historical fractures but highlights the political system’s ongoing inability to create symbolic consensus among social groups.
A review of these shifts reveals that no Afghan flag—monarchical, republican, or Taliban—has ever risen to the level of a universally accepted national emblem. Flags in Afghanistan have consistently reflected the will of ruling powers rather than the product of national dialogue or social contract. Whereas in many countries the flag embodies collective identity and shared pride, in Afghanistan each change in power has brought a new flag, with the previous symbol stripped of legitimacy. This instability mirrors a deeper crisis: the absence of national consensus on the foundations of shared identity.
National Flag Day, first formalized in 2019 under the former republic, now arrives in a context where the tricolor no longer flies over state institutions and has been replaced by the Taliban’s white banner. Instead of highlighting national unity, the day underscores the profound tension between competing narratives of Afghanistan’s identity. The past century shows that without an inclusive political settlement and genuine participation from all ethnic and social groups, no flag—whether tricolor or white—can carry the full meaning of a “national” symbol.
The opinions presented here belong solely to the authors and do not represent Deeyar’s editorial stance.
