To many, she was still known as one-half of Zeb and Haniya, even years after the duo had released their debut album Chup and gone their separate ways. To others, she, like Zeb Bangash, had chartered her own course, and what a worthwhile journey it had been. Knowing her was a privilege and an honor. Her death is a profound loss.
The music community is still reeling from the sudden, untimely death of Haniya Aslam, who was just 39 years old and passed away last Sunday (August 11) after suffering a cardiac arrest.
I had the great privilege of knowing her, first as a part of Zeb and Haniya, and later as she embarked on a solo career. There were conversations we had that were, and will always be, off the record. And there were conversations we had on the record. But through it all, Haniya was always warm and kind, and being in her company felt like being with a friend.
Haniya never wanted to stop learning. When she moved to Canada, she enrolled at Trebas Institute in Toronto and completed a one-year diploma in audio engineering and music production. Haniya quickly realized there were gaps in her knowledge of music. She wasn’t aiming to become an outstanding guitarist or a singer-songwriter. She wanted to understand the dynamics of music, what happens in a studio, and the difference between sound design and audio engineering. She followed it up with work that came through the institute’s network, including pro bono and paid projects.
Haniya told me why she returned, but she was a private person and never wanted those reasons to be printed. I assured her they wouldn’t be, and even in death, I will keep my word. Let’s just say familial and personal reasons brought her back.
I still remember how proud Haniya Aslam was of Chup, her debut album with Zeb Bangash. She told me that she would always be incredibly proud and happy that they made that record.
When Haniya returned from Canada, much time had passed, and she had learned everything there was to know about music. When I sat in awe of her abilities, she was so gracious and playfully teased me about what I had forgotten. But it had very little to do with frustration about not printing all of her achievements—and there were many including singing in multiple languages, and cross-border collaborations. Given a task, she always excelled. From sound design to sound mixing, original soundtracks, composing, singing, producing, writing, and engineering (and I’m sure I’m forgetting something here), Haniya could do anything. The only thing she told me she couldn’t do was get into luthiery, but she needed time to figure it out. Attempting it at that point would have damaged her hand.
Beyond Chup, and Coke Studio, she worked on several Mehreen Jabbar projects, co-wrote lyrics with Bilal Sami – because she was never one to take credit from others – produced music for other artists, and was deeply proud of feminist movements like Girls at Dhabas and feminists reclaiming space, which she said her generation wasn’t brave enough to do. She wanted to support the new wave and she had always admired the older generation of Pakistani feminists from WAF (Women’s Action Forum).
When she participated in Coke Studio 11, the call (from Ali Hamza, co-executive producer) came just 10 days after she had returned from Canada. But this time, she was not a featured artist with Zeb Bangash. She was collaborating with a slew of artists for a song called ‘Main Irada’, leading from the front. She was also part of the audio team during season 11, as well as a multi-instrumentalist, and confessed that others had more faith in her than she had in herself. And yet, she played whatever instrument was put before her, mastered it, and performed it in the episode where it was required.
‘Main Irada’ was special to her. It was the first time that a song fostered gender equality on the Coke Studio floor.
The thing about Haniya was (and will always be) that she encouraged others in an industry that was dominated by male figures at the time she started.
Her album with Zeb Bangash, Chup, and her expertise in the studio made her a role model for emerging artists, and she wanted to nurture their talent.
Just as I knew off-the-record details about various facets of her life, she also knew some things about mine. And with Haniya, it was easy because she was warm, kind, understanding, and non-judgmental. We were not the new kids on the block anymore. With years of pop culture writing, I sometimes question my relevance. But artists like Haniya reminded me (a) not to dwell on the things we could do in our twenties and (b) to believe in yourself just as others believed in her. She quietly stayed in touch, particularly after a health condition. But even before the medical condition and what followed, she never held a grudge for missing a gig or took it as a sign of disrespect. She understood certain things. We were pretty much the same age. I continued to ask her about her EP. She told me certain things, some on-record and some off-record. Some song reviews coincided with her personal life, and they made her happy. She’d tell me, which made me happy, that all this does count and it mattered because if it mattered to someone as pure as Haniya, surely it counted.
Haniya mentored other artists, and though many knew she was gifted, she never became complacent and was always dedicated to the craft of art, music, and culture, choosing to gaze not into the abyss but into the light. Haniya, perhaps, didn’t realize that she carried a light as well, and all those who came close to her shone because of it—because of her.
Haniya Aslam’s passing is a profound, irreplaceable loss. She was an artist whose growth made this job worthwhile, and she was a friend who was able to see what others couldn’t. I do not use the word ‘friend’ lightly hear. This is an industry grappling with enormous changes, including dealing with the egos of stars and the impact of technology. Haniya was always a bright star, but she never behaved liked one. She was a curious and beautiful artist who subconsciously and consciously paved the way for future generations, particularly female artists.
May she rest in peace, and may we continue to learn from the wonderful, pure, and kind-hearted person she was (and will always be). Coke Studio photos by Insiya Syed
“Feminism is about lifting women up, not pulling men down. It’s a very simple concept, but I don’t know why it threatens people. It’s baffling to me. Girls at Dhaba, Fearless Collective—they are all so inspiring. I’m so proud of what they are doing. I wasn’t able to participate myself, and that’s also one of the reasons I was excited about working on a woman’s anthem (‘Maa Behn Ka Danda’). I felt like they had already built significant momentum. I just wanted to add my little push from the back. From admiring our old Pakistani feminists from the Women’s Action Forum (WAF) days to this new generation, I hope it’s all heading somewhere.”
– Haniya Aslam on feminism
in Pakistan
“‘Chal Diye’ is one of the older compositions on our album. It’s a song I wrote for the city I grew up in and that I consider my home, Islamabad. The song carries many sentiments and a lot of attachment to the themes in it.
I think, at its core, this song is about the people and places that we love, but sometimes one has to part from them. And despite parting, these things always stay with you.”
– Haniya Aslam on ‘Chal Diye’ from
Chup (one of the most popular songs
from Zeb and Haniya’s debut record)
“‘Ayi Re’ started out as a thought process. I was trying to understand the past 10-15 years of my life, during which I saw so much of the world. I saw success and fame, struggle and anxiety, and heroes who turned out to be human like everyone else. I saw what it meant to pursue dreams, and that attaining dreams was sometimes as difficult as not attaining them. And most of all, I learnt that patience is everything. Allowing things to happen in their own time is essential. Through all of this, music has been my guide and my purpose. This song, I suppose, is a reflection of that journey and the feeling of joy and freedom that music has gifted me.”
–Haniya Aslam on the feelings andemotions behind her solo song, ‘Ayi Re’
By Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into
silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly
sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance, fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of
dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.
Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Photo by Kohi Marri
