Ghazni Minarets

Listen first. Out here on the open plain, the wind carries dust across the ground, and it settles on everything... on your sleeves, on your shoes, and on the old brick in front of you. The light is hard and clear. Two towers stand apart from each other on this flat ground. They are not tall now, and they are not complete. Even so, they hold your eye. Their brick looks warm in the sun, close to the colour of the earth around them.

These are the Ghazni Minarets. They are among the oldest surviving monuments of a dynasty that once made this town one of the great capitals of the eastern Islamic world. They are known as the Ghaznavids. From the late tenth century into the twelfth century, their rulers governed from here. At its height, their power reached across much of present-day Afghanistan, into Iran, and deep into northern India. Today Ghazni is a provincial town. Nine hundred years ago, it was a royal capital.

The most famous ruler of that dynasty was Mahmud of Ghazni. He reigned in the early eleventh century and led repeated campaigns into India. His raids brought enormous wealth back to this city. With that wealth came poets, scholars, and builders. The great Persian poet Ferdowsi completed his epic, the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings, in this era. Tradition links him to Mahmud's court, though the story of their relationship is told in many versions, some of them more legend than record.

The minarets themselves come from a slightly later generation. Scholars generally attribute one tower to Sultan Mas'ud the Third and the other to Bahram Shah. Both ruled in the early twelfth century. So these towers do not belong to Mahmud's golden age. They come from the dynasty's later years, when its power was already shrinking. It is a quiet surprise for many visitors. These monuments mark a dynasty's late chapter, not its peak.

Now look closely at the shape. The lower part of each tower is not round. It is built in the form of a star, with sharp angled ribs that project outward. Walk slowly around one tower and watch the shadows move across those ribs. On one side the brick glows. On the next face it falls into shade. This star plan was a bold choice. It turns a plain shaft of brick into something that changes with every step you take.

The material is baked brick — no marble, no glazed tile covering the whole surface. Yet the builders created rich decoration from brick alone. They set bricks in patterns, cut them into shapes, and carved panels of terracotta, which is fired clay. Look at the surface. You will see geometric bands, small repeating motifs, and lines of lettering. From a distance it reads as texture. Up close, it reads as careful, patient craft.

That lettering matters. Bands of inscriptions run across the brickwork, written in an angular style of Arabic script called Kufic. Kufic letters are tall, straight, and geometric, which suits brick very well. On the tower linked to Mas'ud the Third, the inscriptions carry the ruler's name and titles. In other words, the tower speaks for its patron. It is a statement in brick, telling everyone below who held power in this city.

Here is something many visitors miss. What you see is only part of each tower. The star-shaped base once supported a much taller round shaft above it. Travellers and photographers in the nineteenth century recorded the minarets with more of their upper sections still standing. Over time, earthquakes, weather, and neglect brought those upper parts down. So imagine the towers rising far higher into this sky. The stump in front of you is the foundation of something once much grander.

Why were they built at all? That is still an open question. A minaret is usually attached to a mosque, as a tower for the call to prayer. But no clear mosque has been confirmed beside either tower. Some historians suggest they may have been victory towers, built to celebrate a ruler's triumphs. Others think they stood within larger complexes that have since vanished. The honest answer is that we do not know for certain.

The dynasty's end came violently. In the middle of the twelfth century, a rival power from the mountains of central Afghanistan, the Ghurids, captured Ghazni. Their ruler, Ala al-Din Husayn, became known by a grim nickname: Jahan-suz, which means the World Burner. According to the chronicles, his forces burned much of the city over several days. Many palaces and tombs were lost. Somehow, these two towers survived the fire.

The story does not end there. The Ghurids who destroyed Ghazni also learned from it. Their own great tower, the Minaret of Jam, stands deep in the mountains to the west. Many scholars see a line of influence running from towers like these to Jam, and then on to the Qutb Minar in Delhi. So this plain of brick and dust may be linked to some of the most important towers in South Asia.

In recent decades, protective covers have been placed over the tops of the towers. They help to keep rain and snow out of the broken brickwork. They are not beautiful, and they change the outline you see against the sky. But they show that people still care for these monuments. Ghazni has also tried to bring attention to its heritage. In 2013, it was named an Islamic Capital of Culture.

Before you leave, stand still for a moment between the two towers. Look from one to the other. Notice how the brick takes on the colour of the light, and how the wind moves across the open ground. Then turn and look toward the town. Nine centuries ago, a royal city spread across this land. Today, these two broken towers are among its clearest witnesses — and you are standing in their shadow.