By Ramazan*
I have been working as a journalist with many different media organizations since the early 2000s. I even established a weekly newspaper, which I eventually closed because of a lack of resources. I wrote for other papers and joined the editorial boards of various media organizations. I penned critical articles on political, economic, and social issues. I exposed social shortcomings and tried to bring it to the attention of government officials.
Although I knew that my writing was not going to be very effective at initiating change, I felt a sense of responsibility to never stop writing and to not stop fighting against discrimination and inequality. Sometimes, I used humour to sting members of parliament and government ministers. I even used used the language of poetry to expose the inequities of Afghanistan. I wrote poems about corruption, large-scale thefts by officials, the involvement of officials in drug cultivation and trafficking, ethnocentrism, ethno-religious disunity, suicide attacks, and the killing of thousands of innocent people in mosques, sports clubs, and markets, etc.
For two decades, I fought against the status quo through my writing, poetry, media interviews, and speeches. I never got into trouble for what I wrote or said.
Everything changed after the Taliban regained control of Afghanistan. Even before they returned to power, they created terror in the psyche of society and the people and it’s that sense of fear that proved to be the most important weapon in their recapture of Afghanistan.
August 15, 2021, should have been a normal workday for me. Then, at 9:30 in the morning, I heard that the Taliban had entered Kabul. At first, I couldn’t believe it. When I got out, I saw that it was true. Our office was in Karte-3. I carried only my computer as I left the office. When I talked to my daughter, who was in Kabul University, her voice trembled in fear, echoing my own fears.
My daughter and my family worried me the most because I had heard rumours that the Taliban forcefully marrying young unwed women. The alleys were crowded as vehicles blocked the roads. My daughter and I walked home. Our eyes were alert so that we didn’t walk into the Taliban. It took an hour and a half to reach home. My first task was to find magazines and articles that I’d written, either with my real name or a pseudonym. I hid some and burned others. A few days later, I took photos of my press cards and sent the originals with my daughters to my home province so that they would be out of the immediate reach of the Taliban. I removed the anti-Taliban content from my Facebook page. My books were still a source of concern but gradually I felt a bit more relaxed.
My worries were reignited as word spread that the Taliban were arresting journalists. In these 18 months of the Taliban in power, the stress and fear of arrest, torture, and murder haunts me and makes it hard to sleep. It’s both the fear and anxiety of my work as a journalist as well as fear and anxiety of poverty and destitution. I start each day with the same fear: “Maybe the Taliban will arrest me today.”
The Taliban impose more restrictions on the media every day. Anyone who speaks against the Taliban will be labelled a rebel and eliminated. Dozens of journalists have been arrested and tortured, with some still in captivity: Mohammad Kazem Amini, a writer and university professor was arrested; Mortaza Behboudi, a French-Afghan journalist, was arrested on charges of espionage and his fate is unknown; and several YouTubers were arrested.
I even read reports that Taliban intelligence are employing Indian and Chinese technicians to track opponents and journalists on social media. Fear has penetrated society and people’s lives so much that no one feels safe anywhere. Speaking against the Taliban is a crime. No teacher in the school and no professor in the university can utter a word against the Taliban because their spies are everywhere.
One day, while teaching a class, I referenced the current situation. The next day, a university official summoned me to his office and said, “I heard that you talked about certain issues in your lecture.” I responded, “I gave an example and meant nothing.” He said, “Be aware that someone from the Taliban intelligence is in your classroom.” Now I feel that nowhere is safe. Sometimes I avoid talking one-on-one, fearing that a person who pretends to be a friend might also be a Taliban informant.
For now, I live in my isolated safe corner. I have closed my social media accounts. I am cautious when using my mobile phone. I hide the fact that I’m a journalist. In spite of all this, I am afraid that the Taliban will separate me from my family one day.
* Ramadan is the nickname of a journalist and university professor in Kabul.
