By Mateen Mehrab*
I awaken at six in the morning, greeted by the intrusive rays of sunlight that pierce through my window. Engaging in my morning rituals — washing my face and hands, and heading to the breakfast table — my body moves out of habit while my mind races with thoughts of work. At this hour, my primary concern is strategizing how to tackle the day’s tasks, one by one.
At home, I enjoy my first cup of tea before proceeding to my office, where the second cup awaits around 8 a.m. My initial task often involves conducting an interview. However, for nearly two years now, even the most ordinary of interviews have become tainted by fear and apprehension. I constantly worry that those to whom I talk may betray me to the Taliban for any reason. I also wonder if the Taliban may be monitoring my phone calls and WhatsApp conversations. Fear has become an unwelcome companion. It sends shivers down my spine and torments my soul. Even within the confines of my office, I find myself anxiously listening for the sound of the door as if the Taliban are lying in wait, ready to apprehend me.
These concerns repeatedly resurface throughout the day. Given that the Taliban’s hostility extends even to media outlets and sympathetic journalists, being a journalist whose reports consistently contradict the Taliban’s preferred narrative means that my peace of mind is always disrupted.When I’m conducting an interview outside my home, I am haunted by the notion that a Taliban spy might be eavesdropping on our conversation, or worse, that the interviewee may be an intelligence agent for the Taliban. Even after the interview concludes and I make my way back home, I remain hyper-vigilant of my surroundings. Every step is accompanied by a heightened awareness, a constant fear of being pursued or followed, as if someone is searching for my address. Stress engulfs my body and soul like a lethal poison until I reach the sanctuary of my home.
Such is the daily existence of a journalist whose writing never satisfies the Taliban. Yet, it is when I’m writing that I transcend the world I inhabit and immerse myself in the narratives I’m recounting. There have been moments when I find myself in a saffron field where women delicately pluck its clusters. Or I stand beside a young girl, tears streaming down her face, as she laments being deprived of pursuing education due to the Taliban’s oppressive rule. Sometimes, I find myself next to a child labourer, sifting through garbage on the street. And then, I may find myself in a desolate room, witnessing a man unleash his fury upon his wife and daughter for violating the Taliban’s stringent laws. Writing these reports transports me from my world to a realm of individuals who share similar yet diverse pains. Like me, they lack the freedom to vocalize their anguish. They too endure the grip of fear and anxiety, as their lives become consumed by the Taliban’s reign.
My professional identity, once associated with my real name, was obliterated when the Taliban seized power on August 15, 2021. At that time, I adopted a pseudonym, symbolizing the loss of the freedom of expression we once cherished before the Taliban’s resurgence. Nowadays, freedom of expression resembles a flock of words, phrases, and sentences yearning to soar freely, visible to all. Yet, in Afghanistan, this bird-like flight is abruptly halted by an impenetrable iron wall, transforming into a bullet that ricochets back. Under the tyrannical rule of the Taliban, expressing genuine facts becomes an act of self-sabotage.
It’s not just the media who are affected. Even ordinary activities on social media, including writing and commenting on posts, are subjected to constant surveillance. Social media platforms in Afghanistan have been transformed into venues where the combined apparatus of the security and police state closely monitor our every move. Opinions find no tolerance, as words and bullets merge into a singular entity. Dissent is perceived as sedition, tantamount to military opposition against their regime. Where I live, the Taliban have detained numerous journalists.
Self-censorship has become an integral part of our lives even though it is akin to a gradual form of self-destruction. Though the concept petrifies me, I find myself among the countless individuals who engage in such self-censorship. Self-censorship is akin to a gradual form of self-destruction. As a testament of a journalist, I fervently hope that if freedom of expression ever returns to Afghanistan, it will bear witness to the sacrifices we made — the lives we laid down and the bodies we offered — in its pursuit.
*Mateen Mehrab is the pseudonym of a local journalist.
