‘Please don’t use my name’: A journalist struggles to report under Taliban rule
To research a report about a lively school in Kabul, I asked for help on WhatsApp, Facebook Stories, and Instagram: “If you graduated from this school or know someone who has a connection to it, please let me know.” No one responded except for one person on Instagram, who insisted I not mention their name. I assured them I wouldn’t, but I could sense their anxiety. Even though that person had left Afghanistan five years ago, they remained cautious — perhaps out of concern for family still in the country.
Days passed, and my research for the report wasn’t progressing, so I asked colleagues in Kabul to visit the school. One reported back that the teachers were too afraid to cooperate with the media. Two teachers gave their phone numbers, but when our colleague called, they asked for her personal details and address. Out of caution, she asked me to speak with them directly.
I messaged each teacher separately, introducing myself and explaining what I needed. I also included links to several of my published stories. One of them enabled WhatsApp’s message timer to auto-delete our chats. After a delay, the second replied with a short three-line message, ending with “I am now a housebound woman.” She wanted to speak, but fear held her back. I messaged our colleague in Kabul: “Why are the teachers at this school being so cautious?” She replied that women teachers had become extremely careful.
After living for nearly four years under Taliban rule, people have become extremely cautious of what they say and are growingly fearful of talking to the media. In addition, many believe that nothing good can come of talking to the media and that the only consequence would be having their stories turned into gossip fodder on Facebook and in casual conversations.
On April 22, the Taliban leader issued an order eliminating 90,000 positions from the Ministry of Education. Teachers had heard rumours that the cuts were coming. They believed they could avoid danger by staying silent. “What more is there for teachers at girls’ schools to lose that they are so afraid to speak?” I asked a colleague.
Videos of teachers’ interviews and school events from five years ago are still on YouTube. Back then, students and teachers spoke proudly of their jobs and school environment. They laughed freely. Now, fear of the Taliban is lodged deep in people’s minds.
In preparing a report on the fate of female university professors in Afghanistan, we spoke with more than 20 women academics across the country and those living elsewhere. At the beginning of one interview, a professor from northeastern Afghanistan insisted that her name and the province not be mentioned. “It’s a small town. Believe me, one of our acquaintances was imprisoned for a year just because of a Facebook post,” she explained.
None of the professors wanted us to use any identifying information, such as their ages, names, provinces, universities, fields of study, departments, or even the country where they earned their master’s degree. One said, “There’s only one job left in my name — I don’t want to lose that, too.” An elderly professor with grandchildren repeatedly mentioned her fear of the Taliban as well as her concern that her family would blame her if they discovered that she’d given an interview.
Two weeks before the layoffs that were announced on April 22, the media reported that the Taliban was eliminating 14 percent of positions at the Ministry of Higher Education. For those job cuts, the Taliban leader emphasized that the layoffs would target those who were not reporting to work, meaning the primary victims would be female professors as Taliban decrees have prevented them from returning to their jobs.
Fear that talking to the media will invite Taliban retaliation is everywhere in Afghanistan. We were also preparing a report about the death of a woman named Gul Bibi in Takhar province. She had died of injuries sustained during a beating by the Taliban. Interviewees requested that their identities be fully protected because the Taliban were monitoring local residents and had imprisoned five people from the district for filming and sharing interviews with Gul Bibi’s family members. Her son was also tortured and jailed indefinitely after he spoke directly to the media. Fearing for the safety of those we’d talked to, we decided to stop further investigation into the violent death of Gul Bibi.
Even recounting personal tragedies can be dangerous. A friend informed me about the death of her 22-year-old relative, who died from kidney complications. The family was unable to find a donor because the Taliban had banned the buying and selling of kidneys in Afghanistan. After I asked her to write something about this girl, she replied, “No! Her family won’t allow it. People are afraid of the Taliban.”
A sense of hopelessness is spreading. “What’s the point?” asked a woman affected by Donald Trump’s order suspending the U.S. refugee assistance program, which has stranded 200,000 Afghan migrants in Pakistan, Qatar, and Albania. Her question stayed with me for days. What is the point? Yet, after the report was eventually published, I discovered that there are people in this world who do care about the fate and lives of others. Many reached out, asking how they could help. If that woman had shared her story instead of asking that pointed question, her voice might have been recorded, shared — and perhaps heard.
According to Deutsche Welle, the Taliban have extended their ban of the display of living beings to 14 provinces. And while a few women still work in Kabul’s media outlets, they could suffer the same fate – banishment – just as is already occurring in other provinces. The Taliban are systematically transforming the 35 million people in Afghanistan into hostages to their whims.
Khadija Haidary is Zan Times journalist.
