“They will not allow you to enter.”
When I heard those words, my first glance turned toward the hall. It was full of men wearing large turbans. Their eyes were filled with anger and hatred, all of which was aimed at me. The presence of a woman in that male-dominated gathering was unacceptable to them.
After my colleague uttered that statement, he fell silent. There was nothing more for him to say. We both knew I was being denied entry because I was a woman. But I refused to give up, so I said, “If I leave today, I will lose my identity forever. What kind of journalist is someone who does not dare to attend a gathering of men?”
I went inside. Reluctantly, they directed me to the farthest corner of the hall, somewhere I could not even see the entire room properly. I had only a microphone and a notebook in my hand. I thought, “Will they really agree to speak to you, when they are this angry about your presence?”
I never forgot that day. Its events were repeated many times: the hatred directed at me simply because I was a woman journalist; the moments during video interviews when they ordered me to stand at the very edge of the frame so my face would not be seen because they would not allow the interview to be broadcast showing a female face.
One day, while we were working on a city report, we had to prepare a story about power outages. Pul-e-Surkh was at its busiest. We were interviewing people, one by one, when suddenly chaos broke out. Young women quickened their steps, trying to hide themselves.
I saw several members of the morality police approaching, accompanied by members of the Taliban. We felt somewhat reassured because we had our hijab and our journalism work permits with us.
Before they reached us, my colleague said, “Don’t worry, they will not bother us.”
But then an angry morality officer began slapping my colleague.
“Why are you with a woman who is not your mahram? Why do you not follow religion and the Prophet?” he asked.
At that moment, as anger, fear, and terror built up inside me, I could not restrain myself. I began saying that we had permits and that we had the right to work but he stopped me by striking the microphone in my hand with the back of his hand, and then the Taliban hit me on the back with a rifle butt while saying, “Shameless woman, do not speak!”
They did not even allow us to make a phone call. The camera and microphone had fallen in different directions. Though people gathered around us, no one helped. Instead, they said, “Sister, go home and do your house chores. What business do you have with reporting and cameras?”
After that incident, I choked up and cried every time I stood behind a radio or television microphone. One day, I decided to leave the country that had taken away my right to choose and to speak. Journalism has given me an identity, but now I feel as though I have lost that identity — an emptiness that nothing can fill.
Two years have passed since that decision. Still, my heart aches deeply when I remember those moments, and the passion with which I had once entered this profession. The difficult days while studying for the university entrance exam, the happiness on the day the exam results came, and the long, difficult path to being a journalist working in the media field — all of it now feels heavy and painful.
I had believed that through the voice I raised and the reports I produced, I could help many girls in their struggle for schools, universities, and women’s rights. We tried with everything we had. But, unfortunately, the cruelty of our times left us with no room to breathe. We were forced to leave the country empty-handed, with tearful eyes, and seek refuge in Pakistan — a country that does not want us.
Now, Pakistan also imposes great suffering on us — from the refusal to extend visas to forced deportations. I want to say, and perhaps to complain, that there are organizations claiming to support journalists while presenting polished images in the media yet they do no support journalists who have sought refuge to save their own lives and the lives of their children.
Once, we raised our voices so the voices of the people could be heard. Today, our voices have become weapons used against our own lives in Afghanistan. Every journalist from every media outlet who continued to report with courage did so under the threat of arrest, imprisonment, or even assassination. No one leaves their country and family unless they are forced to.
Sakina Naseri is an Afghan woman journalist living in Pakistan.
