The Dangerous Work of Reporting the Truth in Afghanistan

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O ne morning in late March, I received a message from a former colleague. It included pictures of a media worker in Afghanistan who had been tortured by the Taliban, his ears sliced through and his body covered in wounds. The media worker had been freed from prison, but his father had just died, and my friend was appealing to his contacts for help with the funeral expenses. More images were attached, but I couldn’t bear to look at them.

A few of us did what we could to support Mohammad, the media worker (I’m using a pseudonym for his safety). About a month later, I reached out to him to find out what exactly had happened. Via WhatsApp, he told me that on August 19, 2024, Taliban forces had entered his home without a warrant and seized his laptop, camera, and work-related documents. A few days later, they’d returned, called out his name over a loudspeaker, and arrested him. He was blindfolded, taken to a place he couldn’t identify, and kept for hours without food or water. He was interrogated and tortured, accused of “defaming” the Taliban with made-up reports about them. “Slaps, electric shocks, cutting my ear, eye injuries, and religious insults were just some of the things I suffered,” he told me.

With help from local elders, Mohammad was released after forty-five days. “But my body and soul were wounded,” he says. His father, upon seeing his son’s condition, had a stroke and died. That’s when Mohammad reached out to his network asking for support. Things haven’t improved since he was freed. He’s stopped working and lives in hiding, moving from city to city, away from his family home, fearing another arrest.

“I am not writing this for pity, but for justice,” Mohammad texted me. “Hundreds of other journalists in Afghanistan live in deep, dangerous silence. Hear our voices, and don’t let them be silenced.”

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Mohammad is one of many journalists I know who have survived torture, who are now destitute—not just those who remain in Afghanistan but also those in exile. I worked as a news producer at Tolo News, Afghanistan’s biggest national broadcaster, for five years and was forced to leave when the Taliban returned to power in August 2021. Even before the Taliban, journalism in Afghanistan was among the most dangerous professions, shaped by war, instability, and threats from all sides. Journalists operated like soldiers, on the front lines of the battle for information.

In the nearly four years since the Taliban’s takeover, the de facto government has shut down dozens of radio and TV stations and passed strict laws against publishing what is seen as undesirable news. Most media outlets that continue to operate obey the Taliban’s orders simply to survive. More than 336 journalists have had their human rights violated, including more than 250 arrests and at least 130 incidents of torture, according to the United Nations. Reporters Without Borders ranks Afghanistan 178th out of 180 countries in terms of press freedom. To the Taliban, the truth is a crime and the journalist a criminal.

A report by the Afghanistan Journalists Center lists 181 cases of media rights violations in 2024 alone, including 131 threats against media workers and organizations, fifty cases of detention, and the sentencing of at least five journalists to prison terms of two to five years. Female journalists, once the backbone of the country’s free media, have now been systematically excluded. According to Reporters Without Borders and the Afghan Independent Journalists Association, more than 84 percent of female journalists have been dismissed from their jobs, and many have either fled Afghanistan or are trapped in their homes.

The censorship is only worsening. On July 3, the Taliban’s Ministry of Information and Culture issued a new guideline called the “Policy on the Management of Political Programs (Talk Shows).” All TV and radio stations must now submit their political topics daily to the ministry for approval. Even guests who are already on an approved list must get individual permission for every appearance. This level of interference is not new, but its granularity reflects how tightly the Taliban want to control media content.

Under the Taliban’s new directive, political analysts can appear in the media only if they have an official ID card from the Directorate of Broadcast Affairs and the Directorate of Media Oversight. They are not allowed to express views that contradict or criticize Taliban policies; their commentary must align with the Taliban’s interpretation of Islamic principles and national interests; and they must not have ties to foreign organizations. Even mild criticism must be reviewed and approved by the Taliban’s media oversight committee before it can be published or aired. Programs should not include what the directive describes as emotional language, which could mean any expression of personal feeling or criticism.

The policy claims that its goals are to improve political discussion, promote national unity, and stop “harmful propaganda.” But, in reality, it is designed to silence independent voices, limit free analysis, and turn the media into a tool for Taliban messaging. “This new order is suffocating journalism in Afghanistan,” Mohammad told me.

Yama (not his real name), a TV presenter in Afghanistan, says live shows are now banned; all talk shows have to be pre-recorded, with the tapings sent to the Ministry of Information and Culture for approval. The process can delay a show by anywhere from days to weeks, possibly rendering it obsolete. In journalism, he says, “everything is timing.”

The delays are forcing some media outlets to cancel political shows or coverage. Other outlets, says Yama, are complying with the Taliban’s directives in exchange for financial support. This means, in effect, that the government feeds them scripted programming.

Yama says he continues working because it’s the only way he can support his family. “Despite the restriction we have, I do see that people are eagerly following the media,” he says. Viewers appreciate that many TV presenters continue to appear in a suit and tie as opposed to the Taliban’s traditional dress. “I think it gives them, especially to the youth, [the reassurance that] we’re still here in the country.”

But every time he goes on air, he takes a risk. “When the guest sits in front of me, at the news desk, I think over every question I ask—before, during, and after the program—at least ten times. One question could determine our fate, and one question could lead us to a Taliban prison.” If he challenges a pro-Taliban guest in an interview, he says, “I’m challenging my life.”

Yama also recognizes that, as difficult as things are for him, they’re even harder for women journalists. “In many cases, Taliban officials won’t talk to them and they have minimal sources to cover events,” he says. “They are also not allowed to attend press conferences.”

Maryam (not her real name) is also still living in Afghanistan, where she takes photos and videos showing life under Taliban rule for media outlets abroad. Even taking a simple walk in Kabul can be dangerous. She hides her work phone under her clothes to escape detection and carries a decoy phone filled with innocent-looking photos and messages. Several times, Taliban officials have stopped and questioned her. Whenever they’ve searched her decoy phone and looked at her personal photos, “they’ve threatened to kill me and even my family,” she says. Though she’s provided footage and photos for one media outlet outside Afghanistan, she says the pay is extremely low. She also says the same client won’t offer her any protection from the Taliban, even after she told them about being stopped and searched.

As a mother of two and with her husband unemployed, she has no choice but to keep working. “When I leave home, I look deep into my children’s eyes,” she says. “I feel anxious, thinking that tonight I might face a problem or the Taliban might arrest me. Maybe this will be the last time I see my children. With this thought, I close the door and leave.”

L iving in Toronto for the past three years, I’ve tried to continue reporting from beyond Afghanistan’s borders. I follow the work of Afghan journalists who still share the truth even when it means risking their lives. A number of Afghan news outlets and research organizations are reporting from the UK, the US, Denmark, France, and elsewhere, including Afghanistan International, Rukhshana Media, Amu TV, Deeyar TV, Etilaat Roz, Afghan Witness, Hasht-e-Subh Daily, and Zan Times, the latter of which is based in Edmonton and has printed T-shirts with the slogan “Offending Taliban Since 2022.”

The Taliban’s restrictions, however, reach well beyond Afghanistan’s borders. Najib Asil, founder and executive director of the Toronto-based Free Speech Centre (of which I’m a board member) and former head of current affairs at Tolo News showed me a WhatsApp group for Afghan journalists who are now based in Turkey. Every message reflects the excruciating uncertainties they face living in legal limbo. The Turkish government has stopped renewing residency permits for many Afghan journalists, putting them at risk of deportation, with no options to work legally. They take whatever under-the-table jobs they can, working in construction or fixing cars. Fighting for time and an escape route, the group’s members exchange tips on how to get the attention of sympathetic international organizations and foreign countries which might support their refugee applications.

I know many of the journalists. These are professionals who, for years, worked at Afghan television networks, shouting the truth amid unbearable conditions and constant dangers.

There are others in exile in places like Iran, where it’s just as dangerous to challenge authority. Hadayatullah Mirzadeh, a reporter for 1TV, a national broadcaster, fled to Iran in 2023. He’d been followed by Taliban authorities, and some of his colleagues were arrested and beaten. He entered Iran with a visa and hoped to eventually settle elsewhere. Fearing that his relatives back home would be targeted, he gave up reporting. Despite his valid visa, Iranian police arrested Mirzadeh and held him in a migrant detention centre for one week. He says Iranian soldiers verbally and physically tortured him. It took support from fellow journalists and Reporters Without Borders to get him released.

But he doesn’t know if his work as a journalist is what got him arrested. In the wake of the Taliban’s return to power, hundreds of thousands of Afghans have crossed the borders into Iran and Pakistan, where they live under the constant threat of arrest and deportation. In Pakistan, Afghan migrants are expected to pay roughly $100 (US) per month for a visa to remain in the country legally and are frequently targeted by authorities. The UNHCR reports that around a million Afghan migrants have been deported or forced to return by Iran since the start of this year.

In late April, Mirzadeh received a visa to France, and I spoke with him two days before his flight to Paris. He was elated at the news that he could finally leave, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to resume his work in exile. “Wherever we go in the world, we must remain cautious, because we all have families and nothing is worth taking the risk when it comes to family,” he says. Those he left behind, he says, are living under “the claws of a wolf.”