From Journalism to Sexual Insecurity; The Bitter Story of an Afghan Woman Journalist in Exile

AI

Sudaba, a pseudonym for an Afghan woman journalist, worked for years at a local media outlet in Herat, Afghanistan. After the Taliban’s return to power and restrictions on women’s presence in the media, she says she lost not only her job, but also her homeland and dignity.

In an interview with Zan News, she speaks about migration, unemployment, insecurity and the days when her life shifted from journalism to hardship and vulnerability.

The third ring of the phone call had not yet ended when a tired voice answered with a brief “hello”, the voice of a woman who once spoke with strength and energy from the studio of a local media outlet in Herat to thousands of listeners, but now sounded distant, quiet and broken.

As soon as I greeted her, she fell silent for a few moments. There was a long pause on the phone, as if she had lost her words.

She then began speaking again, but this time her voice trembled. She broke down in tears and her crying voice faded between her words.

In a tired voice, she says, “One day I was a journalist, the next day I was nothing.”

As Sudaba speaks about separation, she adds that to provide for her sick mother and two younger sisters, she had to knock on every door. According to her, she had no choice left, and the only path that remained open to her was leaving her homeland.

A path she herself calls “an escape from silence”.

Speaking further about her life in Iran, Sudaba says, “In Iran, life did not go as I had imagined. First, I found work in a restaurant, but I could not continue. Then I went to a tailoring workshop, where I hoped I could breathe again. But before long, they told me I no longer needed to come. Once again, the doors were closed.”

She pauses. She takes a deep breath and continues more quietly, “I used to go to people’s houses to clean…” Her voice trembles again.

She speaks of experiences that are difficult for her to recount, of houses that were supposed to be workplaces, but became unsafe places for her.

In a broken voice, she says, “I was raped several times. I wanted to work, but there was nothing I could do. I was pushed to the limit. I wanted to be a source of pride for my mother, but now I am nothing to myself except a source of shame. I trapped myself in this situation only because of my mother and sisters. Now there is nothing left for me here, except that everyone thinks I am a prostitute.”

Her words break, and the silence between her sentences becomes heavier than the account itself.

She is the sole provider for her family. Her father is no longer alive, and her brother was killed in the war against the Taliban before the group returned to power.

Now Sudaba remains alone with a responsibility that grows heavier each day. She says, “If I do not work, there is no one else. The most money I can earn in a month is 10 million tomans, and half of that goes to my own expenses. Many times, I have slept on the streets…”

Sudaba says she has repeatedly tried to rebuild her life, but each time something has pulled her back.

She says, “I knocked on every door … but no door opened.”

Her voice now sounds more exhausted than before, like someone who has lost even the hope that any door will ever open again.

Sudaba’s story reflects the fate of women who, following Taliban restrictions on the media, lost not only their jobs, but also saw their security, dignity and future fall into uncertainty.

At the end of the call, in a voice that is barely audible, she says, “I have reached a point where neither life nor the future has any meaning for me anymore. I am just alive, that is all.”

The call ends, but her tearful voice continues to linger in the mind.