We are journalists, but they treat us like criminals

KabulI used to think that the Ministry for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice was the worst in the Taliban regime. The Taliban from this ministry are the ones who yell at women in the street, question our way of dressing, and treat us as if the mere fact of existing and being a woman were a crime. But last Sunday, when the Taliban intelligence service raided the media outlet where I work in Kabul, I realized they are even worse.

That morning, around eleven o'clock, we were confirmed that two of our colleagues had been arrested by the Taliban intelligence service. However, we could not get any information about where they had been taken or in what condition they were. After other Afghan media outlets and social networks published the news, fear invaded our office. We knew that disseminating information could have consequences. Nevertheless, we did not expect what happened next.

Around two in the afternoon, more than forty Taliban from the intelligence service burst into our office. They arrived armed, with their faces partially covered and wearing local clothing instead of military uniforms. They entered violently, shouting and pushing employees aside. The newsroom suddenly became a place of terror.

I was sitting behind the computer, and two of my colleagues whispered to me that the Taliban had brought one of our detained colleagues to the office. Even from a distance, I saw that he was in a very bad state. His face was pale, and his head was bowed. He was handcuffed, and his hair was disheveled. He looked broken. I felt immense pity for him.

Confiscating mobile phones

The Taliban then entered the room where the male journalists work, which is next to ours. We could hear everything through the walls. They demanded that they hand over their mobile phones. One of my colleagues refused, and a Taliban member hit him so hard on the back of the neck that it echoed throughout the office. After that, no one resisted. All the journalists gave up the most personal item they had: their mobile phones.

At that moment, I realized the situation was worse than I thought. I tightened the scarf around my head and covered my face with the mask. I don't know why. Perhaps by instinct. I wanted to feel protected, even though my clothes couldn't protect me either.

Then, two Taliban members entered the room where we women were. "Give us your phones and leave the room," they ordered. They locked us in another room, while the men were made to go out into the courtyard. Through the windows, we could see them. The Taliban began to beat many of them. One had blood running down his face. They were journalists or media workers, but they were treated as if they were criminals.

In the room where we were, the air was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Some girls were crying silently, and we were all pale with fear. I began to pray in a low voice, over and over again, asking God to save us.

The Taliban demanded we give them our mobile phone passwords. They didn't ask questions, they didn't explain anything. They simply took the phones, connected them to computers they carried, and began to search through our lives.

The night before, after hearing about the arrest of our two colleagues, I had deleted almost everything from my phone: emails, messages, work documents, contacts. An inner instinct had warned me that something bad could happen. But even after deleting everything, I was terrified. As I watched them connect our phones to their computers, I wondered: had I forgotten to delete something? And what would happen if they recovered the deleted files?

In today's Afghanistan, fear is not abstract. Fear is perceived physically. It settles in your chest, makes your hands tremble, leaves you breathless and barely able to breathe. I truly believed that day could be the end of my life. I also constantly thought about my family and the possibility of being arrested. As a woman, another fear also haunted me: if I were arrested, I would lose my dignity, my reputation. In a society like Afghanistan's, a mere accusation can be enough to destroy a woman's life.

Humiliation and powerlessness

The hours passed slowly. The Taliban insulted everyone: employees, executives, department heads. They spoke to us as if we were criminals caught committing an unforgivable act. I had never experienced so much humiliation, powerlessness, danger.

At one point, one of the girls asked if she could at least call her family so they wouldn't worry. A Taliban responded coldly: "If your shameless families cared about you, you wouldn't be here." After his words, silence fell. Outside, the daylight was slowly disappearing. Inside, time seemed frozen.

Around seven in the evening, the women were finally allowed to leave. About an hour later, the men were also released. On the way home, none of us spoke. The streets of Kabul seemed normal, but for us, nothing was normal anymore. What will happen when I go back to work tomorrow or if they find something on my phone later?, I asked myself.

When I got home, my family was worried because it was very late. My mother is sick and I didn't want her to worry, so I lied. I said that the Taliban had come to the office to interrogate us without further ado, and that's why I was late. I knew the news would eventually spread anyway, so I couldn't hide it completely. There are many things I hide from my family. Sometimes I feel completely alone because of this. I carry the fear in silence so that the people I love don't have to carry it with me.

The return to the office

The next day, the office was almost empty. Most of the workers did not return. It no longer seemed like the safe place it used to be, where we worked, laughed, discussed potential news, and believed that journalism still mattered. Now it has all vanished. Everyone has the same fear: that the Taliban may return at any moment. It was then that I also learned that the Taliban had taken the computers from the finance, sales, projects, and human resources departments.

Before, I was afraid to report on the violence outside the office. Now I am aware that, even within a newsroom, none of us are truly safe. We still have no news of our two arrested colleagues. This Thursday, the United Nations issued a statement expressing their concern about the detention.

We also know nothing about the information the Taliban took from our phones. And, besides, they now deny everything that happened: they assure that only seven men entered our office and that no one was mistreated. But I was there, I lived it. And despite my fear, I cannot remain silent. I speak so that the world knows what is happening in Afghanistan and so that someone, please, can help us.