Lost Security: The Experience of an Afghan Female Journalist Facing Fear and Threats in Exile

By: S. S

Kokcha News Agency: On a cold, gray winter morning in Istanbul, I made my way to a building that once symbolized the formal connection between the people of Afghanistan and their government: the Afghan Consulate in the upscale Levent neighborhood. Once a grand structure in one of the city’s most luxurious areas, it now stands as a reflection of Taliban rule over occupied land, even beyond Afghanistan’s borders.

I went to renew my passport a difficult decision. I didn’t want to deal with an institution controlled by those whose hands are stained with the blood of thousands of innocent people. But I had no choice; to renew my legal residency in Turkey, my passport needed to be valid.

I had gathered all the necessary documents: a copy of my ID, residency permit, and biometric photo. After a long journey from the outskirts of Istanbul, I arrived at the consulate’s entrance, my emotions shattered. I expected, as per diplomatic norms, a guard to be present, to check my identity, or at least ask why I was there. But the guard booth was empty. Silence and disorder were the first images I encountered at this representation of my country.

Inside the courtyard, a group of men, women, elderly, and children stood or sat tired, hopeless eyes and hands clutching documents. There was no system for appointments or guidance. People were confused, and the staff, with a condescending attitude, treated them not as fellow citizens but as subordinates in a military camp.

We were directed to the back entrance. It was there that my heart sank: the tricolor Afghan flag was gone. In its place, the white Taliban flag a symbol of violence, misogyny, and regression was flying at the consulate’s entrance. Every time my eyes fell on that white cloth, my breath tightened. Tears welled up in my eyes. I felt as if I were back in Kabul, a woman on the street with a Taliban whip looming over her.

When it was my turn, I handed over my documents. The officer glanced at them and realized I was a journalist, a human rights activist, and an outspoken critic of the Taliban. That recognition was enough for a different kind of treatment. Without reason, they kept me waiting for hours, giving no clear answers. Anxiety was written all over my face. I imagined a scenario unfolding.

Finally, they called me. A man said in a demeaning tone, “We don’t accept this photo. You’re not wearing a hijab. You need to be in a chador. Go get a photo with a chador.” His voice was loud and harsh, as if scolding a criminal, not a civilian applicant.

I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it. In the heart of Turkey, a country that nearly a century ago, under Atatürk’s reforms, abolished mandatory hijab and recognized freedom of dress as part of gender equality, a non-official government was dictating what an Afghan woman should wear.

This wasn’t just about the hijab. This encounter was a hidden threat. It was a sign that the Taliban know who I am. They have my information. They can identify me, mark me, and, if they want, pursue me.

At that moment, I realized that even in exile, I am not safe. I am a journalist, which makes me a clear target for the Taliban someone who challenges their narrative and documents their crimes. In such circumstances, anything could happen to me: from direct threats and physical violence to covert actions to discredit or eliminate me. Even the risk of arrest or deportation back to the country I fled is real something that has happened to many other refugees and could happen to me.

This sense of insecurity is not just a momentary concern; it’s a shadow that weighs on me from the moment I enter the consulate until days later. I know that leaving that building doesn’t mean leaving their sight. It’s as if the consulate’s walls have extended to encompass the streets and even my home.

With tears in my eyes, I left the building. I didn’t want them to see my weakness. I walked away quickly, but my heart was full of pain. I thought of the girls and women of Afghanistan, those whose voices are no longer heard. Today, I realized I’ve become one of them even in exile.

I got a chador from a photographer. I stood in front of the camera, but the real image of me wasn’t what appeared in the photo; it was a woman broken, tired, and humiliated. To get a passport, I had to trample on my dignity. This wasn’t just a simple administrative process; it was the imposition of a will a will that pursues us even a thousand kilometers away from Afghanistan.

The Taliban know me. I’m sure of it now. If this is how I’m treated in Turkey, a country where I should be safe, what guarantee is there for my tomorrow? Where is safe when even in their consulate, there’s no freedom?

The Afghan Consulate in Istanbul is no longer a representation of a country but an arm of a transnational oppressive regime. It’s a house for controlling, threatening, and humiliating Afghan women, even in exile.

In that photo, I smiled not out of joy, but a smile of resistance. I laughed in their faces, to remind them that Afghan women do not surrender. That smile was a symbol of strength a clear message to those who think they can silence us: you are temporary, and we will fight to end you.