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 When one hurts or kills a women
one hurts or kills hummanity and is an antrocitie.
Gino d'Artali
and: My mother (1931-1997) always said to me <Mi figlio, non esistono notizie <vecchie> perche puoi imparare qualcosa da qualsiasi notizia.> Translated: <My son, there is no such thing as so called 'old' news because you can learn something from any news.>
Gianna d'Artali.

Afghans facing deportation
Al Jazeera April 4, 2025
<<The Take: Why are Afghan activists facing deportation?
Afghans in Pakistan face deportation, including women’s rights activists at risk under Taliban rule.
Afghan women’s rights activists are facing deportation from Pakistan, along with hundreds of thousands of Afghans living there. The activists risk imprisonment or death if they return to life under the Taliban in Afghanistan. Afghans have sought refuge in Pakistan for years, but the government says they cannot remain there indefinitely. As international resettlement programmes shut down and Pakistan accelerates removals, where can Afghans go?>>
Source: Al Jazeera: https://www.aljazeera.com/podcasts/2025/4/4/afghan-activists-escaped-the-taliban-why-are-they-facing-deportation

and


Zan Times - April 1, 2025 - By: Sana Atif
<<Narrative A day in the life of a woman journalist in southern Afghanistan
It is 9:30 in the morning. My father has gone to attend the funeral of an acquaintance and has not yet returned in time to accompany me on my reporting trip. Since my source is only available in the morning, I waited for two-and-a-half hours before deciding to go out without a mahram. I double check my backpack to make sure it doesn’t contain my journalist ID, university documents, or notebook. I leave my smartphone at home and take my mother’s old phone for calls and recording. Its screen is cracked and its case is scratched, hopefully it won’t attract the Taliban’s attention at checkpoints. I am dressed in black – a hijab, gloves, socks, and a large chador – from head to toe but also must put my cage-like blue burqa over top. Under all these layers, breathing becomes incredibly difficult. It is about 30 minutes from my house to the hospital. Due to Taliban restrictions and frequent searches, the taxi driver does not allow women to sit in the front seat, even if they are accompanied by a male guardian. I am forced to sit in the trunk of the car with three other women. It now has become a norm for women to travel in the trunk! With no fresh air, the trunk is stifling. After a few minutes, I developed a severe headache. The strong scent of male passengers’ cologne, mixed with the sweat of the other women is overwhelming. I begin to feel nauseous. I arrive at the hospital where I am supposed to interview a midwife, but due to my delay, she has left to tend to patients. I have to wait another hour and a half until she is available for the interview. During the conversation, the midwife is visibly anxious, worried that a patient might walk in or that a hospital staff member might overhear us and cause trouble for her. I am nervous as well — if the hospital staff realize that I am a journalist, they might report me to the Taliban security forces stationed at the hospital.
I began my career in journalism with great enthusiasm but little knowledge of its intricacies. I drew inspiration from prominent journalists in my community, yet I had little understanding of the vital role that female journalists play. I was unaware of the silenced voices buried deep within society — voices that are never heard, voices lost in the overwhelming noise of men, and stories that no one dared to tell. With the Taliban take over of power and the severe restrictions imposed on women, the southern provinces have been at the forefront of repression. Women were erased from the field of journalism. Many dedicated journalists who had fought for years to establish their place were forced to flee the country. The media fell silent, and in this silence, a society that had already barely heard the voices of women went completely deaf. I remember one day in the city centre when people had taken to the streets to protest. I saw a male journalist approach an elderly woman to interview her. Suddenly, a Taliban fighter emerged from the crowd, threw the journalist to the ground, smashed his camera, and shouted, “Why are you speaking to an unrelated woman?” The fighter threatened the elderly woman, as well. At that moment, I realized that perhaps she could have told her story if a female journalist had been doing the interview. That day, I realized that the work of a female journalist was desperately needed more than ever. And I made a firm decision to be that woman journalist. Journalism in southern Afghanistan requires more than just courage. A few months after the Taliban seized power in my province, a decree was issued stating, “No female journalist is allowed to work anymore.” Soon women’s voices were declared “aurat” (that needs to be hidden), and the broadcast of female voices on the radio was banned. Despite these restrictions, I started working with Zan Times, which opened a window of hope for me — a chance to continue my work and to amplify the voices of women who have been forgotten in the dark. But this journey has been filled with challenges, fear and threats. One of my greatest struggles has been finding sources for my stories. In a society drowning in mistrust, how can I verify and fact-check my stories? Sometimes, I spend days and weeks searching for a reliable source. But even if I find one, earning their trust is not easy. People are afraid of their own shadows. Many suspect that anyone approaching them for an interview might be an intelligence operative. Their fear is not unfounded. And this is what I have to do for each story I write. However, the most painful part of my work is hearing stories that have never been told before. Many of the women I interview confess that it is the first time anyone has asked them about their suffering. It is the first time someone has listened without judgment or bias. Some women tell me, “We never had the courage to share our problems with a male journalist.” Another major challenge is taking photographs in the city. Imagine standing with a camera, ready to capture a moment, but having to constantly look over your shoulder to ensure no one grows suspicious of what you are doing and that no Taliban officer is nearby. Taking pictures in women’s markets — even if all the women are fully veiled in burqas and chadors — can be dangerous. People do not even want to appear in the background of an image. To them, a woman’s presence in any frame is forbidden. On top of these challenges, many people around me–some distant relatives, neighbors– support the Taliban. If they find out I am a journalist, not only my life but also my family’s safety will be at risk. Despite all these, I know that my work would not have been in vain if I can bring the voices of these women who have never been heard to others around the world. Knowing my work has an impact makes the suffocating heat of the burqa, the constant anxiety, the fear of arrest and harassment, and the worry for my family’s safety bearable. I understand that our society needs female journalists now more than ever. And as long as there are untold stories and women who can only open up to a female journalist, I will continue on this path. This is my path. This is my responsibility as a journalist.
Sana Atif is the pseudonym of a Zan Times journalist in Afghanistan.>>
Source: https://zantimes.com/2025/04/01/a-day-in-the-life-of-a-woman-journalist-in-southern-afghanistan/

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