15 Jul 2025 | Iran, Israel, Middle East and North Africa, News
Fatemeh Jamalpour: The cost of truth in Iran
When I was invited to co-write a story with an Israeli journalist, I asked myself: what could we possibly have in common? After 46 years of political hostility between the Islamic Republic and the State of Israel, it turned out we shared more than I expected. We are both inheritors of our countries’ proxy wars – and we both carry a shame that isn’t ours. It’s the shame of war-driven leaders, the shame of bombed hospitals and civilians buried beneath flags. Somehow, in that shared grief, shame became a point of connection.
Beyond the battlefield, we share something else: the impact of censorship and propaganda. Both governments declared the recent 12-day war – which left more than 930 people dead – a victory. But every civilian killed is not a victory; it’s a human life lost. In Iran, clerics have openly called for executions and mutilations of those who dare to criticise the Supreme Leader. Any dissent – even a tweet suggesting the Islamic Republic bears responsibility for the war – can lead to interrogation, summons or surveillance. In today’s Iran, truth has a cost – and more and more, that cost is freedom.
Starting on the fifth day of the Israel-Iran war, from 17-21 June, the Iranian regime imposed an almost complete internet shutdown, as reported by global internet monitor NetBlocks. Iranians were left not only without access to news but also without emergency alerts or evacuation warnings. The entire country was plunged into darkness – like a black hole – leaving defenceless civilians uncertain whether their neighbourhoods were in danger, or if they should flee.
Amid the chaos, parliament passed a law criminalising the use of Starlink internet.
“While they had cut off our internet – and during the war, I couldn’t get any news from my family and friends because both the internet and phone lines were down – I was sick with worry for every loved one,” said Leila, a 38-year-old woman from Shiraz. “And yet, when we try to access something that is our basic right, even after paying a hundred million tomans, we’re treated like criminals. These laws have no legitimacy.”
Meanwhile, the regime began targeting journalists’ families. Several relatives of reporters working with Persian-language outlets abroad, such as BBC Persian, were arrested, threatened, and labelled “enemies of God” – a charge that carries the risk of execution.
“I barely post on social media anymore because the space is under intense surveillance by security agents, and the pressure on journalists is suffocating,” said Raha Sham, 41, a parliamentary reporter in Tehran. “Many of my colleagues have received threatening phone calls. The tone is harsh, the intent clear: delete your tweets, your stories, your posts – or face the consequences.”
Iranians now face a new wave of repression in the aftermath of the war. Across cities, new checkpoints have sprung up where security forces stop civilians and search their phone photo galleries – often without a warrant. At the same time, parliament has passed new legislation effectively criminalising anti-war activism.
“Anti-war activism is a legitimate form of civic engagement, and criminalising it is both unjust and unlawful,” a human rights lawyer in Tehran who prefers to stay anonymous told me. “What disturbs me most about the post-war crackdown is that a spirit of vengeance has taken over the judiciary. Judges now seem to think their role is to avenge those who were killed. The mindset is: ‘Our commanders have died – someone must pay.'”
But the problem doesn’t end with the state. While we’re silenced by our government, we’re also erased by much of the Western media. For many editors, it’s always about numbers, not names. They want statistics, not stories. When Western journalists do gain access, they often report only from regime-approved rallies, while just a few streets away, anti-war protests and underground art scenes go unseen.
We’re rarely shown in full light. Middle Easterners remain blurred, devout, anonymous. After years of contributing to Western outlets, I’ve learned this isn’t an accident. It’s not just regime control. It’s also the residue of a colonial gaze – still shaping coverage in 2025.
David Schutz: Control of the press in Israel
In Israel, I was under missile fire too. While everyone else huddled in shelters, glued to the news, I stood on my roof watching what looked like fireworks. But if you Google “Iranian missile hit Tel Aviv Stock Exchange” in Hebrew, you’ll find nothing – you have to know where to look to piece together the truth.
Israel’s media has always been tightly controlled: military censors, a three-second delay on live broadcasts – a well-known fact that has been confirmed by inside sources. Today it’s slicker but more repressive than ever as global opposition to Israeli policies grows. The Israeli Journalists Association said recent moves by the government “seek to eliminate free media in Israel”. But it’s worth asking whether the press here was ever truly free.
Even before 7 October 2023, it operated under a mesh of dependent commercial interests and state funding with the military and government in what journalist Oren Persico from The Seventh Eye, an independent investigative magazine focused on the media in Israel, described as a “symbiotic relationship”.
After the election of the current government in 2022, bills have been brought forward that weaken public broadcasting, including proposals to give the government increased control of the public broadcaster’s budget – effectively letting the government starve it of funds should coverage stray too far.
“Very often, journalists effectively act as representatives for the institutions they cover: legal affairs reporters serve the prosecution and the judicial system, economic reporters serve the Finance Ministry, and military reporters naturally represent the positions of the IDF [Israel Defense Forces],” Persico said.
My friend Sapir runs a WhatsApp group called Demanding Full Coverage for Gaza.
“Almost nothing about Gaza’s humanitarian catastrophe gets through to the Israeli public. Not because the information doesn’t exist, but because editors don’t cover it – and when they do, briefly, the military and government have a well-honed strategy to muddy the waters,” she said.
When Haaretz reported at the end of June that Israeli soldiers had been ordered to fire on civilians at an aid centre, counter-reports appeared almost immediately in multiple outlets – often repeating the same phrasing, the same anonymous interview – claiming “Hamas gunmen” had fired on crowds. The effect was the same: to muddy the story and deny a pattern of conduct.
“The goal is to flood the market with information so people think there’s no way to know what’s true anymore, to make them give up looking,” Sapir said.
Andrey X, an independent Israeli journalist, explained that all security-related stories must legally be cleared by military censors before publication. This can be justified on security grounds in some cases but critics argue it adds a significant challenge to media freedom. In practice, most outlets ignore this – until the government decides to enforce it retroactively, as in the case of American journalist Jeremy Loffredo, who was detained for four days and threatened with jail time over his reporting for The Grayzone, showing the locations of the military targets of Iranian missiles.
Footage of Israeli vehicles and homes hit by Israeli Hellfire missiles and tank shells on October 7 were labelled “Hamas attacks”. A government spokesman admitted 200 Hamas fighters were misidentified as civilians.
Twenty months later, Gaza is a demolished wasteland of dust and decay. The military releases sparse reports of “accidents”, just enough to recast outrage as tragic inevitability rather than accountability, enabling ongoing abuses without meaningful scrutiny.
Cable news will mention that the army had “begun food distribution”, but in such vague, antiseptic terms that few readers realise this means just a handful of stations, a framing that distorts what is actually happening and why.
Softer repression is often more powerful. Journalists fear being fired or defunded for not toeing the military spokesman’s line. Many fear public backlash even more: boycotts, pulled advertising and social media campaigns branding them traitors. Mildly subversive correspondents have faced on-air abuse – often in deeply personal terms – from their colleagues, as detailed by Persico when he spoke with me.
For Palestinian journalists, the dangers are greater still. Reporting on police or military abuses can end careers or worse. Even inside Israel, Arab reporters face social hostility, public threats and constant suspicion about their loyalty. The same event, covered by an Israeli and a Palestinian journalist, carries different risks, but that gap is always narrowing.
Each day, more people choose to shed the ideological masks their states have forced upon them in ’48 Palestine, Israel and Iran. Despite relentless propaganda and censorship, the number continues to grow. The future of our countries will not belong to war-hungry leaders – it is being shaped from the ground up, in the streets and in the digital space. In this age, every post, every story, every tweet by ordinary citizens is a quiet act of resistance – a revolution in itself.
This piece is published in collaboration with Egab, an organisation working with journalists across the Middle East and Africa
20 Jun 2025 | Afghanistan, Asia and Pacific, Europe and Central Asia, News, United Kingdom
Authoritarianism has grown stronger all over the world, and the space for free expression has shrunk. Journalists, writers, and activists are being silenced simply for speaking the truth. Many face threats, arrest, or violence at the hands of those in power.
In Afghanistan, since the Taliban returned to power, freedom of expression has nearly disappeared. Independent journalism is no longer possible. In today’s Afghanistan, expressing your opinion, especially if you are a woman, is not just discouraged, it is dangerous. If you criticise the Taliban’s policies, you are certainly destined for jail.
Over the past four years, thousands of Afghans, including many journalists, have been forced to flee, have been imprisoned or tortured, or have fallen completely silent out of fear.
This is a clear violation of international human rights laws, which recognise freedom of expression as one of the foundations of a just and democratic society. But across the world, censorship is on the rise. The list of people imprisoned for writing an article, attending a peaceful protest, or posting something critical online keeps growing. Many of these individuals have sought safety in Western countries.
Unfortunately, with Donald Trump’s new administration, immigration policies, particularly in the USA, have become much stricter. As a result, fewer at-risk journalists and writers are being offered asylum, even when their lives are clearly in danger.
The UK remains one of the countries that continues to offer refuge to some of these individuals. But the need is much greater. I urge the UK government to expand its support and provide real protection for those forced to flee their countries for telling the truth.
Every journalist, writer, professor, or activist who finds safety in a democratic country carries with them the voice of many others left behind. Protecting these voices is not just a humanitarian act, it is a defence of truth, history, and freedom itself.
I am one of those journalists. I once worked freely in Kabul, reporting stories and raising awareness of issues. But when the Taliban regained power in 2021, I had no space in my own hometown. As a woman and a journalist, it was a double danger. When journalists started being arrested, tortured, or forced into hiding, I realised I had no choice but to leave. Escaping was painful but staying meant silence – or worse.
Now, I live in the UK. This country not only gave me shelter but also allowed me to raise my voice again. Here, I can write, interview, and speak freely. I can be a voice for those women whose rights and voices have been brutally taken away.
Giving refuge to at-risk journalists is not just about saving individuals, it is about defending the values of democracy and free speech. Countries like the UK show they stand for these values not just in words but through real action.
By welcoming journalists like me, the UK has shown it respects truth, protects the vulnerable, and supports future generations who dream of justice. I may live far from home, but I am still working every day to amplify the voices of Afghan women and girls living under oppression.
Sadly, many Afghan journalists are still trapped in countries like Iran and Pakistan. They live in uncertainty, without freedom, without work, and without hope. If the world ignores them, their voices, and their stories, may be lost forever.
We must not forget that in any society, freedom of expression allows people to ask questions, challenge power, and share new ideas. It leads to innovation, growth, and justice. As the British philosopher John Stuart Mill said in his book On Liberty, freedom of speech is essential to personal development and social progress. Through open debate, we find truth and correct our past mistakes.
18 Jun 2025 | Egypt, Israel, Middle East and North Africa, News, Palestine
At a quiet corner of an apartment in Cairo, Palestinian journalists now sit staring at a blank screen. Just months ago, they were reporting from the heart of Gaza – documenting airstrikes, interviewing survivors, filing stories that made global headlines.
Today, they’re unemployed, unheard, and in exile.
More than 250 journalists from Gaza are now living in Egypt after fleeing the Israeli military campaign that began in October 2023, according to figures from the Palestinian Journalists Syndicate, which now has a presence in Cairo. Others have evacuated the Strip for countries including Oman, Qatar, Turkey and Canada since the start of what we call a genocide.
Once at the frontlines of war reporting, these journalists are now caught in a different kind of crisis – one marked by silencing, legal limbo, and professional erasure.
Most of these journalists were freelancers, with no long-term contracts, no medical insurance, no institutional protection, and no guarantee of employment after evacuation. Their cameras are packed away. Their microphones sit unused. Without work permits, they can’t be legally employed in Egypt, and with little to no support, many are struggling to survive.
“I was a journalist until the day I crossed the border.” “Now, I am just a refugee with a press card that no longer holds any weight.” This is how Palestinian journalists describe their current situation.
A minority of journalists who worked with international news outlets – those with permanent staff contracts – have been more fortunate. Some were able to join the bureaus of their agencies abroad, while others continue to receive their salaries, even while displaced. But for the vast majority, the collapse of Gaza’s media infrastructure has left them jobless, voiceless, and adrift.
And the barriers are not only bureaucratic – they are political. Egypt has denied work permits to Palestinians evacuating the war in Gaza, including professionals, journalists, and academics.
This policy effectively bars Gaza’s journalists from continuing their work. No matter their skills, credentials, or experience, they are not allowed to contribute to the media landscape in the country where they have sought refuge.
Worse still, for those of us who worked for Al Jazeera, a separate wall exists.
The Qatari-based network has been banned in Egypt since 2011, following the uprising that overthrew the former president Hosni Mubarak. Its bureau was shut down, and journalists affiliated with the network were subjected to persecution and arrests. Today, more than a decade later, that ban remains in place. This means that Al Jazeera journalists from Gaza, now exiled in Egypt, are prohibited from working, even remotely, fearing the risk of being persecuted.
Having worked as an Al Jazeera correspondent in Gaza, I now find myself among those silenced – not because I’ve stopped caring, not because I’ve lost the will to report, but because the system has made it impossible for me to continue. The war didn’t just displace us from our homes; it severed us from our profession, from our identities, and from the world we once informed.
Our voices were once loud enough to echo around the world. Now we whisper into the void. The silence is devastating – not just professionally, but emotionally and psychologically.
For journalists, reporting is not just a job. It is a calling and a mission. We bear witness, we document truth, we speak for the voiceless. Being denied the right to report is like being denied the right to breathe.
Many journalists now live in small apartments, surviving on the goodwill of friends, NGOs, or savings that are quickly running out. Some are supporting children and elderly family members, with no income and no clarity on what the future holds. The stress is enormous. The uncertainty is constant.
And yet, the genocide in Gaza continues. Our colleagues who remain inside – those who survived airstrikes, lost family members, or saw their homes flattened – continue to risk everything to report. But even they are running out of tools, electricity, and time. Many of them rely on us in exile to amplify their voices. And we are desperate to do so, but unable.
The consequences of this silencing reach far beyond individual careers. They represent a systemic erasure of the Palestinian narrative. At a time when truth-telling is critical, Gaza’s journalists – those who carry the first-hand accounts, the context, the memory – are being sidelined.
This is not just a loss for us. It’s a loss for journalism, for history, for the world.
The international community, especially global media outlets and press freedom organisations, must act. Gaza’s exiled journalists need legal recognition, support, and pathways to work – whether through temporary relocation programmes, freelance partnerships, or legal aid to navigate the permit systems.
We need allies; we need solidarity; we need our roles as truth-tellers to be restored.
We didn’t choose to leave. We fled for survival. But we still carry the burden of our people’s stories. We still carry the fire and drive to tell them. What we need now is the space and permission to speak.
Let our silence not be the final chapter.
13 Jun 2025 | Americas, Asia and Pacific, Honduras, Mexico, News, Newsletters, Pakistan
When news broke on Monday of 17-year-old Sana Yousaf’s murder, it was first described as a potential “honour-based killing”. Yousaf, a social media influencer from Pakistan, had become a visible presence online. As outraged as we all were, Index didn’t comment initially, wanting to find out more of the facts. Now we have them. A 22-year-old man has confessed to killing her after she allegedly rejected him romantically.
At first glance, this horrendous murder might not appear to be a straightforward case of censorship. But it’s still part of a broader pattern: women’s voices being suppressed through violence.
Inside Pakistan, Yousaf’s death has triggered both grief and backlash. According to Usama Khilji, director of the digital rights group Bolo Bhi, some – mostly men – have questioned her online presence and even called for her family to delete her accounts. These attempts to silence her posthumously are a horrible sign of how threatening female visibility remains. More horrible still: Yousaf is not alone. In January, for example, teenage TikToker Hira Anwar was murdered by her father, who said he found her posts “objectionable”.
Pakistan is not an outlier. Rather these killings are part of a global pattern of femicide, the gender-motivated killing of women done by men who seek to control what women say and wear, who they love and more broadly how they live. While this control is extreme in countries like Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria and Turkey, it’s just as entrenched across Latin America.
Naming this violence is a struggle. In Mexico, where Amnesty International estimated in 2021 that 10 women and girls were murdered every day, Index reported in 2023 on the widespread misclassification of femicides as homicides, which was seen as a strategy to protect the country’s global image. That was under former president Andrés Manuel López Obrador. Under the country’s new, first female president, Claudia Sheinbaum, there may be change. When 23-year-old influencer Valeria Márquez was shot dead last month while livestreaming on TikTok, the gender-based nature of her killing was formally acknowledged by the Jalisco prosecutor’s office.
These labels matter because, without calling it femicide, it’s hard to confront the systems that routinely and violently deny women a voice. Unsurprisingly, such systems deny women justice too. In Honduras – the country with the highest femicide rate per capita in Latin America – these murders don’t just go periodically unpunished, they’re often undocumented. Many are too afraid to name an assailant, fearing retaliation. Some survivors of violence are even told that women “should not talk about these things”.
So let’s not treat Sana Yousaf’s death as the act of a lone, disturbed man. Let’s call it what it is: another attempt to silence women who dare to speak.
