Sometimes a person becomes attached to a place where they have never physically lived, yet they have still lived through it. For me, in recent years, Hasht-e Subh has been such a place; a place where warm human connections were formed through the cold screens of phones and computers; a place where, through work and professional ties, I have remained in constant contact with many of my colleagues; a place where short messages, urgent calls, intense coordination, and silent expectations gradually became our shared language.
We are far apart, yet distance has not alienated us. On the contrary, it has sometimes stripped away superficial layers and brought us closer to deeper trust and stronger collaboration.
At Hasht-e Subh, work has never been reduced to routine administrative tasks. Behind every story, every news piece, every report, every edit, every message, and every coordination effort stood a human being carrying exhaustion, fear, longing, displacement, instability, and hope. Over these years, I have known Hasht-e Subh not only through published texts, but through unseen faces, familiar voices, short messages, and silent worries. This media outlet, for me, has been built from these human fragments; from people who were sometimes burdened by life themselves, yet still tried to narrate the voice of the people accurately, clearly, and without distortion.
One of my most beautiful experiences at Hasht-e Subh has been this closeness from a distance. I have never met many of my colleagues in person, yet at times I feel I know them more deeply than many people I see every day in physical spaces. Through messages, tones of voice, pauses, delays in replies, and the hidden concerns in short sentences, and through a shared commitment repeated daily in our work, we have reached a level of understanding that even physical meetings cannot always create. This relationship was not merely professional; it was an invisible thread of responsibility, respect, empathy, and shared belief that connected us across scattered corners of the world.
Among these experiences, the work of female colleagues has always carried a special meaning for me and left a deeper impact. Every time a story, report, or piece written by a female colleague inside Afghanistan is published, it is not just another article for me; it is a sign of the continued presence of girls and women who refuse to be erased from the narrative, who refuse to be pushed out of the story, and who, in the face of imposed silence, still use words as a means of survival. Thinking about a girl somewhere in Afghanistan who, despite fear, restriction, and pressure, still picks up a pen and writes about people’s realities is both inspiring and painful for me: inspiring because such determination still exists, and painful because it must exist under such harsh conditions.
There have been days when the exhaustion of work suddenly disappeared with a piece of good news; a difficult report published, a demanding task completed, a colleague escaping danger, or a team managing, despite overwhelming constraints, to achieve something that reminded us why we continue. Our joys at Hasht-e Subh have rarely been loud. They have lived in short messages, simple congratulations, small gestures of encouragement, hearts, smiles, brief words of appreciation, and sincere thanks. Yet these small joys have carried deep meaning in a world that has taken so many larger things from us. Sometimes a simple “thank you for your effort” has been enough to ease the weight of a difficult day.
Alongside these warm and small moments, there have also been many days filled with fear, anxiety, and grief. The recent years for the Hasht-e Subh family have not only been years of media work; they have also been years of uncertainty, waiting, anxiety, and fear. Days when news of a journalist’s detention, threats against a colleague, or the arrest risk of a team member in neighboring countries turned the working environment into something far heavier than routine. In such moments, work was no longer just work; every unanswered message, every failed call, every hour of silence became a heavy burden on everyone’s heart.
It is painful that those who have spent years writing about truth must themselves live with insecurity, migration, instability, threats, and fear of the future. It is painful that a journalist who reports on the suffering of others must sometimes carry their own suffering in silence. Yet perhaps these very hardships taught us that Hasht-e Subh is not just a media institution; it is a family in which the safety and insecurity of each member, the joy and sorrow of each colleague, affects everyone else. In this family, sometimes a single message saying “I am safe” or “I have reached a safe place” or simply “don’t worry” was enough to let others breathe again.
These experiences have not been easy. It is difficult to work with someone from a distance, to trust them, to recognize their voice, to understand their worries, to rely on their work, and then at times realize that their safety or future may be at risk. It is difficult to continue working while your heart remains with colleagues living through migration, instability, fear of arrest, distance from home, and constant uncertainty. These years have taught me that professional relationships, when built on trust and empathy, do not remain confined to administrative boundaries; they become human bonds, often more real and lasting than physical proximity.
Hasht-e Subh has been built from these very moments: from messages too short to reveal the pain behind them; from silent worries shared among us; from congratulations that brought warmth despite exhaustion; from intense coordination, late-night work, fatigue rarely spoken about, and trust that slowly took root among people far apart. This media outlet is, for me, a collection of voices, faces, anxieties, smiles, struggles, and memories. Every colleague, through their share of hardship and commitment, has shaped the meaning and survival of Hasht-e Subh.
Today, as we mark the 20th anniversary of Hasht-e Subh, we are not only celebrating the endurance of a name or the survival of a media organization; we are honoring the presence of the human beings who have kept this path alive. Those who remained inside Afghanistan and worked under pressure, fear, and threat; those who lived in exile while carrying longing, instability, and distance from home, yet never abandoned their responsibility; and those who may be less seen, less named, and less recognized in moments of celebration, but who every day move this work forward with patience, commitment, and hope. Twenty years of Hasht-e Subh is not only the history of an institution; it is the story of the resilience of these people.
Perhaps years will pass, circumstances will change, people will move on, and difficult days will take new forms. But what remains for me from Hasht-e Subh is not only professional experience. It is the people I met along the way; the trust built from a distance; the worries we shared; the small joys we celebrated in difficult times; and the hope that survived even in the darkest moments. For this reason, Hasht-e Subh is, for me, a home built from afar in my heart; a home where I may not always have been physically present, but where I have left a part of my life and memory.
