This is exile journalism: To carry truth. To carry pain. To carry freedom— because others can’t.
June 12. Like every other night, at exactly 10:45 p.m., my phone switches to "sleep mode." No calls. No notifications. From now until 6 a.m., I don’t touch it. And no one can reach me. Except for a few exceptions: My ex — because, as a hetero man, I’ve done enough wrong to warrant a lifetime emergency pass. My sister — only if someone in the family dies. Certainly not my parents — what they consider an emergency is, to me, just a regular Tuesday. And one friend on the other side of the planet, in the United States. We have a pact: if something truly important happens at night, we call each other. At around 3 a.m., the phone rings. That friend is calling. His voice is quiet—but clear: "Israel has attacked Iran." We stay on the line. Not much has hit the media yet, but we follow the story live, piecing it together. I open my work laptop to access wire agencies. A Slack group forms: “Iran–Israel.” Colleagues across the Middle East and foreign desks join in, exchanging what they hear, what they know, what they fear. The war—because that’s what it is—has begun. What I thought would last maybe a day—maybe a single night of targeted attacks—ends up lasting twelve. Twelve days of fear and exhaustion.
When your homeland is bombed, you don’t get to mourn quietly. You write. You verify. You publish. You translate shock into headlines— and heartbreak into analysis.
Twelve days of watching my country burn from a distance. Twelve days of switching between grief and professional focus. Because I am a journalist. And I am in exile. And when your homeland is bombed, you don’t get to mourn quietly. You write. You verify. You publish. You translate shock into headlines— and heartbreak into analysis. How the Iranian regime responded—politically and rhetorically In the first hours, the regime was stunned. There was no fiery statement. No coordinated response. Just silence—and chaos. Eventually, after a day or two, the machine rebooted. And when it did, it reached for the same old slogan: “Victory.” Even as Israeli jets came and went like commuters. Even as commanders were eliminated one by one. Even as Iran’s airspace collapsed. Inside Iran, people responded with bitterness—and humor. Persian Twitter called the skies a "freeway for Israeli jets." Still, the regime performed resilience. Footage of drills. Montages of socalled martyrs. Patriotic music. Then diplomacy—claiming victimhood, pointing fingers. But underneath all that was fear. What impact have these developments had on civil society and press freedom? When the missiles hit Tehran— it wasn’t just the sky that went dark. The internet did too. By June 18, the regime cut Iran off from the world. Ninety-one million people—trapped in silence.
No WhatsApp. No VPN. No truth. It was the most severe internet shutdown in the Islamic Republic’s history. Journalists inside Iran were arrested. Independent media silenced. And for us in exile? It felt like reporting with our eyes closed. The regime reactivated its so-called “National Internet.” Domestic tools. State-run services. No real social media. And a joke: Iranian messengers have three checkmarks— one for the sender, one for the receiver, and one for the one monitoring them. Do Russia, China, or other allies support the regime? What this war revealed most clearly—was absence. Iran’s allies did not show up. China, Russia? Empty statements. No military support. No deterrence. The so-called Axis of Resistance? Hezbollah: overstretched. Hamas: devastated. Assad: not even there. Tehran stood alone. And still, the regime clings to these alliances—ghost armies of the past. But when the skies filled with drones, they vanished. How did media coverage differ inside and outside Iran? Inside Iran: Victory. Outside: cluelessness. We in exile tried to get the truth out— but the blackout made it nearly impossible. And worse: The regime punished us—through our families. Mothers. Brothers. Sisters. Called in. Threatened.
Told: "You are a hostage now." Cyberattacks spiked. Our phones. Our accounts. Target of hacks. Fake headlines appeared with our names. Still—we kept reporting. Because someone had to. What do we need most? This war made one thing undeniable: Exile journalism has never been harder— and never more essential. We can’t be on the ground. But we can still be a voice. And for that, we need support. We need protection—for ourselves and our families. We need funding—free and independent. We need technology—secure and resilient. And we need recognition—as journalists. Not just refugees. Because when truth is outlawed, exile journalism becomes resistance. Closing This war didn’t just show me what exile journalism means— it showed me what it feels like. I live between two realities. In one, I’m respected. In my newsroom, I received more praise than ever. And yet— All I could feel was this: The suffering of my people became a breakthrough for me. Their despair gave me visibility. Their silence gave me voice. There is a name for this: Survivor’s guilt.
It doesn’t scream. It whispers. It whispers when you’re applauded—while your family back home can’t even connect. It whispers when you write—knowing the person in the headline won’t live to read it. It whispers when the world listens—only because your country is bleeding. This is exile journalism: To carry truth. To carry pain. To carry freedom— because others can’t. I do not regret my voice. But I know exactly what it costs.
This follow-up publication builds on the public talk “From Tehran to Berlin: Journalism, Exile, and Resistance” hosted by jinn on 15 July 2025 in Berlin. In his contribution, Iranian journalist Omid Rezaee, editor at Die Zeit, shared two intertwined stories: his personal journey of becoming a journalist in exile in Germany and the impact of the recent Israeli attacks on his work and perspective. The discussion, moderated by Gemma Teres Arilla, head of the taz Panter Foundation, also addressed the repression of civil society and media in Iran and highlighted the challenges and resilience of exile journalism in Germany. It shed light on how independent media in exile counter disinformation, report across borders, and fight for safety, funding, and sustainability amid growing geopolitical tensions.