Author: Amna Cesic (Page 1 of 2)

By the time Tahmina Ataee arrived at Bard College Berlin, she had already studied under three education systems, crossed two borders, and learned four languages. But the opportunity that once made her journey possible has disappeared for nearly all Afghan girls, as the door that once led to education and brighter futures is being forcibly shut.

Over the past two decades, a generation of Afghan women proved what was possible when educational doors were open. As Afghan sociologist Abdul Wahid Gulrani explains, the transformation of women’s education after 2001 was not simply academic. “Girls who grew up in dusty courtyards and unsafe neighborhoods suddenly entered classrooms, universities, and public life. They became teachers, journalists, and community leaders,” he said. For women like Tahmina, it meant the chance to imagine a different future.

Today, Afghanistan stands out tragically as the only country in the world where secondary and higher education are forbidden to girls and women, according to UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. The agency estimates in 2025 that nearly 2.2 million girls are now banned from attending school “beyond the primary level,” a reality UNESCO warns almost wiped out two decades of progress for education in Afghanistan. 

Meanwhile, “women have been banned from universities” since December 2022, cutting off one of the few pathways for higher learning, UNESCO reports. The consequences of these actions are profound. UNESCO estimates the “suspension of women’s higher education alone” is expected to cost the country up to US$9.6 billion in lost potential by 2066.

Today, formal schooling for many Afghan girls has been driven into hiding. According to NPR, some teenage girls now attend secret tutoring centers hidden in basements and private homes, where they study English, the Quran, and high-school level subjects. As Gulrani observes, “education in Afghanistan is not dead, it has gone underground.” “Across the country, girls continue to study secretly in homes, basements, and informal community classes. Some are taking online courses through their phones and laptops. Mothers are teaching daughters at home,” Gulrani said. This quiet but resilient movement, he says, shows that “while the Taliban can close schools, they cannot extinguish the will to learn.”

In this landscape of shrinking horizons, stories like Tahmina Ataee’s stand out as a glimpse of the talent and ambition now at risk. In Kabul, her education reflected the mix of schools that emerged after 2001, when private, international, and public institutions expanded opportunities for girls. She first attended a global private school, then an all-girls Turkish high school where, as she put it, “we had to learn everything twice, once in Persian and once in English.” She even enrolled in an American university in Kabul before her education was disrupted by the Taliban takeover.

Ataee’s path is not unusual for her generation. She is part of a generation of Afghan women whose lives were shaped by two decades of expanded access to education. Between 2001 and 2021, millions of girls entered classrooms for the first time as private and international schools opened alongside a growing public system. Many of those students later left the country, some as refugees and others on scholarships; however, their education enabled them to build new futures abroad. 

Still, national progress often masked the realities inside individual classrooms. For Ataee, the experience looked very different from many of her peers. In Kabul, her classmates were often the daughters of politicians and businessmen, while she was the only Hazara ethnic minority student in her grade. The difference, she said, wasn’t only social. “They put a lot of emphasis on religion and like religious practice,” she said. “We even had a mosque inside the school. That was uncommon.”

Religious expectations felt unfamiliar to her. “I have not grown up to be like that,” she said. “My dad is a very, very non-religious person. My mom has had a bit of a background, but she’s also chill.” Yet pressure to conform was constant. “It’s also not peer pressure, but I guess it is, because they’d be like, oh, it’s lunch break, we have an hour-long lunch, and I would go eat first, but they’re like, no, we have to go pray,” she said. “I wouldn’t call it brainwash, but I was also traumatized, so I would call it that.”

At home, faith mattered less than education. Her father, who worked for a German nonprofit in Afghanistan, encouraged her to focus on learning. Among Hazara families, this emphasis on education was common. “Not only just my family but friends I know and also relatives, they put a lot of emphasis on education,” she said. “They always like push their kids to study.”

Tahmina’s education was interrupted when the Taliban captured Kabul in August 2021. “We had to leave everything behind,” she said. “We used to live in a flat, and then everything we owned was gone. I don’t have that sort of attachment to materials anymore.” With help from her father’s German employer, her family left Afghanistan, first to Pakistan and then to Germany. “We were one of the first families they got out,” she said.

Arriving in Germany, Tahmina recalled, “it was a bit chaotic when we got here as well, because they thought we were undocumented or, like, illegally entering, which was not the case.” They spent their first weeks in quarantine camps, navigating new rules and procedures. “It was scary because you don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “One day they’d wake you up to do blood tests or like very procedural things, but like to us, I was like, what are we doing?”

As they settled, Tahmina continued her studies online. Before leaving Afghanistan, she had been enrolled “in an American school,” she said. “Then, because of the whole takeover, they were like, okay, our current students can continue their studies online without any tuition, so that’s how I was able to do two semesters while I was in Germany.”

When the university reopened a branch in Qatar, she realized she could not continue there. “I was like, this is not going to happen because I’d have to be there,” she said. “My brother was like, oh, there’s a branch here, you can apply.” At the time, she was learning German and preparing to apply to a local university. “Everyone had the same sort of plan,” she said. “You study German, get to university level, and then apply to a German school. That was my idea of how it’s going to be.” Ultimately, Bard College Berlin offered a different path. “I applied and I checked and I was like, oh, okay, I guess I got accepted,” she said, laughing.

Now at Bard, Tahmina is excelling academically, consistently earning top grades. She is also channeling her experience into research on Afghanistan’s brain drain, investigating why the country’s brightest students and professionals leave and how the loss of educated women affects Afghan society. “I’m trying to understand how the talent that was built in the country can be sustained, there is not a lot of research on it,” she said.

Tahmina said the past few months have been a period of intense transition. “It has been quite a chaotic month as I’ve been finishing my senior project,” she said. Completing her bachelor’s degree, she added, feels like “one of my biggest academic achievements so far.” She has also stayed involved with Ejaad Berlin, an initiative that financially supports Afghan women through embroidery. “I haven’t held a formal leadership role,” she explained, “but being part of it has helped me strengthen my reporting and communication skills.” Beyond that, she has taken on several jobs over the past few years, including two and a half years as an Orientation Leader and a position as a German tutor. Since July, she has also been working with the examination department at another private university. “All in all, these experiences, big or small, have made me feel proud of how far I’ve come,” she said.

For Tahmina, her education is deeply important. The barriers she faced in Afghanistan, and the millions of girls whose education is now stifled, inform her understanding of what is at stake. Her work highlights both the potential of educated women and the societal cost when that potential is denied. She hopes her future job will do more than study the problem as she hopes to work for an organization that helps people.

While Tahmina’s departure marked a significant loss for Afghanistan, she is not the only young Afghan woman whose education has been disrupted by the Taliban. Madina Sarabi, another student from Kabul, also had to leave her home country to continue her studies.

Madina grew up in Kabul, attending school in Afghanistan until 10th grade. She said she loved her school, describing it as a place that helped students “grow academically and grow socially” and offered extracurricular activities such as drawing and painting classes. Her family, she explained, “really prioritized education” and invested in courses and programs to help her and her siblings succeed.

Her education, however, was abruptly halted in 2021 when the Taliban regained control. Madina recalled leaving school during a history exam as staff and security guards told all students to evacuate. While boys eventually returned, girls were barred indefinitely. She described this period as one filled with fear, “Fear was always there…if I didn’t follow the rules, I could get arrested.” Despite the risks, she continued participating in school programs and cultural events wherever possible.

Madina was determined to continue her education abroad, but obtaining a student visa proved challenging. Because Afghanistan had no functioning embassies, she first had to travel to Iran to process her Italian visa. “It was risky because if the Taliban would know that I was going out of the country,” “they would not allow me,” she said. She eventually secured the visa and traveled alone to Italy to complete the International Baccalaureate at UWC Adriatic, a two-year pre-university program.

In Italy, Madina adapted to a new academic system taught in English, which she described as “one of the hardest educational systems in the world.” She also took part in social initiatives, volunteering at a women’s shelter and participating in arts and crafts programs for women facing domestic violence.

Madina is now a student at Bard College Berlin, studying politics, economics, and social thought in a seminar-based program. She participates in Afghan student initiatives, including the Afghan Development Academy, and engages in student-led projects and discussions. She said Bard has provided “a lot of opportunities and spaces to get educated in every topic” and allows students to start their own initiatives.

Madina’s journey highlights what Afghanistan has lost due to the Taliban’s restrictions on education. Her intelligence, leadership, and dedication to learning, which could have contributed to her home country, are now being realized abroad. Reflecting on her peers still in Afghanistan, she said, “They are so brave, they are so courageous, and they’re so resilient…if I made it out, I was no better than them. They all can do it.”

Afghanistan’s loss is visible not only in the students forced abroad, but also in the women who went on to build influential careers overseas after being pushed from home, women like Zulaikha Aziz.

Zulaikha Aziz immigrated to the United States as a child, and the path she built for herself was shaped by an unwavering belief in education. She went on to earn a bachelor’s degree from McGill University, a Master of Science from the London School of Economics, and a law degree from the University of California, Berkeley School of Law. After completing her studies, she returned to Afghanistan in 2002 to work on development projects, focusing intensely on expanding opportunities for women in rural areas. “A lot of my focus [is] integrating women into our activities,” she recalled, describing the early post-Taliban years when rebuilding the country meant ensuring women could once again participate in public life.

During her work, however, she began to see the limitations of development without law. “None of the work that we were doing would make a lasting impact if there weren’t legal structures… guaranteeing people’s rights and… a way to enforce those rights,” she said. Motivated by that realization, she shifted paths, embracing legal education and human-rights advocacy, eventually working with international organizations on governance and legal-rights projects.

After many years in law and human-rights work, Aziz found herself drawn back to an earlier passion, jewelry. Jewelry had been “the only tangible thing that my family was able to bring out,” she said, heirlooms handed down by her grandmother that were now symbols of culture, memory, and identity. Burnout and the weight of conflict pushed her to reconsider her path. “I was so burnt out on my last assignment in Afghanistan that I was like, okay, I’m going to take some time to really explore my creative side,” she recalled.

Back in the United States in 2019, she enrolled in the Gemological Institute of America (GIA) in California, a move that would mark the birth of her new vision. By March 2021, she launched Mazahri, naming it after her grandmother. The brand revived traditional Afghan motifs and embedded them within fine jewelry made from 18-karat gold, ethically sourced gemstones, and carefully crafted designs.

From the beginning, ethical sourcing and social responsibility were non-negotiable for Aziz. She insisted that all pieces use only certified materials like fairmined gold, traceable stones where possible, and production by small, fairly treated artisanal workshops. She said she was “adamant that the materials I use had to be materials that were not causing more harm to people or the environment.”

The reception to Mazahri was strong and immediate. Collectors and clients responded not just to the craftsmanship, but to the story behind the jewelry. Her pieces attracted attention and sales. Online customers around the world began to place orders.

Running a jewelry business is never easy, she admits, but for Zulaikha, it is a labor of love. Her legal training helps her navigate the practical side of business, while her cultural heritage shapes the vision and meaning behind each piece. From the very beginning, she built her company with a purpose beyond profit, supporting Afghan women and girls.

As she explained, “profits from sales go to helping women’s rights or girls’ rights. So we partnered with Women for Afghan Women our first few years. And then this year, we are partnering with Malala Fund to support their Afghanistan initiative.” The new collection, she added, was “inspired by Afghan girls and their fighting for their right to equal access of education.”

Through Mazahri, Aziz transformed hardship into a story of creativity, ethics, and success. Her journey shows what happens when education, identity, and determination converge. Afghanistan may have lost her. But the world gained a steward of its heritage, a champion for ethical craftsmanship, and a tangible reminder of the talent that a country lost when so many were forced to leave.

The stories of Tahmina Ataee, Madina Sarabi, and Zulaikha Aziz highlight both the talent Afghanistan has lost and the resilience its women continue to show. Forced abroad by the Taliban’s restrictions, they have turned education, creativity, and determination into paths for impact. While their country has been deprived of their full potential, their achievements abroad serve as a testament to what Afghan women can accomplish when given the opportunity.

By the time Tahmina Ataee arrived at Bard College Berlin, she had already studied under three education systems, crossed two borders, and learned four languages. But the opportunity that once made her journey possible has disappeared for nearly all Afghan girls, as the door that once led to education and brighter futures is being forcibly shut.

Over the past two decades, a remarkable generation of Afghan women proved what was possible when educational doors were open. As Afghan sociologist Abdul Wahid Gulrani explains, the transformation of women’s education after 2001 was not simply academic. “Girls who grew up in dusty courtyards and unsafe neighborhoods suddenly entered classrooms, universities, and public life. They became teachers, journalists, and community leaders,” he said. For women like Tahmina, it meant the chance to imagine a different future.

Today, Afghanistan stands out tragically as the only country in the world where secondary and higher education are forbidden to girls and women, according to UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. The agency estimates in 2025 that “nearly 2.2 million girls are now barred from attending school beyond the primary level,” a reality UNESCO warns “almost wiped out” two decades of steady progress for education in Afghanistan.

Meanwhile, “women have been banned from universities” since December 2022, cutting off one of the few pathways for higher learning, UNESCO reports. The consequences of these actions are profound. UNESCO estimates the “suspension of women’s higher education alone is expected to cost the country up to US$9.6 billion in lost potential by 2066.”

Today, formal schooling for many Afghan girls has been driven into hiding. According to NPR, some teenage girls now attend secret tutoring centers hidden in basements and private homes, where they study English, the Quran, and high-school level subjects. As Gulrani observes, “education in Afghanistan is not dead, it has gone underground.” “Across the country, girls continue to study secretly in homes, basements, and informal community classes. Some are taking online courses through their phones and laptops. Mothers are teaching daughters at home,” Gulrani said. This quiet but resilient movement, he says, shows that “while the Taliban can close schools, they cannot extinguish the will to learn.”

In this landscape of shrinking horizons, stories like Tahmina Ataee’s stand out as a glimpse of the talent and ambition now at risk. In Kabul, her education reflected the mix of schools that emerged after 2001, when private, international, and public institutions expanded opportunities for girls. She first attended a global private school, then an all-girls Turkish high school where, as she put it, “we had to learn everything twice, once in Persian and once in English.” She even enrolled in an American university in Kabul before her education was disrupted by the Taliban takeover.

Ataee’s path is not unusual for her generation. She is part of a generation of Afghan women whose lives were shaped by two decades of expanded access to education. Between 2001 and 2021, millions of girls entered classrooms for the first time as private and international schools opened alongside a growing public system. Many of those students later left the country, some as refugees and others on scholarships; however, their education enabled them to build new futures abroad.

Still, national progress often masked the realities inside individual classrooms. For Ataee, the experience looked very different from many of her peers. In Kabul, her classmates were often the daughters of politicians and businessmen, while she was the only Hazara student in her grade. The difference, she said, wasn’t only social. “They put a lot of emphasis on religion and like religious practice,” she said. “We even had a mosque inside the school. That was uncommon.”

Religious expectations felt unfamiliar to her. “I have not grown up to be like that,” she said. “My dad is a very, very non-religious person. My mom has had a bit of a background, but she’s also chill.” Yet pressure to conform was constant. “It’s also not peer pressure, but I guess it is, because they’d be like, oh, it’s lunch break, we have an hour-long lunch, and I would go eat first, but they’re like, no, we have to go pray,” she said. “I wouldn’t call it brainwash, but I was also traumatized, so I would call it that.”

At home, faith mattered less than education. Her father, who worked for a German nonprofit in Afghanistan, encouraged her to focus on learning. Tahmina recalls her father asking, “why would you like believe in such things?” Among Hazara families, this emphasis on education was common. “Not only just my family but friends I know and also relatives, they put a lot of emphasis on education,” she said. “They always like push their kids to study.”

Tahmina’s education was interrupted when the Taliban captured Kabul in August 2021. “We had to leave everything behind,” she said. “We used to live in a flat, and then everything we owned was gone. I don’t have that sort of attachment to materials anymore.” With help from her father’s German employer, her family left Afghanistan, first to Pakistan and then to Germany. “We were one of the first families they got out,” she said.

Arriving in Germany, Tahmina recalled, “it was a bit chaotic when we got here as well, because they thought we were undocumented or, like, illegally entering, which was not the case.” They spent their first weeks in quarantine camps, navigating new rules and procedures. “It was scary because you don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “One day they’d wake you up to do blood tests or like very procedural things, but like to us, I was like, what are we doing?”

As they settled, Tahmina continued her studies online. Before leaving Afghanistan, she had been enrolled “in an American school,” she said. “Then, because of the whole takeover, they were like, okay, our current students can continue their studies online without any tuition, so that’s how I was able to do two semesters while I was in Germany.”

When the university reopened a branch in Qatar, she realized she could not continue there. “I was like, this is not going to happen because I’d have to be there,” she said. “My brother was like, oh, there’s a branch here, you can apply.” At the time, she was learning German and preparing to apply to a local university. “Everyone had the same sort of plan,” she said. “You study German, get to university level, and then apply to a German school. That was my idea of how it’s going to be.” Ultimately, Bard College Berlin offered a different path. “I applied and I checked and I was like, oh, okay, I guess I got accepted,” she said, laughing.

Now at Bard, Tahmina is excelling academically, consistently earning top grades. She is also channeling her experience into research on Afghanistan’s brain drain, investigating why the country’s brightest students and professionals leave and how the loss of educated women affects Afghan society. “I’m trying to understand how the talent that was built in the country can be sustained, there is not a lot of research on it,” she said.

For Tahmina, this research is deeply personal. The barriers she faced in Afghanistan, and the millions of girls whose education is now stifled, inform her understanding of what is at stake. Her work highlights both the potential of educated women and the societal cost when that potential is denied. She hopes her future job will do more than study the problem as she hopes to work for an organization that helps people.

One morning in mid-December, Syrian soldiers knocked on the door of a house in eastern Aleppo. A man who hadn’t stepped outside in four and a half years opened the door. That’s how Aleppo After the Fall begins. From that initial moment, the whole story unfolds in a way that centers the lived experiences of those on the ground. Robert Worth, the journalist who wrote this piece, doesn’t use many official sources or expert interviews. Instead, he builds a vivid description of Aleppo and the ongoing conflict in Syria through individual voices and scenes that help create a narrative. The structure of the piece almost mirrors how a conversation would unfold: in pieces, one at a time.

Additionally, by framing the piece in the way that he does, the reader is able to see that the story is not just about the Assad regime or the rebels fighting to stop it. It is a story framed by the lived experiences of ordinary citizens who must rebuild their lives every time conflict erupts. By the end of the piece, readers are able to see that the narratives surrounding the war were much murkier than any one person or perspective is able to explain.

Furthermore, the author started with the aftermath immediately and deviated from a structure that dramatically takes the reader from the before to the after. In my opinion, this was crucial in helping frame the overall piece. The non-linear structure of the article in general and its almost fragmented nature also helps guide the story along. Minimal intervention by the author also lends the story more legitimacy. The context that is provided to the reader only includes the necessary information they would need to assess the credibility of the people the writer interviewed. This gives space for ambiguity that resists framing either side as being in the right, something that left me feeling disoriented at times.

In contrast, the Time article on AI Warfare, captures the story from afar. The human figures behind the warfare being described are almost invisible. The story thus doesn’t necessarily have a main character. Instead, the story relies on experts to frame the discussion and provide analysis on new developments. This choice helps provide the piece with the credibility needed to discuss a groundbreaking technological system. In many ways, by framing the piece in the manner that she does, Yasmeen Serhan is able to show just how far removed modern warfare has become from human decision-making. Her piece seems to purposely be detached rather than personal. Unlike the other stories, I wasn’t immersed in an emotional narrative. Rather, I was compelled to confront the practical realities of what AI means for warfare.

Finally, in The Case of Jane Doe Ponytail, the frame shifts to a single shapeless human being at the start of the story. It tells the tragic story of Song Yang in reverse, starting first with her tragic fall off a balcony. A number of things stood out to me in this piece. First, the setting of the story, similar to Worth’s piece, helps ground the reader in a specific place and reality. Second, the writers end the piece in a way that underscores the humanity and daily struggles faced by countless vulnerable women like Song Yang. By writing the piece in the manner they did, Barry and Singer, wrote a piece that is truly remarkable in what it is able to make the reader feel.

Central Question: How does education continue to define and transform the lives of Afghan women as they move from restriction to exile?

Overview: This piece would be a three-part story that follows the role education plays for Afghan women at different points throughout the integration process (in Afghanistan and abroad). Each section will connect to the next, tracing how Afghans adapt at every stage. I would be looking at what education looks like now after the shut down, those who still want to leave, and those who are integrating to a new education system and life abroad. The article would explore not just what was lost, but how people are continuing to learn, teach, and integrate in different ways. 

• Part One: This section would focus on the first wave of disruption. What does one do when you’ve built your identity around being an educated young woman, and suddenly it’s taken away? This section would look at what education means within the community and what this means for women trying to get an education abroad.
  • Interviews:
    • Female and male Bard Berlin students (3).
    • Mustafa Mayer — who completed his master’s and now works at the Brennan Center. 
    • A number of former teachers and journalists (who also have kids).

• Part Two: The second section would look at people who still want to get out, or who continue their studies in secret either through underground networks, VPNs, or private lessons. This part explores how education survives, and what drives people to keep studying. 
  • Interviews:
    • An organization working in Afghanistan right now to help get people to Germany. 
    • The executive director of another organization that works on the ground in 19/34 Afghan provinces. They primarily implement programs in the country that center around youth leadership.
    • A man whose sister is still in Afghanistan learning from home.

• Part Three: The final section explores what happens next: how do people rebuild their educational lives after leaving Afghanistan? How do they integrate into new academic systems, navigate language barriers, and redefine their sense of self as students and people in a foreign context? This part will tie the story together by also addressing the careers Afghans, especially Afghan women, are able to have.
  • Interviews:
    • 2 Afghan business owners who started off in very different places, but now own very successful companies.
    • Afghan Cultural Center that employees and helps integrate countless Afghans in the United States.
    • Afghan scholars that can speak to this integration process.

The readings this week provided information on a less talked-about aspect of storytelling, structure. Journalists must all eventually decide how to best shape their story for their readership, yet structure is rarely discussed. Rob Rosenthal, John McPhee, and James Stewart all suggest that structure is a crucial and overwhelmingly important aspect of the storytelling process. Reading their reflections, suggestions, and advice was extremely helpful in educating me on what my own journey could look like as I decide what the structure of my piece will look like. Likewise, reading Pamela Colloff’s New York Times investigation into how a con man’s testimony sent dozens to jail made it clear that structure is what allows the audience to best comprehend information, especially when the story has a lot of characters.

What connected all of these readings for me was the fact that structure seems to be a deliberate decision that each journalist makes when writing a story. Each author approaches this process differently, yet their lessons overlap in many ways.

Rosenthal, for example, describes story structure as a visual process. His napkin drawings illustrate how a narrative can unfold. What intrigued me most about this approach was that he seems to emphasize that the drawings he makes help shape the motion of the narrative, and aren’t necessarily meant to be inflexible. I thought the pictures were likewise really helpful when it came to showing structure as a rhythm rather than a strict outline. His examples, probably deeply influenced by his past in radio storytelling, show how structure helps determine the pacing of the piece. This was not something I had previously thought applied to the written word.

John McPhee takes a different approach to structure. What stood out to me most early in the article was how he used note cards to make sense of an overwhelming amount of information. His method seems more structured and methodical than Rosenthal’s, but just as useful. I especially appreciated his thoughts on how crucial order is in storytelling. McPhee, for example, has his beginning and ending planned out before he writes a story. I wonder, however, how he knows when the piece should end before he even starts writing. Finally, his honesty about the paralysis that comes with trying to condense so much reporting into a limited number of sentences really resonated with me.

Pamela Colloff’s story about the serial jailhouse informant is a perfect example of how the principles discussed by Rosenthal and McPhee can be brought to life in practice. Her investigation could have easily unraveled when she started to explain decades’ worth of legal records, yet she constructs a structure that guides readers effortlessly. Colloff begins with a single, vivid case that grounds the narrative in reality, then gradually introduces characters, scenes, and details that reveal more about the con man, Paul Skalnik. By switching from the micro to the macro throughout her piece, Colloff shows how to create an emotionally gripping story.

Seeing how Colloff’s structure holds such a complex story together made me think about how I might apply similar principles in my own writing. That’s where James Stewart’s perspective felt particularly useful. His advice that “using chronology as your paramount organizing principle doesn’t mean simply telling a story in strict chronological order” was eye-opening. Even chronology, something seemingly self-explanatory, can be used to make a story more interesting.

The readings this week were truly fascinating because they offered me new insights into problems I had never fully considered. I was especially captivated by the amount of information, much of it previously unknown, that these journalists were able to uncover. What struck me most, however, was how their methods of embedded reporting transformed the way stories could be told. Rather than observing from a distance, these journalists intentionally placed themselves within the worlds they were trying to understand.

By taking this approach, they were able to uncover details and perspectives that their readership would never have access to otherwise. Embedded reporting reveals information that typical news coverage would not be able to. The proximity, time span, and unique access these journalists had in these spaces allowed them to provide more nuanced insights. 

The articles we were provided this week even showed this form of reporting to be particularly useful in holding governments accountable. Although journalists have been exposing government corruption for decades, embedded reporting allows them to do so with credibility that is hard to achieve otherwise. Accountability has long been missing in many governmental processes, and documenting how these institutions circumvent this process in the first place is important for global safety and prosperity. Each article this week helped show how deep the accountability crisis truly is. 

The Guardian’s work on the Mossad’s effort against the International Criminal Court perfectly illustrates this tension. However, in order to write this story, a diverse set of journalists had to work together to help uncover sensitive information. This begs the question, what responsibility do journalists have when reporting on topics that have national security implications? They must contend with the public’s right to know the information, with the potential consequences that revealing that information would entail. I personally find this to be a challenging task when trying to hold a powerful entity accountable.

Likewise, Caitlin Dickerson’s work on the Darién Gap holds a different kind of power accountable. By following migrants through a notoriously dangerous jungle, Dickerson is able to reveal the personal stories of those making the journey. However, she is also able to expose the systemic failures and policies that put them at risk to begin with. Ultimately, this allows her to provide a link between the suffering migrants endure and the governmental decisions that allowed for it to happen. She is able to expose the consequences that Washington, DC policies have in a different country. Finally, I would be remiss not to note that by going to the location, she is also able to challenge narratives that deny the humanity of those who make the dangerous journey.

Doornbos’s reporting on Ukraine similarly helps show why Ukraine is still worth fighting for. Although coverage on Ukraine is not new, her coverage offers a unique moral lens that is hard to get with other forms of reporting. As governments and international organizations find new ways to break the law, avoid the truth, and crumble under pressure, it is journalism like this that can help expose their immorality. 

Finally, although this form of journalism helps hold institutions accountable, I nonetheless believe embedded journalism can benefit these institutions as well. This form of journalism does not have to function solely as a mechanism for scrutiny. These institutions themselves can gain important insight into public perception. It may even help identify areas where policy and reality clash.

The readings this week helped show me just how much work goes into finding a character. As Kim Cross mentions in her article on the art of the narrative interview, it is just as important to watch as it is to listen. When asking questions, it is not just about figuring out what happened, but also how it felt and what it meant to the person you are interviewing. I took this advice to heart given the fact that I will be writing a profile in the coming days. The information provided on narrative interviewing across the readings made it clear that strong stories are crafted from the emotional truth a person is able to provide. Cross breaks this down even further when she mentions that stories like these rely on a central conflict or tension that helps shape the arc of the story.

This advice became much easier to follow when I read Peter Hessler’s “What the Garbage Man Knows.” Suddenly the lessons outlined in the other readings came to life. Hessler’s narrative centers around just one trash collector, whose daily routine helps the author explore themes such as community, class, and even women’s rights. The garbage collector, Sayyid, is illiterate, but through Hessler’s storytelling readers are able to see just how important he is in his community. Sayyid’s observations become the central focus of the piece, and his life’s story becomes more than just experiences.

What made Hessler’s approach so interesting to me was the restraint and poise he used in his writing. When writing about a person or subject one doesn’t know much about, it’s easy to inject one’s own beliefs. Hessler, however, never romanticizes Sayyid’s life, nor does he craft a narrative that forces the audience to pity him. Hessler simply lets Sayyid’s experiences, truth, and stories shape the article he is writing. It is only through this format that readers are able to look through Sayyid’s eyes and see the complexities of life in Cairo. Hessler is also careful to never impose any meaning onto what he is finding out. Instead, Hessler lets Sayyid speak through his actions throughout the piece.

Similarly, Deborah Amos’s “Dancing for Their Lives” helps echo Hessler’s story in that both journalists utilize empathy and integrity to uncover humanity in places that are less accessible to the general public. Amos writes about young Iraqis who continue to dance amid tension in the region. Amos, however, refuses to make the subjects of her story symbols of something they are not. Amos makes sure to instead authentically portray the stories of those in front of her and lets readers come to their own conclusions. Her story comes to life because of her use of sensory and descriptive details. Readers are essentially transported into the nightclub she is referring to. Additionally, by using a setting (both a building and a country), Amos was able to express ideas and emotions that dialogue alone would not be able to.

Collectively, both pieces helped me understand much more about what it takes to write a compelling narrative piece that speaks to readers.  By writing on the daily lives of individuals, the journalists were able to inform and interest readers at the same time.

By Cecile McWilliams

October 13th, 2025

FRANKFURT—Here are a few titles of recent notes entries in my phone: “Kabuli pulao,” “Nazira transcript,” “Berlin visits.” New entries have accumulated since Friday afternoon when, in the airport, my classmates and I were hit with the sudden panic of feeling unprepared. 

With over two hours to kill in gate B62, most of us pulled out our laptops. Midterms would last until midnight; people had papers to finish and lab reports to edit. For my part, I searched for places in Berlin where I might interview Afghan refugees. Another classmate and I, allied in our desperation to schedule interviews two weeks ago, pledged to stick together. We thought hanging around in Berlin’s Afghan restaurants and carpet stores would feel less intrusive together than apart.

“Women’s Café,” the note titled “Berlin Visits” reads. “A casual women-only get-together for chatting over coffee and cake.” The item was snatched from a list our professor gave us called “Where to find people to talk to.” 

I found a contact weeks ago on Instagram. I texted her a polite request to talk, signed with a star emoji. Our chat migrated to a WhatsApp thread, then a phone call, and finally a café in Frankfurt. I pasted “Nazira Transcript” into my notes after we talked on the phone. “When I was 12 years, I began sports with my sister,” I transcribed from one of our conversations.

I met Nazira and Nazima, her sister, at a cafe along the Main River in Frankfurt. Nazima’s story was just as intriguing as the one I heard from Nazira on the phone. After Nazima traveled alone for the first time, to Pakistan, she couldn’t tolerate life at home. For two months, her packed suitcase sat in her room, and each day, she fought with her parents, who insisted she stay home. Early one morning, her younger sister, Nazira, lugged her suitcase as the pair walked thirty minutes to the bus station. Months later, Nazira joined her sister in the capital city of Kabul, fleeing her hometown of Bamyan when the Taliban arrived.

Even before the Taliban’s official takeover in 2021, the jihadist group severely restricted women’s rights in Afghanistan. The Taliban targeted women who failed to comply with its strict interpretation of Islamic law. Women who went to school, learned English, or played sports were particularly at risk. Women of the persecuted Hazara minority––a group that tends to allow women more freedom––were vulnerable, too.

Nazira and Nazima checked all of these boxes. 

At 11 years old, Nazira won a 10k race. When Nazira was twelve and Nazima was fourteen, they recruited friends and classmates to start the first girls’ soccer team in their city. Nazima and a friend became the first women to summit Afghanistan’s second-highest peak. In Kabul, Nazira guarded the goal for the Afghan Women’s National Team. 

Nazima had already left the country when the Taliban reached Kabul. Since she didn’t have a passport yet, Nazira stayed behind. Soon, she managed to escape to Italy, where she lived in government-sponsored refugee housing and played for FC Milan. Meanwhile, Nazima waited in Pakistan for a German visa. 

As we spoke, Nazima and Nazira tweaked details from each others’ stories, refining time stamps, city names, and dates. They corrected each others’ English, sometimes turning to me for a final verdict. They spoke English well but German even better, they said. Our conversation was a game of triangulation, where words in German, English, and Dari stood as signposts for key moments of the past four years. I tried to decipher the meaning of words they only knew in German: “Embassy?” “Hostel?” “Swollen?”

Shortly after Nazima arrived in Germany, she was hospitalized. For months, she was plagued by spells of dizziness, migraine, and nausea, which she thought were symptoms of stress. Doctors in Frankfurt found a tumor at the bottom of her brain, jammed next to her spinal cord. They operated on her twice and clipped nerves by accident. Her family joined her in Germany, with Nazira spending nights on the ground next to her sister’s hospital bed. Once out, Nazima moved in a wheelchair and then with a walker. She says it still feels like her right arm is weighed down by stones. 

Over the five hours we talked, the sky turned from gray to blue. Each time the coffee grinder whirred, I said a tiny prayer that my voice memo app still picked up the sisters’ voices. When the conversation turned to the xenophobic attitudes of some Germans, Nazima tapped her sister and gestured to the blonde lady next to us, who turned the pages of a photo book. I asked about asylum and illness, but also boyfriends and food. “Kabuli pulao:” a dish I should’ve tried at an Afghan restaurant, had I been in Frankfurt longer.

By Valerio Castellini

October 13th, 2025

NUREMBERG—Visiting the Nazi Party Rally Grounds and Courtroom 600 back-to-back felt like transitioning through two disparate sides of the same story: the pursuit of power, and the effort to judge it. Even if incomplete, the Rally Grounds feel immense, hollow. They make you feel subdued, each individual rendered invisible, absorbed into the spectacle of unity. The courtroom, on the other hand, is sober and grave. It conveys both the weight of justice and the difficulty of defining it in the face of crimes that had only recently been codified and never been tested. 

The Nuremberg Trials offered a fragile sense of justice after unthinkable atrocities, establishing that crimes against humanity were more than wartime excesses—and deserved to be publicly judged as moral ruptures. 

For years afterwards, the subject haunted Germany. The sense of collective guilt was so strong that it simply remained unspoken. Yet, over decades, Germans turned remembrance of their darkest period into a shared civic duty, and responsibility became woven into public life. No politician in Germany over the past half century would have ever made apologies for Nazism, and there has been a common consensus around its condemnation. 

It was not the same in Italy, where I grew up. After Mussolini’s fall, there was no equivalent reckoning, no public trial to lay out and process the crimes committed by the regime, and, most importantly, to separate guilt from complicity. Fascism faded, but it was never fully denounced. Instead, it was absorbed into the grey zones of nostalgia and political convenience. Many of the same institutions, and even some of the people, survived the transition to democracy. What remained quickly became normal again. Today, the word “fascist” is treated as a partisan insult rather than a moral line. Without a moment of public condemnation, the past hovers unresolved, and its lessons become negotiable and contextual. 

Precisely because of Germany’s painful honesty, the rise of the far-right Alternative Für Deutschland (AfD) feels especially unsettling. The party draws support from legitimate (if often sensationalized) fears—uncontrolled immigration, high inflation, rising energy costs—but translates them into resentment and exclusion, not viable solutions. Then-AfD leader Alexander Gauland has famously referred to Nazism as “just bird shit on the 1000 years old, successful German history.” The language trivialises the very crimes Nuremberg sought to define.

It is not surprising that the party’s strongest results come from regions of former East Germany, where cultural resentment feeds on economic stagnation and the sentiment of being left behind after  national reunification. In those areas, the long project of Vergangenheitsbewältigung—coming to terms with the past—has failed at becoming a shared national story. The moral narrative from the West side is perceived as something imposed, not chosen. That distance now gives the AfD space to claim authenticity against the “moral hypocrisy” from Berlin.

There is something unique about this revival of the past. It is not direct; instead, it erodes the moral vigilance that used to keep that past at bay. The AfD does not seek to rewrite history as much as to empty it of its consequence. The revival is not a return to nazism, but to indifference.

When I first started watching Nuremberg, I was expecting a straightforward depiction of what happened during the trials. Much to my surprise, the film went into much more depth than I originally anticipated. By lengthening the film, the directors were able to show the complicated dynamics between the Nazi war criminals and the prosecution in greater detail. I thought this aspect of the trial was incredibly important in showing the moral and legal challenges faced by both sides. Seeing the back and forth in court was extremely eye opening.

In general, I thought the attention to historical detail was also impressive. The effort they took to draw on the actual trial and create an atmosphere that would best reflect that period was noticeable. By depicting the ruined city of Nuremberg and the logistics of building the tribunal, the directors highlighted elements that often get overlooked. This attention to detail helped me better understand the complexity of the event, as well as the unprecedented nature of the trial. It felt as though this trial was the first of its kind, which it was. Likewise, I thought the film did a good job portraying characters like Goring as both reprehensible war criminals and highly charismatic individuals. This was most apparent in his relationship with Tex, where his personality hinted at what Nazi leadership might have looked like, even though it was likely dramatized for television audiences.

I also learned a great deal from the film about what it truly takes to prosecute evil, and what justice even looks like in these circumstances. Before watching, I was largely unaware of the process of setting up the tribunal in the first place. It was startling to think how much dedication must have gone into pulling off something this complex. The extent to which seemingly ordinary people were complicit in the Holocaust in general was a striking reminder of just how widespread responsibility was. As the film mentioned, a lot of Germany could have been tried for their crimes during the Holocaust. If justice was limitless, even more people should have been prosecuted. 

On the other hand, there were also aspects of the film that I was not fond of. The most obvious shortcoming was the romantic subplot between Elsie and Robert Jackson, which felt like a distraction at times. I thought this relationship added nothing to the portrayal of the trial itself.

Furthermore, there was a lot of nuance and uncertainty that was either simplified or left out of the film. The importance of the Nuremberg Trials in shaping how war crimes are prosecuted is undeniable, yet the movie didn’t fully convey just how groundbreaking this trial was. I would have also liked to see more distinction between the Allied nations as well. For example, I truly find the Soviets’ role at Nuremberg to be fascinating given that one authoritarian regime is seemingly judging another.

Overall, the film really reminded me of how important trials can be in delegitimizing war criminals or politicians. The sentencing phase for example, although in my opinion not explored enough, was a reminder that each individual was responsible for the atrocities committed, even if they themselves did not kill anyone directly.