By Yaldaz Sadakova
European Council, Brussels. Photo by Yaldaz Sadakova.
My biggest humiliation happened a decade ago in Brussels.
It was a warm fall afternoon, a few weeks after I had moved there to work as a freelance broadcast journalist.
I was working with a cameraman that day. B and I were interviewing an economist from a Brussels think-tank.
We were standing in front of the European Council, a gleaming glass building.
“Why do you think more budget cuts are a bad idea for Greece?” I asked the economist.
“There’s hardly any place left to cut,” he said. “We should focus on growth instead. We don’t have a growth strategy for Greece, and that’s the problem.”
I was about to ask my next question when the chanting started.
“Death to the Iranian regime! Death to the Iranian regime!”
Before I could realize what was happening, a small group of protesters surrounded us. They looked Middle Eastern.
One of them, a woman with a headscarf, held a banner which said “Mujahedin.”
Another woman with a headscarf held a sign with the words “Camp Ashraf.”
Who are these people? I thought. Are they some kind of Iranian opposition? What do they want from us?
They’d probably seen the Press TV logo on my microphone.
Press TV is an Iranian English-language news channel. It’s based in Tehran and funded by the Iranian government.
I freelanced for it at the time.
Before we set up for the interview, B and I had noticed the protesters in front of the European Council.
But we’d ignored them. There were always protests in front of the Council. Plus, while we were setting up our equipment, these guys were folding their banners, getting ready to leave.
Now the chanting got louder. The protesters moved closer. They were mere centimeters away from us.
B was standing right behind me with his camera mounted on the tripod, so I couldn’t see his reaction.
I tried to keep my face calm. But my heart was racing. My cheeks were hot.
Was anybody from the Brussels press corps witnessing our public humiliation, my public humiliation?
Most likely yes.
The Council was in the heart of the EU neighborhood. Journalists went in and out of the building all the time.
The analyst, a gray-haired man in a black suit, looked composed. He kept talking.
“The trouble with budget cuts is that they hurt the most vulnerable members of society.”
A middle-aged protester with a black mustache started waving a large banner behind the analyst’s head.
It was a picture of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran’s president at the time, in 2010. In the picture, Ahmadinejad’s face was crossed out with red lines.
“Death to Ahmadinejad!” the protesters yelled, trying to drown out the words of the analyst. “Death to Ahmadinejad! Death to Ahmadinejad!”
The analyst kept talking with a calm face, ignoring the protesters.
“The Greek economy is in shambles. Normally, when that happens, you allow your currency to depreciate, and that makes your exports cheaper. But Greece shares the euro currency with other EU countries. That’s why it doesn’t have the benefit of an exchange rate.”
I was hoping the analyst wouldn’t bail. I had to file the story in a few hours. I had no time to look for another source.
B remained quiet behind me.
I wondered what I should do.
Should I ask the protesters to stop harassing us?
Should we just go inside the Council and re-tape?
This interview was already ruined anyway. I couldn’t use any of the sound bites.
“Death to Ahmadinejad!” the guy holding the Ahmadinejad banner yelled again.
I was now seething.
“Excuse me, sir! We’re trying to work, and you’re ruining our shots. Can you leave us alone?”
“You’re spreading propaganda!” he said in a Middle Eastern accent. “You’re puppets of the Iranian regime!”
“Let’s just go inside the Council,” I told B.
Then I turned to the analyst. “Is it ok if we re-tape the interview?”
He nodded.
“Thank you so much!” I said. “I really appreciate it. I’m so sorry about this.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not your fault.”
I wanted to give the guy a hug. We hustled him to the spacious Council lobby.
He repeated his sound bites about the Greek economy, but I could barely pay attention. I was still shaken by what had just happened.
After the interview, B and I started walking towards the nearby Schuman metro station.
Just in front of the metro entrance, we ran into the mustached protester. He was alone, and he wasn’t carrying the Ahmadinejad banner.
“Why did you ruin our interview? Why did you have to harass us?” I asked him.
“Because you’re puppets of the Iranian regime,” he said with disgust. His brown eyes looked intense.
“No, we’re not!” I said. “We’re not even employees of Press TV. We’re freelancers. You don’t know anything about us.”
“You’re puppets of the Iranian regime,” he repeated his mantra. “You’re working for an evil regime. Do you know that the Iranian government has tortured me?”
Before I could respond, he left.
I had this recurring sick feeling that although I didn’t do propaganda stories for Press TV, and although I didn’t agree with the Iranian government, I supported it indirectly. Which made me hate myself.
When I went home that evening, I Googled the Iranian Mujahedin.
They were an opposition group which lived in exile in different countries.
Their members had indeed been tortured by the Iranian government.
But the Mujahedin themselves—also known as the Mujahedin-e-Khalq or MEK—weren’t kosher either.
The international community had listed them as a terrorist organization.
In the 1970s in Iran, they had run a bombing campaign against the Shah, and they had also killed six Americans. Then, during the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s, the MEK had launched raids into Iran out of Iraq.
After I read all that, I looked up Camp Ashraf. A camp in Iraq near the Iranian border. It was home to several thousand MEK members at the time.
The Iraqi government was trying to close down Camp Ashraf and push the MEK members out of Iraq.
I figured that must have been the reason for their protest in front of the Council earlier that day.
Since then, Camp Ashraf has been closed. The MEK members who used to live there have been relocated to other countries. Also, most countries, including the United States, no longer consider the MEK to be a terrorist group.
I closed my laptop and went to the kitchen to make instant coffee.
I still couldn’t shake the shock and humiliation from my encounter with the Mujahedin protesters.
While I stirred my coffee, I kept thinking about the guy with the mustache who said he’d been tortured.
I felt awful.
But him calling me a puppet of the Iranian regime without knowing who I was, why I had taken this gig, and what kind of work I’d done for Press TV (and before Press TV) seemed unfair.
What he didn’t know was that I already felt deeply conflicted about working for Press TV.
Just like other people who judged me about working for Press TV, the Mujahedin protester acted as if that was a dream job for me.
As if I’d been presented with amazing offers from outlets like BBC or CNN, but I’d said, “Um, no thanks, I’ll go with Press TV because it’s most closely aligned with my values.”
The reality was different.
The Reluctant Choice
I graduated from journalism school in New York two years before the Mujahedin incident, in 2008.
Right after that, I got my first journalism job at a newspaper in Queens.
Eight months into my first job, in the middle of the global financial crisis, I got laid off without any notice or severance.
I applied for jobs, but I couldn’t find journalism work or any other related work.
So I took a gig spreading flyers on the street in Brooklyn.
When that gig ended, I got a restaurant job in Manhattan.
Meanwhile, I kept applying for other jobs.
Six months into my restaurant job, my American visa expired.
I couldn’t stay in the country beyond that because I hadn’t been able to find an employer willing to sponsor me for a new work visa.
So I went back home to Bulgaria. It was September 2009.
I started applying for jobs right away—mostly for journalism jobs in the UK and other parts of Europe.
I didn’t want to be a journalist in Bulgaria because true media independence didn’t exist there.
Also, I wanted to cover international stories. I wanted to explore the rest of the world.
The thought of being confined to my home country for the rest of my life, covering topics I was familiar with, felt stifling.
A month into my job search, I got an offer for a full-time video editing job at one of Bulgaria’s national channels, bTV.
I didn’t like the fact that it was a technical position. I wanted to stay in journalism. That was my dream, to help make the world a better place by doing meaningful reporting.
I also didn’t like the fact that the bTV position was in Bulgaria.
Still, I was going to accept the offer because I needed money right away.
But just then Press TV offered me a Bulgaria-based correspondent position.
It was a freelance job, but they said they’d need me often.
The Press TV job involved reporting, script writing, video editing and shooting—skills that I wanted to keep honing.
And the Press TV job was in English. I loved that because I wanted to keep using my English professionally. I also wanted to keep adding to my English-language clips so I could be employable outside of Bulgaria.
Because it was in English, this gig—unlike the bTV job—could be my ticket out of Bulgaria.
So I accepted Press TV’s offer.
It was a reluctant choice though.
Because, yes, I knew it was a channel funded by the Iranian government.
I knew about the human rights violations of that government, and that made me uncomfortable.
I take responsibility for my decision.
But now, a decade later, I see that it wasn’t a fully informed decision.
I was desperate and 26.
I was at the beginning of my journalism career. I didn’t have enough editorial experience to understand the implications of accepting that offer.
I didn’t understand that I would become associated with an oppressive government, even if I myself didn’t support that government, even if I myself never produced propaganda stories.
I didn’t understand that not doing biased stories and not supporting the Iranian government myself wasn’t going to be good enough from an ethical standpoint.
I didn’t understand that I would start to feel guilty by association.
I should pause here to clarify that when I say the Iranian government, I mean exactly that—the government of Iran, specifically the highest echelons of the government, not the people of Iran. There is a huge difference.
I’ve known many Iranians over the years, and I have mostly good things to say about them. Ordinary Iranians have nothing to do with the policies of the Iranian government.
Back to Press TV. I wish I’d had a better sense of long-term consequences while I was considering the channel’s job offer—even though I saw that gig as nothing more than a stepping stone.
I wish I had researched Press TV more thoroughly to see how the world perceived it.
I wish I had looked more extensively into how it covered certain issues.
I wish I had allowed my misgivings to prevail.
Waiting for a third, better job opportunity was not an option. I needed work right away, and we were in the middle of a deep global recession. I couldn’t afford to wait.
So I started freelancing for Press TV out of Bulgaria while also working for other international outlets.
No topic from Bulgaria was off-limits for Press TV. I was never censored. Nor did I ever censor myself during that period.
None of the subjects Press TV was sensitive to—America, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Iran’s nuclear program—could be covered from Bulgaria anyway.
When editors in Tehran rejected my story ideas, it was because they weren’t relevant to an international audience. Press TV did not target an Iranian audience.
Seven months later, a freelance position for Press TV opened up in Brussels. I applied and got it.
My plan was to go to Brussels, and while freelancing, find a full-time journalism job with another company.
In September 2010, I moved to Brussels.
Soon after that, I started applying for jobs there and all over Europe. I rarely heard back.
The Work Permit
I finally secured a job interview five months after moving to Brussels.
It was for a full-time reporter position at a Brussels-based news outlet.
I’d met the hiring editor—I’ll call her Sonia—at an event. She’d mentioned that they had an opening and asked me to send her my resume.
When I went for the interview, Sonia took me to a spacious conference room with big windows overlooking the iconic row of EU flags in front of the European Commission.
Sonia was friendly and chic. When she sat down across from me, I noticed a pair of lovely silver hoops sparkling through her wavy black bob.
Just then we were joined by a junior editor, a middle-aged guy with dark greasy hair parted on the side.
After we exchanged some pleasantries, he glanced at my resume.
“Press TV? We don’t consider Press TV to be a credible news outlet,” the junior editor said. “Al Jazeera, yes. I myself have appeared on Al Jazeera to comment on a lot of EU issues. But Press TV is propaganda.”
“But I don’t do propaganda,” I said.
I tried not to show my discomfort. But I could feel my armpits getting wet with cold anxious sweat. Good thing I was wearing a jacket over my shirt.
“I cover mainly the economy for Press TV, the euro crisis,” I explained. “And if you’ve seen my work, you know that my coverage is identical to the economy coverage of other outlets. There’s no propaganda in my work or anything like that.”
At the time, the euro crisis was the biggest story in Brussels anyway.
Each day brought news about rising unemployment, austerity measures, European banks bleeding more money, Greece accumulating more debt.
There were constantly meetings and press conferences in Brussels about all that. So that’s what I reported on—and no, Press TV did not censor me.
Sometimes there was news out of Brussels about the EU imposing new sanctions on Iran and Syria.
I suspected Press TV wouldn’t approve of anything criticizing the Syrian or the Iranian government, even though nobody from the channel had told me that.
So every time news about Iran or Syria came out of Brussels, I would sit at home in my bed, refreshing my inbox every two minutes and praying that there was no email from Tehran asking for a story.
But I did get the occasional email requests for quick video segments on those developments.
I always answered them with excuses, even though I needed money.
“I can’t cover it because I’m working on an assignment for another client.”
“I can’t cover it because I’m sick in bed.”
“I can’t cover it because I’m traveling outside of Brussels.”
Those were lies.
I didn’t cover those issues about Syria and Iran for any other outlet either.
But I knew this was still self-censorship.
Which is why I felt like a sell-out, like I wasn’t a real journalist.
I wasn’t being true to my values.
I hated myself.
I was ashamed of myself.
At the same time, whenever I said “no” to the editors in Tehran, I was scared because I knew I was risking my position as their Brussels correspondent.
What if they were to ditch me and find somebody in the city who was available to cover these stories?
After all, these issues were important to Press TV, and the channel had no contractual obligations to a freelancer like me.
Much as I hated working for Press TV, I couldn’t afford to lose it as a client.
Press TV paid me decently—not a lot, but just enough for a modest existence—and, therefore, it was my anchor client.
My other client was the English-language service of Germany’s DW (Deutsche Welle) radio.
I loved doing stories for DW, but these radio pieces paid little, especially given the amount of work they required.
The other media outlets I’d considered freelancing for paid even less than DW.
Now at the job interview, I reiterated that I only covered the economy for Press TV, along with energy and immigration occasionally.
“What about EU affairs? How familiar are you with all that? You’re relatively new to Brussels,” Sonia said.
“Yes, that’s true, I’ve only been here a few months,” I replied. “But I’m definitely familiar with the major issues here. I’m familiar with the aspects of the euro crisis and with all the current legislative proposals.”
“Actually,” I went on, “before I came to Brussels, I didn’t know any of this. So I’m a fast learner. I mean, as you know, it’s not unusual for a journalist to take on a new beat and learn on the job. I should also emphasize that I can shoot and edit video. I know that you guys do multimedia work for your website. So this is something I could contribute to.”
The junior editor did not seem convinced. He looked skeptical, almost hostile, his eyes squinted behind his glasses.
I couldn’t read Sonia. Her face looked neutral.
After the interview, she took me to a corner of the newsroom and gave me a news writing test.
A few days later, she contacted me to say she’d chosen a different candidate.
A month later, Sonia emailed me again. She had an opening for a full-time paid internship, and was I interested to go in for an interview?
So it looked like Press TV was not the reason why she’d rejected me, though this is what I suspected.
I wasn’t crazy about doing an internship. I already had two years of work experience in news.
I didn’t want an internship. I wanted an actual job.
But I was desperate to ditch Press TV. So I went in.
I was ushered into the same conference room overlooking the EU flags in front of the European Commission.
This time Sonia was alone, and it was a quick conversation.
At the end of it, she offered me the internship. The pay was something like €800 a month.
I told her I’d get back to her.
I left the building and crossed the street. When I walked passed EXKi, I was tempted to go in. I was hungry. Through the window, I could see the quiches arranged on the counter. They looked so appealing with their golden crust.
But I decided against it. I couldn’t afford to pay €8 or €10 for a quiche or a sandwich. Not on a day when I wasn’t working.
The other food places in the neighborhood were just as expensive, so they weren’t an option either.
I decided that I’d make a sandwich with mayo and bologna at home. I headed towards Rue de la Loi.
As I walked past the glossy EU office buildings, I mulled over Sonia’s offer.
There was no way I could survive in Brussels on €800 a month. I needed at least €1,200 to cover the bare necessities.
I could try to supplement the internship income with freelancing.
But Sonia had made it clear she wouldn’t be okay with me freelancing for Press TV while working for her because of Press TV’s reputation in Brussels.
And, like I said, all the other outlets I’d encountered paid freelancers almost nothing.
So, it was not going to be feasible for me to report stories on the side.
I didn’t see a way to make this work.
I felt jealous of those people who could afford to take full-time internships which paid nothing, or less than minimum wage, because they had financial help from parents or the ability to live with their parents rent-free.
I didn’t have that kind of help.
People who received help from parents, or who had some other kind of inherited advantage, were usually the ones who managed to get a foothold in mainstream media.
I thought that anybody who was outraged by a journalist’s decision to work for a channel like Press TV should be equally outraged by the fact that mainstream media was an industry of privilege.
An industry which waxed lyrical about diversity but excluded people who couldn’t afford to get their foot in the door.
This is still the reality of the industry.
The next day I wrote to the HR person Sonia had put me in touch with to ask if the outlet could offer me more money for the internship.
When the HR person responded, this is what she said:
“Unfortunately we cannot increase the pay for this position, as it does need to fit into our budget which is for a trainee, not a permanent team member.
“We also do have an issue with the work permit, which indeed would legally require us to pay you a higher salary, which as I said, is unfortunately not possible at the moment.
“I believe that at this point in time we can then unfortunately not find a way to work together.”
There it was, my other problem: the permit.
The almighty work permit.
Bulgaria, together with neighboring Romania, joined the EU in 2007.
But us Bulgarians and Romanians weren’t allowed to work in Western Europe without a permit—unless we were self-employed.
It was only in 2014 that the EU removed the work permit restriction for Bulgarians and Romanians.
By then it was already too late for me.
Now, sitting at home on my laptop, I re-read the email from HR. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing or misinterpreting something.
But no, I wasn’t. My original interpretation was correct: because of my nationality, I had just been denied a job.
The things that made me a diverse candidate—my poverty, ethnicity, immigration status and nationality—were the very reasons why this company could not (or would not) hire me.
Still, I didn’t feel angry. I felt defeated and deflated.
I’d become so accustomed to being a second-class person because of my nationality that these kinds of rejections—these acts of discrimination—felt normal.
I’d lost a job opportunity under the same circumstances two years earlier in New York.
A company withdrew the offer it had extended because it didn’t want to sponsor me for a visa.
The Grand Delusion
After Sonia’s outlet rejected me, I decided to keep applying.
What else was there to do?
Around that time, a special job posting caught my eye.
It was for a radio internship in New York at This American Life.
The compensation it offered was enough for a frugal person like me.
The posting said the internship was only open to applicants legally allowed to work in the United States—i.e., not me.
This American Life wasn’t able to offer visa sponsorships.
But I decided to apply because it was a dream job for me.
I was a huge fan of the show and its host, Ira Glass. I’d listened to every episode.
And I had experience with radio reporting and production.
I was also desperate to return to New York. I still dreamed of moving back there.
My visa-induced departure from the city two years earlier had felt like an interruption.
I still missed lots of things about my life there.
Browsing through reduced books at the Strand near Union Square.
Strolling anonymously around the West Village.
Admiring the Manhattan skyline from the Brooklyn Bridge.
Walking barefoot on the sand in Brighton Beach.
And more than anything, I missed New York’s anything-is-possible, center-of-the-universe vibe.
The internship at This American Life was only six months. But, I reasoned, I’d apply for full-time jobs while I was there, and I’d find a New York employer to sponsor me for a new visa.
When I started working on my application, I ratcheted up my New York daydreaming.
I started reading books and watching videos about the power of visualization. I was a self-help junkie in those days.
I created a digital visualization board, like the books and videos advised me to.
My visualization board was a Word document with pictures of my favorite things about New York: brownstones, the Brooklyn Bridge, zigzagging fire escapes.
I looked at the document several times a day. I carried its images in my mind wherever I went.
I lived in Brussels, but I was in New York.
I constantly compared Brussels to New York, and, invariably, I found Brussels wanting.
It wasn’t as diverse.
It wasn’t as big.
It didn’t have that anything-is-possible vibe.
The subway didn’t run 24/7.
Shops didn’t stay open late.
Men peed on the streets all the time.
And on and on.
This constant comparing, constant longing to be somewhere else, constant refusal to accept my reality, made me even more miserable.
Rain or shine, Brussels was black to me.
All I could see was that it was not my beloved New York.
All I could see was that this was not the life I had dreamed of when I graduated from journalism school full of idealism.
There was a photo filter in my brain which automatically colored everything I saw in dark oppressive tones.
This constant comparing prevented me from appreciating the good things about Brussels.
The stunning architecture.
The respect for work-life balance and leisure.
The cheap wine.
The location, which allowed me to easily travel to Bulgaria.
The fact that it was a microcosm of Europe’s biggest issues—like immigration, the recession and the rise of extremist right-wing political parties—and, therefore, an amazing opportunity to observe those issues first-hand.
The fact that because it was the capital of the EU, it was the place where big decisions about Europe were made, and I had the chance to see the mechanics of this decision-making.
Rue Royale, Brussels. Photo by Yaldaz Sadakova.
I worked on my application for This American Life like a mad woman, with the sincere belief that I had a shot despite my immigration restrictions.
I worked on my application during the night, after filing my freelance stories.
At sunrise, I went to bed. The events and press conferences I had to cover for work usually happened in the afternoon.
It took me more than two months to finish the application.
In addition to a resume and a cover letter, I had to enclose a creative writing piece and pitch two or three stories for an episode. The pitches had to read like exciting narratives.
To prepare them, I read everything Ira Glass had ever said about radio storytelling. Then I typed notes to myself.
“Only pitch them ideas where you have a character in mind—not an issue with no character in mind yet. Show them you understand the importance of a character-driven story. Google all the producers—Alex Blumberg, Lisa Pollak, Nancy Updike.”
I wanted my pitches to be so brilliant that Ira would realize he’d have to make an exception and sponsor me for a visa.
The night before the deadline, I still had lots of work to do on my application.
Around 11 p.m., I settled to write on my bed. I spent the next seven hours wrestling with my pitches, rearranging words and sentences.
An hour before the deadline, I still wasn’t done. I started panicking. I kept rearranging.
Twenty minutes before the deadline, I proofread everything.
A minute before the deadline, I emailed my application.
Around 9 a.m., I closed the thick green curtains of my studio and went to bed. As I drifted off, I imagined myself back in New York.
A few days later, I even told my landlady there was a chance I could move out in a couple of months for a job in New York.
The show was supposed to notify the shortlisted candidates in a month.
I didn’t hear anything that day. Maybe they need extra time to process all the applications, I thought.
A week went by. Still no word.
I started looking at my visualization board more often.
Another week passed. Still no word.
I became even more deliberate about imagining myself in New York.
I decided that this time, instead of living in Queens, I’d rent a room in Brooklyn, in my beloved Brighton Beach.
It was a long commute from the show’s Manhattan office. But the rent was cheaper. And there was the ocean.
A third week elapsed. I could no longer ignore the truth.
I felt foolish. And betrayed. The motivational books and videos had promised that as long as you visualize something intensely enough, it would happen—even if it seemed impossible.
I emailed the show to ask about the status of my application, although I knew the answer.
There was no response.
A week later, I sent a follow-up email. Again, no response.
The Analysts
Soon after This American Life rejected me, I attended a press conference in the European Commission for an education story I was working on.
After the press conference, I approached an analyst from one of the city’s think-tanks, a tall young guy in a black suit.
“Can I interview you for a minute?” I asked.
Normally, I told people that the story I wanted to interview them for would be for an Iranian channel.
I felt awkward about giving that disclaimer though. I feared people would refuse to speak to me after hearing that, which had happened a few times.
But I couldn’t tell this guy which channel the interview was for because he didn’t have time to talk. He said he had to go.
He handed me his business card and told me to stop by his office a couple of hours later. Then he grabbed his briefcase and dashed out of the press room.
When I arrived at his office that afternoon, I should have told him that this interview was for Press TV, and that Press TV is an Iranian channel.
But he never asked. So I thought it’s better not to say.
That was a mistake.
The interview went fine. Then, while I was folding the tripod and packing the camera, he asked me about Press TV.
“It’s an Iranian news channel,” I said.
I wondered if he was going to retract the interview. But he said nothing.
We parted. I exhaled with relief when I stepped out onto the sunny street.
I went home and finished the script for my story.
Just when I was about to start editing the video, I got an email from the analyst. I opened it with a queasy feeling.
Unfortunately, he said, I couldn’t use his interview.
He did not feel comfortable having his sound bites appear on Iranian TV, even though his statements and the story had nothing to do with Iran.
It was all about education attainment levels in the EU.
I would have cried from rage if I could, but I was exhausted.
Exhausted from carrying heavy TV equipment all day and working on deadline.
Exhausted from being pre-judged and ostracized.
Exhausted from trying to scale the high wall guarding mainstream journalism jobs.
Exhausted from constantly bumping into institutional barriers. Barriers intended to keep out those of us born in poor countries with shitty passports.
Because the assumption about us was that we would steal jobs and drain resources, that we had less of a right to dream and pursue opportunities.
While people born in wealthy countries with nice passports were encouraged to dream big, push their boundaries, self-actualize and see the world as their oyster, the message to us was: don’t even think about it; stay where you were born; succumb to the limitations of your origins; life is not fair.
My experience with that education expert was not typical though.
Most of the analysts in Brussels did allow me to interview them for my Press TV stories.
Some of those experts were even regular sources of mine. They were always generous with their time. Always nice. Never judgmental. I was super grateful.
One time, I was packing my equipment after an interview with one of these analysts, when he said, “It’s so impressive that you do everything by yourself. The filming, the interviewing.”
“Oh, thank you! I actually like being a one-woman band. It makes things more efficient.”
“It’s a great asset. It will make you very valuable if you seek a management position because you have experience with different aspects of news production.”
Oh, if only editors could see that, I thought. They wouldn’t even consider me for an entry-level position.
Monica and the Cool Kids
A few months before the education expert retracted his interview, I went for coffee with a journalist acquaintance. I’ll call her Monica.
She was the first journalist I went out with, although I’d been in the city for a few months.
The Brussels press corps was a less friendly group than I had imagined.
I wasn’t sure why it was hard for me to make journalist friends in the city (I did have a couple of non-journalist friends).
I suspected my Press TV work had something to do with it.
I noticed how the demeanor of most Brussels journalists I met at press conferences changed the moment I said I freelanced for Press TV.
Their faces would harden. Their eyes would regard me with suspicion. Then they’d ask me whether I was censored, and how I went about covering my stories.
This kind of reaction always incensed me.
Still, I wanted to be friends with these people. I wanted their approval.
I wanted them to see that I was a real journalist, not some wacko spreading propaganda and supporting anti-West conspiracy theories.
I wanted them to see that I was like them—that I read the same books and newspapers, listened to the same podcasts, held the same journalism values.
When Monica and I first went for coffee, we met in the trendy Saint-Gilles neighborhood. Like the rest of the city, Saint-Gilles had stunning, ornate architecture.
But I saw it in the familiar gloomy tones. As always, the dark photo filter in my brain was on.
After we finished our coffee, we went for a walk.
“I wonder sometimes, where do I go from here?” Monica said as we strolled past indie coffee shops and thrift stores.
She said her career options felt limited because she was already working at one of the world’s best outlets, and before that she’d worked at another top global outlet.
I tried to empathize. But I failed to see how having a full-time job with a prestigious media company at the height of the euro crisis could limit the prospects of a young person like her.
Next time I saw Monica, on our way to a party, I told her how conflicted I felt about Press TV, how I hated the self-censorship.
“What did you expect?” she asked.
Her dismissive tone conveyed what she wouldn’t say directly: “You should have known better. I have no sympathy for you.”
I wished Monica could catch a glimpse of my inbox, full of job application emails—proof of my efforts to get out.
I wished she could understand my immigration restrictions.
She wasn’t from Belgium either, but as a citizen of a Western European country, she was able to work in Brussels—and anywhere else in the EU—without a permit. Employers didn’t see her as a liability.
She had a privilege she wouldn’t acknowledge.
She acted as if the playing field for both of us was level. As if her success was solely due to her hard work, skills and good judgment, while my failure was solely due to my bad judgment.
But I didn’t tell her any of that. I wanted to be her friend. In the Brussels press corps she was one of the cool kids.
Another time when I met Monica over coffee, I complained again about Press TV.
But, I said, the good thing about the gig was that I did everything—shooting, writing scripts, editing video. I was strengthening my multimedia skills.
“If you worked for a major outlet, you wouldn’t have to do everything,” she said. “I don’t have to do everything. I just write and report.”
Next time I went out with her, for beer on a spring afternoon, we talked about finding story ideas.
“I sometimes find it hard to come up with ideas,” I said. “I know the issues, but I feel like I’m relying on press conferences too much. Where do you get your ideas if you’re looking for something different?”
“Well, I read The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal,” Monica explained, taking a sip of her foamy beer.
“What does she think we read? Rabotnichesko Delo?” Rabotnichesko Delo is Bulgaria’s defunct Communist-era newspaper.
A Bulgarian friend in Brussels said that to me after I told her how much Monica’s New York Times comment had stung.
A couple of weeks after that comment, Monica invited me to a gathering.
I declined her invitation with an excuse about being busy.
The real reason was different.
I feared she would give me that condescending, dismissive attitude again.
And I feared I would get the same attitude from the other Brussels journalists who were going to attend.
They all worked for prestigious outlets; they were all cool kids.
I feared that if I went to this gathering, I’d be put on the spot and questioned endlessly about Press TV by a group of people who likely considered themselves superior to me.
Then I’d have to explain myself and justify my decisions and my very existence.
No thanks.
When summer came, Monica invited me to a picnic with the same group of journalists.
Again, I declined for the same reason. But I gave the busy excuse.
Then she stopped inviting me.
“Get the Hell Out of This Bullshit”
Right around that time, seven months after moving to Brussels, my internal conflict about Press TV became unbearable.
I felt I had to ditch that client, even though I didn’t know what I would do after that.
One afternoon in May, I messaged an old friend on Gchat.
She was someone I could count on to give me an honest opinion about what I should do, without sugar-coating anything.
me: i want to run something by you – i think i mentioned to you recently that i’m planning to quit press tv because their coverage of the middle east is biased and that bothers me
so today, i go to their site and see their coverage of bin laden
horrible, horrible shit
so, i’m thinking of quitting right now even though i dont have another job lined up and dont have much in savings
but the thing is, i have to do it, right?
if something goes against everything u believe in, u cant stay there – this is a very serious ethical issue
i feel that not knowing what’s next should be no reason to not quit
friend: yes, you should quit but don’t do it emotionally
coz if you quit today, right now it’ll be ethical as well as emotional decision
you knew about their biased coverage from before
so it is nothing new
just u are getting more and more convinced this is not what u want
and more importantly to be connected with
so look for job
start applying
from today
from yesterday
and in a month you’ll have sth lined up
for sure
but don’t quit
coz u cannot afford it
you’ve suffered enough
starved enough
now it is not time for that again
be wiser and smarter
you are not 20 anymore
check this job posting i sent u
send them resume
write them motivation letter
tell them how good you are and that you want to change your career path but still remain in the news business
you can do it
but you cannot afford to not have money for food
me: hah, that’s true and i don’t think it will ever get to the point of not having money for food
i agree with your argument
but the point is..
i always thought
if i give my one month notice to press tv right now
it will motivate me
to really look
and have something
friend: nope, don’t give any notices yet
before u have sth 90% sure
you’ve worked for them almost a year now
right
me: yes
friend: so you can stand one more month
and find this other job and get the hell out of this bullshit
you are too smart for this
but also sensitive enough for them to play with you
me: right, yes
truth be told, i personally have no problem w press tv
they dont interfere
with my coverage
but its the other stuff
that is getting worse
and worse
friend: well they might not interfere with your coverage
but your stories placed together with the rest of their stories
can start looking biased too
just because they are among the rest
me: right
friend: they will be perceived differently if they are signed with AP
than under Press TV
they might have the same content
but just the institution that’s reporting them is of great importance
so stop being emotional and start digging for jobs
in brussels
germany
wherever
u are flexible
no family
easy to move
that is a plus
use it
After that conversation, I went for a walk in my neighborhood to clear my head. As always, the streets of Schaerbeek were crowded and by now familiar.
Like the EU neighborhood, Schaerbeek was home to uprooted and transient people.
The difference was that Schaerbeek was home to refugees, migrants and immigrants. The EU neighborhood was home to expats.
Sometimes these two Brussels worlds intersected, but only sometimes.
Schaerbeek, Brussels. Photo by Yaldaz Sadakova.
I passed Art Nouveau apartment buildings with tall windows and elaborate front doors, Moroccan shawarma restaurants with neon halal signs, Turkish supermarkets with colorful fruit pyramids in front of them, cheap clothing stories with their merchandise spilling onto the street.
I saw all of this in the familiar gloomy tones. The dark photo filter in my brain was on.
And I was still consumed by the feeling that I had to stop working for Press TV. Right then and there, I had to do it.
Yes, I agreed with my friend that I shouldn’t make a rash decision because that would put me back in the desperate position which had forced me to take the Press TV gig in the first place.
But I didn’t agree with the part that in one month all would be resolved if I started applying for jobs now.
I had been applying for jobs all along.
So, I figured, I might as well quit now.
After my walk, I went home and started typing a resignation message to Edwin, the producer responsible for Press TV’s coverage out of Brussels.
Press TV employed these freelance producers around the world who served as middlemen between freelance correspondents like me and the Tehran headquarters.
These producers were the ones responsible for recruiting freelance correspondents.
Edwin had covered wars in Afghanistan and the former Yugoslavia for various German channels as a reporter and a cameraman.
He was now back in his native Austria and doing technical work for Press TV, in addition to recruitment.
He was one of the people who knew how conflicted I felt about Press TV.
But every time I complained to him about the channel’s editorial coverage, over which he had no control, he’d say the same thing.
“You think CNN is better? I work with them. They have a bias, too.”
“Yes, yes,” I’d say, “all outlets have a bias because there’s no such thing as perfect objectivity even when you do your best to present all sides. But being flagrantly biased to the point where you can’t be taken seriously—the way Press TV is handling certain aspects of its Middle East coverage—that’s another story.”
I finished typing the note to Edwin. It was the same thing I had just told my friend. I sent it.
Then I realized what I had just done. How was I going to survive in Brussels without income and without a work permit?
Minutes later, Edwin responded. He said he understood.
Still, he asked me to wait another month before making a final decision because another month wouldn’t make a difference to me, but it would give him extra time to look for a replacement.
I agreed. I kept applying for jobs.
A month later, I had an interview with an NGO in Hungary for a communications position.
I was hopeful. It looked like things might work out, after all.
A week passed, but I didn’t hear back from the hiring manager.
When I emailed her, she said I was no longer under consideration.
My one-month exit strategy had failed.
I decided to keep applying. Maybe that job I needed—that one “yes”—was just around the corner.
The next month, I got another interview, for a staff reporter position in London at MarketWatch, a news outlet owned by Dow Jones Newswires.
A friend of mine worked there at the time, and she recommended me.
The interview went great, but I didn’t get that job either. The hiring editor said he wanted to go with a more internal candidate.
However, he offered to take me on as a freelancer from Brussels.
So I added MarketWatch as a client.
I liked the stories I did for them. The topics were exactly the same as the ones I covered for press TV. I also liked the editor I worked with.
But because the pay was low, that gig didn’t make it financially viable for me to ditch Press TV.
Brussels and my entire life felt like a trap.
The Headscarf
Meanwhile, the Greek economy continued to unravel. Now pretty much every story I did was about Greece.
One Friday evening in the fall of 2011, I was at the European Council, covering a meeting of the EU finance ministers for Press TV.
The ministers were discussing whether to give Greece the next tranche of its EU bailout money.
Without that tranche, Greece would go bankrupt, dragging into chaos the rest of the EU countries which used the euro currency because their economies were intertwined.
The Council was crowded with journalists. The press area—both the work stations and the café—was abuzz with chatter. The wine and the beer flowed freely. The smell of booze was everywhere.
While I waited for the ministers’ press conference in the press area, I wrote most of my script.
The only thing missing were the sound bites from the upcoming press conference. And a standup.
Press TV had this requirement that every news segment from correspondents should contain a standup.
The channel also required its female correspondents to wear headscarves in their standups.
Normally, I filmed the standups outside of the Council because I didn’t want other journalists to see me wearing a headscarf.
I feared their judgment.
Even though I always put my scarf in a way that showed at least some hair, it still felt like a shame flag on my head.
When I filmed my standups outside, I chose obscure locations around the Council, like the vicinity of Parc du Cinquantenaire. Around the park, I was less likely to come across other journalists or anybody I knew.
When I first moved to Brussels, I shot my standups right in front of the European Commission, with the iconic EU flags flapping behind me, like the other reporters did.
But I soon noticed that people were looking at me in a way I didn’t see them looking at other reporters doing their standups.
I noticed people looking at me while I was putting on my headscarf. And I felt people looking at me while I was talking to the camera.
Schaerbeek, Brussels. Photo by Yaldaz Sadakova.
My favorite place to shoot standups was my neighborhood, Schaerbeek.
There, far from the EU institutions, the possibility of being seen by a journalist or a source I knew was zero.
I had a couple of spots I liked because they were quiet and had a nice background.
For those standups in Schaerbeek, I’d put on my headscarf at home. Then I’d walk to my standup location with my camera and tripod.
I thought I would attract less attention that way because it would look like I always wore a headscarf.
I was wrong.
Things would be fine while I walked in my headscarf to my standup spot.
But the moment I set up my tripod and started rehearsing my standup in front of the camera, passersby would start staring at me.
What the fuck are you looking at? Have you never seen a woman with a headscarf on camera? That’s what always thought in those instances.
I felt like an exotic animal at the zoo.
One time while I was shooting a standup in my neighborhood, near Gare du Nord, a group of men in a passing car yelled at me in French, ruining my shot.
I didn’t understand what they said, but, of course, it made me uncomfortable.
Another time when I was shooting a standup in that area, another group of young men yelled at me in French.
Again, I didn’t understand what they said, but again it made me uncomfortable.
In the winter, I sometimes shot my standups with a hat, which I had to wear anyway. Press TV was okay with the hat if you didn’t do it all the time, if it didn’t look like you were trying to avoid the headscarf.
I knew there were other Press TV freelancers, both Muslim and non-Muslim, who were not bothered by the headscarf. They’d put it on, shoot the standup and then remove it. No big deal.
However, it was a big deal to me, even though I’d actually been raised Muslim. But I’d never worn a headscarf, and by the time I finished high school, I’d renounced religion.
I wasn’t against headscarves. That’s not the reason why I detested wearing mine on camera.
I believed, and still do, that women who want to cover their hair because of their religious beliefs should be free to do so anywhere. Including at school and work. Including on TV.
But I resented the idea of someone imposing the headscarf on me.
Then again, you could say Press TV didn’t impose it on me. I chose to work for Press TV.
Yes, it was a reluctant choice. Yes, there were extenuating factors behind that choice—my young age, my poverty, my desperation, my restrictive passport, the recession.
However, it was technically still a choice.
That’s what hurt the most—the fact that I was to blame for the headscarf and for pretty much everything related to Press TV.
The fact that I had made a moral mistake, an error of judgment, and I had to own it.
Now, at the meeting of the finance ministers, I was frustrated that I couldn’t film my standup outside because it was already dark, and I didn’t have extra lights.
I couldn’t wait until the next day. I had to file the story later that night.
There was no way out of it: I had to film the standup in the Council lobby, where many other TV reporters were filming theirs.
I brought my camera and tripod to the balcony in the lobby. It was crowded.
I started looking for a spot to set up my camera, walking past journalists recording their standups, their powdered faces brightly lit.
I could hear snippets of their standups, always delivered in that dramatic broadcast voice which makes everything sound urgent.
“A turning point for Greece…”
“If Greece abandons the euro…”
“The very real possibility of default…”
Eventually, I found a spot next to a petite reporter recording her standup in Polish. I started setting up.
While adjusting the camera on the tripod, I rehearsed my standup under my breath.
Then I applied blush and pink lip gloss. I didn’t have a mirror, but by now I knew how to do this without one.
I took my spot in front of the camera, flipped the display screen and tried to frame the shot.
That took a few tries, but when I was satisfied with the composition, I pulled the green scarf I was wearing and covered my hair with it.
The moment of shame.
While I was arranging my headscarf, I saw with my peripheral vision that the Polish reporter next to me, who was done by now, was looking at me.
I could feel the eyes of the other reporters, too.
It was now clear to them that I didn’t normally wear a headscarf.
That I had to put it on just for the standup.
That I had acquiesced to something I didn’t believe in.
I felt morally weak. I hated myself for betraying my own values.
I made a point not to look around. If people were looking at me, I didn’t want to meet their eye.
I wanted to become invisible.
I hit the record button. Then I looked at the camera and recited my standup.
“According to the latest report of Greece’s international lenders, the country’s economy contracted by almost 10 percent during the first half of this year. The report also says that the country’s debt sustainability has deteriorated over the past few months.”
I repeated that a few times.
As soon as I was done, I rewound to make sure the standup was fine. It was.
I pulled the scarf away from my hair and let it slide to my shoulders.
I folded my tripod, trying not to look around.
Then I went back to the press area to wait for the press conference.
I wondered how many of the journalists around me had seen me in my headscarf.
The Immigrant Visa
At the beginning of 2012, I got the opportunity to apply for a Canadian immigrant visa.
How that happened is a separate story, and it’s a long one, so I won’t get into it now.
All I can say is that luck played a huge part.
While my Canadian visa application was being processed, I sent out a few more job applications for positions in Brussels.
The outcome was always the same, the one I had become used to. No.
A year later, my application for a Canadian immigrant visa was approved.
When my passport arrived in the mail, I flipped through its pale pink pages until I got to the visa page.
There it was, my ticket out.
I fingered the visa. At the top, it said “CANADA” in red. Underneath my name, in the category box, it said “IM-1 IMMIGRANT.”
This visa was going to allow me to become a permanent resident right after landing in Canada.
I didn’t have it in me to cry or scream out of joy. I was too exhausted from all the rejections, shame and self-loathing.
But I knew the enormous value of this visa. I knew how very lucky I was.
A week after I got my visa in the mail, I headed out to do my last Press TV story.
It was an evening meeting of the EU finance ministers about Greece.
I knew it was going to be my last story; I planned it that way.
I left my apartment early in the afternoon. I walked to the area near Gare du Nord, and I started setting up my tripod for a standup.
The dirty snow on the ground was melting. It was early February, but it was balmy and pleasant.
I put my camera on the tripod and adjusted the settings.
I covered my hair with my purple scarf. I hadn’t bothered to put it on at home.
I applied blush and lip gloss without a mirror, took my spot in front of the camera, flipped the display screen to ensure I was properly framed and hit the record button.
I recited my standup, using the familiar phrases about Greece: “restructuring the Greek debt…second bailout…more budget cuts…contagion across Europe…securing bank deposits.”
Then I took the metro to the European Council.
As the train hurtled ahead filled with rush hour passengers, I stood near the door, leaning against my folded tripod.
I was approaching the end of the tunnel, and, yes, there was light.
I felt tremendous relief.
The agony, the shame, the self-hatred, the stigma—all of it was going to be over within mere hours.
A month later, I left Brussels for good.
I left early in the morning—the time when I usually went to bed.
I had slept only two hours, but I felt rested when I got out of bed.
I took a shower, got dressed and made instant coffee.
While I drank it, I scanned my studio to make sure I wouldn’t forget anything important.
But no. Everything I wanted to take for my new life in Canada was already in the two suitcases lying open on the floor next to the bed.
I closed the suitcases and wrestled them to the ground floor of my apartment building, sweating from the effort.
I went back upstairs and grabbed my jacket. Before I locked the door for the last time, I said a silent goodbye to my studio. Its high ceiling and tall windows made it look even emptier without my things in it.
When I walked out on the street, the sun had already risen. The snow had melted away. The day felt fresh and warm, like spring. The cab was waiting for me.
As we drove through Schaerbeek, I kept looking out the window, trying to memorize everything.
The hijab-clad women from my block, whom I had been seeing every day.
The Art Nouveau apartment buildings with their tall windows, which I had passed millions of times.
The Moroccan kebab restaurants, where I had bought numerous shawarma and falafel sandwiches.
The Turkish supermarkets, which had been my go-to place for cheap yogurt.
The trams snaking and clattering through the winding streets, which I had taken many times.
This diverse ecosystem had become a home to me. It had absorbed my dreams and disappointments. Now it was going to absorb the self I was about to shed.
Me in the European Council. Photo by Thierry Monasse.
Two hours later, I boarded a plane to Toronto, a city I’d never been to and knew little about.
I fastened my seat belt and looked out to the other planes on the runway.
A baby screamed behind me. I took a deep breath, inhaling the plane’s plastic-smelling recycled air.
I felt a sense of déjà vu. More than two years earlier, I’d boarded a one-way flight to Brussels, a city I’d never been to and knew little about.
I was jumping off a cliff again. But I hoped things were going to turn out better now.
When I got to Toronto, Edwin said he’d be happy to have me freelance for Press TV if I couldn’t find a job there soon enough.
I declined.
Because in Canada, I was a permanent resident, which meant I could work anywhere without a permit.
It also meant I could freely look for a job without worrying that my legal immigration status would expire soon, the way I’d worried back in New York.
I was now legally equal.
I figured that even if I couldn’t find a journalism or communications job in Toronto by the time my savings ran out, I’d go work in a restaurant and continue applying until I found a job in my field.
Three months after I moved to Toronto, I got an offer for a position at a business magazine.
It wasn’t a dream job, but it was way better than Press TV. I took it.
I could finally start recovering from my job search and rejection fatigue.
I could finally take a break from writing resumes and cover letters. ♦
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