By Lina Chawaf

Editor’s note: This essay is part of CNTI’s “Letters from the Field” series, in which journalists from around the world share their experiences reporting in restrictive spaces and share advice for journalists in the U.S.

“Where are you going?” the policeman asked.

“To the studio,” replied Sadat, the Turkish taxi driver.

“Show me your permission to be out during curfew.”

I handed over the necessary documents. After reviewing them, the officer returned and said, “You may go.”

A few minutes later, Sadat glanced at me in the rearview mirror and asked, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You looked afraid when the officer spoke to you. That usually raises suspicion even when all your papers are in order. Why were you afraid if everything was legal? I’ve seen this often with Syrians here.”

His words cut through me. I’ve spent 25 years as a journalist, many of them reporting on the front lines of war. I thought fear was something I had long buried. But he was right. It showed.

“Sadat,” I told him, “I want to tell you the story of fear in the empire of silence, Syria.”

This scene happened during the curfew that was imposed during the COVID-19 pandemic in Turkey, and going through check points was the norm at the time.

But in Syria, when you’re stopped at a checkpoint, you never know if you’ll make it home. One overlooked message, one saved photo, one forgotten contact can mean disappearance, torture or death. In that moment, your breath shortens, your knees weaken, and you silently pray you didn’t miss a detail. That’s what authoritarian regimes do; they embed fear into your DNA. It doesn’t fade with distance.

Even at airports, we carry that trauma. Entering our own country feels like sneaking across a border, not returning home. We stand before officers waiting for our passports to be stamped, our hearts pounding, minutes stretching into years.

“This is why we panic when we are stopped by police anywhere, even here,” I explained to Sadat.

This kind of fear is not unique to Syrians. Today, even in democratic countries, journalists, academics and students are scrubbing their devices before traveling. In the U.S., it’s become increasingly common for travelers, including many journalists I’ve spoken to, to swap phones or delete apps before crossing borders. When fear becomes normalized in free societies, it’s a warning sign for everyone.

But worse than surveillance is the normalization of the mindset that accepts it. When majorities support censorship, surveillance or authoritarian policies, when more than half the population votes for leaders who endorse such systems, we must stop and ask: What are we becoming? And why?

I’ve navigated journalism under one of the most repressive regimes in the world. Under Bashar al-Assad, red lines were invisible, shifting constantly, and always deadly if crossed. The secret to surviving was not silence, but subtlety. I used humor sketches and satire to deliver critical messages “between the lines” without directly confronting power. The audience loved them. They turned the jokes into slogans. We lived in metaphor, speaking truth through coded laughter.

But even satire had limits. It felt like walking through a field of landmines — careful, strategic, but always a step from disaster. You couldn’t stop either. Pausing meant suffocation.

After 2011, working under an alias and adopting digital protection became necessary for survival. I lost three colleagues, each killed for daring to speak out. Another friend was arrested, only spared because his devices were encrypted. Digital security became as vital as our press cards.

Now, I am witnessing some of these same threats to journalists in the U.S. My friends in the field are afraid to go through customs, to speak out and to publish their stories.

And this is impacting press freedom around the world. Many independent media outlets are collapsing as major donors like USAID pull funding. Media organizations in some of the most fragile environments are racing against time to stay alive. Alternative funding is rare, and as the global development agenda shifts, the future looks increasingly unstable.

Authoritarianism doesn’t begin with tanks. It starts with silence. With fear. With the slow erosion of norms. Our fight as journalists isn’t just against censorship; it’s against forgetting what freedom feels like.

So I encourage journalists in the U.S. to continue to speak up. To find creative ways to communicate with your audience, through humor or interactive storytelling. To implement digital security measures to protect you and your sources. And to work together to fight for what you know is right.

If we allow fear to become habit and censorship to become acceptable — whether in Damascus, Washington or anywhere else — we lose not just press freedom but the soul of our societies.

Lina Chawaf is a Syrian journalist, Nieman fellow 2025 at Harvard and CEO of Radio Rozana, an independent Syrian media network that broadcasts from France. Chawaf, who lives and works in exile, produces programming that focuses on Syrian affairs, women rights, social taboos and gender stereotypes. She has trained citizen journalists to become independent reporters inside Syria and has hired them for their coverage. After the Arab Spring protests and a crackdown on dissent in Syria, Lina moved abroad, first to Canada and then France. As a media consultant for International Media Support (IMS), she helped launch a series of independent radio stations in several countries affected by the Arab revolutions, including Libya and Yemen. She was named as the voice of a free Syria by Canal France International, and she won the Press Freedom Award from Reporters Without Borders. Through her work with Rozana Radio, she has consistently amplified the voices of Syrians, bringing their stories to the global stage.