It was intended as a low-key event to mark World Press Freedom Day.

But the authorities in Tajikistan had other ideas.

This week, a couple of days ahead of the May 3 date, a coalition of women journalists – a doubly beleaguered cohort – convened a roundtable discussion to be held at the Serena Hotel in downtown Dushanbe.

The night before, the hotel called to inform organisers that it would not permit the event to proceed. At that, all communication ceased.

Nothing unusual for Tajikistan. Swanky hotels like the Serena can reliably be pressured into declining to host events deemed even slightly politically sensitive.

And so, the organisers scrambled to relocate. A second hotel agreed to host the meeting. But within minutes of the program getting underway, just as the German ambassador began his remarks, staff informed attendees they had received “a call from above” instructing them to shut down the gathering immediately.

“They came in the middle of the ambassador’s speech and told us the event was cancelled. It was a clear order, and there was no room for negotiation,” one attendee told Havli.

Witnesses described the moment as shocking. Ambassadors from Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and the European Union, who were all present, are perhaps less accustomed than local journalists to being treated this shabbily.

The U.S. Embassy, which is somehow even less interested these days in Tajikistan’s press freedoms than it ever was, dispatched only low-level local staffers. They arrived at the second hotel just as everybody was being kicked out. When somebody asked them if they could hitch a ride to the next venue, they refused: “This is a diplomatic vehicle. We cannot take anyone.”

In a last-minute act of salvage, the EU ambassador offered to host the gathering in his delegation’s conference room. Participants were ushered through without the usual security checks or guest lists.

The dramatics have cast a fresh spotlight on the deteriorating state of what were already close to non-existent media freedoms in Tajikistan.

In the most recent World Press Freedom Index compiled by Reporters Without Borders, an advocacy group, the country ranked 155th out of 180, down several places from the previous year. Intimidation, legal harassment, and the threat of arrest are routine.

Independent outlets barely survive. They are only able to do so by abiding with strict conditions of censorship and self-censorship. Internet access is patchy and unreliable.

This year’s World Press Freedom Day bears a particularly bitter flavour.

Many of the women behind the thwarted event had recently submitted a formal petition to President Emomali Rahmon asking for clemency in the case of Rukhshona Khakimova, a journalist sentenced to eight years in prison earlier this year.

Khakimova was convicted of treason for reasons that remain opaque. The prosecution is believed to have been triggered by her involvement in a research survey on China’s influence in Tajikistan, a topic that officials in Dushanbe consider dangerously sensitive, given the strategic but lopsided nature of the bilateral relationship.

The signatories to the petition did not ask for the sentence to be overturned. Such mercy is, many believe, beyond the realms of imagination under current conditions. Instead, they pleaded with the president to allow for a more humane arrangement that would enable Khakimova to care for her two young daughters, one of whom is still an infant.

The plea has so far been met with silence.

On May 1, a veteran journalist in Uzbekistan, Marina Kozlova, was contacted by a mysterious figure identifying himself as Kamoliddin Azizov. He wrote in his cryptic Telegram message that he was an official at something called the Defence Industry Agency.

This Azizov, who evidently intended to come across as a government official with the means to be dangerous, had a demand: Kozlova, who single-handedly runs news website yep.uz, should remove an article about an alleged leaked list of 1,110 Uzbek nationals who had joined Russia’s war in Ukraine as contract soldiers.

The claim was carried earlier in the day by a Ukrainian-run Telegram channel called Khochu Zhit’ (I Want to Live). For the past few weeks, this channel, which appears to be obtaining its information from credible official sources in Kyiv, has been releasing a drip-drip of names and fates of foreign mercenaries fighting for Russia. First it was the turn of Kazakhstan. Then came Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan.

And now, Uzbekistan.

The government of these Central Asian countries have all strained themselves to maintain a studied stance of neutrality over Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. They have refrained from outright condemning the war, while also strongly discouraging their citizens from getting involved. But perhaps not concertedly enough, Khochu Zhit’ appears to be arguing.

In his Telegram messages, Azizov initially sought to chip away at Kozlova’s confidence in the story.

He opened with polite questions: Was Kozlova certain that the list was real? Why were some outlets and public Telegram channels deleting their stories and calling the claims fake?

Kozlova stood firm. “My information is accurate,” she replied. “I trust my sources.”

From there, the pressure escalated. Azizov asked her to remove the article. Kozlova refused.

“Send me an official letter,” she said. “And don’t violate my right to free speech.”

What followed was a sequence of peculiar digital manoeuvres.

Azizov sent a file named “Anhor.uz_хабарнома.pdf.” This appeared to be an attempt to persuade Kozlova that another local news outlet, Anhor.uz, had retracted its reporting on this same issue. It hadn’t.

This faceless would-be defence industry representative then requested Kozlova delete their conversation.

She refused. Instead, Kozlova took screenshots of the exchange and posted it to her site.

Azizov’s Telegram account, which appeared to have been registered in Hong Kong just months ago, soon disappeared from her screen.

An odd episode. But one familiar to many independent journalists in Uzbekistan.

Often, the intimidation is full-frontal. Other times, the pressure is more subtle; an invitation to self-censor, a gentle suggestion that the journalist not risk incurring legal repercussions.

Press clampdowns do not always come with handcuffs.

They can arrive through anonymous Telegram exchanges. Or hotels shutting their doors.