He’s Our Man: An Interview with Thomas Erdbrink
In his white sneakers and denim jacket, Thomas Erdbrink looks like a typical Dutchman. Weaving through the Afghan market he stands out. Here, a different dress code applies. Men with long beards and turbans strut by, Kalashnikovs in hand. They are the new rulers of Kabul, and he is here to see them.
The Dutch journalist has a knack for navigating danger with seemingly naive nonchalance. But don’t be fooled, he knows exactly what he’s doing. His career has taken him from Leiderdorp, where he honed his local journalism skills, to the bustling metropolises of the Middle East, where he reports on local stories often overlooked in the West.
Erdbrink has built a life in Iran—the subject of his previous docu-series Our Man in Tehran (2015)—where he worked as the New York Times bureau chief for seven years until his accreditation was revoked. Between 2019 and 2022 he was active as the paper’s Northern Europe bureau chief, before resigning to get away from “stuffy” Scandinavia and focus on his newest series Our Man with the Taliban (2023).
I spoke with Erdbrink over Zoom to discuss his journey from Dutch suburbia to rural Iran, the Elburz Mountains looming behind him on my screen. As we talk, a stray cat jumps onto his lap, and Erdbrink’s wife, photojournalist Newsha Tavakolian, moves in and out of view—a subtle glimpse into his life in one of the world’s most complex regions.
You’ve been a journalist for twenty-five years now, writing for some prestigious dailies and producing content for public broadcasting. Can you tell us how your career began? Was print journalism your first entry into the field?
I got my start at Leidsch Dagblad, a local newspaper. It was pretty old-school—I saw an ad in the paper saying they were hiring. I was enrolled at the Utrecht School for Journalism at the time, which didn’t amount to much, and I was eager to start working. These days, people roll their eyes at the idea of working for a local paper, but it was a great learning experience. You’d often bump into your subjects at the supermarket or the pub, so you knew you couldn’t publish anything inaccurate. Otherwise, you’d risk getting smacked with a courgette while getting groceries!
What types of stories did you find yourself covering there?
I did a bit of everything. I was quite the busy bee and loved getting to the bottom of things. One day, a man called the office complaining about parking meters; he was putting in quarters but only getting a dime’s worth of time. He’d tried a few other meters and none of them worked. So I hopped on my bike, got a roll of quarters from the bank, and checked the meters myself. Sure enough, they were all defective. I wrote a piece about it, and it turned out the municipality had spent four million guilders on these faulty meters, all of which had to be replaced. A council member even resigned. So I learned quickly how much impact you can have as a journalist working at the local level when you expose real problems.
Though your work at Leidsch Dagblad earned you several local accolades, you're primarily known for your work as a foreign correspondent. But how did you, a journalism student from Leiderdorp, end up in Iran?
What I always struggled with in the Netherlands was the monotony of everyday life. You wake up, you go to work, you go home again. You even get to know the people on your commute because everyone’s stuck in the same routine. I felt restricted and I wanted more. I’d already met some Iranians by then and, coincidentally, a friend of mine had just returned from Tehran. So, for my final project at the School for Journalism, I decided to go to Iran. I knew that seventy percent of Iranians were under twenty-five, which I figured could become a problem for the Ayatollahs. It seemed like a story worth checking out.
And it turned out to be more than just one story. You’ve been living in Iran now for over two decades.
Yeah, I know. It feels like I hit the lottery because I’m happier here than I ever could have been anywhere else. When you’re young, you’re pressured in so many ways to pick a path, but it’s the spontaneous decisions that truly take you somewhere. I think I made the right decision because I listened to myself. That’s the last cliché I’ll bore you with!
When did you know that you would settle in the Middle East?
I first went to Iran in 1999 and returned a few times after that. Then, one day, I called de Volkskrant to propose a piece and the editor picked up, stammering: “World Trade Center … New York … turn on the TV.” From that moment on everything changed. I knew I had to go back to the Middle East. Six weeks later, I’d traveled through Afghanistan and Northern Iraq. Afterward, I called my parents and told them I was coming home—just to pick up my stuff.
So your path into foreign correspondence accelerated after 9/11. What was your approach when you got to the region? Did you have work lined up, or were you pitching stories on the spot?
I first decided to pursue freelance journalism and got a retainer from de Telegraaf, where I worked for a year. Then, just as the Iraq War was breaking out, I got a call from NRC with a job offer. While in Iraq, I spent a lot of time with American journalists, which eventually led to the Washington Post asking me to work for them in Iran. After four years, the New York Times came calling. So, it didn’t all happen overnight—that’s important to stress. But when what you’re doing feels right, it doesn’t feel like it’s taking too long, it’s just happening.
As a white European reporting from the Middle East, how did this perspective shape your approach to covering the region?
A lot of people confuse journalism with activism. I don’t concern myself with the impact of my writing. I write pieces for others to act upon. If I’m writing about an oil spill, for example, I’m not the one leading the cleanup. You might have a deeper understanding as an insider, but it can also cloud your perspective. That’s why a journalist is an outsider. So it doesn’t matter what you look like or where you’re from, you just have to grasp the facts.
Beyond that, what do you think are key qualities that define a good foreign correspondent?
First, you need time. Spending three months in Afghanistan is different from two weeks. Your stories will be more profound if you have more time, so a correspondent’s success often hinges on their budget. Second, you need to be genuinely interested. You shouldn’t foreground yourself. Instead, your role is to be an intermediate for the stories of others. Third, you need to learn the cultural language. Though my Farsi isn’t a hundred percent, it does add an extra layer to my reporting. Still, it’s not enough. You also need to learn why people do and say certain things. I’ve seen foreigners who’ve only spent one or two months in Iran speak Farsi and they often sound like toppled bookcases. They don’t know the cultural sensitivities. Those subtleties can only be picked up by being in Iran.
Are there any journalists, past or present, who embody these qualities and whom you particularly admire?
As I get older, I find I have fewer role models, but I’ve always admired people such as Noam Chomsky, Robert Kaplan, V. S. Naipaul, and Christiane Amanpour. They’re great examples, though I never wanted to be exactly like them. What inspires me is that they go to the places and encourage their audiences to think critically. All of them value doing and depth, and that’s what resonates with me most.
Now that you’re no longer serving as a foreign correspondent, what areas of journalism are you interested in exploring?
The news industry has changed. With AI now capable of writing articles, you might wonder, why even bother? But it was through writing news items and chasing local stories that I was able to create something like Our Man in Tehran. I got to know my subjects through those shorter pieces. If I could work in Iran today, I’d love to start my own YouTube channel or podcast. I wouldn’t want to work for the New York Times anymore—I know more than they’re willing to publish. They don’t want nuance. They follow a formula and some things, which are key to understanding the story, don’t fit it.
