Thirty seconds into a phone conversation, Hamid’s voice shifted from polite to brusque. “No, I cannot look into this,” he said to the person on the line, and hung up. I was visiting Hamid (not his real name), a senior member at the Tribal Union on Journalists (TUJ), in Peshawar in December 2011 to discuss the growing problem of intimidation and violence against journalists in Pakistan from Islamic militants and state intelligence agencies. Since 1992, 48 journalists have been killed in Pakistan, according the US-based Committee to Protect Journalists. In the last decade, the problem has gotten significantly worse. In 2011, CPJ named Pakistan the most deadly place in the world for reporters. Specifically, I wanted to learn how journalists work in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), a semiautonomous, conflict-ridden region made up of seven tribal “agencies” along the Afghan border known as the “war zone.” Twelve journalists have been killed there since the terrorist attacks in the US on 9/11. If Pakistan is the worst place to be a journalist, FATA is the worst of the worst.

After hanging up the phone, Hamid was silent for a moment; he stared at the steam rising from the doodh patti—brown Peshawari tea crowned with a layer of cream—that his tea-boy, Afridi, had brought.

“That wasn’t a friend, was it?” I asked.

Hamid smiled and raised his head to look at me. “It was a threat call,” he said, adding quickly that he could not tell me which militant group it came from; it could’ve been Al Qaeda, the Haqqani network, or the Taliban. He did say that the person on the phone had threatened to murder one of the union’s members, a respected reporter. Hamid said I had met this reporter, but would not tell me his name. The threat was conveyed in a polite and friendly tone—“brotherly,” as Hamid wryly put it. He tried to stay calm, since these calls had become routine.

The next month, on January 17, 2012, the Taliban shot and killed Voice of America reporter Mukarram Khan Atif during Friday prayers. Atif was a seasoned journalist, and I had in fact met him during my earlier visits to the tribal area where he worked. He was highly respected for his neutrality and journalistic integrity, and had surprised me with his grasp of reporting from a conflict zone. Generally speaking, tribal reporters are not well-trained, and most lack the skills that conflict reporting requires. There is no doubt that he worried the Taliban with his astuteness, and the fact that he didn’t mince words: This is right, this is wrong—that was his attitude.

Using an intermediary, I called the Taliban to find out why Atif was killed. “Atif was not killed for reporting against us, but was killed for not conveying our message to the media,” a spokesman told me. “We asked him several times, and then warned him several times, but he continued to portray us wickedly. He was also pro-US and reported to please the Americans, something we could not tolerate.”

This was the first time the Taliban had accepted responsibility for a journalist’s murder in Pakistan, and soon thereafter the militants sent a warning to all tribal journalists and their media organizations, telling them to “buckle up” and mentioning a ”hit list.”

The border between the Pakistan and Afghanistan is porous, and FATA is openly controlled by competing militant groups, including the Taliban and Al Qaeda, who first established a presence in Pakistan there. It can be hard to tell the difference between the local population and Taliban militants, as they share a common Pashtun background. This makes it easy for the Taliban to maneuver without drawing attention to itself—and also engenders support for it among the locals.

Kiran Nazish is an independent journalist. She can be followed @kirannazish.