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Home»News»Media & Culture»No Pseudonymity for Former Federal Employees Suing Over Mass Firings
Media & Culture

No Pseudonymity for Former Federal Employees Suing Over Mass Firings

News RoomBy News Room8 months agoNo Comments5 Mins Read692 Views
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From Civil Servant 1 v. Office of Special Counsel, decided yesterday by Chief Judge James Boasberg (D.D.C.):

Plaintiffs Civil Servants 1–5 are former federal employees whose jobs were “terminated during their probationary periods as part of the Administration’s mass firings in February 2025.” They each filed a prohibited personnel practice (PPP) complaint with the Office of Special Counsel, only for the agency to summarily close each of their cases because they were probationary employees. Plaintiffs now bring this lawsuit alleging that OSC unlawfully closed thousands of probationary-employee complaints without considering their individual merits, undermining the workplace protections once afforded to probationary workers and violating the Administrative Procedure Act….

Generally, a complaint must identify the plaintiffs. That requirement reflects the “presumption in favor of disclosure [of litigants’ identities], which stems from the ‘general public interest in the openness of governmental processes,’ and, more specifically, from the tradition of open judicial proceedings.” A party moving to proceed pseudonymously thus “bears the weighty burden of both demonstrating a concrete need for such secrecy, and identifying the consequences that would likely befall it if forced to proceed in its own name.” …

Plaintiffs have failed to meet their burden to show that their privacy interests outweigh the public’s presumptive and substantial interest in learning their identities.

To begin, the Court finds that Plaintiffs’ privacy interests do not implicate “a matter of a sensitive and highly personal nature.” Plaintiffs contend that being “publicly linked to litigation” challenging the current administration “could have long[-]term consequences” for their careers. Certainly, when a plaintiff points to concrete career harms that would result from the disclosure of her identity, this factor favors pseudonymity. For instance, the Court granted pseudonymity for a doctor who was accused of misconduct that, if disclosed, would have prevented her from practicing. Doe v. Lieberman (D.D.C. 2020). [Note that not all judges agree on this point; some categorically conclude that pseudonymity can’t be justified by a risk of reputational and professional harms, which is a commonplace risk in civil litigation. -EV]

But when identification poses only a speculative professional risk, this factor cuts against pseudonymity. Doe v. FDA (D.D.C. 2023); Doe v. DOJ (D.D.C. 2023). Plaintiffs’ arguments, which identify neither concrete career consequences nor specific job prospects at risk of harm, do not rise to the occasion. The fact that disclosure means Plaintiffs “could be deemed litigious” or that future employers “may treat Plaintiffs’ association with this litigation as a red flag” is not sufficient to allege a substantial privacy interest. The first factor therefore weighs against pseudonymity.

Next, the Court considers “whether identification poses a risk of retaliatory physical or mental harm.” Plaintiffs assert that they could face harassment and retaliation “by members of the public or political actors” given the politically charged nature of their lawsuit. To support this contention, they cite instances of federal employees being terminated or put on administrative leave for expressing their opposition to the Administration.

But those examples all feature individuals who were federal employees at the time they opposed the Administration, rather than terminated employees, and the retaliation they faced happened primarily with regards to their employment. It is not clear what analogous harm can be extrapolated from those examples to Plaintiffs, who are not currently employed by the government and thus face no risk of being put on leave or fired.

The other consequences Plaintiffs discuss, such as private-sector firms being unwilling to hire someone “publicly known to have sued OSC and the Administration” are more clearly applicable, but as explained [above], this concern is undercut by the generalized nature of the career harm alleged…..

When plaintiffs sue the government, which way [this] cuts depends on the relief that they seek. If they request programmatic relief that would “alter the operation of public law both as applied to [them] and, by virtue of the legal arguments presented, to other parties going forward,” then the “public interest” in their case “is intensified” and this factor cuts against pseudonymity. On the other hand, if plaintiffs seek only individualized relief—say, a judgment that their visas were improperly delayed or that they were unlawfully denied government benefits—then this factor favors pseudonymity. [Here too different judges take different views of the matter; some courts, for instance, conclude that when plaintiffs focus on what happened to them individually, that makes the credibility of their factual allegations and therefore their identities more relevant than if they were challenging a broad policy on its face. -EV]

Here, Plaintiffs seek vacatur of the Probationary Directive and an order that OSC reopen the thousands of probationary-employee complaints it closed, which amounts to programmatic relief. Any ruling in their favor would “alter the operation of public law both as applied to [them] and, by virtue of the legal arguments presented, to” all those whose complaints were disposed of by OSC pursuant to the Probationary Directive. And while programmatic relief need not be fatal to a motion for pseudonymity, this case does not present the “truly exceptional circumstances” that overcome the presumption against pseudonymity for programmatic relief. See Doe v. Hill (D.C. Cir. 2025) (“[T]hose who seek to alter public law by using the federal courts must, in all but truly exceptional cases, reveal their identity.”)….

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An Afghan teacher. Photo: Yunus Tuğ/Unsplash+ I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather made everything feel heavier. The room was small and crowded, with furniture pushed tightly against the walls as if it had been forced into place years ago and never moved again. Beside me stood an old grey metal cupboard where we kept our daily lesson plans. Its doors were stiff and heavy, and sometimes we had to push hard just to open it properly. The room had only one window. Because the building was above the second floor, the window had been built high into the wall according to local customs, so people could not easily look into their neighbours’ homes. From where I sat beside the cupboard, I could glimpse the sky. It was pale blue mixed with grey, but the sunlight spread across it so harshly that it almost looked white. The brightness felt distant, as if it belonged to another world outside the room. Beside me sat Basira, one of my colleagues who had studied architectural engineering at university. Sometimes she looked at that window and spoke about the years she had spent drawing designs and construction plans, believing she was building a future for herself. She once told me that architecture had taught her to think about light, openness and possibility. Now she sat in a room where even the architecture carried silence and limitation. It was a private school, because that was the only place I could find work. In Afghanistan, private schools are usually attended by the children of businessmen, powerful families and those who can afford better educational opportunities. I studied in a public school myself and I have always believed that education does not depend entirely on the type of school someone attends, but on the determination and enthusiasm of the student. But when I went looking for a job, my opportunities were restricted. After the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, women were stopped from teaching boys over the age of seven, and girls over the age of 11. Many high school teachers lost their jobs, their profession, their source of independence, stability and participation in society. Some of them moved down to teach at primary school. At the same time, women from other professions, like Basira, went into teaching because it was the only job open to them. The result is that a private school in Kabul or Mazar has an infinite supply of highly qualified women teachers and can treat them as badly as they like. We live under threat. As one of my colleagues said to me once: “Bring a knife and kill us instead. How can we live after being fired with no future and no place in society?” A simple example: laptops. I was expected to bring my own – but I did not have one. This article is typed on a phone. I use my phone for my lesson plans and everything else. But even our phones had to stay hidden most of the time because teachers were not supposed to use them openly during school hours. The administration believed phones distracted teachers from teaching and worried they would spend time scrolling through social media instead of focusing on students. Cameras were installed in every classroom and hallway, and teachers were constantly watched by the school administration. At break, 17 teachers shared the staffroom. Now, four were outside supervising students during the break, while the rest of us squeezed together wherever we could find space. Sometimes we sat so close it felt as if we were sitting in each other’s laps. Beside me sat Freshta, who had studied English literature and spent two years studying nursing before her education was interrupted. She had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but now she taught Oxford Science to young children in a private school. I was studying medicine myself, carrying my own unfinished hopes quietly beside me each day. Across the room sat Yalda, who had studied law and imagined a future in the courts, before the Taliban returned. Teaching was never supposed to be her life. Susan was one of the few who truly loved teaching. She studied mathematics and taught the Afghan curriculum, while I taught Oxford mathematics, which was slightly more advanced. But even Susan was easily replaceable. Our headteacher often spoke of our students studying for their future, but all the time his teachers were learning how temporary they were. Sometimes the worry of losing this last remaining job reminded me of The Metamorphosis, where Gregor worries about work even after turning into an insect. When it comes down to it, people care less about who leaves than about who can still be useful. Across the room one of our middle-aged teachers, Ustad Ziba, was struggling. She suffers from heart problems and finds it difficult to breathe while teaching in a mask. One of her hands constantly pulls the mask down and pushes it back up again as she gasps for air. We thought we were lucky to be in a school where, after much discussion, women teachers were not required to wear the full burqa inside. Instead, we wear a hijab, a headscarf that covers a woman’s hair, neck, shoulders and sometimes the chest, so that not even a single strand of hair is visible. It is worn with a long, loose dress that covers the entire body. In addition, all teachers wear a medical face mask, which covers the nose and mouth. On hot days though, even this lighter face covering is restrictive. Before these rules, long dresses were my favourite clothes. But after they became mandatory, my feelings changed. Whenever I wear them now, I feel as if I am tied with ropes. As I walk, I am constantly afraid of slipping because the long skirt sometimes gets stuck under my feet. 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I imagined the dirt roads of the market, the carriages and carts parked around the crowded streets, and the salesmen with tired faces standing helplessly behind their vegetables and goods. Dust hung in the hot air while the woman was dragged away, and everyone pretended not to see because in that moment even looking too long could be dangerous. He lowered his gaze and looked down. There was a kind of silent shame on his face, a silence that many men in Afghanistan seem to carry when they witness these restrictions, but cannot openly oppose them.  The weight of it all bore down on the room. We teachers looked at each other. Yalda pressed her mask tighter against her face, as if trying to disappear into it. Freshta looked down, as if she was searching on the floor for the lost sparkles in her eyes. I stopped eating my biscuit. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence was so deep that it felt like even breathing had become louder than usual. The headteacher said: “Dear teachers, your dignity is more important than anything to us. We don’t want any of you to be beaten or arrested on the excuse that you are wearing makeup, using nail polish or not properly covering your face and body.” After that, he left the room. But the heaviness of his words, and the heaviness of these rules, stayed in the room. At that moment something inside me tightened. The room felt even smaller. I looked away and stayed silent. I thought about all the years I had spent studying and working for a future I believed in. I had worked so hard to become someone. Yet now, even the smallest choices, how I dressed, whether I covered my face with a mask on a hot afternoon, no longer belonged to me. I realised that I wanted to scream. Not just a sound, something deeper. I wanted to scream that I exist. That I am a human being. That I have thoughts and a heart and a voice. But the scream did not come out. It stayed inside my throat like a stone that I could not swallow or remove. I wiped my tears before anyone could notice. Outside, life continued as normal. Inside us, something had already changed, even if nothing around us did. I can still feel that scream now. I’m putting it here. Rahmati is a 24-year-old and lives in Kabul, Afghanistan. She had been studying at Kabul University for two years, but her education was stopped. She currently works in education and writes under a pen name for her safety. Some personal details have been adjusted to protect her identity and her family. This story is very personal to her. It reflects the emotional reality of living under restrictions and the silence experienced by many Afghan women. Writing has become her only way to express what cannot be safely spoken in daily life. She hopes that, through publication, these experiences will be seen and understood by a wider audience. READ MORE

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