Before the Taliban leave us in the dark

KabulIt was four in the afternoon when a journalist friend messaged me: “The fiber-optic internet across Afghanistan will probably be cut off.” I felt uneasy, but tried to calm myself; mobile internet would still work, and I could stay connected to the world. I didn’t pay too much attention to the warning. I thought it would be inconvenient, maybe frustrating, but not catastrophic.

Around 5:15 PM, I was in a taxi with my brother, heading home. Suddenly, he asked, “Is your mobile internet working?”. When I checked my phone, both SIM cards had no signal, and the internet was gone. I quickly toggled airplane mode on and off, hoping it might help, but nothing changed. My heart sank. The silence of a disconnected phone felt louder than any sound. In the taxi, a strange mix of disbelief and fear filled me. What did it mean that the internet was cut off? Why now?

When I got home, I immediately turned on the TV. Local channels went off one by one: Ariana was dead, Tolo and Lemar repeated old announcements, and one channel after another went black. The only outlet still alive was Tolonews. Two reporters went live, reporting on the nationwide internet shutdown, but minutes later, their broadcast went dark too.

That night even the radio stopped working. There was no sound, no frequency, no news. In a country where the radio had always been the last voice in times of crisis, now even that was silent.

I felt that our lives were turning black, just like the TV screen. It was as if someone had unplugged our Breathing cable from the world. A heavy silence filled the house, one no sound could break. 

I hoped that by nightfall, the internet and mobile signals would return, but by 9 PM, nothing had changed. I went to bed, restless and anxious. Outside, the city was quiet; only the wind whispered through the half-open window. For a brief moment, it felt like Afghanistan had vanished from the world. That night, I woke repeatedly, checking my phone. Each time, hoping for a signal, only to find the screen still lifeless. The emptiness felt suffocating, and the weight of isolation pressed down on me.

Morning came, and I didn’t know what to do, go to my new job or stay home? After months of unemployment, I couldn’t risk missing a day. As I got ready to leave, the driver knocked on the door; there was no other way to reach me. His knocks reminded me bitterly that in the 21st century, we had somehow returned to the pre-telephone era

A surreal image

The city felt surreal. Streets were empty, shops half-closed, even Taliban checkpoints unusually quiet. The atmosphere mirrored Kabul in August 15th, 2021, the day the Taliban returned to power, when fear, disbelief, and silence blanketed the city.

Rumors spread among my colleagues. Some said the Taliban had fallen; others believed internal fighting had split them into factions about to go to war. Those who believed in the Taliban’s collapse were oddly joyful, predicting celebrations. Others feared going outside, anticipating conflict.

Our office manager instructed no one should come to work until the internet and networks were restored. Anxiety grew. After months of unemployment, I had just secured work, and now it seemed at risk. I thought: how unfortunate I am, how humiliated we, the people, have become. Every day starting over; every day losing something.

Even the major telecom companies like Etisalat, Roshan, and Afghan Wireless sent their workers home, telling them to wait until Saturday because they had no idea what was going on. It was clear that nobody, not even the companies providing communication, understood the reason for this blackout.

Flights were canceled, and the country froze in confusion. All internet-dependent activities were paralyzed, even banking. I had no cash, and the bank said, “Until the internet is restored, payments are impossible.” I felt helpless, trapped in a system that seemed indifferent to our needs.

By the second day, the mood had shifted. The first day had been filled with rumors of collapse and hope. The second day was filled with exhaustion and despair. People began to realize this was not a change, just another way to control us. I felt the same. My hope started fading, replaced by numbness.

Forty-eight hours had passed with no news, no connection, no sound. Suddenly, my brother came in, beaming: “One of the mobile networks has returned!”. I felt as if the gates of heaven had opened. As mobile signals returned, I turned on my data, and my phone flooded with messages from friends, family, and journalists abroad a rush of voices and images after two days of silence. I could finally breathe again.

Next day people rushed to the banks to withdraw money, to airports to check on flights, to shops to tell the news. The streets buzzed again, but beneath that relief, there was fear. Everyone kept asking: why did this happen? And could it happen again?

Unanswered questions

Even after the connection was restored, the Taliban gave no official explanation. Their spokespersons remained silent, but days before the nationwide blackout, they had already cut fiber-optic services in more than ten provinces. The governor of Balkh even claimed it was to “prevent immoral behavior.” Now, as I write these words, fiber internet has once again been shut down in Kunduz and Kandahar, and new restrictions have been placed on social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram.

I don’t know what the future holds will the internet be cut again? For me, and for thousands of Afghan girls banned from education under Taliban decrees, online learning is our only lifeline. If we lose the connection, we will also lose our only window to the world.

The Taliban have banned Afghan journalists from working for foreign media. That's why I am writing this under a fake name, because reporting could cost me my life. However, I can not remain silent. I want the world to know what happens in Afghanistan before the Taliban try to leave us completely in the dark.

*Madina Ayar is an Afghan journalist living in Kabul. She writes for ARA twice a month.