On Monday evening, I was studying with my pen and iPad. Suddenly, the screen went dark, everything blurred, and only one sentence appeared: “No internet access.” I stared briefly and tried a few times, but it stayed the same. I left the room and said to my mother:
“Mother, what happened to the Wi-Fi? I was studying, and it cut off.”
My mother paused for a moment, then said softly, “I don’t know, my daughter. Maybe the network’s down. Wait — it will sort itself out.”
Hours passed beyond six in the evening, but there was still no sign of a connection. Then the television grabbed my attention: “Wi-Fi networks in Mazar-i-Sharif have been cut off.” Hearing that, my mind drifted to a place I had only heard of in my grandmother’s stories — a time when there was no internet, but schools remained open, pupils learned, and life continued in its own way. The big difference now was this: everyone else seemed to be stepping into the future, while we were taking a step backward.
Tears gathered in my eyes. I turned to my mother and asked in a trembling voice, “Mother, what will happen to my studies?”
She replied calmly but full of sorrow, “It will be okay, my child. God is merciful. This too shall pass.”
I answered with a frown and bitterness, “Mother, it passes each time, but it tears us to pieces as it passes.”
For a moment, I stared at the carpet. I remembered the lessons I studied for myself and the lessons I prepared for my students. My heart ached for those pupils who always said, “Teacher, these lessons are our only hope.” The day the schools closed, I vowed to make a school at home; now even that little home-school was closed. Where could I go from the house?
My eyes fell on the books that rested quietly in the corner of my bed. I set my sorrow aside, reached out, and picked up a book. I read until ten that night and kept telling myself, “There’s no true dead end; if the school shuts and the internet goes dark, you can still turn to books.” It’s hard, but we must move on.
The next morning, when I turned on mobile data, a flood of my friends’ sad messages came in. Everyone felt hopeless, as if the future in their hands grew smaller and heavier by the minute. Each of them sat mourning tomorrow. Before I could comfort them, my mobile internet cut off too. My head throbbed; I panicked. I turned the phone off and on several times, to no avail. I called the telecom company and asked, “Excuse me, the internet hasn’t worked since this morning — what’s the reason?”
The operator paused for a moment and then said, “Unfortunately, we were ordered to cut the internet.”
My lips trembled, and all I could manage was a quiet “Ok, thank you.” I turned off the phone and set it down. Tears flowed involuntarily. The only thing I could do was return to that same book. I opened the patient and slent pages and started reading.
At that moment, I understood: perhaps all roads can close, perhaps the world can spite us, but a small light still burns in the corner of the room — a light called a book. Right then, I became certain that, however hard life gets, one can still find a way out of the darkness.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
