Three nights and days in the embrace of silence. 

I was waiting for the evening to come so I could join my online class. When I turned on my phone’s internet, the signal icon was there — but no connection! I wondered to myself: has my phone broken down, or has the internet been cut off? I kept struggling with my phone; sometimes I tried WhatsApp, Telegram, Instagram — until I saw a two-hour-old headline from Afghanistan International: “#Afghanistan_Offline.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I rubbed them several times with the back of my hand, but no — it was the bitter truth I was seeing. I told myself: it’s impossible for our only window of hope to be shut. Yet it was a reality I had to accept. We had always been victims — condemned to endure pain and suffering that was never our right to bear. Tears burned down my cheeks, and I had no words left to say; only a heart full of sorrow and eyes full of tears.

I whispered to myself: why must we bear all this pain? Why can’t we live life in its true sense? How much grief can a person carry on their shoulders? Why are we strangers in our own homeland? What crime have we committed?

Day and night crawled by. My only task had become staring at the news. I asked myself: does anyone know what’s happening here? Does any voice escape from this place to the outside world? Two days passed, and still there was no sign of the internet or phone networks returning.

I was worried about my pregnant sister; worried about my brother who was traveling and gravely ill. Each moment felt like a century. I kept thinking: what if my brother’s condition has worsened? What if my sister needs help? They were in one province and we were in another.

When I left for work in the morning, my family was anxious. They feared something might happen to me and they wouldn’t be able to know. My mother insisted: “Don’t go. What if something happens? How will we find out?” But I tried to reassure them: “It’s fine. Everything will be okay.”

When I reached the street, everything felt strange. The speed of the cars seemed unusual, and my fear grew. A lone girl walking through crowded streets at an hour when no other woman could be seen. Outwardly, I tried to appear strong like my country, but deep inside, I felt a heavy dread. I feared: what if today is my turn — to be abducted for the crime of being a girl going to work? No one would know. People might just watch, because no one dares to challenge the finger on a trigger. If something happens to someone here, will the world or the media find out? Certainly not — because there is no way to communicate.

Two days passed, and still there was no news. People’s worries grew by the hour, and the market of rumors was heating up.

On the third night, at three in the morning, I woke up. I went outside, the electricity was out too. Only the stars were performing their art in the sky. There was no sign of the moon, as if it too had abandoned this country drowned in silence. My gaze fixed on the heavens. I thought to myself: at this young age, how much pain we have endured that was never ours to bear. That night, I grew three centuries older. It was then that I fully understood the real meaning of “slow death,” of “being buried alive,” and of “being imprisoned.”

Sometimes a person doesn’t realize it, but when everyone is drowning in grief, it’s as if the universe mourns with you. That night I saw that even the sky over my country was sorrowful.

For three nights and days, in a corner of the world, in a country called Afghanistan, forty million people were plunged into silence; no contact with the outside, no voice from within. Three nights of captivity and darkness, with strangled throats.

And I sat by the television, waiting for some good news. But the world — as always — only “strongly condemned” the crimes.

Three nights and days of silence passed, and I realized we are only condemned to live in darkness.