It’s 2.48am and I’m awake, connected to the internet through a fragile SIM card.
Our wifi was cut earlier this evening, which is part of a growing wave of restrictions imposed by the Taliban leadership over the past week.
I can’t sleep. I’m afraid that when morning comes, even this last thread of connection will be gone.
What will happen to my students? How will I reach them, speak with them, teach them?
This is more than a technical disruption – it’s a rupture in the lifeline we’ve built together. In this difficult moment, we need each other more than ever to stay strong, to stay hopeful.
The Taliban’s crackdown on internet access to “prevent immorality” has been spreading across Afghanistan, with more and more areas losing access after the country’s leader imposed a complete ban on the technology.
In 2022, I began teaching English and science subjects online to students across Afghanistan. As a woman who was once free and active, being confined to my home was painful. But I refused to give up. If old doors had closed, I would find new ones to open, for myself and for other Afghan women.
Soon, I was deeply connected with my students. Talking to them every day became a vital part of my life.
Alongside teaching, I cherished our conversations, sharing perspectives, exchanging ideas, and building a community.
Even my husband noticed the change in me. One day, during a break from classes, I was feeling low. He asked, “Where are your students?” I told him they were on holiday.
He said: “Because when you’re teaching them, you’re happy and your eyes are shining.” I hadn’t realised how much joy teaching brought me until he said that.
Today, while speaking with my students about the possibility of an internet shutdown, one of them told me: “Teacher, your class had a real positive impact on my life. I not only learn English from you, I also learn how to live.”
She added: “Sometimes, even when I’m tired or sick, I join your class. It changes my mood and helps my mental health.”
Then she said something that broke my heart: “If one day the internet is cut, it will have a detrimental effect on my mental health. I’ll lose the chance to learn and my friends. That causes depression.”
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When women are denied the right to study in person, online education becomes more than just a tool, it also becomes a lifeline.
For many Afghan girls and women, the internet is the only space left where we can learn, connect, and feel seen.
If that is taken away, it’s not just the loss of education, it’s the loss of identity, community, and hope. We are already carrying the weight of isolation, fear, and silence.
Cutting off the internet would mean extinguishing the only light that still reaches us.
Another student told me she would face a mental health crisis if she lost internet access.
“If the internet is cut,” she said. “I don’t know how I’ll study or work. I’ll fall into a deep depression.”
The other student added: “We don’t have the right to go out and study in person. If the right to study online is also taken away, it’s better we don’t be alive to see these days.”
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I’m worried, for myself, for my students, and for the thousands of Afghan women and girls who have refused to give up. Those who found a way to keep learning, to keep dreaming, even when the world around them tried to silence them.
When there is no electricity, lighting a candle is an act of survival. Education has been that candle, flickering but vital.
It may not replace the classrooms we once had, but it has kept our minds alive, our voices connected, and our dreams breathing.
Internet connection is the last window of hope for women’s education in Afghanistan. May that window remain open. May that light never be taken from us.
