Pakistan, October 3 – On the evening of September 29, Afghans picked up their phones and discovered they were useless. Calls failed to go through. Applications wouldn't open. Flight information screens at Kabul airport stopped updating. For two days, a population of 43 million was plunged into intentional silence. Then, just as abruptly as it started, the signal came back. Taliban officials claimed "deteriorated fiber cables." Most did not accept this explanation.
Independent observers presented a different account. NetBlocks, an organization that monitors global internet connectivity, verified a widespread internet blackout that caused national traffic to drop to a small percentage of usual levels. Local media had already reported previous restrictions on high-speed access in several provinces, and The Washington Post noted that officials in Balkh explained a local fiber ban "to stop immoral behavior." The explanation of a simple technical issue could not withstand this evidence.
The effect was instant. Markets came to a standstill as digital transactions stopped working. Traders in Kabul described their business as "blind" without phones and banking applications. Remittances—essential funds for millions of families—could not be received. Kabul International Airport experienced flight cancellations, including routes to Istanbul and Dubai, as modern air travel depends on continuous data connections for coordination and safety. Humanitarian organizations, still dealing with the aftermath of deadly earthquakes in the east, lost communication with their teams on the ground. Two days without internet access were enough to strangle an economy already struggling and to disrupt aid efforts in a country where winter food shortages are a yearly concern.
For women, the impact was even more severe. Since 2021, girls have been barred from attending secondary schools and universities; women have been dismissed from most public jobs and forced out of libraries, parks, and numerous clinics. The internet had become their only remaining fragile support: virtual classrooms led by teachers living abroad, small online enterprises, and study groups that maintained hope. When the network was disrupted, that connection was severed. It wasn't just speech that was suppressed. It was the chance to learn, earn a living, and be visible.
Human rights groups have clearly identified the strategy. Amnesty International has cautioned that by restricting access to information, the de facto authorities ensure that the global community remains unaware of the continuous violations occurring within the country. Research institutions have documented this approach. Chatham House, in its analysis of connectivity during crises in conflict areas, highlights that regimes use both technological control and political pressure to cut off communications when they sense a threat. Afghanistan recently experienced this reality: a deliberate switch to control society.
Naturally, there was discussion about timing. Analysts highlighted accounts of internal conflicts and changes in key positions as a potential context. Regardless of whether these factors influenced the choice, the trend is clear. When authority is threatened, regular Afghans suffer the consequences. A country-wide shutdown not only silences opponents. It separates neighborhoods, hinders emergency responders, and makes an already tough existence even harder.
Afghanistan is not the only country experiencing this decline. The military leaders in Myanmar repeatedly shut down the internet during and following the 2021 coup. Iranian officials restricted and cut access during the 2019 fuel protests and once more in 2022 when women protested the death of Mahsa Amini. India implemented one of the longest modern-day internet shutdowns in Kashmir. Scholars like Ben Wagner refer to these methods as "communicative ruptures": brief outages aimed at preventing organization, and extended ones that reinforce a controlling system by eliminating opposing voices. Afghanistan exhibits both aspects simultaneously.
It is also exceptionally susceptible. Connection there is not a privilege. It serves as the lifeline for aid delivery, the record of money transfers, the communication system for hospitals and relief efforts, and the sole educational opportunity for many girls. Disrupting it does more than hinder communication; it undermines existence. Scholars examining mobile education in Afghanistan have noted how phone-based systems were starting to close educational disparities for marginalized students; cutting these connections is not an impartial administrative decision, but the closing of a school door in a child's face.
Here is the most extended and insightful reality: when a government that has already driven girls out of classrooms and women from their jobs extends its reach beyond the closed school gates, past the locked libraries and deserted parks, into the final hidden area where a lesson can still be given on a broken phone, where a small income can still be made by selling handicrafts to a faraway buyer, where a family can still share news with a sister across the border, and then severs that connection in an instant, what vanishes is not just access or ease but the delicate chain of care and community that sustains people during tough times.
Carefully examine the policy and it remains uniform. Since 2021, the approach has centered on elimination: taking girls out of education; excluding women from public roles; shutting down independent media via intimidation, control, and shutdowns; and, if individuals hold onto the digital space, that is taken away as well. Silence is not accidental. It is the strategy.
The global reaction has not been strong enough considering the significance of the issue. The United Nations already acknowledges internet access as essential to basic rights. This principle needs to have real implications. Telecommunications companies, including those based abroad that function in Afghanistan, should be obligated to reveal when they get orders to limit network access. Human rights organizations should consider intentional, large-scale disconnections as breaches equivalent to arbitrary arrest or forced disappearance. Amnesty's stance is straightforward: disrupting connectivity is a conscious attack on rights.
The calm that enveloped Afghanistan in September was not a technical malfunction. It was a signal. Those in charge of the switch have discovered they can erase a nation, and with each repetition, it will become simpler. What disappeared during those hours was more than just connectivity. It was the fragile connection many Afghans—especially Afghan women—had with each other and with a global community that still acknowledges their existence. This was not a mistake. It was a deliberate decision. Acknowledge it as such, and fight against it accordingly, or the silence will come back.
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