By Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi, PRISM Media
In a land torn by endless war, loss and fear are constant. Hunger and pain walk beside us every day. One fragile thread connects us to the outside world: the internet. It isn’t just a tool; it’s a window, a voice, a lifeline.
Then it broke.
On June 10, 2025, the internet in northern Gaza vanished without warning. Everything stopped: Messages wouldn’t send, videos froze, and news feeds went blank. The northern half of Gaza fell into total silence. No connection. No presence. No way to be seen. Northern Gaza vanished from the digital world.
As for me, I live in the south. Still, it was heartbreaking to watch people in the north get cut off.
But the following day, the same would happen to us.
A digital siege
Almost the entire Strip was cut off—not only from the world, but from time itself.
About 2 million people were left in silence. No way to reach loved ones, no news, no information. At 19 years old, I carry worries far heavier than anyone my age should bear. Sitting with our parents in the dark, my brother and I kept asking questions—questions our parents couldn’t answer. The silence wasn’t just outside; it echoed inside me, filling me with confusion and fear.
Only those lucky few with an active eSIM or limited internet bundles had minimal access, barely enough to send a single WhatsApp message. For the rest of us, getting connected was like chasing a ghost.
This was no technical failure. It was an intentional act by the Israeli occupation.
A silent siege designed to choke Gaza’s voice, erase its memory, and suppress its resistance.
I sat with my phone for days, hoping for a signal. Not for distraction, but for connection. For proof that we still exist.
In that silence, time slowed. Fear grew. The world moved on, unaware of what we were living through.
But outside, the war didn’t stop.
Bombs kept falling.
The occupation kept killing people.
We just didn’t know when or where.
On June 13, my brother told me that his friend, who still had the internet, shared news: Iranian nuclear scientists were targeted by Israel. Tensions with Israel were rising.
That evening, rockets were fired from Iran toward Israel. The sky over Gaza lit up. People shouted. Some filmed on their phones. I had no internet. I couldn’t share it. Couldn’t see what others were seeing. In Gaza, even moments of awe slip by in silence. We’re cut off from the world and from each other.
The next morning, my sister’s friend sent a message: “The internet might come back tonight.” She had an eSIM card and read the news on Telegram.
These few words were enough to spark a flicker of hope. It felt like a message from a parallel world—a world where time still moves forward.
When the light came back
On the night of June 14, the green light on the router blinked. My phone lit up with dozens of messages and missed calls. I froze, and then my brother shouted, “Wallahi ajjaaa,” meaning “It’s back!”
I didn’t move. I just stared at my phone, trying to believe the internet was really back.
First, I posted a story on Instagram: “The occupation cut the internet from us. We are still alive.” I shared this first because reconnecting meant reclaiming our voice and presence in a world that tried to silence us.
Then I opened my email. I was waiting for replies about my articles.
Next, I downloaded lectures and study files as fast as I could.
Then I started answering messages. There were so many.
It felt strange, like stepping out of silence into a world that kept going without you.
But the next day, an airstrike hit the internet exchange near my area, causing the fragile connection to disappear again.
On June 18, the internet briefly returned—only to fail again hours later.
Southern Gaza then remained in darkness for four more days. Days spent in silence, staring at screens, hoping something would load.
At 5:50 p.m. on June 21, the connection finally came back. I didn’t know how to react.
It had been 12 days of unstable access—on and off repeatedly—draining our minds and spirits.
That same evening, the north went dark again. Then came back. Connection, disconnection. Light, dark. Like someone flipping a switch to test our limits.
Twelve days.
Twelve days of chasing weak signals and clinging to notifications. Even though bombs were falling around us during this time, the internet outage added another layer of torment—a silent mental siege that cut us off from the world, isolated us from each other, and silenced our voices when we needed to be heard the most.
And now? As of the night of July 20, there have been interruptions and weak internet service due to a cut in a main fiber line between Deir al-Balah and Khan Younis. Efforts are underway to coordinate its repair. Everyone is cautiously anticipating another wave of internet outages—and so it goes, the endless cycle.
We don’t know when it will be over. Or if this is just part of a larger strategy. The occupation says nothing—just watches coldly, tightens its grip, and waits for us to break.
A world on pause
I was preparing for my final university exams when the internet stopped. Everything was online: recorded lectures, files, my college’s learning management system, assignments. When the internet stopped, there were no lectures, no submissions, no searches.
I have refused to let the occupation stop my education.
Without internet, I read English stories: “Araby” by James Joyce, “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury, “A Letter from Gaza” by Ghassan Kanafani, the poetry collection “Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear” by Mosab Abu Toha, and the guidebook “Writing Picture Books” by Ann Whitford Paul. I didn’t look up words; instead, I inferred their meanings from context. It became a meditative exercise: I paused, guessed, interpreted, and continued reading.
To stay focused, I started writing this article. I realized: Even when the occupation takes everything—light, internet, safety—our minds keep searching. For hope, for connection, for a sign that life continues beyond the silence.
For 12 days, we were cut off—from people, news, and movement. I relearned patience, stillness, and hope.
In peace, the internet feels like a luxury—a way to escape or entertain yourself. But in war, it becomes a vital lifeline, pumping life, information, and connection.
In Gaza, where war is constant, the internet is lifeblood.
In a place where bombs strike without warning, a simple “I’m safe” from a loved one means everything.
The internet also delivers urgent updates—airstrikes, safe zones, aid—real-time information that can save lives.
It records events and exposes atrocities. With few journalists and restricted media, ordinary people become witnesses. Social media holds the truth when no one else can.
It asserts our humanity. Through messages, photos, and videos, we say, “We are here. We are human. We are alive.”
When the internet disappears, it’s more than a lost connection. It erases our presence and voice—the proof of our existence.
Without it, we drift in isolation, unable to know if loved ones survive or if the world remembers us. In that silence, fear grows and hope fades.
This is not just missing updates. It is being buried alive in silence.
This blackout was not a glitch—it was a message:
“You are alone. You don’t exist.”
But we answered.
We wrote.
We learned.
We resisted.
We endured.
They tried to erase us online.
Yet we remain—alive, unyielding, and unrelenting in our silence.
This editorial was originally published in PRISM Media.
Photo by Castorly Stock : https://www.pexels.com/photo/iphone-6-connecting-to-internet-4114774/
