WHEN THE SUN GOES OFFLINE

“My room’s window opens to Beirut every morning.” - Huda Barakkat, prominent Lebanese author

“Only if he comes on national TV today and says, I failed my people, and I resign,” I smiled at the thought and forced myself out of bed. Changing out of my sleep gown, I held on to that tiny piece of hope. I could hear my guest speaking with my husband downstairs. It was Nov 2019. My father had passed away just a few weeks ago, and I had returned from Iran to Washington DC. My friend had come to offer her condolences.

I came back with a kind of darkness I couldn’t name, was it my father’s absence, or the sadness crawling through the streets of Tehran? People were suffering. Even in the most luxurious restaurants, faces carried a thin film of dust, dust of exhaustion. Exhaustion from financial despair, social suffocation, and constant oppression.

Only a few days after I arrived, the national TV announced that gas prices would be tripled. The decision came from the so-called “Economic War Room,” led by the heads of the presidency, judiciary, and parliament under the supreme leader’s order. Many were shocked, especially those already barely surviving.

People took to the streets peacefully, at first. But the riot guards were quick to fire live bullets at them. It was a disgrace. A disaster. Another brutal chapter added to years of failed policymaking. It felt like a king and his royal advisors had declared something, and any protest was punishable by death.

But this time felt different. Tripling gas prices overnight? How could people who were already struggling survive that? It was shock. It was agony. It was the unbearable pressure of simply trying to live. Even members of parliament, usually loyal to the regime, publicly called for a review of the decision. So, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, he would realize this time he had failed. That he would come on TV and admit: I cannot govern like this.

I came down with that hope.

But the moment I entered the room, I saw my guest and my husband’s pale faces. They looked at me in silence. One of them finally said: “There’s a complete internet blackout in Iran. And… they’re killing everyone.”

After that, everything was a blur. For three days, everything was dark. No light. No news. No word. Just the sound of bullets. Just the screams of people who simply wanted to live. And our lives dimmed with theirs. It was as if the light that reached us came through the internet, from the houses of loved ones in Iran, from the streets of Tehran, from the eyes of people who still knew how to live, no matter what.

There was never an official report of how many were killed during those three days. But I’ve never been the same since. In my mind, the internet blackout now means mass murder. It’s unbearable. Ever since, every single morning, I check the internet status of my loved ones and friends in Iran. I know it’s not rational, but it helps. It gives me a way to breathe.

That was the Aban 25 massacre. It’s now six years later. And now, my country is at war again. I won’t go into my feelings about this new evil war. But the internet in Iran remains fragile. There are hours of complete blackout- and those hours are terrifying. It’s like someone has turned off the sun and shut down the moon.

In those moments, we are certain: someone is dying somewhere. We know it, and we can’t do anything about it.

We know it.

And we can’t do anything about it.

“Only if we could do something about it,” the voice in my head pleads.

Mona Mirzaei is a former NASA scientist and writer whose creative work has appeared in several Persian-language outlets including Radio Zamaneh and Baang News. Her work tends to highlight educated middle-class women protagonists and their experiences in Iranian society or the diaspora. One of her short stories was also anthologized in the Persian-language collection Gypsies, Vol. 3 (H&S Media, 2015), edited by renowned Iranian author Moniro Ravanipour. Additionally, she boasts numerous journalistic publications for Iranian media such as Ghanoon Daily and Bank-e Varzesh, particularly in the field of women’s athletics.