All praise belongs to Allāh, the One who brings stillness after noise, calm after chaos, and light after every darkness. Peace and blessings be upon our Master Muhammad ﷺ, the mercy for all the worlds.
In the final days of October, our nation fell silent.
Screens went dark.
Streets emptied.
The constant hum of messages, engines, and daily movement was replaced by an unfamiliar quiet.
For many, the absence of the internet was almost unbearable. Those accustomed to waking up to messages awoke instead to silence. Notifications that once dictated mood and motion disappeared. Roads once full of laughter and trade stood guarded and empty. Shops closed. Transport halted. Even the rhythm of our homes changed: the maid could not come, the plumber could not arrive, no electrician to fix the switch.
And so, we all had to do what many had long forgotten: live slowly, rely on ourselves, and look inward.
Allāh reminds us:
“And We will surely test you with some fear and hunger, and with paucity of wealth and lives and crops; and give glad tidings to those who patiently endure.”
(Sūrah al-Baqarah 2:155)
Perhaps this stillness was not a punishment, but a reminder. A gentle nudge to pause and reflect.
We had become slaves to speed. Our lives moved to the rhythm of pings and alerts. We measured our worth by who viewed our statuses, who commented on our posts, who liked our words.. until the world’s applause replaced our remembrance of Allāh.
Then, the connection was cut. The illusion broke!
Many of us didn’t realize how deeply tied we had become to the tiny screen in our hands. Each sound, each vibration, sent our hearts racing as if attention from others confirmed our existence.
During those days of silence, there were no “typing…” indicators, no status updates, no blue ticks, no instant replies. For some, this brought peace; for others, discomfort. But perhaps this quiet was mercy.
It forced us to face the truth: we had been constantly “online” but spiritually disconnected. The heart’s connection to Allāh had weakened while our connection to the world had strengthened.
Allāh states:
“pay heed! Only in the remembrance of Allah is the solace of hearts!.”
(Sūrah al-Raʿd 13:28)
When the Wi-Fi went off, realization started to settle in.
Without WhatsApp and social media, people began to call directly again to hear voices rather than read words, to check on one another not with emojis and GIFs, but with warmth.
A single SMS began to feel sincere again.
A phone call became personal again.
Just like that, we were reminded that communication is meant to connect hearts, not only devices.
The presence of security forces and the quiet tension that hung in the air stirred a collective unease. Fear! That unseen visitor entered our hearts. But fear itself can be a teacher. It reminds us that peace, safety, and comfort are all blessings from Allāh, not guarantees of the world.
In the early generations, it was said: “True security is the serenity of the heart that trusts in Allāh, even when the world outside is unsettled.”
Peace is not the absence of soldiers, but the presence of tawakkul.
Trust that nothing moves without the permission of the One who controls all affairs.
When daily earners could not earn, the truth of Rizq (provision) became clear. We seek it through effort, but it is written only by Allāh.
The Prophet ﷺ said:
“If you relied upon Allāh as He deserves, He would provide for you as He provides for the birds. They leave hungry in the morning and return full in the evening.”
(Tirmidhi)
Those who earn by the day: the fruit seller, the mason, the tailor.. reminded us of the nobility of labour and the fragility of comfort. When the roads closed, we realized how every meal depends on countless unseen hands.
No school. No madrassah. No office. No social media. Just the home. In all its imperfection and blessing.
Parents rediscovered the exhaustion and joy of raising children without distraction.
For many working mothers and fathers, it was the first time in years that they truly spent the entire day with their children. Not just seeing them, but knowing them.
They sat together for meals.
They played together in living rooms.
They smiled at their questions.
They saw what their school and madrassah teachers usually saw: the curiosity, the energy, the boundless chatter.
Some parents opened their children’s school books for the first time in a long while, helping them revise, listening to their recitations, testing their surahs, hearing their mistakes and their progress.
And in that shared struggle, that mix of joy and fatigue, many discovered the mercy hidden in family life. The Prophet ﷺ said:
“The best of you are those who are best to their families, and I am the best among you to my family.”
(Tirmidhi)
If that week drew us closer to our own, taught us patience with our children and gratitude for our parents, then it was not wasted.
Amidst the silence, constantly checking phones to see if the internet connection had returned, some took time to sit with their spouse and children and send Salawaat upon the Beloved Prophet ﷺ. They drew light into their home and softened their hearts amidst the restlessness and uncertainty. Instead of their phones lighting up for notifications, it was their hearts that were lighting up and being filled with blessings.
“Whoever sends one blessing upon me, Allāh sends ten blessings upon him.”
(Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim)
What greater notification can there be than that?
When the connection was restored, the world rushed back to its screens. But for a brief moment, we had tasted a different life. Slower, quieter, more human.
May we not lose that lesson.
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