Unprecedented power cuts swept across Portugal, Spain, and parts of France on Monday — instantly unravelling the tech-dependent lives of me and tens of millions of others.
At first, I wasn’t worried. Then the owner of my Lisbon apartment forwarded me a link: an article in The Sun newspaper titled “Spain & Portugal hit by huge power cuts…” I tried to open it, but the page wouldn’t load. After a few minutes of backup power, the mobile networks were dead.
I walked down to my local café, hoping to get some more information. “We have no idea what’s going on — nothing is working,” the owner told me, gesturing to her dead till. She was only serving sandwiches and drinks, and like every other shop, could only accept cash.
One of the shop’s customers approached me. “They’re saying it might be a Russian cyberattack,” he said, looking remarkably laid back. “Think of it as a free holiday,” he laughed.
I wasn’t laughing. I had no physical cash on me. That meant I couldn’t buy food, and without electricity, I couldn’t cook what I had in the fridge. I also know water networks rely on electric pumps. Plus, I had three young kids at home wondering whether Dad would ever fix the TV.
Trying to keep calm and cool in the 30-degree heat, I left the store searching for an ATM. The first one was completely dead. The next had power, but only let me check my balance. Cash machines need internet to connect to banking servers and authorise withdrawals — without it, they’re just glowing boxes of false hope.
“I took the train to Lisbon this morning, but now I can’t get home,” said a man in his 30s who was also trying to withdraw cash to take a taxi. We chatted for a few minutes, speculating on the potential causes of the blackout. “I heard on the radio that it might be something to do with the weather,” he said, referencing a now-debunked claim that the outage was caused by “induced atmospheric vibration” from extreme temperature or pressure shifts disturbing power lines. I wondered whether this was a technical fault or something more malicious.
I walked on in search of more concrete information. Eventually, I found it at the local hospital, the only place I could find with electricity and WiFi, thanks to its backup diesel generators. Scanning the headlines, I was met with some good news. Officials said there was no sign of a cyberattack. Despite all my Hollywood-fuelled fears, Europe wasn’t being invaded and there was definitely no zombie apocalypse.
The bad news, however, was that no one had any idea when power would be restored. Some sources said a few hours. Others said a week, maybe longer. I headed home empty-handed and with few assurances — and no way to fix the TV. As the sun set, I was worried. “Now I get why people build doomsday bunkers,” I said to my wife.
Offline and unprepared
The blackout of April 28 was the largest in European history. Over 60 million people were left without power. Mobile networks were knocked out. Card machines and ATMs went dark. Airports closed, trains were left stranded on the tracks, and with the traffic light disabled, congestion piled up. Some people were trapped in elevators and underground metro systems for hours. In Spain, at least five people are thought to have died due to the incident.
In a matter of minutes, modern European life, so dependent on electricity, data, and instant connectivity, ground to a halt. While power was restored to most of Spain and Portugal by midnight on Monday, the incident has raised serious questions about Europe’s infrastructure, security, and resilience. For me, it’s also sparked a more personal reckoning with my tech dependence, and just how unprepared I am for when the systems I rely on go dark.
I’ve always seen myself as pretty self-reliant. I grew up in South Africa, where (planned) blackouts were part of life and unpredictability came baked into the day. I used to camp, forage, and cook meals over open fires. I like making things with my hands. I thought I had a good handle on surviving without the grid.
But like most, especially in the west, I’ve become deeply tethered to technology. When the blackout hit, all those systems collapsed — and so did the illusion of my independence. My fridge was full, but I couldn’t cook. My phone had a charge, but no signal. My apps were blind. My digital wallet might as well have been Monopoly money.
It wasn’t just the gadgets that failed — it was the mental safety net they’d built. No news, no way to contact family, no idea how big the outage was. I realised I’d outsourced most of my decision-making to invisible infrastructures.
The kids were calm, oblivious to the potential risks. We played board games by candlelight and watched the sun set over a city lit only by headlights and moonlight. But in my head, I was calculating: how long would the tap water run? Did we have enough food that didn’t need cooking? What if this lasted longer? What if it happened again?
The blackout only lasted a day. But the aftershocks — at least for me — haven’t stopped. I’m now thinking about storing cash at home, keeping extra water, buying a gas stove, and a radio. Maybe even moving to the countryside where I could grow my own food.
The blackout was a wake-up call. Not to prep for the end of the world, but to reckon with just how much I’d handed over to systems I don’t control — and barely understand.