As I take to this column space, intermittently compared to the regularity with which I used to write for The Nation in years past, I aim to address two challenges that op-ed writers in Pakistan generally face. The first is the rather superficial concern that the days of print journalism are over in Pakistan specifically, and in the world generally, due to the proliferation of contemporary communication tools offered by social media. While it may be the traditionalism of elders in colonially inherited paper-bureaucracies in developing countries, who still look for relevant paper clippings first thing in the morning, that keeps this exercise alive, perhaps it has more to do with the self-appointed elitists allowing a semblance of freedom of expression—at least in English—to improve Pakistan’s standing in human rights reports, something with real material consequences. If you doubt this, ask a development sector consultant what it means—if that’s even what they call themselves these days. LinkedIn bios, if anything, suggest that the nomenclature is in a state of rapid flux. “Whatever sells,” they tell me. Or whatever ChatGPT believes can sell. Even better if the paid version of ChatGPT tells you so.

The second challenge is more nuanced and intricate, requiring serious introspection. There is a growing argument in contemporary academic circles—especially from cynics who, surprisingly, are not particularly adept at long-form writing themselves—that the 1000-1100 word format is too short and condensed to transmit a profound intellectual argument. Somewhere along the line, it became acceptable to reduce all op-eds to yellow journalism and sensationalism. I find this a damaging way of thinking, especially for someone like me, who grew up reading Z.I.M, Cowasjee, Omer Kureshi, Nusrat Javeed, Irfan Hussain, and Nadeem F. Paracha. My day wouldn’t be complete without a detailed discussion on the positions they took. Iqbal lamented the decline in the quality of academic debate and journalism in 1935, but many made the same nostalgic claim even a hundred or two hundred years ago. I am not suggesting that previous generations had more gravitas or authenticity of purpose. Today’s generation, I believe, is just as capable of formulating coherent, structured arguments. Op-ed pages used to be the best way to start the day, with carefully curated editorials by experts and opinion pieces by stalwarts, making it feel like things were in safe hands. Perhaps the shift to television channels and the rise of broadcast journalism in the early 2000s, following the proliferation of private media outlets, changed this dynamic. Whether that liberalization was a conscious effort by the ruling elites of the time or simply inevitable in an era of rampant globalization remains a topic of investigation for media studies students and cultural critics. What is clear is that it pushed many writers onto television screens, where they appeared with makeup—sometimes to great success, almost always with significant upward social mobility.

For the critical theorists of the 1930s, knowledge could be found in places beyond academic journals and books—from magazines and pulp fiction to everyday discourse among the common people. Everything was scrutinized and ripe for critical analysis. This might not seem revolutionary today, but in practice, this way of thinking changed governments, if not federations. As someone from Punjab, a region with a rich history of ideas transmitted orally by poet-philosophers through couplets and plays, the notion that an idea only has validity if published in a peer-reviewed journal seems absurd. That’s not to downplay the role of peer-reviewed journals, which certainly have a place in society and serve an important function. But it’s mind-boggling to be told that your argument is invalid simply because it was derived from a newspaper column and not a journal. Admittedly, citing such sources may weaken the foundation of an academic dissertation, but academics need to step down from their high horse.

In an age where asking someone to read 1000 words feels like asking a favor—when they’d rather consume a meme that simplifies matters in 100 characters, enhanced by sound and visuals—op-ed writers find themselves in a difficult position. Yet all is not lost. These collected rants might one day inspire a future researcher who stumbles upon them. Assuming, of course, that the newspapers keep their archives up-to-date. The problem today isn’t a lack of information—it’s an overabundance of it. And, of course, those mindless souls who dislike pineapple on pizza, fail to stand up for the rights of left-handed people, or ignore the unethical treatment of elephants.

Irtiza Shafaat Bokharee
The writer is a faculty member at the Department of Political Science at Forman Christian College University.