Somewhere in the hallowed halls of our so-called intellectual elite, a columnist recently decided to elevate the art of name-calling to a literary form. Imagine the boldness of using the written word to declare a political figure as a “factory of sorcery” while relegating their supporters to the ranks of “spirits, jinns, and ghosts.” Not satisfied with stopping there, the pièce de résistance came in the form of dubbing a national leader “The Donkey King.” One might mistake this for an excerpt from a satirical play, but alas, it emerged from the pen of someone who claims to belong to the realm of intellectual heavyweights.
It would be laughable if it weren’t so tragic. This is not satire, not humor, and certainly not clever writing. This is the linguistic equivalent of a food fight in a cafeteria, where everyone is armed with rotten tomatoes, but no one knows why. Yet, here we are, applauding it as if it’s the peak of creative genius.
Ah, but let us not blame the poor columnist alone. They are merely the latest performer in a circus that has been running for decades. Ours is a society where insults have long masqueraded as political discourse. When Bhutto dismissed Asghar Khan as a “potato,” it was considered wit. When Benazir chanted “Go Baba Go” at Farooq Leghari, it became a rallying cry. Nawaz Sharif once carried the label of “Zia’s spiritual son” and later returned the favor by branding Zardari “Mr. Ten Percent.” And who can forget Shahbaz Sharif’s poetic promise to “drag Zardari through the streets and rip open his belly”? Such sweet serenades from our political maestros!
If you think that was bad, rewind to the era when PML-N stooped to shower doctored, indecent images of Benazir Bhutto from helicopters during rallies. Imagine the thought process behind this. Someone sat in a meeting and said, “You know what we need? Helicopters. And Photoshop.” Others nodded in agreement. Bravo! A new low was achieved, and everyone clapped.
But what was once considered exceptional now feels almost quaint. Today, we live in the golden age of creative insults. The modern political lexicon is bursting with gems like “Diesel,” “Cherry Blossom,” “Zardari Sickness,” “Baby Bilawal,” and the unforgettable “Maryam, don’t say my name or your husband will get mad.” These aren’t words; they are daggers crafted and hurled with precision. And yet, somehow, the public finds this delightful, as if it’s a national sport where everyone gets a front-row seat.
The followers, of course, take it further. For every “Blue Queen” or “garage” remark, there are hundreds of memes, tweets, and Facebook posts from die-hard fans who take pride in their ability to outdo their opponents in vulgarity. It’s almost impressive—like watching a race where the goal isn’t to win but to fall flat on your face in the most creative way possible.
Journalists, too, have joined the parade. Once the guardians of truth and integrity, they now wield their pens like swords in the service of their favorite political lords. Objectivity? Balanced reporting? Those are relics of a bygone era. Today’s journalism is about aligning with the highest bidder or the loudest megaphone. The death of journalism is not a quiet tragedy; it’s a carnival, complete with fireworks and a marching band.
Let’s not pretend this culture of insults is a one-sided affair. Every political party, every supporter, and every leader has contributed to this cesspool. The Oxford-educated leader who once championed dignity in politics gave us “Diesel” and “Zardari Sickness.” The rival camps responded with their own arsenal of verbal grenades. And so the cycle continues, each insult feeding the next, until the original issue is forgotten amidst the cacophony of name-calling.
This isn’t just a political issue; it’s a societal epidemic. Conversations at dinner tables, debates in drawing rooms, and even casual exchanges on the street are now peppered with the same venom. Insults have become our lingua franca. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that respect, decency, and dialogue are outdated concepts best left to the archives of history.
And yet, the irony is breathtaking. Those who once pioneered this culture of character assassination are now its biggest victims. The political leaders who set the stage for personal attacks are now weeping crocodile tears as they face the same treatment. It’s poetic justice, served with a side of schadenfreude.
But let us not delude ourselves into thinking this is just about politics. This is about who we are as a society. We’ve normalized a level of discourse that would make even the most hardened cynic blush. And for what? To score points? To feel superior? To entertain ourselves?
The most tragic part of all is that we’ve stopped noticing. What was once shocking is now routine. A society that cannot be outraged by its own moral decay is a society on the brink of collapse. We are not just complicit in this mess; we are its architects.
So, where do we go from here? Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps this is our destiny: to be a nation where words are not tools of dialogue but weapons of destruction. Perhaps we will continue to sharpen our tongues and dull our consciences, until there is nothing left to insult, no one left to offend.
Or maybe, just maybe, we will wake up. Maybe we will remember that dialogue does not have to be a blood sport. Maybe we will realize that respect and decency are not weaknesses but strengths. Maybe we will demand better—from our leaders, from our journalists, from ourselves.
Until then, let us carry on with our carnival of chaos. After all, what’s a little more mud when we’re already neck-deep in it?
