It is a truth universally acknowledged that a nation in need of vigilant critique and fearless intellect may, at times, be forced to settle for something far more… practical. In Pakistan, we are privileged to witness a marvel of human ingenuity: citizens who have perfected the art of appearing critical while ensuring that the status quo remains unassailable. These rare geniuses, whom we shall honor here as “Esteemed Critics,” have elevated servility to a civic virtue, demonstrating that loyalty to power, rather than duty to the people, is the highest form of patriotic service.
Observe, if you will, their extraordinary talents. These court jesters of tyranny juggle borrowed phrases, borrowed courage, and borrowed morality, all while moving their lips in perfect imitation of debate. In truth, their voices belong to unseen masters, their every syllable orchestrated by the very powers they pretend to oppose. It is a rare gift indeed to masquerade as a puppet animating other puppets—a talent they wield with unparalleled elegance, as though mere pretense were a noble art.
The brilliance of their work is evident in their choice of heroes. Consider Bhutto, who once addressed Ayub Khan with the filial devotion of a child to its “Daddy”—a tender display of loyalty that would inspire Shakespeare himself. Witness Nawaz Sharif, the dutiful scion of Zia-ul-Haq’s authoritarian enterprise, pledging to perpetuate the mission of his patron with public solemnity. And now, behold Imran Khan, a laboratory specimen nurtured and presented to the nation by Hamid Gul, Bajwa, Zaheer-ul-Islam, and Faiz, heralded as a tribune of the people even as the people themselves vanish from the script entirely.
Yet their true genius lies not in hero-worship but in the creation of dissent where none exists. Like confectioners producing sugar, they manufacture opposition that is saccharine, hollow, and addictive only to those who mistake noise for substance. With one hand, they thunder against the establishment; with the other, they pen love letters to its puppets. Through this sleight of hand, they erase the populace from the ledger of power while presenting themselves as champions of liberty. Truly, it is an act of moral legerdemain worthy of the grandest stages of history.
One must admire, too, their dedication to resurrecting the corpses of past dictatorships, painting rouge upon their cheeks, and crowning them as saviors. In so doing, they have perfected the art of necromancy, ensuring that authoritarian continuity is maintained under the guise of democracy. They call themselves defenders of freedom, yet their craft ensures that liberty is castrated, and truth becomes a starving orphan, abandoned in the streets of their own making.
Let it be proclaimed: these ethical dwarfs, moral eunuchs, and intellectual scarecrows deserve recognition—not merely scorn—for their extraordinary contribution to civic life. For who else could sing hymns of liberty while systematically erasing its very essence? Who else could craft opposition that never threatens power, never empowers the people, and yet convinces the unwary that justice is being served? Their brilliance lies in service without independence, loyalty without conscience, and commentary without courage.
Indeed, it is only fitting to honor them with awards for excellence in servility, medals for loyalty to tyrants, and prizes for eradicating the people from governance while pretending otherwise. Let future generations learn from these paragons of pseudo-intellect: the surest path to influence, renown, and historical remembrance is not through the empowerment of the citizenry, but through mastery of flattery, pretense, and the art of bowing to every master while pretending to oppose them.
Let us not forget, in closing, the true physiognomy of these Esteemed Critics. Imagine, if you will, a stage crowded with marionettes, their strings pulled by invisible generals, intelligence chiefs, and political patrons. Each gesture—grandiose, trembling, theatrical—is dictated by the hand of power; each word—eloquent, urgent, righteous—is prewritten by the ghost of tyranny. Their eyes, hollow orbs of performative insight, scan the crowd for applause rather than truth. Their mouths, perpetually moving, utter the phrases of courage while swallowing the very essence of independence.
Behold them, our moral eunuchs, prancing in silken rhetoric, yet incapable of erecting a single pillar of principle. Witness them, intellectual scarecrows, stuffed with straw, parading amidst the cornfields of corruption, pretending to ward off predators while courting the very wolves they feign to defy. And still they smile, still they bow, still they claim the mantle of critic, as though the public were blind, deaf, and incapable of discerning the grotesque choreography of subservience.
Indeed, in this grand theater, the people themselves are invisible, their voices reduced to whispers, their power consigned to shadow. Yet these Esteemed Critics, these enemies of the citizenry, strut with the audacity of kings, convinced that their servility is genius, their flattery is valor, and their illusions are freedom. If ever there were a lesson in the anatomy of deceit, let it be learned here: that the most dangerous adversaries of democracy are not the tyrants themselves, but those who masquerade as its champions while diligently ensuring that power remains forever beyond the reach of the people.
And so, in the spirit of reason, civic instruction, and bitter laughter, let us raise a toast to these valiant architects of illusion—these grotesque marionettes, these ethical dwarfs, these intellectual eunuchs—who have, with tireless dedication, guaranteed that the people of Pakistan remain spectators, voiceless, and powerless, while they themselves are lauded for the very feats that enslave the nation. May history remember them, not for courage, not for wisdom, but for the extraordinary artistry with which they perfected the ancient craft of servility.
They call themselves critics, yet their greatest feat is serving tyranny with a smile and erasing the people from their own power.
