Decolonizing English in Pakistani Higher Education
I still remember a seminar room at my university where a professor praised me for an essay that, in truth, felt less like my own voice and more like a patchwork of phrases borrowed from the “standard” academic style of British journals. I recall the unease I felt at that moment: why was my originality overlooked while my ability to mimic a foreign cadence was celebrated? That experience, repeated in different forms, made me question whether our higher education system valued learning or simply rewarded the art of imitation. It was there that the seeds of my reflection on decolonising English were planted.
At the time, I did not have the vocabulary to name this discomfort. Later, as I encountered postcolonial thinkers like Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o and Gayatri Spivak, I realized I was experiencing what Ngũgĩ (1986) calls the “colonisation of the mind.” To write well in Pakistan’s universities often meant silencing the rhythms of Urdu, Saraiki, or Punjabi in my thinking. The expectation was to conform to an imported academic tone that erased the imaginative world I had inherited. This linguistic hierarchy produced a subtle distrust in my own intellectual instincts, as though authenticity had to be filtered through a foreign grammar before it could count as knowledge.
The deeper I reflect, the more I see that my experience was not unique but symptomatic of a wider problem. Our universities, still marked by colonial legacies, implicitly equate English fluency with intellectual merit. Edward Said’s critique of Orientalism resonates here: we internalize a hierarchy where Western forms of expression hold authority while local forms are marginalized. To “decolonise English” in this context does not mean rejecting it; rather, it means reimagining its role. English must become a tool of reflection, not a measure of imitation. It must bend to the contours of Pakistani thought rather than forcing Pakistani thought to bend to its conventions.
The turning point for me came when I began to write about local literature in English without suppressing indigenous metaphors. For instance, when I analyzed Khawja Ghulam Fareed’s poetry in an English essay, I resisted the temptation to translate his metaphors into neat Western equivalents. Instead, I let the imagery breathe in its own cultural space. Surprisingly, the essay was richer, more authentic, and even more compelling to readers who had never encountered Saraiki mysticism. This taught me that decolonizing English means allowing it to carry our voices, not replace them.
From this personal journey, I have come to believe that higher education in Pakistan needs a pedagogy of imagination. By this I mean a classroom where students can bring their own languages, metaphors, and idioms into English academic writing. For example, assignments could invite students to write bilingual essays — beginning with an Urdu poem or Saraiki proverb, then analyzing it in English. Such practices would not only validate local knowledge but also enrich English itself, making it less a colonial artifact and more a living, hybrid medium. Teacher training must also shift: instructors should be encouraged to value originality of thought over conformity to “proper” English form.
Of course, one must acknowledge the counterargument: English opens doors to global scholarship, scientific research, and international opportunities. This is undeniable. But the challenge is not to abandon English; it is to reshape it. A decolonized approach treats English as one of many tools in a diverse intellectual toolkit. The real danger lies not in using English but in allowing it to dominate to the point of silencing other voices.
Looking back, I realize that the conflict I felt in that classroom was not merely about language but about sovereignty of thought. To decolonize English in Pakistani higher education is to move from imitation to imagination — from the passive absorption of imported forms to the active creation of knowledge rooted in our soil yet conversant with the world. My own journey has shown me that when we stop fearing our accents, our idioms, and our metaphors, English itself becomes freer, more resonant, and more genuinely ours.
References:
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o. (1986). Decolonising the mind: The politics of language in African literature. Heinemann.
Said, E. (1978). Orientalism. Pantheon.
Spivak, G. C. (1988). Can the subaltern speak? In C. Nelson & L. Grossberg (Eds.), Marxism and the interpretation of culture (pp. 271–313). University of Illinois Press.
