For the American press, there are important warnings in Pakistan’s playbook
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Last February, when Pakistan’s government shut down mobile phone services on election day to suppress information flow, my newsroom in Lahore went silent. Screens froze mid-sentence, phones lost signal, and the hum of breaking news gave way to an eerie quiet. We had faced blackouts before, but this felt like a rehearsal for something more permanent. Then, just a few weeks ago, a friend at Voice of America texted: “They just gutted our Urdu service. 50 journalists fired overnight.”
Of course, Pakistan is not America and parallels are not always relevant. But what is happening in Pakistan to the press, free speech and the truth will sooner or later happen in the US as the infections of populism, ideology, hatred and political division are not controlled and redressed. Consider these warnings.
The methods differ — here, they raid offices and jail reporters; there, they employ lawsuits and algorithmic suppression — but the intent is the same: make the truth too costly, too dangerous, or too exhausting to pursue. America’s press is not immune to the rot devouring ours; the difference lies only in the speed of decay.
In Pakistan, censorship is a blunt instrument. The state silences reporters with trumped-up charges, jails critics under vague cybercrime laws, and when all else fails, simply pulls the plug on communication channels. Journalists learn to self-censor, making the truth just blurry enough to survive. In America, press erosion wears a different mask, wrapped in the language of free speech and balance. When Florida attempted to challenge New York Times v. Sullivan in 2023 (the ruling that shields journalists from predatory defamation suits) it was a test run. The bill failed, but the war on press freedom continues. Across the US, new “fake news” laws criminalize documenting protests, and lawsuits drain the resources of newsrooms already on life support. The knock doesn’t come at midnight. It comes as a subpoena. Reporters don’t flee the country— they just stop covering certain topics. Over half of American journalists now say they avoid stories that might bring legal or online harassment. That is what censorship looks like in a democracy.
A young Pakistani reporter once deleted her corruption story after her mother begged, “They’ll come for us.” How long until American journalists make the same decision?
Dure Akram
But laws are just one weapon. In Pakistan, when the government wants to silence a story, they cut off communication channels. In America, the blackout is algorithmic. Meta’s algorithm changes have significantly reduced organic reach for news publishers, making it challenging for them to engage audiences without paid support.
The effect is the same: flood the public with so much junk that truth becomes just another needle in a haystack of noise. Ask your Uber driver where they get their news. If they say TikTok or memes, you’re already living Pakistan’s playbook. When Pakistan banned YouTube in 2012, extremists flooded WhatsApp with propaganda. When local newsrooms in America die, Facebook groups and YouTube grifters fill the void. The result? The public drowns in lies, and no one remembers how to swim.
Violence against journalists doesn’t start with bullets. It starts with words. In Lahore, I’ve received death threats for writing about blasphemy laws. Colleagues have been sent photoshopped images of their corpses. In Louisville, reporters are doxxed for covering school boards. Assaults on US journalists have risen significantly; as of September 2024, assaults increased by more than 50 percent.
Yet few acknowledge the chilling effect it creates. A young Pakistani reporter once deleted her corruption story after her mother begged, “They’ll come for us.” How long until American journalists make the same decision?
State-backed propaganda doesn’t always look like propaganda. In Pakistan, when opposition leaders are arrested, television channels air cooking shows. Newspapers flood their pages with debates over trivialities. America has its version of this. Climate deniers share panels with scientists as if their views hold equal weight. Voter suppression is framed as “he said, she said.” This isn’t balance. It’s complicity.
When The New York Times sued OpenAI for unauthorized use of its content, readers funded the fight. The public doesn’t crave neutrality; they crave clarity. Stop serving them mush.
So how do you fight back?
You name the rot. When Pakistan’s government flooded Twitter with #TraitorMedia hashtags, journalists responded with #BlackoutPakistan, forcing censors onto the defensive. US newsrooms must do the same: call out “national security” gag orders for what they are: censorship dressed up as patriotism. Tell human stories. My most-read piece this year wasn’t a political analysis but the story of why a blind voter had lost hope in the process. Data doesn’t stir souls — people do.
And most of all, protect each other. When Kansas police raided the Marion County Record, over 30 news organizations publicly opposed the actions, demonstrating solidarity. Solidarity is armor.
Democracy isn’t dying in darkness. It’s being smothered in plain sight. It happens when reporters delete stories to keep their families safe. When platforms optimize for outrage instead of truth. When lawsuits become the preferred weapon of the powerful. Pakistani journalists type on burner phones in the dead of night. You still have a free press. The only question is: will you use it?
When the lights go out, the real fight isn’t whether journalism will survive. It’s who will be brave enough to keep it alive.
- Dure Akram is a Pakistan-based journalist and can be reached at durenayab786@gmail.com. She tweets @dureakram.
