Every evening in Pakistan, just when families sit down for tea and try to relax after a long day of surviving inflation, load-shedding and traffic, the real drama begins. Not in parliament. Not in the streets. But in brightly lit TV studios where the same five political faces rotate like ceiling fans in June.
Welcome to prime time — or as it should honestly be called — Crime Time.
Over the years, our TV anchors have quietly evolved into something more powerful than journalists. They have become a class of their own. A well-paid, well-connected, well-protected club. A mafia — not with guns, but with microphones.
Every night, almost every news channel runs the same formula. Invite politicians from rival parties. Throw in a “neutral analyst” who is neutral in theory but emotional in practice. Choose a topic that guarantees sparks. Add dramatic background music. And let the shouting begin.
For one full hour — the nation is served a buffet of accusations, interruptions, finger-pointing and selective outrage. The anchor sits in the middle like a wrestling referee who secretly enjoys the fight more than the fighters.
But here is the real question: who benefits from this nightly circus?
The common Pakistani gains nothing from it — and the country, certainly, does not either. The average citizen wants to know why electricity bills are rising. Why wheat prices fluctuate. Why hospitals lack facilities. Why education standards are declining. Why jobs are scarce. Instead, they are force-fed endless debates about who insulted whom, who may form the next alliance, or who held a secret meeting in some drawing room.
It is political gossip presented as national emergency.
And let us not pretend this is accidental. Most major TV channels today are owned by powerful business groups — particularly real estate tycoons and corporate magnates whose main interests lie not in journalism, but in protecting their empires. Media, for many of them, is not a public service. It is leverage. It is insurance. It is influence.
The anchor, in this structure, is not a watchdog. He is a manager of perception.
The loud debates, the carefully selected guests, the selective outrage — all of it serves a purpose. It keeps the public distracted. It shapes narratives that suit ownership interests. It ensures that certain business questions are never seriously discussed on air. How many talk shows, for example, seriously investigate land scams, housing scheme irregularities, or the role of powerful developers in urban chaos? Exactly.
The same channels that shout daily about “accountability” suddenly become very calm when topics touch the financial interests of their own owners.
And so the anchor mafia thrives.
They earn salaries in millions. They build personal brands. They trend on social media. Meanwhile, the reporters who actually travel, investigate and gather facts struggle on modest incomes. Cameramen, editors and field staff work long hours without the glamour or the pay. The real journalists are often sidelined, while the studio stars dominate the screen.
Most of these anchors have little to do with journalism in any serious sense of the word. Some were never trained in journalism at all. Some have no formal background in the field, and a few do not even have a basic university education — yet they present themselves as the most enlightened, well-read, and intellectually superior voices in the country.
They speak with the authority of historians, the confidence of constitutional experts, and the tone of moral guardians — all in the same breath.
The real comedy begins when these very same anchors are invited to academic conferences and literature festivals. Suddenly, the prime-time gladiator becomes a “thought leader.” The professional interrupter becomes a keynote speaker. One wonders: since when did shouting over guests qualify as scholarship? Since when did moderating political quarrels become a contribution to literature?
What exactly is their academic contribution? The art of dramatic pauses before commercial breaks? The science of selective outrage? The philosophy of cutting off microphones mid-sentence?
It is not just ironic — it is tragic. When serious academic spaces begin to celebrate television noise as intellectual depth, it signals a cultural confusion. Expertise is replaced with visibility. Research is replaced with ratings. Scholarship is replaced with studio fame.
Journalism, at its best, demands rigor, curiosity, discipline and humility. What we often see instead is performance, ego and spectacle — dressed up as national wisdom.
And somehow, we are expected to applaud. It is a strange system where noise earns more than knowledge.
What makes it worse is that this nightly shouting match has replaced real journalism. Instead of documentaries exploring Pakistan’s diverse cultures, instead of investigative reports exposing systemic corruption with evidence, instead of science programs, agricultural guidance, youth innovation stories or meaningful social discussions — we get recycled political arguments.
Every day feels like a repeat episode.
The same guests. The same allegations. The same dramatic pauses before advertisement breaks. Yesterday’s “historic crisis” is forgotten by tomorrow. No follow-up. No accountability. Just a fresh topic and fresh shouting.
In many parts of the world, prime time includes thoughtful reporting, cultural programs, or serious investigative journalism. In Pakistan, it often resembles a permanent election campaign — even when no election is in sight.
And let us be honest: this is not about informing the public anymore. It is about controlling the public mood.
An angry public is easier to manipulate. A confused public is easier to distract. A divided public does not ask deeper economic questions.
If television truly reflected public interest, we would see programs explaining government budgets in simple language. We would see experts discussing water scarcity and climate risks. We would see debates on health reforms and education policy that actually affect millions of families.
Instead, we get volume without value.
This is not harmless entertainment. It shapes political culture. It normalizes aggression. It turns complex national issues into shouting competitions. Children grow up watching adults interrupt each other instead of listening. Civil discussion becomes a lost art.
The saddest part? Pakistan is full of real stories waiting to be told. Farmers innovating with limited water. Young entrepreneurs building tech startups. Artists preserving dying crafts. Teachers educating children in remote mountains. Doctors running free clinics. Engineers experimenting with renewable energy.
These are stories of progress. But progress does not scream. It does not create viral clips. It requires effort, research and patience — qualities that do not fit easily into a one-hour shouting format.
So the circus continues.
If the powers that be genuinely want people to focus on development, economic growth and national progress, they must take this issue seriously. This nightly media circus is not neutral. It is not harmless. It consumes mental energy. It fuels division. It distracts from real work.
Regulators and policymakers need to rethink content priorities. Encourage informative programming. Incentivize investigative journalism. Reward documentaries, cultural shows and educational content. Create space for meaningful dialogue instead of manufactured conflict.
Most importantly, stop allowing prime time to be hijacked by narrow commercial and corporate interests masquerading as public debate.
Pakistan cannot progress if its evenings are permanently trapped in argument.
A nation moves forward when its people are informed, inspired and engaged — not when they are exhausted by endless noise.
If there is serious intent to focus public attention on reform, productivity and unity, then this nightly circus must be shut down — or at least transformed. Because right now, prime time is not serving the nation.
It is serving itself.
And the country deserves better than a microphone mafia running the show.