There are moments when a nation is not attacked only with bullets.
Sometimes the weapon is a headline.
Sometimes it is a carefully selected sentence.
Sometimes it is a social-media clip, stripped of its context, thrown into the public arena and repeated until doubt begins to sound like truth.
And sometimes the target is not a soldier standing at a border post.
The target is the confidence of the people sitting safely behind that border.
Welcome to the battlefield of the hybrid age.
Pakistan is facing more than one kind of fire. There is the fire that comes from across a physical border, the fire of terrorism, the fire of political confrontation—and now the invisible fire of information, perception and psychological warfare.
In such an atmosphere, every public statement by a state institution becomes part of a much larger contest.
That brings me to the office of the DG ISPR.
Lieutenant General Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry, Director General Inter-Services Public Relations, has increasingly found himself not merely communicating military positions but standing in the middle of a fierce information battle.
His briefings are watched not only in Pakistan but across the region and beyond.
His words are clipped, circulated, translated, challenged, praised, mocked and sometimes deliberately detached from the circumstances in which they were spoken.
That is precisely why we should examine the message—not the accent.
And here comes my personal memoir.
Years ago, at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, I witnessed a small incident that remained with me for years.
Senator Tatique Choudhry was there.
A woman working with the PIA office at JFK was helping with communication and translation.
Mr. Khalid Hadan, the PIA Manager, was also present.
The conversation turned toward English.
The Senator understood English perfectly well, but he made it clear that he did not wish to conduct the conversation in English.
It was not a failure to understand.
It was a conscious preference to speak in his own language.
The matter had to be explained to the PIA staffer so that she understood that the Senator was not refusing communication; he was refusing to surrender his own linguistic identity merely because he was standing on American soil.
Mr. Khalid Hadan was present throughout.
Rather than treating the episode as some embarrassment, he appreciated the Senator’s enthusiasm and spirit.
That small airport encounter left an impression on me.
And something else came out of it.
After that day, Senator Tatique Choudhry became my friend—a friendship that continued for years.
Now, why am I recalling an old airport episode in an article about the DG ISPR?
Because sometimes a little personal memory explains a large national argument better than a page of political theory.
English is a language.
It is not a certificate of courage.
It is not a military decoration.
It is not a measure of patriotism.
It is not a test of intelligence.
Nor does an imperfect accent make a Pakistani less Pakistani.
If the DG ISPR speaks English, let us listen to what he is saying.
If he speaks Urdu, let us listen to what he is saying.
If he speaks another language, let us examine the message.
The real questions are much more demanding:
What are the facts?
What evidence has been presented?
What is independently verifiable?
What does the other side say?
What remains disputed?
What are the consequences?
Those are the questions of journalism.
Those are the questions of citizenship.
Those are the questions of a serious nation.
Mocking someone’s pronunciation is easy.
Checking a claim is hard.
And hybrid warfare thrives on easy things.
It thrives when citizens are encouraged to react before they verify.
It thrives when a thirty-second clip becomes more important than the longer briefing from which it was taken.
It thrives when an accent becomes more newsworthy than evidence.
It thrives when a nation begins fighting itself.
The Qur’an gave humanity an extraordinary principle for precisely such a situation:
“O you who believe, if a wrongdoer brings you news, verify it…” — Qur’an 49:6.
Verify it.
Not forward it.
Not decorate it.
Not weaponise it.
Verify it.
That single command should be hanging above every newsroom, television studio, newspaper desk and social-media workstation.
Because today information itself has become a weapon.
A rumour can travel faster than a missile.
A manipulated photograph can cross continents before breakfast.
A fabricated quotation can become “fact” before the person allegedly quoted has even heard of it.
And an emotionally charged video can turn millions of ordinary citizens into unpaid foot soldiers of somebody else’s narrative.
That is the essence of hybrid warfare.
No uniform is necessary.
No passport is required.
Sometimes the most effective weapon is simply repetition.
Say something often enough.
Give it a dramatic headline.
Attach a photograph.
Add outrage.
And soon people begin repeating it without remembering where it came from.
That is where my word “Puppets” enters this article.
I am not using “puppets” as a legal accusation against any named person.
I am describing a phenomenon.
A person can unknowingly become an instrument of somebody else’s narrative.
A puppet does not necessarily know who is pulling the string.
That is precisely what makes the phenomenon so dangerous.
And here another personal memory comes knocking.
It begins over a cup of tea in the CEO chamber of Dawan Travels in Lahore.
I was sitting with Muhammad Yaseen Chaudhry, a prominent London-based Pakistani businessman associated with Dawan Travels, a man whose personal relationships had brought him into contact with many Pakistani politicians who travelled frequently between Britain and Pakistan.
In those days, he was known not merely as a businessman but as someone whose personal relationships crossed political lines. He sometimes even helped politicians by extending their travel arrangements when immediate payment was not available.
Our conversation turned to politics.
Yaseen Chaudhry recalled an exchange with Mian Nawaz Sharif when Nawaz Sharif was Prime Minister.
At that time, Siddique Khan Kanju had been appointed Minister of State for Foreign Affairs.
Yaseen Chaudhry told me that he had asked the Prime Minister a rather serious question:
“Chaudhry Sahib, what was the criterion for choosing Siddique Kanju for the foreign-affairs portfolio?”
The answer, he said, unexpectedly turned the seriousness of the conversation into a moment of humour.
According to Yaseen Chaudhry’s recollection, Nawaz Sharif replied, in effect, that Siddique Kanju spoke English beautifully, had an impressive accent and was fluent in the language.
Yaseen Chaudhry smiled and answered:
“Mian Sahib, if that is the criterion, my elder son speaks English like an Englishman. I brought him up in London and he received his entire education there. Let him be the Foreign Minister.”
According to Yaseen Chaudhry, Mian Nawaz Sharif smiled at the remark as well.
I remember that story because beneath its humour was a serious question:
Should fluency in a foreign language, an impressive accent or polished English be treated as a measure of a person’s suitability for public office?
Language can certainly be a useful tool in diplomacy.
But a language is a language.
It is not a certificate of wisdom.
It is not a certificate of courage.
It is not a certificate of patriotism.
It is not, by itself, a certificate of competence.
And that old conversation came back to me while listening to today’s political and national-security arguments.
Listen to what a person is saying.
Examine the evidence.
Question the claim.
Verify the facts.
Do not mistake an accent for an argument.
That lesson brings us directly back to the DG ISPR.
The October 1 briefing demonstrated how complicated this information battlefield has become.
Among the issues discussed was the case of retired Havildar Muhammad Asif, whom Indian reports had identified as a person allegedly killed during an operation in Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir. Pakistan’s military rejected that identification and presented Muhammad Asif alive before the media. Asif said he had been at home when reports of his alleged death began circulating.
The competing accounts belong to the evidentiary arena.
They must be checked, documented and independently scrutinised.
That is exactly what serious journalism should do.
We do not strengthen Pakistan by pretending that every official statement is automatically established fact.
Nor do we strengthen Pakistan by accepting every hostile narrative merely because it has been repeated by an international outlet.
The mature position lies in verification.
Evidence first.
Emotion second.
The DG ISPR also addressed terrorism and Pakistan’s security concerns, including allegations concerning militant activity connected to Afghanistan. Pakistan’s military presented its own account and position on the matter, while Afghan Taliban representatives have rejected such accusations.
These are serious matters.
They deserve serious journalism.
Not memes.
Not accents.
Not manufactured outrage.
And not blind applause.
There is an important distinction here.
Criticising an institution is not the same as attacking the country.
Questioning a military statement is not the same as betraying Pakistan.
Demanding evidence is not disloyalty.
Indeed, a nation becomes intellectually stronger when its citizens are able to ask difficult questions without surrendering their attachment to their homeland.
At the same time, criticism becomes destructive when its real purpose is no longer to discover truth but to humiliate, divide and delegitimise everything Pakistani.
That is where the line becomes important.
We can question the claim without insulting the country.
We can question the institution without hating the soldier.
We can challenge the spokesman without mocking the language.
And we can disagree with a position without becoming somebody else’s instrument.
This is where my Bell-man appears.
BāBā Tāl.
My tall, thin, strange and wonderfully wise dervish.
The Bell-man.
His navy-blue robe carries little brass bells.
Even his beard seems to have its own collection of bronze bells.
He appears when the noise around me becomes louder than the wisdom inside me.
And, as always, he does not arrive empty-handed.
He makes tea.
One mug for himself.
One mug for me.
Steam rises between us.
The bells become quiet.
The television continues shouting.
BāBā Tāl does not.
He takes a slow sip.
Then he looks at me with those deep eyes.
“Bacha!”
I know that word.
It means: listen.
He points toward the screen.
Then toward my notebook.
Then toward the steaming mug.
And finally he says:
“Facts first.”
I smile.
The Bell-man has spoken.
And perhaps that is the simplest rule for the entire information war.
Facts first.
Feelings later.
The Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him] warned of the destructive consequences of hatred, envy and turning away from one another. In Sahih Muslim 2586, the Prophet [Peace and blessings be upon him] taught about the bonds among believers and warned against conduct that tears those bonds apart.
The lesson is painfully relevant to Pakistan.
An enemy outside a wall is visible.
An enemy inside a sentence can be invisible.
A foreign soldier can be identified.
A foreign narrative can wear our clothes.
It can speak our language.
It can use our grievances.
It can exploit our political divisions.
And it can persuade us that attacking one another is patriotism.
That is the real danger.
Look at the ordinary Pakistani.
The teacher entering her classroom.
The brick-maker standing beside a kiln.
The labourer carrying cement up a half-built building.
The farmer working beneath the sun.
The engineer drawing a bridge.
The shopkeeper opening his shutters.
The driver carrying passengers through the city.
The soldier standing guard.
The mother waiting for her son.
The young Pakistani trying to build a future.
These are the people who ultimately pay when national divisions become uncontrollable.
They do not need manufactured panic.
They need truth.
They need security.
They need dignity.
They need jobs.
They need functioning institutions.
They need justice.
And above all, they need Pakistan to remain Pakistan.
Not a playground for competing propaganda machines.
Not a laboratory for foreign narratives.
Not a country where every disagreement is transformed into hatred.
There is another lesson here for the Pakistani media.
Our responsibility is enormous.
We cannot become an echo chamber for any side.
The state deserves scrutiny.
The opposition deserves scrutiny.
The military deserves scrutiny.
Politicians deserve scrutiny.
Journalists themselves deserve scrutiny.
But scrutiny means investigation.
It does not mean ridicule.
It means evidence.
It does not mean manufactured humiliation.
It means asking:
“Show us the proof.”
And then, equally importantly:
“Show us the other side.”
That is journalism.
Anything less risks becoming propaganda wearing the clothes of journalism.
There is a Western saying often attributed to Abraham Lincoln:
“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet just because there’s a picture with a quote next to it.”
The attribution and wording of such quotations themselves demonstrate the problem.
Even a famous quotation needs verification.
Even a photograph needs verification.
Even a video needs verification.
Even our own memory can sometimes need verification.
So what should we do?
Listen.
Read.
Check.
Compare.
Question.
Then decide.
Not the other way around.
BāBā Tāl takes another sip of tea.
I ask him:
“Then whom should we trust?”
He smiles.
The bells on his robe make the faintest sound.
Chin.
He says:
“Truth.”
And I realise that the answer is neither blind trust nor blind suspicion.
It is evidence.
That is the balance Pakistan needs.
The country cannot afford citizens who believe everything.
Nor can it afford citizens who believe nothing.
Both extremes are fertile soil for manipulation.
A mature citizen can say:
“I love Pakistan—and I will still ask for proof.”
“I respect our soldiers—and I will still question a claim.”
“I care about national security—and I will still demand constitutional accountability.”
“I disagree with the government—and I will not become a vehicle for foreign propaganda.”
That is patriotism with a brain.
That is citizenship with a conscience.
And that is the Pakistan we need.
The Qur’an gives us another timeless instruction:
“And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not be divided.” — Qur’an 3:103.
These words carry an enormous national lesson.
We may disagree.
We may argue.
We may challenge.
We may criticise.
But we must not allow disagreement to become national fragmentation.
Pakistan has already paid an unbearable price for division.
History does not need another lesson written in blood.
The danger today is subtler.
Instead of physically breaking the country, somebody may first attempt to break the confidence that holds its people together.
Make the citizen distrust the soldier.
Make the soldier distrust the citizen.
Make one province distrust another.
Make one political camp hate another.
Make one institution appear permanently illegitimate to another.
Then sit back and watch the country weaken itself.
That is the puppet theatre.
The strings may be invisible.
But the movement is real.
And the answer is not hysteria.
The answer is awareness.
I return to that little airport scene in New York.
A Pakistani senator stood in an American environment and chose to communicate in his own language.
A PIA staffer needed an explanation.
Mr. Khalid Hadan, the PIA Manager, was there.
He understood the spirit behind the decision and appreciated the Senator’s enthusiasm.
Years later, I still remember the episode.
Why?
Because it reminds me that confidence does not always speak with a foreign accent.
Sometimes it speaks in the language in which your mother first called your name.
English is useful.
Very useful.
I use it myself.
But a language is a tool.
It should never become a ruler over the person using it.
And perhaps that is why the old Lahore tea-table memory belongs in this article too.
The accent may impress the ear.
But it cannot answer the question.
The question is always:
What did you say?
What evidence supports it?
Can it be verified?
Can the other side answer?
That is the standard we should apply to everybody—from a politician to a general, from a journalist to a social-media influencer, from an ordinary citizen to a powerful institution.
So let us return to the DG ISPR.
If Lieutenant General Ahmed Sharif Chaudhry speaks English, listen to his argument.
If he speaks Urdu, listen to his argument.
If he makes a claim, examine the evidence.
If another side makes a claim, examine that evidence too.
If a journalist challenges him, examine the journalist’s evidence.
If someone attacks him personally because of his accent, ask a simple question:
“What does pronunciation have to do with proof?”
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The battlefield is already difficult enough.
We do not need to manufacture another one.
Pakistan needs awake citizens, not blind followers.
It needs journalism, not propaganda.
It needs accountability, not humiliation.
It needs courage, not hysteria.
It needs unity without uniformity.
And it needs a national conversation in which disagreement does not automatically become enmity.
My POETEARS comes here:
A headline may ignite what reason cannot tame,
A whisper may travel farther than a flame;
But truth needs no puppet dancing on a string—
It walks on its own feet, and answers to its name.
QUATRAIN — Coined by T. Hejazi — Where poetry becomes tears, and tears become poetry.
BāBā Tāl finishes his tea.
He places the mug on the table.
For once, he does not ring the bells.
He simply looks toward me.
Then his finger rises slowly to his lips.
“Shhh…”
I understand.
Not every answer needs another argument.
Sometimes the wisest response to a noisy world is to become quiet enough to hear the truth.
He picks up his empty mug.
The bells begin again.
Chin-chin-chin-chin.
And before disappearing into the shadows of my Eyrie, he leaves me with one final thought:
“Bacha… don’t let anyone pull your strings.”
So, Pakistan, listen carefully.
The hybrid battlefield is real.
The information war is real.
The propaganda is real.
But the citizen’s mind must remain his own.
Verify before sharing.
Think before condemning.
Question before believing.
And never allow anyone—foreign or domestic—to pull the strings of your mind while convincing you that you are acting freely.
Pakistan does not need puppets.
Pakistan needs people who can think.
Pakistan does not need manufactured heroes.
It needs truth.
Pakistan does not need hatred between its institutions and its people.
It needs communication, accountability and constitutional order.
And when the guns finally become silent, the battle of the mind will still continue.
That is why we must win the information battle without losing our humanity.
We must defend Pakistan without abandoning reason.
We must question without destroying.
We must disagree without dividing.
Because if we surrender the battlefield of our own minds, no foreign army will need to cross the border.
The puppets will already be dancing.
And Pakistan must refuse to dance to anybody else’s strings.