In the mid-1980s, when I stepped into the field of print media, it was just a few months after the long era of General Zia-ul-Haq. Following an extended period of martial rule, general elections were held, and a gentleman Muhammad Khan Junejo, hailing from Sindhri, was appointed as the Prime Minister. This was the era of the rise of print media. Telecommunications were being hailed, and computerized typesetting had paved its way into the editorial offices of newspapers. Prominent newspapers like Jang, Nawai Waqt, Dawn, and The Muslim were at the forefront. Urdu newspapers were in circulation by the millions, and the newsrooms of newspapers presented a bustling scene, reminiscent of a fish market, especially during the evening hours. This was the time when the sanctity of words was still revered. The written word was considered valid and sacred. In humorous programs broadcasted on PTV Peshawar Center, an interesting phrase related to this would often be repeated, “Akhbar Kehnda Ae Maloo,” to which the listener would respond, “Phir Theek Hi Hosi” (then it’s true). News transmission to newspapers was handled by two major news agencies. The government agency was the Associated Press of Pakistan (APP), while the private sector had its own agency, Pakistan Press International (PPI). These news stories were printed on the installed telex machines in the newsrooms of newspapers, and after translation, they were incorporated into the pages of the newspapers. It would be apt to say that social media operates more like a free-spirited entity than one subjected to stringent regulations. The number of press corps in the federal capital was not more than two dozen, and everyone knew each other, maintaining mutual respect in their relationships. The Principal Information Officer, appointed by the government, served as the most crucial liaison officer, carrying an aura of both immense authority and respect. In Rawalpindi on Hilal Road, in the old barracks, the ISPR housed a team consisting of a Brigadier, a Colonel, and several officers at the Major rank. The team was equipped with a still and a video camera as the entire asset of the ISPR. The realm of military secrecy was such that, upon publishing the Corps Commander Rawalpindi’s name along with the Corps’ number, the Colonel of the ISPR not only sent a stern warning to a senior reporter of a major media organization but also lodged a complaint with the editor, demanding an explanation. Even in those days, fake journalists existed, but their recognition was distinct. A journalist was considered someone who worked for daily newspapers, weekly publications, and monthly magazines. However, even among them, membership in the press club was granted only to those who held editorial responsibilities. In the second year of the 21st century, in 2002, when electronic media opened its eyes in Pakistan, the public witnessed a new phenomenon. TV mics started roaming from street to street. Instead of once a day, news began to be available every moment, and live coverage of significant events became a norm, happening 24 hours a day. During that era, the significance of editorial pages in newspapers began to diminish, and the importance of evening talk shows on news channels started to rise. Caught up in the TRP race, instead of seasoned journalists and analysts, makeup-clad individuals took their place. The concern was that many of them could only articulate their thoughts when prompted by the producer. These TV anchors began to identify themselves as journalists. As the preference for receiving news in real-time moments was fulfilled by news channels, the significance of newspapers started dwindling day by day, leading many individuals in print media to switch to electronic media. Every major newspaper also established its TV channel. Before this shift, television reporters were not recognized as “journalists,” but with the surge of private news channels, news anchors, program anchors, producers, and cameramen all became labelled as “journalists.” An interesting aspect is that this boom in electronic media continued for nearly fifteen years, after which touch screens and android technology completely transformed the world. Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, LinkedIn, TikTok – these platforms orchestrated a revolution in the media landscape to an extent unimaginable by anyone until 2001. The world of electronic media has become so ubiquitous and interconnected that individuals sitting at home, engaging in vlogging, messaging on Twitter, and posting on Facebook, would all be considered journalists. Today, we live in the world of social media, where every individual with a smartphone in hand is free to express their opinion. Newspapers are abandoned, and TV news channels have become irrelevant. It’s not just the means of expressing opinions that have changed; the language itself has undergone a complete transformation. Newspapers and magazines adhered to a certain standard of language that was strictly enforced, but now, on social media, a new language has emerged, incorporating not only standard expressions but also profanity and vulgar words. In controlled societies, including North Korea, China, and Iran, measures have been taken to control and regulate social media to some extent. However, in Pakistan, like many other sectors, this domain remains largely unrestricted, and it would be apt to say that it operates more like a free-spirited entity than one subjected to stringent regulations. After print media, we have also left electronic media far behind. Now, the leadership in social media lies in the hands of those whom neither the press talk of Muhammad Khan Junejo nor the charisma of Benazir Bhutto could sway. However, the helm of national politics rests in the hands of these very individuals. They are the heroes and villains of today’s media world, shaping the image of the future for a population of 240 million. The writer is a veteran journalist based in Islamabad. He writes on social, political, economic, defence and strategic developments across the South Asian region. He can be reached through on zm.journalist@gmail.com