A recent social media post on the issue of English language highlighted by writer and commentator Usman Chughtai has sparked wide debate in Pakistan’s digital and intellectual circles. In his thought-provoking note titled “From CSS to E-Commerce — Our Spell of Slavery,” Chughtai highlighted how English continues to dominate professional and academic spaces in Pakistan at the cost of genuine talent and vision. His post, widely shared and discussed, connected a Sialkot e-commerce event with the broader national dilemma of language in Pakistan’s CSS exams.
The Event in Sialkot
Chughtai began his commentary with a vivid account of the “Alibaba eCommerce Guru of the Year” ceremony in Sialkot. The glittering event gathered young entrepreneurs, business leaders, and even Chinese representatives from Alibaba.
Six young contestants, brimming with confidence, were invited on stage to present their pitches. Yet, according to Chughtai, every participant was bound by one condition: they had to present only in English.
The outcome was disheartening. Sentences faltered, words stumbled, and the true essence of their creative ideas was lost. The Pakistani audience of hundreds remained largely disengaged, unable to connect with presentations delivered in halting English.
Ironically, Chughtai noted, even the Chinese delegates struggled to express themselves in broken English. Despite significant investment in the event, its purpose—bringing forward the entrepreneurial vision of Pakistan’s youth—was undermined by the insistence on English.
Awakening Through Urdu
One striking moment in Chughtai’s post was when he himself, serving as a judge, addressed contestants in Urdu and Punjabi. The participants instantly became alert. Audience members straightened in their seats, visibly engaged and attentive.
For Chughtai, this was proof that the event had been detached from its own people. Contestants were more concerned about whether foreigners could understand them than about communicating with their own fellow citizens. What should have been a stage for innovative business ideas instead resembled an English Speaking Contest.
The CSS Connection
Chughtai extended his critique to Pakistan’s most prestigious recruitment system: the Central Superior Services (CSS) exam.
Much like the Sialkot event, CSS often selects candidates not on their vision, character, or commitment to public service, but largely on their fluency in English writing and speaking.
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Those who know their communities and aspire to serve are excluded if their English is weak.
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Those who can string polished sentences in English are promoted, regardless of their actual competence or vision.
Chughtai stressed that this system mirrors the same flawed standard that dominated the Sialkot stage—talent overshadowed by language.
Who Is This English For?
In his viral post, Chughtai asked a powerful question: Who exactly benefits from this English obsession?
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Pakistan’s leaders understand Urdu.
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Farmers, workers, and ordinary citizens speak Urdu and regional languages.
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The British no longer rule over Pakistan.
Yet, English remains the gatekeeper of opportunity. For Chughtai, this reflects not meritocracy but a colonial complex—a psychological inheritance of slavery. Under British rule, English separated rulers from the ruled. Tragically, Pakistan continues to uphold the same standard long after independence.
The Price of Slavery
Chughtai warned of the cost of this mindset: Pakistan is losing thousands of its most capable and committed young minds. Bright students who understand local issues and aspire to serve are shut out, simply because they cannot fluently deliver “My name is…”
He described this as a deliberate loss of genuine talent, locking out those who could serve the people best, while promoting those who merely master a foreign tongue.
The Solutions Proposed
Chughtai’s post did not end with critique. He laid out solutions to break free from linguistic slavery:
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Offer CSS exams in both Urdu and English.
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Test vision, character, and service commitment—not just language skills.
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Mandate Urdu in official meetings and seminars to reduce barriers between the government and citizens.
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Use English only as a tool for international dealings, not as the sole measure of competence at home.
He further pointed out that despite the 2015 Supreme Court order, the 2019 Senate resolution, and Article 251 of the Constitution, CSS exams remain in English. For Chughtai, this refusal reflects a disturbing persistence of colonial habits: Who are we still afraid of?
Why His Post Resonates
The post struck a deep chord because it mirrored a lived reality for millions. In classrooms, job interviews, and national exams, Pakistan’s youth often find themselves judged not by their competence but by their English. For many, Chughtai’s words voiced long-suppressed frustrations about an education and governance system still chained to colonial illusions.
Conclusion
Usman Chughtai’s viral Facebook post is not just a commentary on one event in Sialkot. It is a mirror to Pakistan’s deeper struggles with identity, merit, and post-colonial hangovers. His argument is simple yet powerful: until Pakistan frees itself from the illusion that English equals excellence, it will continue to bury its most capable youth under the spell of linguistic slavery.
Whether one agrees entirely or not, his words have reopened a crucial national debate: Should English remain the measure of talent in Pakistan—or is it time to reclaim our own voice?
