I spent most of my childhood after school at my father’s petrol station in Akbarpura, a village where our business was the only one of its kind. We sold petrol, diesel, and engine oil, and in 2015–16, we started our own venture. Before that, my father had worked at a petrol agency in the same village as a salaried employee.
This experience taught me lessons about power and its influence in fields like Journalism, particularly in how Journalism stories are shaped and presented.
The Impact of Power on Journalism
When we set out to start our own business, the biggest challenge was obtaining the oil agency license. My father often had to visit the commissioner’s office, local police stations, and other government offices. I remember the first time I accompanied him to a government office in Nowshera—probably the commissioner’s office. It was my first visit to such a place, and I felt as if the people there were from another world, superior to us in every way. Perhaps it was just my first-time perspective, but the experience left a lasting impression.
We returned home with the hope that our business could now begin officially, with all government approvals in place. Little did I know, starting a business in Pakistan also meant dealing closely with the local police.
About four months after opening our station, a black Corolla pulled up in front of our shop. Police officers stepped out and asked in a stern voice, “Who owns this place?” Nervously, I replied, “No, it’s my father.” They asked where he was, and I said he had gone home for tea. The officers replied, “We’ll be back,” and left.
Empowering Stories: My Journey in Journalism
When my father returned, I narrated the incident to him. He told me that it wasn’t the right time for me to understand these things fully. A few days later, police on motorcycles came again while my father was at the station. He instructed me to fill their tanks with petrol. I followed his orders, and when I shyly asked for payment, the officers smiled and left without giving me any money. From that moment, a small idea formed in my mind—that perhaps police relied on public goodwill. Over the next few days, I occasionally filled their motorcycle tanks on my own, out of what I thought was sympathy.
One day, the SHO of Akbarpura stopped in front of our station and demanded petrol. On that day, stock was low because prices were dropping, and we hadn’t ordered extra. My father refused, prioritizing our regular customers over the police request. The officer left angrily, saying the matter would be discussed at the police station. I realized then that providing petrol to the police wasn’t generosity—it was a necessity.
My father then contacted Hasan Zub, a well-known journalist covering Nowshera and Akbarpura. Hasan Zub’s intervention resolved the situation, but a few days later, the same SHO returned. He told my father, “We are humans like you, and we are here to protect you. But if you have complaints, discuss them with me directly. What you tell the journalist becomes news. Also, your license is incomplete—I could jail you under it, but I won’t because we are here to protect your business and ensure your safety.”
That encounter shaped my understanding of both the police and the press. It left a mark on me, and today, as a journalist, I carry the lessons I learned from that petrol station: every department, every institution, no matter how powerful, must serve the people. Whether it’s reporting on resource gaps at a police station or giving a voice to the public, I learned it all from those days at my father’s shop—a place whose name and presence today barely exist, but whose lessons remain etched in my life.
By Abdul Wahab
