Death of the Critic? Power, Access & the Future of Criticism in MENA

Every few months the declaration over the so-called ‘death of criticism’ resurfaces in new clothes: criticism flattened into PR promos, nuanced reviews overshadowed by clickbait clapbacks, and the personal takedowns of journalists by angry superfans.

A wave of recent essays and global industry news explore the grim state of criticism: from Vanity Fair cutting back on dedicated critics, The New York Times reassigning cultural writers to other beats, to full publications like Teen Vogue (one of the few Conde Nast publications producing investigative and critical reports) being absorbed under the Vogue URL as budgets tighten and traffic incentives sharpen.

Criticism isn’t simply a metric of taste. Across the broader landscape of cultural critique in film, fashion, and music, it reflects what we decide is worth covering in the first place, whose work gets taken seriously, and what kinds of stories we continue to make room for –even when the ecosystem tells us not to.

But what do all these changes actually mean for journalism in the MENA region?

In this ongoing series, I’m turning the camera around and asking the people who shape the frame: journalists, editors, and critics working across the region (and, sometimes, speaking to it from abroad): What does critique look like when social media has become the primary public square, when faulty economics determine who gets access to stories, and when identity politics has become both a necessary lens and, increasingly, a diluted brand asset?

This isn’t a eulogy for a lost golden age of criticism. It’s a practical question dressed as a cultural one: if critique is changing, how does journalism change with it?

Various critics in the region seem to agree on at least one thing: criticism is a form of dialogue.

For Ahmed Shawky, veteran Egyptian film critic and President of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), a critic is “a mediator between the audience and the art. It’s not simply about a thumbs up or thumbs down, but about placing the work in a bigger context.” A review can connect a movie to a filmmaker’s body of work, to a national cinema, or even to a historical and political moment. Music journalist and former Editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone MENA, Danny Hajjar, echoes this sentiment: “A critic is not the end-all-be-all of anything, but a trusted voice who can offer some thoughtful feedback or engagement with a particular piece of art in good faith.” Fashion critic Osama Chaabi agrees, “the goal is not to have a monologue, but invite more discourse.”

If anything, the appetite for cultural commentary feels higher than ever. Apps that now double as containers for critique – Letterboxd, TikTok, GoodReads, Youtube – show that people still want to argue with art, sit with it, recommend it, dismantle it.

Who Gets To Be a Critic?

The core of the ongoing shift in cultural critique lies in who gets to be the critic.

And in that sense, something genuinely democratic has happened. The old gatekeeper model, the lone (often old, often white) man pronouncing taste from a glass tower no longer has the monopoly. With social media, there is a pluralization of voices, backgrounds, and lived experiences shaping how we talk about culture.

For Chaabi, the pandemic became the catalyst for his career in fashion criticism. With the advent of livestreamed fashion shows, a world that once felt closed-off became accessible to people who traditionally didn’t have a seat at the show. Chaabi started sharing his takes online and quickly grew into one of the region’s most recognizable digital voices in fashion criticism. Omar Ghonem, Music Editor at Ma3azef, came up similarly; a few of his Facebook reviews gained traction, and that early attention opened the door to writing professionally and gaining his own following.

With the widening of discourse, traditional markers of authority have begun to erode. For Ghonem, a musician is the ultimate expert, and the credibility to critique doesn’t have to be gained through institutional backing, per se. “I think everyone is a critic. If you're listening to an album, you don't have to study something to say your opinion about it. I dropped out of college and I never studied music.” Instead, what he prioritizes is someone who is on the ground and embedded in the culture – not friends with the artists (because that distance is vital) but closely attuned to the nuances and shifts unfolding in real time. As Ghonem reflects, “many writers come from abroad and it comes out as tone-deaf when you're talking about it from far away.”

On the other hand, Mille World journalist, Yassine Harris, argues that this lack of formal training ends up trivializing the ecosystem. Artists are expected to be open to feedback and critique, yet many writers enter the space without deep, industry-specific knowledge, so when criticism does come—“it might come across the wrong way, because – what do you know? Who are you to comment on this work?” Harris reflects. Without this specialization, most journalists in the region are expected to work as generalists, diluting the previously hard-earned ‘authority’ to critique. Hajjar echoes this point, calling for stronger training pipelines in the region, through both formal education and incubator programs.

Of course, expertise can be built outside academia and gatekeeping the field through credentials alone risks reinforcing class barriers. But Hajjar flags a separate issue: “People are hiring journalists, but not all of them want to be journalists. Some of them just want to be in the music industry, for example, and use their proximity to artists to parlay that into a career with whatever record label or artist team.”

The Economics of It All

All of these changes point to a fundamental shift in the media ecosystem. When asked what it was missing, every journalist I spoke to reverted to the same answer: money.

Before social media, print magazines and critics were one of the few who had access to these events and engagement with different artforms. Film festivals, early release albums, fashion shows, and interviews with artists published through magazines gave the public a small window into this shiny, enigmatic world of stardom. Yet with social media, select tabloid photos have been exchanged for personal instagram accounts that walk audiences through their daily skincare routine and how their bedroom looks. Spotify allows you to stream an album as soon as it’s released, and most blockbusters come out simultaneously on Netflix and movie theaters. The boundary between stardom and the public has melted, and with it, the previous financial foundations of arts and culture journalism.

Ghonem points to Ma3azef's business model as the main reason why their pieces can be more critical—mostly funded by cultural grants “[we] don't really have to maintain that relationship with record labels to sustain ourselves.” Ma3azef has the financial safeguards to write critically without economic backlash.

However, Ma3azef is an anomaly in the ecosystem. Hajjar notes that most media platforms don’t have steady financial backing or investment and so “journalists are forced to trade our connections versus our expertise. Because for us, those connections mean economic survival.” A journalist’s value moves from what they know to who they know.

Especially as most publications struggle with funding, they have shifted to employing more freelance journalists. The assignment then often goes not to the journalist best equipped to tell the story, but to whoever can get past the velvet rope.

Access As the New Currency

What is so different from buying a print magazine versus liking a post on social media or reading it on a web browser? More engagement means bigger audiences, which means more leverage, but taken a step further, now social media metrics inform what you write. While the apparatus of social media has widened who gets to speak, ironically, it discourages the very dialogue critique claims to spark. It has become an approval machine.

Likes, retweets, favourites (and the self-consciousness that comes with posting to  public forums), create a gravity that pulls discourse towards seeking endorsement. And because everything is measured, we’ve learned to talk about art in the ways that travel best: praise, hype, and allegiance. So, when someone shows up with an actual critique, it doesn’t feel like part of the feed’s natural rhythm. It reads like friction.

But the feed is just as fluent in the opposite register too: dislike, scandal, cancel culture. The algorithm has no problem with friction when it is spectacular. What it cannot accommodate as neatly is nuanced critique that resists binary logic and asks instead for interpretation, discussion—even discomfort. In a culture shaped by metrics, that slower kind of critical attention is often the first thing to disappear. When access and social media attention becomes a currency, praise becomes the easier route to take.

This epidemic of niceness is a slippery slope, risking turning journalism into a PR playground. But how do you keep your access to certain events if a PR team decides they don’t like your take?

For Harris, he feels this pressure acutely: “If you're a bit too honest, you best believe that's the last time you'll ever be invited. If you do it one too many times, or if you piss off the wrong person, you're out of a job."

As Ghonem puts it frankly: “The new model of media is access media. I think publications here in the region don't want to lose the relationships they have with record labels or artists. So, they become hype-driven media. Everything is groundbreaking.” He’s even witnessed this trickle into music studios as well, “The whole industry is now used to a kind of toxic positivity where we just cheer and encourage each other. I’ve been to studio sessions where artists are recording terrible music and everyone in the studio is not saying anything because they want to maintain that relationship.”

In his view, there used to be more distance and respect between journalists and artists. “The model itself should change. You shouldn’t be focused on maintaining relationships to be able to make money.” He argues that this distance was possible because there were financial safeguards that allowed editorial decisions to breathe. Now, as budgets shrink and access becomes a kind of currency, that buffer has eroded.

With the rise of social media, the proximity to fame has also melted that boundary. “You'll notice the same people prancing from one magazine to the next, either because they're living in Dubai or hanging out in the right places. It becomes a bunch of friends spotlighting each other. Your ‘coin’ as a journalist is making sure the people you’re hanging with get the coverage they need, and in return you have access to the people and the events. Ultimately, it's the same 20 people running this industry,” Harris continues.

Then, there’s the passport question. Literal borders police cultural coverage even if social media is supposedly ‘democratised.’ International coverage is limited to who can get there in time. “When all of these fashion shows are happening in Paris, who can travel to Paris? And usually, the only ones that can travel are part of the 1%,” Harris adds. Even within the region, some passports are not even allowed in, raising the barrier to who gets to tell what story.

The Blessings & Curses of a Nascent Industry

It is important to note that many of the region’s cultural industries are still evolving, adapting to the digital sphere as emerging fashion brands, a growing MENA music ecosystem, and a broader media revival continue to take shape. Harris brings up an important question: “We’re still at a grassroots level. Is it really the time to start knocking people down when everything is just starting to happen again?”

Ghonem continues, “The Arab rap scene has never been exposed to criticism, really.” When you look at the evolution of music in Egypt, for example, there was critique in the pop scene, often channelled through institutions like the Musicians’ Syndicate. Ghonem argues that today’s trap and hip-hop artists haven’t been socialised into this kind of exchange, and many aren’t particularly open to it—something he’s felt the consequences of firsthand. He recalls the times his negative reviews were followed by being blocked by the artists or receiving angry phone calls from managers. Hajjar has faced similar pushback and points to the irony of it. Critique, he argues, is a form of care and an essential part of both the growth of an artist and the greater scene.

This still-developing stage of the ecosystem also shapes how journalists choose to write. Some writers have tried to bypass the backlash by critiquing a phenomenon or trend instead of directly addressing an artist or specific body of work. Yet for Ghonem this still falls flat: “with no direct criticism from the media, you end up getting a bunch of mediocre and half-baked ideas.” Harris adds that since many publications focus on the wider MENA region, “we're still at that point where everyone needs to be introduced. That’s why most questions are: Who are you? What do you do? Since we're talking about a region that's so vast—which is good—we're stuck in this loop. And then add the fact that we don't even speak the same dialects."

It’s also about what kind of critique is productive at this stage. Chaabi, speaking from a fashion lens, adds “I think that regionally and culturally, we still haven't fully integrated critique as something that is completely part of our ecosystem. When it comes to regional brands, I'd rather my criticism serve them in some sort of private consultancy or advice. I feel like my added value is larger than if I were to critique them publicly, compared to, say, a luxury giant.”

The productivity of critique is a familiar pushback whenever the call for “more criticism” resurfaces. Especially when you zoom out and remember that many artists from the region have never been granted consistent visibility to begin with. For numerous publications, the very manifesto is to spotlight unheard voices and counteract colonial narratives that flatten what the Arab world looks like. Yet as Hajjar points out, “This is a false choice. It’s not either platforming voices or critiquing them; you can do both.”

But this isn’t only a question of visibility, it’s also how criticism is culturally received. Shawky flags a broader pattern: “There is a historical problem in Arab cultures regarding criticism; people are very sensitive to receiving criticism in everything, not only about art.” And so, some growing pains are inevitable.

For Chabbi, the way through isn’t avoiding critique altogether, but acknowledging the power imbalance between local ecosystems and the larger forces that dominate culture and capital globally: “Look, I'm not against it happening publicly. I think the discourse is important and sparks conversation. But given the scale on which these things are operating, it's easy for these conversations to feel personal.”

And that’s the bind: in an emerging scene, critique is too rare to feel routine. When there aren’t enough voices, the one critical take becomes the take, and the critic becomes the villain. However, the consensus is clear—the answer is to multiply the number of voices—including critics—in the room, until disagreement stops reading like betrayal and starts reading like culture.