A centuries-old way of life is vanishing, and one filmmaker is determined to ensure its story is not forgotten. Jawad Sharif’s Moklani: The Last Mohanas isn’t just a film—it’s a lifeline to a culture on the brink of extinction. But here’s where it gets controversial: in a world obsessed with progress, who cares about the stories of those left behind? And this is the part most people miss: these aren’t just tales of loss; they’re reminders of our shared humanity.
On a crisp October morning, a small Islamabad studio buzzed with anticipation. Six members of Jawad Sharif Films huddled around a computer screen, their eyes glued to the Jackson Wild Media Awards gala unfolding thousands of miles away in Jackson, Wyoming. The stakes were high—their documentary, Moklani: The Last Mohanas, was in the running for one of the most prestigious honors in nature filmmaking. When the announcement came, the room erupted in cheers. They had won. But this victory wasn’t just about accolades; it was a testament to the power of storytelling to amplify voices that might otherwise be silenced.
‘It was a moment of pure pride,’ Sharif, 38, reflected in a phone call from Islamabad. Unlike many award-winning projects, Moklani triumphed without ‘behind-the-scenes lobbying or connections.’ Its win in the Global Voices category, sponsored by the Save Our Seas Foundation, was a nod to its compelling narrative and stunning visuals. Competing against over 500 films and judged by 200 international experts, Moklani stood out as a labor of love and perseverance.
Sharif was quick to credit his team: his wife and co-producer, Syeda Kashmala; director of photography Asif Ali; colorist Mushtaq Mushi; associate producer Sunila Khan; researcher and translator Maria Jawed Badvi; and technical wizards Fayyaz Khan, Raja Ramish, and Zain Idrees. ‘This film is a collective effort,’ Sharif emphasized, highlighting the seamless blend of research, production, and post-production that brought Moklani to life.
For those familiar with Sharif’s work, this recognition is no surprise. ‘Jawad has a unique ability to uncover unseen worlds,’ said documentary filmmaker Haya Fatima Iqbal. ‘His films are windows into Pakistan’s peripheries, and Moklani is no exception.’ Iqbal, co-founder of the Documentary Association of Pakistan, celebrated the global recognition Pakistani filmmakers are now receiving. But is the world truly ready to listen to these stories, or are they just fleeting moments of interest?
Filmmaker Zakir Thaver, known for Salam (2019), praised Sharif’s skill. ‘Jawad finds stories that others overlook and tells them with unparalleled mastery,’ he said. Currently collaborating with Sharif on a documentary about Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Thaver called Moklani’s trailer ‘breathtaking.’ ‘I can’t wait to see the full film,’ he added.
Mohammad Ali ‘Mo’ Naqvi, a leading voice in Pakistani cinema, echoed this sentiment. ‘Jawad dives into fading communities, not just to document them but to give them a voice,’ said Naqvi, a multi-Emmy-nominated filmmaker. ‘His work isn’t just about preservation; it’s about celebration.’
Over the past 15 years, Sharif has produced films like K2 and the Invisible Footmen (2015), Indus Blues (2019), Natari (2021), and Bhashaili (2023), each amplifying the voices of indigenous and marginalized communities. Yet, Sharif admits, ‘It often takes Western recognition to spark local interest.’ He hopes his upcoming 2026 film will challenge the notion that documentaries are boring, especially among the youth.
‘After a recent TV appearance, my mother messaged me, saying, ‘You spoke well, son,’ Sharif shared. For someone whose parents struggled to accept his unconventional career, this was more than a compliment—it was validation. But why does it take global acclaim for local stories to matter?
Sharif’s style, cinéma vérité, is rooted in long-term engagement with his subjects. ‘I’m drawn to indigenous communities,’ he explained. ‘Their stories are rarely told, yet they hold ancient wisdom about living in harmony with nature.’ Moklani, meaning ‘the last meeting’ or judai (separation), focuses on the Mohanas, an indigenous fishing community living on boats in Manchar Lake, Pakistan’s largest freshwater lake. As polluted waters force them to abandon their way of life, the film becomes a poignant ode to their resilience.
‘Climate change isn’t abstract for them,’ Sharif noted. ‘It’s something they breathe, drink, and live with.’ The film took four years to complete, with Sharif spending the first year simply being with the community, earning their trust. ‘Over time, they treated me like family,’ he recalled. But is immersion enough, or do we need systemic change to preserve these cultures?
Filming in Manchar Lake was no easy feat. ‘We had to adapt to the rhythm of the water, balancing on boats while protecting equipment,’ Sharif said. The lake’s remoteness added challenges—no amenities, extreme weather, and long waits to capture migratory birds central to the Mohana way of life. Gaining access to the community’s women required patience and trust, a process Kashmala expertly navigated.
The repetitive landscape tested the team’s creativity, but Sharif believes these challenges shaped the film’s soul. ‘It’s in the stillness, the rhythm, the poetry,’ he said. To enhance the emotional depth, Sharif collaborated with folk musician Saif Samejo and singer Schumaila Rehmat Hussain, incorporating verses by Shah Latif and Sheikh Ayaz into the soundtrack.
The emotional and financial toll was immense. ‘Carrying the weight of their disappearing world stayed with me long after filming,’ Sharif admitted. Despite the prestigious award, Moklani received no financial support. ‘Films like this rarely attract investors,’ he said. To sustain his passion, Sharif takes on commercial projects, a trade-off he accepts. ‘My advice to aspiring filmmakers? Find another profession to fund your passion.’
Yet, the challenge goes beyond finances. Sharif criticizes Pakistan’s government culture departments as ‘cultureless,’ citing barriers like the Rs350,000 fee to screen Moklani at the National Council of the Arts. Is this neglect a reflection of deeper cultural apathy, or is there hope for change?
Sharif traces this disconnect to education. ‘We’ve lost pride in our culture—language, traditions—and it starts in schools,’ he said. Growing up in Rawalpindi, he was never exposed to folk tales or Sufi poets like Baba Bulleh Shah. ‘Yet we’re told to project Pakistan’s ‘soft’ image!’ This cultural gap, he believes, extends to media, which often fails to reflect society’s diversity.
‘TV became monotonous—no freedom, no room to experiment,’ Sharif said. He warns that without quality content, the younger generation will tune out. When Indus Blues was released, he chose YouTube over traditional channels. ‘Good content finds its audience,’ he said, and the film garnered over a million views. But is online success enough, or do we need institutional support to preserve our cultural heritage?
As Moklani continues to garner attention, Sharif remains committed to telling untold stories. ‘These communities hold wisdom we can’t afford to lose,’ he said. The question is: will we listen before it’s too late? What do you think—are we doing enough to preserve our cultural heritage, or is it already too late? Let’s discuss in the comments.
