Years have passed since the "podcast" trend first appeared in the West, and in the United States in particular: audio and video programs over the internet that let the listener or viewer choose the time that suits them to follow along.
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This new fad in digital media arrived in our countries late. Here in Jordan, podcast programs have recently spread widely. If this continues at this rate, every citizen may end up with their own program, either to host their peers, family, and friends, or to turn it into their own personal talk show.
This isn't about evaluating or passing judgment on this style of social media content. It has become a reality that contributes to shaping public opinion, and it can be employed in ways that genuinely help build awareness, promote the values of pluralism and dialogue, and enrich public debate, as a counter to the waves of hatred, anger, and division generated by social media algorithms.
Those running podcast programs are usually eager for conversations with stars from politics, art, sports, and even fortune-telling and quackery. These are currently the categories in demand in the market of listeners and viewers. With a few exceptions, whoever hosts these programs makes no distinction between these categories: to them, interviewing a minister or a former or current official is just like meeting an actress who had a love affair with a director, got entangled in drugs, and suffered through a divorce. The star of the podcast is the host, and the guests exist in service of that stardom.
The problem isn't with this type of program, nor with its hosts. Many Jordanian and Arab hosts produce refined content and conversations that add something new to our knowledge, presenting political and intellectual figures at a respectable level.
Our real trouble lies with politicians, dignitaries, and former state officials specifically. They have an intense appetite for this kind of program. And because of the podcast's nature as a comfortable platform for a recorded, often lengthy conversation, the politician, unless he stays alert, loses his focus, and the conversation turns into a casual chat, almost like a session with a psychotherapist, where he opens his heart innocently and honestly and pours out whatever is on his mind and in his conscience.
Just a few hours after the interview is published, clips of the dignitary flood social media platforms. Fragmented sentences or truncated phrases, garbled in his telling of them, turn into material for mockery and ridicule of the man himself, and beyond that, become a rallying point for expressing public resentment and anger at the state, the country, and its politicians, who, people feel, respect neither the public nor the positions of public responsibility they hold.
With few exceptions, most politicians and officials in our country lack media-handling skills, and we always hear them, before doing an interview, confidently saying: "Don't worry, ask whatever you want." Yet the moment the conversation actually begins, they stumble over the very first answer.
The competition among podcast platforms pushes their owners to chase after this type of loose-lipped politician, and the best of them, as the saying goes, are those whose answer is right on the tip of their tongue. Such guests give the podcast an appealing quality for the social media audience: entertainment. In short, the dignitary turns into weekend entertainment, subjected to whatever insults and hurtful comments come his way, on top of family embarrassment and psychological stress.
Former officials have every right to appear in the media. In fact, it's their duty to voice their opinions on public affairs, government policies, and decisions. Having once held a ministerial post does not strip them of this right. That is how politics works in every country in the world. But they ought to maintain a dignified and responsible presence, and master the art of dealing with the media, so they don't end up turning into a "trend" for mockery and ridicule.
