It is often said that if people cannot write well, they cannot think well, and if they cannot think well, others will do the thinking for them. In his famous essay Politics and the English Language, George Orwell draws a direct and inseparable link between clear writing and clear thinking.
Consider, then, a remote town that has what many similar towns lack. It has two functioning newspapers, one in the vernacular and one in English. By any reasonable measure, this should be a sign of a healthy public sphere. It suggests access, platforms, and the possibility of debate. Yet, when both publications receive almost no submissions of articles, opinions, or reflections on matters of public interest, the picture changes entirely.
What does that silence indicate?
It is tempting to call it intellectual bankruptcy. A town that does not write does not think, at least not in any sustained or communicable way. Writing forces clarity. It demands that ideas be arranged, tested, and made accountable to others. Without it, thought remains private, unformed, and often unchallenged.
But there may also be an element of intellectual dishonesty. Silence is not always absence. It can also be avoidance. When issues are left unwritten, they are left unexamined in public. Discomfort, fear of scrutiny, or reluctance to take positions may all play a role. In such a setting, the lack of writing is not just a failure of ability but a failure of will.
The consequences are visible. When a town does not produce its own discourse, others will inevitably step in. Decisions, narratives, and priorities begin to be shaped elsewhere. The absence of local articulation cedes ground to external voices. A community that does not write loses its capacity to define itself.
The question, then, is not whether there are writers. It is whether there is a willingness to think aloud, to disagree, and to place ideas in the public domain. Without that, others will do the thinking, make the decisions, and speak on behalf of the town. Is that acceptable?