Imagine a world where ancient traditions are fading away, silenced by the relentless march of climate change and cultural neglect—yet one filmmaker is fighting back to ensure those stories aren't lost forever. That's the heart-pounding reality Jawad Sharif brings to life in his latest triumph. But here's where it gets truly inspiring: his documentary Moklani: The Last Mohanas not only won a major international award but also sparks a global conversation about preserving vanishing ways of life. And this is the part most people miss—it's not just about the win; it's about how Sharif's work challenges us to rethink our connection to the planet and our own heritage.
On the morning of October 3, a small group of six from the documentary crew huddled in quiet anticipation around a computer monitor in a modest studio in Islamabad, Pakistan. Across the globe in Jackson, Wyoming, at the Centre for the Arts, the 2025 Jackson Wild Media Awards ceremony was unfolding, and they were on the verge of etching their names into history. With hearts racing, the team from Jawad Sharif Films watched intently. Soon, the room burst into cheers—their movie Moklani: The Last Mohanas had clinched the prestigious Jackson Wild Media Award, widely regarded as the Oscars of nature filmmaking. Jackson Wild stands out as a top-tier platform for environmental storytelling, harnessing the power of film to inspire meaningful social and ecological transformations.
'It felt like an incredibly validating moment for everyone involved,' shared 38-year-old director and producer Jawad Sharif during a phone call from Islamabad. He emphasized that this success wasn't propped up by any 'behind-the-scenes networking or favors.' Instead, it showcased the sheer dedication, enthusiasm, and the compelling power of the film's storyline and cinematography. Moklani triumphed in the Global Voices category, backed by the Save Our Seas Foundation, after going head-to-head with more than 500 other entries. As detailed on the Jackson Wild website, a panel of over 200 judges from around the world reviewed more than 1,000 hours of media to select the finalists.
Sharif was quick to point out that the film was a collaborative masterpiece, crediting his wife and co-producer Syeda Kashmala; director of photography Asif Ali; colorist Mushtaq Mushi, who skillfully enhanced the images; associate producer and content manager Sunila Khan, who seamlessly connected research, creation, and editing phases; and Maria Jawed Badvi, who contributed to research, translations, and story crafting. Additional roles included logistics from Fayyaz Khan, sound design by Raja Ramish, and drone footage by Zain Idrees.
For those who know Sharif's previous projects, this accolade isn't shocking. 'Jawad is a renowned filmmaker who spotlights Pakistan's overlooked corners, turning his movies into portals to hidden realms,' remarked documentary maker Haya Fatima Iqbal. 'Why wouldn't the international community be captivated by his portrayal of the Mohanas?' Iqbal, who co-founded the Documentary Association of Pakistan and directed With the Sky is Far, the Earth is Tough, expressed delight at seeing 'Pakistani documentary creators achieving worldwide acclaim.'
'Jawad uncovers the most extraordinary tales and narrates them with exceptional artistry,' added filmmaker Zakir Thaver, famous for his 2019 film Salam. Currently teaming up with Sharif on a project about Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Thaver described Moklani's preview as 'breathtaking.' 'I'm eagerly awaiting the full release!' he exclaimed.
This praise resonates with another key figure in Pakistani cinema, the esteemed filmmaker Mohammad Ali 'Mo' Naqvi. 'Jawad Sharif explores territories few others dare, delving into dwindling groups and practices that embody Pakistan's rich creativity and identity; his work doesn't merely document them—it amplifies their significance so they can truly resonate,' said the multiple Emmy winner, Television Academy Honoree, and head of Pakistan's Academy Selection Committee.
Over the past 15 years, Sharif has crafted films like K2 and the Invisible Footmen (2015), Indus Blues (2019), Natari (2021), and Bhashaili (2023), all of which have graced major international festivals and garnered praise for their creative flair and positive societal influence, giving a voice to indigenous and underrepresented populations.
Now, Sharif balances media appearances, enjoying the limelight while recognizing its transience. 'Often, global acknowledgment is what ignites interest back home,' he observed. He aspires for his upcoming 2026 release to shatter the stereotype—particularly among young folks—that documentaries are dull. 'Following a recent TV spot, my mom texted, 'You did a great job, son,'' he recalled. For someone whose parents have had trouble accepting a career with erratic hours, unpredictable pay, and no retirement benefits, this wasn't just praise; it was a poignant affirmation and a subtle acknowledgment of his dedication.
Sharif characterizes his filmmaking approach—cinéma vérité, a specialized documentary style that emphasizes deep, ongoing involvement with subjects—as perfectly aligned with his passion for authentic, untold narratives featuring everyday people. He openly admits his fascination with indigenous groups, whose experiences are seldom shared, yet they 'maintain the closest ties to the earth, water, and shifting climates,' possessing 'timeless knowledge of living in balance with nature.' For beginners dipping into documentary styles, cinéma vérité is like a fly-on-the-wall technique that captures real life without staged interventions, building trust over time to reveal genuine stories.
Moklani, which translates to 'the final gathering' or 'farewell' in local terms, centers on the Mohanas, an indigenous fishing tribe dwelling on boats in Manchar Lake, Pakistan's biggest natural freshwater body near Sehwan in Sindh province. As contaminated waters compel them to relocate, a tradition spanning centuries risks extinction. 'Climate change for them isn't some distant theory—it's in the air they inhale, the water they consume, and the fabric of their daily existence,' Sharif explained. The film provides 'a personal odyssey into their vanishing realm, encompassing their melodies, quiet moments, and hardships,' he added.
'This marks the inaugural deep exploration of a community teetering on the edge of cultural oblivion,' Sharif stated. 'It's not an external gaze; it's about immersing oneself in their lives—viewing them as individuals with aspirations, laughter, and resilience amid loss.' The production spanned four years. 'Initially, I visited without any recording gear, simply spending time with them to build rapport and understand their customs,' he reminisced. 'Eventually, they welcomed me as one of the family.'
This project proved to be one of his toughest. 'I've shot in rugged mountains, arid deserts, and disaster-stricken areas—but Manchar presented unique hurdles. We adapted to the lake's ebb and flow, filming from unstable vessels while safeguarding gear and upholding high production standards. It demanded constant on-the-spot creativity.'
The lake's isolation compounded the difficulties. 'Lacking even basic comforts, we hauled our own provisions, hydration, and essentials, often bunking under the stars or aboard boats,' Sharif described. Shooting through various seasons exposed them to extremes—from blistering summers to biting winters—rendering both survival and filming unpredictable. 'Documenting the migratory birds integral to Mohana livelihoods sometimes required patient waits of hours, even through the night.'
Accessing the community's women required careful navigation. It was Kashmala who fostered the necessary bonds, ensuring their perspectives were woven into the narrative.
The expansive, monotonous scenery tested the crew's ability to infuse emotional nuance and diversity during both shooting and post-production. 'Yet, these obstacles forged the film's essence—its serene pace, natural flow, and lyrical quality,' Sharif said with enthusiasm.
Sharif knew that a gripping story and stunning visuals weren't sufficient. 'Without apt music, the piece wouldn't feel complete,' he noted. To imbue it with heartfelt and cultural resonance, he enlisted folk musician Saif Samejo and vocalist Schumaila Rehmat Hussain to create a score incorporating lyrics from poets Shah Latif and Sheikh Ayaz.
The emotional strain weighed heavily. 'The burden of their fading existence lingered with me beyond the cameras stopped rolling,' Sharif shared quietly.
But the toll extended to finances as well. Ventures like Moklani struggle to secure backers. 'We're perpetually chasing resources,' he confessed. Beyond a modest grant from NatGeo, the film was funded personally. 'It's my labor of love—who would pour money into that?' Even the celebrated Jackson Wild prize offered no monetary prize.
To sustain his independent storytelling, Sharif accepts commercial gigs—a compromise he embraces. 'Talented creators often refuse, only to squander their potential,' he warned. His guidance for budding documentarians: secure a side job to support your creative pursuits.
Yet, the hurdles transcend money; they involve confronting institutional indifference toward culture.
Sharif voiced exasperation with government cultural bodies, labeling them 'devoid of culture.' Bureaucratic inertia erects roadblocks for independent artists, like the Rs350,000 fee demanded to exhibit Moklani at Pakistan's National Council of the Arts in Islamabad.
This dearth of backing mirrors a broader societal apathy toward heritage, beginning in education. 'We've forfeited pride in our cultural roots—languages, customs—and this alienation begins in classrooms,' Sharif argued. Raised in Rawalpindi and educated in public schools, he never encountered folk stories, traditional tunes, or Sufi poets like Baba Bulleh Shah or Baba Farid. 'Still, we're pressured to promote Pakistan's 'soft' global persona!'
This cultural rift, in his view, seeps into the media that should mirror and mold our society.
'I spent over five years in TV, but it grew stale—zero autonomy, no experimentation,' said Sharif. He cautions that without high-quality programming for the youth, they'll disengage. When Indus Blues premiered, multiple networks courted him, but he opted for YouTube. 'Quality finds its viewers,' he affirmed. The film amassed over a million views.
But here's where it gets controversial: Is it fair to expect governments to prioritize cultural storytelling in a nation grappling with economic pressures and security challenges? Or should filmmakers like Sharif shoulder the burden alone, risking burnout for the sake of preservation? And this is the part most people miss—what if embracing our fading traditions could actually strengthen our identity in a modern world? Do you agree that systemic support for arts is essential, or is it just a luxury we can't afford? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you think Sharif's grassroots approach is the way forward, or should there be more institutional reforms? Let's discuss!
