The Age of Artisan Journalism: Go Invisible to Be Seen

Journalism isn't dying—it's just lost touch. Stories don't need more reach; they need more resonance. The future belongs to those who create lived experiences, build bonds where algorithms can't, and

Become Invisible

One quiet evening, I was walking with Gautama G., the founder of Pathashaala School. The air was h

umid and sultry, and the sun was setting in a fiery orange blaze, with its last light touching the edges of a clear horizon.

I asked him a question that had been gnawing at me:

"What is the future of learning and education in the age of AI?"

Gautama paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though searching for the answer in that fading glow. Then, he turned to me and said, "Do you know how the Native Indians survived when the Spaniards came to conquer them?"

I didn't know what to say, so I shook my head. And then he told me one of the most gripping stories I have ever heard.

When the Spaniards arrived in the Americas, they came with guns, horses, and an unshakeable sense of superiority. They measured the land, mapped its mountains, and claimed ownership of rivers and forests. They built fortresses and laid down roads. To them, everything had to be named, defined, and controlled.

The Native Indians, however, lived differently. To them, the land wasn't something to conquer; it was something sacred. Their survival didn't depend on building fortresses or fighting head-on. Instead, they leaned into their connection with the land—the nagual, the mystery. They moved through the forests like whispers, blending into the earth and sky, making themselves invisible to their conquerors.

Gautama finished the story, looked at me, and said in a clear voice, "It's time to become invisible."

That stuck with me.

And then, I remembered another moment that has stayed with me over the years.

"Why don't you remove the dirt from your fingers?" I once asked Gulab Mohammad, an artisan I met in his stone hut by the Shyok River in Ladakh. His hands were caked in fine stone dust, etched into the lines of his skin like a second identity. He paused, smiled, and pointed at the carvings around us—a pressure cooker made of stone, sculptures that carried precision and poetry, and tools that seemed like an extension of him.

"I love dhool," he said simply. "The stone dust. Without that kinship, there's no craft."

It was a simple answer, but it felt like the truth you carry for life. His relationship with his craft wasn't just about skill but kinship about being so deeply connected to his work that even the dust became a part of his story.

A year ago, I felt a similar vibe in the white desert of Kutch, the Rann of Kutch, where I spent time with artisans. I asked them about life, livelihood, and how they navigate the challenges of keeping their craft alive in a world obsessed with efficiency. Their answers weren't always direct, but they carried that same sense of kinship—the quiet pride of creating something that wasn't just functional but deeply human.

And then, last month, I met a senior journalist covering India for one of the world's top newspapers. We talked about their stories, their deadlines, their newsroom rhythms. Curious, I asked, "When was the last time you met a target audience, a community member? Someone who reads or watches your work?"

The journalist shrugged and said, "Oh, we have an audience manager for that. We don't do that. How would we even find the time? We're breaking scoops, chasing big stories."

I didn't say much but felt a quiet joy and sadness as I walked away. Joy because the path I'd been thinking about felt clearer than ever: journalism must return to its communities. It is sad because so much of the profession seems to have forgotten its roots.

The artisans I've met—by the Shyok River, in the Rann of Kutch—taught me what it means to have kinship with your craft. Journalism, too, must find its kinship again. It can't just be about scoops, clicks, or chasing the "big" stories. It must be about the communities we serve—their lives, struggles, and dreams. Without that connection, journalism risks becoming a hollow craft that creates headlines but fails to create meaning.

Artisan journalism is about forming bonds. It's about showing up—not just for the story, but for the people behind it. As Gulab Mohammad put it, it's about embracing the craft as a part of who you are.

Create Lived Experiences

What these stories taught me is simple: telling isn't enough anymore. Journalism has to move beyond the transactional nature of clicks and views. It needs to create lived experiences that resonate deeply with people.

At FactorDaily, we pursue it deliberately. Every story we tell is treated like a product that can be reimagined and extended into different formats. Shamnad's story lives as an immersive notebook and, soon, as an animated video. Beware of Entrepreneurship sparked a community initiative called Jagah. These aren't just stories—they're seeds for connection, growth, and even monetization.

Because here's the thing: creating lived experiences is worth pursuing as a sustainable model for journalism. People are willing to pay for these moments. They don't just want to read or listen; they want to feel part of something. They want to carry the story with them, physically or emotionally.

The artisans I met in Kutch reminded me of this truth. Their craft wasn't just about what they created—it was about the story behind it. Every weave carried meaning. It was a lived experience.

Journalism can be the same. It can create moments that connect people to stories and to each other. This isn't about scale. It's about depth. It's about finding ways to turn storytelling into something personal, tangible, and alive.

By creating lived experiences for our stories, we do more than share information. We're building spaces that algorithms cannot reach—at least, not yet. These are spaces of human connection where bonds form at an intimate, personal, and transformative scale.

It's like the tonal and nagual story. To create something meaningful, we must embrace the tangible structure of a story (the tonal) and the invisible, unmeasurable connection it makes (the nagual). And sometimes, to truly serve our communities, we must step back and go invisible ourselves. In the quiet spaces, the uncharted places, journalism finds its purpose again.

These lived experiences can also be productised in ways that deepen their value. Imagine a business newspaper or publication creating a focused tour for its reader community, showcasing how AI is shaping real-world enterprise scenarios.

Picture readers walking through factory floors, guided by experts who explain how algorithms work behind the scenes to optimize operations. It's no longer just a story—it's a firsthand experience of the future, something no article or video can fully replicate.

Or take a human-interest story about the life of a foreman or worker behind India's booming aviation sector. Instead of stopping at a written profile, imagine an event where audiences hear the story directly from the foreman—face-to-face, in their own words. It would be almost like a human library, where people can borrow not just books but voices, perspectives, and lived realities.

These moments can be ticketed, creating not just community engagement but also a sustainable model for journalism. It's not about chasing scale or mass consumption. It's about creating intimate spaces where stories become conversations and readers become participants. In doing so, journalism builds bonds that are human in the truest sense—far beyond the reach of algorithms.

And that's exactly how artisan journalism will work—not just shaping journalism itself but also transforming those who engage with these lived experiences. When a reader steps onto a factory floor to see AI in action or listens to the foreman's life story firsthand, it's no longer passive consumption. It's an interaction, a moment of shared humanity.

These experiences don't just inform—they immerse. They leave lasting impressions, sparking curiosity, empathy, and deeper understanding. They create a ripple effect where the story isn't just something you read or hear; it's something you carry.

By focusing on these intimate connections, artisan journalism becomes a craft that tells stories and shapes the people who experience them—building bonds, fostering understanding, and creating spaces that leave everyone involved a little more human.