My Competitive Public Speaking & Debating Journey

So, public speaking. The very phrase used to send me into a cold sweat. Picture this: a skinny, awkward sixth-grader, yours truly, thrust onto a stage the size of a small country (or so it seemed), facing a sea of faces that looked, to my terrified young mind, suspiciously like a jury of hungry lions. My mission? To debate. For the esteemed Birampur ICT School Debate Society, no less.

Now, BICTS, bless its heart, was not exactly known for producing silver-tongued orators. We were more… enthusiastic. Think a pack of hyperactive puppies trying to herd cats. And me? I was the runt of the litter, prone to stammering, blushing the color of a particularly ripe tomato, and occasionally forgetting my own name, let alone the finer points of, say, the merits of standardized testing (a topic, I might add, that still haunts my nightmares). I was not good. I was the worst. My first debate was a disaster.

Trial by Fire (and a Lot of Stammering)

My first debate? Let’s just say it was less “triumph of the human spirit” and more “abject humiliation.” I was assigned to argue for the motion, something about, oh, I don't know, the urgent need for more homework (clearly, the debate club was run by sadists). I stood there, clutching my notecards like a life raft, and proceeded to… well, to essentially impersonate a malfunctioning robot having a nervous breakdown. Words, or rather, sounds vaguely resembling words, dribbled out of my mouth. I’m pretty sure I invented a new language that day. A language composed entirely of “ums,” “ahs,” and the occasional whimper.

The opposing team, a trio of terrifyingly confident eighth-graders who probably ate nails for breakfast, demolished me. Not that they needed to. I was doing a pretty good job of demolishing myself. I wanted the Earth to swallow me whole right there and then.

But here’s the thing about getting knocked down, metaphorically speaking (though I wouldn't have ruled out a literal faceplant at that point): you get to choose. Wallow, or, you know, not wallow.

BICTS Argument Gang On A Tour

From Zero to… Well, Not Quite Hero, But Getting There

I chose not to wallow (mostly). Instead, I became obsessed. Obsessed with not being that guy anymore. I devoured every book on debating I could find, which, in our little library, amounted to two dusty volumes and a pamphlet on parliamentary procedure that smelled faintly of mothballs. I practiced in front of the mirror, in the shower, and to the bewildered goats in my backyard (long story, involves a pandemic and a goat farm, ask me about it sometime). I watched debate videos online.

Slowly, painstakingly, I started to improve. I learned about structuring arguments, anticipating counterpoints, and, most importantly, how to breathe. Breathing, it turns out, is rather essential for public speaking. Who knew? I won my first debate in the 7th grade. I was on the top of the world. I might have cried a little out of happiness.

By the time I got to BAF Shaheen College, I was practically a veteran (in my mind, at least). I even, brace yourselves, led the debating club in my school. Fifty members. Fifty! We were a motley crew, ranging from nervous newbies to seasoned pros, but we were united by a love for the glorious art of verbal sparring.

More Than Just Words: What Debating Actually Teaches You

We collected and distributed free resources, because knowledge, like a good biryani, should be shared. We even organized a National Inter-School Debate Competition. Imagine, if you will, a hundred teenagers, armed with nothing but their wits and an alarming amount of caffeine, battling it out over the pressing issues of our time. It was glorious chaos. And, not to brag (okay, maybe to brag just a little), I managed to snag seven regional awards over the years. Seven!

But debating, see, it’s not just about winning shiny trophies (though those are nice, I won’t lie). It's not some verbal jousting match for the amusement of bored teachers, although, sometimes it felt like that. It’s about more than just stringing fancy words together, more than crafting the perfect zinger that'll leave your opponent speechless (though, admittedly, that is a pretty great feeling). It's about something deeper, something that seeps into your bones and changes the way you see the world. Here’s what I learned, and what you, dear reader, can take away from my, ahem, illustrious career, which involved more than its fair share of stumbles, mumbles, and near-death-by-embarrassment experiences:

The Art of Listening (Like You Actually Mean It)

Art Of Listening

Listen, Really Listen: This isn't just about politely nodding while mentally rehearsing your next devastating counter-argument. It's about active listening. Don’t just wait for your turn to speak. Pay attention to what your opponent is saying, really pay attention. Hear not just the words, but the tone, the underlying assumptions, the unspoken anxieties that might be fueling their argument. Understand their arguments, dissect them, like a verbal surgeon. And then, with the precision of a neurosurgeon using a laser scalpel, find the flaws in their logic (or lack thereof). Sometimes the flaws are glaring; other times, they're hidden beneath layers of rhetoric, like a tiny, insidious little worm gnawing at the core of a seemingly perfect apple. Your job is to find that worm.

Empathy: Your Secret Weapon (Use It Wisely)

Empathy is Your Secret Weapon: This might sound counterintuitive, especially in the context of a debate, which, let's face it, can sometimes feel like intellectual warfare. But trust me on this one. Try to see the issue from the other side’s perspective. Climb into their shoes, even if those shoes are, metaphorically speaking, filled with illogical arguments and questionable facts. Even if you vehemently disagree, understanding their motivations will make your own arguments stronger. Why do they believe what they believe? What are their fears, their hopes, their underlying values? Empathy doesn't mean agreeing; it means understanding. And understanding your opponent is the first step to dismantling their argument, brick by rhetorical brick. It's like Sun Tzu said, know your enemy.

Structure: Build Your Argument Like a Fortress (That Doesn't Smell of Mothballs)

Structure is Your Friend: A well-structured argument is like a well-built house. Or maybe a fortress, considering the combative nature of debate. It won’t crumble under pressure, no matter how many verbal grenades your opponent lobs your way. Learn how to use signposting, summaries, and clear transitions. Think of it as building a roadmap for your audience, guiding them through your argument with clear signposts and well-placed rest stops. "First," you say, laying the foundation. "Furthermore," you add, building the walls. "In conclusion," you declare, raising the roof in a triumphant flourish. A well-structured argument is a thing of beauty, a testament to the power of logic and reason. And it definitely beats rambling incoherently, which, trust me, I've done. A lot.

Humor: Use Sparingly, Like a Fine Spice (Not Like a Weapon of Mass Destruction)

Don’t Be Afraid to Be Funny (When Appropriate): Humor can be a powerful tool, especially in a heated debate. A well-placed joke can disarm your opponent, engage your audience, and make your points more memorable. Think of it as a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down, only in this case, the medicine is your devastatingly brilliant argument. But use it wisely. A joke at the wrong time can fall flat, or worse, backfire spectacularly. Make sure your jokes are relevant to the topic at hand and, for the love of all that is holy, don't make fun of anyone. Humor should be used to illuminate, not to belittle. It should be a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.

Practice Makes Perfect (or at Least Less Terrifying)

Practice, Practice, Practice: There’s no substitute for experience, folks. None. The more you debate, the more comfortable and confident you’ll become. You'll learn to think on your feet, to anticipate your opponent's moves, and to craft arguments that are both persuasive and compelling. You'll also get better at handling those inevitable moments of panic when your mind goes completely blank. (Trust me, it happens to the best of us. Just remember to breathe. And maybe have a glass of water handy.) You might even start enjoying it. Yes, even the parts where you feel like you're about to spontaneously combust from sheer terror. Because even the terror, see, that's part of the thrill. It's a sign that you're alive, that you're engaged, that you're pushing yourself beyond your comfort zone. And that, my friends, is where the real growth happens. You will learn from your mistakes. You will fail, but you will get up and try again.

So You Want to Be a Debater? (Or Just Not Sound Like an Idiot in Public)

So, there you have it. My journey from a terrified, stammering sixth-grader to a (relatively) confident debater. It wasn’t always easy, but it was definitely worth it. And if I, a former master of the “um” and “ah,” can do it, so can you. Just remember to breathe, listen, and maybe avoid debating about homework in front of a panel of judges who clearly enjoy inflicting pain on children.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sudden urge to debate the merits of biryani versus… well, anything else, really. Because let’s be honest, nothing beats biryani. And that, my friends, is a truth universally acknowledged, or at least it should be. You can learn a lot from debating, just don't be scared to fail, we all fail, what matters is that you try again, and do better next time.

Elite Enayet, over and out. (For now.)