Not much value is attached to reflecting on our values and how we rise to the challenges placed before us through our responses. Yet politics, whether we acknowledge it or not, constantly forces such reflection upon societies.
The contemporary political moment in India is not isolated. The quest by the Bharatiya Janata Party to frame a stronger civilizational identity within India mirrors similar dynamics visible across the world. Comparable currents can be observed in countries such as United States, Turkey, Italy, Japan and even Bangladesh.
Closer to home, the political environments of Myanmar, China and Nepal are far from liberal democratic ideals and increasingly experience pressure from hardline nationalist or authoritarian elements within their political systems.
Within India, the concomitant impact of policies influenced by the ideology of Hindutva—particularly visible in states like Uttar Pradesh—has had the unintended consequence of sharpening identity consciousness elsewhere. Regions such as Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Punjab, West Bengal, Meghalaya and Nagaland have responded by repositioning themselves politically and culturally.
In this repositioning lies an important acknowledgement: that the elevation we affirm for ourselves must be recognized beyond political rhetoric, particularly when so many narratives are spun around “solutions” and the future of our younger generations.
To understand this moment, it is useful to recall an earlier era. During its heyday in the 1950s and 1960s, the Indian National Congress governed with a powerful combination of pre-independence legitimacy, ideological grounding in socialism and secularism, and a centralized command structure anchored around one political family. That central command, while often criticized, eliminated indecisiveness and provided a clear locus of authority.
At the same time, the unity of India was constantly under threat—both internally and externally.
A vivid reminder came during the Indo Pakistani War of 1971. In December that year, the United States Seventh Fleet deployed Task Force 74, led by the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CVN 65), into the Bay of Bengal. Officially framed as a mission to evacuate American citizens, the deployment was widely interpreted as a show of force meant to pressure India and support Pakistan during the closing stages of the war that led to the birth of Bangladesh.
Despite the complexities and consequences of that war for the North-East—a subject that would require an entire evening and perhaps a bottle of Johnnie Walker to unpack fully—the political establishment of the time managed to keep the national machinery running.
Critics today argue that the Congress system was weak and susceptible to factional influence. Yet if we look honestly, centralized clusters of influence are not unique to one political party. Today it is openly discussed that Amit Shah, the national security establishment led by Ajit Doval, and a network of bureaucrats shape policy directions with the ideological consent of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh headquartered in Nagpur.
Power centers exist everywhere. Extend this framework to the states and the same pattern emerges—including in Nagaland—no matter how carefully it is masked by formal institutional structures.
Adaptation, therefore, is the wiser political instinct. Cliques and coteries form not merely from conspiracy, but from necessity and the limitations inherent in governance.
It is against this contemporary background that the election of S Supongmeren Jamir as Member of Parliament from Nagaland acquires deeper significance.
If one examines the usual variables that shape electoral outcomes—background, wealth, party machinery, support of the government of the day, tribal alignments, or timing—none of these appeared to operate decisively in this instance. The prevailing political momentum suggested that the candidate backed by the ruling establishment would prevail, as had often been the pattern. Candidates waved tickets issued by their respective parties like wands, and in most cases logic and tradition supported the wisdom of aligning with the dominant ruling party.
Yet the black swan appeared.
Why?
The answer may lie not in tactical politics but in deeper civilizational instincts. Beneath the noise of factional disputes and political deadlock, the public of Nagaland appears to have made a quieter but more profound decision.
The choice of Supongmeren Jamir was, in many ways, an affirmation of identity.
For many Nagas, identity is not merely political or tribal; it is civilizational and spiritual, deeply intertwined with a way of life shaped by Christianity and community values. The vote therefore became a form of self-validation—an assertion that our identity is anchored in empathy, faith, and a social ethic that transcends narrow political calculations.
Whether this represents an upgrade in political consciousness remains to be tested. Recognition of truth must precede evaluation.
For the ruling establishment of the day, the result need not be seen as humiliation or defeat. Instead, it can serve as a gentle reminder that adaptation to reality is wiser than negotiating around it.
Indeed, the message extends beyond Nagaland itself.
For once, the flow of political messaging was not one of dependence on New Delhi or Kohima, but of articulation from the periphery toward the centre. During a parliamentary cycle, a counter-point was registered in the Lok Sabha, and legitimacy resonated in the heartbeat of those who cast their vote.
The message was simple and clear: we do not necessarily approve of the dominant political narrative.
We stand instead for ownership of our destiny.
Our identity is not merely a political construct, nor solely defined through historical insurgent narratives associated with figures like Thuingaleng Muivah. It is something higher—rooted in empathy, compassion, and the lived reality of our communities.
In that sense, the electorate of Nagaland has demonstrated that it is capable of rising above the complacency often attributed to its politics. The public has shown that it is neither indifferent nor passive when fundamental questions of identity and future direction arise.
Politics, after all, can be dynamic. It can surprise us.
Two years into this parliamentary term, the implications of that decision are still unfolding. The strands of this moment echo beyond Nagaland into neighbouring states such as Meghalaya and Mizoram. These affirmations are not overreach but grounded in shared realities.
One such reality is the growing impact of climate change across the North-East. Climate responses cannot remain territorial or parochial. For resilience efforts to be meaningful, cooperation must extend across borders, communities, and states.
Ecological challenges—from extreme rainfall to landslides and shifting agricultural cycles—do not recognize political boundaries. In this context, Supongmeren Jamir carries the mandate of a generation increasingly exhausted with the narrow walls of transactional politics.
An approach that engages states across the North-East on shared environmental resilience—supported by the government of the day in Nagaland—would honor the deeper aspirations of that mandate.
Here lies an opportunity to go higher: grounded not in rhetoric, but in the shared reality of challenges that affect everyone irrespective of political alignment.
Perhaps what we are witnessing is the beginning of a new season—one marked by renewal, reflection, and growth.
And perhaps the most important realization is this: the truth of that moment was already clear to those willing to see it.
Limhachan Kikon
Dimapur Nagaland
Duncan.
Saturday, March 7, 2026