Recovering the Civilisation Before Politics.
The recent launch of the Unified Covenant Party (UCP), following the merger of the Rising People’s Party (RPP) into the Naga People’s Front (NPF), has once again stirred curiosity, scepticism, and debate across Nagaland.
New political parties promise cleaner government, stronger leadership, and a different future. Whether they succeed remains to be seen. But their emergence invites a deeper question. Do we simply need more political parties, or do we need to recover the civilisation upon which politics itself depends?
Roads matter. Jobs matter. Corruption matters. Development matters. We should talk about all of them. But before any of them comes another question: What kind of society makes good politics possible? Politics is the visible expression. Civilisation is the invisible foundation. Governments inherit the moral habits of a people long before they have any chance of shaping them.
One of the dangers of the post-truth era is that identity begins to matter more than truth. We stop asking, “Is it true?” and begin asking, “Is it our truth?” Loyalty starts to outweigh evidence. Emotion becomes more persuasive than reason.
The real danger is not simply that people lie. It is that we slowly stop asking whether something is true, so long as it confirms what we already believe.
Nagaland is not immune to this temptation. We speak often of unity while living with political fragmentation, tribal loyalties, denominational divisions, and numerous armed factions claiming different visions of the same future. Different communities will naturally have different experiences.
The question is whether we still believe there is a shared truth to which all of us remain accountable. Democracy does not require everyone to think alike.
It does require a common commitment to seeking truth together.
More than two centuries ago, the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge captured a paradox that feels remarkably modern:
“Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.”
His sailors were surrounded by seawater yet dying of thirst. Today we are surrounded by information, yet often thirsty for wisdom.
Every phone delivers endless news, opinions, and commentary. Communication has never been easier. Understanding has rarely been harder. The post-truth condition is not a shortage of information. It is a weakening of our allegiance to shared truth.
This is where epistemic responsibility becomes important. Don’t let the phrase intimidate us.
It simply means we have a responsibility to tell one another what people reasonably need to know in order to make good decisions. Truth is not merely something we possess.
It is something we owe one another. When information is unnecessarily withheld, delayed, distorted, or obscured, another person’s freedom to judge wisely is diminished. Transparency is more than good governance. It is a civic responsibility.
Imagine a landslide. If those responsible possess reliable information but fail to warn people, the danger lies not only in the landslide but in the silence surrounding it. Silence can be dangerous. So can concealment.
The same principle applies throughout public life. Courts depend upon evidence, not preference. Citizens depend upon truthful disclosure, not selective revelation.
Opacity, deflection, and concealment poison the civic environment. Suspicion replaces trust. Rumour replaces evidence. Cooperation gives way to hostility. Freedom itself depends upon a shared commitment to reality.
But the story goes deeper still. Long before we became voters, we were human beings trying to survive together.
Before we are Nagas or Indians, Christians or Hindus, members of tribes or political parties, we are a social species. We made it this far not simply because we competed well, but because we learned to cooperate.
Cooperation—not competition alone—became humanity’s greatest evolutionary advantage. Politics came much later. It did not create these habits. It inherited them.
None of this is really new. Most of it simply gives words to things we already know—or at least quietly recognise.
That is exactly the point. The challenge is not learning something new. It is relearning what we have stopped practising.
Truth. Responsibility. Trust. Fairness. Compassion. Consideration. These are not abstract ideals.
They are the accumulated wisdom of civilisation about how human beings live together safely. Civilisation survives not by inventing new virtues, but by recovering old ones.
One of the quiet mistakes of our time is expecting politics to produce what only society can cultivate. Trust is not a government programme. Responsibility is not an election promise.
Love is not a public policy. Social conscience is not created by legislation. Politics inherits these virtues; it does not manufacture them.
Families teach responsibility before governments depend upon it. Schools cultivate honesty before workplaces require it.
Churches shape conscience before courts interpret justice. Society forms the citizen long before politics asks that citizen to vote. A constitution can distribute power. It cannot create character. A court can enforce justice. It cannot compel compassion. A legislature can pass laws. It cannot legislate integrity.
There is an old Latin maxim: Fide non armis—By faith, not by arms. Many recognise it as the motto of the Naga People’s Front, yet its wisdom belongs to no single party.
It belongs to everyone. Trust has always outlived force. A free society rests not upon coercion but upon trust, shared conviction, and moral responsibility.
Wisdom is never the preserve of one institution or one political tradition. It becomes common property whenever people choose truth over expediency.
Perhaps the emergence of the UCP has done more than introduce another political choice.
It has reminded us that the deepest questions before Nagaland are not merely political but civilisational. Good politics does not appear by accident.
It grows out of the kind of society we become. And the kind of society we become depends upon whether we remain faithful to truth, trust, responsibility, cooperation, and the courage to let reality shape identity rather than the other way around.
Perhaps the first political question was never, “Who should govern?”
It always was,
“What kind of people must we become if we are to live together truthfully, responsibly, and well?”
Because in the end,
the politics we desire will always be limited by the people we choose to become.
Politics is the visible expression.
Civilisation is the invisible foundation.
Limhachan Kikon
Duncan Bosti