Nagaland is tired, but it is not bitter. It is weary, but it has not lost its heart. Beneath our calm faces and disciplined routines lives a quiet longing for peace, reassurance, and rest. We still greet each other warmly, still bow our heads in prayer, still gather for weddings, funerals, and Sundays dressed in our best, carrying faith like a lamp that refuses to go out. To many, we look steady and strong. But strength has a cost, and our people have been carrying it for a very long time.
This tiredness grew slowly. It came from years of waiting without certainty, from adjusting again and again without complaint, from hoping quietly so disappointment would not make noise. We learned to endure with dignity. Over time, endurance became normal, and exhaustion learned to hide.
In villages and towns, evenings are often filled with silence. Parents think of children far away, living lives shaped by distance. They left not because they stopped loving home, but because home could not always give them a future. Phone calls are gentle and careful. “I am fine,” the children say. “We are praying,” the parents reply. Love travels through these calls, but so does longing. During festivals and family gatherings, one chair remains empty, one voice missing. Peace is present, but it feels incomplete.
Young people carry a fragile hope. They study hard, serve faithfully, and pray sincerely. Many do everything they are asked to do. Still, opportunities remain few. Dreams are not abandoned, only folded carefully and kept aside. They do not rebel. They wait. And waiting, when it stretches too long, becomes heavy on the soul.
Elders watch with quiet concern and quiet love. They have seen conflict, fear, and loss. They taught us peace when peace was difficult, and faith when faith was costly. Today, many worry silently about the road ahead. They speak softly, not because they lack wisdom, but because they do not want to disturb the fragile hope still holding families together.
Church bells continue to ring, steady and familiar. Hymns rise every Sunday, carrying generations of prayer. Faith remains the deepest source of our strength. Yet even faith now carries tenderness. People pray not only for blessings, but for direction, for peace of mind, for reassurance that love and patience still matter. These prayers are not weak. They are deeply human.
Our society still knows how to come together in grief. We sit beside one another when loss arrives, sharing tears and silence. But there are other griefs we rarely name. The grief of unrealised potential, of distance, of time passing without clarity. We carry these quietly, trusting that love will somehow be enough.
And often, it is. Nagaland is still standing because love has not left us. Parents continue to sacrifice without applause. Youth continue to serve without certainty. Neighbours still show up when pain enters a home. Peace, though fragile, still holds. Hope, though tired, still breathes. Faith, though tested, still remains.
This tiredness is not failure. It is the mark of a people who chose peace over anger, patience over bitterness, love over despair. What we need now is gentleness. Spaces to speak honestly without fear. Time to rest without shame. Conversations rooted in care rather than judgement. Healing begins when a society allows itself to be held, just as much as it has held others.
Nagaland is not broken. It is resting between prayers. It is tired, yes, but it is also loving, believing, and hopeful. And that quiet hope, carried patiently for so long, is still enough to guide us forward.
Yours sincerely,
Pele George
Author and Columnist
Monday, February 9, 2026