Today the blackboards are not filled with lessons. The chalk rests untouched. The voices that once echoed inside government schools are now echoing on the streets. Adhoc teachers in Nagaland are protesting—not because they want to, but because they have been left with no other choice.
For years they have carried a broken system on their backs. They filled empty posts when there were no regular appointments. They walked long distances to reach remote villages. They taught in classrooms with leaking roofs, broken benches, and uncertain salaries. They adjusted. They endured. They believed that someday the system would remember their sacrifice.
But years passed. Files moved slowly. Promises faded quietly. And the same teachers who built foundations for thousands of students were told they are “temporary.”
Temporary?
How can dedication be temporary?
How can a decade of service be temporary?
How can a life devoted to children be temporary?
Behind every protesting teacher is a story no one sees. A mother worrying about her own child’s school fees while teaching other people’s children for survival. A father standing in protest with a placard in his hand, wondering how he will repay loans. Families surviving month to month because salaries are delayed or uncertain. Smiles worn in classrooms while anxiety eats them alive at night.
No teacher dreams of shouting slogans. They dream of lesson plans. They dream of seeing their students succeed. Protest is not their comfort zone—it is their breaking point.
Nagaland speaks proudly about education, about progress, about shaping the future. But the future cannot stand if the present is neglected. A state cannot demand loyalty from teachers while denying them stability. You cannot ask someone to build generations while their own life stands on shifting sand.
This is not rebellion. This is heartbreak in public view.
When teachers stand on the streets, it is not just a protest—it is a silent collapse of trust. It is the sound of exhausted hope asking to be heard one last time.
If we truly value education in Nagaland, then we must value the hands that hold the chalk. Not with speeches. Not with temporary assurances. But with real security, transparent policy, and humane decisions. Because when a teacher cries for justice, it is not weakness. It is the cry of a system that has pushed its most patient people too far. Nagaland’s children are watching.
History is watching.
And the conscience of this state must answer.
Maibonlungbo Newmai
Voices of Gen Z
Tuesday, February 17, 2026