When every elected representative sits on the same side of the aisle, democracy loses one of its most vital organs – dissent. Nagaland today stands as a unique but troubling example of this: a state where the government functions without a single opposition member in the Assembly.
What began as a call for “Naga political unity” and “opposition-less governance for the sake of the Naga cause” has slowly morphed into a political arrangement that defies the spirit of democracy. While unity may be a noble goal in theory, its cost – the silencing of legislative scrutiny – is far too high.
In any democracy, the opposition is not the enemy of the state; it is its conscience. The opposition’s role is to question, debate, and offer alternative perspectives that keep those in power accountable. Without it, the Assembly risks becoming an echo chamber, where decisions are taken without challenge, and policies pass without proper examination.
Nagaland’s 60-member Assembly today has no one to officially question the government on its spending, implementation of central schemes, or failures in governance. The very concept of “question hour” – a vital democratic mechanism – becomes redundant. The absence of dissent does not indicate unity; it indicates fear of isolation or loss of power.
The justification for an oppositionless government has always been wrapped in the rhetoric of unity for the “Naga political issue.” Yet, over time, this narrative has lost moral weight. The reality on the ground – from poor infrastructure to rampant unemployment – reflects that governance has not improved with unanimity. Instead, the lack of opposition has allowed complacency and political stagnation to take root.
Public accountability is weakened when there is no political alternative to offer constructive criticism. Civil society and the press are then left as the last standing watchdogs – a heavy burden that institutions not designed for legislative scrutiny are forced to bear.
An oppositionless Assembly sets a dangerous precedent. It teaches younger generations that political convenience is preferable to ideological conviction. It erases the idea of policy-based politics and replaces it with power-sharing politics. Worse still, it creates a false perception that democracy can thrive without dissent.
The moral strength of a democracy lies not in unanimity, but in debate. Differences in opinion are not weaknesses; they are signs of a healthy polity. Nagaland’s oppositionless government, therefore, stands not as a symbol of unity, but as a warning – of how democracy can hollow out from within when checks and balances disappear.
If Nagaland is to restore faith in its institutions, it must allow the opposition to function – even if that means individual MLAs taking up the mantle of accountability. The state’s people deserve to see real debate in the Assembly, not rehearsed agreements.
True unity will come not when everyone joins the ruling bench, but when all voices – dissenting or otherwise – are respected and heard.
