Every year, particularly towards the end of the year and at the start of the next, conferences fill halls, village grounds, and community spaces across Nagaland. Student gatherings, union meetings, association assemblies – the calendar becomes crowded. Leaders are invited, speeches are delivered, cultural programs performed, and the halls are abuzz with activity. To the casual observer, it is an impressive display of organisation, tradition, and community spirit.
But it raises a question: what is all this really achieving? When resolutions are passed, discussions held, and plans outlined, how much of it translates into tangible action? How many promises find their way into reality? And more importantly, how much of the energy, time, and resources invested actually benefits the people who attend or the communities they represent?
The spectacle itself is undeniable. Grand openings, high-profile guests, cultural performances, these conferences are often visually and socially striking. They reinforce identity, foster solidarity, and provide a platform for voices to be heard. Yet sometimes the grandeur overshadows the purpose. With speeches repeated, agendas recycled, and outcomes rarely revisited, one wonders whether these events are doing more than marking another day on the calendar.
It is easy to assume that these gatherings are necessary. After all, they are part of a long-standing tradition. But in a world where students, youth associations, and community organizations face real challenges, from skill development and employment to representation and community welfare, the question becomes unavoidable. Are these conferences keeping pace with the needs of the people they aim to serve, or are they mostly ceremonial?
Perhaps this is why some observers quietly shake their heads each year. The programs are well-intentioned. The cultural elements are valuable. Networking opportunities exist. Yet one cannot ignore the pattern. Conferences come, conferences go, and very little seems to change beyond the applause and the photographs.
Is there something inherently wrong with ritual and tradition? Certainly not. But when the same format repeats year after year, when discussions rarely turn into concrete initiatives, and when the community waits for outcomes that rarely appear, it is natural to question whether the effort is justified. These questions are not rhetorical. They are meant to make us reflect on the purpose behind these gatherings.
Perhaps the real measure of a conference should not be the size of the hall, the number of speeches, or the prominence of the guests. Perhaps it should be the ideas implemented, the skills imparted, and the tangible changes effected in the lives of participants and the communities they represent.
For now, these are questions every attendee, organizer, and observer must answer for themselves. Are these conferences inspiring action, creating meaningful connections, and producing change? Or are they, as some quietly admit, more about appearances than outcomes, another yearly ritual that leaves participants energized for a day but unchanged in substance?
Nagaland’s conferences carry history, pride, and identity. They are part of the social fabric of the state. But as we witness each gathering, particularly at the turn of the year, it may be worth pausing, reflecting, and asking: what is the purpose behind the pomp and who really benefits when the curtains fall?
