Nagaland, a State long regarded as one of the safest in the country, is witnessing an unsettling shift. The recent wave of brutal murders, a failed bank robbery, and rising thefts across districts have stirred unease and reflection: has the State that once prided itself on moral order and community discipline begun to lose its compass?
Between October 25 and 31, at least four serious incidents were reported in rapid succession. On October 27, three members of a family – 35-year-old Ashatul, his 12-year-old daughter, and 6-year-old son – were allegedly murdered by his brother, Abdul Gofur, in Niuland district. According to police reports, the accused later surrendered before the Village Council and handed over the weapons used in the crime. The motive remains unclear, though there are speculations that he may be suffering from mental health issues.
A day earlier, on October 26, a 22-year-old woman, reportedly a well-known basketball player, was found murdered near her residence at Old Ministers’ Hill, Kohima. Police said she was last seen the previous night. The motive too remains unknown.
In Longleng district, two men from Aoching village were killed in a suspected hit-and-run incident along the NH-702B on the intervening night of October 25 and 26. The victims were reportedly returning home when an unidentified vehicle struck them.
Then, on October 31, a gunman attempted to rob the State Bank of India’s Chedema Branch, in Kohima district, but the attempt was foiled. The assailant managed to escape.
These incidents, following one another in less than a week, have shaken Nagaland. Late last year and early this year, a woman was beheaded, allegedly by her husband, in what is believed to be a case of domestic violence. In another case, a woman was found murdered at Pimla village, Peren district, and is believed to have been raped.
“Like all human societies, Nagaland too had its share of crimes,” writes veteran journalist and former Nagaland Page editor Monalisa Changkija, in her opinion piece, “When a Fish Rots: Nagaland’s Rising Crime and Crisis of Accountability”, published in NE Now. “But this State was far from being any kind of ‘crime capital.’”
She clarifies that her concern is not with insurgency-related executions, abductions, or extortions which have long been part of the State’s turbulent political scene but with ordinary crimes committed by and against citizens unconnected to any underground group. “Unquestionably, crimes are crimes as defined by law, and lines cannot be drawn,” she writes. “Woe betide any society and State that blurs the lines.”
Her warning cuts deep: when ordinary crimes start multiplying in a society that once considered such acts rare, it signals a fundamental erosion of values.
Nagaland’s police data often shows fewer reported cases than other States, but as Changkija notes, the figures may be deceptive. “The public often finds it pointless to file FIRs,” she writes, “because, despite rigorous investigations, the outcomes are often fruitless.”
This resignation, she argues, breeds fear and silence – a dangerous mix that allows crimes to go unchecked and unchallenged. Many thefts and burglaries are now casually blamed on drug addicts, she observes, but “not all thefts and burglaries are the handiwork of drug addicts -there are hard-core individuals and groups of thieves and burglars, and they go about their criminal activities with impunity.”
The real question, she says, is deeper: “What is really wrong with a society and State that used to be almost crime-free?”
While the Police are often the first to be blamed for rising crime, Changkija reminds readers that law enforcement is not independent of politics. “The Police operate within the circles and cycles of politics and governance,” she writes. “Who dares to question or point fingers at the top? Increasingly, the top abjures responsibility and accountability.”
This vacuum of responsibility, she argues, has allowed crime and corruption to “fester incurably.”
Her critique takes aim at the system’s moral decay – particularly the case of over a thousand backdoor appointments in the Nagaland Police, which were later invalidated by the High Court. The episode, she writes, not only eroded public faith in law enforcement but damaged morale within the Force.
“If cops are appointed through the backdoor, their dependability to fight crimes and corruption is questionable,” she observes. “While the backdoor appointments were voided, no responsibility for this corruption has been identified or held accountable.”
According to her, this failure to take ownership has become emblematic of governance in Nagaland. “Our entire societal system sidelines responsibility and accountability,” she notes. “Therefore, crimes and corruption have become a flourishing industry, woven and ingrained into our political, economic, and social culture.”
Changkija acknowledges that society evolves with time, but she rejects the argument that change justifies moral decay. “Much has changed here over the decades, and we are not the same people anymore,” she concedes. “But no change is a reason, an excuse, or a justification for our rising crimes, corruption, and other societal ills.”
For her, the crisis in Nagaland is not merely criminal but ethical – a reflection of leadership that has failed to lead by example. “The crux of the matter seems to be the lack of responsible, responsive, and sensitive leadership,” she writes. “It is said that when a fish rots, it begins in the head.”
Changkija’s reflection is less a lament and more a challenge to a society that has grown accustomed to silence. Her essay forces uncomfortable questions:
Why are our crimes becoming more frequent and violent? Why are leaders not being held accountable? Why is the moral courage to speak out fading?
Her closing line lingers long after reading: “It may sound simplistic, but irrefutably, escalating crime rates are directly related to the lack of a moral compass in a society and State.”
Nagaland’s crime wave, she suggests, is not just about murder, theft, or robbery. It is about something more frightening – the slow, quiet death of accountability.
(This report is based on Monalisa Changkija’s column “When a Fish Rots,” published in NE Now)