Ten days where the world gathers at Kisama, where colours burst louder than the drums, where cultures are worn like crowns, and where fashion, food, and freedom blend into a spectacle.
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There is something almost poetic about this season in Nagaland. Ten days where the world gathers at Kisama, where colours burst louder than the drums, where cultures are worn like crowns, and where fashion, food, and freedom blend into a spectacle. And then there is Dimapur—just a few hours away—where thousands gather not for a show, not for a selfie, but for healing, for revival, for something their souls can no longer ignore.
Two crowds.
Two hungers.
Two destinations.
One state.
One God watching.
I have never been to the Hornbill Festival myself, but social media paints enough of a picture—people having a good time, bold statements made by clothes and choices, drinks flowing as though conviction took a holiday. Foods and lifestyles endorsed for 10 days that we would condemn for the other 355. We, a state that calls itself Christian, a people who sing “Hallelujah” on Sunday but lose ourselves in the neon lights of December.
And yet, I look at the other crowd—the ones standing in the dust of Dimapur, hands lifted high, crying out for healing that is deeper than their skin. Souls starving for Jesus. People desperate for God to touch what the world cannot see. Some come broken. Some come tired. Some come pretending they are okay until the worship exposes their wounds.
How strange—one crowd celebrating culture, another pleading for the Cross.
And I wonder... which one reflects us more truthfully?
Festivals will grow bigger. Hornbill will get grander. The world will love us more for it. Our tourism will flourish. Our stages will get larger. Our cultural flex will attract even more nations. And truly, many who go there are not going for sin—they are bound by duty, work, and responsibility. Some go with family simply to breathe for a moment. That is not sin.
But the real question is not about them.
It's about us.
About me.
About you.
While our festivals get better each year, do our souls?
Does my heart get better the next day?
Does yours get stronger the next minute?
Or do we allow our convictions to shrink while our celebrations grow?
This is my personal thought—it is not meant to hurt anyone. But what if we all dared to think honestly for once?
When was the last time we prepared our hearts with the same excitement with which we prepare our outfits?
When was the last time we said “no” to something because Christ deserved our “yes”?
When did Jesus become the One we can skip, postpone, or casually replace?
And what do we even offer at the altar these days?
Worship?
Or self-promotion?
A heart for Christ?
Or a performance for people?
We proudly say “Hallelujah” with the crowd, only to indulge ourselves the moment the music fades. We rejoice in culture and then crash our convictions into the barricades of temptation. Some end the night on pavements where dignity is traded for a moment. And still we call ourselves a Christian state.
But even in Dimapur—those crying for revival—they are sinners too. They fall. They might fall again. They are not better; they are just desperate.
The truth is: we are all lost in different ways.
One group loses itself in celebration.
The other loses itself in brokenness.
And both groups desperately need the same Jesus.
So the real question is not which crowd is holier.
The question is: where is Christ in all of this? Is He the centre of what we do?
Or just the name we use to feel safe about our lifestyles? Does our worship glorify Him?
Or do we glorify ourselves? And in all these gatherings—cultural or spiritual—does Jesus get the honour? Or have we built altars that look holy but are really mirrors reflecting ourselves?
These are not accusations. These are not judgments. These are questions that I ask myself first. Because if festivals grow while our faith shrinks; if we preserve culture but lose our souls; if we gather crowds but forget the Cross; then what exactly are we celebrating?
Maybe... just maybe... it is time we stop defending our events and start examining our hearts. Because at the end of the day, the world may come for our culture—but Christ came for our souls. And that should mean something.
Subongtsungba Longkumer