Silence in a Politically Literate Classroom: Voice, Identity, and Power in Nagaland

Why knowledge does not always lead to expression

In classrooms across Nagaland, political literacy is not lacking. Young people can explain election procedures, name leaders, and define key principles of the Constitution of India. Many follow political developments closely and are well aware of the laws and systems that shape the country. Yet, when asked one simple question-  “What do you think?”  the atmosphere often shifts. The room falls into a thoughtful, uneasy silence. This quietness is not a sign of ignorance, rather, it reflects deeper histories, identities, and a persistent sense of political distance.

By deeper histories, I refer to decades of political struggle, unresolved negotiations, ceasefires, and movements that continue to shape everyday life in Nagaland. These are not distant events recorded only in textbooks, but living memories that are still whispered in homes and recollected by elders. By identities, I point to the powerful role of tribe, language, land, church, and community belonging, which strongly influence how individuals see themselves and how they are seen by others. And by political distance, I mean the feeling that decisions about Nagaland are often discussed elsewhere, in places far removed from local realities, creating a gap between lived experience and national political discourse.

Nagaland’s past is inseparable from its political present. Decades of movements, negotiations, and assertions of identity live on in family stories, collective memory, and everyday conversations. Political issues are not confined to history textbooks; they are present at dining tables, in village meetings, and in quiet discussions between elders and the younger generation. These conversations are often careful, emotionally charged, and shaped by long-standing grievances, hopes, and disappointments.

For many young people, politics is tied to land, tribe, language, and belonging. It is deeply personal. Expressing an opinion can therefore feel less like an academic exercise and more like taking a position that might be judged by family, community, or even strangers. A simple comment in a classroom about governance, autonomy, or development can easily be interpreted as favouring one tribe, one region, or one historical narrative over another. In a society where family ties and community affiliations are strong, students know that their words do not remain within four classroom walls. They travel, they are repeated, and sometimes they are misunderstood. This awareness makes speaking controversial, and silence by contrast appears safe.

In a closely connected society, words carry weight far beyond their immediate meaning. A simple comment can be misunderstood, taken out of context or interpreted as support for one group and opposition to another. This creates an invisible pressure.

This pressure is not always direct or openly enforced. It exists in subtle forms in the fear of being labelled “anti-community,” “misinformed,” or “disrespectful”, in the awareness that elders and local leaders expect restrain in the knowledge that one’s remarks might be shared through social media, WhatsApp groups, or informal networks and thus reach unintended audiences. The pressure also comes from within a self censorship shaped by years of watching others face criticism for voicing unpopular opinions. Many students learn consciously or unconsciously, that silence is safer than speech. Caution often outweighs expression, not because they lack opinions, but because they are aware of the social and political consequences that words can carry.

Another important factor is the distance from mainstream political narratives. National discussions rarely reflect the everyday realities of Nagaland in a meaningful way. When the state does appear in national media or political debates, it is often framed through conflict, security concerns or statistics, rather than through the lived experiences of its people. The complexities of daily life, the aspirations of youth, the cultural richness, the local systems of governance, and the emotional weight of past struggles are frequently absent. This limited representation creates a sense of invisibility. Young people begin to feel that their voice shaped by a unique history and culture, do not truly matter in the wider national conversation. Over time, this feeling of being unheard turns into quiet withdrawal where students stop trying to place themselves within that larger political picture.

Yet this silence is not empty. It is filled with thought, reflection and a sharp awareness of political forces. Beneath the calm surface lies a deep understanding of power, struggle, and identity. Many students observe politics carefully, question policies privately, and form strong opinions within themselves. In Nagaland, political engagement often takes a quieter form through listening, remembering, and internal reflection rather than open debate. This does not mean that all opinions are always deeply researched or free from influence. Like young people everywhere, some students also pick up ideas from social media, community gossip or popular narratives without fully examining them. However, what is distinctive is that even when opinions are borrowed or shaped by hearsay, students are still careful about expressing them. They sense that political speech carries risk. At the same time, there are also those who read extensively, listen to elders, compare different versions of history, and quietly form their own interpretations of complex political realities. Their silence, therefore, is not a lack of thinking, but a lack of a safe platform for speaking.

For meaningful participation to grow, trust must come first. There must be spaces where young people can speak without fear of judgment, misinterpretation or social consequences. These spaces should not demand agreement but should invite honest questioning. Classrooms, youth platforms, and public discussions should encourage disagreement without hostility and questions without suspicion. They should recognise that political expression in Nagaland is shaped by long histories and deep sensitivities.

When such safe environments are created, the hesitant voices of today can find the confidence to rise. Only then can silence transform into expression and only then can Nagaland’s younger generation help shape a more inclusive and representative political future one that truly listens to them.

Wezo-ü Dienu