There is a strange rhythm to Environment Day, as waste that was removed earlier appears out of nowhere as it never left.
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There is a strange rhythm to Environment Day. There will be speeches, awareness programmes, cleanup drives, photographs and applause. Then the day ends; everyone goes back to their normal lives, and the accumulation of waste that was removed earlier seems to appear out of nowhere as it never left.
Perhaps that sounds cynical, but it's a valid concern; if we’ve been repeating the same message for years, why does the environment and public spaces struggle with litter and neglect?
Most people already know littering is wrong, even those who do not usually defend it in principle. But maybe part of the answer is because we spend too much time discussing what is wrong, rather than imagining what could be done to make things right.
A couple weeks ago, when I attended a clean-up programme at Mt. Pulie Badze for International Biodiversity Day, I heard a familiar complaint of ‘how can people be so dirty?’ It is a fair concern. We see our lands neglected and dirtied, so the frustration is natural and not unjustified.
Yet if scolding or criticising people was enough, the problem would have been solved long ago. If everyone knows littering is wrong, then why does it continue so easily? Criticism has its place, but there is also fatigue behind it if everything is criticism.
In some villages, like Khonoma for instance, you notice something different. There is a visible sense of shared presence. A sense of “this is ours” still lingers in a way that is harder to find in many urban streets. I do not mean to romanticise this idea that villages are perfect, for they have their own challenges. But there is a social closeness that quietly enforces behaviour without needing constant reminders.
Then there are places where something similar is deliberately created. For example, in Kohima near town hall, there is a small public site developed by the Japanese. While I do not know much about its inception, what stood out was not what was built, but that it was maintained. The surroundings were clean in a way that felt almost unusual, as if the space itself expected respect and received it. The War cemetery in Kohima too stands as an example.
A clean space changes behaviour, and people hesitate before making it dirty. Interestingly, I’ve seen a similar effect in newly developed districts closer to where I live. Towards New secretariat, the neighborhoods there are not necessarily more advanced in design, but they are noticeably cleaner. Not because they are fundamentally different, but because the space has not yet been surrendered to neglect. Habit has not fully taken over. Which raises an uncomfortable question: if cleanliness can exist so easily in new places, why does it fade so quickly in older ones?
Perhaps it is not that cleanliness is difficult. Perhaps it is that maintenance is less dramatic than creation. We are very good at building new things. We are less consistent at keeping them dignified once the inauguration banners come down.
And here lies a contradiction hard to ignore. We invest significant energy, pride and money in constructing grand buildings, town halls and churches, as symbols. Yet beyond those walls, the surrounding environment tells a quieter, less impressive story. Why does care stop at the boundary of such buildings?
This is not meant to criticise architecture or faith, but to invite reflection. The beauty of a church, temple, or public hall is not found only in its walls. It is also reflected in the road that leads to it, the trees that surround it, and the care shown to the shared space beyond its gates. When the surroundings are treated with the same respect as the building itself, the message becomes stronger, not weaker.
Furthermore and interestingly, despite some misconceptions, pride may be more useful than pressure at times. Human beings respond strongly to recognition. Imagine if cleanliness was not only a warning-based system, but also a recognition-based one. A clean street award or neighbourhood ranking. These may sound small, even trivial, but while pride can sometimes lead us astray, it can also be harnessed for good. Communities that take pride in their surroundings are often the very communities that work hardest to preserve them.
Perhaps the greatest environmental challenge before us is not a lack of awareness. We have speeches, campaigns, posters, and programmes in abundance. The challenge is turning a one-day conversation into a year-round habit.
A cleaner neighbourhood, a cleaner town, or a cleaner city will not emerge from criticism alone, nor from a single Environment Day celebration. It will emerge when responsibility becomes ordinary, when pride is directed not only toward what we build but also toward what we maintain.
After all, the true measure of a community is not what it unveils on inauguration day. It is what remains long after the banners are taken down.
A cleaner country is possible. Should we not invest not only in the administrative systems and competence required for such a task, but also in the quieter psychological and cultural shifts that shape how people behave? Even dust pollution on our walls and streets, though far more difficult to control, is not beyond reduction if sustained effort is made.
Ultimately, cleanliness is not an achievement we announce—it is a condition we maintain.