How Hornbill Festival Has Overshadowed Nagaland State Day: Culture, Politics and Prohibition

This year too, the first of December saw Nagaland’s famed Hornbill Festival begin in earnest, as it does every year. December 1 is also Nagaland’s State Day — this year marking our 63rd year of Statehood — but as the years pile up, the Hornbill Festival has gradually eclipsed the historical significance of State Day. One gets the sense that in the last twenty years or so, during the inaugural programme of the Hornbill Festival at Kisama, our State Day merely receives a token mention when one considers the larger scheme of the Festival.

This could reflect a section of Naga political groups rebuffing the State of Nagaland, hence the long years of political negotiations with the Government of India — something our State Government balances by increasingly subsuming Statehood Day into the Hornbill Festival over the past couple of decades. It may be a way of “sitting on the fence” and playing it safe. It could also be a reiteration and reinforcement of Naga identity and culture that Statehood cannot repress or erase — a subtle reminder to the world at a subliminal level. Then again, with the way our governance and economy are regressing, the enormous governmental importance in terms of time, manpower, energy, and resources devoted to this Festival could also be a way of diverting people’s attention from real existential issues. Crumbs from the table, you understand — for who really gains from the Festival: a minuscule section of the population or the larger populace?

The Hornbill Festival was initiated and piloted by former Chief Minister Dr. S.C. Jamir in 2000. For a few years, it was held at the local playground in Kohima, and as it grew in scope, the venue was shifted to the Naga Heritage Village, Kisama. The Festival does not seem to have been perfected yet in terms of infrastructure, hygiene, sanitation, and the little details that make all the difference. But every year it draws a huge number of domestic and foreign tourists and visitors, thereby perfecting its public relations exercises. According to Festival organizers, its revenue has been increasing by crores, but as some opine, the hisaab-kitaab of the Festival ought to be officially checked, cross-checked, and verified by the Economic and Statistical Department or an independent authority that handles such matters. Nagaland, as a State, does not have the reputation of being meticulous with hisaab-kitaabs; hence, we really do not know how much revenue is earned and where it has been invested (if at all) or spent — something we may never truly know, as with so many other money matters in Nagaland.

The Government of Nagaland imposed prohibition in 1989, as demanded by our very puritanical Church, and since then the debate for and against prohibition resurfaces at least once every year — sometimes vociferously and at other times not so much. In fact, months go by with no one noticing the prohibition here. This is perhaps because Nagaland is often joked about as the “wettest dry State” in India: while our water pipes may run dry, our urban areas particularly never do so in terms of alcohol. In any case, as Nagaland borders Assam, it is very convenient to drive over to Khatkhati or towards Diphu to stock up on one’s alcohol requirements, though there is always the fear of being stopped and checked by the Nagaland Police or Excise — and then the ordeal of the Nagaland Prohibition Act, 1989 begins.

Particularly this year, Dimapur’s civil societies have been pushing for lifting the prohibition in the district on the grounds that the Act neither prevents smuggling, sale, nor consumption of alcohol, and that it is causing more harm than good. Reports of deaths due to spurious alcohol and a transition to illegal substances are rife. While the State Government claims to be willing to review and restructure the Act, unfortunately Nagaland is dealing with the Church’s ego and prestige — and the Church here has always been very powerful. The maze of religion and politics is indecipherable, and no tippler stands a chance of escaping it.

Prohibition takes on another dimension during the Hornbill Festival, where IMFL and local brews flow like the Brahmaputra in the monsoons, and the Government seems to look the other way. Foreign tourists and visitors do not fall under the purview of the Prohibition Act, and recently the Government affirmed this in an official note, though it made no mention of where or how they would procure their drinks. Interestingly, the Church did not react to the Government’s statement, prompting humour that “it’s fine — foreigners will go to hell while Nagas will go to heaven.” It is an open secret that alcohol is served at official evening events, especially when foreign and domestic dignitaries and assorted guests arrive in Nagaland. Either the Church is unaware of this — doubtful — or it simply turns a blind eye for reasons of its own. Double standards and hypocrisy are integral to power games.

At the end of the day, it is these power plays that form the soil on which seeds for Government festivals and numerous seemingly innocuous programmes are sown, painted with the colours of cultural and economic benefits for the people — the very people who remain the pawns near the table, quite happy with crumbs. The original intentions of these events may have been laudable, but they tend to evolve into platforms for political agendas and muscle-flexing. All Naga tribes have their traditional cultural festivals, sacred to us. For centuries, they have been held at specific times of the year, connected to agricultural practices and underscoring our deep-rooted relationship with Nature — her bounties, our community bonds, and our collective resilience. This is common in all agricultural societies because the land and Nature are our only home and refuge. When these traditions are appropriated and commercialized under any guise, it becomes difficult to say whether our identity, culture, and traditions are being promoted or abused and insulted.

In a similar vein, the practice of performing our traditional songs and dances to entertain dignitaries and guests at any time of the year requires rethinking. Such practices are intrinsic to colonial culture, and therefore perpetuate it. A re-think is necessary, especially as some of our cultural anthropologists advocate for decolonization — a process and movement that several erstwhile colonized societies have embarked upon. Decolonization must also include discarding alien practices that have become ingrained in us and subconsciously absorbed into our routine hospitality standards, practices that continue to bind us to colonial culture and reinforce an internalized sense of inferiority regarding our own identity, customs, culture, and traditions.

Monalisa Changkija is a Dimapur-based journalist, poet, and former Editor of Nagaland Page.