Imlisanen Jamir
Absenteeism in rural Nagaland’s government offices has long been an open secret—a cancer that eats away at progress, while those tasked with building the future retreat to their comfort zones in the city. It’s not a new story, but each time it happens, it stings a little deeper, a bitter reminder of how far we still have to go. The locked school in Yanpha is just another tragic chapter in this grim anthology, a reminder that, for some, the job title matters more than the job itself.
Here’s the truth: Teaching is not just a job, especially in a place like Nagaland, where education is the lifeline for communities struggling against the odds. It’s a calling, a commitment to shaping the minds and futures of children who have little else to cling to. But what do we see? Teachers, ostensibly the guardians of these young minds, choosing convenience over duty, leaving their posts in the village for the relative comfort of Dimapur. And when transportation fails, as it did on that fateful day, there’s no backup plan, no sense of responsibility that compels them to find a way. The school stays locked, and the students are left standing outside, waiting for an education that never comes.
The anger and frustration from parents, student unions, and villagers is more than justified. It’s the outcry of a community that has been let down, again and again, by those who are supposed to serve them. They see through the excuses—the transportation woes, the official duties—and they understand what’s really at play: a lack of commitment, a disregard for the very people these teachers are supposed to uplift.
This isn’t just about one school in one village. It’s a symptom of a broader disease afflicting government services across rural Nagaland. High-level directives, biometric systems, and civil society warnings have done little to change the status quo. The system is broken, and no amount of technology or top-down orders will fix it until there’s a shift in mindset, a return to the understanding that government jobs, especially in education, are not just a paycheck—they’re a responsibility, a duty to the people.
And here’s the most cynical part of it all: government teaching jobs remain a coveted prize, fiercely sought after by many young Nagas. But incidents like this one make you wonder—how many of those aspirants are in it for the right reasons? How many will follow in the footsteps of those who have already failed the people they’re supposed to serve? The bitter taste lingers, and with each new incident, it becomes harder to swallow.
Comments can be sent to imlisanenjamir@gmail.com
