By Napoleon Mawphniang
Stop by any tea stall in Shillong and you’re guaranteed to hear the same old record spinning. Someone’s always going on about how “these outsiders are stealing our jobs” or “they’re destroying what makes us who we are” or “we’ve got to stand up for our people.” And there you are, nodding along while stepping around that massive pothole that’s been eating up half the road for the past three years. The government school down the street? Still doesn’t have proper desks for half the kids. And that friendly guy who just handed you your tea? He’s probably taking home barely enough money to buy groceries for three days in Meghalaya, forget about a whole week.
It’s almost surreal when you think about it – here we are, having these grand debates about identity and culture while the most basic stuff that actually affects our daily lives just keeps falling apart around us.
This is what I call “issue-displacement syndrome” – a peculiar condition where societies become so consumed with identity-based anxieties that they lose sight of the bread-and-butter issues that actually determine their quality of life. Meghalaya, I’m afraid, has become a textbook case of this malady.
Don’t misunderstand me. Cultural preservation and protecting indigenous rights are legitimate concerns. But when these conversations dominate our public discourse to the extent that corruption, healthcare collapse, and economic stagnation become background noise, we’ve lost the plot entirely. We’ve become masters at fighting the wrong battles while the real enemies of our progress – systemic corruption, administrative incompetence, and economic mismanagement – slip past our defenses unnoticed.
Consider this sobering reality: Meghalaya ranks among India’s poorest states despite being blessed with abundant natural resources. Our per capita income hovers around ₹47,000 annually – less than half the national average. Youth unemployment runs rampant, our healthcare infrastructure is crumbling, and rural areas lack basic connectivity. Yet our political discourse remains fixated on who can sell what where, and which community gets preference in government jobs.
This “developmental tunnel vision” isn’t unique to us. History offers instructive parallels. Take Northern Ireland during the Troubles. For decades, communities were so consumed with sectarian divisions that basic governance took a backseat. Schools deteriorated, economic opportunities vanished, and an entire generation grew up in a climate where political identity mattered more than practical progress. It wasn’t until the Good Friday Agreement shifted focus toward shared economic development that real transformation began.
Similarly, post-apartheid South Africa initially struggled with what scholars termed “grievance politics” – an understandable but ultimately counterproductive obsession with historical injustices that sometimes overshadowed urgent developmental needs. The breakthrough came when leaders like Thabo Mbeki began emphasizing the “African Renaissance” – a forward-looking vision focused on economic growth, education, and infrastructure rather than endless recriminations.
Meghalaya’s situation bears uncomfortable similarities. We’ve created what I call a “distraction economy” – a political system that thrives on manufactured crises and identity-based conflicts because they’re easier to mobilize around than the complex, unglamorous work of actual governance. It’s far simpler to organize rallies against perceived cultural threats than to audit government spending or demand accountability for failed development projects.
Let’s examine what we’re ignoring while we’re busy protecting our identity. The leakage in MGNREGA funds alone could transform rural livelihoods if properly utilized. A recent CAG report highlighted how nearly 30% of allocated funds in various schemes never reach intended beneficiaries. That’s not an identity issue – that’s straight-up theft from the public exchequer.
Our healthcare system presents another stark example. Meghalaya has one of the highest maternal mortality rates in Northeast India, yet our public health budget consistently goes underutilized due to administrative inefficiencies. When women in rural areas die during childbirth because the nearest PHC lacks an ambulance or basic medical supplies, what comfort does “cultural preservation” offer their families?
The minimum wage scenario is equally telling. While we debate the finer points of tribal identity, daily wage workers – many of them local tribals – struggle to earn ₹200 per day for backbreaking labour. Construction workers, domestic helpers, and agricultural laborers remain trapped in poverty not because of any external threat, but because our labor laws lack teeth and implementation remains pathetic.
Employment generation presents perhaps the starkest example of our misplaced priorities. We’ve spent enormous energy on reservation debates and identity-based job preferences while ignoring the elephant in the room: there simply aren’t enough quality jobs being created. Our industrial policy remains virtually non-existent, our education system produces graduates unsuited for modern employment, and our infrastructure can’t attract serious investment. No amount of identity protection can compensate for an economy that creates jobs at a snail’s pace.
Take a lesson from Kerala’s transformation in the 1960s and 70s. Despite being a small state with limited natural resources, Kerala achieved remarkable development indicators by focusing relentlessly on education, healthcare, and social services. They didn’t get distracted by linguistic chauvinism or regional politics – they prioritized human development over identity politics. The result? Kerala today enjoys living standards comparable to middle-income countries.
The best way forward for us is to embrace “constructive realism” – acknowledging our challenges without falling into the trap of blame games. We need to develop what psychologists call “strategic attention” – the ability to focus on issues that actually impact outcomes rather than those that merely generate emotional responses.
This means redirecting our collective energy toward demanding transparency in government spending. Every contract awarded, every rupee spent, every scheme implemented, every development project initiated should face public scrutiny. We need citizen audit committees that track fund utilization with the same passion currently reserved for identity politics.
We must demand accountability for non-performing assets in our developmental infrastructure. Why do rural schools lack teachers? Why do PHCs remain understaffed? Why do roads deteriorate within months of construction? These questions deserve the same attention we give to cultural preservation debates.
This demand for transparency becomes even more urgent when we examine the state of our information ecosystem. Try filing an RTI application with any Meghalaya government department and you’ll witness what I call “bureaucratic comedy theater” – responses so evasive and unprofessional that they’d be laughable if the implications weren’t so serious.
Ask for details about the Chief Minister’s office expenditure and you’ll be told “information not available.” Inquire about the state’s fiscal deficit and receive the same dismissive response. This isn’t mere administrative inefficiency; it’s a systematic effort to maintain what I term “governance opacity” – the deliberate obscuring of government functioning from public scrutiny.
The recent amendments to RTI rules in Meghalaya represent perhaps the most brazen assault on transparency in recent memory. A government that fears the Right to Information Act clearly has much to hide. When citizens file first and second appeals, they encounter what amounts to an “accountability firewall” – appellate authorities who seem more committed to protecting the government than serving public interest.
On the other hand, our administrative staff often lacks basic professional ethics, treating public information as personal property rather than citizen entitlement. Meanwhile, we remain distracted by identity politics. Until we demand the same passion for government accountability that we reserve for cultural debates, Meghalaya will continue its spiral of “transparent poverty amidst opaque governance” – poor outcomes delivered through systems designed to avoid scrutiny.
Most importantly, we need to cultivate what I call “developmental nationalism” – a pride in our state that manifests through economic progress, social indicators, and quality of life rather than through exclusionary policies or chest-thumping rhetoric. True pride comes from building a society where young people have opportunities, where healthcare is accessible, where governance is transparent, and where every citizen can aspire to a better life.
We’re at the crossroads, and honestly, it’s getting embarrassing. We can keep obsessing over identity politics while real problems devour our future like termites, or finally wake up to what matters. Our kids won’t care about preserved cultural symbols if they can’t find jobs or must leave home to survive. They’ll judge us on whether we left them a functioning state – where businesses operate without bribes, healthcare works, and the government serves people properly. We’ve been distracted too long arguing about who belongs where while schools crumble and corruption consumes development funds. Meghalaya needs actual progress, not endless debates. Are we ready to grow up?
(The writer is Advocate, Human Architect ,Trade Unionist and Los Nadies . Email: lazy-mounted grub@duck.com)