Nagaland is no stranger to disaster. Landslides bury villages, floods erase lives, and storms barrel through with little warning. For years, we’ve relied on the whims of nature and the resilience of people to weather the worst. But now, technology offers something different: a chance to see disaster before it strikes, to prepare before the ground shifts or the rivers rise. The state is on the brink of installing an Early Warning System (EWS), a leap forward in disaster preparedness. But tools, no matter how advanced, are only as effective as the hands that wield them. The question isn’t whether the warnings will come—it’s whether we’ll be ready to act.
Last year, a Doppler radar was installed in Dimapur, promising more precise weather forecasts. This wasn’t just an upgrade; it was a game changer. The radar doesn’t just measure rain; it tracks storms, predicts their movement, and gives us a chance to act before the worst hits. But a year later, how much has changed? Are local authorities more prepared? Are communities better informed? Or has this radar become another tool collecting dust in the corner, a symbol of what could be but isn’t?
Now comes the promise of the EWS. It’s ambitious—monitoring earthquakes, landslides, lightning, and floods. It’s exactly what a state like Nagaland needs, where disasters don’t knock but kick the door down. But the success of this system won’t be measured by its installation.
It’ll be measured by how well we use it. Will warnings be treated with urgency or skepticism? Will they reach the villages tucked away in the hills, or will they stop at some government office, lost in the shuffle of bureaucracy?
The Doppler radar and the EWS are pieces of the same puzzle. One scans the sky, the other sends the alarm. Together, they’re a powerful duo—if, and only if, we’re prepared to respond. But that’s the catch, isn’t it? Technology is easy to celebrate. Preparedness is hard to implement. It’s not enough to have new eyes in the sky. We need boots on the ground, plans in place, and communities ready to act.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: disasters don’t discriminate, but preparedness does. A flood warning means little to a farmer whose fields are already flooded. A landslide alert is useless to a village with no safe place to go. The technology might be advanced, but the infrastructure isn’t. And until those gaps are filled, these tools will only be as good as the hands they’re in.
There’s a tendency to applaud progress for the sake of progress, to confuse announcements with action. But disaster preparedness isn’t about what we have; it’s about what we do. Nagaland can install all the radars and warning systems it wants. But when the skies speak, will we have the will—and the means—to listen? Or will we wait, as we always have, for nature to remind us of its power in ways we cannot ignore?
It’s a hard question, but one worth asking now, before the next storm, the next landslide, the next flood. Because the warnings are coming. The only question is whether we’ll hear them in time.
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