Rokovikho Keyho
Department of Economics, Modern College, Piphema
In recent years, Nagaland has witnessed a quiet yet undeniable shift in its social and economic landscape — the increasing presence of non-local individuals across urban and semi-urban regions. From roadside vendors and construction workers to small business operators and service providers, non-locals are now embedded in nearly every visible layer of our public life. This change, though gradual, is beginning to raise critical questions about employment, identity, cultural integrity, and the future of our state.
The causes behind this demographic shift are complex and rooted in several factors. With a significant portion of the local youth migrating out of the state in search of higher education and better employment opportunities, there has been a growing void in the local labour market. Many jobs that require physical labour, technical skills, or long working hours remain unattractive or inaccessible to locals due to social perceptions, lack of training, or low wages. Consequently, workers from outside the state—mainly from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal, and Assam—are stepping in to fill these gaps.
Non-locals often arrive with strong work networks, community backing, and an ability to survive on lower earnings. These factors allow them to dominate sectors like construction, tailoring, small-scale trade, and even service deliveries. Over time, this economic foothold evolves into a semi-permanent presence, with many non-locals bringing their families and gradually settling in the region.
What is more troubling, however, is the inefficacy of regulatory mechanisms such as the Inner Line Permit (ILP), which was originally designed to control and monitor the entry of outsiders into Nagaland. The lax enforcement of such policies has led to unchecked migration, blurred lines of legality, and a growing population of non-documented settlers whose presence remains largely unaccounted for.
This is not an argument rooted in xenophobia. It is, instead, a reflection of a deeper anxiety—a growing sense among many Nagas that their socio-economic space is shrinking. The fear is not merely about employment but about cultural displacement and erosion of identity. In a land where tradition, language, and community bonds are deeply valued, the silent takeover of public and economic spaces by outsiders is not just seen as a demographic issue, but as a slow dilution of who we are.
To ignore this growing concern would be a disservice to the future of Nagaland. There is an urgent need for meaningful dialogue between the public, the state, and policymakers. Skill development programs must be implemented at a grassroots level so that local youth are better equipped to fill employment gaps. ILP regulations must be reviewed and enforced with sincerity, and local entrepreneurship should be actively encouraged and protected through policy support and funding.
At the same time, we must not lose sight of our values as a community. Respect for human dignity must remain at the core of our actions, even as we strive to protect our rights. The presence of non-locals may be a reality, but it cannot be allowed to grow unchecked, unrecorded, and unchallenged.
As a Naga, I do not oppose the presence of others who come with respect and purpose, but I cannot deny the discomfort of feeling like a stranger in my own homeland. The time has come for Nagas to speak—not with anger, but with clarity. If we remain silent today, the cost may be our voice, our place, and our identity tomorrow.
