Mary Chophy
JNU Alumni
Every December, as the winter mist settles over the Naga Hills and the first beats of log drums echo across Kisama, the Hornbill Festival awakens—vibrant, proud, and unapologetically alive. And yet, beneath the rhythmic dances and the warmth of rice beer shared in bamboo mugs, lies an uncomfortable truth we rarely confront: our growing obsession with Western partnership and tourists, and the hypocrisy that shadows it.
According, to the data of Department of Tourism (Government of Nagaland), Hornbill’ 2025 recorded a total of 2, 14,493 visitors. Out of these, 1, 55,535 were local attendees, 56,431 were domestic tourists, and just 2,528 were foreign visitors. These numbers tell a straightforward story: Hornbill is sustained by our own people and by fellow Indian visitors, not by foreigners who make only 1.1% of total attendance. And yet, every year, we celebrate the western collaborations and presence of Western tourists as if the festival’s success depends on their footsteps. For many, the arrival of Western visitors has become an event within the event. Eyes sparkle with a peculiar mix of pride and validation, as though the presence of white faces alone confirms the festival’s worth.
The Hypocrisy Hidden in the Hospitality
Nagaland has a long history of resisting cultural erasure. For decades, we’ve bristled against stereotypes—head-hunters, insurgents, “exotic tribes”—labels that flattened us into something less than human. This is a bitter truth one can conform to, given the issue of Naga ancestral human remains in Pitt Rivers Museum at the University of Oxford. We speak often about dignity, representation, and respect, yet when a Western tourist steps into a Morung, we reinforce the very caricatures we claim to dislike. Our people rush to escort Westerners with a kind of overeager attention that borders on self-objectification. This isn’t hospitality. Its hierarchy—one in which we silently place ourselves below the visitor because of their skin colour and imagined status.
The White Approval Syndrome
Hornbill’s international fame is often touted as a triumph—but whose approval are we celebrating? Too often, our pride is pinned on how the West perceives us. Local media splashes photos and interviews of Western tourists as if their mere presence elevates the event. Even government machinery cites foreign visitor numbers like trophies. The deeper issue here is not admiration but validation dependency.
We have internalized the belief—subtle yet pervasive—that something is only world-class when the West acknowledges it. It’s a mindset inherited from colonialism, but perpetuated by us. In present scenario, through collaboration in Hornbill and other programs, White Men might show goodwill gestures as repentance for sufferings and pain caused to Naga people during World War II. But we shall be mindful and aware of the fact that engagements by western countries always have had underpinnings of Colonial Conveniences, be it in past, present or future. And we as a Naga should be aware enough, not to become a geostrategic pawn, happily giving our rein in hands of the distant friends. As the Biblical Proverb 27:10 states “better a neighbour nearby than a relative far away”.
The Domestic Tourist: Present, Supportive, yet Overlooked
Our fellow Indian domestic visitors, who save up money and plan trips to come and understand Nagaland, including students, families, bikers, backpackers, bloggers, working professionals— seldom feature in official narratives of success. They are the ones who fill the hotels and home stays, eat at our restaurants, and buy shawls, jewellery, spices, baskets, smoked meats, and books. They sustain the festival’s economic backbone and their economic contribution far exceeds that of foreign tourists. Recently, domestic digital influencers and content creators have amplified the outreach of Hornbill festival in more real and positive sense. Yet they are often perceived as ordinary, sometimes even treated with impatience. Complaints about crowding or bargaining disproportionately target domestic visitors even though similar behaviours by Western tourists are overlooked. For a festival that depends heavily on domestic footfall, such attitudes may, over time, alienate a critical tourism base further undermining its sustainability.
The Need for Honest Introspection
For a state like Nagaland, Tourism brings growth, opportunity, and visibility. But the problem lies in how we position ourselves within that exchange. True cultural pride does not sway with external validation. True hospitality does not stem from inferiority. True identity is not built on the gaze of others especially the fair skinned western people, but on self-recognition.
Policy Hypocrisy: PAP vs. ILP
The irony runs deeper in our policies. Just before this year’s Hornbill, when the Protected Area Permit (PAP) was lifted for foreigners, everyone cheered. But the Inner Line Permit (ILP)—which governs domestic access—remains cumbersome. Why the silence? Our advocacy is loud when it comes to making Nagaland accessible to foreigners. We fight for Western ease but neglect access to our fellow Indian brethren. Despite the fact that domestic tourists form a key pillar of Hornbill’s survival, the call to simplify ILP processes is strangely muted. There are no loud campaigns, no public pressure, and no urgent conversations. This is not strategy; it is misplaced priorities. This exposes a painful reality, as if, we are far more eager to be seen by the West than to be understood by fellow Indians.
Neglecting Our Southeast Asian Neighbours: A Strategic Blind Spot
If the dependence on the West is troubling, our neglect of Southeast Asia is unforgivable. Countries like Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and Indonesia share profound cultural and tribal connections with Nagaland. Our weaving patterns, oral histories, dances, and foods resonate with these neighbours. Yet, Hornbill rarely hosts ASEAN artists or builds meaningful cross-border exchanges. Instead, we chase Western attention, ignoring those who understand us best.
It’s Time to Wake Up!
Nagaland must confront these uncomfortable truths. Hornbill is not a stage for Western validation. It is a celebration of who we are—our tribes, our music, our food, our resilience. If we continue worshipping foreign feet while neglecting our own people, we risk hollowing out the festival’s very soul. Nagaland’s cultural confidence should not be contingent on Western attention. Nagaland’s future does not lie in the gaze of distant partners but in the hands of those closest—in geography, in culture, and in belongingness. So next time, when our white skin friends arrive, let us greet them not as superiors, not as saviours, but simply as guests—equal in humanity, different in culture, and welcome in our home.
