Beyond Nalbari: The Questions We Avoid at Our Peril

The incident in Nalbari, where a group of frustrated youths vandalised Christmas decorations, deserves unequivocal condemnation. It was unlawful, socially disruptive, and morally indefensible. The prompt intervention by the administration and the widespread appeal for restraint were both necessary. In a constitutional democracy, grievance—however deeply felt—cannot be expressed through vandalism or intimidation.

Yet, when public discourse limits itself to outrage alone, it risks missing the deeper responsibility of a democratic society. Democracies mature not merely by punishing visible transgressions, but by examining the quieter tensions that precede them. The Nalbari episode, uncomfortable as it may be, compels Assam and the wider Northeast to confront questions that have long remained unspoken in polite public debate.

These questions are not about Christianity as a faith. Assam’s social history reflects a long tradition of coexistence among religious communities. Temples, mosques, churches, and namghars have shared cultural space without demanding exclusivity. The present unease is not theological; it is institutional and civilisational, rooted primarily in education, cultural influence, and identity.

Missionary activity in the Northeast has a layered history. During the colonial period, missionary organisations often entered regions where the state’s presence was negligible. Schools and hospitals followed, bringing literacy, healthcare, and social mobility to communities long excluded from formal governance. These contributions were tangible and, for many families, transformative. Any serious discussion must acknowledge this legacy without hesitation.

But history does not end where gratitude begins.

After Independence, India adopted secularism as a constitutional principle, promising equal distance from all religions while safeguarding freedom of belief. In practice, however, the state struggled to deliver quality education in remote and rural regions, particularly in the Northeast. This vacuum was gradually filled by private actors, many of them faith-based. Over time, missionary-run institutions came to wield significant cultural influence, often exceeding that of state schools.

Influence, by itself, is not problematic. What unsettles sections of society is influence without sufficient scrutiny.

Education is never value-neutral. It transmits moral frameworks, shapes identity, and moulds cultural memory. The symbols a school normalises, the festivals it highlights, and the narratives it presents as universal inevitably leave an imprint on young minds. When educational spaces are perceived—rightly or wrongly—to privilege one religious

worldview more prominently than others, concerns about balance and neutrality surface.

These anxieties are intensified by demographic trends that cannot be dismissed as imaginary. Census data over successive decades shows that while Assam remains predominantly Hindu, certain districts and pockets have experienced noticeable shifts in religious composition. Across the wider Northeast, the growth rate of Christianity has exceeded the national average. Data alone does not establish causation, nor does it assign intent. But data does demand engagement, not silence.

For many Assamese families, particularly in semi-urban and rural areas, the concern is not conversion as an act of personal belief. It is the perception that conversion—where it occurs—is sometimes accompanied by cultural detachment: reduced participation in indigenous festivals, declining use of local languages, and a weakening of shared social practices. Whether this perception is always accurate is open to debate. What is not debatable is its persistence.

Unfortunately, public discourse often collapses into rigid binaries. Attempts to articulate these anxieties are swiftly labelled communal, while genuine questions are dismissed without engagement. This reflexive moral dismissal may appear principled, but it risks deepening resentment, especially among young people who feel unheard rather than persuaded.

There must be zero tolerance for acts that damage religious symbols or threaten communal harmony. But there must also be space to scrutinise faith-based institutions operating in public domains such as education. Questions about curricular neutrality, cultural sensitivity, and transparency in funding are not expressions of hatred; they are democratic obligations.

India’s legal framework itself acknowledges this complexity. Several states have enacted laws regulating religious conversion, emphasising consent and disclosure. These laws are open to criticism, but their existence reflects a constitutional recognition that the issue is neither fringe nor fabricated. It is a legitimate subject of democratic negotiation.

Missionary organisations, particularly those running schools, would gain credibility by engaging these concerns openly rather than retreating behind moral certitude. Clear separation between education and evangelism, visible respect for local cultures, and transparency regarding funding sources would strengthen trust rather than erode it. Silence and defensiveness only reinforce suspicion.

At the same time, Assamese society must also introspect. Cultural confidence cannot be sustained through resentment or reaction. It must be nurtured through strong public institutions, meaningful investment in indigenous education, and a living engagement

with language, literature, and local traditions. When cultural roots are secure, identity anxiety loses its edge.

The Nalbari incident should therefore not be remembered merely as an act of vandalism. It should be seen as a warning—about what happens when legitimate questions remain unaddressed for too long, until frustration finds expression in destructive ways.

Condemning violence is necessary and non-negotiable. Confronting structural discomfort is harder, but indispensable.

Assam’s strength has always lain in balance—between faith and reason, continuity and change, plurality and cohesion. Preserving that balance today requires more than ritualised outrage. It demands intellectual honesty, institutional transparency, and the courage to engage difficult truths without fear or prejudice.

Peace matters. But peace built on silence is fragile.

Only honesty, pursued with restraint and integrity, can make it endure.