Model United Nation committees used to be the epitome for deep thinking, a place
where students could rehearse the art of diplomacy, sharpen their rhetoric, and
discover the way you can change the world with words. However, in Chandigarh, the
sound of the gavel has been submerged by a baseline. The committee room, with its
placards and position papers, is just the prelude. The crescendo begins at the social
night.
MUN’s originate from Oxford University. In the 1920s, a handful of students led a
‘Model League of Nations’ international assembly. Delegates represented countries,
debated about global issues, and collaborated to pass resolutions. Over the following
years, these assemblies seeped into different countries and cities across the world,
representing public speaking, leadership, critical thinking, and a medium of representation of the youth’s voice. Even though MUN’s are meant to be a simulation for a United Nations committee, nowadays they have transformed into a simulation of belonging. Delegates still write draft resolutions and recite speeches, but the clauses are perfunctory. The true energy is reserved for the parties afterwards; neon pulsating lights, playlists curated for Instagram reels, ‘fit-checks’, and teenagers competing for ‘The Best Delegate’ of popularity rather than policy.
Take the Agahi MUNs for example. The three-day conferences held at Strawberry
Fields School attract delegates from all over the Tricity, known as much for its
afterparties as its committees. Despite the high registration fees, many such MUN’s
attract teens for their extravagant social nights, topped off with DJ performers and
pop music.
This shift from the fate of reputations rather than nations, is not accidental but
cultural. Chandigarh’s booming MUN culture mirrors today’s youth’s priorities:
connection over contention, vibe over verbal negotiations. For most, diplomacy isn’t
about climate change or ongoing wars, but about who sits on which table, who
dances with whom, and whose social media post is the most enviable.
However, it feels as if something is missing. The intellectual rigor which once guided
these very committees has thinned into background noise. Resolutions aren’t crafted
with passion and conviction like they should be. These platforms are meant for
discussion of global crises, but they are treated as fillers till the real crisis, the hunger
for belonging, evolves in the dance halls.
Of course, it would be unfair to paint all MUNs with the same brush. Chandigarh has
also hosted conferences where committees are run with genuine seriousness, where
delegates spend hours drafting detailed resolutions and debating with conviction.
These MUNs remind us that the original spirit of diplomacy is not lost—it survives in
pockets of dedication, proving that when structure and spectacle coexist, the result
can be both intellectually rewarding and socially vibrant. At the same time, even the
more socially‐driven events hold their own importance and should not be dismissed
as downright destructive.
Teens learn the mechanics of networking, the subtle ways of self-presentation, and
the courage to inhabit a role (even if it mirrors an influencer rather than a diplomat).
Important skills are passed from one delegate to another: charisma, confidence, and
the ability to navigate yourself through a large crowd. In a world where power often
outweighs hard policy, these lessons may prove more practical than any draft
resolution. Perhaps, this is a special kind of diplomacy suited for the world we live in
today.
From the perspective of a fifteen-year-old, these events have shown me that
although MUN’s in the Tricity aren’t fulfilling their true purpose originally crafted by
the students of Oxford, they signify an unspoken union of teens. The gavel and the
disco ball are not opposites, but symbols for the same principles. To be seen. To be
heard. To matter. Maybe the Chandigarh MUN culture is a lesson that diplomacy has
always been a part of performance. We are learning, in our own adolescent way, that
theatre is politics and politics is theatre.
Therefore, maybe Chandigarh MUN’s, then aren’t failures of debate but real youth
representations that mirror global dynamics. They are reminders that the desire for
status outweighs real solutions. They show us that popularity may be louder than
policy. And they leave us with a question, when the lights dim and the music fades,
how can we replace the need for stories posted, by the resolutions passed?
In the end, Chandigarh’s MUNs are not simply about debate or disco—they are about identity. They reveal how adolescence itself is a negotiation between seriousness and spectacle, between the desire to influence and the desire to belong. If the committee hall teaches us the language of diplomacy, the dance floor teaches us the language of presence. Together, they remind us that youth politics is not only about resolutions passed but about the stories we choose to live. And perhaps, when we look back years later, we will realize that the disco ball was never a distraction from the gavel, but its mirror—reflecting the same hunger to matter in a world that is always watching.
Written by Shreeya Sahi, Grade 9
