Straight Out of Zogam?
On August 25th, I made the decision to fly back to my hometown, Lamka. The reality struck me that I could no longer take the usual route to the state airport due to the ethnic violence that has persisted since May 3rd, 2023. What was once a straightforward journey—flying into Imphal Airport in Manipur and taking an hour’s drive to reach home—had transformed entirely. Now, I had to book my flight to Lengpui Airport in Mizoram, a neighbouring state, and endure a gruelling 19-hour journey by road. Mizoram’s airport has become the closest option for us, even though it lies in a different state. I felt helpless and angry at those in power, both in the state and central government, for failing to protect me and my community from such unjust treatment.
In the history of Manipur, a moment arrived that would forever separate the hills from the valley—physically, geographically, politically, socially, and economically. The ethnic violence tore through the foundational fabric of human rights, shattered civic spaces, and undermined democracy’s promise of justice and freedom. From that day forward, both the state and central government failed the tribal communities, the “Kuki Zomi Hmar,” breaking a trust that may never be mended. If the violence inflicted by the dominant community on minorities—from the horrific burning of a child to the parading of two tribal women, stripped and sexually harassed—doesn’t stir something in the heart and mind, what ever could?
Even a year and six months later, the conflict continues to impact thousands of families, children, women, and elderly who were forced to flee their homes in search of safety.
Around Lamka, there are now 96 relief centres set up for internally displaced people, some of which I’ve visited personally. In these centres, children, women, and men alike bear the heavy toll of violence and instability. My hometown no longer feels the same; the arduous journey just to reach it made me wonder, what would a severely ill person do? With limited medical facilities in town, they would face a gruelling 19-hour road journey for essential healthcare. The thought broke my heart and underscored the government’s indifference to our suffering.
I thought about the children now living in the relief camps and wondered: what about their education, their dreams, their homes, and their future? Seeing them receive basic vocational education brought some comfort, yet deep down, I know none of these innocent children deserve this reality. What about the trauma they carry from the violence—the gunshots, the mobs, the terrifying memory of fleeing to survive? I am in awe of their resilience, though my heart aches for all they have endured at such a young age.
I stood before the Wall of Remembrance, a sight etched with endless rows of black coffins and a banner filled with pictures of all the tribal martyrs who lost their lives in the violence—young men, children, women. I thought of the families left behind: the children now fatherless, the wives who lost husbands, the brothers without sisters, the mothers who lost sons, and the fathers who lost daughters. Eighty-seven lives laid to rest, each irreplaceable, and I wondered what justice could look like for those who suffered these unimaginable losses. It was a heartbreaking scene.
It made me question the demands of the tribal community and wonder why the government hasn’t taken steps toward granting us a separate administration, especially when we are already divided—physically, geographically, mentally, and emotionally. What’s stopping them from formalizing the separation that’s already been inflicted upon us? The government’s silence is deafening, and despite ongoing negotiations with leaders, there is no visible progress. I also wonder if they’ve minimized this crisis to a mere “conflict”—if so, why has the state failed to protect all people equally, whether tribal, non-tribal, or of different faiths?
As my two-month visit came to an end, I was left with countless questions—questions that may never have answers. All I wanted for this place was the peace, harmony, and tranquillity I once knew as a child. I wanted to feel safe and secure here again. But I know that this remains a distant dream. The land that was once my happy place is now a land of blood, marked by the lives of the innocent, the cries of children and widows, and the grief of mothers and loved ones.
And so, I bid farewell to my land—a land so deeply loved that many would lay down their lives for it, a land of tribes and clans, encircled by green hills and touched by the warm, gentle Zo breeze. A place of golden dust and tight-knit communities that have lived together for generations and will endure as long as the earth stands. I grieved with my land, held its soil in my hands and wishpered
