In the quiet village of Konsakhul, nestled in Manipur’s Kangpokpi district, an elderly man lies on a cot, bruised and silent. Aimson Abonmai, the respected village chief, was assaulted by armed militants just days ago. His face is swollen, his family is shaken, and his community is on edge. The attack, allegedly carried out by Kuki-aligned militants, was supposedly over a land dispute. But no one in the village sees this as a one-off incident. They know better. They’ve lived through decades of conflict, political abandonment, and betrayal. What happened to Aimson is just the latest reminder of a brutal truth: Manipur has been left to burn, while the Indian state looks away.
The Indian government’s relationship with Manipur has long been defined not by inclusion but by control. From the imposition of military laws to the regular suspension of democratic institutions, Delhi’s approach to Manipur has always been one of suspicion, not solidarity. This latest round of violence, assaults on village leaders, fresh militant activity, and mass displacement, is not new. It is the logical outcome of a system that has failed its people again and again.
In the days following the Konsakhul incident, security forces arrested four militants from various banned outfits across the Imphal Valley. These arrests were publicized as evidence of the state’s alertness. Yet in Manipur, few are convinced. Many see these arrests as cosmetic, part of a reactive, surface-level strategy that does little to address the real causes of unrest. Why are so many young people still joining militant ranks? Why do communities continue to arm themselves, not out of ideology, but out of fear? The answer lies not in the hills or the valleys but in New Delhi.
Since the outbreak of violent ethnic clashes in May 2023, over 250 people have been killed and more than 60,000 displaced. Families have been torn apart. Entire villages have been abandoned. Relief camps, hastily set up across districts, are overcrowded, underfunded, and lacking basic human dignity. Mothers sleep on the floors with their children, unsure if they will ever return home. Schoolchildren miss years of education. And the silence from India’s political leadership has been deafening.
When violence first broke out between the Meitei and Kuki communities, the central government responded with troop deployments and curfews, but no meaningful dialogue. It took Prime Minister Narendra Modi more than two months to even mention Manipur in public. And even then, the government’s tone was bureaucratic, distant, and dismissive. There was no outreach to the victims. No healing words. No empathy.
The deeper tragedy is that Manipur’s people no longer expect empathy from Delhi. They have seen this pattern before. Manipur has been placed under President’s Rule ten times since 1967, spending nearly six years without an elected government. The message is clear, when the people of Manipur speak, New Delhi prefers not to listen. Instead, it chooses to impose silence, through governors, through army boots, and through internet shutdowns.
In the background of this violence, new threats are emerging. Reports have confirmed that fighters from Myanmar’s civil war are crossing into India, adding to the already complex conflict landscape. There are also growing concerns about the use of smuggled satellite internet devices, which help militants bypass government-imposed communication blackouts. These developments highlight a dangerous truth, the Indian state has not only lost the trust of the people, it is also rapidly losing control over the territory itself.
The violence has not only exposed the cracks in the social fabric, it has torn them wide open. Trust between communities is at an all-time low. Mistrust of the state is even deeper. And still, there is no serious effort by the central government to mediate, to rebuild, or to apologize. What we see instead is the same pattern, militarise, silence, and suppress.
India often calls itself the world’s largest democracy. But what democracy ignores the pleas of its citizens while empowering security forces with laws like AFSPA? What democracy allows its people to live in fear, to bury their loved ones in unmarked graves, to raise their children in refugee camps with no end in sight?
The crisis in Manipur is not just a local issue, it is a national shame. It exposes the fragility of India’s federalism, the hollowness of its democratic claims, and the enduring legacy of its colonial mindset. For the people of Manipur, the Indian state is not a protector, it is a distant power that speaks only in commands and shows up only when control is threatened.
There is still time to change course. But that would require more than military operations or carefully worded statements. It would require the Indian government to finally recognize Manipur not as a “problem area” or “border zone,” but as a land of equal citizens with voices worth hearing. It would require truth, reconciliation, and accountability.
Until then, the hills and valleys of Manipur will remain trapped in an endless loop of violence and forgetting. And in the silence that follows each tragedy, the people will remember, not just who hurt them, but who abandoned them.
