Writing about Manipur’s ethnic conflict often feels burdensome, even if the purpose of such writing is to advocate and enlighten. To benefit in any way — monetarily, reputationally, or even self-righteously — from the suffering of others feels counterintuitive, almost exploitative. And yet, the alternative is silence, which perpetuates complicity.
The grief, the despair, and the sheer brutality of what has unfolded are beyond words. It is not simply personal grief; it is collective sorrow — a burden that refuses to lift, even for those of us who write from the safety of distant spaces. Writing about Manipur is not cathartic; it is a confrontation with a truth that refuses to be ignored.
I am no expert, no scholar with solutions, and certainly not a neutral observer. I am someone who has seen families torn apart, communities destroyed, and hope systematically eroded.
The Manipur conflict — though localised — is emblematic of broader struggles that transcend state boundaries. It is about the line we draw in the sand for humanity, the point at which we say, “This far, and no further”. This is no longer just a question of law and order but of our collective moral conscience. It demands a reckoning from all of us: Those with the privilege of platforms and those who can bear witness to stories that might otherwise be buried beneath apathy.
The numbers alone are staggering: 226 lives lost, over 200 villages burnt to the ground, 7,000 plus houses destroyed, more than 360 churches and synagogues reduced to rubble, and 60,000 people displaced from their homes. These figures demand our attention but are far from the full story. They are not merely numbers and statistics — an abstraction of the lived experiences of countless individuals.
Behind each of these figures is a life, a family, a community. The 226 deaths are more than numbers; they are fathers, mothers, children, and friends who will never again see another year. Over 60,000 displaced people are not just a statistic; they are individuals forced to leave behind everything they knew — their homes, land, and memories. The 360+ churches and synagogues destroyed were not just buildings; they were sanctuaries, spaces of faith and hope, desecrated by hatred so blind it spared sanctuary, no hope.
These numbers also embody a deeper silence — the silence of a country that has failed to act and the silence of a central government that has allowed this tragedy to unfold for 21 months. This silence is deafening. It is the silence of inaction, complicity, and indifference to its citizens’ suffering. It is a betrayal of humanity, governance, and the most basic duty of any government: To protect its people.
To my friends who tell me to feel happy this new year, I ask: How can I when 226 people will not see another year? These were lives full of dreams, plans, and untold potential — snatched away by violence and hatred. How can I, when 60,000 individuals remain displaced, their homes turned to ashes, their memories buried under rubble? For these people, the new year brings no hope, only uncertainty and despair.
How can any of us threaten to consume even more when the embers of Manipur’s fires still smoulder? This is not just a regional tragedy — it is a national shame. It is a mirror reflecting the fractures of humanity and failings of our larger society, of a system that has failed to protect the most vulnerable.
This is not about pessimism or dwelling on sorrow — it is about refusing to forget. Forgetting is not an option. Forgetting allows injustice to repeat itself; remembering is the first step toward justice. Refusing to forget is not an act of defiance — it is an act of humanity. It is about honouring the resilience of communities who, despite everything, dare to hope. It is about giving a voice to those who have been silenced, ensuring that their pain is not ignored and their stories are not erased.
Let this year, 2025, not be just another passage of time but a moment of reckoning for Manipur and for all of us. Let it be a year where we refuse to let the stories of the lost, the displaced, and the broken be buried under the weight of indifference. Let it be a year where we honour their names, their lives, and their sacrifices by amplifying their voices and demanding accountability. Let it be a year where we confront the systems and silences that allowed this tragedy to persist for 21 long months.
May this year be one of healing, not by forgetting, but by remembering. Let it be a year when the central government finally looks beyond political calculations. Let it be a year of tangible steps — steps that prioritise reconciliation over rhetoric, justice over convenience, and humanity over apathy. Let it be the year when the people of Manipur, irrespective of communities, begin to rebuild — not just their homes and churches, but the bonds of community that hatred tried to destroy and the hope that violence sought to extinguish.
Let this year be the year we collectively resolve not to forget. Let it be the year we honour the resilience of Manipur’s people — the mothers who search for fragments of lost lives, the children whose laughter has been replaced by questions of “why,” and the communities that rise, even from ashes, refusing to be erased. Let it be the year we demand better—from ourselves, from those in power, and from the society we shape together.
May 2025 be not only a year of survival but also a year of progress toward justice. A year where the embers of hatred are extinguished and replaced with flames of compassion and where the seeds of healing and solidarity take root in the soil of accountability. Let this year be one where we vow never again to let silence and apathy triumph over humanity. For Manipur is not just a tragedy — it is a call to action, a call to conscience, and a test of who we are as a nation. May 2025 be the year we finally rise to that challenge.
Hansing is a researcher and writer based out of Manipur
