By Peter Lunthang
I am writing this not as a politician, not as an activist, but as an ordinary man whose life was shattered by the violence that unfolded in Manipur. I write as someone who lost his home, his land, his peace of mind, and his sense of security — and who is still trying to hold himself together.
Our homes were burned.
Our lands were lost.
We were forced to leave the places where our ancestors are buried.
We lost the ability to sleep peacefully, to eat without anxiety, to feel safe either by day or by night.
Along with all this, we lost something even more painful — the trust that those elected to represent our people would stand firmly with us in our darkest hour.
For years now, sleep has been broken and shallow. Nights are filled with memories of fear — of people running for their lives, of the sick crying for medicines, of hunger echoing in silence while families hid wherever they could. Even today, my body carries that fear. Food does not taste the same. The chest feels heavy. This is not exaggeration; it is the long shadow of trauma.
I tried, sincerely, to move forward and leave the past behind. But some wounds are too deep to be healed by time alone. Loss does not disappear because leaders meet, speak of peace, or shake hands. Grief does not end because official statements are issued.
Many in my village did not die only during the violence itself. Some passed away later — from stress, anxiety, and the weight of prolonged uncertainty. They were buried in unfamiliar lands, far from the soil of their ancestors. Even in death, displacement followed us.
Perhaps the deepest pain of all was the loss of dignity — being treated as if our suffering did not fully matter, as if our lives were lesser, as if our humanity could be ignored. Since May 2023, I have lived through a reality where killing became routine, villages were reduced to ashes, and homes and places of worship were destroyed. Entire Kuki-Zo localities vanished — not as numbers in reports, but as families and neighbors I personally knew. The humiliation and suffering of women during this period is now known to the world, and some victims never lived to see justice or even acknowledgment. These are not second-hand accounts; they are the lived reality that broke our communities.
Families are now scattered wherever survival was possible. When someone dies, we often cannot gather. Funerals are delayed, shortened, or attended through phone calls. Grief has become quiet and lonely.
Our children study far from home through sponsorships — not out of choice, but necessity. Many parents cannot even afford to bring their children home. Seeing one’s own child only through a screen is a pain that words fail to describe.
Relief and protection have reached some, but not all. Many families have received little or no meaningful assistance. Survival, for most of us, depended on mutual help — on victims supporting victims — and on compassion from individuals rather than institutions.
We watched as some responsible for violence moved freely, while victims were asked to remain patient and calm, and to “move on.” But moving on requires safety, justice, and dignity — not silence.
In this painful context, decisions and alignments made by some political representatives have caused deep disappointment. When communities are hurting, leadership requires moral clarity, courage, and unwavering empathy. Anything less deepens wounds and erodes trust.
For many of us, the hope of administrative safeguards — including the idea of separate administration or a Union Territory with a legislature — represents not ambition, but survival. It is seen as a possible way to protect future generations from repeating this trauma.
That hope feels fragile. And when hope is threatened, people feel abandoned once again — especially when some elected representatives from within the Kuki-Zo community choose to join a new government arrangement at a time when our wounds remain open. For many victims, this decision feels less like reconciliation and more like a retreat from accountability, taken without healing, justice, or meaningful consultation with those who suffered the most.
Everything our families built over generations was lost within days. Trust cannot be rebuilt simply by asking people to forget. History remembers moments like these — and it remembers who stood with the suffering and who did not.
I am not writing for sympathy or attention but just to be heard and our stories remembered.
But, because silence is another grave — and many have already buried too many. If I forget, I die a second death.
If memory dies, dignity dies with it.
(The author describes himself as a survivor who lost everything, but not his memory).
