By Victory Paul Basaiawmoit
Over the years, I have heard the same three letters repeated in many everyday conversations: ILP.
I hear it in community meetings, in crowded tea stalls, and in the back seats of shared taxis where strangers talk freely about the worries on their minds. Sometimes the word is spoken with anger, sometimes with hope, and sometimes with quiet concern.
I remember once listening to an elderly man say that the town he grew up in no longer feels the same. I have heard young activists speak passionately about the Inner Line Permit as the final shield that will protect our identity. And I still remember a taxi driver who said something that has stayed with me ever since: “If we don’t control who comes in, one day we will become strangers in our own land.”
These conversations are not policy seminars or political speeches. They are the everyday anxieties and hopes of ordinary people who care deeply about the future of this land.
For decades now, the Inner Line Permit has become more than just a policy demand in Meghalaya. It has grown into a powerful symbol—a rallying cry repeated in protests, student gatherings, and memorandums submitted by pressure groups. Many people speak of it as the silver bullet, the one measure that will finally regulate influx and secure the land, culture, and future of the Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo people.
But after hearing these conversations repeated over the years, I sometimes feel that we also have a responsibility to ask a quieter and more difficult question:
Do we truly understand what the ILP is, or have we simply fallen in love with the idea of it?
To answer that honestly, we must first look at where the ILP comes from.
The ILP is not a modern creation. It is a legacy from the colonial period, introduced through the Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulation of 1873 during British rule. At that time, the British were not trying to protect indigenous cultures or traditions. Their primary concern was protecting their economic interests—particularly tea plantations, timber, and other colonial enterprises—from outside traders and settlers.
There is a certain irony in this history. Today, in independent India, many of us look toward a colonial-era instrument in the hope that it will safeguard our identity and our future.
In some parts of the Northeast, the ILP operates as a regulatory system. Visitors are required to obtain permits that record who they are, why they are entering the state, and how long they intend to stay. In practical terms, the system creates a record of movement and allows authorities to monitor entry and exit.
The demand for ILP in Meghalaya, however, does not come from nowhere. It comes from a very real and deeply felt fear.
Our communities are small. The Khasi, Jaintia, and Garo populations together make up only a tiny fraction of India’s vast population. When people observe how quickly demographic changes can occur in other regions of the country, it is natural that anxieties begin to grow.
Parents worry about whether their children will inherit the same cultural landscape that they grew up with. Elders worry that traditions carefully preserved over generations might slowly weaken under the pressures of migration and urban expansion. At its heart, the demand for ILP reflects a desire for a filter—a way to ensure that those who enter our hills do so as guests, not as permanent settlers who might bypass local land protections or gradually reshape the demographic balance.
Many people also feel that while constitutional safeguards—especially the Sixth Schedule—protect land ownership and customary governance, they do not fully address the question of who enters and stays. Land may be protected on paper, but the question people often ask is simple: Who is walking on that land? Yet if we are serious about protecting our future, we must also be honest enough to examine the complexities involved.
The long delay from authorities in New Delhi suggests that implementing ILP in Meghalaya is not a simple administrative step. The issue lies at the intersection of two constitutional principles.
On one hand, Article 19(1)(d) of the Indian Constitution guarantees every citizen the fundamental right to move freely throughout the country. On the other hand, Article 19(5) allows the state to impose reasonable restrictions in order to protect the interests of Scheduled Tribes.
Balancing these two provisions is not easy. There are also practical realities that must be considered. Meghalaya is not an isolated corner cut off from the rest of the region. It lies along important transport routes that connect different parts of the Northeast. Goods, workers, and travelers move through the state regularly.
If a strict permit regime were introduced at the borders, there could be wider ripple effects. The cost of transporting goods might increase. Small businesses could face additional challenges. Even the tourism sector—one of the few growing opportunities for many young people—could slow down if visitors find the process of entering the state complicated.
None of this means that the concerns of our people are misplaced. Far from it. Protection of identity, culture, and land is a legitimate and deeply important concern. But perhaps the real challenge before us is not choosing between a completely closed wall and a completely open door. The more realistic path may lie somewhere in between.
Instead of relying entirely on the ILP as the ultimate solution, we could also focus on strengthening mechanisms that already exist. One such framework is the Meghalaya Residents Safety and Security Act (MRSSA). If implemented effectively and modernized through digital systems, it could create a transparent way of recording who enters and resides in the state. Such a system could allow authorities to maintain a clear record of presence without encountering some of the constitutional and federal hurdles associated with ILP implementation.
At the same time, Autonomous District Councils can play a more active role not only as guardians of customary law but also as regulators of local economic activity. By tightening trade licenses, regulating labour permits, and prioritizing indigenous employment, local institutions could reduce some of the economic pull factors that encourage unchecked migration. When local economies grow, when indigenous youth find meaningful opportunities, and when traditional institutions actively regulate economic participation, the pressure that drives migration may gradually decrease.
Our identity is not negotiable. Our culture, language, and traditions are the living heartbeat of these hills. But we must also ensure that the solutions we pursue are thoughtful, sustainable, and grounded in reality.
The concerns expressed by the indigenous communities deserve more than easy answers. They deserve careful thinking, honest debate, and policies that are strong enough to protect our people without closing the door on the future. Often I think of the taxi driver who said, “One day we may become strangers in our own land.” That sentence carries a fear that many people quietly share. But fear alone cannot guide the future of a society. What will guide us is our ability to listen to one another, to question our assumptions, and to build institutions that are wiser than our anxieties because the future of Meghalaya will not be secured by a slogan alone. It will be secured by the difficult work of balancing protection with openness, identity with opportunity, and tradition with the realities of a changing world.
The responsibility of those of us who have heard these conversations is not simply to repeat them, but to ensure that they lead to clearer thinking, wiser policies, and a future in which no one who belongs to these hills ever feels like a stranger in their own home.
