Visiting Manipur was once a distant dream, something I never truly believed would become a reality. I had heard of its breathtaking landscapes, rich culture, and vibrant traditions, but I had also heard of the unimaginable suffering that the people endured due to ongoing ethnic strife. The lives of many were marked by hardship, with many taking shelter in relief camps after being displaced from their homes. These were not just stories to me but the painful reality shared by a dear friend, Mrs Anuradha Shankar IPS, who offered me a glimpse of this suffering. She had visited our community to conduct a session for the sisters in charge of our congregation's communities, and during her visit, she shared haunting photographs on her mobile, capturing the painful lives of displaced families.

Every day, from the comfort of my chapel, I prayed for peace so that I could return to Manipur. I prayed for normalcy, hoping for an end to the violence and hardship. Meanwhile, I sat wrapped in warm blankets and indulged in meals, aware that there were people and families who spent their nights in the biting cold, with little to eat and no place to call home.

On Christmas, when Anuradha Ma'am visited again, she reconnected me with Dr Jills, a person I had met during the Peace Conventions organised by the National Peace Movement. Dr Jills was associated with Ekta Parishad, an organisation deeply engaged in peace efforts and relief work in Manipur. In the last week of February, I received a call from Dr Jills.
She asked if we could provide further support for the children living in relief camps and nearby villages in Manipur. Her request was specific: to provide education, healing, and capacity-building sessions. I felt compelled to act, realising that, as someone living far away from this turmoil, I had a moral responsibility to contribute. Conveniently, my planned trip to Meghalaya in March allowed me to visit Manipur, where I could gather firsthand information before organising any substantial support.

Dr Jills introduced me to Dr Jangkholam Haokip, our contact person in Churachandpur, who kindly arranged our stay there. On March 11th, accompanied by Sr Marita, I boarded a flight to Imphal. Our journey took us from the Meitei-dominated valleys of Imphal to the Kuki-inhabited hills, a physically and figuratively uphill path. The stark contrast between these two communities was a reflection of the deep-seated divisions that had fuelled the ongoing conflict. Nevertheless, our mission remained clear: to listen, to stand in solidarity, and to offer whatever help we could.

As is customary, upon landing in Imphal, we had to obtain a local permit to travel to the hills. Arrangements had already been made by Mr John Thanglai, a Kuki Catholic, who was our contact and who also provided a taxi for our journey. Due to security concerns, Kuki drivers were prohibited from operating in certain areas, so a Muslim driver had been arranged to drive us. Initially, the journey seemed uneventful. As we passed through Bishnupur, everything appeared calm, as if it was any other road.

However, as we approached the border between Bishnupur and Churachandpur, the presence of military personnel became increasingly evident. Soldiers were stationed at several checkpoints, carefully monitoring the movement of people in and out of the area. Further ahead, we encountered a group of women blocking the road in protest. Our driver, not being a Kuki, was unable to proceed. I learned later that these women were part of a Kuki collective tasked with preventing Meiteis from entering the hills.

To navigate this obstacle, Dr Jangkholam, being a Kuki himself, had arranged for his car to pick us up at the border. Thanks to his thoughtful arrangements, we reached his home safely by the afternoon. Dr Jangkholam, a scholar and member of the Evangelical Church, welcomed us warmly. His wife, affectionately called Boino, and their three young children were equally thrilled to host us. We were provided with accommodation on the first floor of their home, a cosy room perfect for the mild weather. The summer sun was gentle, and a weak breeze fluttered through the dusty streets.

The signs of displacement were visible everywhere. Once-thriving valley communities were now scattered into the hills, their homes replaced by makeshift shelters. Despite the hardships, the villages were surprisingly clean, a testament to the resilience and dignity of the displaced Kuki people. That evening, we had an opportunity to engage in deep discussions with Dr Jangkholam about the culture of Manipur, the long-standing conflict between the Kukis and Meiteis, and the historical roots of this strife.

The following morning marked an inspiring part of our journey. We visited the school Dr Jangkholam established for Kuki children from the hills. The school housed nearly 700 students and stood as a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. Attending the morning assembly, I was invited to share a few words of encouragement with the children. Their bright eyes and eager faces reflected a deep yearning for education, stability, and a future beyond the conflict.

Dr Jangkholam then walked us around the campus, passionately explaining his vision for the school. His mission extended beyond academics—he sought to integrate modern education with traditional wisdom. By doing so, he ensured that children remained connected to their cultural roots while preparing them for the contemporary world.
After an early lunch, we proceeded to the nearby villages situated on the hillocks. The houses, made of tin sheets and flattened bamboo, starkly contrasted with the larger, permanent structures in other regions. As we ventured into the fields, we saw only a few children playing outside, while most homes appeared locked. We stepped into one house—a small, one-room shelter divided by bed sheets. Despite the modesty of the homes, there was access to basic amenities: electricity and a small water supply from the mountaintop.

Dr. Jangkholam explained that these homes had been constructed by the society founded by him on the land donated by Kuki chieftains, who owned the land and held legal rights to it. It was fascinating to learn that, despite India's democratic system, tribal kings and chieftains retained significant power, with the eldest son inheriting the family's ancestral property while the other siblings were supported by him. I couldn't help but wonder how such traditions had endured in this modern era of democracy.

Our next stop was an IDP (Internally Displaced People) camp housed in an unfinished building of Meitei University. The structure, which had been abandoned midway through construction, now served as a makeshift shelter for displaced families. Below, a community kitchen provided basic meals—rice and dal—for those living in the camp. The residents, having fled from Imphal and surrounding valleys, had been living there for nearly two years. Their diet was simple, and many of them, once accustomed to meals with fish, now had to adjust to a diet lacking this staple.

The living conditions were grim. The large halls were partitioned by plastic sheets, with eight to nine families sharing one hall. The space was cramped, and their meagre belongings were scattered across the floor. Despite the dire situation, life continued. Some infants had been born in the camp, and their mothers wore quiet smiles, hiding the trauma of displacement. Legal aid programs and a medical team were available, offering some support, but the uncertainty of the future weighed heavily on everyone.

Next, we visited the Government Medical College in Churachandpur, where Dr Boino (Dr Jangkholam's wife) worked. Unfortunately, the institution showed signs of government neglect—poorly maintained and lacking adequate resources.

Afterwards, we visited Dr Boino's home near the hospital. Her family once settled comfortably in Imphal, had been forced to flee when the city was engulfed by riots. They had left everything behind, including their valuables. The trauma of displacement was evident, especially in her mother, who bore both physical and mental scars from their ordeal. We returned to our accommodation, had some rest, and then proceeded to Martyrs' Square, where we saw photographs of Kuki martyrs displayed alongside numerous coffins, each symbolising loss and remembrance. We paused to pray for those who had suffered before heading to the next relief camps.

The camps we visited that day had conditions similar to the earlier ones, but there were differences. Families were housed in community halls, with plastic sheets providing a semblance of privacy. In one of the camps, set up beneath a stadium, children were still attending classes under dim lights, determined to continue their education despite their hardships. We entered one small room, just five by five feet, where eight people, including women and children, lived. They shared their struggles with us, mentioning that many children had fallen ill with viral fever. The previous night, the constant coughing had kept everyone awake. Before leaving, they asked us to pray for them, and as I walked away, my heart felt unbearably heavy.

We had no set itinerary on March 13th, our second day in Manipur. Dr. Boino prepared a wonderful breakfast for us before we visited St. Dominic's School, run by the Catholic Church and managed by the ASMI congregation. After tea and some conversation, we learned about the local culture and village life. We then visited another school run by the Kuki Youth Organisation, which educates children from nursery to 7th grade.

The cemetery, on the outskirts of the area, was a poignant site. More than 100 graves were adorned with fresh flowers, each marked by a photograph of a young individual, a reminder of lives lost too soon. We left the cemetery deeply moved, carrying with us the weight of the stories we had witnessed.

That evening, we returned to the home of Dr Jangkholam and his family, exhausted but grateful for their hospitality. Despite the challenges, we were hopeful about the possibility of working with the Church to help the displaced. I felt that sending two sisters to teach Hindi and conduct capacity-building sessions for the children would be a step in the right direction.

On March 14th, we bid farewell to our gracious hosts. Dr Jangkholam and his family left their medical careers in the UK to start a school supporting displaced victims. Their vision for the future was grounded in inclusivity, and their approach to development reflected the resilience of the human spirit.
Some key impressions from my journey to Manipur are as follows:
1.    First, all churches and civil society organisations involved in relief efforts need to adopt a more inclusive and coordinated approach. Separate identities must be set aside in favour of unity.
2.    Second, peace without justice is unattainable. I had only heard the Kuki side of the story, and while their suffering was undeniable, justice must be served for any peace initiative to be effective.
3.    Third, there is a growing bitterness, even among the younger generation, which, if left unaddressed, could threaten the stability of Manipur.
4.    Lastly, those of us living outside the region, in places of safety and prosperity, have a moral responsibility to contribute to the healing and rebuilding process. Many people in their own state feel like strangers in their own land. We must work together to ensure unity and reconciliation.
Despite the pain, Manipur remains a land of remarkable resilience. Though burdened by unimaginable suffering, the people of Manipur continue to hold on to hope. The lush green valleys, rolling hills, and vibrant traditions stand tall, a reminder of the strength and determination of the region's people. Manipur is not just a tourist destination; it is a land of survival, a place where beauty is intertwined with sorrow yet where hope never fades.

Sr. Asha Thayyil is currently the Mother Prioress of Benedictine Sisters of St. Lioba, Bhopal. She is a trained and experienced social worker with a Masters in Social Work.