Search for justice continues for thousands displaced in Manipur

Imphal/Bishnupur/Churachandpur Driving along pockmarked roads flanked by vast open fields in Bishnupur, you eventually arrive at a cluster of old government buildings. These structures, once vibrant with the energy of school and college students, now serve a sombre purpose - housing thousands of internally displaced people affected by the ethnic clashes in Manipur over the past year. Signs above doorways display class names and sections, a poignant reminder of what these spaces used to represent – a future, hope and aspiration.Inside these rooms, however, a new reality has set in, far removed from hope. Struggling with the lack of resources and means of livelihood, parents who once sent their children to such classrooms now face an ironic twist of fate. The dreams they held for their offspring’s bright future feel distant, overshadowed by the immediate challenges of survival and the pressing need for justice and support from the state machinery.The plight of prisoners in Manipur: Caught between bail and safetyAdding to their worries is the constant fear for their children’s safety. “We had everything once - a home, a livelihood, a community. Now, we have nothing but memories and the fear of an uncertain future,” said Thoinu Konthoujam, a 51-year-old Meitei woman.Her elder son Temba Konthoujam, 30, was killed in Churachandpur while the younger one, Tonsana Konthoujam, 20, lost his life in Lamlai in May 2023. “My sons were my world,” she added, tears streaming down her face as she clutches a tattered photo.The ethnic clashes that erupted in Manipur on May 3, 2023, left an indelible scar on the state. Over a year later, at least 50,000 victims are still forced to live in relief camps, grappling with the daily struggles of survival and the daunting task of rebuilding their lives, besides significant legal challenges. The stories of these internally displaced persons (IDPs), filled with personal loss and resilience, highlight the urgent need for legal and state interventions.“I have received only partial compensation for the younger son despite all the promises made by the state. The compensation of ₹5 lakh for one son is not enough,” lamented Thoinu, housed in the Moirang college relief camp.Her demand is clear - a thorough investigation into the violence that claimed her sons’ lives and more substantial reparations. “I want the judiciary to hold those responsible accountable,” she said, adding that the state government must catch hold of the accused and bring them to justice.However, Thoinu and others in her camp face a profound challenge – the lack of information about the status of investigations. They have no means to keep track of the probes, and the camp receives no updates from state authorities about the cases. “I don’t know anything about the investigations into the murders of my sons. There is no way to track and there is nobody to tell us anything about it. We were told FIRs were registered but that’s all about it,” she said. “We are groping in the dark, left wondering if my sons’ killers will ever be found.”In a dimly lit corner of another relief camp 20 kilometres away in Churachandpur, the hush punctured by the sounds of children playing, is a lonely figure emblematic of the despair that pervades these camps. Nekgilal Suantak, 49, a Kuki, sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon.Thoinu and Suantak are lodged in different relief camps due to their ethnic identities but their quest for justice is similar.In the heart of Churachandpur, the relief camp at the Youth Hostel in Lamka houses families who have lost everything.Suantak fled through jungles for two days to escape violence. Once a proud farmer, Suantak’s life was upended by the ethnic violence that swept through his village. The land he tilled and the home he built with his own hands are now distant memories. His once-robust frame is now hunched, weighed down by the heavy burden of loss and helplessness. His children, who once ran freely through the fields of their village in Gotangot in Kangpokpi district, now sit beside him, their smiles tinged with longing.“We used to have a house, a farm, and a peaceful life,” Suantak said, his voice filled with sorrow. “Now, we live in these cramped rooms, dependent on aid and uncertain of what tomorrow will bring. We left everything behind. We have nothing. No jobs, no security,” he added.For Suantak, justice and equity seems as distant as his lost home. With their faith in the state machinery eroded, Kukis are increasingly turning to a more traditional source of support – their village chiefs. These local leaders, who have long held a position of respect and authority within their communities, are increasingly being sought out for legal assistance and guidance.“Whatever we want, we approach our village chiefs as state institutions have faltered and the legal system seems distant and unresponsive to us. They are the protectors and advocates of our community,” Suantak asserted.He embodies the collective despair of thousands whose calls for justice, in the absence of a responsive and effective legal system, hang in the air like a sombre reminder of the state’s failure to protect its most vulnerable citizens.Sitting beside a towering stack of ration supplies, Kennedy G Haokip said that the Kuki community has refused to accept compensation from the state government.“Their stance is not just a rejection of monetary aid but a statement of their discontent and disillusionment with the state’s handling of the crisis. This is not just about food or money,” Kennedy explained. “It’s about dignity and justice. The Kukis feel that accepting compensation is a way of legitimising the government’s failures,” added the information secretary of Kuki Khanglai Lawmpi (KKL), a non-profit running around 50 relief centres in Churachandpur.Kennedy lauded the Supreme Court for stepping in and issuing several directives to alleviate the conditions of IDPs. “We believe in the judiciary. But monetary compensation is not justice. Justice means bringing the guilty to book, holding those responsible for our suffering accountable,” he said.The physical and emotional distances between Konthoujam and Suantak are emblematic of the larger ethnic and geographical divides that now define Manipur.Thoinu is lodged in a relief camp in Moirang, Bishnupur, while Suantak resides in a camp in Churachandpur. These camps, separated by a mere 20 kilometres, are worlds apart, reflecting the deep ethnic fissures that have geographically divided the state between the valley and the hills.The valley, predominantly inhabited by the Meiteis, and the hills, home to the Kukis, are now segregated by physical checkpoints and patrolled borders. This divide is heavily guarded, with central security forces and the army maintaining a buffer zone complete with a six-layer check system to prevent any further escalation of violence.But their stories connote a united call to action for the law enforcement machinery and judicial bodies to ensure that victims receive not just monetary compensation but also a sense of justice and closure.Thoinu’s ongoing battle for justice for her murdered sons exemplifies the systemic issues within the legal framework, highlighting the state’s failure to provide timely and adequate compensation and a transparent investigation process. Similarly, Suantak’s reliance on village chiefs and his despondency illustrate the profound disconnection and loss of faith in the state’s justice system, underscoring the urgent need for legal reforms and better communication channels between the state and its citizens.In the Leimaram relief camp Bishnupur district, an elderly woman in her 80s sat despondently behind the doorways displaying class 5, longing for her home in Waroiching. “I just want to die in my own home,” whispers L Kunjasakhi Devi, her eyes reflecting a lifetime of memories now overshadowed by displacement. She was forced to relocate after incessant firing from the hills.“She is the oldest person in this relief camp. Every time she is able to talk, she asks to go back to her home. But how can she? How can any one of us go back? And nothing is left for us there anyway. Our farms have been destroyed, cattle have died and the bullets fired from the hills can kill us any day,” said Lichombam Thasana Devi, another Meitei IDP.With her reading and writing abilities, she is also the inmate volunteer nominated for the special legal aid and service clinics.The National Legal Services Authority (NALSA) and Manipur State Legal Services Authority (MASLSA) in association with the District Legal Services Authority opened over 300 such clinics for providing legal assistance to the inmates of the relief camp. “MASLSA has ensured adequate legal assistance to IDPs, which has resulted in the registration of more than 3,800 FIRs at the jurisdictional police stations of the relief camps, and counselling for the victims, including children, women and senior citizens. At least 25,000 inmates were assisted in the reconstruction of their lost documents, such as Aadhaar and Voter IDs,” said Alek Muivah, member secretary, MASLSA.The inmates at the Leimaram camp, however, allege state apathy. Struggling to hold back her tears, Laichom Bimola Devi, 58, said that her family could not reconcile with leaving their home forever until the state government ensured a dignified life. “The men have no jobs. The women have no means to support the family either. We get meals two times a day but look at what we get. Is this dignity?” asked Bimola Devi, holding a handful of rice peppered with stones.At the Moirang relief camp, Heigrujam Ashalata Devi, a mother of two, broke down as she spoke about her fears for the future. “My children used to dream of becoming doctors and engineers. Now, I don’t even know if they will be able to go back to school” she said.Many children in the camps have already witnessed brutal killings and unprecedented violence, leaving deep psychological scars. Sending them back to school would require more than just reopening the classrooms. “The judiciary must direct the state to ensure safe travel, provide books and stationery and guarantee the meals that these children need to thrive,” another IDP, Bina Ningthoujam, added.‘Modi 3.0 govt will bring solution in 2-3 months’: Biren Singh on Manipur unrestIn addition to educational needs, IDPs require urgent medical care. Kennedy highlighted the dire situation. “Following the Supreme Court’s intervention, psychologists, neurologists and specialised doctors came to Churachandpur. However, they left after a month, leaving the Kukis hapless. Now, for any special medical attention, they must undertake a gruelling 12-hour journey to Aizawl because they cannot travel to Meitei-dominated Imphal, the only city in the state with proper medical facilities,” he said.As the sun set over the relief camps, casting long shadows over the crumbling walls of old government buildings, the calls for justice by both the Meiteis and Kukis remained unwavering. These personal stories reflect a broader narrative of displacement, loss and the struggle for justice in Manipur. Their experiences underscore the urgent need for systemic reforms in the justice delivery mechanism, emphasising that the judiciary and state institutions must work tirelessly to ensure that the voices of the displaced are heard and their rights upheld. The quest for justice in Manipur’s turbulent times is not just about legal redress but about restoring hope and humanity to those who have lost so much. As Ashalata Devi asked, “How can I be hopeful when we have lost everything?”

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Search for justice continues for thousands displaced in Manipur

The stories of these internally displaced persons (IDPs), filled with personal loss and resilience, highlight the urgent need for legal and state interventions

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Search for justice continues for thousands displaced in Manipur

The stories of these internally displaced persons (IDPs), filled with personal loss and resilience, highlight the urgent need for legal and state interventions