I’m back in Manipur after a year, and it feels as though time has stood still. What was a year ago remains unchanged. People still live in relief camps, displaced from their homes, with children and women carrying unanswered questions on their faces. Homophobia, patriarchy, ongoing armed conflict, poverty, lack of education, and rampant unemployment are deeply entrenched here, leading to widespread violence, discrimination, and mental health crises—PTSD, suicidal tendencies, and isolation.
The radicalisation of an age-old ethnic conflict has reached its peak, fuelled by political motivations. People are trapped in an endless cycle of struggling for survival with no resolution in sight. But who is to blame for this? Where is the accountability? Political leaders speak in platitudes that don’t mean much on the ground. Or they take sides, which is even less likely to lead to answers. It’s easy to place blame on “the other side” and point fingers at faceless enemies. But who are these enemies? Where did they come from? Are they the people in these camps, the families torn apart by conflict, or the children too scared to dream of a future? The real enemies are the systems of neglect, the deep-rooted biases,
and the unchecked political agendas that keep this conflict alive. And we are all complicit.
And what about us, the citizens of India? Why do we remain silent while our fellow citizens are trapped in an endless cycle of violence and displacement? Are we so disconnected from their suffering that we no longer care? Or are we simply comfortable enough in our own lives to turn away, to pretend it isn’t happening? When did we become so detached from our responsibility to act?
There is a lot of talk about what has happened to Manipur. But what has happened to us? The Manipuris aren’t just statistics. These are people—children with dreams, women with fears, communities torn apart by conflict. The problem isn’t just the radicalisation of an ethnic conflict. It’s the radicalisation of our indifference. We don’t even recognise this. We don’t ask ourselves, When did we decide that some lives are worth saving while others are not? When did the suffering of our own people become invisible to us?
The same scenes replay day after day. Today, we visited three camps housing over 1,500 people. We met boys eager for higher education, members of the queer community, and a group of girls—all with dreams to become doctors, policewomen, singers, and teachers. Yet fear holds them back. They are afraid to dream because they don’t know what tomorrow holds. They cling to hope, but it’s a hope for survival, not resolution.
As I walked into these camps, I wondered: What am I really doing here? Can one session make any difference? But as the day unfolded, I witnessed something powerful. Music that we created around a large table filled the space, not just as sound but as a bridge, connecting people, helping them let go of their biases, and creating a space free of fear and judgment. The arts began to work their magic, inviting people to explore their vulnerabilities, to redefine safety, and simply to be present. And immersed in that moment, we saw joy and togetherness take root, even if just for a little while.
As someone who has long advocated for Arts Practices for Inclusion (API), I truly felt the significance of this work today. In my work with special needs and vulnerable children and adults, I have repeatedly found that the arts provide a medium through which they can be reached and helped. This experience has encouraged me to explore how the use of arts practices can help more generally in all initiatives for inclusion. In Manipur, I truly felt the validation of this thought. We created spaces where people felt a sense of belonging—spaces where inclusion wasn’t forced but came naturally, where the relationships built through the arts allowed everyone to feel seen, heard, and valued.
But in all of this, what struck me the most was the generosity of spirit. Despite the scarcity and conflict, the people of Manipur continue to give from whatever little they have. In one of the camps, where the scarcity of relief materials is painfully evident—rice, dal, and oil are supposed to come from the government, but what actually reaches the ground remains a question—we were offered tea by a family. This act of kindness felt even more profound when I learnt their son, out of hopelessness and despair, had recently attempted to take his own life. The team at the Matai Society never stops creating opportunities for support, demonstrating altruism in its purest form, even amidst such overwhelming hardship.
Still, this visit has left me with tough questions. Where are our SDG goals? What happened to our policies on equality and liberty? We have frameworks, constitutional protections, and global commitments, yet here in Manipur, they seem distant. How do we, as a privileged society, step up and do our part? What will it take for us to create meaningful awareness, and what kind of awareness should we be fostering?
Manipur, in the midst of this conflict, is calling on all of us to examine our own freedoms and privileges. It’s asking us to appreciate what we have and to reflect deeply on the divisions and conflicts within ourselves. The change we seek—the solutions we hope for—may already be emerging in the connections we form. Every interaction, every shared moment, and every step toward understanding is a step toward healing and empowerment. The power to make a difference doesn’t come from grand gestures but from small, meaningful acts of connection, where humanity and dignity are restored.
In this time of crisis, the real magic lies in our ability to create environments where people can express their pain, share their stories, and find solidarity. This isn’t just about what we can offer; it’s about how we can show up—how we can listen, support, and stand together. This is where the transformation begins. And for me, this is where my commitment as an individual and as an organisation to Manipur deepens.
(The writer is the founder of the Snehadhara Foundation)