It has now been more than thirty days since the government of Manipur made a public commitment to investigate and take action regarding the shocking Gwaltabi incident—yet not a word, not a whisper of accountability has followed. The investigation, we were told, would be swift. The truth, we were promised, would surface. But what we have instead is silence. Deafening, deliberate silence.
The incident that sparked this crisis is already well-known: an MST (Manipur State Transport) bus carrying twenty journalists on their way to cover the inaugural session of the Shirui Lily Festival was stopped at Gwaltabi. Not by insurgents. Not by miscreants. But by uniformed personnel—allegedly Indian Army or paramilitary forces. The journalists were not only blocked from proceeding but were reportedly forced to erase the word “Manipur” from the windscreen of the government owned vehicle. It was not just a stoppage—it was a symbolic erasure.
That erasure has not just defaced a vehicle—it has wounded the dignity of the state and its people.
Why has the government inquiry not been completed within the promised timeframe? And if it has, why has the report not been made public? This delay is not just administrative; it smells of something darker—suppression, complicity, or both. Was the order to stop the vehicle sanctioned from a higher authority? Was this a targeted act meant to intimidate the media or silence the state’s identity? Or is this yet another page in the slow, quiet erasure of Manipur’s sovereignty under the pretext of a President’s Rule?
This is the fourth editorial we pen on this subject. The All Manipur Working Journalists’ Union (AMWJU) and the Editors’ Guild Manipur (EGM) have already suspended their boycott of government news, opting for more peaceful forms of protest, like publishing slogans on the front pages of newspapers. But silence continues to greet them. Not explanation. Not empathy. Just silence.
And in that silence, suspicion grows.
The government, even under President’s Rule, owes its people transparency and honesty. If there is no hidden agenda, if this was not a calculated attempt to suppress the press or deny the identity of Manipur, then why has the truth not been shared? In what other Indian state can a troop of forces stop a state-run bus from traveling within its own boundaries without provoking outrage or action? Is this what President’s Rule means for us—that the very idea of Manipur can be questioned, erased, and silenced?
We are compelled to ask: is this part of a broader, unspoken project to balkanize Manipur? A state with over two millennia of proud history and identity? If so, we must sound the alarm now. If not, the government must prove it with clear action, not rehearsed statements.
We do not expect perfection. Humans, even those in high office, are fallible. Governor AK Bhalla—or those advising him—may have committed an error in judgment. If so, a public apology is not too much to ask. It would, in fact, be the noblest thing to do in a time where trust is in short supply.
But until that happens, this editorial space will remain a space of protest. This is no longer a mere column for opinion—it has become a ledger of our resistance. We are here to chronicle not just news, but also the silence of power.
Let it be known: the people of Manipur, and the journalists who speak for them, will not forget how this government—under the watch of the Governor—handled this insult. History will remember. And when it does, it will ask why no one in power dared to speak when it mattered the most.