There is perhaps no greater tragedy for a society than losing its memory before resolving its wounds. That appears to be the path Manipur is going today.
For three years and more, the State witnessed one of the darkest chapters in its history. Hundreds lost their lives. Thousands of homes were reduced to ashes. More than 60,000 people were displaced, many of whom continue to live in relief camps with uncertain futures. Families remain separated. Dozens of people are still missing, with many relatives having no idea whether their loved ones are alive or dead. Yet, as days pass, a disturbing normalcy is settling over the valley.
Markets are crowded. Political discussions have shifted from survival to election calculations. Social media is filled with routine debates. Cultural events have resumed. Life appears to be returning to normal. But appearances can be dangerously deceptive.
Can a state truly be called peaceful when there are fears to its own citizens within their own homeland?
The Constitution of India guarantees every citizen the freedom to move throughout the territory of the country. In Manipur, however, this fundamental right remains severely restricted. A Meitei cannot freely travel through several Kuki-dominated areas. Likewise, many Kukis cannot safely enter the valley. Even sections of National Highways remain psychologically, if not physically, divided by fear and distrust. This is not normal. It is not peace. It is merely a frozen conflict.
The Central Government appears to have mastered the art of managing Manipur without actually resolving its crisis. Stability is projected through administrative control rather than political reconciliation. Instead of restoring genuine trust between communities, the focus seems to be on maintaining a fragile status quo.
Equally troubling is the conduct of the State government. Rather than asserting its constitutional authority, it often appears content to function within the boundaries drawn by New Delhi.
Decisions affecting the future of Manipur increasingly seem to originate elsewhere, while the elected government watches from the sidelines. A government elected by the people should be leading the response to the crisis—not merely adapting to decisions made beyond the State.
Supporters of the ruling establishment have begun proclaiming that peace has returned. But peace cannot be declared through political slogans. Peace is measured by reality on the ground.
Has governance been fully restored across all parts of the State? Can every citizen travel without fear? Have displaced families returned home with dignity? Have the missing been accounted for? Have those responsible for violence been brought to justice? Has mutual trust between communities been rebuilt?
If the answer to these questions remains “no,” then claims of restored peace ring hollow.
There are other worrying developments that deserve serious public scrutiny. Reports regarding infrastructure projects undertaken without effective oversight from the State government raise uncomfortable questions about administrative authority. Even more concerning are reports alleging possible adjustments along portions of the India-Myanmar boundary between Border Pillars 65 and 68. Whether these reports ultimately prove accurate or not, they deserve transparency and official clarification. Silence only breeds suspicion.
Meanwhile, many civil society organisations that once mobilised thousands onto the streets have become noticeably quieter. Whether this silence stems from fatigue, political calculations or strategic restraint, the absence of sustained public engagement is unmistakable. A society that once spoke with urgency now often appears resigned.
Perhaps the greatest victory for any prolonged crisis is not military or political—it is psychological. When people begin accepting abnormal conditions as normal, resistance gradually disappears. A divided society slowly forgets what unity once looked like.
As elections approach, political parties will make promises, organise rallies and seek votes. Development projects, welfare schemes and campaign slogans will dominate public discourse. Yet the fundamental questions surrounding Manipur’s future remain unanswered. Elections cannot substitute for reconciliation. Political stability cannot replace social healing. Administrative control cannot be mistaken for genuine peace.
Manipur today remains, in many ways, a divided State. The physical boundaries may not be officially redrawn, but invisible borders already shape everyday life. Communities remain separated by fear, distrust and uncertainty.
The greatest danger is not merely the crisis itself. It is the growing willingness to live with it.
History teaches that unresolved conflicts do not disappear simply because they fade from public conversation. They persist beneath the surface until they erupt again. Forgetting may offer temporary comfort, but it never delivers lasting peace.
Manipur does not need selective memory. It needs honest introspection, courageous leadership and a collective determination to confront uncomfortable realities. Only by acknowledging the depth of the crisis can the State begin the long journey towards genuine reconciliation.
Pretending that everything is normal will not make it so.