DEBARUN CHOUDHURY
Manipur's fate changed after the British flag came down and India gained independence. The state's entry into India in 1949 was filled with tension and controversy. As the people of Manipur dealt with the reality of integration, the promise of autonomy looked like a distant dream.
Decades later, the hills and valleys, previously witnesses to the peaceful coexistence of many cultures, have transformed into battlegrounds for competing interests.
After a year of bloody conflict with incidents of sporadic violence, the state descended into maddening chaos once again soon after India elected representatives for its newly built parliament.
Rooted in ethnic and political tensions, the conflict in Manipur had displaced thousands, prompting them to seek safety in neighbouring states like Assam.
After my pitch about displacement camps in Assam was commissioned, I had to wait restlessly for a long time for the rains to stop so that I could travel.
Having never covered conflict before, I spent the next couple of weeks wondering how to pursue such a story. My phone kept buzzing with messages from the state disaster management authority advising citizens to stay indoors as the water levels of the rivers in the region were continuously increasing.
2.4 million people were displaced, and 93 were killed in the floods in Assam this year.
I finally went on 25 June.
After riding around for a few hours in a cab, I stepped into one of the refugee camps hastily set up by student organisation volunteers in Hmarkhawlien village in the Cachar district, which is in the southern part of the state, with Manipur on the east.
A flock of children instantly surrounded me as I was looking around for someone I could speak with about the ongoing civil war that had engulfed Manipur since last year.
The conflict had left a trail of devastation, and these makeshift shelters contained the stories of those who had fled the violence.
My first interview was with an elderly woman whose face was marked with lines of grief and sorrow. She spoke of a home abandoned, a life torn by the ruthless hands of war. Her voice trembled as she described the journey across difficult terrain, the loss of loved ones, and the nights spent beneath the open sky with only the stars to witness her agony. My pen glided quickly and then suddenly stopped as she said her husband died last year while guarding their home from a mob.
The camps were congested, with little resources.
Despite the misery, there was a sense of belonging and togetherness. People gave what little they had, and the local chapter of a student organisation and church organisations worked diligently to provide help and support.
An old lady handed me a phone, and Jesai Hmar, a volunteer who helped maintain the camp, was on the other end.
“Excuse me, who are you?” he inquired. I introduced myself, and he asked me to wait for him to return from the market. As I waited, I witnessed the strength of a mother cradling her child, the laughter of children, and the silent prayers of those who have not lost faith.
These are the stories that the world needs to hear, the stories that transcend the headlines and touch the very core of our being.
The camp was more than simply a location to seek safety; it was a tribute to the continuing power of the human spirit. Despite the difficulties, there was an undeniable sense of hope. People rebuilt their lives one day at a time. The youngsters, with their endless energy and ambitions, were a source of hope for a better future.
As I looked around, I saw a little girl following me with suspicion in her eyes. She could not have been more than ten years old, but I never got her name. When I finished conducting my interviews, she ran playfully with a dog, sometimes carrying it on her back.
Despite their trauma, children found joy in playing with makeshift toys.
Despite their dire conditions, the camps were a microcosm of humanity at its best and worst. They highlighted the urgent need for a collective response to such crises, which was conspicuously missing.
Jesai and Dina took me to another camp a few kilometres away, Thalai Inn, built as a recreation centre. An elderly gentleman greeted us but could not share his story as he could not hear very well. Although he wore an earpiece, it was very old and didn't seem to function well.
As I left the camps, the faces and stories of the refugees remained in my memory. Their perseverance, hope, and unflinching spirit in the face of terrible adversity left an unforgettable impression on me. The experience ended up being more than just a journalistic assignment.
After I reached home, feeling discomfort about the plight of the people lodged there, a friend reminded me that our job was to keep looking, saying, “It's very easy to turn a blind eye and get on with your life.”
Read Debarun Choudhury’s full story here.
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