Peace is Desired by All; Trust is Missing Between Communities: Reflections from Manipur
By Mathew Mattam
I travelled to Manipur to engage with young people in a five-day residential peacebuilding program. Like many visitors to the state, I arrived carrying reports, statistics, and media narratives about conflict. I left with something far more powerful: stories of pain, resilience, and a profound realization that while every community desires peace, trust has become the scarcest resource in Manipur.
A day before the training began, I accompanied my friend Deben on an early morning walk around Kangla Fort in Imphal. The sun had already risen by 4 a.m., and by 5:30 a.m., the city was awake. Kangla, the ancient fortified capital of Manipur, stands as a powerful reminder of a civilization that flourished for over two millennia. Built through indigenous engineering, protected by successive walls, gateways, and moats, Kangla is more than a historical monument. It is the spiritual and political heart of Manipuri identity.
As we walked around the beautifully developed public plaza surrounding the fort, Deben narrated the history of Kangla. For centuries, it served as the centre of governance, culture, and nationhood. The story of Kangla is also the story of Manipur itself—a land where multiple communities coexisted while maintaining distinct identities and territories.
Historically, the Meiteis inhabited the valley regions, while the Kuki and Naga communities lived predominantly in the surrounding hills. After independence, constitutional and land arrangements attempted to preserve this delicate balance. Meiteis were restricted from purchasing land in the hills, while Scheduled Tribe protections ensured representation and safeguards for hill communities. Yet these arrangements did not eliminate competing aspirations. Over time, multiple ethno-nationalist movements emerged, with armed groups from Meitei, Kuki, and Naga communities pursuing varying visions of autonomy, identity, and territorial sovereignty.
The historical narrative of Manipur reveals an important truth: conflict did not emerge overnight. It is rooted in generations of competing grievances, political exclusion, identity anxieties, and unresolved questions of land, representation, and governance.
Later that day, we met local entrepreneurs, including a remarkable woman named Hanjabam Shubhra Devi, whose business acumen and determination demonstrated the immense entrepreneurial potential that exists in the state. It was a reminder that Manipur possesses all the ingredients necessary for prosperity—talent, creativity, resilience, and youthful energy. Yet conflict continues to constrain these possibilities.
The next day, our peacebuilding training commenced. We expected more than thirty-five participants, but only twenty arrived—nine girls and eleven boys. The continuing insecurity and mobility restrictions prevented many from attending. Nevertheless, the training moved forward.
During an introductory exercise, participants were asked to choose alternative names for themselves. One young woman chose the name “Mysterious.” Her choice intrigued me. Why would someone define herself through mystery?
The answer emerged only on the final day, when we visited her home. For the past three years, she and her family have lived in a relief camp. Three generations—grandparents, parents, and children—share a single 10-by-10-foot room. A small kitchen occupies part of the veranda. Two hundred people share common sanitation facilities. Despite living in independent India, she remains displaced within her own country.
For her, life is indeed mysterious. She cannot predict what tomorrow will bring. She does not know when she will return home. She cannot imagine her future beyond the camp walls.
Policy debates often focus on territorial disputes, security operations, and political negotiations. Yet the true cost of conflict is measured in interrupted childhoods, suspended dreams, and generations growing up without certainty.
My first phase of engagement was primarily with Meitei youth. Conversations repeatedly returned to the conflict. Many expressed deep frustration and resentment toward the Kuki community. Some believed that Kukis sought greater territorial control and political influence. Others questioned their historical belonging and legitimacy.
These views reflected genuine fears, whether justified or not. Importantly, they revealed how conflict narratives become embedded in collective consciousness.
After the training concluded, I travelled to Tamenglong, a predominantly Naga region approximately 150 kilometres from Imphal. The journey itself revealed the depth of mistrust that now defines everyday life in Manipur.
At one checkpoint, a police officer questioned my destination. Later, while travelling through the hills, our vehicle was stopped by a group of women who carefully inspected the passengers. Their primary concern was whether any Meitei individuals were travelling in the vehicle. The encounter lasted only a few minutes, but it revealed something profound. Communities are no longer merely separated geographically; they are separated psychologically. Suspicion has become normalized.
Trust is absent not only between Meiteis, Kukis, and Nagas but also between citizens and institutions.
When I arrived in Tamenglong, the organizers of the next youth training expressed concern about attendance. Their anxiety was understandable. Here too, every conversation eventually returned to the conflict. Tamenglong is one of the most beautiful districts in Northeast India, blessed with mountains, forests, and extraordinary biodiversity. Yet even amidst such beauty, the conflict dominates people’s thoughts.
The challenge facing Manipur today is therefore not only political or security-related. It is psychological and social. A society cannot rebuild itself if every interaction is filtered through fear.
The trust deficit extends to governance. Many citizens feel abandoned by institutions that should have protected them. Government responses are often perceived as reactive rather than transformative. Meanwhile, Manipur’s strategic location presents additional challenges. Situated near the Golden Triangle—one of the world’s most significant drug trafficking corridors—the state faces pressures from narcotics networks, transnational criminal economies, and armed groups operating across porous international borders.
These realities require strong and effective security management. However, security measures alone cannot create peace. Peace cannot be imposed through force. It must be built through trust.
For policymakers, this means moving beyond crisis management toward long-term reconciliation. Relief camps cannot become permanent settlements. Youth cannot spend their formative years surrounded by narratives of hatred and victimhood. Economic recovery plans must be linked to social cohesion. Development investments should prioritize shared infrastructure, joint livelihoods, and community-based institutions that encourage cooperation across ethnic lines.
For donors, the lesson is equally important. Humanitarian aid remains essential, but relief alone will not heal Manipur. Investments are needed in peacebuilding, trauma healing, youth leadership, women’s networks, entrepreneurship, and inter-community dialogue. The young entrepreneur we met in Imphal and the displaced girl called “Mysterious” represent two possible futures for Manipur. One future is driven by opportunity; the other by uncertainty. The choice between them depends on where resources are directed.
For civil society organizations, the task is to create safe spaces where communities can encounter one another beyond political narratives. Trust cannot be negotiated in conference halls alone. It must be rebuilt through human relationships, shared experiences, and collective action.
The greatest tragedy of Manipur is not merely the violence itself. It is the gradual erosion of trust that once allowed diverse communities to coexist. Yet the greatest opportunity lies in recognizing that beneath the divisions, people continue to desire the same things: safety, dignity, opportunity, and peace.
The lesson Manipur offers us today. Peace is not the absence of conflict. Peace is the patient rebuilding of trust after conflict. Every community desires peace. The challenge before policymakers, peacebuilders, donors, and civil society leaders is to create the conditions where trust can return.
Without trust, peace remains a slogan.
With trust, Manipur can once again become a land known not for conflict, but for its culture, entrepreneurship, tourism, and the remarkable resilience of its people.
