Manipur: A Dead End..?

Walk around the state of Manipur, you would find many young men –educated and uneducated; some may even belong to an insurgent group and some could be a drenched-out daily labourer; some walk with big dreams and some aimless wanderers. They all may speak different dialect; they may come from different background, tribes and upbringing. But one thing they have in common is that they accepted the government for what it is –a non functioning government.

Go and ask them what they want the Government to do for them; most probably they won’t know how to answer, or what to say at all. But ask them about their lives, their families, and their backgrounds, you would most probably find hundred things that the Government can do for them.

Go and ask the old woman what sort of help she got from the Government, she would say nothing. Ask her what she wants from the Government; she would most probably have no idea. Ask her if she knew any welfare schemes for an old and poor woman like her, she won’t have a clue. Think of the amount the central and state governments have spent on all those welfare schemes.

Go and ask one young terrorist why he chose to be a terrorist, his answer, most probably would be he had nothing else to do at home. Then, ask yourself why he had nothing at all to do at home and think of what he can do and why he can’t do what you think he can do, then, you will know who failed them.

For a lot of wronged youths, becoming a terrorist has become the sole viable option to vent their discontentment, and demand redressal because they feel they are being denied a fair treatment. They never knew in which way they are wronged, but at least they know how to compare their situation with youth their age of other states or countries, and they could clearly see the difference. They may never be able to tell you eloquently what they are deprived of, but you don’t need to be a social scientist to know what they are deprived of.

Their feelings of discontentment and humiliation make them become an easy cannon fodder for insurgent group who had been waiting for this opportunity. It’s high time the government took steps to address the grievance of the people.

It may be difficult to bring awareness to people who had resigned to their fate, and waking up a government that pretend to be a deaf as a statue and as mute as the Chief Minister himself. But then it has to be done, in some way or the other.

For Our Tomorrow..?

Exactly a decade has passed since I last stand here. I can still feel the sting of the evening winds, it still whispers in my ears and the hustles of leaves can still be heard –but the smell, it smells different.

I sat down at the trunk of the old ugly oak tree where I used to sit. The tree –not deterred by age and change, sprouted new saplings whose buds are snipped by the mark of a sharp tool, most probably held by some itching hand.

I used to sit in one of its poking branch overlooking the whole village and its valley. A dry stump with marks of axe partially hidden by undergrowth is the remaining remnant of that branch which, to my childish imagination, put the village and its valley under my mercy.

I don’t care where I sit now, I don’t bother how much I have to bend or in what position must I put my foot to step over the village, nor do I bother to count the number of houses anymore. The voices of playful children coming from the village don’t lull me nor the call of darkness scares me, but the beckoning of my conscience makes me restless.

I looked around; the stark contrast between the two sides of the mountain ranges provoked my always helpless conscience. From the village, looking up at the vast green covering of the mountain ranges is a pure delight for the senses. As long as I can remember, this ranges of mountain has been a restricted zone as it was the main source of water that gurgle down the gorges through the little brooks that supply water to the village and paddy fields.

But looking at the leeway side of that very range is a different story. It had never been deprived of its green covering thought never a protected forest. I remember women folks climbing up the mountain to collect firewood –it was abundant enough, they never had to cut down any standing tree. But a decade has totally washed down its greenery.

Small dugouts –burnt and black, can be seen everywhere. In most of the dugouts, you can see people packing or digging-out the black burned-out remains of the trees that once covered the place, and nearby them, bags of charcoal lies in a haphazard row. Farther down the slope, clouds of smokes seeped out of small foxholes. The smokes come from the burning woods buried beneath the ground.

Those bags of charcoal will be transported to Lamka, and from there –they don’t bother. But the little income they earn from the charcoal is their lifeline. Times have changed; the land is not as fertile as it used to be. The hard, day long toil at the field can no longer sustain their simple existence.

The glowing rays of the sun can be seen in the far horizon; at least that horizon is still dense with trees. Just then I heard a voice calling out my name, it was my aunt. It would otherwise have been hard to recognize her blackened face if not for her shrill voice. She reminded me that I should be at home unless I wanted another bout of malaria. Indeed, it is funny to see what a tiny little mosquito can do.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam