There is an unbending silence in Manipur, as deep as the blood courses in its people. It’s a silence born not of peace but from the wear of violence—whispers that still cling to the air, unheard and unheeded by the nation they belong to.
Here, over a year and a half, the Zo women—mothers, sisters, and daughters of the Kuki-Zomi-Hmar communities—have lived under the shadow of cruelty. They are not only women but women of a minority, and it is here, in this bitter divide, that they become deliberate targets of a conflict that burns beyond the reach of empathy and justice.
These women’s stories—of scarred lives, of brutalized bodies—are not sudden and senseless. They bear witness to a pattern, a terrible rhythm of calculated violence that strikes hardest at those already marginalized, at those whose pain is seen yet often dismissed. The brutality does not befall them; rather, it is directed at them with intent. They have been stripped, burned, torn, and brutalized, left not only to the agony of wounds but to the raw truth of abandonment.
It started with Olivia and Florence on May 4, two names in a long, grim line of stories—a line that no longer knows where it ends. These women’s names may be unknown to most, but they are etched into the very soil of Manipur. And their suffering cannot be explained away as collateral damage, incidental. This is an attempt at erasure, silencing, rendering these women ghosts.
Yet, their stories survive, their voices flickering like fragile flames. To every victim and survivor, it is a painful rebuke against the indifference of a nation that stands miles away, looking on. They’re not statistics; they’re the stories of loss, strength, and resilience. The question remains, as raw and unresolved as ever: How many more voices will have to rise and how many more lives must break before their humanity—their Zo humanity—is perceived and their pain found worthy of a response?
The story of Olivia and Florence
On May 4, 2023, the lives of Olivia and Florence, 21 and 22, were tragically taken in a manner that shook the conscience of the entire region. Olivia and Florence were the first known victims of a brutal campaign of gender-based violence that continues to terrorize Kuki-Zomi-Hmar women today. They worked at Gamma car wash, in Khonung Mamung as the only two Kuki women. When the violence erupted, their employers offered them no protection from the mobs that had gathered to attack them. They were abducted, raped, tortured overnight, and murdered in the most gruesome manner.
The tragedy that unfolded on May 4 in Imphal, Manipur’s state capital, was more than just an isolated act of cruelty; it was a chilling precursor to the violence that would soon sweep across the state, leaving Zo women especially vulnerable. That day has left an indelible mark on the collective memory of Olivia and Florence’s families, as well as the Zo community. It serves as a reminder of minority women’s precarious situation, as their safety is never guaranteed, even in their home country. It forces them to live with an unspoken question that hangs over their existence: not who they are, but how others might choose to see them—and what violence that perception might justify.
The Government’s silence and the PM’s broken Silence
It was only on July 20, 2023, that Prime Minister Narendra Modi, standing on the steps outside Parliament, spoke of Manipur. Just a few lines—scarcely a complete sentence—were given to the violence that had etched deep gashes into the lives of the Zo people. He spoke of “anguish and anger” over a viral video of two Zo women being brutally assaulted, terming it “unforgivable,” promising justice for the perpetrators. Yet, compared to the enormity of what had been lost and how little had been done, words feel empty.
The Manipur conflict brought out certain bitter truths, as painful as salt on an open wound. First, it highlighted how the rhetoric of unity and coexistence painfully falters when the violence is not addressed. It is an empty promise, unrooted and unrealistic when those scarred by violence are left to heal alone. Secondly, the words of leaders—words that could once have brought solace—fade like cheap ink on paper. Despite national outrage, despite promises of swift justice, offenders revealed in the viral video walk free, their crimes unanswered. Only one man was arrested following the video’s release, and he was bailed out too.
These Zo women have been brutalized and left unprotected, with the weight of the state set against them. The state government, instead of standing as a shield, has seemed to turn its weapons on the Zo tribes, isolating them further. The Centre, with its lists of inquiries, responding rather belatedly, has only deepened the wounds. The silence on a commitment to protecting its most vulnerable citizens is loud and bothersome. Why did the Prime Minister speak so late? Were the attacks on Zo women less urgent than the assembly elections in Karnataka? Why could Manipur not appear on the radar in a year crowded with 162 state tours and 14 trips abroad?
And these questions loom large in the air, unanswered, while the people of Manipur look helplessly at their life and hopes burnt to embers. The conflict rages on, day after day, consuming their future as the rest of the nation looks on with indifference—as if the suffering of Manipur is not its own.
The Latest Tragedy: The Burning of Zairawn Village
November 7, 2024, should have been a peaceful night in Zairawn village, located in the heart of Jiribam, a district in Manipur that had remained mostly untouched by the violence. It should have been a time when families could gather and feel safe. But around 9:00 p.m., that sense of peace was shattered as Meitei militants attacked the village and arsoned 17 homes. Among the victims was Zosangkim Hmar, a 31-year-old teacher, mother of three, and wife who faced an agonising death.
Zosangkim, trapped in her home and too injured to flee, begged her husband to leave with their children and her elderly father. She was left behind, alone, as the fire approached. Her autopsy revealed the extent of the horror she experienced: 99% of her body had been burned. However, the fire was only the final act in a brutal sequence. A penetrating wound on her right thigh with jagged, irregular edges indicated that she had been attacked before the flames. A metallic nail was embedded deep in her left thigh, indicating deliberate torture. Her left arm had been severed at the elbow, her right femur fractured, and other body parts were missing, indicating a sustained and intentional assault. Worse, there are allegations that Zosangkim was sexually abused before being set on fire, with the flames not only consuming her body but also attempting to erase all evidence of the violence she experienced.
Zosangkim’s death was not an isolated incident. It is part of a terrifying pattern that continues to play out in Manipur, particularly among Zo women. This is not the work of a few rogues. It is a deliberate, targeted attempt to break the spirit of a community already on the verge of collapse. How many more lives must be lost, and how many more women must suffer before the country takes notice? How long will the government allow this horror to continue without providing protection or the most basic compassion?
Zosangkim’s story is more than just a tragedy; it is a cry for justice that echoes throughout Manipur, demanding an answer from a nation that appears blind to the violence on its doorstep.
The Brutality of Gender-Based Violence
The suffering of marginalized women is never solely personal; it is the result of a systemic failure deeply embedded in the social and political frameworks that govern their lives. This marginalisation is exacerbated for India’s northeastern states, which are already on the periphery of national consciousness. Within Manipur, the Zo people live in an even smaller and more vulnerable environment. Their existence is precarious, and their stories are almost invisible.
It is not surprising, then, that the suffering of Zo women is so easily dismissed—as if it were simply an internal issue, a distant conflict, rather than the horrifying war crimes they are. These atrocities necessitate accountability, but the nation appears unwilling to speak that language.
Violence in Manipur is intentional and deeply gendered. Rape, torture, and murder are tools of oppression as well as weapons of war. These acts are intended not only to attack the Zo community, but also to subjugate, humiliate, and dehumanise them, as well as to undermine any resistance they may have. To assault a woman means striking at the heart of her community. It is an act of dominance designed to silence and destroy.
The victims’ names each tell their own story. Olivia, Florence, and the Zo women paraded naked in B Phainom village, Zosangkim—all of them bore the brunt of this violence because of who they are, not what they did. They were women who dared to exist as Zo and refused to go quietly. Their bodies became battlegrounds, and their lives were turned into weapons of terror.
This violence is not unintentional. This is not collateral damage. It is an intentional and calculated attempt to erode the spirit of an already marginalized people. Nonetheless, these women are rarely acknowledged. Their plight is ignored, dismissed as a byproduct of a conflict far removed from the corridors of power. However, what is going on in Manipur should not be ignored.
A nation that turns its back on such crimes must consider the following question: What kind of society would we be if we allowed this to happen? What does it say about us when women’s suffering goes unnoticed, their stories untold, and their humanity erased? To ignore the catastrophe of Zo women is to deny their existence, dignity, and right to justice. It is an attempt to make their lives appear less significant. And that pretence is violent in and of itself.
The Silence of the State and the International Community
The plight of Zo women reflects a sobering light on the injustice and impunity of violence committed against women from vulnerable communities across India. These stories all show similar patterns of slow police response, tardy investigations and a disturbing complicity that allows perpetrators to evade punishment.
The silence from both the Indian government and the international community is equally deafening. This attitude is expected from the country’s political and social elite, dominated by upper-caste individuals, who have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo and denying the links between caste, gender, and violence.
Why are the voices of #MeToo and other activist movements relatively silent in the face of these appalling human rights abuses within our borders? Where is the collective gaze of our nation’s leaders, intellectuals, and social influencers when vulnerable tribal women face brutal violence and injustice with little or no consequence? These passing questions reveal the disconnect between high-profile activism and their lack of outcry for crimes committed against women from marginalized backgrounds. It is clear how specific the priorities and moral compasses of influential societal groups lie.
Few political leaders in New Delhi have made statements expressing their shock and anger, but the reality on the ground is far from reassuring. The perpetrators of these crimes are not being brought to justice, the dead remain silent in their graves, and the survivors are left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives with little to no support.
It is easy for the rest of India or the world to turn a blind eye and deem the pain of Zo women as “an internal issue” that does not concern them. But the women of Manipur are not invisible, nor are their lives expendable. Their stories must be heard, their struggles must be recognized, and the systems that enable this violence must be dismantled.
The Unanswered Question: How Many More?
The question that lingers, pressing against our conscience, is bleak and unyielding: how many more women must suffer? How many more lives must be lost before this country confronts the brutal reality of what is going on in Manipur? Olivia’s and Florence’s stories and those of the Zo women of B Phainom and Zosangkim are not alone. They are chapters in a never-ending chronicle of systemic violence that targets Zo women not only as women but as symbols of an entire community that some would rather see disappear. And if this violence is unchecked and unacknowledged, it will continue.
This must end. The suffering of the Zo women must be heard, their pain acknowledged, and their humanity restored. The government’s response must be more than just a few words spoken under public pressure; it must be a concrete, unwavering commitment to take decisive action. This means taking concrete steps to put an end to the violence, protect Manipur’s women and children, and hold those responsible accountable without delay or excuses. The long, difficult journey towards healing will begin only by taking such action. Only then can the mutual trust, shattered by years of indifference, be gradually and painfully rebuilt.
The suffering of Manipur’s women can no longer be ignored. Their dire straits are not footnotes in the larger story of national politics or a distant problem from “somewhere else.” It is a brutal, immediate reality that requires justice right now. So the question remains: will we answer the call or stand by and watch this horror unfold until it is too late to make amends?
Also Read: War of words: In Manipur, one man’s village volunteer is another man’s militant
Views expressed are of the author and do not reflect EastMojo’s opinion. The author is a National Gender Fellow and a recipient of Zubaan Young Researchers from Northeast Grant 2024.