The state of Manipur, often described as the “jewel of India’s Northeast,” is a land of extraordinary beauty and diversity. Nestled on India’s border with Myanmar, it is home to a mosaic of communities, languages, and traditions. Yet behind its lush hills and valleys lies a story of deep fractures—ethnic, political, and geographical.
Much has been written in recent years about the violent clashes between the Meitei and Kuki-Zo communities.
These conflicts, deadly and destabilising, dominate headlines and shape the national perception of Manipur. But amid this polarised narrative, the long-standing suffering of smaller minority tribes has gone largely unreported.
These groups, often numbering only a few thousand each, are among the most vulnerable in the state. Their experiences of displacement, marginalisation, and erasure remain hidden, overshadowed by the louder voices of larger ethnic blocs.
This silence is not accidental. It stems from systemic neglect, historical marginalisation, and a political framework that rarely acknowledges their existence. To understand Manipur’s crisis in full, one must listen to the whispers of its most silenced communities.
Displacement, Marginalisation, and Political Exclusion
For decades, Manipur has been scarred by ethnic clashes, insurgencies, and counter-insurgency operations. Each cycle of violence has left a trail of displacement. Relief camps, burnt villages, and migration have become grimly familiar in the state’s history. While the displacement of Meitei or Kuki-Zo families occasionally garners national attention, the smaller minority tribes often vanish from the record altogether. Their displacement is less visible, less documented, and rarely acknowledged.
Most live in peripheral areas—settlements that now serve as buffer zones or “thin red lines” between warring communities. Their location makes them easy targets. Villages that once stood as cultural crossroads have become sites of suspicion and attack.
Families abandon ancestral homes, seek refuge in faraway towns, or migrate temporarily to cities such as Imphal, Shillong, Guwahati, or Delhi in search of safety and livelihood. For these minorities, displacement is not a one-time tragedy but an ongoing condition. Each flare-up of violence pushes them deeper into precarity, yet their plight rarely makes headlines.
In Manipur’s polarised landscape, neutrality is both a principle and a peril. Smaller tribes—such as the Koireng, Aimol, Chiru, Purum, Kharam, and Kom—have historically maintained cordial ties with Meiteis, Nagas, and Kukis, avoiding overt alignment. But in times of conflict, neutrality is rarely tolerated.
Caught between larger groups, they are often suspected of covert allegiance. Their refusal to take sides makes them scapegoats—labelled informants, collaborators, or traitors.
The result is a double burden: external threats from warring factions and internal alienation within the wider tribal community. Neutrality, instead of being respected as a stand for peace, becomes a source of suspicion. It renders them outsiders in a conflict that was never theirs to begin with.
Manipur’s politics has long been trapped in a binary imagination: that to be tribal is to be either Naga or Kuki. This false dichotomy erases the very existence of smaller tribes. Communities such as the Koireng, Aimol, Kom, and others are neither numerically strong nor politically influential.
Their languages are spoken by only a few thousand people, their customs preserved in fragile oral traditions, and their cultural expressions rarely known beyond their villages. Yet their histories are just as old, and their identities just as valid. Amidst this binary, the Koireng have stood apart—choosing neutrality throughout history.
They avoided inter-tribal rivalries under colonial rule, stayed aloof during the Naga–Kuki clashes, and never aligned with any bloc. This independence preserved their identity but left them without allies. In times of conflict, neutrality turns into vulnerability: suspected by all, protected by none.
The marginalisation of Manipur’s minority tribes is not new; it is rooted in colonial and post-colonial history. Under British rule, the hills and valley were administered separately: the valley, dominated by Meiteis, was integrated into modern political structures, while the hill tribes were governed indirectly through village chiefs.
This dualism entrenched inequalities that persisted after Independence. Post-1949, when Manipur merged with the Indian Union, the imbalance widened. The valley emerged as the administrative and political centre, receiving most development investment, while the hills remained neglected.
Roads, schools, hospitals, and jobs developed unevenly, leaving many hill communities dependent on subsistence farming.
For smaller minority tribes, marginalisation was even sharper. Often located in the foothills, they were bypassed by development schemes altogether. Government programmes that did reach them were plagued by corruption and inefficiency.
The result is a pattern of deprivation that continues today: limited healthcare, dismal education indicators, and almost no representation in state-level planning. Democracy promises representation, but in Manipur, smaller tribes rarely find a place at the political table. Of the 60 seats in the Legislative Assembly, 19 are reserved for Scheduled Tribes. Yet these are monopolised by the numerically larger Naga and Kuki-Zo groups.
Smaller tribes like the Koireng, Aimol, Kom, and Chiru lack dedicated constituencies. Their populations are too small to secure victory in first-past-the-post elections. As a result, their issues are rarely debated, their languages rarely recognised, and their rights easily subsumed under broader ethnic categories.
The bureaucracy reflects a similar imbalance. Key administrative posts in tribal-dominated districts are often held by officials from majority groups, leading to a disconnect between state policy and ground reality. Even government-nominated seats reserved for “unrepresented tribes” have sometimes been filled by members of larger groups—a telling sign of how the smallest voices are silenced.
For minority tribes, the struggle is not only political or economic; it is existential. Languages with only a few hundred speakers are at risk of extinction. Rituals and festivals survive in fragmented forms.
Oral histories, once passed down generations, are now threatened by migration and displacement. Without institutional support for cultural preservation, these communities risk being absorbed into dominant cultures.
Many blend in for safety—identifying as Naga or Kuki, marrying into larger groups, or abandoning their languages. The cost is cultural erasure: the quiet disappearance of traditions that once enriched Manipur’s diversity.
The suffering of Manipur’s minority tribes is compounded by invisibility. Media coverage overwhelmingly focuses on Meitei, Naga, and Kuki-Zo narratives, with little mention of smaller groups.
National debates on peace, development, or security rarely acknowledge their existence. This invisibility breeds despair. Without recognition, their grievances remain unaddressed; without allies, their displacement becomes permanent; without political agency, their survival becomes precarious. Their silence is often mistaken for consent, when in truth it is born of fear and exclusion.
Towards Recognition and Justice
If India’s democratic vision is to mean anything in Manipur, it must extend to the state’s smallest communities.
Recognising their existence is not just a matter of cultural sensitivity—it is essential for lasting peace. What is needed is dedicated political representation through reserved constituencies, nominated seats, or proportional representation.
Inclusive peace processes must ensure that smaller tribes have a seat at the negotiating table. Targeted development schemes should focus on healthcare, education, and livelihood security. Cultural preservation initiatives, including language documentation and heritage promotion, are crucial.
Decentralised governance is essential, giving micro-communities a say in decisions affecting their land and identity.
The minorities of Manipur are not voiceless; they are unheard. Their suffering is not invisible; it is ignored. For decades, they have lived on the margins of politics, media, and society, their stories erased by the loud narratives of larger groups.
The suffering of these smaller tribes is not a footnote to Manipur’s conflict; it lies at the heart of the state’s moral and political crisis. Any search for peace that excludes them will remain incomplete; any vision of democracy that silences them will remain hollow. Manipur will not find peace until its smallest voices are heard.
To heal, the state must begin at its margins—with those who have borne the heaviest cost without ever being recognised.
Views expressed are personal. The founder and President of the Indigenous Minorities Foundation and advocates for the rights of minority tribes in Manipur.
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