The start of 2025 has been life-changing—an eye-opener in ways I had never anticipated. As a lawyer, the beginning of the year usually offers a rare window of respite, a time to step away from the demands of courtrooms, recharge, and reflect during a month-long winter vacation. But this year was different. Just a few months ago, I was entrusted with a responsibility that would take me beyond legal battles and into the heart of a crisis affecting thousands.
I was handed the chairpersonship of Impulse NGO Network, a Shillong-based organisation that has grown from a regional initiative to an influential force spanning not just across India but far beyond its borders. The organization, driven by the relentless passion of its founder Hasina Kharbhih and a team of dedicated members, has been at the forefront of combating human trafficking—a crime that, alongside drug trafficking and arms smuggling, ranks among the top three most profitable illegal trades in the world today.
With this new role came an immediate mission: to travel across Manipur, Mizoram, and Nagaland to assess an ongoing project—an initiative initially launched in Myanmar to support displaced populations through agroforestry training and livelihood support programs. The idea was simple yet powerful: to equip displaced communities with the skills and resources to sustain themselves in times of crisis, offering them an alternative to vulnerability and exploitation.
However, the reality on the ground was more complex. With conflict and unrest spilling across the Indo-Myanmar border, displacement was no longer confined to one side. The borderlands of these three northeastern states had become refuge points for people fleeing turmoil, many of whom shared deep ethnic and ancestral ties with local communities in India. The project, therefore, had naturally expanded, aiming not just to assist those crossing the border but also to support the host communities, who bore the brunt of sheltering and providing for their displaced counterparts.
I was hesitant at first. January, after all, was supposed to be a time for lawyers like me to unwind—a rare month-long break from the intensity of courtrooms and case files. The thought of spending it touring conflict-affected regions, particularly Manipur, where tensions had escalated, made me reluctant. The news headlines painted a grim picture of unrest, and I wondered whether stepping into such uncertainty was wise.
Yet, as I would soon discover, some journeys are meant to push us beyond our comfort zones—not just for the sake of duty, but because they change how we see the world. And so, with a mix of apprehension and determination, I packed my bags and set out for the borderlands of the Northeast, unaware that what awaited me would be more than just an evaluation of a project—it would be a confrontation with stories of survival, resilience, and a stark reminder of the human cost of conflict.
Manipur: A Fractured Land
My journey began in Manipur, where I spent seven days witnessing firsthand the raw and unsettling reality of a state fractured by conflict. Though I had followed the situation from a distance, it wasn’t until I landed there that I truly grasped the depth of its vulnerability.
The most striking—and heartbreaking—sight was the invisible yet impenetrable borders now dividing communities that had coexisted for generations. What was once a land of shared traditions and friendships was now a patchwork of buffer zones, manned by barricades and guarded by armed personnel. The Meitei-dominated valley and the Kuki-inhabited hills had been completely cut off with neither community allowed to cross into the other’s territory.
As I travelled through these segregated landscapes, I saw abandoned homes and shattered lives—houses that once echoed with laughter now stood silent, bearing the scars of violence and displacement. Families had been forced to flee, leaving behind not just their homes but everything they had worked for, their entire life’s earnings reduced to ruins.
The challenge of navigating army and civil barricades was one thing, but the emotional weight of witnessing this division was something I hadn’t prepared for. Coming from Sikkim, a state that has always been peaceful, I had never faced such an environment of distrust and fear. To be honest, I was scared. But with the guidance of friends from both communities, I managed to move between the hills and the valley, meeting people from both sides, listening to their grievances, and understanding their pain.
Each side had its version of the truth, and in a way, both seemed justified—each fighting for survival, for a future they believed was under threat. Yet, what stood out the most was the common thread of suffering. In the end, it wasn’t about who was right or wrong; it was about the human cost of conflict—the loss of homes, the loss of peace, and, most tragically, the loss of humanity itself.
Manipur taught me a painful yet crucial lesson: when conflicts are left unresolved, they create distances that become harder to bridge with time. If not addressed in their early stages, wounds deepen, scars remain, and an entire generation grows up carrying the weight of a divided past.
As my flight took off from Imphal, I let out a sigh of relief, but the heaviness inside remained. Looking down at the land below, I silently prayed for peace, for healing, and for a future where Manipur is remembered not for its conflict, but for its rich culture and shared heritage.
Mizoram: A Lesson in Unity
The next leg of my journey took me to Mizoram, where I spent ten days travelling through the capital and into the heart of its interior regions. Unlike Manipur, there was no apprehension or fear—Mizoram is known as one of the most peaceful states in the Northeast.
What struck me the most was the strength of their social fabric—their unwavering sense of togetherness, deeply influenced by religion and the church. One unforgettable experience was witnessing the complete stillness of a Sunday. Streets were empty, shops shut, and the only movement was people heading to church. This was not a forced restriction but a collective choice, an embodiment of discipline and devotion.
Another remarkable aspect was their dignity of labour. Unlike many places where small businesses are often run by outsiders, in Mizoram, locals control almost everything—from pan shops to barbers and cobblers. This self-sufficiency was inspiring and offered a powerful lesson: true economic independence comes from valuing and owning even the smallest jobs.
One of the unexpected highlights was addressing law students at Mizoram Law College on professional ethics and the power of advocacy beyond courtrooms. I reminded them that law is not just about winning cases but about standing for justice wherever it is needed.
Nagaland: Divided by Borders, United by Spirit
The final leg of my journey took me to Nagaland, the longest and most intense part—twelve days, nearly 1,500 kilometres on the road, traversing fourteen districts. From the moment I arrived, I was welcomed with a warmth only the Nagas can offer.
One of the most striking moments was visiting a traditional Ang’s house that straddled the India-Myanmar border—one half in India, the other in Myanmar. It was a painful reminder of how artificial lines drawn by history had divided families and communities.
Unlike Mizoram, which has a homogeneous cultural identity, Nagaland is a tapestry of multiple tribes, each fiercely preserving its distinct traditions. While this diversity is its strength, it also challenges fostering a unified Naga identity.
In the eastern villages, I met displaced people from Myanmar—former high-ranking officials and businessmen, now reduced to refugees. Their stories were sobering reminders of how fragile power and privilege can be.
A Journey Beyond Borders
As I boarded my flight home, I carried back more than just memories. This journey reinforced everything I believe in—the power of human connection, the responsibility of those with the privilege to serve, and the need to always question, and always learn.
Beyond legal battles and advocacy, beyond borders and fences, what truly defines us is our shared humanity. And that, perhaps, is the greatest lesson of all.
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