Lamka: A town once welcoming, now stretched by waves of displacement

Lamka — the name rolls gently off the tongue, evoking a town nestled in the Tuitha basin, surrounded by soft hills and brutal memories. Known administratively as Churachandpur, a name imposed by the colonial state and later by the Meitei monarchy, Lamka is what its people call it: a crossroads.

A meeting point of tribes, histories, and hopes. For decades, it stood as a rare sanctuary in a troubled state. Today, it bears the strain of being everyone’s last refuge.

In the 1990s: A refuge turned restless

This isn’t the first time Lamka has played host in the eye of Manipur’s ethnic storms. When the Naga-Kuki conflict broke out in 1992, Kukis from Sadar Hills, Senapati, and Ukhrul fled southward, seeking shelter in Lamka — a Paite-dominated town back then, where the dialects were soft, the tennis court in Tuibuang was open to all, and Sielmat and Saikot echoed with youthful romance and cultural pride.

There are stories, now told with a heavy heart, of Hmar boys from Khawpuibung cycling all the way to New Lamka just to visit a girl’s house for courtship. Of how Kaprang, filled with Kuki speakers, once spoke fluent Paite, and people could converse freely regardless of tribe. Of how every Kuki family in Lamka was known by name — the Heluns of IB Road, the Lhungdims in Molnom, and Haokip Travel in New Bazaar.

But by 1993, the Kuki underground had begun collecting taxes in Lamka’s markets. To counter this encroachment, Zomi tribes organised themselves politically, giving rise to the Zomi Reunification Organisation (ZRO) and its armed wing, the Zomi Reunification Army (ZRA) — initially framed as a cultural unifier but soon drawn into armed defence.

By 1997, the Kuki-Zomi conflict had exploded, but the seeds had been sown much earlier. The mass influx of Kuki refugees from Naga-Kuki clashes in northern Manipur districts like Senapati, Ukhrul, and Chandel had dramatically altered the demographic balance in Churachandpur, long dominated by the Paite-led Zomi tribes.

Tensions intensified when the Kuki National Front (KNF[P]) began collecting taxes and demanding allegiance from Paite Zomis, who refused to accept the “Kuki” nomenclature. Sporadic violence escalated into a full-blown war on 24 June 1997, when KNF(P) cadres stormed Saikul Paite village, killing 10 civilians and injuring five others, accusing them, without evidence, of sheltering NSCN-IM fighters.

The retaliation was swift. Zomi groups, led by the Zomi Reunification Army (ZRA), struck back against Kuki villages in and around Lamka. Over 350 people were killed, 4,670 homes burned down, and more than 50 villages were razed across the Churachandpur district alone.

The peace that followed was hard-won, sealed in a deeply symbolic exchange. The Kukis slaughtered a cow as a gesture of apology and the Zomis, a pig, in forgiveness.

For a while, things stabilised. Lamka resumed its rhythm. But the scars never fully healed.

Post 2023: The New exodus and a familiar fatigue

Three decades later, Lamka is once again overwhelmed. Over 15,514 displaced persons have arrived in the town since May 2023, packed into 93 relief centres, with civil society groups like the YPA, YVA, ZYO, and HYA managing relief where the state has failed.

But the long-term reality is different. “The whole market now speaks Thadou,” says a vegetable vendor in Zenhang Lamka. “I don’t hear Paite anymore. I don’t feel at home.” Others speak of rising incidents of theft, petty crimes, and drug peddling. While data is elusive, perception drives politics and resentment.

But for many residents, the tipping point wasn’t just slow demographic change. It was the violence that erupted on the fateful night of 18 December 2023, when Kuki youths launched a coordinated attack deep in the heart of Lamka. The incident reportedly followed a provocative WhatsApp group post by DJ Haokip, the then Secretary of the Kuki Students’ Organisation (KSO), Churachandpur, which many interpreted as a war call against the Paite-majority neighbourhoods.

The assault began in Thingkangphai, where an altercation turned violent, before swelling into a mob attack in Hiangtam Lamka, a Paite locality. “They came shouting, ‘If you’re brave, come out!’ — smashing gates, threatening homes,” recalled an elderly Paite woman whose house lay near the violence. “It gives me chills. We sheltered them in 1992 — welcomed them as our brothers and sisters, told them to live among us as one. Then, in 1997, they turned on us, burned our villages, and killed our people. And once more, after May 2023, we gave them what we had — rice, blankets, hope. And they repay us this way? By attacking us?”

The incident marked more than a moment of violence. For many, it symbolised a rupture of trust. A town that had opened its arms during every ethnic crisis now found itself being targeted from within, by those it had sheltered. From that day, many residents say, Lamka’s silence became a defence mechanism — not out of fear, but exhaustion.

“You can no longer find your bearings in Lamka,” says a local elder in Central Lamka. “The streets are full of strangers. Some don’t even know the name of the place they’re in. But they walk like they own it, like it is theirs.”

Changing demographics, displacement, & the struggle for space

The demographic shift in Lamka has been gradual but deep. While the 1990s refugee inflow was significant, most Kukis were hosted in scattered localities known by family, trade, or clan. But today, the sheer scale of displacement following the 2023 ethnic violence has overwhelmed the fragile social fabric.

As of late 2024, over 50,000 Kukis are estimated to be living in and around Lamka, based on relief coordination records and independent counts. The 93 relief centres operating across the district — hosted in community halls, schools, and even private homes — have long passed their temporary shelf-life. Camps initially meant to last weeks have become quasi-permanent settlements.

Entire localities have transformed. The once-Paite-majority Lamka town now echoes with Kuki dialects. Public signboards and shopfronts are increasingly bilingual or wholly in Kuki dialects. The shift in linguistic and cultural presence is palpable.

Residents of Lamka fear that the ongoing delimitation process could formalise these demographic changes into electoral advantage, redrawing not just maps but the meaning of representation and belonging.

The renaming of Tuibuang to Tuibong — a locality under the Mate-Zou chieftainship, where Tuibuang reflects the original Zou dialect and Tuibong comes from the Kuki dialect — marks a symbolic shift in a place once known for its cultural diversity, where tribes lived together in relative harmony. What was once a shared and inclusive space is now increasingly seen as a site of assertive Kuki administrative influence. For many older residents, the change goes beyond language. “It’s not just names that are changing,” said a young Zou activist. “It’s ownership. It’s memory. It’s about who gets to call this town home.”

Culture, Crime, and the crisis of belonging

There’s no denying that Lamka is still surviving, vibrant in its resilience, pulsing with youth-led initiatives and community kitchens. But the mood has changed. “We used to have a tennis court in Tuibuang, a swimming pool nearby, and open gatherings in Mission Veng,” recalls an elder from Chiengkonpang. “Saturdays were for courtship — Hmar boys from Khawpuibung cycling to New Lamka, Paite boys walking to Sielmat or Saikot to meet friends. That was Lamka.”

Now, the memories compete with noise, motorcycles without silencers, overcrowded intersections, daily petty thefts, and police reports buried under political sensitivities. Incidents of chain-snatching, housebreaking, and street fights have been quietly increasing. Drug use, especially among young displaced populations, is rising, even as civil society groups try to intervene.

But most conversations in Lamka are whispered, not shouted. “People are scared to speak,” said a former librarian from Zoveng. “Because the moment you raise concern, they say you are against refugees.” What has truly changed is the ability to articulate one’s discomfort. In a conflict where victimhood is layered, and displacement is shared across communities, expressing fatigue or fear is framed as a betrayal. This has created a deepening silence among long-time residents, many of whom feel culturally alienated in the town they once called their own.

If Mizoram’s current refugee fatigue is expressed through policies and protests, Lamka’s is showing in quieter ways: a withdrawal from cultural life, the shuttering of youth clubs, a rise in land fencing, and a growing reluctance to trust. Civil society groups that once operated with communal unity are now fragmented, navigating an uneasy balance between solidarity and self-preservation.

Can Lamka hold together?

For three decades, Lamka has been a town that gave more than it had — land, shelter, empathy, and protection. It absorbed wave after wave of those fleeing fire and fury, in the 1990s or now in the 2020s. It bore the weight of inter-tribal tensions, insurgent threats, and state neglect while trying to nurture a plural tribal urbanity. But how long can a place remain welcoming when it begins to forget itself?

Today’s Lamka carries the visible imprint of conflict — not just in the scars of displacement, but in the cracks within the hosting community itself. The fatigue is real. So is the fear of being called divisive for voicing it. In a town where culture once spilled into the streets through youth festivals, inter-village tournaments, and campus debates, many now retreat into silos — linguistic, ethnic, or ideological.

And yet, Lamka hasn’t collapsed. Civil society organisations still run kitchens and clinics. Elders still preach patience. Youths still show up for volunteer work. This resilience, however, is under strain. The larger question is not whether Lamka will stop being a host, but whether it can become a home for everyone again. Can a town be shared without being split? Can memory coexist with migration? Can identity withstand the pressure of numbers?

Mizoram’s recent turn from open arms to quiet discontent offers a cautionary tale. Lamka may not be far behind. But unlike Mizoram, Lamka doesn’t have statehood, international funding, or media focus. It only has its people — tired, proud, afraid — and a memory of what it once was. A crossroads. And like all crossroads, Lamka now waits. For direction. For healing. For someone to ask not just where we’re all going, but whether we still remember where we came from.

Views expressed are that of the author and do not reflect EastMojo’s views on this or any other related issue.

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