On March 6, 1966, the day after the unprecedented Aizawl bombing—the only time jet fighters attacked Indian territory—Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was asked about the Mizo hills. Her response was brief: “I think you know better.”
Sixty years on, that answer continues to echo. There has been no formal admission, no meaningful accountability, and no closure for the loss of civilian lives. Successive governments have largely maintained silence, with the issue surfacing only occasionally, most notably when Narendra Modi invoked it as a political point against the Congress.
At the time of the bombing, media presence in the hills was minimal, and reports, where they existed, often portrayed state actions, including forced regrouping of villages, in a positive light. The movement for Independence carried on for twenty years, from 1966 to 1986, when a Peace Accord was signed.
Today, a similar pattern of distance and detachment risks repeating itself in Manipur. Since May 2023, newspapers have carried a steady stream of casualty figures from clashes involving Meitei, Kuki, and Tangkhul communities.
For many outside the state, the crisis has been reduced to a grim tally of numbers rather than a human tragedy. Reports indicate that in April 2026 alone, eight people, including two children, lost their lives, figures that briefly register before being replaced by the next update.
To understand why such violence persists, one must look beyond immediate triggers to deeper historical roots. The divisions in Manipur are not new; they were shaped and hardened during colonial rule, particularly after the Anglo-Manipur War.
The British brought the valley and hill regions under a single administrative unit but governed them separately, retaining indirect rule in the valley while administering hill communities like the Kukis and Tangkhuls through distinct systems.
This dual structure entrenched differences rather than bridging them, creating unequal access to land, governance, and political power. The result was not unity, but a fragile coexistence built on separation.
What is troubling is how closely present responses mirror past strategies. During the insurgency in Mizoram, which began in 1966 after prolonged neglect by the Government of India, similar patterns of silence and division emerged.
In his memoir From Guerrilla Fighter to Chief Minister, Zoramthanga describes how divide-and-rule tactics deepened internal fractures among groups initially united. Villages were burned, populations forcibly regrouped into “protected” settlements, and civilians were made to sign documents claiming consent for the destruction of their own homes.
The Mizo movement itself did not begin with violence. It began with petitions, memoranda, and appeals for recognition, efforts that were repeatedly met with silence. It was only after sustained neglect that the situation escalated.
Even then, as violence intensified and civilians bore the brunt, from aerial attacks to forced displacement, there was little acknowledgement from those in power.
In Manipur today, that silence feels familiar. While the Prime Minister is often quick to offer condolences and compensation in response to smaller-scale tragedies elsewhere in the country, his absence from sustained engagement on Manipur has been notable.
In the absence of consistent political intervention, mistrust has deepened, and divisions have hardened further. The deployment of large numbers of security forces, instead of reassuring communities, has in some cases heightened anxiety and resentment.
At this point, the idea of the “tyranny of distance” becomes difficult to ignore. Historian George Blainey, in his 1966 work on Australia, argued that distance from centres of power can shape political attention, economic development, and public empathy, sometimes acting as both shield and disadvantage.
In the context of Manipur, the question is unavoidable: if the state were geographically closer to Delhi, would the Centre’s response have been as muted? Would the violence have stretched from 2023 into 2026, with deaths still occurring?
Distance not only operates in geography but in perception. Journalist Fiona Carruthers, reflecting on Australia’s remoteness, noted how distance can narrow debate, allowing dominant voices to shape narratives while limiting broader engagement and understanding.
A similar dynamic appears to be at play here. For much of the country, Manipur remains far away, not just in kilometres but in consciousness. The result is a crisis that unfolds in relative isolation, where sustained national attention is intermittent and often reactive rather than continuous.
Recent incidents underscore this growing unease. Reports from the ground suggest that in areas such as Tolloi village, tensions between local communities and security forces have escalated, with allegations of violence, arson, and civilian harm.
While such claims require thorough and transparent investigation, their very emergence reflects a widening gap between state action and public trust.
History offers a clear warning. When grievances are ignored, when differences are managed through division rather than dialogue, and when state power operates without accountability, conflicts do not resolve; they deepen.
The experience of Mizoram shows both the cost of such an approach and the long road required to repair it.
Also Read: BJP’s mixed signals on indigeneity risk deepening fault lines in Meghalaya
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