In a few days, on 3 May, Manipur will mark two years of a conflict that has fractured its social fabric and plunged the state into a prolonged humanitarian crisis. Thousands were displaced, hundreds killed, women assaulted, and an entire generation left traumatised. And yet, the state of Manipur barely registers in the national imagination anymore.
Just as we brace for this painful anniversary, another tragedy unfolds, this time in the Baisaran meadow of Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir. A place known for its beauty is now stained with blood. At least 26 people lost their lives in a brutal terror attack on 22 April. The perpetrators, allegedly from The Resistance Front (TRF), a Lashkar-e-Taiba proxy, executed the attack in broad daylight. Survivors recount being asked to prove their religion: recite the kalma or face death.
What does it say about the condition of our republic when its most scenic places, the meadows of Pahalgam and the blue hills of Manipur, become theatres of bloodshed?
What does it say about us as a people, as a democracy, as a civilisation, when we become numb to these headlines, as though violence at the margins is somehow the cost of holding the centre? Are we to believe that national unity demands the erasure of suffering from the very geographies that constitute the idea of India?
A Familiar Horror: Pahalgam’s Ghosts
The sheer inhumanity of the act is chilling, a chilling reminder that the ghosts of our past, those we refuse to confront, are still very much alive. Survivors describe being stopped, interrogated, and made to prove their religion, an echo of the medieval inquisition in a so-called modern democracy.
This attack didn’t happen in the dark. It happened in daylight, in one of the most heavily militarised zones in the world. Still, the attackers succeeded, raising deeply uncomfortable questions about the effectiveness of our counter-terrorism measures and intelligence apparatus.
But what is equally chilling is the familiarity of this script. We have seen this before. In March 2000 when 36 Sikhs were massacred in Chittisinghpora, just before US President Bill Clinton’s visit. In 2002, militants targeted civilians during another high-profile American visit. Now, history repeats itself.
As per media reports, security officials describe the Pahalgam massacre as one of the deadliest attacks on civilians in recent memory, a chilling echo of India’s unresolved security failures. Foreign dignitaries, including US Vice President JD Vance and President Donald Trump, condemned the attack, yet their presence inadvertently underscored the geopolitical spectacle that terror groups exploit for maximum visibility. So what has changed in 25 years? Little, it seems. The playbook is the same. The targets are the same. And tragically, the State’s lack of preparedness is the same.
Silence After the Screams
Days after Pahalgam turned into a killing field, the shock is still raw, the grief still too fresh to name. And yet, the question hovers: what will we do differently this time? This cannot become another addition to the archive of tragedies we mourn and move past. Not again. Not this soon. What India needs now is not just condemnation but clarity. Not just grief but governance.
The danger is not only in forgetting but in reacting predictably, fanning communal flames, silencing critical voices, and normalising the extraordinary.
In Manipur, the civil society and independent media have repeatedly flagged the slow, sometimes complicit, response of state machinery. Even after videos emerged of women being paraded and assaulted in the streets, outrage was momentary. No structural reforms followed. Instead, more troops were sent in, an impulse of force over reform, presence over protection.
This is not governance. This is denial. If we are serious about change, then this is the moment to stop the cycle before it begins. Before hashtags replace accountability, before headlines fade, and before it becomes convenient to turn the page.
The people of Pahalgam, like those in Lamka, are not bullet points in a policy brief. They are citizens. They are us.
If action is not taken now, if this moment is not treated as a national shame and turning point, then we are not just complicit in our silence. We are endorsing this cycle of violence as normal.
Let us not wait for silence. Let us speak up now while the echoes still ring, while the sorrow still stings, and while we still have a chance to choose a different future. India cannot afford to keep looking away. Conflict zones don’t just implode; they infect the entire democratic fabric.
We must ask: why does our security apparatus excel at monitoring dissent but fail to anticipate terror?
Why are citizens more policed than protected? The problem is not merely that such groups exist. It is that the conditions for their existence are not being dismantled. Until we fill that vacuum with a meaningful and humane state presence, not just troops but teachers, listeners, and social workers, we will continue to confront new threats under new names. And our responses will remain too little, too late.
A Choice Before the Nation
And if we truly consider these conflict zones, Manipur and Kashmir, as integral parts of India, then the approach must shift from control to care. We cannot afford to reduce every tragedy into a news byte. These are not moments to consume; they are crises to resolve.
Viksit Bharat will not be built on the graves of the forgotten. Development isn’t just about GDP, infrastructure, or grand narratives of nationalism. It’s about human dignity. It’s about whether a mother in Imphal feels safe sending her child to school or whether a tourist in Pahalgam can walk a meadow without fear. We must build from within.
The foundations of a developed India must be rooted in empathy, justice, and equal citizenship. It must be a nation where conflict is not allowed to fester for years in the shadows while the spotlight chases headlines.
What we need are institutions that protect, not police. Intelligence that prevents, not provokes. Governance that listens, not silences. At this moment, as we settle the dust of Pahalgam and the memories of Manipur are once again pushed to the margins, we are offered a choice. To speak in anger or to act in wisdom. To divide or to unite. To forget or to fix.
This isn’t just about Kashmir. This isn’t just about Manipur. This is about the soul of India, an idea that demands more than hashtags and half-truths. It demands that we confront our failures. That we prioritise people over posturing. That we stop choosing hate when healing is what we need.The answer isn’t more boots on the ground. It’s more trust. More truth. More resolve. Unless we solve these conflicts once and for all, India will never be free. Not truly. Not completely. Not meaningfully. '
(Sangmuan Hangsing is a Public Policy student at the Kautilya School of Public Policy. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)