When Prime Minister Narendra Modi visited Manipur on 13 September—his first trip after 28 months of ethnic violence—it drew enormous national attention, with television channels broadcasting his programme throughout the day. Yet the carefully choreographed warmth masked deep unease, leaving many observers to wonder until the last moment if the visit would even take place.
For both the Kuki-Zo and Meitei communities, welcoming Modi carried different motives. But their leaders also saw his visit as a rare chance to push for a solution to Manipur’s crisis—a conflict that has already redrawn demographic lines and deepened divisions.
Beneath this veneer of welcome, however, resentment simmered. While the valley-based militant conglomerate CORCOM declared a boycott, Meitei civil society organisations (CSOs) such as COCOMI, also stayed away from welcoming the PM. On the Kuki side, there was greater resentment visible on the ground.
Tensions Post Visit
The aftermath of the visit to Churachandpur, renamed by the Kuki-Zo community as 'Lamka', saw tense moments and violent flare ups.
On Sunday, 14 September, a mob clashed with security forces in protest against the detention of two local youths for allegedly vandalising the banners and cutouts of the PM on Friday night. The flurry simmered down after the duo was released.
Meanwhile, reports emerged of an attack on the house of a Kuki leader, part of the SoO (Suspension of Operations) groups. But the attack had less to do with the PM's visit and more with local faction fights.
While the mainstream media read it as the aftermath of the visit, these flare-ups were not a reaction to Modi per se, but the culmination of eruptive discontent that had been simmering for some time among the various Kuki-Zo communities before the visit. The PM's coming seems to have laid bare the schisms within Manipur when it comes to the proverbial 'way forward', especially in the hills where one step forward seems like two steps backward.
Lamka Had Been on Edge for a While
On 13 September, Modi was scheduled to fly in from Mizoram by helicopter after inaugurating the Sairang–Bairabi railway line. The route from the helipad to Peace Ground, the venue of his programme in Lamka, was decorated with cherry blossoms. White sheets concealed local homes.
But just two days before his arrival, angry youths tore down and burned banners and decorations. Their frustration was not with the visit itself, but with the spectacle of pomp and celebration while thousands of their people still languished in relief camps.
The tensions ran deeper. When a tentative programme suggested that Kuki-Zo tribes were expected to perform dances across the town, it provoked outrage. “How can we dance when we are still mourning?,” many asked.
Incidentally, September 13 is also marked as 'Kuki Black Day', commemorating the killing of 120 Kukis by the Naga militant group NSCN (IM) on the same date in 1993. In the end, the decision was made: “The Adivasi will not dance.” True to that, no cultural troupes greeted the Prime Minister.
Displaced communities also voiced their opposition. Hmar groups from Imphal, the Eastern Vaipheis, and other Kuki-Zo groups from Chandel district declared they would neither perform nor participate in Modi’s programme.
Their statement was poignant: “Our mourning is not over; our tears have not dried; our wounds are not healed. We cannot dance with joy.”
Controversy also surrounded the Wall of Remembrance (WoR)—a memorial marked with symbolic coffins that has become a rallying point for the Kuki-Zo people, displaying photographs of the dead and hosting vigils and rallies. Rumours spread that it would be dismantled because it stood too close to Modi’s route. While protocol required certain areas to be cordoned off, the WoR carried enormous emotional weight.
Earlier in April, Kuki-Zo civil society groups had removed the coffins for cultural reasons, but after backlash on social media, some groups reinstalled them as a gesture of protest ahead of Modi’s visit. On 11 September, when the Governor came to inspect, the coffins were removed again—though the memorial was given a fresh coat of paint.
When the day finally came, heavy rain turned the venues in Imphal and Churachandpur into muddy fields. Modi was forced to abandon his plan to land in Lamka from Mizoram and instead flew to Imphal by plane, traveling the remaining 57 kilometres by road.
Changing Contexts
While Meitei groups like COCOMI and CORCOM boycotted the event, the Kuki-Zo Council formally welcomed the Prime Minister, hoping that his visit would pave the way for political dialogue. Yet their expectations quickly soured: the Deputy Commissioner of Churachandpur refused to let them submit a memorandum directly to Modi.
The incident echoed 1952, when the Naga National Council was prevented from presenting a memorandum to Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, prompting the Nagas to bare their backsides in protest—a gesture that humiliated Nehru, especially as Burmese Prime Minister U Nu was present. Modi was spared that dishonour.
However, even the ten Kuki-Zo MLAs were denied the brief audience they had requested.
If Modi’s words in Mizoram had been delivered in English, in Manipur he chose Hindi. He began with the slogan “Bharat Mata ki…”. He then announced development projects worth approximately Rs 7,000 crore, of which only Rs 23 crores were exclusively for Kuki-Zo areas. The imbalance was glaring, and declaring crores of development packages for Meiteis from Kuki-Zo territory was not taken kindly.
At a moment when displaced families were yearning for reassurance and reconciliation, even a small gesture—such as announcing a hospital, a university, or improved road links in Kuki-Zo regions now cut off from Imphal—would have resonated more deeply than sweeping promises of growth.
A Disappointing Miss
To many observers, Modi seemed detached from the enormity of the crisis. His speech contained no words of empathy for women who suffered sexual violence or for families mourning the dead. Instead, he spoke of peace, dialogue, reconciliation, and development bridging divides between the hills and the valley—phrases that, in the absence of concrete steps, felt hollow.
The crowd, braving rain and mud, had hoped for direction, for a roadmap to peace and normalcy. What they heard instead were platitudes. The sight of children singing “Bharat ki Beti” while their families remained in relief camps underscored the disconnect.
In the end, Modi’s visit was a missed opportunity. He could have used the moment to heal wounds, to acknowledge suffering, and to chart a path toward justice and political solution. Instead, his presence in Manipur felt like a perfunctory stopover between Mizoram and Assam. Two years of absence could have been redeemed by a humane gesture and a sincere outreach. Instead, an opportunity for peace slipped away—and for Manipur, little is likely to change.
(Dr David Hanneng is Assistant Professor in the Department of History, Guskara College, Burdwan University; he writes on issues that affects Northeast India. This is an opinion piece. All views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)