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He went on to tell me about how his hometown, a Christian-majority region in Indian called Manipur, was under attack by a violent mob of Hindu extremists. Long-standing ethnic tensions had reached a boiling point. Villages were burning, people were dying and Mang couldn’t reach any of his loved ones.
I was utterly devastated. It was the first time my heart was moved by the suffering of his people. Little did I know that I would soon be witnessing that suffering first-hand.
The following fall, Biola let Mang host an event to pray for the persecuted Christians in Manipur, a tribal group collectively known as the Kuki-Zo. The immediate plight of the Zo people seemed dire. In a period of just five months, over 7,000 homes and 300 churches had been burned down. In addition, 40,000 people were now refugees.
I left the meeting with a heavy heart, but I was very busy. I was a full-time seminary student with a part-time job. This was a sobering reminder to be grateful for what I had — but ultimately there was nothing I could do for the Zo.
Around that same time, Biola announced their upcoming summer session in Turkey. Visiting the country was always a priority for me. The trip cost $5,000 — and I didn’t feel like I could afford it. I prayed for an open door to attend, but by the time the deadline came around, I had no answer from God” It was clear that I wasn’t going.
The next semester, it so happened that I had to visit the financial aid office to post a query. To my amazement, I learned that I had been awarded a $5,000 grant from the university during the summer. Somehow, the news had never reached me. I suspected that God had veiled this money from me for a purpose: He didn’t want me going to the summer session. I decided to be patient and wait on the Lord, wondering what his plan was.
I had not given much thought to the Kuki-Zo for a while. As the months passed and semester drew to a close, I admit that they were far from my mind. I hadn’t seen Mang socially for months. In April, however, he told me he’d be moving soon and wanted to grab lunch.
If you asked Mang today, he’d tell you that he never planned on making a plea for his people at that meeting. But sitting in that little café he couldn’t help it. He broke down. His people were still suffering. The refugee children were starved of resources and care. Two weeks earlier, four children had drowned in a river while their father manned the frontlines and mother sold produce in the market.
Mang was desperate. Though he’d tried to spread word of the oppression for a year, he said it seemed like no one cared. There was little to no news coverage in the legacy media. The churches and institutions he appealed to expressed surface-level empathy, but made no efforts to help. Mang was losing hope.
I remember feeling heavy and burdened. I tried processing my feelings with a few friends and to my astonishment the results mirrored exactly what Mang had described. I heard things like, “it isn’t your responsibility,” and “why don’t you talk to a professor about it.” Mang was right. The general feeling seemed to be at minimum one of mistrust of Mang’s story, or perhaps an underlying sentiment of its not our problem. I went to sleep that night with a prodding thought: I have to see this for myself.
Over the next week, I considered what my heart — or perhaps the holy spirit? — was trying to tell me. I just could not shake off the idea of visiting Manipur. It seemed like the mysterious $5,000 grant could have been for this very reason. Then, one day, I received a phone call from Mang.
“Sean,” he said. “Something has really been bothering me. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking that you’re supposed to come to India.”
I raised my eyebrows: Okay, Lord. I hear you. We planned the trip with great care. Because of government restrictions on Christian missionaries, I not only had to mask the purpose of my visit, but I also could not travel directly to Manipur. The attitude of the state government is overtly hostile toward Christians in that region and they likely would have denied my visa. But even if I was allowed passage, to get to the refugees from the airport I would need to cross an active war zone in enemy territory. We needed another solution.
We decided that I would fly into Mizoram, the state south of Manipur, and charter a jeep to cross 120 miles of jungle roads to Lamka, where the refugees were. I was effectively being smuggled into Zo territory. We left at nightfall, hoping to arrive by mid-morning. The journey was slow and dangerous. Once on the road, it was utterly pitch black in the thicket of the jungle; the understory often blocked out the starlight.
As we drove, I learned that this 15-hour road to Aizawl was the sole means of supplying the Zo with food and medical supplies after all other roads had been cut off. The economic effect had been devastating. Prices had tripled due to the added freight costs.
When we finally arrived, I was greeted with an obvious sort of curiosity. I later learned that I was the first white person to visit the city since the violence broke out over a year ago. I was stunned by this revelation. In a city that is under siege and giving refuge to 40,000 people, not a single emissary, journalist or missionary from a Western nation had bothered to visit?
Mang had been correct. No one cared about his people’s suffering. Or maybe, too few in the West knew?
I met with a few community leaders in the days that followed — mostly pastors, elders and tribal leaders. After hearing the story of the events from Mang, I was curious to gain a broader perspective from others. Over several hours of conversations, one recurring theme from these conversations emerged: Before the conflict, the Zo had largely lived in peace with the Meitei Hindus in the valley. Since the capital city of Manipur, Imphal, housed most of the state’s infrastructure for both commerce and education, many Zo had resided in the city and were friendly with the Meitei. While they acknowledged cultural distinctions, they were all shocked by the current level of hatred and vitriol.
How could sentiment have changed so quickly? Without exception, the Zo people I spoke to blamed the deterioration of relations on the state government. They claimed that propaganda had been spreading for years — especially through institutions like the press and education systems, which are controlled by the government. Zo people had been branded illegal immigrants and terrorists. Since the Zo share some ethnic ancestry with rebel tribes in Myanmar, they were compared to those groups and accused of anti-government sentiment. They had systematically being made pariahs.
Mang’s story was repeatedly validated by the people in Lamka. The narrative was consistent, even if the specifics varied. My next task was to verify the conditions on the ground. I had to visit the refugee camps.
The first camp was a defunct youth hostel that had been repurposed in the wake of the violence. Most camps were unused or dilapidated buildings. Others were tent cities with tin-roofed huts. My heart sank as we approached the structure. It looked like a refugee camp with burning trash, and idle people crowding the entrance.
The building had broken windows and a suspect roof. Inside, tarps hung from the walls and ceilings, dividing the space into 10 by 12-foot sections that were shared by two or more families. There were no beds or chairs, just blankets on a concrete floor. It was clear that the people had no possessions. The conditions at the other camps were similar. Some lacked even basic amenities like electricity or bathrooms.
I left the last refugee camp weary and relieved the day was ending. There’s a certain heaviness in witnessing such suffering. At some point, the reasons for the conflict seemed less important than simply addressing the immediate needs of the people. The refugees appeared hopeless. We managed to bring smiles to the children with the snacks we handed out, but the adults were not phased by our presence. They were living a pitiful existence.
The next day, we traveled to the frontlines of the fight. Here, barricades spanned roughly 50 miles, separating the remaining Kuki-Zo territory from their Meitei oppressors. The reality of the front preoccupied everyone’s minds. Ten thousand men were on call, ready to rush to any part of the line in the event of a major Meitei assault. Life couldn’t return to normal while they were consumed with defending the city.
To my surprise, we arrived in about 20 minutes. It was only five miles from downtown. It seemed that if the bunkers in this area fell, the whole city of Lamka could be overrun in a day. The first group of soldiers we met were stationed just behind the fighting in a makeshift barracks. Here, they waited day and night for orders to be called to the fight wherever support was needed. As I started talking with them, I realized they weren’t soldiers at all. They had minimal military gear and carried hunting rifles. They were young. Half of them were actually seminary students, like me, and I interviewed one of the students and asked if there was anything he wanted to say to Christians back in the United States. He didn’t smile. He barely shifted in his seat. He looked at me solemnly and simply said, “Tell them we are still at war. We want to go back to our lives, but if we leave the front, they will kill us all.”