Torn by violence, Manipur now faces a second crisis: Ecological collapse

In Manipur, the land suffers twice, first from barricades, bunkers and the invisible boundaries drawn by ethnic conflict; then from floods that recognise neither hill nor valley, map nor identity. Cyclone Remal swept across both Senapati and Imphal. Mudslides engulfed districts like Pherzawl and Noney, while newborns had to be rescued from flooded hospitals in the Valley. When nature strikes, divisions dissolve. Yet even in shared disaster, the state remains fractured.

For two years, Manipur has been both a political and ecological battleground. The conflict between Meitei and Kuki-Zomi communities dominates headlines, courts and protests. But as the fight for territory escalates, the land itself is deteriorating. Floods, landslides, soil erosion and blocked watersheds scar the very ground over which identity is contested. A bitter irony unfolds, those battling for control of land often neglect its care.

In May and June 2024 and 2025, unrelenting rain turned Manipur into a warning. Government buildings and homes in Imphal were inundated for days. Hillsides collapsed in Ukhrul and Churachandpur, cutting off roads and destroying homes. The Imphal-Jiribam highway, a critical transport route, was blocked. At least 19,811 people were affected. Two were injured and later recovered. 

The state opened 31 relief camps, reported damage to 14 infrastructure sites and confirmed impacts to over 3,300 houses. Around 1,600 people were relocated. Key facilities, including health centres and transport links, remain flooded long after the storm. These are not just the effects of climate change, but of decades of ecological neglect: Wetland encroachment, unregulated mining, deforestation and poor urban planning. The deluge is as much humanmade as meteorological.

Manipur’s vulnerability is not accidental. It has been shaped by short-sighted development and political indifference. Imphal’s outdated drainage system cannot cope with the city’s expanding population. Wetlands like Lamphelpat, once natural flood buffers, have been steadily built over. Rivers like the Nambul and Kongba are clogged with silt and plastic. In the hills, deforestation and unregulated quarrying have destabilised slopes, increasing runoff and erosion.

This ecological breakdown mirrors the political fragmentation of the state. Development is often dictated by ethnic calculations rather than ecological logic. Hill districts remain marginalised in state planning, with poor infrastructure and lax regulation. The Valley, though better connected, has grown with little regard for sustainability. In a deeply divided polity, no one governs the land as a whole, only their own portion.

This institutional vacuum hinders even the best ideas. Hydrologists have proposed river interlinking to prevent overflow. Environmentalists have called for afforestation, hill zoning and watershed-based planning. The National Green Tribunal has issued multiple orders penalising the state. In December 2022, it directed Manipur to pay Rs 200 crore in environmental compensation for poor waste management. It has also raised concerns about unchecked deforestation linked to poppy cultivation. Yet these interventions remain largely unimplemented. They require a unified vision for the land, one that neither community nor government appears to hold.

Manipur’s crisis reflects a broader national pattern. According to the State of India’s Environment 2025 report by Down To Earth magazine and Delhi-based think tank Centre for Science and Environment, no Indian state scored above 70 on environmental performance, in this year’s State of States rankings. Manipur was among 27 states and Union Territories scoring below 50 in the “water” category, with glaring deficits in sewage treatment, waste management and river health. Even Andhra Pradesh, the top-ranked state, treats under 11 per cent of its daily sewage.

This is a failure of planning rooted in outdated data, patchy implementation and limited ecological foresight. As Sunita Narain, director general of CSE observed, “Without a recent census, this number is at best a projection or worse, a guesstimate. All this then puts into question the plan for river cleaning and how it will work.” 

In Manipur, where floods and landslides are now annual events and ethnic divisions hamper coordination, such systemic failure is especially dangerous. The state’s delicate hill-valley ecology demands more precise data and coordinated governance than currently exists. Yet Manipur remains stuck in institutional inertia, unable — or unwilling — to match political urgency with ecological responsibility.

This makes the state’s most recent request to the Centre all the more telling. On June 17, 2025, three months after President’s Rule was imposed, Manipur sought Rs 1,000 crore in special assistance. The priority? Pension backlogs, security operations and compensation for conflict-related revenue losses. There was scant mention of wetlands, watershed repair, or flood mitigation. Land for the almost 25,000 displaced, once again, was absent from the ask.

The paradox is stark: Manipur is one of India’s most ecologically rich states, yet among the most poorly managed. This is not just bad governance, it is structural neglect. Conflict narratives, whether insurgency or ethnic grievance, have crowded out the ecological imagination. Land becomes a stage for grievance, not a subject of governance.

This absence is most visible during disaster. When floods hit, relief was delayed and uneven. Civil society groups like churches, student unions and volunteers responded swiftly, but their efforts rarely crossed ethnic lines. Aid was distributed along community loyalties rather than need. Even as floodwaters blurred boundaries, relief efforts remained siloed. In rare moments like shared meals, hospital wards and joint clean-ups, there were glimpses of what ecological solidarity could look like. Not slogans, but shared vulnerability.

The floods have prompted deeper questions: What does development mean in a conflict-ridden, ecologically fragile state? Can bridges and roads be called progress if they increase flood risk or undermine local ecologies? In the hills, infrastructure often arrives as surveillance, not support. In the Valley, modernisation has erased traditional environmental knowledge. Both approaches have failed.

If Manipur is to recover, it must rethink development not as expansion but as repair. This means treating wetlands as infrastructure, regulating mining through community forestry and designing cities with flood risk in mind.

More radically, it calls for a new federalism — one based not just on identity, but ecology. Hills and Valley are interdependent. Water flows from one to the other. Deforestation upstream causes floods downstream. A lasting peace demands institutions that reflect this: shared watershed councils, joint disaster plans, community climate forums. 

At present, financial control sits with the Union Ministry of Tribal Affairs in Imphal, making hill politicians dependent on Valley counterparts. This breeds clientelism and undermines accountability. Granting administrative and financial autonomy to the hills could help ensure development is locally relevant and ecologically sound. This is not idealism, it is ecological realism.

For too long, politics in Manipur has focused on administrative borders, who controls what, under what status. But floods do not recognise borders. Water follows the path of least resistance. So does misgovernance. The real choice before Manipur is not between status quo and separation. It is between collapse and cooperation. Either the communities come together to protect the land, or the land will continue to exact its toll on all.

This is no rhetorical urgency. Climate models warn that intense rainfall events like those of May and June will become more frequent. The Northeast’s position along the Bay of Bengal cyclone corridor makes it especially exposed. Without robust ecological planning, these floods will return, faster and fiercer. There can be no post-conflict Manipur without ecological security.

Yet the idea of land still holds power. That power must shift from ownership to stewardship, from assertion to care. The land must be sustained, not merely claimed. This means not only redrawing borders but rebuilding soils, restoring rivers and creating resilience alongside peace. For Manipur to be whole, the land must live. And for the land to live, its people must act — together.

Sangmuan Hangsing is a researcher and alumnus of the Kautilya School of Public Policy

Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth