Under the Mango Tree of Manipur

The hills of Manipur used to breathe quietly — valleys wrapped in green, bamboo groves swaying with the wind, and tribal homes scattered like beads across the landscape. But since May 2023, that peace has been shattered.

The conflict between the Meitei majority and the Kuki-Zo tribal communities has burned through the state like a wildfire. More than 250 lives lost. Nearly 60,000 people pushed from their homes into crowded relief camps. Villages turned into ash, churches and temples desecrated, families split by fear and suspicion.

To make things worse, armed groups from across the Myanmar border joined the fight, bringing more guns, more blood, more distrust. The Indian government fenced borders, canceled the Free Movement Regime, and clamped down on villages along the frontier.

In this world of broken trust, one 20-year-old boy decided to do something unthinkable. His name was Lalmuanpau.

And instead of picking up a weapon, he chose a tree.

The Tree Between Two Villages

Lalmuanpau’s village sat close to the Myanmar border. His father had once been a church elder, his mother a midwife who had delivered babies for both Meitei and Kuki families before the riots tore them apart.

Now, burned houses dotted the hills. Schools were closed. The air carried more smoke than song.

But in the middle of this tense land stood a single old mango tree. No tribe claimed it. No one built near it. To Lalmuanpau, it was more than a tree. It was a memory of childhood, a place he had run to when the world was still safe.

One night, with gunshots echoing in the distance, he made a decision:

This will be the place. The place where we try again.

The First Invitation

He had no money. No government support. No promise of safety. All he had was faith and a few friends.

He wrote small leaflets in both Meiteilon and Kuki-Chin. They were simple, almost childlike in their words:

“Come rest under the mango tree. Bring water. Bring food. Bring your children if you dare. No speeches. No slogans. Only safety.”

At first, no one came.

But after days of quiet persistence, two women arrived. One was Meitei, the other Kuki-Zo. Each carried a child on her hip. Neither looked at the other. They sat apart, ashamed, afraid, but present.

Lalmuanpau didn’t push them to talk. He just offered them mats, rice cakes, and boiled eggs.

By the third day, more arrived. Seven, then twenty, then forty.

They didn’t speak much. But they showed up.

Small Signs of Healing

One afternoon, a Meitei boy scratched a flower in the dirt. A Kuki-Zo girl added a stem. Their mothers stared, hearts caught between fear and wonder.

The next day, the children drew a circle of joined hands.

It was small, almost silly. But it was enough for Lalmuanpau to finally speak:

“If we tear each other apart, this land will bleed forever. But if we can meet under this tree—where no bullets reach, where no slogans shout—maybe something else can grow.”

Violence Arrives Anyway

Peace doesn’t come easy in Manipur.

On the tenth day, as families shared food under the tree, gunfire cracked in the distance. A stray bullet struck a Meitei elder in the leg. Panic exploded—mothers grabbed children, men scattered.

But Lalmuanpau didn’t run. With two friends, he carried the wounded elder nearly three kilometers through the brush to a relief camp.

The man survived.

But the gatherings stopped. For three days, the mango tree stood alone again.

A Turning Point

On the fourth day, the elder’s son returned. He was a man in his forties, once part of the state police. By his side stood a Kuki-Zo neighbor he hadn’t spoken to in a year.

They said little. The son only whispered:

“Your boy saved my father. I won’t forget.”

That same day, Lalmuanpau returned with paint and bamboo mats. He asked elders from both tribes to dip their hands in white paint and press them onto the mat. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t a treaty. It was a promise to simply keep the tree safe.

And the children? They began drawing olive branches in the dirt.

A Different Kind of Zone

The mango tree soon became known as a “safe zone.” Not peace—peace was still too fragile a word. But safety. A pause from chaos.

Every week, villagers painted murals on nearby stones: hands clasping, mothers protecting children, a tree with many roots.

Stories were shared. Widows spoke of loss. Elders spoke of homes they would never see again. Nobody interrupted. Nobody judged.

Children played—at first in silence, then in laughter.

The World Beyond

Outside the mango tree, the violence didn’t stop. Relief camps stayed crowded. Government curfews deepened mistrust. Border fencing cut old ties of kinship.

But under that single tree, something stubborn grew.

Not a solution. Not a miracle. But a symbol. Proof that one boy, with nothing but courage and faith, could carve out a patch of safety in the middle of a war.

A Prayer in Dust

One evening, smoke curled over the hills from another clash. Lalmuanpau sat under the mango tree alone.

With a stick, he scratched a message in the dust:

“When we teach our children to fear each other, we lose more than land. We lose the future.”

Behind him, two children played hopscotch. A grandmother hummed an old lullaby. The sky burned gold as the sun slipped.

And for that hour, Manipur breathed without fear.

Beyond Manipur

What Lalmuanpau built wasn’t just for his village, or even for Manipur. His story carries across borders, across histories, to every place where people have been divided by tribe, religion, or memory.

Because peace doesn’t always begin with speeches or treaties. Sometimes, it begins when a boy dares to say:

Here, under this tree, you are safe.