Mother, where’s my country ?

Dr Leima Chanu Shakti Yambem
You may have read accounts of war, poetry of Wilfred Owen, the tolling bells that signify the passing of the young souls in fine literature, but it shakes your body to and fro, to witness one first-hand.
As the collective fear that grips many humans in the region encroaches like the wildfire of the Langol Hill, you wake up everyday hoping that today the gunfire would end.
This is no prose to tell what is right or wrong, no fancy words to decorate the stark reality. This is an account of a girl who lived in Manipur during this war in 2023.
I drove back from the library at around 6.30 pm on an ordinary Thursday, when the news of the curfew and the internet ban popped on every screen of my devices. I groaned thinking that I could not view my Instagram. Little did I know, that those were a luxury of the time of peace that I took for granted. I parked my car in line for the gas but all the gas stations were shutting down in view of the news. I checked my screen and that’s when people’s statuses hit me like passing tornadoes of a forgotten desert.
The phone calls came, and each call brought another piece of news that was worse than the previous one. Through frantic cries, I heard of arson, murder and torture. The air that surrounded every home in Manipur had anger, fear and desperation.
I was lucky that I had a solid roof above my head. I simply wished to narrate the events where I was an observer of a tiny section of the war: the ordinary lives of ordinary men and women. There might be no need for such journalling or there might be one to tell the daughters and sons of tomorrow. I leave that judgement to you, my dear reader. It shall be your discretion and judgement on my piece. As for me, I want to pour the emotions inside me into words so that I can breathe a little deeper.
The night on the fourth of May grew weak, as the huge hill in the northwest corner, had streaks of fire encircling it. You may not hear the sound but the cries of the people were apparent. We went in front of the house, and gave an offering of rice, candle and flowers, to the deity above and prayed. There were two boys of a different community in my house at that time. Mother’s words were poignant. She said, ‘O Khoyumlai (the one above). I know not who is my daughter or these boys behind me. The blood running inside is red, it’s the same colour for all. The colour of tears is the same. Please stop this madness. Please calm down everyone.’
In the morning, the boys had escaped to their villages in the hill. Our baby sitter called us up, saying she was walking towards her village with her sister. She had left all her belongings, as the landlords told them it was not safe inside. She reached the next day in the evening. All she had were one thousand five hundred in cash and her Aadhar card.
My pregnant colleague, called me up saying that her landlord said the tankers would stop supplying them water since there was a rumour that the water was poisoned. A few days later, I left a frantic friend at the airport.
I had started writing this article on the seventh of May and I had left it midway. It was a simple digital documentation. But today, something made me pick up my laptop again. Something made me want to reach out to the folks outside because I wonder if they know the depth of the wound, the trajectory of the pain and the magnitude of this horror. Today is the sixth of June, and I shall continue.
Villages and villages are being burnt in different outskirts of Manipur. Militants from the neighbouring country are showing their prowess. I passed hundreds of women dressed in mourning clothes (light pink wrap around), as they collected the dead bodies from the hospital as I came out from the building. For kilometres and kilometres, men and women lined up to offer flowers with slogans of – ‘Long Live Manipur. Manipur’s unity cannot be torn.’
This evening, the twilight brought a light rain and afterwards, people collected on the roads. Women were in front. They had a torch. Little children in jeans and T shirts joined. A human chain of light was formed. Something in the way a woman shouted the slogans tugged my heartstrings. In times of war, we all have to do whatever we can.
Often, writings have a point, a story, a view. I don’t even know if mine has anything. All I am offering here is an account. There are deaths and pain and fear. We go to sleep, lullabied by gun shots and a piercing anxiety that spreads across a collective consciousness.  We see lights and then the sound of bombs from our windows. I never knew before that peace was expensive.
I saw the book by Anubha Bhonsle of the same title on the bookshelf. It was a question that had deeply resonated with me even before I could speak English. It was a search of belonging. It was a of discovery of identity. When they speak of motherland, I know of Ema Manipur. I want to know more of India too. When I was eighteen, I wanted to speak of it. But my teacher stopped me saying it was too political. I do not know much of politics. I just know reality. I am about to be twenty-eight but the reality hasn’t changed much.
This article isn’t simply a compilation of my thoughts. It carries with it the emotion of a mother who was awaiting her son’s arrival from the battlefield. At its edge, lies a young child who had put toothpaste to counteract the effect of teargas. When he should be playing with spiderman toys, he was fist pumping for freedom on the road. Carved around these words, is a plea for peace. After all, beyond religion, or culture, we come from this earth and we will go back to earth.

This article first appeared in The Statesman