Armed Forces or Armed Oppressor?

It was a bleak Saturday afternoon in Kanggui. The town, unusually silent, was stirred only with the occasional hum of a passing vehicle. Our Hostel, perched along NH2 was no stranger to noise—a relentless symphony of movement and commotion, day in and day out .

For a fleeting moment, we watched through our window as an army convoy sped past. An hour later, soldiers in full combat gear emerged—guns in hand, poised for battle. Fear gripped us. It was an unsettling sight—figures in uniform, their faces obscured by camouflage, their weapons primed, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

By late afternoon clips were circulated, where they strike a woman at Keithelmanbi, 7 KM away from kanggui—the woman raised her arms, desperately shielding herself from the sting of tear gas. But mercy was not theirs to give. They thrashed her as if she were an enemy, not a citizen. Later, the toll of the wounded rose sharply, with 48 women among the injured, not counting the many men and young boys who also suffered grave harm from rubber bullets to live rounds, and the brutal strikes of batons wielded by the so-called Armed forces . It is a shame that in a nation where we proudly uphold our birthright and constitution, women are still marginalized and the voice of the people go unheard, while their rights are ignored.

The other clips show where they chase young boys, their terrified footsteps pounding against the earth. Some managed to escape, vanishing into chaos. Others, too exhausted to run any further, were left behind—helpless and defenseless. And there, under the fists and boots of those we call our protectors, they were beaten into bruises, their cries swallowed by the very laws that once promised to shield them.

The same day turned darker when gunfire erupted, claiming the life of an innocent boy, Lalgouthang Singsit. Was he not a son of this soil, a child of this land? What danger did he pose, unarmed and unguarded, that his life had to be stolen by those sworn to protect? This is not protection—it is persecution. A war waged not against enemies, but against the very people they swore to defend.
How do we place our trust in those who turn their guns on their own citizens? This is not defense; it is a war waged within, a betrayal etched in blood. Today, we remember them not as guardians of the laws, but as those who brought us pain, who stripped away our freedoms, and who made rights feel like a privilege to be begged for.

Our constitution declares that they are here to protect us. But from whom ?

In reality, their very presence instills fear–deepening the unease in children minds and casting shadow over the lives of our people. This is not just a display of power; it is a psychological siege, a silent captivity where fear itself becomes the unspoken law.

We speak of democracy—but what kind of democracy is this ? A democracy where justice is selective, where equality is promised but not practiced, and where the very principles meant to protect us are bent against us? If this is democracy, then whose voice truly matters?

Our nation may have achieved Independence long ago, yet the journey towards true freedom never ends. Today my people remain shackled in another battle– one not fought with flags and treaties, but with the resilience of the people refusing to be erased. Indeed the Kuki people did not fight against the foreign rule, but for the right to exist with dignity, to preserve our heritage, and to reclaim the voice they have tried to silence. And no matter how heavy their boots press upon our land, the spirit of our people will never bow.

Lhainunthem Khongsai is the author of the book ‘Her Words, Our Story’.