Amid burning homes and fleeing civilians, Litan reveals a painful Kuki-Zo leadership void, where silence takes the place of empathy and political caution outweighs moral responsibility.
By Navin Upadhyay
February 10, 2026: In moments of ethnic conflict, leadership is not measured by official titles or political rank, but by presence, courage, and moral responsibility. The violent clashes in Litan village over the past three days have laid bare a disturbing vacuum at the heart of Kuki-Zo political and community leadership — one that risks leaving scars far deeper than the physical destruction now visible on the ground.
Even as violence raged and the situation spiralled dangerously out of control, Chief Minister N. Biren Singh visited RIMS hospital in Imphal, personally enquiring about the condition of those injured in the clashes. His visit was a necessary gesture — an acknowledgement that the state stood, at least symbolically, with its wounded citizens. In sharp contrast, Deputy Chief Minister Nemcha Kipgen has not visited her own community people at Litan, not met the displaced, not spoken to the injured, nor addressed the anguish unfolding barely 30 kilometres from her own constituency of Kangpokpi.
This absence is not a mere administrative oversight. It is a failure of moral leadership.
READ: From Drunken Brawl to Land War: Inside Manipur’s Litan Flashpoint
In Litan, the human cost of violence has been devastating. Women and children from both Kuki-Zo and Tangkhul Naga communitis were forced to flee under cover of darkness, clutching whatever belongings they could salvage. Homes built over generations were reduced to smouldering ruins, their flames lighting up terrified faces. Families now huddle in temporary shelters, uncertain if they will ever return to the lives they once knew. For them, politics offers no comfort — only safety, reassurance, and compassion can.
Multiple reports suggest that armed groups from both sides unleashed widespread violence, demanding urgent political intervention or firm action by armed leadership. On both fronts, Kuki-Zo leadership fell short — though Tangkhul Naga leaders fared no better. This raises a serious question: if a Kuki-Zo leadership that clamours for self-rule cannot step in during such a grave humanitarian crisis, how can it be entrusted with governance on a larger scale?
Manipur Burning :
The present situation at Litan in Ukhrul district is deeply alarming, as fresh violence has erupted between the two communities.At a time when peace and mutual understanding are urgently needed, such incidents only push society further into fear and… pic.twitter.com/bVDDQR74tU
— Keisham Meghachandra Singh (@meghachandra_k) February 10, 2026
And yet, when fear gripped these villages, their Deputy Chief Minister was nowhere to be seen.
The silence becomes even more troubling when viewed through the prism of power and influence. Nemcha Kipgen’s husband, Semtinthang Kipgen, is the chairman of the United People’s Forum (UPF) — one of the two umbrella bodies representing Kuki-Zo armed groups under the Suspension of Operations (SoO) agreement with the Centre — and a senior leader of the Kuki National Front (KNF). Few figures command such authority across both political and armed networks. Still, no visible attempt was made to de-escalate tensions, restrain armed elements, or publicly appeal for peace.
This dual silence — from both constitutional authority and organisational power — raises a deeply unsettling question: If those best positioned to prevent violence remain passive, who will protect the vulnerable?
Some interpret Nemcha Kipgen’s absence as political caution, driven by internal anger within the Kuki-Zo community over her cabinet induction without progress on the demand for a separate Union Territory. Others suggest a calculated strategy to project neutrality amid a sensitive tribal confrontation. But neutrality cannot be built on distance, and caution cannot excuse moral abdication. Leadership demands the courage to face anger, grief, and dissent — not to evade them.
When women watch their homes burn, when children tremble at the sound of gunfire, when families sleep under open skies uncertain of tomorrow, silence from leadership becomes cruelty.
The people of Litan will eventually rebuild their shattered homes. The Army will withdraw. Administrative order will return. But the memory of abandonment will linger. History is unforgiving toward leaders who choose political safety over human solidarity.
In Manipur, where ethnic fault lines already run deep, the absence of empathetic leadership does not merely fail to heal — it deepens division, hardens resentment, and erodes trust.
Litan will not remember who issued the most statements. It will remember who came when the fires burned — and who stayed away.
