New Delhi: In the dim glow of a single string of fairy lights strung across a cramped apartment in Delhi, Mary (32, name changed) sometimes breaks down recalling how she used to celebrate Christmas with her family back home in Manipur.It’s December 24 and outside, the city pulses with the joy of the season, with carols blaring from passing cars, families bundled in shawls hurrying towards church and vendors hawking glowing Santa Claus hats under neon-lit malls. But inside Mary’s rented space, shared with her two younger brothers, the mood is of quiet endurance.A small Christmas tree, bought from a roadside stall, leans precariously against the wall, its branches adorned with a handful of ornaments. No bonfire crackles in the courtyard, no chorus of carols rises from the neighbourhood. Just the occasional ping of a WhatsApp message from relatives scattered across relief camps and distant cities.Mary glances at the messages on her phone, marking the third Christmas since the night that shattered her world. “In Manipur, it was a feast for the soul,” she says. “The whole community would gather, singing under the stars, dancing around fires that lit up the hills like beacons. We’d feast till dawn, laughing over plates of delicious food. Now, this is survival, not celebration.”John’s (30, name changed) ritual mirrors Mary’s. He lives in Delhi with his younger brother and their Christmas is a phone call to parents in a remote Manipur village interrupted by a spotty network, and a shared prayer for peace that feels as distant as the air of Churachandpur.This is the fractured reality of thousands of Kuki-Zo survivors like Mary and John, exiled in India’s capital and several other states after ethnic violence tore through Manipur in May 2023. What began as a protest over land rights and tribal status has morphed into a festering wound, claiming over 260 lives, displacing more than 60,000 people and carving buffer zones through once-integrated neighbourhoods.For the Kuki community that is predominantly Christian and hill-dwelling, the clashes with the Imphal valley-based Meitei majority have not just destroyed homes but eroded the very fabric of trust, belonging and festivity. Christmas, a cornerstone of Kuki culture blending colonial legacies with indigenous revelry, now evokes ghosts of feasts past.Can words mend what mobs and indifference have broken? For Mary and John, the answer is etched in their refusal to return, even on this holiest of days. Photo: Syed Abubakr.As President Droupadi Murmu concluded a two-day visit to the state just two weeks ago, paying homage to women warriors at the Nupi Lan Memorial amid a shutdown by civil groups, and Prime Minister Narendra Modi made his long-delayed first trip in September – over two years after the ethnic violence began – urging ‘healing’ and ‘harmony’, survivors like these two whisper a collective doubt: Can words mend what mobs and indifference have broken?For Mary and John, the answer is etched in their refusal to return, even for this holiest of nights.The spark that ignited the inferno dates back to May 3, 2023, when a “tribal solidarity march” against the Meiteis’ push for Scheduled Tribe status turned into a bloodbath in Churachandpur, Mary’s and John’s home district. Tensions had simmered for months, fuelled by fears that Meitei inclusion in the tribal quota would erode Kuki-Zo land rights in the hills, but the violence erupted with shocking ferocity.Mobs armed with machetes, guns and torches descended on mixed neighbourhoods, torching churches, schools and homes. Within days, the death toll climbed to six, then dozens, as security forces struggled to contain the chaos.With hundreds finally killed and wounded, and around 60,000 displaced, many fled to relief camps or across state lines. The conflict’s fault lines – ethnic, religious, territorial – exposed the brittle peace in Manipur, a state plagued by insurgencies before, but never as divided along community lines.John recalls Christmas celebrations back in Manipur. Photo: Syed Abubakr.For John, that fateful evening unfolded like a nightmare scripted from history’s darkest chapters. An aspirant who arrived in Delhi in 2018 chasing the UPSC dream, John had returned to Manipur for the state civil services exam, buoyed by the familiarity of home.“We’d lived in our colony for 25 years,” he recalls. “Meiteis, Kukis, we knew each other’s names, shared harvests, played football in the fields. My dad, a private school teacher who’d scrimped to build our concrete home with its tin roof and vegetable patch, always said, ‘Nothing bad happens here. We’re family’.”But as dusk fell on May 3, his uncle’s frantic call shattered that illusion: “Mobs are hitting tribal areas. Take shelter now.”The family huddled in the living room, phones buzzing with rumours of attacks on the highway. John’s father, ever the optimist, peered through the curtains. “They won’t come here,” he insisted.But then came the tremors. The electric pole rattled as a crowd surged into the colony, their cheers mingling with blasts from improvised explosives. Gas cylinders hissed and popped like fireworks gone wrong; gates groaned under battering rams.“We could hear them chanting slurs, smashing windows in neighbouring houses,” John says. They fled to a relative’s, then to an army camp where, for ten harrowing days, John, his parents, siblings, niece and nephews shared a single tent amid the wails of the displaced.Mary says Christmas is “very, very lonely” in Delhi. Photo: Syed Abubakr.Mary’s escape was no less visceral. A higher secondary school teacher in Imphal, she’d spent that afternoon navigating practical exams for Class 12 students, her scooter weaving through the valley’s clogged roads. By divine luck, or what she calls “God’s shortcut”, she veered onto a back lane, avoiding the highway where Kuki vehicles were being flagged down for “checks” that ended in beatings.Arriving home to a barrage of multiple missed calls, her dead battery spared her the initial panic. Plugging in, she made the first call to her school principal, who was a Meitei: “Mary, are you safe? We thought the worst.”As the only Kuki teacher in her school, she’d bridged worlds by tutoring Meitei kids in English, sharing laughs over chai in the staffroom. But that evening, as smoke choked the skyline, those bridges burned.Her family, with eight siblings and parents, gathered for evening prayers. “Dad locked the doors, switched off the lights,” Mary recounts. “We could hear stones pelting roofs, crowds yelling my father’s name: ‘Where are you hiding? Come out!’ It was our neighbours, the same ones who’d lived with us for years.”By morning, insecurity propelled them to a nearby relief camp, escorted by security forces.The Sacred Heart Cathedral decked up for Christmas. Photo: Syed Abubakr.In the weeks that followed, Manipur descended into a patchwork of no-man’s-lands. Buffer zones snaked through districts, enforced by Indian Army patrols and razor wire, segregating Meitei valleys from Kuki-Zo hills. Churches smouldered and over 4,000 homes and over 350 religious sites lay in ruins.By February 2025, with the state government paralysed, President’s Rule was imposed, suspending the BJP-led administration under chief minister N. Biren Singh and placing Manipur under direct Union government control. Singh, a Meitei strongman accused by Kukis of stoking the fires through divisive rhetoric and lax policing, resigned amid the fallout.John and Mary point fingers squarely at Biren Singh’s tenure. “He could’ve stopped it with one firm order,” John asserts. “The state machinery watched as mobs went on a rampage. Security forces arrived hours late. It was the political will they lacked, or worse, they had the wrong kind.”Mary nods, recalling relief camps without women guards. The Union government’s silence amplified the betrayal. “It took Prime Minister Modi two years to set foot in Manipur,” says John. “He speaks of unity from Delhi but we needed him then, when our world was ash.”‘We try community meets like carols in a church, but the zeal is gone,’ John says. Photo: Syed Abubakr.From the army camp, John’s family splintered. After ten days, they travelled to Guwahati, bunking in a cramped flat for two weeks. Then, they went with a convoy to Mizoram, where his parents and siblings hunkered for over a year in a relative’s home, dodging the sporadic skirmishes in their home state. John and his youngest brother pressed on to Delhi.“We miss our home,” John admits, “but returning? It’s impossible. Buffer zones keep us apart, but the real wall is trust.”Mary had left her documents at home. After the initial camp, she returned home seven days later with security forces and vehicles.“There was not even a single spoon left, everything was destroyed in my home. It was only my books and study area thmat were not touched. Luckily, my documents were safe. I took them and left. Since then I decided I will never come here again ever. It’s been [over two and a half] years and I have still not changed my mind,” she said.Mary and a brother of hers bolted to Delhi, leaving their parents in Imphal – they have now relocated to a village marked by mud tracks and which experiences frequent blackouts. “There is no road and poor phone signal,” she laments.Delhi, for all its anonymity, offers a shield. “Safer than Manipur,” Mary concedes, “but the city’s indifference stings”. High rents devour stipends and language barriers turn simple errands into ordeals.John, who once navigated Delhi’s bustle with naive thrill, now feels “insecure from inside”. “We try community meets like carols in a church, but the zeal is gone,” he says. “In Churachandpur, we’d dance under Christmas lights, the whole village one heartbeat. Here, it echoes in an empty hall.”For Kukis, Christmas is no imported holiday but a cultural lodestar, blending British missionary hymns with Zo harvest rites, marked by all-night vigils, communal feasts and bonfires warding off winter’s bite.Mary extends an olive branch: “We are peace-loving people.” Photo: Syed Abubakr.“Celebrating Christmas in Manipur was lovely, it was like a big festival. We used to sing carols, light big bonfires, it was a community event, like a grand celebration. The entire village was like one big family – we used to go to church, attend mass, etc. We would have midnight feasts and singing through the night was very much part of the community culture,” says Mary.She says Christmas is “very, very lonely” in Delhi. She tries to “recreate the recipe” of those familiar celebrations in the capital city, “but the ingredients are not the same. The laughter is missing, the people are missing, the families are not with us,” she rued.John also recalls Christmas celebrations back in Manipur. “My elder brother’s jokes lightened the dinner table, we used to talk of dreams, aspirations and childhood memories. Now, in Delhi, it is all emptiness.”John’s father, who salvaged a scooter and charger from the ruins and lives in Imphal, now masks the trauma with forced cheer. “They built that house with their blood and sweat,” John says. “In just one night, all was gone. But they give us hope saying ‘God will rebuild it’. Their resilience is inspiring.”The Sacred Heart Cathedral on a foggy day. Photo: Syed Abubakr.For Mary and John, normalcy is a mirage shimmering on a horizon they dare not chase. “The government’s ‘peace’ narrative is fragile and superficial,” Mary says. “Trust? Shattered like our gates. It needs years to build again, not official announcements.”Yet amid the embers, flickers endure. “Hope’s our anchor,” John says. “I’m not angry with anyone but at the government – both Union and state – for failing to protect us.”Mary, ever the teacher, extends an olive branch. “We are peace-loving people. Jesus wandered homeless and so do we, but with faith as compass.”As Delhi’s bells toll midnight, they light candles, not for festivity, but fortitude. In Manipur’s divided hills, families huddle similarly, whispering carols. The third Christmas away isn’t merry, but it’s theirs. For these survivors, home isn’t a pin on a map anymore, it’s the unyielding thread of kin, creed and the stubborn spark of tomorrow.Syed Abubakr and Sumit Singh are freelance journalists based in Delhi.