Village life before and after the Myanmar crisis: Hard to harder

For the past year, Rambamithleng has a fixed routine. He stirs out of bed — a soiled sheet stretched over planks of rotting wood — even before the slightest streak of red has bloodied the eastern sky, finishes his morning chores, and then shuffles towards the far side of the makeshift tents perched precariously on the hillside that he now calls home.

There, the 40-year-old and his family of five have cut two small squares out of the mossy sheet of tarpaulin. He looks out at the verdant mountainscape stretching out before him, the gurgling waters of the Tiao river gushing many hundreds of metres down a steep slope. As the first rays of the Sun hit the mountain in the distance, they also illuminate the embers of what used to be his family home — before they were gutted by the junta in an escalation of the simmering conflict that has ravaged the region.

“It wasn’t always like this. I had a decent house because I worked with the government. Our homes were bombed by the military because they said our village had rebels,” Rambamithleng said.

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Since last November, when he fled the clashes between Myanmar’s ruling junta and armed rebel militias, Rambamithleng has called the remote Mizoram town of Zohkawathar — that shares the porous frontier with the restive neighbour — his home. Around them are another 6,000 people orphaned by the sudden conflagration, now living in a maze of tents sitting in the middle of a muddy clearing — a jumble of green and blue tarpaulin kept up with bamboo poles struggling to hold together the shattered remains of their once-normal lives.

There are five such makeshift refugee camps in town, said Medal Thanga, a government school teacher, who is also the coordinator for the five camps. HT visited three of them. The government estimates at least 30,000 Myanmar nationals have crossed over to Mizoram since the 2021 military coup. At least 10,000 of them are housed in Champhai district, where Zohkawathar is the a small town.

Earlier this month, rebel groups in Myanmar, including the Chin National Army (CNA), the People’s Democratic Force (PDF), and the Chinland Defence Force, took over military posts in the border areas in a bid to take back territory from the Junta, which has been in control of the country since the military coup in 2021. In response, the Myanmar Army bombed areas in the vicinity, resulting in thousands of people living in villages nearby feeling to India.

Refugees have been streaming into Mizoram since fighting between the ruling junta and the rebel forces intensified in Myanmar on October 27 — a reflection of the shared community solidarities of many tribal groups such as Kuki-Zo people, whose populations are scattered across the porous border.

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The unrest has crushed Rambamithleng’s life. “I was a government employee with the agriculture in Myanmar. I now work as a labourer at the border and carry goods loaded in trucks between India and Myanmar,” he said. Yet, he considers himself lucky. “The military junta burnt over 100 homes in my village in Kalay district, which is about 120km from the border. I have been living here since November 2022.”

In every refugee camp, clots of people often gather around phones and the rare television set, straining their eyes and ears for scraps of news from their home country. “Some refugees have television sets but there are no news channels. They follow social media and chat with their friends for news about Myanmar,” added Thanga.

Yet, not all people in these camps are alike — some are from places deeper inside Myanmar such as Kalay, while others are from villages right across the river. Many have picked up jobs as loaders at the border bridge, as fruit sellers, or as managers of kiosks selling betel nuts — an addiction that continues to unite residents on both sides of the frontier — reconciling to their fate.

Lalmihriati is one of them. Pregnant with her first child, the 18-year-old is certain she will not return. “On the night of November 12, as soon as the bomb fired by military junta hit the villages, we ran across the border to India. I could not risk staying there with my unborn child. It was unsafe for me to run while carrying the clothes and utensils but I had to do it for my child. I will ensure that my child is born here in this peaceful country,” she said.

Fifty-two-year-old Ramthanuia is so determined that he won’t go back anytime soon, that he has given his house in Myanmar on rent.

“My wife developed a psychological disorder after witnessing the explosion and hearing the sounds of bombs that landed near our homes. She could not sleep. The doctors in Champhai confirmed that she developed a medical condition related to the heart because of her anxiety. We will stay in India until it is safe,” he said.

And others, such as 78-year-old Vanruma, are fearful of the consequences if they ever step back across the border.

“I live here with my wife. My grandson is a commander of the rebel group. The army knows this so they had attacked our village last year. He was the one who had recently attacked the two military posts in the hills of Rikhandar and Khawmami.”

With resources in scarce supply, the church and influential non-governmental organisations such as Young Mizo Association (YMA) have come forward to help. “This is a humanitarian crisis. People across both sides of the river share the same ethnicity,” said Malsawmliana, general secretary of YMA.

A security officer at the check post on the Indo-Myanmar border said, “On the western side, the rebels have taken over camps and in response the Myanmar army is dropping bombs. So villagers are crossing over regularly. The number will increase. But the locals, church and NGOs are coming forward.”

HT contacted chief minister Zoramthanga’s office for a comment but did not receive a response.

Robert Zoremthualga, who works with the Mizoram government and is also the chairperson of the Champhai district refugee sub-committee, said,“The number 30,000 estimated by government is just based on the identity cards that the government had issued last year. They stopped issuing cards after 30,000. In every camp, only one of every three refugees have such an ID card. The actual number of refugees in Mizoram is multiple times higher.”

Across the refugee camps, life is stark and difficult — the biting cold, the bright plastic furniture clashing violently with the drab wooden shelves and beds, a child’s bicycle hanging from the ceiling or a blue-and-white identity plate sometimes bringing a waft of normalcy in their upended lives. Caught in the war, thousands of refugees struggle to move on. Rambanmithleng, for example, has just returned from the local health centre where his wife delivered a boy. “I did not wish for him to be born while we are living in a refugee camp,” the young father said. “But this is my life. I have accepted that I am no longer a mid-level government employee but a porter who is working hard to feed his family.”

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