Mizoram is witnessing a crisis that most of India is still reluctant to call by its name. In the small northeastern state, over 40,000 refugees from Myanmar and Bangladesh, along with more than 5,500 internally displaced people (IDPs) from Manipur’s ethnic conflict, are taking shelter—mostly without the backing of any legal status, national policy, or financial aid from the Centre. What happens when the moral will of a state outweighs the silence of the law? And how long can compassion substitute for policy?
Since Myanmar’s military coup in February 2021, the Chin State—sharing deep ethnic and linguistic ties with Mizoram—has been caught in a spiral of armed resistance and military crackdowns. Recent clashes, as of July 4, 2025, have driven another 3,600 across the border. In total, Mizoram is now sheltering nearly 50,000 displaced people, including over 2,200 Bawm refugees from Bangladesh’s Chittagong Hill Tracts and thousands from Manipur, who fled following the Kuki-Meitei ethnic clashes. That’s over 3% of Mizoram’s population—unregistered, unsupported, and largely invisible in national discourse.
Yet what’s striking is the tone of response. Where the central government has asked states to halt illegal immigration, Mizoram has acted on empathy. Chief Minister Lalduhoma’s government, backed by civil society organisations like the Zo Reunification Organisation (ZORO), has extended food, shelter, healthcare, and education to refugees—often in quiet defiance of the Ministry of Home Affairs. But this moral clarity is clashing with administrative fatigue. Refugees in Mizoram are not in camps but dispersed across homes, rented rooms, and schools in 111 locations. That dispersal makes aid delivery harder. Resources are stretched, hospitals are overcrowded, and there are murmurs of tension—locals in border towns like Zokhawthar worry about rising crime, jobs being squeezed, and disease outbreaks as monsoon rains arrive.
This is not just a humanitarian emergency. It’s a legal black hole. India isn’t a signatory to the 1951 UN Refugee Convention or its 1967 Protocol. Without a national refugee law, all displaced people—whether Chin, Rohingya, or Bawm—are classified as “illegal migrants” under colonial-era laws like the Foreigners Act of 1946. In practice, that means no refugee cards, no legal protections, and no certainty. How can a democratic republic deal with a refugee crisis without even calling them refugees?
Even India’s recent citizenship law—the CAA—makes the exclusion plain. It offers citizenship only to non-Muslim minorities from Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Bangladesh. That leaves Chin refugees from Myanmar and even persecuted Muslim groups like the Rohingya out in the cold. Meanwhile, the UNHCR operates with little authority in Mizoram, able to offer identity papers but not much else. Then there’s the economic question. Who is funding this crisis? Not the Centre. Most of the burden has fallen on Mizoram’s own finances and the goodwill of its people. The Free Movement Regime (FMR), which once allowed visa-free border crossings for ethnic Zo people, was suspended last year. The Centre’s push for border fencing may further cut off trade and mobility, harming already fragile border economies.
And all this is playing out while the conflict across the border intensifies. The Myanmar military continues to bomb villages and hospitals. Repatriation isn’t even on the horizon. So, what then is the long-term plan? India needs more than empathy. It needs policy. A national refugee law—perhaps building on the long-forgotten Asylum Bill of 2021—could provide clarity and consistency. Temporary ID systems, international aid, mental health programs, and skill development initiatives could ease the burden on states like Mizoram, while preserving dignity for displaced people.
In the end, Mizoram’s stand reflects a powerful truth: that even in the absence of recognition, solidarity can exist. But if India continues to ignore this crisis, it risks betraying not only refugees—but the very values it claims to uphold. What kind of country lets its border states carry the burden of compassion alone?
Riya Goyal is a trainee journalist at Cult Current. The views expressed in the article are
her ownand do not necessarily reflect the official stance of Cult Current.