50 Sepoys, Not an Army: How Kuki Historians Turned a Punitive Raid into the Anglo-Kuki War

On October 17, 1917, J.C. Higgins, President of the Manipur State Durbar, led just 50 sepoys to Mombi village to confront its chief for refusing to provide recruits for the World War I labor corps. When the chief failed to appear or send a representative, Higgins, acting under the authority of Maharaja Churachand Singh, ordered the village burned—a punitive measure in the princely state of Manipur. Yet, last week, the Kuki revisionists celebrate this minor action as the 108th anniversary of the “Anglo-Kuki War,” falsely portraying it as a grand rebellion against British rule, with some audaciously claiming it was a “war of Independence that India forgot.” 

This narrative conveniently ignores that Manipur, a princely state in 1917 under King George V’s distant oversight, was not annexed to India until 1949, exposing the anachronistic distortion that inflates a local disciplinary act into a fabricated national struggle for political gain.

Worse, on the 108th anniversary of this so-called event, certain Kuki leaders have audaciously downplayed the Anglo-Manipur War of 1891—reducing the seismic Battle of Khongjom to a footnote—to prop up their fabricated narrative. They forget that history cannot be erased as easily as some Kuki ancestors abandoned their homes in Myanmar. The Anglo-Manipur War of 1891 saw the rare award of a Victoria Cross to Lieutenant Charles Grant for his defense of Thoubal battlefield. 

The so-called "Anglo-Kuki War" is a modern fabrication, elevated from a minor event named Thadou Gal or Zou Gal by those eager to inflate its significance. Kuki researchers and leaders now lean heavily on Colonel (Dr.) Vijay Chenji’s book, The Anglo-Kuki War (1917-1919): Victory in Defeat, A Military Perspective, treating it as their authoritative guide to rebrand this localized punitive action—ordered by the Maharaja of Manipur—as a grand anti-colonial struggle. 

Far from a scholarly consensus, this narrative, dubbed the Kuki Punitive Measure (KPM) by critics, distorts a routine enforcement operation into a mythologized war, ignoring the historical context of Manipur’s princely state governance and its annexation to India in 1949. Such revisionism, fueled by selective storytelling, seeks ethnic glorification at the expense of  complex and shared history of Manipur. 

Kuki historians further distort the 1917 events by sidelining the pivotal role of Chingakham Sanajaoba, a Meitei from Kumbi, who, along with his disciples, instigated Kuki chiefs in the hills around Moirang to defy Maharaja Churachand Singh’s labor corps recruitment orders. 

On December 19, 1917, Kukis from Ukha, Hinglep, and neighboring villages, spurred by Sanajaoba’s influence, rallied against the Maharaja’s authority, with significant support from Meitei communities in Moirang providing food and weapons. When the rebellion fizzled out and rebels surrendered in March 1919, approximately 1,000 guns were handed over, with over two-thirds—more than 600—originating from Manipur State armories, indicating substantial Meitei involvement in the revolt against their own ruler. 

By deliberately omitting Sanajaoba’s leadership and the Meitei contribution, Kuki revisionists craft a narrative that falsely glorifies other chiefs as sole protagonists, erasing the complex inter-ethnic dynamics of the rebellion to bolster their fabricated "Anglo-Kuki War" and marginalize the broader Manipuri context.

Contrast this with the Lushai Expedition of 1871–1872, a British punitive campaign in the region that the Lushai (Mizo) people never inflated into an "Anglo-Lushai War." Launched to curb Lushai raids on tea plantations and villages in Cachar and Sylhet, it involved two columns totaling 2,000 troops. Spanning nearly six months, it yielded significant results. Sixty villages were subdued, with twenty resisting villages destroyed. Fifteen chiefs, along with their tributaries, pledged good behavior. Mary Winchester and 150 other British captives were freed, and numerous looted guns were recovered. 

Over half of the 3,000 square kilometers designated for surveying was successfully mapped. The force began returning to Tlabung on February 28, 1872, with all soldiers reaching Calcutta by April 3. Both Columns penetrated deep into the Lushai Hills, securing peace pledges from many chiefs. The expedition led to boundary adjustments between Lushai and Tipperah, the establishment of bazaars at Changsil and Tipaimukh, and the extension of the Bengal Eastern Frontier Regulation of 1873 (Inner Line) to the Lushai Hills. 

It also provided extensive knowledge about the Lushai people and their region, ensuring peace for at least a decade. Lushai autonomy was curtailed, yet Mizo historians never glorified this as a grand war, acknowledging it as a punitive response under British authority. Unlike the Kuki revisionists, who misrepresent a 1917 action ordered by Maharaja Churachand Singh—not the British Crown—as an "Anglo-Kuki War," the Mizos show restraint. 

How could Kuki historians miss that the burning of Mombi village by 50 sepoys was a local directive, not an imperial decree from King George V, in their rush to fabricate a war?

To call something a "war" demands a certain gravitas: in ancient times, it meant clashes between kingdoms with standing armies, defined battle lines, and stakes over sovereignty; in medieval and modern history, it implied nation-states or tribal confederacies locked in sustained campaigns with significant casualties and strategic aims.

War entails direct, face-to-face combat between opposing forces on the battlefield, engaging with bayonets and bravery. It does not involve the cruel burning of innocent Naga homes or the slaughter of women and children, which stands apart from true warfare. The so-called Anglo-Kuki War fails this litmus test spectacularly. 

Kuki historians and their overzealous researchers, in glorifying what was a punitive action by the Maharaja of Manipur, would do well to study the Battle of Khonoma in the Naga Hills (1879-1880). That conflict, a genuine resistance by the Angami Nagas against British encroachment, saw fierce engagements, hundreds of casualties on both sides, and a scale of mobilization that disrupted colonial plans for years. British records document over 50 soldiers and countless Naga warriors lost in pitched battles, a far cry from the 50 sepoys sent to discipline Kuki chiefs in 1917 for refusing labor corps recruitment. 

Yet, educated Naga historians, with restraint and fidelity to evidence, never inflated Khonoma into an "Anglo-Naga War." They recognized it as a significant but localized rebellion, not a mythologized epic. Kuki revisionists, by contrast, stretch a minor expedition into a grand narrative, betraying both history and the humility of their Naga counterparts.

The origins of this fabrication lie in a desperate bid to inflate minor disturbances into epic proportions. British colonial archives, often the only unvarnished lens we have, describe events in 1917 as responses to Kuki refusals to provide recruits for World War I labor corps, defying colonial demands backed by the Maharaja’s authority. 

However, the true nature of Kuki actions from 1917 to 1919 reveals not a noble stand against imperialism, but a campaign of terror against innocent Naga and Meitei villagers—looting, burning, and massacring in a bid for dominance, not freedom. Historical records, including J.C. Higgins’ tour diaries and eyewitness accounts, document at least 34 Naga villages ravaged, with 289 Nagas and 4 Meiteis killed in brutal raids. In Ngahui (Awangkasom), a Tangkhul village, Kukis under chiefs Chassad and Aishan encircled the population at dawn on May 26, 1918, practically wiping it out—only four survivors reached safety in Kalhang village. 

Other horrors followed: Goitang lost 176 lives and 76 houses to complete razing; Kharam saw over 250 butchered with homes torched; Makoi had 70 slain amid plunder; Dailong 10 killed and 70 houses burned; Mongjarong Khunou entirely razed with 39 dead; Kashom 40 murdered in a "frightfulness" raid.  

These atrocities—opportunistic predations on undefended settlements exploiting wartime absences of able-bodied men—were never directed at British forces; Kukis targeted civilians, not garrisons. Far from a "war against the colonial for defense of land or freedom," as Kuki narratives claim, this was ethnic predation: sowing terror to assert hill dominance amid chaos, disqualifying it as liberation and justifying the Maharaja’s retribution as justice, not imperialism. 

“They never attacked the Britishers,” as one account starkly notes; the so-called 'Anglo-Kuki War' is not only a blatant lie but an attempt to cheat and mislead the people of today and posterity in Manipur by distorting history. 

The villagers of Ngahui still remember this massacre, a scar that belies any heroic retelling.The scale and formality of a true colonial war are starkly illustrated by the Anglo-Manipur War, when, on March 31, 1891, the British Government in India formally declared war against the Kingdom of Manipur, deploying three large columns to crush its resistance. 

From the north, Major General H. Collett, overall commander of British forces, led a column through Kohima; from the west, Colonel R.H.F. Rennick advanced from Silchar; and from the south, Brigadier General T. Graham’s column marched from Tamu, Burma. All forces were ordered to converge on Manipur by April 27, 1891, for coordinated operations, highlighting the imperial commitment to subdue the kingdom. 

Did the Kukis in 1917 receive any such war declaration from the British Empire under King George V? The absence of any formal decree or comparable military mobilization—contrasted with the mere 50 sepoys sent to Mombi under the President of Manipur State Darbar—debunks the so-called "Anglo-Kuki War" as a fabricated narrative, devoid of the gravitas and imperial intent that defined true colonial conflicts.

The delay in delivering justice by the Maharaja of Manipur further exposes the tactical cunning behind Kuki resistance, belying claims of a grand rebellion. The Kukis, employing guerrilla-style tactics, defied recruitment orders and then melted into the hills, exploiting the rugged terrain to evade capture. This strategy was no accident—it preyed on a moment of vulnerability. With many Naga and Meitei men conscripted into labor corps for World War I efforts, communities were stretched thin, leaving the state reliant on sepoys to enforce compliance. 

Tracking down defiant chiefs, including those spurred by Chingakham Sanajaoba’s agitation, was no simple task; their knowledge of the forested hills frustrated both Manipuri and British forces, delaying punitive measures as pursuers navigated ambushes and false trails. This calculated defiance, far from the noble resistance of folklore, reveals a campaign of obstruction, not a war of liberation.

Enter the sleight of hand by some Kuki historians and researchers, who, eager to magnify the suffering of their forefathers, have pilfered statistics from an entirely different theater of colonial strife. To pad the ledger of their "war," they've borrowed casualty figures from the Chin revolts in Burma—clashes between British forces and Chin hill tribes that raged concurrently but across a clear border. These weren't Kuki dead; they were Chin warriors felled in Burma's rugged terrains, far from Manipur's valleys. 

By grafting these numbers onto a Manipur narrative, what was a contained operation—perhaps a dozen or so confrontations with minimal losses—morphs into a bloodbath competing the Battle of Somme in France. This isn't scholarship; it's historical cosplay, a tactic to evoke sympathy and stake territorial claims in modern ethnic tussles. The archives don't lie: British reports tally Kuki losses in the low hundreds at most, with no evidence of the wholesale slaughter now peddled in commemorative events.

The charade unravels further when we examine the aftermath—the surrenders that followed these skirmishes. Captured Kukis weren't herded into a single imperial tribunal; they were neatly divided, a bureaucratic nicety that exposes the foreign element at play. Those identified as Manipuri subjects fell under the mercy of the Maharaja of Manipur, facing local justice for defying colonial labor demands. 

Meanwhile, those rebels hailing from across the border in Burma were extradited and tried under the British Government of Burma's stricter codes—interrogations in Homalin jails, sentences doled out in Taungyi. This bifurcation wasn't arbitrary; it delineated loyalties and jurisdictions, separating hill subjects bound to Manipur's throne from opportunistic resisters spilling over from colonial Burma. 

Yet, in today's concocted histories, this distinction is erased. Kuki researchers, rubbing shoulders across divides, stitch together locals and foreigners into a seamless tapestry of victimhood. It's a deliberate conflation, one that blurs Manipur's sovereignty and imports Burmese grievances as indigenous ones. The tribes in the Chin Hills rarely mention the 1917 uprisings, but the Kuki in Manipur often romanticize these revolts as part of the Kuki War against the British, revealing their historical ties to the Chin state of Burma, where they are sometimes viewed as illegal refugees. Otherwise, they might not emphasize these events in their Manipur history. By ignoring this, they don't just rewrite 1917; they rewrite belonging to Chin hills in 2025.

If there's any genuine colonial clash worth commemorating in these borderlands, it belongs not to the Kukis of Manipur, but to the Chin tribes of Burma. They, after all, bore the brunt of significant revolts in 1917–1919, marked by ambushes, blockades, and thousands of lives upended. In the Southern Chin Hills, the resistance was aggravated by British attempts to suppress slavery, which was a popular custom among the southern Chins—efforts that disrupted traditional social structures, including debt bondage and captive labor, fueling widespread outrage and the "Haka Uprising" in Chin Hills of 1917–1919, where Chin warriors clashed directly with colonial forces in a bid to preserve their autonomy and cultural practices. 

Another dimension of the 1917–1919 unrest, often obscured by Kuki revisionists, lies in its spillover beyond Manipur’s borders, where troops from the Burma Military Police, alongside Assam Rifles and Manipur State Military Police, were deployed to quell resistance. This broader military operation was officially announced to be concluded on May 20, 1919, by Lt. Gen. Sir Henry Keary
after suppressing not only Kuki defiance in Manipur but also concurrent Chin revolts in Burma. 

By conflating these distinct campaigns, Kuki historians falsely inflate their local resistance into a grand "Anglo-Kuki War," appropriating the scale and casualties of the Chin’s struggle—suppressed by the Burma Military Police under British authority—to embellish a narrative that was, in Manipur, a mere disciplinary action ordered by Maharaja Churachand Singh. The Chins people have every right to their memorials, their songs of defiance against the British Imperialism's long arm. 

But for Manipur's Kukis to hijack that legacy, rebranding the Chin revolts as their own "Anglo-Kuki War," is not just inaccurate—it's appropriative. It dilutes the Chin history while propping up a phantom in Manipur, all to fuel contemporary separatist fires. 

True history doesn't need such transplants; it stands on its own, warts and all.Instead of borrowing graves from Burma’s Chin revolts, Kuki historians should acknowledge the pivotal role of Meitei rebels, particularly Chingakham Sanajaoba, whose leadership in instigating the 1917 defiance against Maharaja Churachand Singh’s labor corps orders justifies commemoration as a true people’s revolt against colonial pressures.

The mercy petitions of the surrendered chiefs, explicitly blaming Sanajaoba, reveal him as the rebellion’s mastermind, while the severe punishment he faced—far harsher than the two-to-three-year imprisonments after which the chiefs were pardoned—underscores that these chiefs never waged war against the British Crown. 

Had they done so, they would have faced execution, deportation to the Andamans, or lifelong expulsion from Manipur, as seen in true anti-colonial uprisings. The so-called Anglo-Kuki War is unequivocally fake—a fabricated narrative that inflates a minor, Maharaja-led punitive action into a grand myth, distorting Manipur’s shared history for political gimmick.

Manipur's past is a mosaic of migrations, alliances, and inevitable clashes—not a canvas for ethnic score-settling. The Anglo-Kuki "war" myth serves no one but those who thrive on division, turning neighbors into adversaries over ghosts that never marched.

Let's bury this fabrication once and for all. Honor the real rebels, the actual punitive tolls, and the enduring resilience of Naga, Meitei, and Thadou alike under shared skies. Only then can we build a future unburdened by borrowed battles. The archives await; the truth demands we read them.