I do not write this as an expert in climate science or a delegate at international summits. I write as an ordinary woman—a witness, a daughter of the hills. I grew up walking under green trees and beside clear streams. My words are not from the book, but from the pain and sorrow I have seen. They do not bring data, but grief—grief for what we’ve lost and what still fades. The green is not gone in one storm or fire. It is vanishing slowly, day by day, in silence.
Once, the forest was more than just land. It was a friend, a home, a teacher. The elders in my village spoke of trees as if they were family. They knew their names and their moods. We were taught to take only what we needed, to cut with care, and to walk with respect. The forest had its own rules—unwritten, yet sacred.
Now those rules lie broken. The roar of chainsaws and the signing of paper contracts have replaced them. Bulldozers roll where spirits once lived. The forest no longer speaks the way it used to.
Think of Khamasom, a village located in the eastern hills of Ukhrul district. It was once surrounded by what our people called the Virgin Forest—pure, untouched, alive. The elders used to say, “Don’t go too deep—you may not come back.” Not because of wild animals, but because the forest was too deep, too thick, too sacred. “The forest is so thick,” they would say, “you’ll lose your way.”
It wasn’t just a warning—it was a kind of reverence. The forest was alive in its own way. You had to walk softly, speak little, listen more. The trees stood like guardians. The wind carried whispers. And the deeper you went, the more the forest closed in around you—not to trap you, but to remind you who you were.
That forest breathes differently now. Its breath is shallow. One morning, the logging trucks came. And with them came silence—not the sacred kind, but the empty kind.
One by one, the tall trees were cut. With them went the hornbills’ nests, the deer trails, the soft footsteps of our ancestors. The forest that held our stories now holds our sorrow.
We did not scream. We mourned quietly, like people grieving a loved one with no grave. Some moved away. Others stayed and tried to forget. Life went on—but something was lost forever.
In Shirui, where hills once danced with lilies, the story is the same. Tourists now climb the sacred slopes, phones in hand, blind to the soul of the land. Some walk unknowingly on the lily’s ground, crushing roots and memories alike. The Shirui Lily, once blooming freely in the wild wind, now grows in fewer numbers. The soil beneath it is tired. The hill groans beneath careless feet. The flower, once a sign of beauty, now stands as a symbol of survival. “We used to walk under shade,” says an elder from Shirui. “Now the sun walks with us, unforgiving.” The trees that once stood like umbrellas of memory have thinned. What was once cool and sacred is now exposed and aching. The mountain still stands—but its silence feels heavier.
People once enjoyed summer in the shade of trees. Now, even a short walk needs an umbrella. The heat bites. The sky burns. And the trees that once sheltered us have grown rare.
And we are not alone in this loss. Across India and the world, the same story echoes. According to the Forest Survey of India (FSI) 2023, India lost 3,913 sq km of dense forests. Globally, the FAO’s Global Forest Resources Assessment shows the world has lost over 100 million hectares of forest since 1990. That is proof the green is on the wane.
Yet the forest still speaks—though not like before. It groans. It remembers. Its songs are broken. The rivers whisper, but they are tired. The wind carries dust, not seeds. And something sacred slips away—like a name once whispered, now unsaid.
But not all hope is lost.
In quiet corners, new voices rise. You’ll find them in schoolyards and near riverbanks. These are sons and daughters of the soil, walking barefoot with brave hearts. They speak not in slogans, but in the language of care—for rivers, trees, and birds without names.
They clean what we left dirty. They plant where we once destroyed. They do not fight with anger, but with love. And slowly, the land begins to breathe again.
Look at Licypriya Kangujam, our own daughter of the Northeast, standing with a placard taller than her shoulders, her voice rising above the noise. She is not waiting for permission to speak—she is demanding a future. Through her, we see that even the smallest voice can shake the silence. She reminds us that courage does not come from age or titles, but from love—for the land, for the trees, for tomorrow.
And far away, another young voice echoes this call—Greta Thunberg, who dared to tell the world: “I want you to act as if the house is on fire. Because it is.” From the forests of Manipur to the global stage, their voices carry the same truth: That silence is no longer an option. That youth will not wait. Their fire is the kind that does not burn trees—but lights the path forward.
I once watched young girls planting trees near a dry stream. One girl, barely twelve, knelt and whispered to the soil before placing a sapling: “Grow strong,” she said, “so my children can rest in your shade.” In that moment, the land seemed to come alive again.
But a quiet sorrow lingers in our classrooms and homes.
Children grow up now with phones in their hands, not soil under their feet.
They know more about cartoons than about trees. They draw pictures of trees they’ve never climbed,
colour leaves they’ve never touched.
They draw branches not from touch, but from imagination.
They speak of forests they’ve never heard sing.
What they inherit is not a garden, but a warning.
Their roots lie not in the earth, but in glass screens.
And yet, still—they dream in green.
We must understand: sorrow alone is not enough. Memory must lead to action. We must teach our children not just to read books, but to read the sky, the quiet of the woods, the wisdom of the roots. We must show them that to walk gently is not weakness, but strength.
We are not separate from nature. We are part of it. We are threads in its great web. To destroy the green is to unravel ourselves. To restore it is to return to who we are.
Earlier, people didn’t need to grow flowers in pots. The forests gave them freely—wild and beautiful. Today, some of us buy vases and place artificial flowers in our homes just to feel a little green around us. And yes, they make our rooms feel fresh, soft, and alive in their own way. But deep down, it reminds us of what we once had for free in the jungle. Now we pay double—for the vase and for flowers that do not breathe. Not everyone uses them, of course, but those who do often carry a quiet longing for the real. A longing for leaves that rustle, petals that open to the sun, and roots that touch the soil. Maybe this longing itself is a kind of hope—a silent way of remembering, and of beginning again.
We may not all be scientists or decision-makers, but we are all children of the earth. And what we love, we must protect—not only for ourselves, but for the lilies yet to be born, the forests not yet grown, the story not yet written.
Let us not be remembered as the ones who let the green vanish. Let us be remembered as the ones who turned back. Let us be the ones who chose life.
The writer is an Assistant Professor, Department of Life Science, St. Joseph College, Ukhrul
