Due to excessive excavation, Lamphelpat’s depth has reportedly reached around 8-10 metres. Such unscientific deepening directly violates basic wetland management principles. It raises a critical question: is Lamphelpat still a natural wetland, or has it been turned into an artificial water reservoir?
By Maxstone Irom
This article is born out of worry, longing, and deep nostalgia of my childhood days around Lamphelpat. I grew up with this wetland as part of my everyday life. It was not just a landscape, it was a living space where memories were created, relationships were built, and nature quietly shaped who I am today. For me, Lamphelpat was never just water and land.
On February 2 2026, as part of World Wetlands Day, Go Green Group Manipur, a youth collective, initiated a reflection and listening circle called Pat Ki Wari. The idea was simple yet powerful: to reconnect with our wetlands and revisit the memories and meanings attached to them. As part of this initiative, we walked around Lamphelpat, observed its present condition, and shared stories rooted in our personal journeys. While much has changed, the place still holds immense emotional and cultural significance in my life.
Lamphelpat is one of my core memories. It is where I experienced my first boat ride. Every Sunday morning, I would go for a walk with my family to watch Urok (Threskiornis melanocephalus)and other birds, returning home with a bunch of thambal (lotus). During the monsoon, when the pat would flood, I accompanied my father to buy fresh fish. In winter, we went fishing together. Those mornings, with muddy slippers, small fishes in my hands, and my father’s quiet smile beside me, felt richer than anything money could buy. These were not extraordinary moments; they were ordinary days made meaningful by nature.
As I age, Lamphelpat continued to shape my life. During my teenage years, it became my refuge. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, confused, or restless, I would sit by the water for hours, finding peace in silence. With friends, I watched sunsets near the RIMS side of the pat, clicking countless photographs that still remind me of simpler times. Lamphelpat is not just a place; it is a place that raised me, comforted me, and quietly taught me how to breathe in difficult times. But today, I find myself asking: where is my pat?
After nearly three years, I was shocked when I returned. It no longer looked like the wetland I grew up with. Under the so called “Lamphelpat water body Rejuvenation Project,” implemented by the Water Resources Department and funded by the New Development Bank, large portions of the wetland have been dug up. The excavated silt has been piled into artificial hills, permanently altering the natural landscape. What was once a living ecosystem now resembles a construction site.
As an environmental science student, this transformation raises serious concerns. According to the Wetlands (Conservation and Management) Rules, 2017, the depth of a wetland should not exceed 6 meters. However, due to excessive excavation, Lamphelpat’s depth has reportedly reached around 8-10 metres. Such unscientific deepening directly violates basic wetland management principles. It raises a critical question: is Lamphelpat still a natural wetland, or has it been turned into an artificial water reservoir?
This seemingly unscientific dredging has also destabilized the surrounding infrastructure. Roads connecting important institutions such as Shija Hospital and the National Institute of Technology have started sinking. To address this, an overbridge had to be constructed, an expensive solution to a problem that could have been avoided with proper planning.
Lamphelpat is also home to Manipur’s famous indigenous pony. The swampy terrain once provided a safe and natural space for grazing and movement. Today, however, due to altered water levels, deep excavated pits, and unstable ground, several ponies have reportedly died after falling into these areas. What was once a natural playground and shelter has now been turned into a death trap created by human negligence and poor planning.
A report on East Mojo has also suggested that parts of nearby villages experienced flooding after the project’s implementation. When a wetland’s natural water-holding and drainage capacity is disrupted, such consequences are inevitable. Instead of reducing disaster risks, this project appears to have increased them.
Equally worrying is the rapid growth of concrete structures around Lamphelpat. Buildings are coming up in every direction, slowly replacing this wetland. In recent years, several new government buildings, hospitals, and offices have also been constructed within and around parts of the wetland. This has led to encroachment and fragmentation of Lamphelpat.. This severely disrupts water flow, wildlife movement, and ecological balance. This unchecked unplanned urbanization further weakens the wetland’s ecological function and isolates it from its natural surroundings. A wetland cannot survive when it is slowly suffocated by cement and divided by unplanned construction.
Under the Wetlands (Conservation and Management) Rules, 2017, wetlands are meant to be protected from unscientific alteration, encroachment, and ecological degradation. The Manipur State Wetland Authority is responsible for ensuring protection of all the wetland in the state.
Yet, in the case of Lamphelpat, there is little public evidence of strict monitoring, transparent assessment, or community consultation. This reflects a serious failure of governance and accountability.
Let me be clear: development and rejuvenation are necessary. Wetlands do require restoration, maintenance, and protection. But development without ecological understanding is destruction in disguise. True rejuvenation should strengthen a wetland’s natural character, not erase it.
Till today, no comprehensive environmental impact assessment of this project has been made publicly accessible. There is no clear record of meaningful consultation with local communities, ecologists, traditional users, or independent researchers. This lack of transparency raises serious doubts about the legitimacy of the entire project.
Lamphelpat did not need to be dug. It needed protection from encroachment, pollution, and unplanned construction. It needed proper waste management, biodiversity conservation, and community participation. Instead, it received heavy machinery and cosmetic “development” that prioritised appearance over ecology.
What hurts the most is not just the physical transformation, but the emotional loss. A space that once nurtured childhoods, livelihoods, culture, and biodiversity is slowly being stripped of its soul. When a wetland dies, a part of our collective memory dies with it. For many of us, Lamphelpat is not a project site. It is memory, identity, and heritage.
If we truly care about sustainable development, then projects like this must be fundamentally rethought. Policies must respect science, local knowledge, and lived experiences. Youth voices, indigenous knowledge, and environmental expertise should be central, not optional.
This reflection is not just an expression of nostalgia. It is a call to action for authorities to answer, for institutions to take responsibility, and for citizens to demand better. We still have time to correct our mistakes. We still have time to restore Lamphelpat with wisdom, sensitivity, and accountability.
If we cannot save Lamphelpat, a wetland that raised generations of us, what hope do we have of
saving anything at all?
(Maxstone Irom is a writer and poet from Manipur, India, known for his published works in local newspapers and online platforms, often focusing on the social and political issues of his home state.)