Chhattisgarh’s 25th anniversary was framed by the Union government as a triumphant milestone: naxalism reduced to a shadow of its former presence, security forces in command, and development ready to surge. Prime Minister Narendra Modi called it the “sunrise of a new era”, while Home Minister Amit Shah declared that Left Wing Extremism would soon be “completely eliminated”. Yet far from Nava Raipur’s celebratory lights, a different story—first pieced together in the pages of Frontline India—is being recorded by the very people who live in the forests that once defined India’s fiercest insurgency.
Young Adivasis, armed not with guns but mobile phones, are documenting a landscape where insurgency may be shrinking, but insecurity is not. Their videos show flooded roads, collapsing infrastructure, forest clearances, and villages bracing for mining projects approved without genuine consent. For many, “development” feels like a spectacle performed elsewhere while their own lives become more precarious.
The contradictions are starkest in Bastar, where the war’s fading echo has given way to the hum of chainsaws and excavators. Former Maoist cadre like Lokesh—once caught between bullets and ideology—now describe a “post-conflict” life steeped in surveillance, fear, and uncertainty. His own wife, a Maoist medic who refused to surrender, was killed in a gunfight involving the unit he joined after giving up arms. “Even after the war ends,” he told Frontline India, “I don’t know what peace means for people like us.”
Official narratives of victory stand at odds with the trauma still embedded in Bastar’s villages. In Bijapur, two brothers were killed months apart—one by Maoists who branded him an informer, the other by police in a counter-insurgency operation. These tragedies, largely invisible in public discourse, reflect a conflict that continues to shape lives long after the gunfire fades.
The killing of Maoist commander Madvi Hidma—portrayed as a defining breakthrough—has become another flashpoint. Thousands attended his cremation in Sukma, where tribal activist Soni Sori alleged that the encounter was staged and likened Hidma to Gunda Dhur, an icon of tribal resistance. The turnout revealed what officials avoid acknowledging: insurgency here has always drawn strength from unaddressed grievances and deep-rooted marginalisation.
As the guns fall silent, a different kind of aggression intensifies. Forest diversions, rapid mining approvals, and dense security grids now stretch across Surguja, Raigarh, Narayanpur, and Bijapur. The Hasdeo region—once a symbol of resistance—has again become a battleground after the clearance of 1,742 hectares of forest for the Kente Extension coal project, widely believed to be operated by the Adani Group. Former Chief Minister Bhupesh Baghel condemned the decision as “turning Chhattisgarh into Adanigarh”.
Villagers in Amera and Mainpat, confronting coal and bauxite projects, have clashed with police, accusing authorities of faking gram sabha consent and using force to push through mining expansions. In Khairagarh-Chhuikhadan-Gandai district, accusations of forged signatures for a cement project have sparked widespread outrage and calls for accountability.
Beneath these confrontations lies a deeper crisis: the erosion of constitutional safeguards in Fifth Schedule areas, where Adivasi communities fear dispossession disguised as development. Many displaced during Salwa Judum still live in relief camps, only to discover that their ancestral land was quietly sold in their absence. Meanwhile, paramilitary camps multiply, creating a sense that “normalcy” is less about peace and more about preparing the ground for extraction.
Activists warn that institutions, rebuilt during decades of counter-insurgency, now function as surveillance mechanisms rather than channels of welfare. Roads, telecom towers, and police stations—celebrated as signs of progress—are often viewed locally as conduits for mining rather than services for citizens. Former Intelligence Bureau official Yashovarshan Azad has cautioned that defeating Maoists militarily will mean little if the State fails to address the structural injustices that fuelled rebellion.
Chhattisgarh’s silver jubilee has thus revealed two competing realities. One is the official vision of peace and prosperity, anchored in investment proposals and security milestones. The other is the lived truth of Adivasi communities who fear that the end of violence may usher in an era of legal, silent, irreversible dispossession.
As Frontline India’s reporting underscores, the question now confronting Chhattisgarh is not whether the insurgency has been defeated—but whether the State can build a future without repeating the same patterns of exclusion that birthed the conflict. What does peace mean when forests fall faster than bullets? Who benefits from development that arrives on the back of displacement? And as mining intensifies under the banner of “Naya Bharat”, what place is left for the people who have protected these lands for generations?
The struggle unfolding across Bastar and Surguja suggests that the real battle for Chhattisgarh’s future is only just beginning.
