Editor,
In Mizoram, a quiet legal change has sparked a loud and uncomfortable question: what does a woman lose when she chooses whom to love?
Recent discussions around the Mizo Marriage and Inheritance of Property (Amendment) Bill, 2026 have been filled with confusion and concern. Many believe that Mizo women lose their Scheduled Tribe (ST) status if they marry outside their community. The bill does not explicitly state this in clear terms. Yet what it does say, and what it does in practice, may lead to consequences that feel just as real.
The law redraws the boundaries of who is recognised as ‘Mizo’ under customary practice. If a Mizo woman marries a non-Mizo man, she is no longer governed by these customary laws. Her children also fall outside this framework. In a place where identity, rights, and recognition are deeply tied to community belonging, this exclusion is not merely symbolic. It can shape access, opportunity, and a sense of self.
But beyond the legal language lies a deeper, more human question. Why does a woman have to give up so much simply to choose her partner?
Across generations, women have been asked to change their names, leave their homes, and adapt to new families. These expectations have been normalised to the point where they are rarely questioned. Now, when identity itself begins to shift based on marriage, the cost becomes harder to ignore.
A man who marries outside his community is rarely seen as having lost his roots. His identity remains intact and his belonging unquestioned. A woman, however, is treated differently. She is seen as someone who carries culture and therefore someone who can also lose it.
We are told that such measures are necessary to protect tradition; that small communities must guard their identity carefully. These concerns are genuine. Many indigenous communities have fought long and hard to preserve who they are.
But protection cannot come at the cost of fairness.
When the responsibility of safeguarding culture falls mainly on women, it reveals an imbalance that we often overlook. Culture becomes something that women must carry, protect, and sometimes sacrifice themselves for. Their choices are no longer just personal. They become political, judged against the survival of a community.
This is where the question of equality becomes difficult.
India’s Constitution promises equality before the law. It assures that no one should be discriminated against on the grounds of sex. Yet realities like these remind us that equality is not only about what is written in law, but also about how those laws are lived.
If a woman’s identity can be reshaped by marriage while a man’s remains untouched, can we truly say that both stand on equal ground?
The debate in Mizoram is not just about one law or one community. It reflects a larger pattern where women continue to bear a disproportionate share of social expectations, even in matters as personal as love and marriage.
Perhaps it is time to ask more honestly than before: are we preserving culture, or are we preserving inequality in its name?
Because a society that asks women to give up parts of themselves to protect tradition must also ask what kind of tradition it is protecting and at whose cost.
If love comes with the risk of losing one’s identity, then the question is no longer just about law. It is about justice.
Mamum Megu