Northeast To Israel: What Drives the Journey Of ‘The Lost Tribe’?

When I was growing up in Manipur, I knew a handful of people who had left for Israel. Their departures were never dramatic. News travelled in bylanes and streets: someone’s relative, someone’s neighbour, a family from a nearby locality. The reaction was always the same: a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Ah mo, bangchi dan?” “Oh, really, how?

The explanation, when it came, sounded improbable enough to be dismissed and compelling enough to linger. They were said to belong to one of the “lost tribes” of Israel, descendants of Manasseh, scattered centuries ago and now rediscovered in the hills of Manipur and parts of Mizoram.

In recent years, and especially after widely circulated video of an aircraft carrying members of the Bnei Menashe to Israel, the story has been elevated into something far more definitive. It is now framed as a historical arc reaching closure: a people exiled millennia ago finally returning home.

The appeal of this narrative is easy to see. It follows a familiar arc: exile, rediscovery, and return and this gives it a distinctly biblical resonance.

But a closer look shows it isn’t a neat, finished story. It’s really a mix of different forces coming together: religion, economic need, and government policy brought together under the idea of “return.”

The Making Of A Claim

The identification of sections of the Kuki-Mizo-Chin communities with the tribe of Manasseh is a relatively recent development rather than an ancient continuity. It began in the mid-to-late twentieth century, shaped by a mix of local religious reinterpretation and outside influence, particularly through visits by rabbis and Jewish organisations that introduced new ways of understanding identity and origin.

There is no settled historical or genetic evidence supporting this claim. Most of what is cited is indirect, cultural resemblances in ritual practice, dietary restrictions, or burial customs, but these remain open to interpretation and do not amount to proof of descent. Even among many believers, there is an acknowledgment that material evidence linking these communities to ancient Israel does not seem to exist.

What is striking, however, is that this uncertainty has not slowed the consolidation of belief. Within the Bnei Menashe, the idea has taken on a stable, lived form over time. It is no longer treated primarily as a historical claim to be proven, but as an identity that is patiently learned, practiced, and reinforced through daily routine.

That identity is expressed through religious discipline. Many begin by learning Hebrew to engage with texts and communicate within a broader Jewish world. Study of the Torah becomes central. It refers to the first five chapters of the Hebrew Bible: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy, which recount the creation of the world, trace the history of the Israelites, and lay down the laws and teachings that shape Jewish life. So, daily life must be reorganised around structured observance. Where earlier Christian practice might have been centred on Sunday worship, this framework requires continuous engagement: strict observance of the Sabbath and, for men in particular, prayer three times a day: morning, afternoon, and evening following established Jewish liturgical practice. Blessings before meals, regulated worship routines, and attention to ritual detail become part of everyday life.

These are not symbolic or occasional practices. They require consistency and effort, especially in regions like Manipur and Mizoram, where religious institutions and formal guidance are limited. Yet it is precisely through this repetition through sustained practice rather than assertion that belief becomes embedded. In that sense, what is emerging is less a debate about ancestry than a lived identity being built gradually, through discipline and daily practice.

Religion As Discipline

For those who have embraced this identity, the shift has not been symbolic. It has involved a rigorous reordering of daily life. For instance, from their previous faith (Christianity), they now must observe the Sabbath and adhere to dietary laws associated with kashrut  (a set of Jewish dietary laws that govern what foods can be eaten and how they must be prepared) and participation in structured prayer routines require not only conviction but also institutional support. In many parts of Manipur and Mizoram, that support is limited. Synagogues are few as of today, there are 27 in Manipur. Access to trained religious authorities is inconsistent. Even the basic requirement of assembling a quorum for prayer can be difficult in dispersed settlements.

In such conditions, religious practice becomes something people piece together as best they can. Individuals and small groups try to follow the tradition, but without the institutions, guidance, or support systems that usually sustain it—and without a long-standing foundation to rely on.

It is within this gap that Israel acquires significance not only as a symbolic homeland but as a site where religious life can be practiced in its institutional completeness.

Migration, then, is not only an act of faith. It is also a response to the practical limits of practising that faith in the present environment.

The Multiplicity Of Motives

To reduce the movement of the Bnei Menashe to a singular motivation, whether spiritual or economic, is to misunderstand its composition.

There are individuals for whom the journey is the culmination of decades of religious commitment. Their preparation has been deliberate: learning Hebrew, studying religious texts, many sourced from Israel and aligning daily practices with what they understand to be normative Judaism. For them, migration is, quite clearly, an act of fulfilment.

But that is only one part of the picture.

Suantak Henzamang Vaiphei, a retired government official who now serves as an adviser to local synagogues, highlights the diversity within the community. People, he says, leave for different reasons, even if they appear to be part of the same movement. He himself hopes to migrate, but his reasoning reflects a more recent and self-conscious journey into the faith. Having embraced Judaism in 2023, through rigorous personal study and practice, he describes the difficulty of fully observing its demands in Manipur. In his view, the discipline required daily prayers, dietary laws, ritual purity that are nearly impossible to sustain in a setting where institutional support is limited and the community is small.

For him, Israel represents not just a destination, but a structure: a place where religious life is organised, accessible, and collectively reinforced. The aspiration, then, is not only spiritual but practical, the desire to live a faith without constant compromise.

At the same time, he is candid about the range of motivations within the community. Some are driven by belief; others by the prospect of work and financial stability. These impulses often coexist within the same family. Migration, in that sense, is neither purely devotional nor purely economic. But these are aspirations that cannot be overlooked by outsiders.

The process itself reflects internal hierarchies. Those selected in the current batches are typically individuals and families who have practiced Judaism for longer periods, often 15 to 20 years, and generally not less than six. More recent adherents, including those who joined after 2023, are expected to follow in subsequent phases. And the “next movement plan is being kept confidential by responsible government agency of migration.”

So, what emerges is not a single, unified narrative, but a layered one in which faith, aspiration, and circumstance intersect, and where even within the community, experiences of belief and belonging are far from uniform.

There are others whose decisions are embedded within family structures. Migration, in such cases, is less an individual act of conviction and more a collective movement shaped by kinship.

And there are those for whom the calculus is more pragmatic. The economic differential between rural Northeast India and Israel is substantial. Employment opportunities, even at lower skill levels, offer the possibility of financial stability and remittance-based support for relatives who remain.

These categories are not mutually exclusive. In many cases, they overlap within the same household.

What emerges, therefore, is not a uniform “returning tribe” but a heterogeneous group whose members are animated by different, and sometimes competing, motivations.

The Paradox Of Conversion

One of the more revealing aspects of this migration emerges upon arrival in in Israel. Despite being framed as descendants of an ancient Israelite tribe, members of the Bnei Menashe are required to undergo formal conversion to Judaism which is a structured process involving study, adherence to religious law, and eventual recognition by religious authorities.

Many within the community accept this not as a contradiction, but as a necessary step toward fuller integration, a way of aligning themselves with institutional expectations. Yet the requirement is not merely procedural; it points to a deeper tension between narrative and authority. If descent were unequivocally accepted, conversion would be redundant. Its necessity suggests that recognition remains conditional which is perhaps open to the possibility of lineage, but ultimately anchored in established definitions of Jewish identity. This produces a distinctly liminal position: migrants are received as returnees, yet processed as entrants, inhabiting both categories at once.

A similar duality shapes how the broader conditions of migration are understood. When I raised questions about labour shortages, demographic priorities, and the settlement of new arrivals particularly in the aftermath of events like the 2023 Hamas attack on Israel, the response from within the community often reframes the issue altogether. Placement in specific regions is not necessarily perceived as strategic or linked to contemporary conflict dynamics, but as something preordained, grounded in biblical narratives where land and its divisions are believed to have been designated long ago, often traced to figures like Abraham, who is regarded as the founding patriarch in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, with his narrative primarily recorded in Genesis chapters in the Bible. What may appear, from a policy perspective, as calculated settlement can thus be experienced, from within, as the unfolding of a scriptural order.

These parallel interpretations, one institutional, the other theological, rarely collide, yet they coexist in shaping the meaning of migration. From a sociological standpoint, this is less a contradiction than a functional arrangement, allowing the state and religious authorities to incorporate new populations while preserving doctrinal coherence. For the individuals involved, however, it entails an ongoing negotiation between a past they claim and a present that must be formally conferred.

Be that as it may, Israel will continue to remain the ultimate destination for many who are still waiting their turn. 

 Hoihnu Hauzel is a journalist and author of the recently-published Stories The Fire Could Not Burn

Views expressed are personal.