The Life and Influence of Sir Niketu Iralu
Chingmak Chang
ECS, Tuensang
An era has ended—not merely because a distinguished elder has passed, but because a rare moral presence has fallen silent. Niketu Iralu lived simply, sought little for himself, and yet touched an extraordinary range of lives. In a society too often pulled by faction, fear and vested interest, he restored conscience to public conversation. He reminded us that the future of the Naga people would depend not only on what we demand from others, but on what we are willing to examine, confess, forgive and change within ourselves.
A life formed by history—and transformed by faith
Born in Khonoma in 1935 to Dr Sevilie Iralu and Vituno Iralu, Niketu grew up close to the upheavals of modern Naga history. His family knew political suspicion and suffering; his father was imprisoned despite not being politically active. After pre-university studies in Shillong, he attended Madras Christian College. There, in 1955, he encountered Moral Re-Armament—now Initiatives of Change—and two years later left college to serve the movement full-time. That choice became the direction of his life: more than six decades devoted to the inner work from which social healing must begin.
His peace was never passivity. It was the difficult discipline of truth, restitution, forgiveness and reconciliation. He had seen the wounds of conflict too closely to romanticize them, yet he refused cynicism. He believed political settlements mattered, but also knew that no agreement could heal a people who had not learned again to trust, listen and accept shared responsibility.
The man everyone called “Uncle”
The most fitting public title he received was not an award or office. It was “Uncle Niketu.” Young people, church workers, political leaders, activists, scholars and ordinary citizens addressed him so because he was approachable. He could challenge without humiliating and disagree without making an enemy. People left him feeling heard—not because he always agreed, but because he listened as though their dignity mattered.
We all called him ‘Uncle’ because of the warmth, his non-judgmental spirit, his extraordinary gift of listening, his compassionate soul and the quiet reliability of his presence. Young people today need more such uncles—people who will listen without condemning, guide without controlling and remain steadfast when life becomes difficult. In his memory, perhaps each of us must look within and become such a person: first to ourselves, and then to the young people in our homes and neighbourhoods. This may appear to be a small contribution, but it could help make—or break—Nagaland as a people.
When the House listened to Eastern Nagaland
That deep sense of warmth and belonging took physical form in Kerünyü Ki, the “House of Listening,” at Sechü in Kohima. The home he shared with Christine became a place where people divided by tribe, politics, age and experience could enter, speak and begin again. Christine recalled that they regarded themselves not as owners of the house but as custodians. This was also how he seemed to regard influence: never as a possession, but as something entrusted to him for the good of others.
For me, the “House of Listening” was not merely a name; it was something I personally experienced. At a time when few were willing to hear what was ailing Eastern Nagaland—what made our people cry and why they were unhappy—Niketu invited me there. He gathered elders from various Angami public organizations and asked them to listen as I spoke about our pain and concerns. For once, someone was willing to hear us. He did not begin by defending a position or offering an answer; he first made room for our voice.
His example places a responsibility upon us: to listen to our neighbors, other tribes, struggling people and especially those unable to express what they carry. The Nagas need an open heart joined to an attentive ear. This distinguished Niketu from leaders and elders who refuse to hear the writing on the wall. To honor him is to recover the courage to listen—before pain hardens into alienation and silence becomes another wound.
Putting conscience back into public life
Niketu’s influence reached far beyond formal peace initiatives. As a guiding force in the Forum for Naga Reconciliation, he helped create space for rival Naga political groups to meet amid deep division. Through Initiatives of Change, he connected the Naga experience to a worldwide practice of trust-building. As an adviser to ACAUT, he gave moral strength to the struggle against corruption and exploitative taxation. When young people questioned injustice—including the protest concerning the regularizationpolicy—he did not dismiss them; he listened, amplified their concerns and trusted their capacity to shape a better future.
His compassion was equally practical. In 1989, while serving at Asia Plateau, he helped facilitate the partnership between the Naga Mothers’ Association and Kripa Foundation. It led to the Mount Gilead Home rehabilitation center at Zubza and helped Nagaland confront addiction, HIV, stigma and denial with treatment and compassion. For him, peace was not an abstract slogan. It had to enter homes, institutions, wounded relationships and the lives of people society preferred not to see.
A deeper definition of Naganess
Perhaps his greatest influence was the question he placed before an entire generation: what does it truly mean to be Naga? He loved his people deeply, but his love was never flattery. He challenged definitions of Naganess built only on grievance, tribe, political loyalty or inherited memory. Identity, he taught by word and life, must also carry truthfulness, courage, humility, justice, forgiveness and responsibility for one another.
He invited Nagas to look again—not to abandon history, but to face it honestly; not to surrender conviction, but to free it from hatred; not to erase difference, but to make difference a place of encounter rather than exclusion. His moral authority came from the fact that he demanded of himself the same inner change he asked of society. He did not stand above the people as their judge. He stood among them as a fellow pilgrim, always asking what must be put right and what new possibility forgiveness might open.
The inheritance he leaves
The tributes after his death reveal the breadth of his influence. Political leaders called him a voice of peace and reason. Naga organizations remembered a conscience keeper and bridge-builder. Women’s bodies recalled his solidarity in confronting addiction. Students remembered an elder who listened. Christian organizations honored a faith that crossed denominational and ethnic boundaries. Communities beyond Nagaland recognized a peacemaker who treated them with fraternity and respect. Again and again, the same qualities appeared: humility, warmth, candor, integrity, courage and deep listening.
Niketu Iralu died in New Delhi on 18 August 2026, aged 91. Yet his passing must not become an occasion only for reverence. The true memorial will be whether we practice what he lived: to keep our processes clean; to speak truth without hatred; to listen across divides; to forgive without denying wrong; to resist self-interest; and to place the common good above the victory of our own group.
An era has ended, but its light need not. Sir Niketu showed that one life—unarmed except with conscience, faith and compassion—can change the moral weather of a society. Few have touched so many lives so quietly. The “House of Listening” now becomes a calling to all of us: to become, in our own places, people who make room for truth, healing and a future together.
This article was originally published by The Wire on September 1, 2026, and is republished here as submitted by the author.
