In a land where churches are filled every Sunday and prayers open every public meeting, the irony is painful -- corruption runs deeper than most rivers in Nagaland.
In a land where churches are filled every Sunday and prayers
open every public meeting, the irony is painful -- corruption runs deeper than
most rivers in Nagaland. While the pulpit preaches integrity, state coffers
leak like rusted pipes. And yet, amid this disillusionment, there remains one
institution that continues to function with a sense of sacred responsibility:
the Church.
The Catholic Church, in particular, with its global presence
and disciplined financial structure, has shown how money—when seen not just as
currency but as moral trust—can transform lives. Every offering, every tithe,
every Mass stipend is accounted for. No altar is built without a receipt; no
donation disappears into a ghost account. Transparency is not just policy—it is
spiritual duty. This sense of transparency and integrity in financial matters
is now officially reaffirmed by Pope Francis, who approved a Decree on Mass
Intentions and Collective Offerings, effective from Easter Sunday 2025. The
decree emphasises that Mass stipends and offerings should be handled without
the taint of commercial exchange, encouraging faithful participation while
safeguarding the dignity of the Eucharist.
Contrast this with the system of governance that claims to
serve the people. Money flows into the coffers of the state from various
sources—central government grants, taxes, funds for specific schemes, loans
from national and international institutions, and development aid. Nagaland,
being a special state under Article 371A of the Indian Constitution, receives
special financial support for its development. This provision is meant to
safeguard the culture, tradition, and interests of the Naga people by granting
the state funds for specific welfare purposes. However, what follows is often a
different story. Much of this money doesn’t reach its intended purpose.
Instead, it’s choked by bureaucratic red tape, misappropriated by contractors,
and disappears into the pockets of those who treat public funds as personal
property.
Take, for instance, the multi-crore projects intended for
infrastructure development—roads, bridges, schools, hospitals. Though funds are
allocated under various schemes, the results are often subpar. Roads get washed
away with the first rain, schools remain in shambles, and hospitals are void of
equipment. The beneficiaries—the common man—are left without the services they
were promised. And while this happens, the money intended for the people is
often redirected through fake billing, overcharging, and other corrupt
practices.
And let’s not forget election time—a season when crores are
wasted to woo voters. Money rains down in the form of cash, liquor, blankets,
and fake promises. Once elected, many leaders view the exchequer not as a
public trust but as a personal recovery zone. The same money that was used to
buy votes returns through inflated bills, backdoor contracts, and manipulated
tenders. The people are left poorer, while the powerful grow richer.
Yet, there are stories that shine like candles in the dark.
Take for instance a story from a remote village in one of
Nagaland’s hill districts. A few years ago, the government had sanctioned over
INR 30 lakh for the construction of a multipurpose community hall. Official
records showed it as “completed,” yet on the ground, only a few walls
stood—unplastered, roofless, abandoned. The villagers waited, filed complaints,
and even sent delegations to the district office—but nothing moved beyond the
paperwork.
Eventually, the village church stepped in. A community
meeting was called, and it was decided: “Let us not depend on them anymore—let
us finish this together, in God’s name.”
Funds were gathered through Sunday collections, donations
from church members working outside, and modest contributions from elders. Materials
were purchased transparently, and every expense was displayed on the church
bulletin board. Labour came free—young people took turns hauling sand, women
cooked for workers, and elders kept accounts.
Within four months, the hall was completed—not luxurious,
but upright and honest. When asked how they achieved it, an elder said,
“Because this money came from the people, for the people—we dared not misuse
it.”
It’s more than just a village story. It’s a quiet contrast
to the corruption that plagues our public institutions. Where government funds
falter, community faith builds. Where conscience leads, progress follows.
If we were to reimagine governance with the Church’s
discipline—transparent accounting, community oversight, and moral
responsibility—we would not just fix roads or build schools. We would restore
trust.
The Bible speaks of tithes—the sacred ten percent offered
not out of compulsion, but reverence. Imagine if our leaders treated public
funds with the same spirit—not as a pool to dip into, but as a tithe entrusted
to them for righteous use.
It’s time for Nagaland to rise—not just in prayers and
revivals—but in action and accountability. Because in the end, what we build
with clean hands stands longer than what we grab with greedy ones.
