Interview with Avinuo Kire, Author of The Power To Forgive

Avinuo Kire on Naga identity, trauma, oral tradition and the quiet power of storytelling in The Power to Forgive.
on Jul 11, 2026

Frontlist: Your characters are rarely victims in the traditional sense - they are quietly, stubbornly alive even under the weight of what has happened to them. Is that resilience something you consciously write into them, or does it come from the women you have known in your own life in Nagaland?                                                                                
Avinuo: Perhaps it is a little bit of both. I try to give space to my fictional creations by not imposing a rigid, predetermined plot. So in that sense, writing resilience into them is not a completely conscious act. Often, they surprise me as the story progresses. At the same time, these fictional creations are inspired, more often than not, by real life extraordinary men and women I have known or heard about. So then I suppose it’s only natural that almost like DNA, they inevitably develop a quiet strength and resilience as the story builds.

Frontlist: Naga names carry meaning, lineage, identity - and yet in your title story, the protagonist is unnamed. Was that a deliberate erasure, or a deliberate expansion - making her everyone? 
Avinuo: I would say it is a deliberate expansion. Through the title story, I wanted to convey not just the obvious physical trauma experienced by victims of rape, but the multi-layered, nuanced experiences of women in a patriarchal society. I especially wanted to delve into systemic violence, which is largely psychological, institutionalized, and unseen, but nevertheless deeply sensed and felt by many women. It made sense that the protagonist should remain unnamed, expanding her identity to represent and encompass all women. 

Frontlist: Your prose is restrained in a way that feels almost musical - you know exactly when to go quiet. Is that something you had to learn, or did silence always come naturally to you as a writer? 
Avinuo: This is heartwarming to hear. Thank you. I think the silence comes from being human, as it is from a place of respect and empathy. My fiction is rooted in nonfiction, and especially when dealing with history, politics, or societal issues, the lines often blur. When I write stories rooted in painful or difficult themes, I am either putting myself into the shoes of the character or imagining myself as a witness to what is happening. In such devastating circumstances, sometimes words are unnecessary, inadequate, or worse, trite. We know that there is much meaning in silences. And silence in the right places can accord more meaning to words. 

Frontlist: The title of your book is almost ironic - by the end of that story, forgiveness feels less like relief and more like something the protagonist is still quietly bleeding from. Was that discomfort intentional? And do you think fiction has a responsibility to sit in that discomfort rather than resolve it? 
Avinuo: The title was actually an editorial decision. I wasn’t sure about it initially, but I admit it made sense ultimately. Although I tried to close the story by empowering the protagonist, a degree of lingering discomfort and tension was quite unavoidable, as to do otherwise would be unrealistic as well as disrespectful to victims of rape- it felt like diminishing the reverberating extent of their trauma somehow.  

I believe the only responsibility that fiction has is to tell the story as honestly and vulnerably as possible. The writer is, at best, a social critique, simply holding up a mirror to society, and has no business trying to resolve or offer solutions.  

Frontlist: Oral storytelling is deep in Naga culture, and you have documented it academically as well. When you sit down to write fiction, do you ever feel the oral tradition pulling at your sentences - demanding a different rhythm, a different kind of truth
Avinuo: Absolutely. Since my stories are primarily rooted in the Naga way of life, against the backdrop of the Naga hills, an essence of the spirit of orality becomes necessary for the purpose of authenticity. I often imagine an oral narrator telling the story even as I write it. Some tools I find myself employing in the narrative to achieve this effect would be exposition, digression, repetition, etc. I don’t know if I am succeeding. This is something I am still learning to do.  

Frontlist: You teach English Literature and write in English about deeply Naga experiences. Is there ever a word, an emotion, a moment in your stories that English simply cannot hold - and what do you do when you reach that edge of the language? 
Avinuo: Thank you for this perceptive question. I experience this predicament often, particularly when I write stories set in the ancestral past. Owing to our oral tradition, in the old days, the art of conversation was greatly valued. People in general were extraordinarily well-spoken and everyday conversation involved repartee, wit, a proverbial saying here and there, and so on. And so translating such dialogue in English can be painful, as one can never really do complete justice. Acceptance of this fact helps to some degree.  

When I first started writing, I would take pains to find the closest English equivalent or write entire sentences to articulate every local word, phrase, or turn of emotion. But with time, I find that I am increasingly at ease with my voice and also more trusting in the intelligence of the reader to still engage with the story without necessarily understanding every local word. So now, unless a translation is absolutely essential to the plot, when I reach that edge of the language, I simply let the word be.  

Frontlist: Looking back at The Power to Forgive today, nearly a decade after it was published - which story feels like it has aged into a deeper truth than even you expected, and which one still feels like an open wound? 
Avinuo:  They say a first book is always autobiographical. The Power to Forgive and other Stories was my first book and although they are fiction stories, each feels autobiographical (using the term loosely) in the sense that they delve into themes, directly or otherwise, which are close to my heart, told in a very local context- child abuse, violence against women, protection of wildlife, Naga nationalism and identity. The title story 'The Power to Forgive', 'Solie', 'Nigu’s Red T Shirt', 'Dielienuo’s Choice', 'The Last Moonrise' are some stories which I feel have aged well while still an open wound. I don’t think I can separate the two.  

Frontlist: If the book could only leave one feeling in a reader's chest after the last page - not a message, but a feeling - what would you want it to be? And do you think most readers have actually felt it, or does the book surprise you with how differently people receive it? 
Avinuo: I would be very happy if my stories could leave readers with a lingering sense of wonder- curious wonder over the lives of human beings, spirits, plants, animals, and the world we live in. So far, readers have been very kind, and I’ve had many different responses based on the different themes in stories they’ve read. It doesn’t surprise me, but I’m always gratified when readers can relate, are left feeling discomfited, or, my favorite, are left with a feeling of wonder.