Jimma Arata: A pillar of Marshall Islands' health care system

Microwaves By Jack Niedenthal

Majuro—In Micronesian island societies, elders are honored as keepers of tradition, memory and wisdom, guiding families and communities while anchoring younger generations in identity and respect. I was fortunate to learn from many Marshallese elders over the years, including Deacon Arata Nathan. Affectionately known as Jimma (grandfather) Arata at the Ministry of Health, he worked closely with me during my tenure as secretary of health.

Laid to rest in Majuro at 83, after a final voyage around Majuro’ lagoon on his beloved medical ship, Liwãtoon-mour, his passing marks not only a personal loss but a profound one for the Marshall Islands. A pillar of the nation’s health system, his life was defined by service, compassion and lived wisdom.

I often joked that before meeting Arata in person, I already knew his voice like an old friend. During my six years on the outer islands in the 1980s, health emergencies “out there” carried the weight of isolation. In those moments—whether a childbirth gone wrong, a sudden injury or a dangerous fever—it was Arata’s calm, steady voice that came over the crackling radio, guiding local health aides with such clarity and assurance that even in the direst circumstances, he gave people hope.

Over 30 years later, when I became secretary of health, there he was, in the very heart of the ministry, still working tirelessly. By then, he oversaw the movement of medical supplies to the outer islands and the near-constant stream of complex medical issues that arose in the most remote corners of the country.

He knew every dispensary, every health aide by name, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the medical crises and other issues that tended to arise in each community.

Not long after I began my term as the agency’s secretary, the Public Service Commission informed Arata that they intended to force his retirement. He was 77 and had already devoted more than half a century to the Ministry of Health.

He came to me and asked if I could help extend his contract. I remember asking, “Arata, how much longer do you want to work?” Without hesitation—and with his trademark light chuckle—he replied, “Until I die.” He meant it. For Arata, working was never about a paycheck; it was his vocation, his way of serving his people.

I wrote the letter and PSC granted the extension. The ministry—and the entire nation, for that matter—benefited from his wisdom for several more years, especially during our 38 consecutive months under a state of health emergency, as the late 2019 dengue outbreak rolled right into the pandemic in 2020.

In the health care world, older people are a treasure because of the knowledge they carry. Arata was the embodiment of that truth. He had seen nearly everything: measles outbreaks, dengue and tuberculosis cases on islands with minimally supplied clinics, and political storms within the government and the ministry itself. His ability to remain calm and pragmatic in the face of all these challenges was extraordinary.

He shone especially during the annual public meetings with the Marshall Islands Mayor’s Association. These meetings were notoriously difficult for any secretary of health, as the mayors, representing every atoll, were known to be outspoken and relentless in voicing frustrations. Many a health leader has withered under their fire. But not Arata.

I would simply turn the floor over to him, sit back and marvel at the way he handled even the most contentious exchanges. He had a rare gift: the ability to defuse tension with humor, while showing deep respect to those who challenged him. He would listen carefully, acknowledge concerns and respond with such clarity and authority that the room would settle down. Watching him was like watching a masterclass in diplomacy.

There were many times during my tenure when I felt isolated by the heavy responsibilities of the office. Some decisions during the pandemic carried immense consequences, and in those moments I often leaned on Arata for advice. He had a deep understanding of people—politicians, doctors, nurses, health aides and patients. His insights were shaped not just by professional work but by faith, humility and decades of navigating medical and political terrain.  You don’t just “retire” this kind of person.

One of my most difficult personal moments came during my 30-day suspension from the ministry. I had walked out of a Committee of the Whole session at the Nitijela—something I believed I needed to do to drive home a point—but as a result, I was suspended. The PSC informed me in no uncertain terms that I was not to communicate with anyone at the ministry during that time, even though we were in the middle of a pandemic.

For 30 days, my phone stayed silent. No one reached out. No one wanted to risk breaking the rules—except for Arata. Each week, he emailed me, sending short notes of encouragement, reminding me to keep my spirits up and assuring me that I would return. In those lonely days, his support meant everything. You do not forget the people who stand beside you when your integrity is under fire.

Beyond his work, Arata’s life was intertwined with that of his wife, Jiktok. The two of them were a remarkable team. I remember celebrating Jiktok’s 75th birthday with them a few years back. Between them, they had given over a century of service to the health of the Marshall Islands—Arata more than 55 years, and Jiktok well over 50 as a nurse.

It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life to have stood beside him, to have worked with him and to have called him a friend. Deacon Arata Nathan has been an inspiration not just to me, but to countless people across the Marshall Islands. His example will live on in the nurses and health aides who continue his work, in the patients who receive care because of the systems he helped build and in the colleagues who learned from his wisdom.

He unselfishly gave his life to better the health of our nation. May he now rest in peace, having left behind a legacy that will continue to heal, inspire and guide us for generations to come.

 Jack Niedenthal, former Secretary of Health & Human Services for the Marshall Islands, has lived and worked in the country for 44 years. He is the author of “For the Good of Mankind: An Oral History of the People of Bikini” and president of Microwave Films, producer of six award-winning feature films in the Marshallese language. He currently serves as consultant to the people of Bikini Atoll and program director of the Pacific Media Institute. Send feedback to jackniedenthal@gmail.com

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