Rankin’s outrageous rant

High Commissioner John Rankin

British High Commissioner, John Rankin, has openly challenged a statement made by President Mahinda Rajapaksa regarding scaling down of military presence in the North and East.  Rankin has stated that the LTTE is no longer engaging in military activities and as such questioned the logic of a military presence in these areas that is of a magnitude not seen in other parts of the country.

We can forgive the man for being ignorant about the needs for surveillance and (re) educate him about the well-known English phrase ‘Better safe than sorry’, pointing out the following:  a) military consolidation is necessary in the aftermath of a 30 year long war, b) the road from relative calm to all out conflict is short, and the world is not lacking in governments that are ever ready to provide guns and money to further their interests, through ‘regime-change’ effors and/or fuelling bloody conflicts, and c) LTTE-backers in the West have not given up on their dream of a separate state and neither have they dropped their principal operative stance: By any means necessary.

It would better to tell him that we know what he knows but keeps silent about.  Britain continues to have a military presence in Cyprus, Falkland Islands, Gibraltar, Sierra Leone, Pakistan, Belize, Brunei and Canada.  ‘At the behest of rulers,’ they might say. Half a decade after the Northern Ireland conflict was ‘resolved’, British troops remain.  Why?  The United States of America maintains a military presence in over one hundred countries with no talk whatsoever of ‘scaling down’ even though, unlike Sri Lanka, there is not even a shadow of a threat to those states from terrorists or other ill-willed entities. 

Can anyone be blamed therefore for saying ‘What gumption, Mr Rankin!’? 

All of the above, however, are of peripheral concern and mentioned just so he knows we know what’s happening in the world.  What is more important is that this individual, either out of ignorance or, more likely, arrogance, has overstepped the boundaries of diplomatic protocol.  We are not a British colony and Mr. Rankin is not a Viceroy.  He is out of order.  He is incompetent and has to be considered a threat to the security of this country. 

We can pretend he didn’t say all this, but that’s clearly not going to earn us any favours from this nation which is still a monarchy, admits that it invaded Iraq illegally, has scripted torture into interrogation manuals and has aided and abetted the USA in monumental crimes against humanity all over the world. 

Mr. John Rankin has overstayed his welcome.  He needs to go. 

[First part of 'The Nation' Editorial, May 27, 2012]

Dimensions of discipline and ways of punishing

Gihan Elikewala today

In 1978, the first time Ranjan Madugalle captained Royal at the Big Match, a sporting declaration by him responded to by positive batting by the Thomians almost cost Royal the match.  If I remember right, S. Thomas’ had to score 44 in 8 overs with 4 wickets in hand (a piece of cake these days) but settled for a draw.  This year, another sporty declaration by Royal was responded to as positively by the Thomians.  The umpires, unfortunately decided the light was too weak.   

In 1978, Ranjan’s team won the Mustangs Trophy, comfortably beating their arch rivals in the 50 over encounter.  What happened therefore is the subject of this piece.   

The Master-in-Charge of cricket at Royal was H. Nanayakkara, who was also the hostel warden.  He was affectionately referred to as H. Nana (to differentiate him fro D.D.R. Nanayakkara or ‘Bus Nana’ who handled matters related to the school bus service) and sometimes as Haramanis or simply ‘Hara’.  The following conversation is said have taken place between Hara and one of the coloursmen.  Hara, true to form had been disarmingly genial and good humoured. 

Hara: So you people would have had a big party after the match?

Coloursman: No, sir, it was a small party.

Hara: Ah, so all you would have got cocked (drunk)?

Coloursman: No sir, we just had a couple of beers, that’s all.

Hara: Only a couple of beers?  The whole team? 

Coloursman: No sir, just 5 of us. 

The five, all coloursman, were duly suspended. Royal had to field a team made of the captain and 10 freshers in the Excite Trophy tournament (the 50 over inter-schools event).  Royal nevertheless won the Excide Trophy.   

I related the story to a friend at this year’s Royal-Thomian and he responded with a story (big matches are about swapping stories of old times).  This was a soccer story. The chief protagonist was the soccer captain Gihan Elikewala, the naughtiest, most mischievous boy in our batch, according to some.  Gihan is said to have turned a teacher out of the class once.  The said teacher had said (in Sinhala), ‘Elikewala, either you go out or else I will,’ and ‘Elike’, legend has it, had said ‘then you go out sir!’  He had been hauled up to the Vice Principal (E.C. Gunasekera, aka ‘Kataya’) and is said to have successfully pleased his case, pointing out that he had been given a choice and had figured that had he gone out of the class, he might have got into deeper trouble if Kataya or some other strict teacher had seen him. 

Elike, according to my friend, had been ‘put on detention’ by Kataya.  This meant that he would not be allowed to take part in extra curricular activities for a week.  Sadly, probably for this first time, the Royal soccer team had made it to the finals of the inter-school tournament, thanks mostly to Elike’s individual brilliance.  Elike had broken the detention-rule and played in the final, calculating that Kataya would not be present at a soccer match. Kataya indeed had not been there.  Unfortunately, Kataya had tuned into the Bristol Sports News at 7.30 pm that night.  Royal had won.  Elike had scored the winning goal and therefore his name was mentioned.  My friend said that Kataya had summoned Elike the following Monday, congratulated him for the historic victory and duly slapped a punishment of 2 more weeks of detention.   

Elike lives abroad.  I sent him a message asking him to verify this story. Here’s his response: 

‘Yes malla, mara waday macho...everything went well in the match...next day Kataya called me around 1000 o'clock...had a nice chat, even shared a chinese roll and tea with me, asked about the match !!! I mumbled saying it was ok, and he told me it was wonderful that we had won the championship, wanted to know if I had a twin, because he was bemused as to how I could be in two places at the same time...of course he congratulated me, and then told me that since my twin was still at detention, to make it a family affair by sitting next to him for two weeks...of course he brought it down to three days, when his chinese roll went missing...heh heh...’ 

That’s the Elike of 1983/84.  A quarter of a century has changed nothing, I felt.  

I told him that this deserves to be written about because it illustrates several things. His commitment to his sport, team and the school at the cost of punishment; Kataya’s sense of humour, ability to be gracious, readiness to reward him for his efforts and the determination to ensure that Elike learned that other things are as important as a victory on the sports field. I told him also that the person who told me this story said that things like this moulded him, guided him when faced with tough decisions and that we learned more from such things and such people than from our school books!

Eleke was also easy going and despite his impishness by and large sided with the ‘right’ and ‘good’ in things that counted. He send a short response: ‘No worries macho...up to you malla, i have absolute faith in your ability....if i can do ANYTHING to develop someone to become better, then I'm your man...You take care, bro, and keep in touch when you can.’ 

Several decades after both incidents, my friend and I recalled how life-moulding they have been and perhaps not just for the two of us.  Both stories were prompted by a recent incident where two school captains representing a national Under 19 team were caught entertaining prostitutes in the hotel where they were staying for the duration of an important international encounter. Both were highly talented.  I don’t know if the relevant authorities chided them or put them on detention or spoke about twins over chinese rolls and tea, but neither were suspended from their respective teams.    

I am wondering what kind of conversation two random men in their mid-forties would have 25-30 years from now about discipline and punishment.  I only hope that there are as many Elikewalas and Haras as there are power-backed ruffians and arm-twistable authorities so that those two unknown individuals can speak in positive terms about school days and the lessons they learnt, of books and of men.    

We can now look back without anger….

‘Victory’ is made of names.  It comes to claimants.  It has many fathers.  Collective remembrance is selective, because there is a political economy of memory.  Personal recollection rarely leaves individuals out, they die and live thereafter in the vast territories of personal loss, desolate landscapes scattered with unanswerable questions across which sweep the indescribable sighs of could-have-been.

  

The commanders are not forgotten and should not be either.   Less frequently mentioned but more resistant to forgetting than the vast majority who died, are the exceptionally brave.  Among them, of course, is Corporal Gamini Kularatne of Hasalaka, better known as Hasalaka Gamini, who single-handedly thwarted an LTTE assault on Elephant Pass by jumping into an advancing attack vehicle and blowing himself up. 

There was Captain Saliya Upul Aladeniya, who stopped an entire armoury falling into the hands of the terrorists by exploding it and himself.  Colonel Fazli Lafeer, Major Jayanath Ginimelage, Lieutenant Thilak Nissanka and others who saw death in the face and embraced it without a second thought in order to save their fellow fighting men, are still recalled when the word ‘hero’ is mentioned.

They did not win it all for the nation by themselves.  Every man and woman who went to the frontlines, defended villages and villagers, patrolled the seas and supported from the skies, contributed.  So too all those who countered the myths about the LTTE’s invincibility, those who placed faith in a political leadership that was determined to fight the good fight to the end, and everyone who with word or deed boosted troop morale  must be counted among those who contributed. 

On the other hand, heroism is not the preserve of the victors.  If the LTTE proved hard to defeat for thirty years, it is not only because of political machinations by outside forces, treachery on the part of various key military and political figures and relentless myth-making about LTTE-invincibility by vile academics, NGO personalities and so-called ‘peace-activists’.  It was also because there was heroism among the LTTE cadres.  Whether the struggle was justified or not, whether they were brainwashed or not, whether they were maniacal or not, the fact remains that the courage and sacrifice some of the LTTE cadres demonstrated is equal to that demonstrated by the best in the Sri Lankan fighting forces.  Heroism, then, has no caste, creed, race, ethnicity or religious affiliation. Hero is hero; heroine is heroine. 

Wars are made of heroes.  They are made of victims.  People died.  Close to a hundred thousand perished, either in combat or as victims of suicide attacks, bomb explosions, assassinations, deliberate fire while fleeing, crossfire and indiscriminate attacks, the last especially in the early years of the conflict.

They were all citizens of this country, even if some of them denounced ‘nation’ and demanded and fought for a separate country.  They all looked like you and I.  They all had families, friends and loved ones.  They were all imperfect, but there’s nothing to say that they were all unworthy of remembrance, undeserving of empathy or sympathy or even admiration, if not for the cause, but the sacrifice and bravery demonstrated in fighting for it. 

It is three years now since the fighting ceased.  In the three years that have passed, those who did not envisage nor wanted the war-end outcome, those whose economic and political interests are not served by a stable political climate and other spoilers have spared no pains to misrepresent what happened and how it happened.  They’ve played down the miseries forced upon Tamil civilians by an intransigent LTTE and by Prabhakaran’s inflated ego.  They’ve deliberately fudged numbers.  They’ve taken out context.  They’ve forgotten the immense sacrifices made by the security forces in order to bring to safety some 300,000 civilians held hostage by the LTTE.  They have no eyes for exemplary humanism demonstrated by these same forces during and after the final days of the conflict.  They have retired their intelligence and ability to compare and contrast, i.e. the Sri Lankan situation with that of other conflicts, especially in Iraq, Afghanistan and the Middle East. 

The displaced have been resettled.  They’ve not moved back into mansions.  They are not without problems.  But then again, they can step out without fear of losing leg and life to landmine.  Parents can send their children to school without wondering if the LTTE would or would not abduct them and push them into a war they don’t want or are ready to be in.  They have roads.  Hospitals.  Schools.  Medicine. They have hope.  And, if it matters, their situation is better than that of certain Sinhalese and Muslims in other areas unaffected by the clash of arms but not spared by a political economy of development skewed against certain regions. 

There was a time when politics was gun-made and elections mere exercises in dictate-following, if voting was allowed at all by the LTTE, that is. Today there is representation.  Elected representation.  Back then, there was silent acquiescence.  Now there is vocal protest.  Back then, a monologue. Today, a dialogue.  Back then, one man’s voice; today, conversations.  Back then, there was darkness; today a determined electrification effort that has brought light and other benefits to thousands of homes.  Back then, there were ‘combatants’ deprived of schooling, childhood and a future, forced to learn how to shoot and kill, made to shoot and kill; today the vast majority of them have reintegrated into their communities as civilians, empowered with education and marketable skills. 

There was a time when Colombo was a besieged city, a time when the entire country was paralyzed by threat of terrorist attack.  That was a time when the barricades and checkpoints that dotted the cityscape were mirrored in the consciousness of being, sorry, surviving. 

That’s all gone now.

Today, we are not yet the reconciled polity that we would all like to be, but we are far more closer to that place than we were in May 2009.  Today we can ask for ‘grievance without the frills of political expedience’ and the aggrieved cannot say ‘first let’s have a ceasefire’.  Today the aggrieved can say ‘let’s talk’, and the Government cannot say ‘get your boys to stop attacks on civilian targets’.  Today there is space. Back then, there was not. 

Today, there is one place that no citizen with any desire for peace and life would want to revisit: the 30 or so years that came before May 18, 2009.   And that, I believe, ladies and gentlemen, is something that we can be happy about, something we can and perhaps should celebrate.  In the name of all those who died, all those who suffered, all those who did not arrive at this ‘today’ and those who must inhabit the long ‘tomorrow’ of post May 18, 2009 Sri Lanka. 

[First published in 'The Nation' on May 22, 2012]

When students are tried and convicted by innuendo…

A couple of days ago a young rugby player died under tragic circumstances.  Wasim Thajudeen was just 28 years old.  His parents were naturally distraught.  His father, M. Thajudeen captured it all thus: ‘We never thought this would happen.  Now he has left us forever.  He took with him all our hopes.’ 
That’s what children are to parents.  Everything.  And this is why parents try to give their children everything possible.  They want the best for their children and are thrilled when their children come out best in whatever they do.  It is therefore tempting for parents to tweak the rules, pull a string here and there, even if only to get their child on the inside track in the matter of shining.

It’s a two-way street.  There are givers and there are takers.  It happens from Grade I, where teachers expect to be gifted and parents don’t dare refuse fearing that the ‘aggrieved’ teacher might exact retribution from their child, either through punishment or neglect.

Interference is wrong.  Promoting it is also wrong.  It hurts more than helps in the longer race called life.   And yet, we see this happening all the time, especially in sports.  It is particularly evident in the big-name schools and the glamour sports such as cricket and rugby.  Coaches are approached.  Teachers in charge are befriended and offered gifts.  When relevant, the old boys’/girls’ network is employed to obtain edge, be it in getting the child and opportunity, a place in the team or lenience during a run of poor form.

Needless to say those with the cash and the right connections have a better chance at promoting their children than those who don’t.  What is pernicious about that way of thinking and being is that if getting preferential treatment for the child fails, the focus changes to tripping his/her competitors.  That road quickly meets a destination called ‘anything is fair’ and there is no end to malice and foul play.  

The last few weeks, for example, saw a slew of ‘opinion’ pieces in several newspapers castigating a school, its authorities and rugby players for alleged misconduct.  They were all written in insinuation-language which fools no one but provides both newspaper and author a splendid cover.  If someone objects, they can say ‘well, we didn’t directly mention your school, so why are you getting upset?’  They could say ‘if the cap fits….’ and let the silence thereafter silence the objector. 

The target, let’s be open about it, was Royal College.  The reference to the school colours (blue and gold), clever play on the name of key players, pointing to of specific and identifiable rugby moments left no room for speculation on the matter.  The Lankadeepa (May 10 and 11), Mawbima (May 10 and 11), Ravaya (May 13), Daily Mirror (May 9, 11 and 15) carried author-less comments on the subject.  The accused do not have right of reply because the accusation is implied. Deliberately.  There are no reliable sources, only reference to ‘parents’ or ‘old boys’.   No tangible evidence. No effort evident in verifying the story.  The far-fetched character of the accusation has not raised eyebrows.  It’s trial and conviction by innuendo and insinuation. Trial and conviction in absentia.   Great journalism! 

I can say that all the parents of all the students in the rugby pool insisted that nothing of the kinds of incidents mentioned ever took place.  They have stated as much in an all-signed document.  End of story?  Sadly, no.

First of all, as long as editorial authorities are lax and unconcerned about the possible scars on the minds and hearts of the wrongly accused, and as long as ill-intentioned forces need to get their kicks by slinging mud from behind the solid screen of anonymity, these kinds of missives will get delivered to newspapers and will get published.

Then there is the impact.  The intended or unintended victim of slander in cases such as this is the student.  Right or wrong, the student is a minor, and for all the brawn and toughness of a rugby player, he remains a child, prone to error and indiscretion and requiring advice and compassion, even when wrong and deserving punishment.  And when blamelessness is abundantly clear the wrongdoing of these anonymous authors appears that much more pernicious and even perverse. 

Royal College is not blameless when it comes to the interference of the influential in matters such as getting a child into a team or being lenient on those guilty of indiscipline.  Few schools are, in fact.   In this case, however, the charge sheet is little better than an ill-worded, malice-ridden scurrilous pamphlet.  It is easy to tell the boys, ‘get on with the game, never mind these distractions,’ but lies have a way of acquiring lives of their own as was evident in a recent rugger match where insinuation manifested itself as a couple of prominent banners.  The movers and shakers might have got a laugh out of it, but those who helped set this nasty ball rolling should hang their heads in shame.   

Parents love their children.  They can love too much.  They can love to the point of willing bad things on those they believe are their children’s competitors.  One can only hope that these moves help mould character in the innocent victims.  One cannot think of kind things to say about the whisperers and their benefactors in newspapers.

[First published in 'The Nation,' May 20, 2012] 

Today we (don’t) celebrate 40 years of independence

I didn’t know much about holidays when I was 6 years old.  I knew the days of the week, but I never counted the days thinking of a school-free Saturday or Sunday.  ‘Weekend’ was a known word but not something that was important.  My mother woke me up 7 days of the week and wake-up time was the time she woke me up. ‘School days’ were the days she hurried to get me to brush my teeth. That much I knew.

There were Poya days and other holidays and they were not anticipated with any extra relish.  So it was unlikely that I found anything special when a Tuesday in the month of May in the year 1972 turned out to be a holiday.   I didn’t go to school that day.  The next day, Wednesday, was when I encountered ‘strange’.  I entered Royal Junior School from the Kumaratunga Munidasa Mawatha side, then as now better known as ‘Thurstan Road’ and proceeded towards the Navarangahala, skirting the school ground to get to my class, 2F.  There was a strange structure between the Navarangahala and the ground, an elegantly constructed platform.  What it was, I got to know, only when I got home and saw the Daily News.  I can’t remember the headline, but I remember inquiring from my father, a civil servant, what it was all about and he explained.

That was the day we won our political freedom.   Until that day a lady called Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, aka Queen Elizabeth II, was the official head of state.  That ‘head’ or ‘headness’ shall we say was the final fetter of political subjugation.  It was ceremoniously torn asunder on May 22, 1972, the day that we got our first Republican Constitution. 

The occasion, if not the day, was made to be remembered by a commemorative stamp with the simple word ‘Janarajaya’ or ‘Republic’ written against a backdrop of a pretty picture of a sunrise.  That stamp was around for long enough, following the earlier ‘unmistakables’ of a bunch of king-coconuts and a bluish stamp of S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike, which was 10 cents and later 15 (over a crossed ‘10’). 

The political importance of that day was unceremoniously erased in 1978, when the UNP reverted to the colonial ‘Independence Day’, February 4^th and for a few years May 22 was re-named ‘National Heroes Day’.  I can’t remember if it was a holiday even.  All I know is that May 22 was systematically erased from the public consciousness. 

The power of that erasure is such that I had forgotten about it until I saw a poster put out by the Lanka Sama Samaja Party (LSSP) commemorating the day we became a republic.  I know that commemoration and remembrance are not as important as the living of independence and a truly vibrant republic, but to the extent that we are a dependency that doesn’t seem to realize the fact or even care about it, and that our republic character is only evident in its breach, it seemed relevant to reflect on what May 22 meant. 

Let’s keep it to a few relevant facts.  First, to the extent that even formal ‘independence’ matters, February 4^th is but precursor to and not the deal itself.  Too much is made of it, especially since May 22^nd is ignored completely.  Secondly, it is the best ‘annual moment’ to discuss the dimensions of our independence.  We have no reason to indulge in self-congratulation because we are woefully dependent economically and have by and large been satisfied in letting others blueprint our development strategies -- policy packages which only further the interests of the blueprinters and not ours, ironically serving to further entrench dependency.  That condition of fettering, indeed, is what makes us most vulnerable when international bad boys (such as the USA, UK and the EU) needle us with preposterous charges and engage in insufferable arm-twisting. 

A gross blunder was made on that day.  Perhaps it was an innocent error by decision-makers of the day who knew little about history.  Then again, it could have been a deliberate slip on those who knew history very well and since fact rebelled against their outcome-preferences deliberately glossed over it.  On that day we ceased being Ceylon and became Sri Lanka.  What was not said at the time and said in hushed tones for fear of being name-called by those adept in the business of vilification, was the fact that Ceylon was the European corruption of ‘Sinhale’, the true name of the island, a fact inscribed in stone by no less a personality that Raja Raja I the marauding invader from what is called South India today (he refers to the island as ‘The land of the warlike Sinhalas’) as well as by countless travelers to the island.  ‘Ceylon’ should have stayed, and ‘Lanka’ should have reverted to ‘Sinhale’. 

The sleight of hand helped a lot of ‘divisionist’ operators and helped Tamil nationalism bleed into terrorism, one notes, not least of all with insane extrapolations of meaningless ‘multi-ethnic; multi-religious’ rhetoric  which did not even bother to footnote percentages and ignored the question, ‘are there any and were there any mono-ethnic, mono-religious polities, and if not what’s your point?’   

All that came later to me, but back then, it was another day of the week.  A Tuesday that was not recognized as such.  I remember May 23, 1972.  It was a rainy day.  The ground was muddy.  I walked up to that ‘platform’ where the important political moment was officially announced.  It was a nice construction. Simple.  It was story-less to the eyes of a 6 year old boy.  That memory stayed, though, and today, 40 years later, it says a lot more, much more than I would have ever dreamed that day, around 10 am, a few minutes into the school ‘interval’. 

I am thinking right now, ‘We should reflect more on that day, the 22^nd of the month of May, in the year 1972’.