The timeless May Day and flowers that refuse to die

The powerful have neat ways of dealing with issues and groups. Some are bought over, the promise of material wealth and/or position being alluring enough to attract quite a few over to the "other side". Parliamentary "cross overs" constitute just one such example. Sometimes the ideas are hijacked. If you were to flip through the web pages of the World Bank, the IMF or related zamindars in the development game such as USAID, you might well wonder what all these NGOs and development experts are doing talking about sustainable development, participation, gender equality and traditional knowledge, for the Big Bosses themselves have deftly pick-pocketed their terminology, and, as Big Bosses are wont to do, have redefined these terms closer to their own intents and purposes.

There are other ways, among which is the dedication of a particular day for celebration and voicing of concern. And so we have one day for women, a day for the earth, a day for national heroes, one for the farmers, one to talk about water and we have May Day for the workers. I almost forgot, we also have an Independence Day.

What happens during the rest of the year? Right, women are harassed, sexually and otherwise. The environment is ravaged and the earth scarred, farmers are kicked out of their land or are forced to work as wage labour on their own property, the memory of heroes are defiled, and labour exploited. The market forces and its ideological allies such as "progress" and patriarchy see to all this. 

Anyway, May Day has a history, a history that capital and its creatures in government have done their best to erase in the country where it originated, predictably, the United States of America. The holiday began in the 1880s with the fight for an eight-hour working day, for now the first of May is "Law Day" there. Reminds me of Lenin's famous dictum "the law is the will of the ruling class".

In 1884, the Federation of Organized Trades and Labor Unions passed a resolution stating that eight hours would constitute a legal day's work from and after May 1, 1886. The resolution called for a general strike to achieve the goal, since legislative methods had already failed. With workers being forced to work ten, twelve, and fourteen hours a day, rank-and-file support for the eight-hour movement grew rapidly, despite the indifference and hostility of many union leaders. By April 1886, 250,000 workers were involved in the May Day movement.

The heart of the movement was in Chicago, organised primarily by the anarchist International Working People's Association. Businesses and the state were terrified by the increasingly revolutionary character of the movement and prepared accordingly.

The police and militia were increased in size and received new and powerful weapons financed by local business leaders. Chicago's Commercial Club purchased a $2000 machine gun for the Illinois National Guard to be used against strikers. Nevertheless, by May 1st, the movement had already won gains for many Chicago clothing cutters, shoemakers, and packing-house workers. But on May 3, 1886, police fired into a crowd of strikers at the McCormick Reaper Works Factory, killing four and wounding many. Anarchists called for a mass meeting the next day in Haymarket Square to protest the brutality.

The meeting proceeded without incident, and by the time the last speaker was on the platform, the rainy gathering was already breaking up, with only a few hundred people remaining. It was then that 180 cops marched into the square and ordered the meeting to disperse. As the speakers climbed down from the platform, a bomb was thrown at the police, killing one and injuring seventy.

Police responded by firing into the crowd, killing one worker and injuring many others.

Although it was never determined who threw the bomb, the incident was used as an excuse to attack the entire Left and labour movement. Police ransacked the homes and offices of suspected radicals, and hundreds were arrested without charge. Anarchists in particular were harassed, and eight of Chicago's most active were charged with conspiracy to murder in connection with the Haymarket bombing. A kangaroo court found all eight guilty, despite a lack of evidence connecting any of them to the bomb-thrower (only one was even present at the meeting, and he was on the speakers' platform), and they were sentenced to die. 

Albert Parsons, August Spies, Adolf Fischer, and George Engel were hanged on November 11, 1887. Louis Lingg committed suicide in prison. The remaining three were finally pardoned in 1893.

Ever since then, the working class has come out in full force on the first of May, although, lamentably, not always together, to shout out loud their numerous grievances, to remember struggles, caress the callused hands and stout hearts of comrades and gather resolve and strength in the necessary struggles. Too often this outpouring does not spill over to the work place and elsewhere where resistance and struggle ought to occur and very rarely in a sustained manner.

For the ancient Left, May Day has become something little more than a perennial "last hurrah," increasingly taking on the appearance of a comedy of errors given their wholesale sell-out to the forces of capital that spark the PA. The younger Old Left, i.e. the JVP, seems to have entrenched itself as the last refuge of those who subscribe to the agitational reading of Marxism, and usually puts up a good show on the 1st of May. They have their own brand of trade unionism, the worth of which is open to debate. Other trade unions such as the CMU, I now believe, who are out of the crass world of power politics, have achieved much more for the workers than have these parties whose politics are by and large operations of political expediency. The UNP and the PA have lost the right to speak for the workers, having bashed them over the head with more than one draconian law, not to mention turning the state into a capital subsidising machine.

Then there are the Tamil and Muslim parties. They operate in a world where the human being has one identity, ethnicity. The violence done to their working class brethren in the name of "community" is never talked about, perhaps because each and everyone who did talk or could talk were systematically done away with or coerced to join the LTTE. No, I am not forgetting the CWC. For the CWC, which is still living in the colonial era, the only workers in "Ceylon" are Tamils in the estates. May Day, they seem to have forgotten, is just another name for International Workers' Day. I know, it is a bit too much to expect those who defend parochial interests to see beyond ethnicity. And especially when such identities are embraced as tightly as the CWC does.

The idea of May Day, regardless of the meaning those two words have for the aforementioned parties, is something that resists the reductionism embedded in a pre-defined day. If oppression does not limit itself to the kind of calanderisation that May Day has been trapped in, it goes without saying that responding to, resisting and overcoming oppression is timeless. The true struggles of working people can never bear fruit if the parameters of engagement remain those that are set by the oppressor.

"Struggle," the political scientist would say, comes in many forms. Peaceful satyagrahas, hunger strikes, picketing, rallies, demonstrations, marches are all part and parcel of the game of agitation. And anyone who resists reductionism would add that just as armed struggle cannot be taken as the one and only "way," by the same token, saying "no" to arms regardless of the circumstances, is as faulty a proposition. Where the state cannot give the minimum guarantees with respect to worker's rights, where it is illegal for workers in the so-called free trade zones to unionise, where a fundamental document such as the Workers' Charter is defeated simply because the chamber pots of commerce feel that it impinges on their "right" to defecate on the working class, it is natural for workers to resort to organised agitation.

Where such agitation is met with baton charges and tear gas attacks, the bosses should understand that at some point desperate men and women will fight back. For nothing is conceded by those who wield power and wealth unless they are pushed out of the comfort zones won by silencing the exploited. A case in point is the New Deal in the USA. It was less a product of a benevolent leadership that a victory won by militant labour.

Today, we are in the 21st century. The issues are different, so are the terms. It is no longer capitalism. The new name of the beast is globalisation. The target is not just the workers, but the indigene and his/her way of life. The worker, I believe, must take a walk down history, rediscover roots and engage with the world with the full strength that comes from a sensitivity to environment, culture and heritage. In this, we have to recognise, as Bala Tampoe says, that we are first of all human beings, then members of a community, then workers, and only after all this are we members of a union or a party.

And here, the words and thinking of Joseph Hillstrom, better known as Joe Hill, the great American labour leader who was murdered by a firing squad, are pertinent. In his will, he asked that his ashes be strewn across the land, "so flowers that refuse to die will rise up strong and stand". But more than this, he said, "Don't mourn. Organise!" 

In the year 2014, as has always been the case, organising" will certainly follow the familiar paths taken by the Left. It will also take other avenues, other forms. Some of it underground, for just as the dreams that soar into the clouds are brought down by the acid rains that progress has generated, the good earth filters and draws into her bosom the children who care enough to fight her immemorial battles.

msenevira@gmail.com

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Citizenship that cannot be robbed

A string of pearls does not always refer to a necklace adorning a woman’s neck.  These days it refers to a network of Chinese facilities/relationships along its sea lines of communication from China to Port Sudan.  It’s a term tossed around by some who are concerned about growing Chinese influence around the world.  Not surprisingly, the ‘concerned’ have their own ‘pearls’. They don’t lie neat in a way that ‘threading’ is possible. Rather, they pockmark the world. Worse, they are all about first-strike capacity.

This string of pearls is relevant because Sri Lanka is one of the nodes.  A pearl, let’s say, or more precisely a would-be pearl or a wannabe pearl, depending on who is describe it.  Sri Lanka is eyed for pock-marking too in the manner that Diego Garcia is a pockmark.  In this business, sweetness of term means little. A pearl is as pernicious as a pockmark. 

But Sri Lanka is a pearl.  It is as pearl to her people as any other nation is pearl to its citizenry. Sri Lanka was and is pearl to others for many reasons. This is why it is sometimes called ‘Pearl of the Indian Ocean’.  This is why, a few weeks ago, when a group of people who decided to cycle around the island in order to create awareness about Cerebral Palsy and raise money to purchase 1,000 wheelchairs for victims of the disease called their project ‘Around the Pearl’.

There are approximately 40,000 people suffering from Cerebral Palsy. They won’t get better. A wheel chair, however, can make an immediate difference.  Those who organized, helped and took part in this wheels-for-wheels exercise of cycling 1350km in just ten days in the scorching sun and over unforgiving terrain, need to be applauded and more than that, supported.

There are many lessons that traveling of any kind confers on traveler.  In this case there are the hard lessons of endurance, the re-discovery of body and self, courage, determination and resilience.  Then there are other lessons that warrant mention. These refer to pearls. 

The first, one of the riders, Peter Bluck, made a pertinent observation: ‘This is the result of the war ending’. True.  War-end opens territories and opens hearts.  People don’t think about it all the time, but if one were to reflect on what one does and what one sees being done and asks the question, ‘Would this have been possible before May 2009?’ the answer would be ‘no’ nine times out of ten.  It’s simple: people don’t count blessings, they count curses. The result is frustration.  Next comes the blame game.  Then barbs this way and that.  That way is patently unproductive.

Another rider, Yasas Hewage, spoke of the positives: ‘It took me 36 years to finally see the full coastal belt of Sri Lanka....and when you are greeted with smiles in every town ...you are convinced Sri Lanka is a free country ......while we search for a perfect world...makes sense to enjoy what we have in the mean time.’

True.

There are enough imperfections around us. Some of them have nothing to do with the long years of conflict or what are said to have been the causes.  It goes without saying that those with power can do much more.  Power makes for change. It makes for undoing things as well.  The balance sheet is nothing we can be proud of as a nation.

However, even as relevant authorities including elected representatives, do nothing, or worse, complicate matters further, there’s ample room for ordinary people to take ownership over this pearl. They can admire. They can capture in photograph or word.  They can polish it.  They can make it gleam.  Those who went around the pearl did exactly that.   

Belonging to the land is at one level a personal choice.  No law can rob that kind of citizenship.  There is a way that pockmarks can be smoothed over.  There is a way to unearth pearls. There is a way to acknowledge imperfections and yet not let them drag you down.  There are many ways to go ‘around the pearl’.  Indeed, one might even argue that the exploration of those many ways is the one way to resist being pockmarked by outside interests, whether or not it is called pockmark or pearl. 

msenevira@gmail.com

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Sajith speaks about his dilemma*

To be frank I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  I could laugh for many reasons.  I could cry too.  Let me explain why. 

Recently some of my colleagues in the United National Party visited Hambantota.  Now President Rajapaksa, his brothers, sons and other relatives act as though Hambantota belongs to them.  Sure, they’ve been there for generations. I am a relative newcomer.  But then again, it’s my ‘home base’ now and the people have thought fit to elect me to represent them.  I have a claim.  Since I have a claim, I have a say.  I have a right to a tear. Or a smile.

The gentlemen from the UNP didn’t come anywhere near during the Southern Provincial Council election.  They hadn’t scheduled a courtesy call either.  That’s bad.  Made me want to cry.  

Maybe that’s because I have not been kind to them.  They probably know that I invited people kicked out of the party to speak at my rallies.  The invitees blasted the party leaders, including the Leadership Council.  The good MPs who visited Hambantota would not have been pleased.  Still, they had to come to MY backyard.  That made me smile.

They were attacked and some of them manhandled by some local thugs led by the Mayor of Hambantota Eraj Fernando.  That made me sad.  Made me want to cry.  On the other hand, I know as almost everyone knows that there’s no love lost between that set of gentlemen and myself.  They don’t exactly love me and I don’t love them either.  I am an electorate man and some of them are national-list men.  I am a people’s person and some of them are release-writers.  I talk, I walk.  Now they know what real politics is like. Now they know what kind of challenges the rank and file of the party, the men and women on the ground, have to face when taking on the regime.  I couldn’t stop the smirk, sorry.  Still, there’s a tear that swells to ear and that swelling wipes off smirk. I am sad they had to face a barrage of rotten eggs and tomatoes. It makes me cry to think they had to see a man brandishing a pistol running at them. 

I have other reasons to be sad too.  The media made me sad. Some media institutions tried to implicate me in the attack. I am not an attacking person.  I won’t attack anyone. I didn’t bring thugs to Sirikotha.  I prefer to put in a word here and there, look the other way, and when it gets so hot that I might get burnt, I appeal for calm.  I am sad that it was suggested that I sent thugs to ‘receive’ my UNP colleagues. 

It made me laugh too.  I mean, who would swallow that kind of lie?  No one believed it.  As anyone would have expected, there was stuff caught on camera. It was clear who was armed and who was throwing the punches. Sajith Premadasa was nowhere near. 

All this made me sad. Some of it made me laugh.  The saddest thing for me, however, is the fact that the UPFA thugs have not seen me as a big enough reason to worry about to attack me.  They have ample opportunity because I spend a lot of time in Hambantota.  They’ve never bothered me. I’ve not been attacked.  I feel bad.  I wish I caught a rotten egg on my face once in a while.  That would mean that someone takes me seriously, someone considered me a threat.   I am livid that these thugs consider the visiting MPs to constitute threat.  I am even more angry that they have not even tossed a pebble in my direction.  AM I NOT A THREAT?  AM I NOT A CHALLENGE?  WHY IS NO ONE TAKING ANY NOTICE OF ME? WHY, WHY, WHY? 

I can’t take it. I can’t go on.  I need tissues.  A boxful of them.

*In a parallel universe 

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Barack Obama’s amazing Márquez moment

Gabrial García Márquez lived a life. He wrote of lives and relationships, continents and histories, insults and humiliation. He unwrapped structures, teased apart production relations, laid out political economies without ever using those terms.  He wrote of people and peoples and in doing so described the commonalities of subjugation as well as the commonalities of resistance and resilience.  He wrote of love and loves, lovers and heartbreak. He gave us desolate landscapes where single flowers are cause for mindless celebration. He died.

When he died, the world lamented his passing.  When the world takes note, self-appointed world leaders, he would agree, must submit the proverbial two cents’ worth.  And so we have US President Barack Obama expressing his sorrow.   Obama tells us that Márquez was one of his favorite authors. He calls him a visionary. Sorry, ‘one of the greatest visionary writers’.  He mentions ‘magical realism’.  He offers thoughts to family and friends.  That’s it.

Reading Obama’s note one can’t help wondering if he’s actually read Márquez in the first instance and also whether he, Obama, has no clue about how the USA treated the writer.  For decades, Obama of all people ought to know, the USA stopped Márquez from entering the USA. It was not just Márquez of course. The USA has a policy of keeping out suspected Marxists, socialists and communists and their sympathizers (suspected of course).  Obama, who lets people call him an intellectual and a liberal, would know that it was not just Márquez.  He would know that the McCarran Act was used to stop many distinguished human beings, some of whom went on to win Nobel Prizes or nominations for the same. 

Kobo Abe, Tom Bottomore, Dennis Brutus, Julio Cortazar, Mahmoud Darwish, Michel Foucault, Dario Fo, Carlos Fuentes, Graham Greene, Doris Lessing, Ernest Mandel, Farley Mowat, Jan Myrdal, Pablo Neruda, Angel Rama and Pierre Trudeau are some of the thousands thus barred.  Obama would know of at least some of them.  If called upon to comment on any of these individuals, he would no doubt shower them with accolades and tell the world how they inspired him with their humanity, courage, resilience, sacrifice and outstanding abilities.  That’s Obama.

How could he forget that Márquez wrote about the glaring injustices perpetrated by the class whose interests Obama represents and on whose behalf Obama orders troops to wage war, displace communities, ravage lands and so on?  How could he forget that Márquez wrote about forgetting, natural and induced?  How could he forget that memory was important to Márquez and not just to keep tab on ailing celebrities of all kinds so that condolences can be fired off to the particular address? 

How can Obama talk of ‘Magical Realism’ without noting the ironies and the scathing critique of everything that Obama stands for and defends embedded in those magically real or really magical pieces Márquez worked into his text so effortlessly that magic bled into real and vice versa? If Obama was asked to offer a comment on Marquez' Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech, what would he have to say?

Obama could not have known that Márquez was denied visa to visit the USA when his ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ was published, prompting a group of US citizens, booksellers included, to try to fly to Cuba to see the author (‘We would go to him, since he couldn’t come to us’).  But that’s the USA that Obama rules.  Those are the rules that sustain the Obamas of this world and it’s those rules and rulers that Márquez writes about with senstitivity, noting human frailty but faulting the vile within them. 

A few days ago, Palesa Morudu wrote about Márquez.  Morudu wonders, ‘does President Jacob Zuma read Garcia Márquez during his free time at Nkandla?’  The reason for the wonderment is an oft repeated quote from ‘The Autumn of the Patriarch’ where the dictator ‘discovered in the course of his uncountable years that a lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth’. 

Perhaps that is a reality that grows on the Obamas and Zumas of this world.  This is why Barack Obama wrote what he did about Márquez.  And this is also why the Obamas and Zumas are read in particular ways by those who have read Márquez.

Márquez loved Cuba. He was friend to Fidel Castro.  He must have had reasons.  Those reasons are not too hard to fathom. 

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Team of the Year 2014: Wheels for Wheels Foundation

They polished the pearl with every push on the pedal

There’s the cricket team that secured ICC silver after many years, winning the T-20 World Cup.  There’s the chess team that won a Gold at the Chess Olympiad in Tromso, Norway, fighting well above its weight.  But there are teams and teams, those that compete against opponents and those that compete for their fellow creatures.  The team of cyclists who went around the pearl that is Sri Lanka to raise money for children suffering from Cerebral Palsy is special.  ‘The Nation’ picks these courageous and inspiring citizens as ‘The Team of the Year 2014’.

Ajith Fernando knew that he would turn 50 within a few months.  He wanted to do something different.  He thought of raising money for a charity.

Sarinda Unamboowe was thinking about cycling around the country.  Randomly. He was not a biker.  He had never cycled more than 80 km. 

Dr Gopi Kitnasamy, head of the Physiotherapy Department of Durdans Hospital is also the Founder Director of Cerebral Palsy Lanka Foundation.  He was looking to raise funds.  He wanted to raise enough money to purchase 1000 wheelchairs especially designed for children suffering from Cerebral Palsy; children from rural areas and poor families. 

Ranil De Silva of Leo Burnett wanted to help Dr Gopi Kitnasamy.  There was no plan as such.  Ranil had met Ajith.  Ajith had spoken about his ‘birthday wish’.  Ranil spoke of Cerebral Palsy.  Sarinda, Ajith’s classmate at Royal and a longtime friend, had called Ajith randomly.  He knew that Ajith was a serious cyclist.  Fit as a fiddle.  Ajith did not know Dr Gopi’s connection in all this.  Ajith met Dr. Gopi.  Randomly. 

The two discovered that each was part of the same story.  That was the ‘introduction’ to what would become an epic.  That epic was called ‘Around the Pearl,’ the name being given by Yasas Hewage.  Yasas also came up with another elegant tag, ‘Wheels for wheels’. 

Word got around.  Leo Burnett designed a communications campaign around the lines provided by Yasas.  There were some sponsors, mostly friends who didn’t do it for the publicity.  There was Janashakthi and Orient Finance.  Ajith and Sarinda mentioned ‘Olu Water’ who provided 800 bottles of which 788 were consumed.  They insisted, ‘there was no commercial interest’. 

Serious cyclists said ‘yes, let’s do it’.  Amateurs like Sarinda and Charlene Thuring were game.  Charlene, incidentally, was the only female in the team of riders.  The planning, apparently, had been weak but that didn’t matter.  Each of the dozen who decided to cycle some 1350 km in just 10 days funded themselves.  They found places to stay and these were the de-facto daily destinations. 

It was for a good cause.  ‘There is no “getting-better” for those who have this disease, but their lives could be made more comfortable if they had wheelchairs; here was an opportunity to make a significant improvement in their lives instantly,’ Sarinda said.  And so they decided to ride. They decided that riding would help create more awareness of ailment and need. They decided that it might generate some funds.  By the time they finished, those who were moved by their effort and all the sacrifices therein, moved themselves. They received money or pledges enough to obtain 700 wheelchairs. 

The experienced cyclists may have had some idea of the challenges ahead, the others may have wondered if their bodies would hold up.  It was unfamiliar territory in a more practical sense too.  No one had done it before.  Indeed, no one could do it before.  As Peter Bluck, another professional cyclist put it, ‘This is the result of the war ending’. 

Ajith and Sarinda concurred.  They said that they went through places whose names were associated only with the three decades long war. They were not places that had place-names but war-place-names.  These riders, on this occasion, did not have to contend with security checks, warring groups or multibarrel fire.  There were no ‘uncleared areas’ except those in mind and body, pertaining naturally to endurance and will.  They were duly cleared and as always through great effort and at great cost. 

It all happened from April 10-20, 2014.  Twelve cyclists took off from Colombo. They would head South and take that route around the coast through the Southern, Eastern, Northern and North-Western Provinces and end in the West.  They had one mechanic accompanying them.  The support-team could be called rag-tag, but they proved to be a critical cog in the entire exercise.  They encouraged, attended to the wounds, aches and pains the riders picked up along the way, and sorted out logistics.  The riders didn’t have to worry about such things. They had, after all, a lot more to worry about, all of them.  That ‘all’ is as follows: Ajith Fernando, Yasas Hewage, Jehan Bastian, Suren Abeysuriya, Dushmantha Jayasinghe, Anudatte Dias, Peter Bluck, Gihan Hemachandre, Ravi Weerapperuma, Sarinda Unamboowe, Charlene Thuring, and the support crew, Ajani Hewage, the Leo Burnett and ARC teams.

They all discovered that the world looks and feels different when you are on a bike (as opposed to being in a car).  ‘The road is not flat by any means,’ Sarinda said.  ‘When people say “there’s a flat stretch” they mean that it’s smooth for a car.  In the case of a bike every pebble is a huge bump.  The notion of ‘flat’ is warped!’

Quitting mentally had not been an issue, but they could not tell if their bodies would hold.  They were all sun-burnt. Badly.  Some had blisters. Some were plagued by cramps.  One picked up a pinched nerve in the neck and carried it all around the island.  Ajith said that the body adjusts, gets better, over time.  Sarinda said that Day 2 was the worst. That was when he had come close to quitting.  He pulled through. Everyone did.  Ajith and Yasas Hewage, who led the pack, as well as the more experienced cyclists had helped.  One of them would fall back to encourage those who were finding the going difficult. 

‘Ajith and Yasas managed it very well.  They assessed all factors including the physical conditions of each and every member of the team. They would decided when to take a break and how to deal with particular situations,’  Sarinda recalled. 

This, folks, was the hottest time of the year. April.  The sun is right above Sri Lanka at this time.   They had an explanation.  It had to be ‘holiday time’ because this was when a decent number of people could take off enough time from work.  ‘The sun builds character,’ someone had said and that line apparently was repeated frequently, with less and less enthusiasm and more and more irony bordering on bitterness. 

Sarinda writes with humor about it now in his blog www.thebonemarrowdiaries.blogspot.com: ‘Mother nature was a heartless old cow. Praying, begging, pleading, demanding doesn't work with her. I did all of the above asking her for one cloud, just one single cloud, but instead of obliging the only cloud the cranky old bag sent stayed over head for about thirty seconds and then scooted across the road into the uncleared mine fields we were riding through.’

They could not ride at night.  Ajith said that it would have been easy had they ridden at night, but that would defeat the purpose of creating awareness: ‘we needed visibility.’ 

Dr Gopi didn’t accompany them.  He followed them, though, as did hundreds and thousands of others, who were treated to blogposts, facebook status messages and tweets about where they were, what they felt, how they suffered and how they retained their focus and sense of humor. 

They've done it.  Have we done our part?  

‘It is a truly great thing they have done for those who suffer from Cerebral Palsy. Few would do anything like what they did.  They sacrificed so much.  They were away from their families. They sacrificed their holidays.’  That’s how he expressed his gratitude. 

The ‘team’ appreciated all the support it got.  They were all full of praise for the man who made sure that breakdowns would not derail the project. M.D. Sajith Aruna Kumara.  Sajith was the official mechanic.  He is more than a mechanic though.  He rode with the team.  All the way ‘around the pearl’.  Sajith, unlike any of the riders, is a professional cyclist in that he has competed in cycling events and bagging quite a few titles.  

‘It was an amazing experience for me.  We covered the most difficult terrains.  We were welcomed by everyone we met. There were Sinhala and Tamil people who greeted us warmly, spoke with us, and offered refreshments.  The security forces, especially the Navy, were extremely helpful.  The team was wonderful.  They all had good bikes. I just had my “standard” machine, but I knew I could keep up.  In fact I was able to help some of the riders who accepted with humility whatever advice I had to give.’

It’s still not over though.  Not for any of them. Dr Gopi estimates there to be around 40,000 people suffering from Cerebral Palsy.  This project reaches out only to a fraction.  He encourages people to contact the Foundation for more information.  The Cerebral Palsy Lanka Foundation is located at No 7, Capt Kelum Rajapakse Mawatha, Wattala.  You could also write to him at gopi291975@yahoo.com or call him on 0777-554328 or 0714-342247.  The Foundation’s website, www.cplanka.org also contains relevant information. 

It's our turn to ride now, isn't it?

It is something they can all look back at and be proud, but they all recognize that the harder work happens now, obviously. Sarinda, who was a live wire in that other amazing fund-raising project, ‘The Trail’, which resulted in the construction of a cancer hospital in Jaffna, is at it.  They’ve gone around the pearl (of the Indian Ocean), but their mental and physical wheels have not come to a stop.  Knowing Sarinda, he won’t quit.  He will get to ‘1000’ somehow.  He won’t stop their either. 

Ajith Fernando’s birthday is still a few months away.  He won’t forget his fiftieth year in a hurry.  It began as a simple birthday wish.  It became something few would have imagined a few months ago.  He has his theories. 

‘There’s a book by called James Redfield called “Celestine Prophesy”.  It’s like this.  Sometimes when you are in tune with the energies of the universe, when your purposes are good, the elements conspire to give what you what.  Some might call it coincidence, but it is not.  Everything came together.  Everyone came together.’ 

And then he related how it all began, as recounted above.  None had envisioned the ‘end’.  Everyone, though, had imagined a piece of the story.  It could not be written by any single individual.  It had to be narrated collectively.  It was written around the island of Sri Lanka, a pearl if ever there was one.  From heartbeat to heartbeat, through blister and soreness, the temptation to stop and the will to go on and on and on, these twelve riders inscribed ‘gleam’ on the pearl, with each push on the pedal.  Wheels turned so other wheels could turn.  We are blessed, more than thrice, one could conclude.   

msenevira@gmail.com 

  

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Let's give all of them toy guns and other tidbits

Let's give all of them toy guns

It is clear that Eraj Fernando, the Mayor of Hambantota, is a 'peaceful' man.  He's so peaceful that he doesn't own a gun.  He doesn't need one. He believes that a toy gun would be more than enough to protect himself.  He's teaching the political fraternity a good lesson.  The relevant authorities should now take steps to seize all real weapons from all politicians and their security personnel.  Instead they can be provided with toy guns and water pistols.  Indeed they might as well go the whole hog: seize the vehicles and replace them with toy-cars, replace police officers and other security personnel with dolls.  If it's a game, then let's have a game-culture.   

SF's reading skills

The recent attack on UNP parliamentarians in Hambantota was roundly condemned by all, except the senior party colleagues of the thug who organized and participated in the attack, who chose to maintain silence.  It was not a one-off act of thuggery.  Ruling party strongmen have time and again flexed muscles and more.  However, to say that the attack somehow justifies the UNHRC Resolution on Sri Lanka only demonstrates political naiveté or crass exploitation of a situation for personal benefit at the possible cost of sovereignty.  Sarath Fonseka should be pardoned for being so silly on this matter; the man, after all, is a political novice.  If he's looking to the UNP and UPFA for lessons, then he's a fast learner.  But wasn't he saying 'I am different' not too long ago?

Seizing contaminated water

The Consumer Affairs Authority (CAA) has seized some 37,000 bottles of water from a bottling plant after it was found that the water contained some chemical.  The CAA ought to have sealed the factory immediately.  Anyway, the prompt action by the CAA is to be applauded.  This raises the question, however, about other kinds of contamination.  How about chemicals and other poisons that contaminate vast swathes of agricultural land? Why are the authorities not imposing a total ban on these poisons?  Is it that some kinds of contamination are ok?  Is it because the first to be poisoned by chemicals is the poor farmers while the bottled versions hit the richer folk?

The Dengue mosquitos’ prejudice

It is reported that five schools in Hanwella have been closed due to the threat of Dengue.  It is a good move.  The premises have to be cleaned before schools can be reopened.  This raises a question, however.  Is the Dengue mosquito selective 'dirty schools' as it’s preferred 'feeding ground'?  Why has it not 'attacked' the environs of pradeshiya sabhas, provincial councils and yes, the parliament too?  Are these places 'clean'?  Well, we know that these are dirty places because those who populate these places are dirty folk. Why can't the Dengue mosquito shit its feeding ground?  Getting these dirty institutions closed for a few weeks, after all, would yield an added benefit to the community. 

Elephant Dance

Authorities at the Dehiwala Zoo have suspended the daily 'Elephant Dance' which has for years been a key attraction.  Zoo authorities claim that some of the elephants have contracted TB and this is why the decision had been taken.  Perhaps there's another reason.  Perhaps visitors are getting less and less interested in the antics of elephants in the zoo, simply because their cousins (the elephants', not the visitors') provided enough entertainment already.

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Shakespeare's ageless age

How old is William Shakespeare, do you know?  You could frame that question another way: how young is he? Do we know? Will we ever know?  How does one gauge age of an author with the kind of ability Shakespeare possessed to play with word, turn and twist phrase, lay out narratives that delight and damn and keep it all as relevant now as it was when first to paper he put his pen?  Impossible.

William Shakespeare is as old as King Lear when he arrogantly tore up peopled-lands to gift his daughters. He is as young as King Lear when the monarch was reduced to his human dimensions and inflicted with insanity.  Shakespeare is as old as Julius Caesar when that ambitious man was slain, and as young as Mark Antony when he made his funeral speech and taught the world what demagoguery is all about.  He is as young as Romeo was when he wooed Juliet. He is as old as Shylock and as young as Portia.  Need we continue?

William Shakespeare is 450 years old today.  For thousands who encounter him on this day for the first time, however, William Shakespeare has just seen the light of day. Let us rejoice!

msenevira@gmail.com

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When the law is ‘plaything’…

The gains made by the Democratic Party (DP) and the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) at the recently concluded elections for the Southern and Western Provincial Councils, along with modest performances by the ruling party and the main opposition party as well as a relatively lower voter turnout can be read in many ways.  One explanation has been dissatisfaction with the law and order situation in the country.

This is not about rise in crime.  It is not about a blanket dismissal of all entities coming under the Defence Ministry.  After all there’s been no objection whatsoever about the operations that led to the elimination of a group that sought to re-invent the LTTE.  What probably demanded disapproval to the point that many stayed home while other gravitated to the DP and JVP (and not the UNP) is the abysmal track record of this government when it comes to dealing with the vexed issue of politicians playing policemen and policemen playing bystanders. 

Certain crimes are solved at amazing speed.  Kidnappers are nabbed and abducted children rescued in record time.  The whole business of capturing Gobi, Appan and Thevian, all hardcore terrorists, along with the entire network of operatives was swiftly done.  Thus incompetence is a non-factor.  The police and other investigative entities of the state are more than capable of bringing to book criminals.  They can uphold the law and enforce it too. If and when they want to. Therein lies the catch.  In other words there are ‘untouchables’ in the business of maintaining law and order. 

During the last election, there was an incident where thugs working for one of the ruling party candidates assaulted a fellow candidate from the same party.  The police refused to act on the complaint.  Friends of the victim had to use all resources they could muster to do their own investigation and then call upon high-ups known to them before the perpetrators could be apprehended.  A senior minister was part of these moves.  If that’s what it takes for justice to take its natural course in instances such as the one described, then what hope is there for an ordinary citizen who is not thus endowed if and when he/she has to deal with an abusive politician? 

These things are noticed. They are known. They are talked about.  Some may take it as a ‘systemic inevitable’ but others will fault those who are able to but do nothing about correcting these flaws.  Some may stay at home and others will choose to ‘teach a lesson’.  The dynamics will no doubt be different when it comes to major elections when other issues come into play, but these ‘minor’ elections can make ‘loyalists’ do a bit of ‘betrayal’. 

On the other hand, lesson-teaching can have consequences, especially if it is felt that lessons are not being learned.  In 1994, for example, the People’s Alliance (PA) led by Chandrika Kumaratunga won not on account of the lady’s alleged charisma or some kind of manifesto-edge the party enjoyed over the UNP; it was largely about ‘had enough’.  Things add up.  True, even then the PA secured only a wafer-thin majority in Parliament and Sarath N Silva hadn’t issued a determination that made for large scale ‘purchase’ of MPs by the ruling party, but 1994 was nevertheless a turning point. 

We are a long way from a 21^st Century version of 1994.  We won’t get another 1977 anytime soon either.  We won’t get another ‘LTTE time’ if we are alert enough.  We might, however, get to 1988-89 not because people are starving to the point of desperation (the wine stores and clothing stores were full during ‘Avurudu’ and even a cursory glance at Diyatha Uyana on a holiday would make the UNP’s doomsday predictions sound hollow) but because they feel they are lesser citizens vis-à-vis the politician. 

This government is not only saying ‘the law is our plaything’ it is giving a green light to the lawless.  Those who are left out of this game will find the government a more tangible target to vent anger on than hooded thugs that prey on the random helpless.  It might take the ‘lesser form’ of picking Hirunika Premachandra in order to let the powers that be know that bending over backwards to protect Duminda Silva is nauseating.  It might take a more potent form of looking for a default -option outside the UPFA.  It could also take violent form which needless to say won’t change status quo but would probably plunge the country into a blood-letting situation that no one really wants or would applaud.   

The primary flaw here is the callous disregard for system and a preference for a case-by-case approach which of course is basically a play of protecting favorites.  Systems, logic, strategies and such are what made it possible to defeat the LTTE. Systems are not perfect but they tend to deliver more than random, hit-miss, one-off tactics. 

This is about elections and regime-preservation, which of course are what politicians are most concerned about.  It is also about squandering all the positives of eliminating terrorism just because egos get in the way and because ‘friends must help friends’. That’s politics.  It is not statesmanship.  Whatever you want to call it, a door is slowly being opened for anarchy.  When that door swings open fully, there’s no telling who will be left to tell the tale.  The UNP regime prevailed over the JVP, the TULF/TNA survived the passing of the LTTE, but many in these political parties didn’t live to see ‘Victory Day’. 

That’s a problem that politicians must resolve, especially those in the UPFA.  As for the people, they have little choice in ‘methodology’.  Having ‘little choice’ is breeding ground for insurrection.  It constitutes ‘final push’ from apathy to action. 

msenevira@gmail.com

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Farbrace’s crossover does not diminish but empowers

The resignation of Paul Farbrace, some say, has plunged Sri Lanka Cricket into crisis.  That’s interesting.  First of all there’s this question: when was Sri Lanka Cricket ever not in crisis?  Sri Lanka has enjoyed unbelievable success over the past two decades and one is compelled to say it is not because of the cricket authorities but in spite of them.  So if anyone is down in the mouth about Farbrace quitting, it’s time to get a grip, get real and turn those lips in the opposite direction.

Sure, the timing could have been better.  Farbrace is set to take up a coaching job with England’s cricket team which is about to host the very players the man was in charge of until a few days ago.  Someone might say ‘that’s not cricket’ but that someone must be totally oblivious to what ‘cricket’ has come to mean in recent years: bucks, contracts and careers.  Farbrace cannot be blamed for playing cricket the way it is being played all over the world. 

Sure, Sri Lanka enjoyed a dream run during his tenure, winning the Asia Cup and the World T20.  He must have contributed in some way, no one will deny that.  It was not a one-man show however, and not in the sense that some officials of Sri Lanka Cricket make that claim.  There was Marvan Atapattu, Chaminda Vaas and Ruwan Kalpage.  There were the selectors led by Sanath Jayasuriya who had to double up as peace-maker between players and officials on more than one occasion.  And there were the men who did battle out there in the middle even as they were being treated shabbily by the authorities.   All these ‘other’ pieces of the puzzle are intact including the officials (maybe they unintentionally spurred the players on, who knows?).  For these reasons, Farbrace’s leaving is not the end of the world and not the end of cricket in Sri Lanka.

Farbrace is gone.  He’s taken whatever ‘secrets’ he (and the England and Wales Cricket Board) believe would be useful for England as they take on Sri Lanka.  All that’s water under the bridge.  Happens.  Got to live with it.  It is not the ideal situation to have a general pledge allegiance to the enemy just before battle of course, but there’s precious little anyone can do about it. 

All that Sri Lanka can do about it is to remind themselves that the challenge got a bit stiffer.  More importantly, Matthews and his men call it what it is, an insult, and take strength from how Sri Lanka has responded to insult on previous occasions: with greater determination, greater focus and greater sense of team/collective.

First, there was 1996 and the deliberate, ill-willed and consorted attack on Muttiah Muralitharan.  Of course it would be erroneous to draw a straight line from the infamous ‘no-balling’ to the World Cup victory in Lahore a few months later, but few would deny that Arjuna Ranatunga’s team was not bowled over but rather found in the world fiasco a reservoir of strength to draw from at will. 

More recently Sri Lanka was insulted by India.  We saw this during IPL 2013 when Tamil Nadu politics spilled into the cricket grounds.  Sri Lankan players were no-balled and stumped even before they could step into the ground.  There was also the ‘Big Three Coup’ that amounted to short-changing other test-playing countries, including Sri Lanka.  The IPL, during this year’s auction, roundly snubbed Sri Lanka.  Then there’s the annual Geneva Circus which India uses as arm-twisting instrument to get Sri Lanka to toe the Indian line.  Like in the Australian case, one can draw a straight line from all this to the T20 World Cup final where Sri Lanka beat India.  The cricketers went about their business professionally.  However, if they needed an extra ounce or two of determination, there were ample stocks to draw from.  With respect to India.

It’s not about revenge, no.  It’s about thinking ‘Ok buddy, you’ve insulted us, that’s ok, but remember that it empowers rather than diminishes us’. 

There’s a lot to win in England and not just because of Paul Farbrace’s ‘crossover’ (should we call it 'crossback' I wonder) .  There’s also a man called David Cameron whose bad memory and worse knowledge of history makes him insult the intelligence of the world (Sri Lanka included) at every turn.  There all the loot robbed over a century and a half which no one in England want to return.  There’s genocide that no one in England dare talk about. 

Forget all that. 

It’s about cricket.  Get what inspiration you can but in the end, it’s down to the basics.  Playing to one’s strengths.  Giving one’s best to the team.  Serving one’s country with pride. Do that, and Paul Farbrace might squirm a little.  The important thing is not to play to make him squirm, but to come out with all guns firing.  If targets are achieved, don’t look at Paul.  If Paul looks your way, give him the Murali-Treatment.  Just smile.  That should suffice.

For now, just say ‘Thanks Paul, go well’.  

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He sang a few songs fought the good fight

He was quiet, most times.  Courteous but quiet.  The only time he was not quiet was when he sang.  The man could sing. And sing and sing.  He could not be stopped and he would not stop.  He sang long after the alcohol was consumed and after the alcohol had consumed the consumers.  Late into the night.  I was one of the privileged few who sat with ‘Witha’ and sang along when the song was familiar or just listened.  He had his favorites.  That list he would go through but in the interim he would add voice to render listenable the songs that others liked but could not really sing,  He knew all the songs of Milton Perera and he knew dozens of hits from Hindi movies. 

Dayawansa Withanachchi, however, was not just songs and good company.  He was a tireless worker.  He took on additional responsibilities without a murmur of protest and delivered to the best of his ability.  He was a tower of strength to the sports desk of The Nation, handling the re-cast on Saturday nights and also subbing the sports pages during an experiment with a daily e-paper that lasted for more than a year.  Coincidentally, that exercise was abandoned around the same time that Witha fell ill. 

‘What to do boss, this is how it is,’ he told me when I called him the moment I heard that he was diagnosed with cancer.  What could I say but wish him courage and full recovery?  I told him he had no reason to regret anything in this life and that he has no control over the effects of what he had done or not done in previous lifetimes.  He laughed and agreed.  He was a man of reason. 

He was a cheerful colleague. He didn’t joke around, but would laugh the good laugh.  He never spoke ill of anyone, never judged.  He accepted people as they were.  Pasan Indrachapa, a young man who has known him for only two years, put it best perhaps: ‘eya thamai mata hamuvunu hondama kenaa’ (he is the best person I’ve ever met). Few at The Nation, where Witha worked until he was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago, would disagree.

Witha lived through his illness the way he’s lived his life.  There was a certain degree of acceptance but this was coupled with great courage and will do give it his best shot. Even during his last days he had said that once he comes out of hospital he would write about the things he had observed. 

Death may have been lurking somewhere at the back of his mind, but he never fully acknowledged its presence.  Through the considerable pain and the unhappy and frequent changes of address (Soysapura Flats and Maharagama Cancer Hospital), Witha struggled on.  He read about his illness, ate whatever he was given even though he had lost his appetite and took whatever miracle medicine his family brought for him.  He was courteous, cheerful and grateful whenever someone visited or called him.  He kept his pains private and as he always did spread whatever good news he was privileged to disseminate.  He made people smile.

I first met him when he was working as a ‘Reader’ at The Island.  He joined The Nation a few months after the newspaper was launched and not long after I had left.  When I rejoined in October 2011 Witha was still here. He hadn’t changed at all. Not in appearance or in his ways.  It was hard to think of him in lesser conditions and this is probably why many who were fond of him, including myself, did not visit him in hospital.  But there was no holding back of affection or concern.  Some prayed for his recovery, some conducted a bodhi pooja invoking blessings. Only he would have known how these things affected him.  He was appreciative. 

His neighbors loved him.  They didn’t want his remains to be kept in a funeral parlor.  They insisted that he returns one final time to his humble home at Soyzapura Flats. They will miss him. 

My last conversation with him was on April 14, 2014.  This was just after the traditional partaking of kiribath.  He was the first person I called to wish.  I wished that this year would be the year of recovery and a return to the folds of The Nation family.  He sounded weak but there was enough ‘bubble’ in his voice.  I could see him smiling.  That was it.  A few hours later his condition deteriorated dramatically.  The following morning he was gone.

He hasn’t been around these offices in the last three months.  The work didn’t stop.  It won’t stop now that he’s no more.  There’s a voice that’s missing, nevertheless. It was the sweetest voice, I am willing to wager, that The Nation has ever known.  It will sing again, I am sure.  In a much better place too, considering the life he has lived, among us all and elsewhere. 

msenevira@gmail.com

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Elizabeth writes to Stephen Harper*

Dear Stephen,

It is not often that I write to my subjects, especially those who live a considerable distance from our fair shores.  I make this exception today because I wish to express my undying gratitude to you.  As you would probably surmise, this is about your decision to suspect Canada’s funding to the Commonwealth. 

I applaud your self-righteousness in this matter.  It is good that Canada has placed this much importance on human rights issues.  It is, as you would agree, rather late in the day, but as a subject who knows the niceties about the English language you would agree with the adage ‘better late than never’. 

I write because it is now incumbent on you to ‘go the whole hog’ (another of those English lines you would have grown up with).  There is a lot to be done.  ‘Charity begins at home,’ is another line you can draw inspiration from, I believe.  I am sure you know what I am talking about. 

‘Home’ to you must mean Canada of course, even though you are still one of my subjects.  A loyal one, may I add?  But ‘home’ to you, is/was ‘home’ to a lot of people and most of all to the descendents of the native peoples that your ancestors (and mine) slaughtered, infected with smallpox and in other ways treated in appallingly inhuman ways.  I am sure you are happy that the UNHRC didn’t exist back then.  But I hear that those descendents don’t exactly feel ‘at home’ in Canada on account of crimes of omission and commission perpetrated by the government you head and its predecessors. 

Now Stephen, it is quite charitable of you to announce that funds denied the Commonwealth Secretariat will be channeled to other Commonwealth programmes.  This would help dismiss charges of stinginess.  However, I urge you to reconsider this decision.  It would be more appropriate and it would most certainly improve your stature if you were to redirect those funds to those who have been and remain dispossessed within the boundaries of the crown territories you have stewardship over.

I would have expected you, Stephen, to be more astute in this matter of pointing fingers.  Rightfully, the finger should have been directed to me.  I would of course use the fact of my reduced circumstances to take that finger and turn it towards David (that’s Cameron by the way).  David talks of turning the spotlight on Sri Lanka.  That’s a neat but cheap way of getting out of the spotlight for crimes against humanity perpetrated in my name by David and his predecessors.  If you whisper the name Chagos Islands, David might flinch, but then again he’s developed quite a thick skin, necessary I suppose for one with so much colonial and post colonial baggage to deal with.  You would know of course that the invasion of Iraq was illegal. You would know of the crimes against humanity committed by British troops or else approved by successive British governments.  That’s not the past Stephen, that’s the present.

But you want to look to the future, clearly.  It is good therefore to get the monkey called ‘The Past’ off your back. 

I know that you can’t leave the Commonwealth.  Imagine a smiley right there.  This side of securing the independence to thumb your nose at me, however, there’s a lot you can do. 

Do it Stephen.  I don’t want anyone to call any of my subjects a hypocrite.  Or a wimp.  Right now, though, you are in danger of being called both. 

Warm regards,

Elizabeth Alexandra Mary (that’s ‘Queen’ to you, Stephen).

*In a parallel universe

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