Sahodara Samaagam

(note the plural)

Regimes acquire tags, leaders too.  When they resonate with general public perception they become part of everyday usage.  It was Victor Ivan who called President Chandrika Kumaratunga ‘Chaura Regina’ (The Thieving Queen).  It stuck.  No one knows who first used ‘Sahodara Samaagama’ (‘The Company of Brothers’ or perhaps ‘Brothers Incorporated’) to describe President Mahinda Rajapaksa and his brothers Basil and Gotabhaya, but it stuck.  

Whether or not either of the Rajapaksa brothers were the best qualified and most suitable given circumstances for the jobs they did is of course another matter.  Basil in essence ran the economy and had his share of pluses and minuses.  Gotabhaya was the trusted right hand man of the Commander-in-Chief and later took over the arduous task of rebuilding Colombo.  Again, there are pluses and minuses.  These have been discussed enough.  The problem of this ‘samaagama’ was the ‘sahodara’ part.  This is why there were passionately articulated pledges to ‘do away with nepotism’ by the then Opposition.  

What do we have now though?  We have Ravi Karunanayake and his brothers-in-law (yes, in the plural), Arjuna and Dhammika Ranatunga, Charitha and Suren Ratwatte and who knows what else in the offing.  Now these brothers-in-arms may be competent and qualified.  The case has to be made however that they are the most suitable for the particular job for nepotism-flak aside, a country with a serious human resource problem cannot afford mediocrity at the top.  

A related question is, ‘why is it that politicians operate as though they’ve already forgotten the slogans of the election campaign?’  This is how it happens: if the person at the top does wrong, he or she is essentially issuing a general license for wrongdoing; if someone down the line does wrong it means the person at the top is also doing wrong or else is incompetent.

It began with the appointment of President Sirisena’s brother as Chairman, Sri Lanka Telecom.  It would be hard to claim that the individual is the best suited for the job.  What that appointment did was to give the green light to sahodara-samaagam or ‘fraternal’ arrangements.  Those who went into business (shall we say?) with the near and dear or are planning to do so can brush off criticism easily with the following: ‘If it is good for the President, it’s good for us as well!’  

President Maithripala Sirisena can still make things right.  These are still early days of his tenure.  He can say ‘I was poor in judgment’ and the people will forgive, forget and even applaud.  The early signs, apart from that initial error in appointing his brother, are worrisome, however.  He looked the other way when his daughter played ‘princess’ and he essentially conferred ‘prince’ on his son by taking him to New York.  This kind of indulgence by Mahinda Rajapaksa would have earned the wrath of the self-appointed ‘Good Governance Police,’ one notes.  Their silence is as scandalous as the President’s decisions and consequent silence.  

Despite all this, President Sirisena can be bold, humble and thereby give a massive boost to the business of ‘putting things right’.  It is what those who voted for him expect.  The rot is seeping down and unless it is stopped at the top, it will spread all over the place.  That is not ‘change’, Mr President.  That’s ‘Same old, same old!’   

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Mrs Liyanagama made me fall in love with Sinhala

The first day of the school year is always exciting.  In the lower grades at Royal College in the early seventies the children were not mixed.  That happened in Grade Five.  So a new year meant you would be meeting your friends after a long December holiday.  That was exciting.  

That, and to me, the smell of fresh school books all neatly encased in brown paper covers by my mother.  Every year the covers had a theme.  Grade 3 was horses.  Different pictures of horses, one for each book.  

And then a new classroom. That was exciting too.  It meant a different ‘daily landscape’ for you gaze, a different part of the school would become your territory.  Then of course there was the not-so-simple matter of there being yet another set of boys who were junior to you.  One felt taller.  

The only worrisome issue was that no one knew who the class teacher would be.  Unknown quantities never excited me.  She was small compared to other teachers, but a giant to a 7 year old.  Pretty, I thought.  

Mrs C Liyanagama, ‘Miss’ to all her students as were all lady teachers in that school to all the boys, was one of the most enthusiastic teachers I’ve encountered.  She taught all subjects except English.  Actually I can’t remember her teaching.  I remember her telling us stories.  And she was a wonderful narrator who held the attention of all the 40 plus students in her class, even when she ‘taught’ arithmetic.  

There was neatness written all over her and in everything she did.  She made me fall in love with the Sinhala language, so pretty was her handwriting.  I wished then and still wish I could write like her.  Each letter was a work of art, it seemed to me.  

She taught me the rudiments of writing an essay.  Well, she didn’t teach, really, but her story-telling teaching methods naturally made me write essays as though they were stories.  She encouraged us to imagine and so when the term tests came and we had to pick a topic to write on, I naturally chose ‘මා කුරුල්ලෙක් නම්…’ (If I were a bird…).  Looking back, that’s when I learned that I could fly.  I flew over rivers and hills and even watched cricket matches from treetops.  Mrs Liyanagama made all that ‘okay’.  

History was not about dates to remember, but events, personalities and achievements.  She was quite a dramatist and used facial expressions and the rise and fall of the voice as well as volume to ‘entertain’ us all.  It was the same with Buddhism.  She taught the principle of impermanence in ways that 7-8 old could understand.  She taught us to question ‘truth’ by revealing the basic tools of deconstruction.  She simply brought down the walls of the class!  

She was by no means an ‘easy teacher’.  You couldn’t fool her.  She wasn’t harsh, but was quite firm, but she was an extremely kind person.  And she never forgot her students, even decades later.

Mrs Liyanagama made such an impression on me that on the first day of school every year after that I would go to her class with a sheaf of betel and sometimes a gift of a diary.  To begin the year worshipping her became a ritual of sorts.  

More than twenty years later when I ran into her at a funeral, I went up to her and introduced myself.  She laughed.  She said that I need not have.  ‘We never forget our students, son’.

And then she said something that made me sad, not only about her but all teachers everywhere.  

‘Thank you for talking to me.  The students we teach sometimes walk by without saying a word. Maybe they think we can’t recognize them, but we do.  We don’t forget, however old they grow, however important they become.’

She was teaching me even then! 

Mrs C Liyanagama attended the funeral of her colleague, my mother, and introduced me to her husband with much delight as one of her students in Grade 3A.  

She was comforted some years later when I held her close to me at her husband’s funeral.  She told me that she remembered me my mother everyday when she said her prayers and that she still had all the diaries I gave her, all neatly arranged together on a shelf.   She had become so much smaller and yet I felt I was still only 7 years old, safe under her watchful eye.  

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You have loads of time, you know!

This is the forty eighth in a series I am writing for the JEANS section of 'The Nation'.  The series is for children. Adults, consider yourselves warned...you might re-discover a child within you!  Scroll down for other articles in this series. 

This happened in the year 1991.  The time was around 8 pm.  The place, the Pettah Main Bus Terminal.  Two young men, both 26 years of age, wanted to go to Kurunegala.  They had with them a parcel of newspapers.  It was a political newspaper that carried their ideas about the state of the nation and the world, what was wrong and what should be done to make things right.  They were planning to sell the newspaper in Kurunegala the following day.  They had a problem. There were no buses.

Now there are two main bus routes to Kurunegala, No 5 and No 6.  The No 6 route was what was usually taken by those who were going straight to Kurunegala since the No 5 route was a bit longer.  They waited for a long time and finally decided to take a No 5 bus.  

They were confronted by a different problem.  There was a bus but it was a small one, a mini-coach of sorts.  They didn’t mind standing all the way in what would be a 3-hour journey, but their problem was that they were both of above average height.  Even the shorter of the two had to bend  his head.  Strangely, the taller one didn’t seem to mind.  He had with him one of the mainstream newspapers.  He simply held it against the roof of the bus, tossed back his head and read all the way to Kurunegala.  

It was very late when they reached their destination.  As they chatted before turning in for the night, the taller man told his friend, ‘twenty four hours is more than enough time to do whatever you have to do’.  

It is all about using your time well.  We often hear people say ‘I wish I had more time!’  We hear them say ‘I am so busy, I don’t have time to breathe!”  The truth is, we all say things like that all the time.  And it is not that we are all lying.  We truly feel that we are always doing something that has to be done and cannot be postponed.  But if we think carefully, we might find that we have got some priorities wrong or that we have actually wasted a few hours doing nothing.

Here’s an exercise.  It will take 10 minutes.  Now don’t say you can’t spare 10 minutes ok?  

Take a pen and a paper.  Now think about all that you did yesterday, from the time you got up until the time you went to bed and write it all down.  Make sure you don’t block of several hours under categories such as ‘school’.  Don’t write ‘was in school from 7.30 to 1.30’.  The point is to write down the details.  There’s a lot happening in school and you know this.  There are times you listen to the teacher and times when you pass notes to your friends.  There are times in after-school activities, for example drama practices, when you have lots of time to yourself.  You can’t write down ‘drama practices from 2.00 to 5.00’.  Get the details down.

All the better if you pick a holiday of course because then you can’t fudge with those large time blocks such as ‘school’ and ‘choir practices’.  

But try it.  You are likely to find that you’ve blown off several hours doing stuff you really didn’t have to do, time which could have been spent doing something more useful to yourself and your family or even something far more enjoyable (and I am sure you can think of ‘fun stuff’!).

The tall young man is correct.  He is well read and knows a lot about a lot of things.  That’s not because he’s super smart, but he’s very practical.  He not only does a lot of work but has loads of time to do things he really enjoys, like watching movies, reading novels and traveling around the country taking photographs.  He also writes books on all kinds of subjects.  

I know what you are thinking now:  ‘this might be an interesting thing to do’.  But you might postpone doing it (until after you read the rest of the newspaper, perhaps).  Don’t.  Get that pencil and paper out.  It might turn out to be a fun exercise.

Other articles in this series
A puddle is a canvas
Venus-Serena tied at love-all
Some jokes are not funny
There's an ant story waiting for you
And you can be a rainbow-maker
Trees are noble teachers
On cloudless nights the moon is a hole
Gulp down those hurtful words
A question is a boat, a jet, a space-ship or a heart
Quotes can take you far but they can also stop you
No one is weak
The fisherman in a black shirt
Let's celebrate Nelli and Nelliness
Ready for time travel?
Puddles look back at you, did you know?
What's the view like from your door?
The world is rearranged by silhouettes
How would you paint the sky?
It is cool to slosh around
You can compose your own music
Pebbles are amazing things
You can fly if you want to
The happiest days of our lives
So what do you want to do with the rain?
Still looking for that secret passage?
Maybe we should respect the dust we walk on
Numbers are beautiful
There are libraries everywhere
Collect something crazy
Fragments speak of a thousand stories
The games you can and cannot play with rice
The magic of the road less-traveled
Have you ever thought of forgiving?
Wallflowers are pretty, aren't they?
What kind of friend do you want to be?
Noticed the countless butterflies around you?
It's great to chase rainbows
In praise of 'lesser' creatures
A mango is a book did you know?
Expressions are interesting things
How many pairs of eyes do you need?
So no one likes you?
There is magic in faraway lights
The thambilil-seller of Giriulla
When people won't listen, things will
Lessons of the seven-times table

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Crawl into the enemy’s brain

This is the forty ninth in a series of articles on rebels and rebellion written for the FREE section of 'The Nation'. Scroll to the end for other articles in this series.  'FREE' is dedicated to youth and youthfulness.

In the late nineteen eighties the leader of a militant organization was apprehended by the security forces.  Since he was a leader any information he could divulge would be invaluable in ferreting out other militants.  

A young intelligence officer was tasked to interrogate the man.  The suspect was seated opposite him on the other side of a narrow table.  Before a single question could be asked the man cleared his throat and spat at the officer.  

This was a time, mind you, when there were proxy arrests, abduction on a whim, assault, torture and summary execution where the accusation of a ‘billa’ was considered proof positive of guilt.  This particular officer, for the record, almost got dismissed because he insisted that those who were arrested have to be accorded a fair trial and refused to carry out an order ‘from above’ to execute his prisoners.  

The prisoner was ready to die, obviously.  Many of his comrades would have perished after arrest and he would have known about this.  He may have thought he had nothing to lose.  The officer had other intentions.  

So when the man spat at him and said ‘kill me!’ the officer had not flinched.  He smiled.  He said softly, ‘Malli, spit again!’  And that was how he was ‘broken down’.  Within an hour he was in tears.  

It was all about using the opponent’s strength against him.  It was identifying a weak point to leverage an advantage. 

The man was strong.  He knew the odds were stacked against him.  He had nothing to lose and when one has nothing to lose one is close to invincible.  When he spat, had the officer slapped, there would have been a moral victory for him.  Had the officer done anything that the suspect expected him to do, it would have been a victory of sorts.  

The officer probably knew this.  He recognized the strength of character that prompted the action of spitting. He also knew that the man assumed that death was inevitable and that he could only expect brutality.  That was the chink.  The officer did the unexpected.  He didn’t respond in any of the many ways the prisoner might have expected him to respond.  

He could have been angry.  Indeed, it might have angered him.  He could have remained calm and perhaps he was.  But he went a step further.  He responded with kindness.  A smile and the address were his weapons.  He said ‘malli’ or younger brother which automatically made him ‘aiya’ or older brother.  The kin terms have connotations.  They penetrated the fearless shield of the prisoner.  They found their mark.

Now it need not be a situation of a prisoner and an interrogator.  The principle that needs to be obtained here refers to any situation of engagement with the enemy.   You could take away the lesson of ‘compassion’ following the timeless advice of the Buddha: Nahi verena verani - sammanti'dha kudacanam; averena ca sammanti - esa dhammo sanantano [hatred never through hatred ceases, through love alone does it cease].  That would be empowerment enough of course.  But in rebellious situations the encounters are not always dense with hatred.  The lesson here is to find an opening into the enemy’s mind for that’s where the answer lies.  Roam around inside that skull and you’ll find the weakness.  

Just remember one thing though.  It’s never a one way street.  The enemy is not brain-dead and neither are you invincible.  

Other articles in this series
T is for Trivial

There are nights in the middle of the day

Don't hold back when you groom

The sun will never set
When the enemy expands consider inflation
When you are the last one standing
Targets visible and targets unidentified
When you have to vote
So when are you planning to graduate?
The belly of the beast is addictive
When you meet pomposity, flip the script
When did you last speak with an old man?
Dear Rebel, please keep it short
Get ready for those setbacks
The rebel must calculate or perish
Are you ready to deceive?
Dear Rebel, 'P' is also for 'Proportion' 
Dear Rebel, have you got the e-factor out of the way?
Have you carefully considered the f-word?
It is so easy to name the enemy, right?
The p-word cuts both ways
Cards get reflected in eyes, did you know?
It's all about timing 
Heroes and heroism are great, but...
Recruiting for a rebellion
The R, L and H of 'Rebellion'
Pack in 'Humor' when you gather rebellion-essentials
When the enemy is your best friend
The MSM Principle of Engagement
Dear Rebel, get some creature-tips!
Dear Rebel, get through your universities first
Read the enemies' Bibles
Poetry, love and revolution
Are you ready to shut down your petrol shed
The details, the details!
Know your comrades
Good to meditate on impermanence.
Time is long, really long
Learn from the termites 
Be warned: the first victory is also the first defeat
Prediction is asking for trouble
Visualize, strategize and innovate
How important is authority?
Don't forget to say 'Hello!'
It's not over until you clean up!
Have you met 'PB' of Alutwela?
Are you sure about those selfies?
Power and principles
'Few does not mean 'weak'

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Reflections on the UNP-SLFP curse [with Sudat Pasqual]

'The Nation' started a series on what could be called the curse(s) of the SLFP and UNP.  Sudat Pasqual reflects on the SLFP and the need to put it out of our misery and I pen the notes on the UNP.   Sudat's notes are in blue and mine in Green. Note: we've moved pretty fast from query to assertion!

Is it time to put the SLFP out of our misery?

Political parties are an essential part of modern democracy. They are essential in that in many instances political parties are the bridge that connects the voter with politics. Parties have the ability to formulate policies and programs that reflect the choice of their members and also provide them the opportunity to select the people who will be their delegates in government. Since democracies tend to have many political parties, they provide the voter with options in terms of representatives and programs. A political party in a democracy is the agent of its members.  What a political party should not be in a democracy is to be the pawn of a few at the expense of many. It must not collude with opponents at the behest of a few to deprive the choice of many. Unfortunately for the members of Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP), their party has been hijacked by the few, for the few and in the name of the few.  Their party has failed them and the country and the rules are stacked on the side of the few.  

What and where to now? 

Is it time to put the UNP out of our misery?

The short answer is yes.  If political parties have relevance because they represent us in decision-making bodies, the UNP has long since abdicated that role.  When it happened is debatable but it did happen. If 1978 is not ‘too long ago’ then the constitution that J R Jayewardena shackled us to can be called the beginning of the end of political parties and reasonable representation.  It took time of course but this is the principal device that have made political parties irrelevant. Sure, we vote for the elephant (or the swan) or the hand (or the chair or the betel leaf) but the day after we vote party symbol, color and name cease to matter.  In name one or the other party or rather a coalition led by one of them rules us, but that’s just eyewash.  We don't know, for example, if Maithripala Sirisena is a UNPer or an SLFPer, really.  And anyway, the real constituency of any party, including the UNP, is not the voter but the financier.  The big boys and girls in business call the shots.  

What and where to now?

It is time to put the SLFP out of our misery – Part II

A political party in a democracy generally represent a segment of that society. A party is the public persona of its members and should be able articulate the demands and expectations of members in a coherent manner. A party, to be distinct must develop political programmes that will project their stand on issues such as the economy, national security, foreign policy and energy policy; just to name a few. These programmes and policies are the foundation that will build support from the public, encourage and entice citizens to become partners of a political party. The acceptance of a political party’s programme legitimizes it in the minds of the citizenry. 

So, where are we with the SLFP in terms of policy? There was a time when the SLFP was clear about Sri Lanka’s foreign policy; about economic policy; and about national security. However, the same cannot be said of the SLFP of Maitripala Sirisena and Chandrika Kumaranatunga. The party has allowed its nemesis the UNP to dictate terms on every policy front. Policies of the UNP, whether they be economic, foreign relations or ethnic reconciliation have been embraced and promoted by the leader and the patron of the SLFP. Sri Lanka Freedom Party has become a subsidiary of the United National Party. 

The distinctness is gone and so is the thrill.

It is time to put the UNP out of our misery – Part II

Nepotism.  Is it the preserve of the SLFP?  First it was Dudley succeeding his father as Prime Minister when the former died in an accident.  Was Dudley the most senior? No. Was he the most suitable?  No.  Then he groomed his nephew for the party leader’s post.  There was a time when people thought Rukman will inherit the party.  The UNP stood for ‘Uncle-Nephew Party’, it was said at the time.  J R Jayewardene was the victim of all that.  He survived.  

When JR took over after Dudley died in 1973, he fought the SLFP on a strong anti-nepotism platform.  He won.  He then began to groom his nephew, Ranil Wickremesinghe to take over the party leadership one day.  Ranasinghe Premadasa would have none of it.  He took over in 1988.  He had said ‘my father was not a politician and my son will not be one either’.  He didn’t get to groom his son Sajith, but here we have him fighting Ranil for the UNP leadership.  And now Ranil has brought in his nephew, Ruwan Wijewardena, some say to groom him to take over once Ranil retires.   

It’s all about ‘Gene Right’, apparently.  

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The Happy Prince Sunil Dikwella

It was the year 1994.  The end of March if I remember right.  I had just been interdicted from the Agrarian Research and Training Institute (ARTI).  I received a letter from a campus friend, D.B. Sunil alias Sunil Dikwella, better known to us as ‘Tyre Sunil’.  

I have written about Tyre Sunil before [Remembering Tyre Sunil: May his tribe increase].  Right now I am trying to think of words that would describe him.  Here’s an incomplete list: honest, persevering, well-read, endowed with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, an excellent teacher.  

It was never easy for him.  It was always easy for me, in contrast.  Sunil wrote a letter unlike any I’ve received.  It wasn’t a long letter, but before we get there, let me give some context.  

He was tall.  Dark.  Thin.  And that doesn’t mean ‘slim’.  He was skin-n-bones and it was for this reason that his features were prominent. He was soft spoken.  In low light or in darkness in certain surroundings and circumstances he could be taken for a ghost.  

There’s an anecdote he once related that might explain his quiet ways.  When he was a kid back in Ambalangoda he had go to the jungle.  That was ‘toilet’ back then.  He had a favorite spot.  A low branch on a handsome tree.  The boy squatted and then he saw something that made his forget why he was up there — a cobra and a mongoose.  They were staring at each other, these two janmaanthara vairakkaarayas.  The boy knew the story.  He knew they would fight to the death, the mongoose darting this way and that, the cobra swaying its hood keeping watch, the cobra attempting to sting and the mongoose darting just out of reach.  He waited.  The ‘dance’ had not really begun.  The boy became impatient.  He picked up a stone, took aim and threw.  It fell between the two.  

‘The inevitable happened,’ Sunil said with a smile.   ‘The timeless enmity was put aside in the face of a newly perceived threat.  The mongoose ran away and the cobra slithered away in the opposite direction.’ 

So yes, he didn’t speak much. Outside of class that is, for he is a teacher.  He didn’t force things.  He measured the weight of his words in the manner of a man who would rather be silent than utter anything too light.  But he could smile and he did.   He smiled and there was more smile in eyes than lips when he did.  

Sunil had it tough from Day One, but as he was to tell the students of a small school in Hasalaka where he got his first teaching appointment and when the Principal insisted that he address the assembly (before he had even stepped into a class), he never cursed the darkness but lit lamps whenever he could.  All his life, I should add.

At the time he wrote that letter he was working for the ARTI’s Market Information Division.  He was one of several who would go to key market places to gather price information which would then be forwarded to the Division.  The Division had a vacancy and I suggested that he be interviewed for the job.  He got it.  It was not a well-paying job.  It was ‘casual employment’ I believe.  He was attached to the Agriculture Department, Peradeniya, which is where he met his future wife, Kumari, but that’s another story.  

He wrote to me because he was upset about my predicament.  More upset than I, that should also be mentioned here.  He got it off his chest in the following way.  

Sunil was well-read, as I said.  He loved literature.  He shared a story which he obviously thought I was ignorant of: Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Happy Prince’.  He had scrawled the letter on a few pages taken from an exercise book.  He condensed the story into a few paragraphs.  And he said that my plight reminded him of the prince in the story.  I was flattered, I remember, but I knew even then that his letter said more about him than about me.  

It’s been more than twenty years since that day.  Sunil built a house.  He wrote a book.  He planted a tree.  He fathered a son.  In certain assessments he would be called a successful man.  He never complained and maybe he was happy enough.  His was honest struggle.  He gathered the fruits of his labor as right but never bragged about it.  He did the had-to-do-things.  

But last week he had to do a had-to-do thing that no father wishes to do.  He lost his only daughter who was just four and a half years old and had to cremate her.  

It was around 10 pm the day before the funeral when I got to his place.  A modest house by a paddy field off something too wide to be called a dirt track, good enough for a motorcycle but hard for a car, a road off a road off the Daulagala Road not too far from Pilimatalawa.  

It was a typical funeral scene.  A ‘hut’ outside the house.  Lots of people.  The village kept vigil with the young men playing cards and carrom.  A steady flow of tea or coffee.  All organized by the community.  His friends from university and work were all there.  Sunil wasn’t to be seen.  There was no hurry, after all, all that had to be said and done had been said and done.  

Kumari was there to greet us.  No words were spoken.  The child looked like a doll, that’s all I can say.  Sunil made an appearance an hour later.  

He was tall.  Dark.  Thin.  Still.  He was skin-n-bones.  He looked as young as he had when I first met him 25 years ago and that’s because even then he looked ancient, as old as he is now.  It was dark and it was not a happy time or place.  I knew he was no ghost.  

He was soft-spoken and softly he said, ‘විග්රහ කිරීම පස්සට දාමු නේද මචං’ [let’s postpone the analysis for later, shall we?].  There was no point of asking what had happened, we both knew.  

So we took a walk, Sunil and I.  No analysis but a discussion drawn from our philosophical and cultural commonalities.  He wanted conversation but didn’t want to talk.  So I spoke.

‘Throughout Sansara we’ve been born to so many millions of mothers and we’ve fathered millions of children and yet we know nothing about them.  This child you may or may not encounter but you will not know if the person you meet was your child once, just like you don’t know if any of us was once a child, a father, a friend.  For now she lives within you as memory and in terms of what her life has inscribed on your ways of being.’  

‘She has done no wrong in this lifetime.  Her pin gave her parents like you and Kumari.  Your pau made you lose her.  She had karmic debts to pay and she paid those.  She couldn’t have but gone to a better place.  As parents we all think or try to think of what’s best for our children.  In death, we think of our loss, when we should as parents think of what’s best for the child.  This was what was best for her.  It’s easy to say but then it’s what has to be done — don’t dwell on her passing and yet don’t forget it either.  She’s left so many traces behind, you will no doubt see her in all things.  Don’t cling to those shadows and yet don’t ignore them.  Caress and be caressed.’

He listened and said ‘About 75% of what you said, I’ve already reflected on.  I figured out the folly of clinging to her memory, but hadn’t worked out the equal error of forgetting her completely.  I now feel that it was a good thing she left us.’  

Sunil insisted that I talk to Kumari.  So I went to her with another of our friends, Dayananda.  He affirmed everything I said and then offered an example to help lessen her grief.

‘ඔය එළියේ ඉන්න බල්ලාට මේ බලු ආත්මෙන් මිදෙන්න පින තියෙනවා කියල හිතමු. එත් ඌ බලු ආත්මෙන් මිදෙන්න මැරෙන්න ඕන.’  [Let’s assume that the dog outside has acquired enough merit or has expiated his sins to the point that it can leave behind its canine life and aspire to a human form.  But for that to happen the dog has to die].  

The following afternoon Ven Sarananda Thero, Sunil’s batchmate and a close friend for over twenty years, spoke at length on life and death, the eternal verities and how one should engage with these.  Far more eloquent and erudite than either Dayananda or I were or could ever be.   

Kumari and Sunil stood away from the coffin at the crematorium.  There were others ready to perform the final rites.  Kumari and Sunil were silent. Calm.  Unlike some of us who couldn’t hold back our tears.  

I left the Happy Prince there, left with nothing but his heart and that too broken.  And a swallow that had flown with heartbreak.  Both to paradisal afterlives.  

    

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Rizana Nafeek and dimensions of our poverties

There were prayers for the girl.  Maybe we don't realize that we should pray for ourselves.

This article was published on October 5, 2011, exactly 4 years ago, in the 'Daily News'.  Rizana is no more and yet she's still among us in many ways.  

I wrote about Rizana Nafeek, the young girl sentenced to death by the Saudi Arabian Courts. The context makes one feel utterly impotent. Helpless. These are moments for prayer, for the praying kind (which I am not). I can but plead and hope. 

The article I wrote (published in the Daily News of November 4, 2010 as ‘Save Rizana!’) generated some feedback. I was humbled and corrected and thought I should share. 

First of all, I made the common error of conflating schools of faith on the basis of common source. I referred to Rumi, Hafiz, Ghalib and Khayyam, ignoring the fact that they belong to a different culture and subscribed to a different articulation of the Mohammedan faith. They were not Sunni Muslims like the Saudis and I was reminded by a reader that the Sunnis do not even consider Sufis to be Muslims. 

Dumping all denominations alluding to the same teacher, say, in one lot so that the sins, wrong-doings and blemishes of one can be drawn and used to taint the other is common in debate and inter-religion politics. It is good to be alert and good to be chided, even in the friendly manner in which my friend the reader did. My apologies. 

As important are the following facts about the case, which were sent to me by another reader: 

He pointed out that ‘the dead infant’s parents have to consent to a pardon but they are the ones responsible for the fatality for placing their infant in the care of a housemaid, untrained for nursery duties and not understanding what had been expected of her’. 

There is an element of negligence and therefore complicity that the Saudi Courts appear to have ignored. Perhaps that’s a loop in their law and perhaps there’s very good reason for them to leave such escape-windows open, I don’t know. 

My friends adds, ‘The confession, which she later recanted, had been in Arabic - a language she never understood’ and says that charges had not been explained to her. I don’t think the Saudi law can be this insensitive. Perhaps the Saudi mission in Colombo will clarify how this happened and what kind of logic was applied here. 

He points out, ‘Rizana’s language was Tamil, but the interpreter provided to her at the trial was an Indian Muslim’ and surmises, probably correctly, that the interpreter’s Tamil dialect must have been just as alien as the Arabic. That’s troubling. He points out that Rizana was 17 at the time of the alleged offence and execution of a person who committed a crime when a minor is against Saudi law. 

The most moving and troubling response was the following: 

‘I have been praying for Rizana night and day, because for me this issue is personal - not a matter of right or wrong or the laws of the land. I believe the baby in question choked to death. I am haunted by an event that took place in 1961-we had gone to Jaffna from Dambulla for a wedding. My baby daughter had a mild temperature; it didn’t seem serious-I left her with my sister and went out. When I returned two hours later her temperature had risen slightly. I was giving her some fruit juice which she seemed to suck without a problem; what I didn’t realise was that she was ‘convulsing’ while sucking-the juice was going down her airways. Suddenly she stiffened - we rushed her to hospital. When I handed her over to the nuns in ‘Paediatrics’ her feet and hands were blue! She got pneumonia and was saved, I think, by the consultant and the nuns. Instead of three days in Jaffna we had a traumatic three weeks. 

‘I thought I was ‘educated’ but I almost killed my own child. Rizana was a child, uneducated and alone. 

‘I don’t think that God or the Prophet advocate this type of justice. Isn’t it strange that we twist everything that is good into something that is evil?’ 

The evidence has been marked by a lot of hush-hush and I don’t think we will hear the true story. It is quite possible that this is indeed how the infant had died. Either way, we are talking about a child here, a 17 year old who has never handled children before, never been a mother. 

We do twist everything good into something evil, my friend is correct. We can do better though. I am convinced of this. A lot will die if Rizana is made victim of a system of legal murder. 

I shudder. Not out of fear. Sorrow. Pity. 

All I see is a little girl called Rizana who is so innocent that she does not know that she has precipitated a lot of teaching. I’ve benefited. I say ‘thank you’ and feel that I’ve uttered a blasphemy. That is how poor I am right now.

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The Man in Blue and other Politidbits of the Week

Disclaimer:  It’s not that there’s nothing to say about other things, but President Maithripala Sirisena’s UN visit has provided such mind-blowing bloopers that in the interest of sanity we have to laugh.  Actually the poor President is not to blame.  It’s his son. Well, the President made the initial mistake of dragging his son to New York, but he can’t be blamed for what the brad did thereafter. 

Dr Nirmal Ranjith Dewasiri has an interesting take: ‘Namal Rajapaksa has a defence of sorts regarding the abuse of state resources and his father’s executive power, but Daham certainly does not.  The people voted for Mahinda Rajapaksa and his political identity in particular.  So it can be argued that Namal has the out of his father’s legacy.  However, those who voted for Maithripala Sirisena on January 8 (except perhaps some people in Polonnaruwa), did so not to ‘Maithripala Sirisena’ but the common candidate of the Opposition.  Therefore he, Sirisena, cannot use the relevant powers as a personal right.  Therefore Daham does not even have the straw that Namal can cling on to.’

Convoluted and incomplete of course, but that’s Nirmal.  It’s not about why people voted and what they voted for.  It’s about what’s right and wrong. Sirisena promised to right wrongs. He said ‘no more nepotism’.  He promised that none of his near and dear would benefit from him being President.  Well, his children apparently have not been paying attention to his campaign speeches or reading his pamphlets.  And he himself seems to have forgotten!

The man in the blue suit 

It had to be a suave, well-educated, highly sophisticated expert on foreign relations, international law, human rights issues, good governance and all that jazz.  Had to be.  Could not be a brat called Daham Sirisena.  

Next stop Buckingham Palace

The man in the blue suit was photographed shaking hands with Indian Prime Minister Narendra Singh Modi.  First Modi the Good, Friendly Neighbor.  Then?  Well, Barack of course.  Putin? Nah!  But Buckingham Palace beckons.  Rumor has it that Elizabeth has a special pair of gloves (never yet worn) which she can take off when she gets the rare opportunity to shake the hand of the Man in Blue.  

Identified!

The man in the blue suit was identified eventually.  Daham Sirisena.  The President’s son.  People asked what Daham’s status in the Sri Lankan delegation was.  ‘Nepotism!’ some cried.  They all seemed to have forgotten that just a couple of weeks ago his sister and the President’s daughter, Chathurika, had checked out the problems of some folk in a remote village and that she had done so with an entourage of state officials. No ‘status’ there either.  Brother Dudley was put in charge of Telecom.  So why should Daham be less privileged, is the question that was not asked.

Change can be photoshopped

The cries of horror had an impact. Someone was embarrassed.  The managers of the President’s official Facebook decided to do some damage-control.  They edited out both President and Presidential Brat from a picture of the Sri Lankan delegation and this when the original was already doing the rounds.  That dumb, yes! 

The Right of Transferability

Daham is a brilliant young man.  He’s already taught us a lot of things.  Like transferability.  He says that people are making an issue out of nothing.  Apparently his mother had got an invitation and since she couldn’t go he was going in her place.  ‘Daham to stand in as Maithripala Sirisena’s spouse!’ is a headline that all mainstream media and social media missed.  But there’s something really strange which again no one bothered to ask Daham to explain:  what happened to the spouses of the rest of the Heads of State?  ‘They were all photoshopped!’ did someone quip?

The deafening silence of the lambs

Here’s the funniest part.  All those shrill objectors to Rajapaksa-style nepotism are maintaining strict silence.

Why is Ranil smiling?

Ranil has not said a word about the Man in Blue.  He knows which side of the slice of bread is buttered, perhaps.  He is smiling though.  All the time.  

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