‘Independence’ and the need to be like Keppetipola

Painting by Prasanna Weerakkody

In 2002 when the United National Party (UNP) was briefly in power there were plans to celebrate, yes ‘celebrate’ (!) the 500th anniversary of the Portuguese arrival in the island. It was as though that party had no notion whatsoever about about the relevant history. 

Those plans were scuttled when the UNP was defeated in 2004 April, but this ‘project’ was a blessing in disguise.  It spurred professionals and scholars to delve into this ‘Portuguese Encounter.’  A conference by that name was jointly organized by the Sri Lanka Association for the Advancement of Science, the Royal Asiatic Society and the Archaeological Society.  Records of Purtuegese writers such as Queyroz, Trinidade, Perniola, Barros and do Couto as well as the Sandesa poems and other works in Sinhala were perused meticulously.  Dr Susantha Goonatilake wrote a book titled ‘The Portuguese presence in Sri Lanka.’  He could have called it ‘Portuguese Butchery’ or given some other title that reflected the truth of that particular colonial encounter.  That’s another story, however, 

Sixteen years later, we have another UNP Government is reported to have invited as the Chief Guest for Sri Lanka’s 70th Independence Day celebration Prince Edward, who would be representing his mother, Queen Elizabeth II.  Clearly this was in agreement with President Maithripala Sirisena who is the leader of the Sri Lanka Freedom Party.

Interestingly, the year 2018 marks another anniversary.  It is 200 years since the great Uva-Wellassa uprising.  On December 8, 2016 President Sirisena declared as national heroes the 81 leaders of the rebellion who were branded as traitors by the British.

It is good to remind ourselves about what happened in 1818.  The British issued a gazette notification [No. 6 of 1817] announcing that a reward of two thousand Rix dollars would be awarded for the head of each rebel leader.  They set fire to villages, crops and livestock.  They massacred all males above the age of 18 in Uva-Wellassa.  They had to bring in troops from India to put down the rebellion.  The leaders were branded traitors and beheaded or exiled.   

In a way it is appropriate that this Government has invited Prince Edward for the Independence Day celebrations.  After all, it was ‘Independence but under the Crown’ that was ‘given’.  It was on May 22, 1972 that true political independence was obtained and Sri Lanka became a Republic.  

And yet, we don’t talk of 1818.  Instead we are told (in comparison to the independence secured by India, for example) that ours was won ‘without a single drop of blood being shed!’  That’s how history gets written.  There’s very little or nothing about the 1818 rebellion, nothing of the 1848 rebellion, nothing of the countless acts of objection and resistance from 1815 to 1948 and nothing of how the people tenaciously protected their culture, philosophies, ways of life and related literatures.  We are taught mostly about the agitations that secured bits and pieces of constitutional guarantees. Crumbs, really.  

So what is it with our leaders?  Why this fascination with Royalty? Why this aversion to celebrating those who would not be slaves of British imperialism?  Why this forgetting? 

True power lies in making others inhabit your version of their reality, as Philip Gurevich observed in his classic, ‘We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda.’  Is this what has happened?  Which version of ‘independence’ and which version of ‘history’ are we celebrating here?  

We remember 1948 but have forgotten 1848. We are fascinated by the number 70 but have forgotten the number 200. We remember Prince Edward, but have forgotten Keppetipola Maha Disawe.

Is it something to do with remembering better the recent because the further you go back in history the foggier the narrative is?  Well, the narrative is not blurred. It is clear. It is bloody and too full of blood and humiliation to be easily erased.  

The year 1918 is remembered in certain quarters and certain times.  I remember a particular commemoration which, interestingly took place on an Independence Day.  This was in 2011.  It was in a small village called Kudamaduwa located off the Piliyandala-Kottawa Road.  That day, in the village temple, ‘Independence Day’ was celebrated by remembering Keppitipola.

The following are some lines I wrote on that event [read 'How Keppetipola framed Independence Day'].  

The organizers made a claim: 

‘This cool breeze is the life-breath of our heroes, the sweet sounds of nation is the cry of their glory, the precious stones embedded deep in our soils are the congealed drops of blood they shed for nation, civilization and citizen.  The organizers posed a question: do you belong to that tradition and civilization, and are you of that blood?  The organizers made a proposal: let us be like Keppetipola.’

Who was Keppitipola? He is remembered by some as a villain and others as a hero, because he first sided with the British and later broke ranks with them, joining Pilimatalawa and the other rebels after handing over arms and ammunition to the British Governor because he ‘did not want to destroy them with their own weapons.’  

What he did was to unshackle himself from mental slavery, as the song by Bob Marley has it.  He remembered history (perhaps late, admittedly) and drew strength from it.  He failed, but even at his execution he would not be colonized. 

Legend has it that Madugalle's last request was the opportunity to recite the namaskaaraya three times before the Dalada Wahanse.  Apparently the executioner’s heart had failed and his hand had trembled.  His strike did not find intended target and Madugalle, wounded, had to tutor his executioner, so the story goes.

They failed, but their lives powered other struggles. They were part, then, of every success great and small.  They helped make 1948 possible. It was not only the executioners that they tutored, clearly.  Some, clearly, will not or cannot learn.

The 4th day of February is a wrong day to begin with.  The 70th Independence Day celebration is not being held in the Uva-Wellassa.  The families of the 81 leaders of the 1818 rebellion who were officially vilified for 198 years have not been invited.   Instead we have Prince Edward gracing the occasion.  

It is as though the UNP and SLFP are made of every single act of acquiescence and shame that allowed the British to plunder the island’s resources and keep the people enslaved.  

Whether or not we remember Keppetipola and the thousands murdered in 1918, it is clear there’s a lot of work to be done before we can celebrated ‘Independence.’   We can start by refusing to celebrate a lie and a travesty of justice.  The least we can do is to tell ourselves that those who pretend to sleep will not be awoken.  The pretend-slumberers in this instance are the UNP and SLFP.  

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The baila of independence

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindasenevi@gmail.com. 

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How Keppetipola framed Independence Day

Some people celebrate independence, some freedom. Some lament the absence of both, others say there will only be degrees of one or the other.  Someone pointed out that what we call ‘independence’ in English is referred to as ‘freedom’ in Sinhala, i.e. nidahasa.  Still others wonder if there’s a difference between liberty and freedom.  I wonder if we spend more time with the words than necessary or defer to attendant claims and expressed guarantees without celebrating the spaces we have and fighting to expand the same.

Yesterday (February 4, 2011) I attended a celebration in my village Kudamaduwa.  It was organized by the Patriotic National Movement and held in the village temple premises.  The iconic figure that presided over the entire proceedings was Keppetipola.  A leaflet distributed among those  present extolled them to be like Keppetipola.  Two things struck me.

Dr. Wasantha Bandara, in sharp contrast to the kinds of rhetoric one has heard from the JVP of his past affiliation, both on the national stage and in the universities, urged the children present to learn English. He acknowledged it was the language of the invader who slaughters thousands of innocent people in this island and destroyed many a Buddhist temple and yet pointed out that it is a tool and a weapon in the continuing struggle for freedom.  Implicit in that statement is the notion that ‘freedom’ is a pursuit and one that is perpetual by definition, given realities. 

An earlier speaker explained the significance of Keppetipola.  Keppetipola is hero to some, villain to others.  He fought the British and later sided with them. Finally, when it was apparent that he had chosen poorly, he sided with the people, handed over all the weapons that the British had given him to quell a rebellion, joined the rebels and paid for this choice with his life. 

One of the other leaders, Madugalle, just as he was about to be beheaded, made a request.  He wanted to murmur the namaskaaraya three times before the Dalada Wahanse.  Upon seeing this, the executioner’s heart failed and hand trembled. His strike did not find intended target. Madugalle, wounded, had to tutor his executioner. 

When we are told that we won our ‘independence’ without any blood being shed, unlike India/Pakistan, there seems to be a striking absence of historical memory or else (and more likely) a deliberate desire to either thrust bloodshed and heroism into footnote or even out of the relevant text.  The names of Ponnambala Arunachalam are made larger than life and D.B. Jayatilleka is forgotten.  The focus is on the two or three decades that preceded ‘independence’.  There’s little talk of the many wars waged against European powers and the many rebellions that sought to reclaim for the people the birthright of land. 

Thousands were slaughtered.  Who died? The Sinhala Buddhists.  Who slaughtered them and in whose name?  Europeans who were armed with bayonet and inspired by either Papal Bull or the most problematic sections of the Bible.  Keppetipola sided with the enemy in very apparent terms.  When conscience and reason kicked in, he had the humility and courage to admit error and do whatever was possible to restore justice. 

Even today, two centuries later, there are people who openly side with enemies of the people.  Then there are others who are more circumspect; they appear to be on the side of the people but through subtle and lasting mechanisms ensure that the people of this country are short-changed in terms of resource extraction as well as cultural genocide.  The disavowal of history and the shying away of discussion about who made this nation, who paid the biggest price is part of this post-‘independence’ story that has for the most part been a discourse of subverting a sense of who we are, a sense of belonging and ultimately a shrinking of horizons in the matter of freedom, liberty or independence (according to preference). 

In May 2009 we saw the culmination of a long struggle that embodied a coming together of many forces, including ideological prerogative, historical memory, inspiration drawn from hero and heroism, reason, passion, leadership and hands-on military skill and wherewithal.  Victory didn’t fall from the sky.  It was a hard-won thing.  Many paid with their lives, some with absolutely no intention of being sacrificed.  Robbed territory was recovered. Identifiable threat was eliminated. That war, however, was about a marginal irritant in the larger struggle for freedom. 

Almost two years after the end of that ‘war’, we are still saddled with the baggage that the cruel, unforgiving and thieving colonial project left behind.  Both material and non-material, in and out of mind and consciousness.  We secured the nation from terrorist-threat, but forces of division still exist and still operate in numerous ways in numerous circles.  We are LTTE-less but our minds are full of inferiority.

Keppetipola broke ranks with the enemy. More importantly he unshackled himself from mental slavery.  He remembered history and drew strength from it.  He failed, yes, but has been so much a part of subsequent successes. That’s what act and personality do. They inspire. 

The organizers made a claim:  This cool breeze is the life-breath of our heroes, the sweet sounds of nation is the cry of their glory, the precious stones embedded deep in our soils are the congealed drops of blood they shed for nation, civilization and citizen.  The organizers posed a question: do you belong to that tradition and civilization, and are you of that blood?  The organizers made a proposal: let us be like Keppetipola. 

It involves a lot of things, not least of all a thorough and honest examination of self in terms of being, belonging and the kind of nation one wants to inhabit. In this sense, it is perhaps more important that we focus on the word ‘freedom’ than of ‘independence’, for the latter has politico-structural-constitutional overtones that lull us into complacency while the former forces us to recognize that we’ve not really walked very far on the road to liberty, equality and fraternity.  Maybe this is because we’ve not studied history enough and our sloth has allowed particular histories to be marginalized and fictions inserted in their place.  Maybe it’s about a lot of other things.  In any event, some sobriety is called for. 

The main organizer, a fellow villager, put it best: ‘being like Keppetipola is not something that makes any sense if it is an exercise limited to the 4^th day of February; it is an everyday-thing and one which we would do well be rehearsed throughout our lives’.

 [This was first published in the 'Sunday Lakbima News' on February 4, 2011]

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Shall we write a new song about freedom?

There was a day in the year 1948 when a country was washed afresh by a new breeze.  It was called Independence.  Freedom was on everyone’s lips.  Every heart sang.  There were dozens of ‘freedom songs’ composed.  Most of them conflated ‘Sinhala’ or ‘Hela’ with what was then Ceylon or ‘Lanka’ in the Sinhala version.  ‘Chauvinistic!’ some would howl but not all who howled came from collectives that had suffered as much as that particular group had in the invasions and in the preservation of conquest. 

They were all beautiful songs.  Lovely lyrics.  Lovely melodies.  Beautiful rendering by artists who sang with heart. And it didn’t all evaporate in the years that followed when it became clear that what was given and taken was more frill than substance.  Throughout the rest of the 20^th century there were many lyricists and singers who came up with catchy patriotic songs that inspired people to appreciate the land into which they were born, encouraged children to be good and productive citizens, and spoke of much better tomorrows for generations yet unborn. 

That country is not this country.  Those people are no longer the majority of the citizens.  Landscapes have changed.  Boundaries have been drawn, erased and re-drawn.  Invasion has not come as ‘invasion’, the conquistadores don’t name themselves as such.  Freedom has been given new meanings not so much in its affirmation but its denial.  Who would have thought back in 1948, after all, that ‘privacy’ had anything to do with freedom? Who would have thought that identities were up for theft? Who would have thought of tapping phones or grabbing date from files thought to be secure? 

Most importantly, if at that time the enemy had a color and friend had a different color, today color is largely a distraction, a decoy almost, and a totally misleading matter when counting friends and enemies.  Perhaps this is the biggest victory for those who wanted to plunder the resources of this island and enslave in one way or another its populace: we cannot trust each other and indeed we sometimes wonder if we can trust ourselves.  The enemy is no longer ‘out there’, but is happily resident in our homes and even in our minds. 

Those old songs are still lovely. The sentiments and hopes expressed still retain a lot of charm.  The melodies are picked up by children generation after generation.  But they speak of different realities, different challenges, different blueprints of edifices that may not make as much sense today as they did back then. 

So we have to write new songs of freedom.  We have to have new eyes to obtain a better view of the challenges we face.  We have to stop and ask ourselves if the paths taken lead us to the future or a tomorrow of a different kind of slavery. 

We must not forget those other and older songs, though, and this is not because they are lovely, pieces of our cultural archaeology and conjure for us the times of fathers and mothers, grandmothers and grandfathers and the idyllic times one associates with generations long gone. No, we must revisit because in those songs there is heart wrought of everything that helped us survive the terrible blows dealt by numerous brigands that invaded this fair land.  It is that heart that will help clear confusion, help us obtain the true size of the new invaders and invasions, and most importantly forge methodologies that make for a life practice that is wholesome, affirming and enhancing of everything that makes us feel blessed to have been born on this land regardless of its many ‘insufferable’ oddities and even cruelties. 

We must write new songs of freedom.  We must write with a heart that is truly ours.  As ancient as those which inspired those first lot of freedom songs written 67 years ago and as new as  the songs that will no doubt be written 67 year hence. 

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The baila of independence

‘Baila’ is a form of music.  Some who consider themselves connoisseurs would rate it as a lesser creature in the musical firmament.  This is perhaps why it has often been used as a metaphor for things of lesser worth.  This is why a song by Nanda Malini that was popular among rebelling and rebellion-cheering youth of the late eighties, penned by Sunil Ariyaratne and titled ‘Master Baila’ was spoken of and remembered as ‘Nidahas Baila’, or ‘Freedom Baila’. In other words, it was seen as an excellent, pithy and catchy deconstruction of everything associated with ‘freedom’ or rather, ‘independence’ (The correct translation of ‘independence’ is ‘svaadheenathvaya’ and not ‘nidahasa’ which means ‘freedom’ – we got a lot of things wrong, one notes, although not all of them are important). 

A little over 25 years after her (at the time) celebrated ‘Pawana’ show was taken around by the JVP or its adjunct organizations, it is good to get back to those lyrics and the politics therein, especially as we get ready to celebrate the 66^th anniversary of Independence.

Not all the lines are required to be dissected of course.  Translating is not easy for reasons of rhyme, but we can certainly lay down the meaning in transliteration.

නිදහස ලැබුනා මල්ලි, නිදහස ලැබුනා 
තළුමරන්ට මිහිරි අකුරු හතරක් ලැබුනා 
ගීයක් ලැබුනා ජාතික කොඩියක් ලැබුනා 
එලිවෙනකොට නිදහස අහසෙන් ගෙට වැටුනා......

We got freedom, brother; we got some syllables to roll around the tongue; got ourselves a national flag and even a national anthem; the night ended and, lo and behold, freedom had fallen at our feet, straight from the sky it seemed.

කොඩිය සුද්දගේ මල්ලි, සිංහයා අපේ 
ලනුව සුද්දගේ වුනත් කොඩිගහ අපගේ 
නෑ බැට කෑවේ නේරු පාතෙල් වාගේ 
නෑ දිවි දුන්නේ මහත්ම ගාන්ධි වාගේ......

Let’s start with the last two lines of the stanza.  ‘We did not get beaten like Nehru or Patel and didn’t lay down our lives as Mahatma Gandhi did’. 

At the time it was all sexy, but in this song the lyricist has been careless and even mischievous.  He has reduced the entire 133 years between 1815 and 1948 to the moment of ‘granting’.  He has forgotten the 1818 rebellion, the genocide perpetrated in the Uva-Wellassa, the violent and genocidal putting down of rebellions in various parts of the country in 1848, the many acts of defiance, the struggles in legislative bodies, the tireless work of the leftists, and the resilience of ordinary people and especially bikkhus, is ensuring that the foundational element of civilization were preserved (which, by the way, still sustain us).   It is a crass negation of all that.  No wonder that the lyricist thought or want us to believe that nidahasa fell from the sky with absolutely no agency on the part of the subjugated.  One notes, that even today, when the freedom struggle is talked of, those who are privileged in the narrative are the Anglicized elite on the early nineteenth century with even D.B. Jayatilleke not warranting at least a footnote.  There’s ethnic politics and religious politics there, but that’s another story.  Or perhaps not. 

Let’s move on to the other lines.  The lion is ours, brother, but the flag belongs to the white man; it is our flag post, although the rope belongs to them.  In the late eighties, first of all, we had neither flag nor lion.  That was Indian-hegemony time a la the IPKF and the Indo-Lanka Accord.  That was JRJ time with a blank check for the robber barons.  That was ‘free economy’ time with policy written by the World Bank and the restructuring of economy to ensure the sustained development of ‘other’ economies.  That was the beginning of structural adjustment, which swiftly moved to structural adjustment with a human face and structural adjustment with poverty alleviation; the impact is written right there in the process and slogans.  

At the end of the circus we still didn’t have the flag or the flag pole. Someone else continued to hold and pull the strings.  We had the symbols, ‘they’ had the substance.  We recovered something, somewhere down the line, this is true.  And those who recovered that ‘something’ were vilified no end and continue to be called all kinds of derogatory names.  And yet, that was but a small victory.  We got some measure of pride and self-respect back, more meaning accrued to symbols (however jaundiced, historically speaking, these symbols were) and got a bit of spring to ours stride.  We can brag about self-sufficiency in rice, we can claim we are the only country to successfully rid itself of the terrorist menace etc., etc. 

Let’s put aside all the machinations against Sri Lanka that we’ve seen in the past four years.  Even if all that didn’t happen and was not happening, and even if we didn’t have the debt burden we currently suffer, we are still fettered by ideologies of development that are patently anti-people and, this is important, policies that are absolutely antithetical to the core elements of ‘Mahinda Chinthana’ which even the most ardent critics of this government would admit is a solid, people-friendly, policy document. 

Where is all this coming from?  Partly from without, but mainly from within; our minds are closed when it comes to critiquing the rubbish that is sugarcoated as panaceas for all our ills and they are fully opened to servility.  In that sense, those lines about flag and lion, string and flag pole, are apt; except that we are cheering the owners of flag and string while we brag about what we don’t have as though we’ve had it all for the last 66 years. 

It is in this context that the words of another lyricist/poet, Parakrama Kodituwakku, warrant mention.  This was a song written for the 1978 film based on the life of Puran Appu, voiced by Sunil Edirisinghe.  

බත කා ඉවරයි බලමින් උන්නොත්

ටික කලකින් සිංහල හාලේ

ඉංග්‍රිසි හරකා උඩරට ඉඩමෙන්

පන්නන්නට සැරසෙව් රාලේ.

There’s more.  What it means is this: If we continue to be complacent, we will lose all our paddy fields (read, ‘compromise food security’); it is therefore high time we (got together and) evict the English bull from our highlands. 

We would have to play a little with the metaphors of course.  We have compromised food security with the subversion of seed security, not to mention the poisoning of soils and people with dangerous chemicals.  It is not the Kande Udarata that has been invaded.  All sectors of the economy, in the name of development and progress, have been fettered by ideologies happily embraced by policy makers and protected by officials and even academics, notwithstanding promise, pledge and rhetoric of the President.  We are better in some ways than we were, but that’s ‘crumbs’ compared with the goodies being ferretted out legally with the full knowledge of the grandmasters of economic policy.   It would take some eviction, let’s put it that way.

A word about the ‘Sinhala’ here.  It should be taken, as I believe the lyricist probably meant it, in the fuller meaning of the name as composite of the 4 Helas, Yaksha, Naga, Deva and Raksha, making the Siv-Hela and certainly not the restrictive, chauvinism-feeding ‘Sinhala’ of the lion, the Vijaya legend etc.  It is an identity of embrace which make the collective that Kodituwakku wants readied (or let’s say Puran Appu called out to) that has to do the relevant eviction. 

Until then, what unfurling of national flag, what gusty singing of national anthem, perhaps we should ask ourselves.  This is why the word ‘baila’, with no insult intended, is apt as we think of nidahasa or svadheenathvaya, even though that song and the relevant politics are eminently ‘rubbishable’. 

   

 msenevira@gmail.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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