Viewpoints and hideaways from Bulathkohupitiya to Dolosbage

 

My first trip to World’s End was interrupted by heavy mist. It was poorly planned. Almost a whim. An early afternoon drive from Nuwara Eliya was probably not the best idea for that time of year. I was just 11 years old then. It was a family trip. We made it to Little World’s End. It was a view point certainly but there wasn’t much to see.

In later years, camping trips to Horton Plains became almost an annual must. There were many opportunities, mist-less to gaze upon the vast expanse towards the Southern Coast from World’s End. Kirigalpoththa also offered splendid views.

In more recent times, several peaks of the Knuckles Range and sheer drops along the access roads as well as off the hardly-discernible tracks only local guides would know offered breathtaking slices of our beautiful island.  Sigiriya, Dimbulagala, Kaudagala, Athagala, Dambadeniya, Yapahuwa and also names I remember, among many points on the map of Sri Lanka that almost seem to be there simply to make one fall in love with the island, again and again.

Mountain tops and cliffs offer views, but so do tank bunds, at any time of the day but especially at dawn and sunset. There are innumerable ‘view points’ on the coast as well. My eyes have been fortunate to deeply consume the flavours offered by the resplendent beauty in many forms, colours and textures.

High points. They beckon, even when they aren’t that high.

That said, I’ve learned, perhaps mostly due to the many roads traveled with my friend Tharindu Amunugama, that there are an infinite number of points on any given road, anywhere in the island and indeed anywhere in the world, most likely. It’s simply a matter of keeping mind and heart and eyes and ears alert to serendipity, in whatever form it may arrive.

Just the other day, Tharindu called. He suggested a slow drive.

‘The route?’ I asked the customary question. The truth is that if I was free, the route didn’t matter at all.

‘Through Avissawella to Bulathkohupitiya and from there towards Dolosbage and back.’

He drove, for a change. As often happens, we discussed alternatives. We could proceed to Gampola and head back to Colombo through Peradeniya for instance.  It was, as always, open-ended.

So we went. We stopped wherever we wished to. We stopped for breakfast. We stopped at a waterfall.

‘I passed this place at night once. It was ghostly.’

Tharindu’s comment made me realise, again, that places and of course people, look different from different angles, on account of the time of day, the play of light and shadow, and the composition of clouds. 

We asked directions from a lady from the area. She had a lovely smile.

‘I remember a place where we could stop for tea,’ Tharindu said. Apparently, he had seen it on that night-trip to Dolosbage, but it had been too late to stop.

Kavi’s Hideaway, in Dedugala, seemed welcoming, but not in any grand way. It spoke of elegance, which was enhanced several times over once we walked in, on account  of the architecture, the interior decor, the view from the balcony at the back of the restaurant and the hospitality of the Manager, Jaliya Abeyrathna.

He spoke of places to visit. Waterfalls and pools. Some close, some not so close. Suramba Ella, Velanda Ella, Rikilla Ella, Nalangana Ella and Rukmal Ella.

‘One day,’ I told myself, ‘I will visit,’ for not all viewpoints and hideaways can be visited or found, respectively, in a single day or a single trip.

 

So we proceeded. We stopped several times just to breathe in the views or the colours of a roadside kovil. And we reached Pelanpitiya, a marked viewpoint. And then to the sleepy village of Dolosbage. And turned back.

We decided that Kavi’s Hideaway was a good place for lunch. Jaliya, on that particular day, which wasn’t busy by way of there being guests, turned himself into a chef and served some great food.  Coffee afterwards. Conversation too.

Then back to Colombo via Bulathkohupitiya and Avissawella.

It was a route we planned to take. We didn’t plan our stops. There were marked viewpoints, but we found many that were unmarked. There were hideaways we didn’t discover and a hideaway that was announced and yet seemed so nondescript that we could very well have missed it. We didn’t know of a Jaliya Abeyrathna when we set out, but now we do.  

Colombo to Dolosbage through Avissawella, Bulathkohupitiya and Dedugala, is a beautiful road. A slow road. All roads, except the highways perhaps, are slow. Or can be slow. The slower you make them, the more delights you gather, the more viewpoints you encounter and perhaps a hideaway or two that you might discover.

There are roads that await us, ladies and gentlemen. They give us view points. They take us to amazing hideaways too.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Let us be ready to rewrite encyclopaedias

 

‘The Name of the Rose,’ is a country that I visit every few years. I’ve quoted the following, which comes at the beginning of the book, many times:

‘In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. This was the beginning with God and the duty of every faithful monk would be to repeat every day with chanting humility the one never changing event whose incontrovertible truth can be asserted. But we see now through a glass darkly, and the truth, before it is revealed to all, face to face, we see in fragments (alas, how illegible) in the error of the world, so we must spell out its faithful signals even when they seem obscure to us and as if amalgamated with a will wholly bent on evil.’

Umberto Eco, the author, seems to have been fascinated with good and evil and their various manifestations, sometimes with one disguised as the other. And so too, the complexities of ‘truth’ and ‘falsehood.’

A few days ago, I revisited Eco’s ‘Serendipities: Language and Lunacy,’ where he explores, as blurbed, ‘[the ways in which] myths and lunacies can produce historical developments of no small significance.’

Now it’s not hard to understand that the best of intentions can produce unimaginable and horrific tragedies (think of Marxist movements, free markets, democracy [yes!] and the crusades). Sometimes of course lovely words and avowed adherences to the sacred are used to justify and cover up all manner of atrocities (think ‘empire’ and ‘colonialism,’ then and now). Purely academic pursuits such as those which led to Einstein developing the theory of relativity being applied to manufacture weapons of mass destruction. We also have unabashed villainy or at least primarily military interests leading to technological advancement that are of considerable benefit to humankind.

If the worth of doctrines, plans, strategies, philosophies, military logic, economic interests, the drive to improve life chances of self, the individual in general or a collective, whether rooted in selfishness or altruism, is measured years, decades, centuries or even millennia later, it is quite likely they would be dismissed as erroneous and detrimental even as they would be equally applauded for being visionary and beneficial.    

Eco, in the first chapter of this book, titled ‘The force of falsity,’ begins by alluding to Thomas’ Aquinas’ observations on the relative power of the king (ruler), wine, charms of a woman and truth, in terms of which is more constructive. Then, drawing from a wide range of historical moments with regard to various subjects, Eco offers that falsehood has been as compelling as truth in impacting events that have been crucial to monumental changes.  

Today, we live in a world where it has become hard to distinguish fake from authentic, truth from falsehood, good from evil. When Noam Chomsky published ‘Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media’ in 1988 it made news and yes I am being tongue-in-cheek here. Today, we know that manufacturing is almost like the bedrock of the overall media industry in general. It seems at times that everyone is a manufacturer, be it a news agency, media house, a president, a low-ranking politician and even those who are avowedly against the distortions, violence and worse perpetrated by such individuals and institutions.  

We have promises that the promise-makers never intend to fulfil. We have criticism based on half truths, downright lies and rank ignorance but nevertheless flagged as constructive and sober, and dressed up as righteous — for, by and with the people and such. We have alibis galore for all kinds of crimes against humanity, each and everyone of them uttered by foul-mouthed, half-witted, imbecilic and ill-willed politicians, their minions and approvers, but in tones of a penitent and virtuous devotee of god or all things sacred. We have entire nations being starved (when they are not being deliberately bombed and poisoned) in the name of countering non-existent existential threats. We have terrorists being called liberation fighters and protectors of citizens and nations vilified as criminals against humanity.

Such falsehoods abound. They aren’t new. We have had people and indeed religious orders which even until a few centuries ago fervently believed that the earth was flat and therefore declared and waged war on those who thought otherwise. We have seen Jesus of Nazareth, a black Semite, being transformed into a blond-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian god. We have had appropriations which the appropriators have sold back to the appropriated as new, modern and revolutionary.

Time sets things right. Eco offers:

‘At a certain historical moment, some people found suspicion that the sun did not revolve around the earth just as crazy and deplorable as the suspicion that the universe does not exist. So we would be wise to keep an open, fresh mind against the moment when the community of scientists decrees that the idea of the universe has been an illusion just like the flat earth and the Rosicrucians. After all, the cultivated person’s first duty is to always be prepared to rewrite the encyclopaedia.’

That kind of preparation requires a certain mind-set, a particular kind of discipline. I can think of no better guideline than the Buddha’s Charter of Free Inquiry articulated by Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, or the ‘Kalama Sutra’ the essence of which is captured in the following invitation:

'Come, Kālāmas, do not go by oral tradition, by lineage of teaching, by hearsay, by a collection of scriptures, by logical reasoning, by inferential reasoning, by reasoned cogitation, by the acceptance of a view after pondering it, by the seeming competence of a speaker, or because you think: ‘The ascetic is our guru.’ But when you know for yourselves: ‘These things are wholesome; these things are blameless; these things are praised by the wise; these things, if accepted and undertaken, lead to welfare and happiness,’ then you should live in accordance with them.'

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Hettige Don Lionel adorns Flower Road

 

Many years ago, a senior Army officer now retired, told me that a smile comes naturally to Sri Lankans. By way of example, he said that US soldiers earmarked for deployment overseas are actually taught to smile.

Now one may argue that there’s no reason to offer a smile to a total stranger. One smiles, the argument goes, if something or someone pleases you. It’s an expression of joy or some kind of satisfaction over something. One doesn’t necessarily delight in encountering a stranger.

On the other hand, there’s something to be said of those who simply revel in the fact of being alive, of being conscious of one’s location in a social universe and appreciating that knowledge. It makes one smile, sometimes simply to oneself, regardless of the bludgeoning that life and times and people send one's way.

So we smile at one another and it is not a matter of socially conditioned courtesy. And yet, there are smiles which ‘culture,’ let’s say, cannot really explain. We see it now and then but perhaps do not have the time to acknowledge and appreciate its true value for reasons that are of course eminently understandable.  

Hettige Don Lionel’s countenance is signatured by a smile. It’s on his lips, it’s in his eyes, in his words, the tone he uses and his every gesture.

I noticed him off and on when I happened to drive to the HSBC branch down Ernest De Silva Mawatha, known to many, still, as ‘Flower Road.’ I go there to use the ATM. Hettige Don Lionel is there, helping drivers navigate and, when they step out of their vehicles, to greet them. I suppose I must have made a mental note, ‘Such a nice man,’ or ‘what a lovely smile.’ I have, for the most part, responded to greeting with greeting, said ‘thank you’ for the help extended and ‘ennam’ as I left. On the 23rd of May, 2025, perhaps because I was not in a hurry but probably because accumulated appreciation tipped over, I spoke to him.  

I told him how much I appreciated his general welcoming, friendly and helpful ways. He responded, in Sinhala, ‘ehemane inna ona, neda (That’s how one ought to be, isn’t that so)?’ And I asked him what his name was and followed this with other questions. So he told me his story, very briefly I should add, for he had other customers to attend to.

He said he was born on the 17th of April, 1946 in Kotikawatte and that he had first attended Rajasinghe Vidyalaya. He moved to Zahira College later. Then he switched to English.

‘I can read and write English.’  

He said he had worked at Hayleys as a Grade 1 Machine Operator for a while and that he had lost his job after the July 1980 strike.

‘I am a July striker. I was a union organiser.’

He was smiling when he said this and there was pride in his voice and on his face.

He had thereafter worked as a security officer in various companies and had joined Kay Jay Security in 2010.  

He’s almost 80 and seemed quite fit for that age. He explained that he has always worked as though he was a young boy: kolla vage cassava karanakota eke vatinakamak thiyenava (there’s something worthwhile in working as though you are a young boy).’ And he added that the value accrues to the company as well for recognising that someone his age can still be gainfully employed.

‘In my mind, I am young,’ he insisted. And smiled.

He spoke about his personal life, told me that he had married at the age of 35, that his wife, Dayawathi Perera had passed away two years ago, and that he lived alone and without regrets.

Customers came and went while we were talking. He paused to greet them as they approached the bank or bid them a good day as they left. He said ‘good morning madam,’ to a foreign lady who promptly said ‘good morning, kohomada?’ A regular customer, I presumed. He nodded in affirmation.

There are security officers who, just like Lionel, take their jobs very seriously.  They are courteous and helpful, they are alert at all times. They too smile. At least some of them. But there’s something different about Lionel. He has an all-weather smile. He may not have any regrets, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he leaves an untroubled life.

On the other hand, he may have hit a sweet spot in the matter of living; perhaps cognisance of the vicissitudes and the eternal verities, perhaps the cultivation of a resolve to treat things with equanimity. We didn’t get to talk about such things, but we may do so one day.

For now, I cannot think of an adornment on Flower Road that is as elegant. He doesn’t have to say ‘have a good day,’ for that conviction is resident in his smile and in the twinkle in his eyes.

So I said ‘ennam’ and as I left I couldn’t help but think that the HSBC Bank is indeed blessed to have a security officer who acts as though he is also the bank’s receptionist.

The day is good. The days will be good. Life is good. So insists Hettige Don Lionel of Kotikawatte. Just by smiling. I cannot but believe him. Absolutely.

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Stay blessed, Pasindu and Buddhi, as you circle our pearl

 

In the year 2014, over a period of 10 days, 12 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, a 1350km long journey tagged ‘Wheels-for-Wheels.’

The exercise had a name: Around the Pearl. Yes, the pearl that is our beautiful island, Sri Lanka. The exercise was about a cause: to create awareness about Cerebral Palsy and raise money to purchase 1,000 wheelchairs for those afflicted.  of the disease.

I do not know if anyone has ever done that before. I do not know if anyone has done it since. But there are always people with energy and a thirst to attempt the unthinkable. Someone or a group of people may have walked around the island a few decades or centuries ago. If it had happened, there’s no record of it. I wouldn’t count it out.

A couple of days ago, I saw two young boys at a table, pouring over a map of Sri Lanka. This was at the Commons Coffeehouse on Ernest De Silva Mawatha or Flower Road as some still call it.

‘Planning a trip?’ I asked.

So we talked. They planned to cycle along the coast, probably taking the same route mentioned above. I was impressed.

No, they hadn’t heard of Wheels-for-Wheels and in fact I had forgotten that it was called ‘Around the Pearl.’ I hadn’t forgotten the names of those adventurers from 11 years ago. I mentioned Sarinda Unamboowe, Ajith Fernando and Anudatta Dias. Didn’t ring a bell. Eleven years is a long time. The boys would have been around 10 or 15 years old at the time, I figured. Their cycling predecessors wouldn’t be disappointed, I am sure, because it was not for personal glory or for branding. Just wheels. For wheels. Done. 

Pasindu Bawantha Perera is a travel executive working for Traveling Thrills (Pvt) Ltd., and his cycling partner is Buddhi Niluksha, a photographer who is also in the tourism industry. Both are old boys of Thurstan College.

Apparently, they had mulled over the idea of a coastal cycle trip from the time they were in the O/L class, but it took a cycling tour in Ella a couple of months ago for them to take it seriously. I gave them Sarinda’s number. Buddhi had called him. Sarinda had shared some of his experiences and told them that people will help them along the way.

Sarinda blogged throughout the journey. Eloquent and honest.

'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 overhead for about thirty seconds and then scooted across the road into the uncleared minefields we were riding through.’

Pasindu and Buddhi will (re)discover Mother Nature, but they will also (re)discover Mother Sri Lanka, for I also remembered something that one of those other cyclists, Yasas Hewage, had said: ‘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 meantime.’

Sarinda and Co., had back up. Apart from those who accompanied them on certain segments, they had M.D. Sajith Aruna Kumara, the official mechanic who rode with them all the way ‘around the pear.’ Pasindu and Buddhi will have to make do with what they know of their machines and the tools they take with them.

Talking with them reminded me of that long ago of youthful enthusiasm. And I told them.

‘Today, thanks to social media, we all know that our country is far more beautiful than we had ever imagined. Back in the day, we didn’t have Google Maps. We were excited to pour over a one-inch map of Nuwara Eliya that the Survey Department had produced. We took the train to Ohiya and walked up to Horton Plains. We explored. There were very few people. No rules to speak of. We went where we wished. Off-track.’  

Things like that.

The boys were patient enough to listen to my recollections. ‘Indulging age,’ I thought to myself. I shared with them whatever I remembered from that previous trip ‘around the pearl.’ The hardships. Blisters. Scorching sun. Unforgiving terrain. The unpredictables. I shared articles I had written around the time. They were grateful. Or polite.

They will set off on October 9, 2005, that’s ‘tomorrow’ for me as I write, and ‘today’ perhaps for you as you read.

Circling the island on cycles didn’t occur to me back when I had a bicycle and was young enough to think of it as ‘doable.’ But I was excited for them. I know they will have many, many stories to tell once they are done and I hope I will have the privilege of listening to them. They will no doubt fall in love with the island all over again. Again and again, yes, as they live long, prosper and embark on journeys yet to be imagined, planned and undertaken.

Good luck boys! May there be some cloud cover. May the delights provide ample relief that compensates for all the trials that await you. You will, I am sure, remain forever young thanks to this journey. As young as Sarinda and his teammates continue to be.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']  

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ආදරණීය ජානකී

 

අසූව දශකයේ උසස් පෙළ ඉංග්‍රීසි විෂය සඳහා නිර්දේශ කවි අතර විලියම් ව(ර්)ඩ්ස්ව(ර්)ත් ගේ ලුසී කවි වලින් එකක අවසන් පද කිහිපයක් මතක් විය. 'ඇය විසුවේ අප්‍රසිද්ධ මං පෙත් අතරේ ය,' ලෙස හැඳින්වෙන එම කව අවසන් වන්නේ මෙලෙසයි: 

 

'....එනමුත් ඇය මිහිදන්ය දැන්, අහෝ

දැනෙන වෙනස මා හට.' 

 

මට නොවේ. අපට. එලෙසයි එය සංශෝධනය කළේ. කොළඹ විශ්ව විද්‍යාලයේ ඉතිහාස අංශයේ ආචාර්ය ජානකී ජයවර්ධන හදිසි අනතුරකින් මිය ගිය පුවතින් කම්පා වූ බොහෝ දෙනා අතර ඇය සමග 1985 ඔක්තෝබර් මස පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයට පිවිසි මාගේ සිතෙහි ඒ වදන් පෙරළුණේ එලෙසයි. 

 

ඒ සමගම අප දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයට පැමිණි පළමු දවසේ මහාචාර්‍ය ඈෂ්ලි හල්පේ පැවසූ යමක් ද මතක් විය. ඔහු කියා සිටියේ ළමුන් 100ක් හෝඩියේ පන්තියට ඇතුල් වනවා නම්, සරසවි වරම් ලබන්නේ ඉන් එක් අයකු පමණක් බවයි. ඔහු වැඩි දුරටත් පැහැදිලි කළේ සරසවි වරම් නොලබන 99 දෙනාගේ බුද්ධි මට්ටමේ ප්‍රශ්නයක් නැති බවත්, ඔවුන්ගේ අවාසනාවට හේතුව සමස්ථ ව්‍යූහයේ දෝෂයක් බවයි. ඉතින් ඔහු මෙවැනි යෝජනාවක් ඉදිරිපත් කළේය: 'මෙම අනුපාතය වෙනස් කිරීමට කැපවීම සරසවි වරම හිමි කරගත් කෙනාගේ වගකීමකි.' 

 

ඉන් බොහෝ කලකට පසුව මගේ නිරීක්ෂණය වුයේ සරසවි සිසුන් සියයක් ආචාර්‍ය හල්පේ ගේ අදහස වැළඳගත්තේ නම් උපාධිය ලබා ගන්නා මොහොත දක්වා එය අර්ථවත් කරනුයේ එක් අයෙකු පමණක් බවයි. උපාධිධාරීන් සියයක් එම අනුපාතය වෙනස් කිරීමට අධිෂ්ටාන කරගත්තේ නම් ජීවිත කාලය පුරා ඒ වෙනුවෙන් කටයුතු කරන්නේ එක් අයෙකු පමණක් බවයි. ජානකී හල්පේ සර් ගේ යෝජනාව බරපතල ලෙස සැලකුවේද නැද්ද මම නොදනිමි, එනමුත් අපගේ කණ්ඩායමේ යම් කිසි කෙනෙක් රටේ අධ්‍යාපන ක්‍රමය පමණක් නොව තමන්ගේ දැක්ම අනුව නිරීක්ෂණය වූ සියලු වැරදි නිවැරදි කිරීමට, සියලු අසාධාරණකම් පිටුදැකීමට තම ජීවිතය, තම සියලු ශක්තීන් කැප කළේ නම්, ඒ ජානකී.

 

ඒ අර්ථයෙන් ජානකී ගමන් කලේ අප්‍රසිද්ධ මංපෙත් අතරේ ය. පහසු මාවත් බොහොමයක් ඇයට අත වැනුවද පහසු අපහසුකම් නොතකා ඇයගේ දෘෂ්ටියට අනුව නිවැරදි මාවතමැයි ජානකී නිරතුරුවම තෝරාගත්තේ. ඇයගේ මනස තුල ජීවත් වූයේ 'මම' නොවේ. 'අප.' පුද්ගලයා නොවේ, සමූහය. සමූහය ගැන විශ්වාසයක් සහ ආදරයක් ඇය සතු වූ බැවින් ඇයට මුණගැසුණු සියලු සහෘදයන් මෙන්ම ඇයගේ අනුකම්පාවට සහකම්පනයට ලක් වූ සියලු දෙනා ට හැකි පමණින් අත හිත දීමට උත්සාහ කලාය. 

 

ජානකී ගේ මතවාදීමය ස්ථාවර සහ දේශපාලනික තෝරාගැනීම් සියල්ල මා පිළිගත්තේ නැත. ඇතැම් අවස්ථාවලදී ඇයගේ අදහස් මාගේ අදහස්වලට සම්පූර්ණයෙන් ප්‍රතිවිරුද්ධ විය. එනමුත් ඒ පිලිබඳ දරුණු වාද විවාද අප අතර සිදුවුයේ නැත. ඒ ඇතැම් විට අප කටයුතු කළේ වෙනස් සමාජ, දේශපාලන සහ වෘත්තීමය අවකාශ තුල නිසා විය හැක. එවන් විසංවාද කෙසේ වෙතත් එක් දෙයක් පිළිබඳව මා හට කිසිඳු සැකයක් නැත. ජානකී ඇයගේ දේශපාලන අදහස්වලට සියයට සියයක් අවංක විය. වචනයෙන් සහ ක්‍රියාවෙන්. පුද්ගලික වාසි මෙන්ම ගෙවන්නට සිදුවන වන්දි ජානකීට අදාළ නොවින. ඇය ගමන් කළ මංමාවත් මොනවාදැයි නොදන්නමිය, එහෙත් හල්පේ සර්ගේ අර්ථයෙන් ඒවා අප්‍රසිද්ධ සහ කටුක බැවින් ජනප්‍රිය නොවුනත්, ජානකීට ගමන් සගයින්ගෙන් අඩුවක් නොවින. ඇය සමග බොහෝ අය ගමන් කළෝය, නැතහොත් ඇය ගමන් ගන්නා බැවින්ම බොහෝ අය ඇයගේ ගමන් සගයින් බවට පත්විය. ඔවුන් සමග ජානකී අත්වැල් බැඳ ගත්තාය. ඔවුන්ට වෙහෙසක් දැනුන විට ඇය ඔවුන් දිරිමත් කළාය. 

 

පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ 85/86 කණ්ඩායමේ දීප්තිමත් ශිෂ්‍යයින් අතර එක් සිසුවියක් ජානකී. ඉතිහාස විෂයෙහි පළමු පෙළ සාමාර්ථයක් ලබා ගැනීමෙන් අනතුරුව කොළොඹ විශ්වවිද්‍යාලයේ කථිකාචාර්යවරියක් ලෙස පත්වූ ඇය ආචාර්‍යය උපාධියක්ද හිමිකරගත්තාය. ඇයගේ ශාස්ත්‍රීය ගවේෂණ සහ කෘති ගැන ඇයගේ සහෝදර ශාස්ත්‍රාඥයින් සහ සිසු සිසුවියන් හට මනා අවබෝධයක් ඇතැයි සිතමි. ඒ පිලිබඳ මම නොදනිමි. ජානකි ඔවුනට ගුරුවරියක් හෝ වෘත්තීයමය සගයෙක් සේම මිතුරියක් සහෝදරියක් වූ බව බොහෝ අය මේ වනවිට පවසා ඇත. 

 

ඒ සියල්ලටම වඩා ජානකී මානුෂීය ගුණයන්ගෙන් පිරිපුන් මෙන්ම ඕනෑම අසීරු හෝ බිහිසුණු අවස්තාවක වූවත් සිනාමුසු මුහුණින් සියල්ල විඳදරාගත හැකි අයෝමය මෙන්ම ඉතා මෘදු හදවතක් සතු කෙනෙක් බවත් පොදුවේ පිළිගැනේ. මේ සියලු ගුණාංග සතු කෙනෙකුගේ ඇවෑමෙන් කම්පා නොවූවේ ඉතා සුළු පිරිසක් විය යුතුයි. සෙසු ය ඇයට අවසන් ගෞරව දැක්වූහ. බොඳ වූ නෙතින් ඇයගේ නිසල දේහය අභියස මොහොතක් සිටහනිමින් සිදුවූ විපතේ ප්‍රමාණය මෙන්ම ඇය ඉතිරි කරන ලද හිස්තැන ගැනද මෙනෙහි කළෝය. 

 

මේ සියලු දේ සැමරුම් විය ඒ දුක්බර දවස් කිහිපය තුල. කළ යුතු යැයි සිතු දේ කළ සහ කිවයුතු යැයි සිතු දේ පැකිළීමකින් තොරව පැවසූ ජානකී ඒ කිසිවක් ප්‍රචාරණය නොකළාය. එබැවින් බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ඒ බොහෝ දේවල් අලුත් විය. ජානකි නික්ම ගියේ අප බොහෝ දෙනා නොදන්නා ජානකී කෙනෙක් සිටිය බව සිතන්නට ඉඩ තියා ය. 

 

බොහෝ දේ කිව හැකි මුත්, සියල්ල මෙසේද පැවසිය හැකි බව මට සිතේ: බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ජානකි තමන්ගේ හොඳම මිතුරිය විය.

 

දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයේ සහ ඉන් අනතුරුව පේරාදෙණිය විශ්වවිද්‍යාලයේ ගෙවුණු කාලය වෙත නැවත ගමන් කරමි. ශිෂ්‍ය ක්රියාකාරී කමිටුවේ සහ අන්තර් විශ්වවිද්‍යාල ශිෂ්‍ය බල මණ්ඩලයේ දේශපාලනයට ජානකී විරුද්ධ වූවා ය. ඒ දේශපාලනයට විරුද්ධ බොහෝ අය මෙන් නොව ජානකී තමන් ගේ ස්ථාවරය වෙනුවෙන් පෙනී සිටියාය. 

 

ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත්, අද මෙන් එදත් දේශපාලන ස්ථාවරය කුමක් වූවත් සියලු දෙනාටම ජානකි මිතුරියක්,සහෝදරියක් විය. ජානකී ඉතා හොඳ ශිෂ්‍යාවක් වූවද අධ්‍යයන කටයුතු කරන ලද්දේ විවිධ දුෂ්කරතාවලට මුහුණ දෙන අතරේ ය. පවුලේ සියලු කටයුතු තමන්ගේ වගකීමක් ලෙස ජානකී තීරණය කර තිබිණ. 'පවුල' අනතුරුව තව තවත් ප්‍රසාරණය වූයේ ය. ජානකී ගේ පවුලට පසු කාලෙක වෘත්තීය හිතවතුන් සහ ශිෂ්‍ය ශිෂ්‍යාවන් මෙන්ම දේශපාලන සගයින්ද එකතු විය. ඊටත් අමතරව විවිධාකාර අගහිඟකම් ඇති බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ජානකී පිහිට වූවාය. කොහුවල නිවස මෙවැන්නන්ගෙන් නිතරම පිරී තිබුන බව දැනගන්නට ලැබුනේ ජානකීගේ අවාසනාවන්ත මරණයෙන් පසුවයි. ඒ සියලු දෙනා මේ පුවතින් නිසැකවම සසල වන්නට ඇත. 

 

ජානකී අප අතරින් වෙන්ව ගොස් මාසයක් ගතවී ඇත. එදා මෙන් අදත් අද මෙන් හෙටත් ජානකී යන නාමය විශේෂණය වන්නේ 'ආදරණීය' යන වචනයෙනි. ජානකී ආදරණීය වන්නේ ඇය අප සියලු දෙනාටම නොමසුරුව බෙදූ ලෙන්ගතුකම නිසා ය. මාසයකට පසු මෙසේ ජානකී ගැන ලියද්දී නැවත නැවතත් සිහිවන්නේ ජානකී සහ අප සමග පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ එකම වසරේ සිටි ගාමිණි තිලකරත්නගේ හැඟුම්බර සටහනයි.

 

'අවුරුදු ගාණකට පෙර දුම්බරදි මට හමුවූ ජානකී පසු කාලීනව මගේ අසල් වැසියා වූ ඒ හිතුවක්කාරී චරිතය මට මෙන්ම මගේම පවුලට අම්මා කෙනෙක් විය.ඇය නොමැති ඉදිරි කාලය....'

 

ඉන් එහා? ඔහුට මේ පැනයට පිළිතුරක් නැත. අපටද නැත. ඒ තරම් ජානකී ආදරණීය විය.

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ශතවර්ෂයේ ලෝකාපවාදයට සුදුසු පශ්චාත් මරණ යාච්ඤාවක් නැත

 

ශ්‍රී ලංකාවේ වීදි නාට්‍යයේ පියා ලෙස පුළුල්ව පිළිගැනෙන ගාමිණි හත්තොටුවේගම විසින රචනා කරන්නට ඇතැයි සිතිය හැකි පැරණි ගීතයක් ඇත. එය 1971 කැරැල්ල හා සම්බන්ධ ප්‍රචණ්ඩත්වය ගැන කථා කරයි. නමුත් එම ගීතය අසූව දශකයේ අගභාගයේ ඇතිවූ ‘භීෂණයට’ වඩාත් උචිත වූවා විය හැකිය.

ආපසු හැරී බලන විට, කැරලි දෙක එකිනෙකට බෙහෙවින් වෙනස් වූ අතර, ‘කැරලිකරුවන්’ සැබවින්ම සටන් කළේ කා වෙනුවෙන්දැයි පසුබිම බැලීමේදී අප තුළ විමතියක් ඇති කරයි.


"අමු අමුවේ ගොඩ ගැහුවා,

වල නොදමා පිලිස්සුවා,

ඇසිපිය නොහෙළා ඔබ දුටුවා, මම දුටුවා...

දැන දැන අප අතරින් නොපෙනී ගියා."

මා ගේබ්‍රියෙල් ජෝසේ ගාර්සියා මාර්කේස්ගෙන් යම් සැනසීමක් සොයමින් සිටියදී මේ ගීතය සිහියට නැගුණි. බලාපොරොත්තු සුන් වූ මොහොතක බොහෝ විට මම මගේ ප්‍රියතම ලේඛකයන් වෙත යොමු වෙමි. සමහර විට මාර්කේස් වෙත, සමහර විට ම සොයන්නේ පැබ්ලෝ නෙරූඩාය. තවත් විටෙක ෆයිස් අහමඩ් ෆයිස් හෝ නාසිම් හික්මෙට්ය. සමහර විට අහඹු පොතක අහඹු පිටුවක් විසඳිය නොහැකි දේට පිළිතුරක් සපයයි, නමුත් මම පිළිතුරක් සොයමින් සිටියේද නැත.

ඇමරිකානු තානාපති මයික් හකබී, ‘පලස්තීන රාජ්‍යයක් නිර්මාණය කිරීම සඳහා මුස්ලිම් රටවල් (ඔහුගේ වචන) තම ඉඩම්වලින් කොටසක් ලබා දිය යුතු’ බවට යෝජනා කර ඇති බවට බීබීසී වාර්තාවක් මම කියෙව්වෙමි. ඔහු තවදුරටත් කියා සිටියේ, ‘සමහර විට, පලස්තීන රාජ්‍යයක් සඳහා එවැනි ආශාවක් තිබේ නම්, එයට සත්කාරකත්වය සැපයීමට කැමති කෙනෙකු සිටිනු ඇත’ යනුවෙනි.

එය මළගිය ඇත්තන් වෙනුවෙන් කරන පශ්චාත් මරණ යාච්ඤාවක් මෙන් විය. ඔහුගේ අදහසට අනුව, පලස්තීන රාජ්‍යයක් නැත (තාක්ෂණිකව එය සත්‍යයකි) සහ පලස්තීනුවන්ට රාජ්‍යයක් අවශ්‍ය අය, බලහත්කාරයෙන් තම නිවෙස්වලින් සහ මව්බිමෙන් පිටමං කරන ලද අයට ඉඩකඩම් පිරිනැමීමෙන් මහා ජනපලායනයකට අවශ්‍ය කොන්දේසි නිර්මාණය කළ යුතුය. එදා සියෝන්වාදයට සහය දුන් අයට, උදාහරණයක් ලෙස, ඇමරිකා එක්සත් ජනපදයේ කොහේ හෝ තැනක යුදෙව් ජනාවාසයක් කැටයම් කිරීමට මෙවැනි තර්කයක් භාවිතා කරන්නට තිබුණි.

දේවල් සිදුවන්නේ එසේ නොවේ. දේශපාලනය සිතියම් ශිල්පියාට දැනුම් දෙයි. රටවල් බිහිවේ, ඒවා ක්ෂය වී යයි, මිය යයි. දේශසීමා සෑදී, මකා දමා, නැවත අඳිනු ලැබේ. එය ලෝක ඉතිහාසයයි.

කොහොම වුවත්, හකබීගේ කතාව හේතුවෙන් මාර්කේස්ගේ 'ශතවර්ෂයේ අපකීර්තිය සහ වෙනත් ලේඛන' නමැති රචනා එකතුව මට සිහි විය.  අඩුම තරමින් මට නම්, ඇමරිකා එක්සත් ජනපදයේ සහ යුරෝපයේ ඇගේ මිත්‍ර රටවලත්, ඕස්ට්‍රේලියාව ඇතුළු එම අධිරාජ්‍යයේ අනෙකුත් ප්‍රදේශවලත්, ඍජු හෝ වක්‍ර සහයෝගය ඇතිව ඊශ්‍රායල හමුදා විසින් පලස්තීනුවන් සමූලඝාතනය කිරීම මෙම ශතවර්ෂයේ විශාලතම අපකීර්තිය වේ. ඇත්තෙන්ම 'අපකීර්තිය' යන වචනය සැහැල්ලුය. සිදුව ඇති ව්‍යසනයේ දිග, පළල සහ ගැඹුර කැටි කරන වචනයක් නොමැති තරම්ය. ලෝකය, නැතහොත් ලෝකයේ ආධිපත්‍ය දරන මාධ්‍ය ආයතන, මිනිසුන් දහස් ගණනින් පණපිටින් වළලා දමද්දීත් එය දැක, අහක බලා සිටිනු පෙනේ.

වළලනු ලැබූවන් අතර ළදරුවන්, ගර්භනී කාන්තාවන්, රෝගීන්, වැඩිහිටියන් සහ මිය යන අය වෙති. ඔවුන් අතර, පෙර නොවූ විරූ මානුෂීය අර්බුදයකට ප්‍රතිචාර දැක්වීම එකම අරමුණ වූ එක්සත් ජාතීන්ගේ සේවකයින් සහ වෛද්‍යවරුන් වෙති.

ඔවුන් අමු අමුවේ ම ඝාතනය කරන ලදී. මෙම සමූලඝාතනය සාධාරණය කරන්නේ ‘ඊශ්‍රායලයට තම පැවැත්ම ආරක්ෂා කර ගැනීමට අයිතියක් ඇත’ ලෙසයි.

පැවැත්ම ආරක්ෂා කිරීම මූලික නීතිය නම්, දශක ගණනාවක් පුරා සියෝන්වාදී ආක්‍රමණයට එරෙහිව එල්ල වූ සෑම තනි ප්‍රතිචාරයක්ම, එම ප්‍රතිචාරය ත්‍රස්තවාදය ඇතුළු ඕනෑම ආකාරයක් ගත්තද, එය සාධාරණීකරණය වේ.

එහෙත් එය වැරදිය, නේද? එසේත් නැතිනම් එය නිවැරදිද? සියෝන්වාදීන්ගේ සහ එම සමූලඝාතකයින් වෙනුවෙන් කතා කරන අය සියලු ප්‍රචණ්ඩ ක්‍රියා වලංගු කරයි, මන්ද සියලු ප්‍රචණ්ඩකාරී අයට පැවසිය යුත්තේ 'අපි අපගේ පැවැත්මේ අයිතිය ආරක්ෂා කරමු' යන්න පමණි. ආත්මීයත්වය පුපුරා යයි, මිත්‍රවරුනි. තවද මිනිසුන් දහස් ගණනින් මිය යති. සමාවන්න, ඔවුන් මිය යන්නේ නැත, ඔවුන් ඝාතනය කර ඇත. ඝාතනය කරමින් සිටින්නේය. ඊශ්‍රායලය විසින් ආක්‍රමණය කර ඇති ගාසා නම් වූ අපායේ  සිදුවන දේට ආසන්න වන සමූලඝාතනයක් මෙම ශතවර්ෂයේ තවත් කොතැනකවත් නැත.

මාර්කේස්, 2003 දී දොන් මිගෙල් ද සර්වාන්ටෙස් සාවේඩ්‍රා විසින් කොලොම්බියාවේ මෙඩෙයින්හිදී කරන ලද ‘ආදරණීය වුවත් දුරස්ථ මව්බිම’ නම් කථාවේ පහත කොටස  උපුටා දක්වයි:

‘අපට අත්විඳින්න සිදුව ඇති මේ සියලු කුණාටු අපට කියා පාන්නේ ඉක්මනින් කාලගුණය යහපත් වන අතර අපට වඩා හොඳ හෙට දිනක් හිමි වනු ඇති බවයි,  මන්ද නරක හෝ හොඳ සදහටම පවතින්නට නොහැකි අතර, නරක මෙතරම් කාලයක් පැවති බැවින්, යහපත අත ළඟ බව එයින් තහවුරු වේ.’

සර්වාන්ටෙස් කතා කළේ කොලොම්බියාව ගැන නොවේ, නමුත් මාර්කේස් පවසන්නේ එය ඔහුගේ රටට අදාළ වන බවයි.

 ඔහු මෙසේ පැහැදිලි කරයි:

‘ගිය වසරේ (එනම් 2002 දී) කොලොම්බියානුවන් 400,000 කට ආසන්න පිරිසකට ප්‍රචණ්ඩත්වය හේතුවෙන් තම නිවෙස් සහ ඉඩම්වලින් පලා යාමට සිදුවිය, මීට පෙර අඩ සියවසක කාලය තුළ එම හේතුව නිසාම තවත් මිලියන 3 ක පමණ පිරිසක් එසේ කර තිබුණි.’

සර්වාන්ටෙස් (සහ මාර්කේස්) කතා කරන්නට ඇත්තේ පලස්තීනය ගැන නොවේද?

 එහෙත් මාර්කේස්  මෙසේ විශ්වාස කරන්නේය: ‘ව්‍යසනය මධ්‍යයේ සොයා ගැනීමට අපට තවත් ගැඹුරු රටක් තවමත් තිබේ: අපේ ඓතිහාසික මෝඩකම් සමඟ අප විසින්ම නිර්මාණය කර ගත් අච්චුවලට තවදුරටත් නොගැලපෙන රහස් කොලොම්බියාවක් ඇත.'

‘රහස් පලස්තීනයක්’ ද එසේම ක්‍රියා කරයි. නමුත් මාර්කේස් පරිත්‍යාගශීලී මෙන්ම  නිහතමානී වේ. ඔහු කතා කරන ‘නිර්මාණය’ සාමූහික තීරණ ගැනීමේ ප්‍රතිඵලයක් නොවීය. ඊශ්‍රායලය පලස්තීනය ආක්‍රමණය කර එය මිහිපිට අපායක් බවට පත් කළ ක්‍රියාමාර්ග පිළිබඳව ඒකමතික ඡන්දයක් තිබුණේ නැත. එහි හිතාමතා ගත් තීරණ තිබුණි. ජන සංහාරය අරමුණක් විය. එය තවමත් එසේමය. හකබී එය දන්නවා ඇති, මන්ද එය ඔහුගේ රටේ ඉතිහාසය ද වන බැවිනි.

කෙසේ වෙතත්, අපට නැවත සිතාගත හැකි සහ ජනාවාස කළ හැකි දේශයන් ඇත. වඩාත් මෘදු දේශයන්. ගාමිණි හත්තොටුවේගම මේ බව දැන සිටියේය. ඒ නිසාම එම ගීතයේ මේ පේළිද ඇත:

‘උන්ගේ ලෙයින්, දැඩි මව්-පිය ගුණයෙන්, ගමේ ගොඩින් සිදාදියෙන්, කඩාගෙන එන හැම පැත්තෙන්, රැංචු ගැසී එනවා, සටන් වැදී එනවා.’

අපටද එසේ නම් මෙම ශතවර්ෂයේ ම්ලේච්ඡම ඝාතනය පිලිබඳ කවියක් ලිවිය හැකිය.

එය ලිවිය යුත්තේ පසුවයි. W H ඕඩන් කවිය පෙර ඊයේ සහ හෙට ගැන ලියා අද ගැනද  

'.අදට නියමිත වන්නේ අරගලය වේ!' එනම් හෙට දිනයේ නිර්මාණය වන පලස්තීනය නම් වූ රටක් වෙනුවෙන් කරන සටන. අද දවසේ කාර්යය එයම වේ. 

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Simply, Desmond!

 

Desmond Mallikarachchi, Former Head, Philosophy Department, University of Peradeniya · who also taught German and French philosophies at Peradeniya following retirement and film and aesthetics, film theory and ideology at the University of Kelaniya turned 81 as I write, i.e. on the 18th of June, 2025.

I was not his student in a formal sense for my subjects in the Faculty of Arts in my first year were Pure Mathematics, English and Sociology. I read Sociology thereafter for a special degree which was not completed due to the turbulence of the late eighties. Nevertheless, Desmond was a teacher and I a student. Yes, ‘Desmond’ and not ‘Prof Desmond’ or ‘Prof Desmon Mallikarachchi’ or ‘Prof Mallikarachchi’ or ‘Sir,’ although I can’t ever remember addressing him by name or title. In my mind he was and is ‘Desmond.’ Simple.

My first encounter with Desmond was on the 12th of November, 1986, or perhaps a day or two before or after. The occasion was the annual commemoration of W M Weerasuriya who had been shot dead ten years previously. He was the keynote speaker at the event organised by the Dumbara Action Committee. For those too young to know or too old to remember, ‘Dumbara’ refers to the Dumbara Campus of the University of Peradeniya. It was located in Polgolla and was for first year undergraduates of the Arts Faculty and second year students of the same faculty reading for a general degree. Student Councils having been banned, the more politically inclined had decided to set up ‘Action Committees.’ The Dumbara Action Committee was affiliated with that of the Peradeniya University and the action committees of all universities came under the umbrella of the Inter University Student Federation.

Desmond must have said something about Weerasuriya. He must have touched on the political issues of the day. All I remember is Desmond urging students to find, own and speak with their own voices. He stressed, ‘your identity.’

He was not with or for the dominant student group at the time, the JVP-affiliated Socialist Students Union. He was ‘left,’ though. His subject was Marxism and he was a Marxist. It didn’t take too long for me to understand why he was not excited about student politics, even when there came a point where people were scared to say they were opposed to the JVP, not three years after JVPers were embarrassed to say they were. Simply, he read Marx. He was a Marxist scholar. He knew what Marxism was not.

For all this, Desmond did not invite the wrath of students who thought otherwise. He was respected. He was consulted about doctrinal issues. He welcomed one and all, was always sober and always spoke to the point.

I remember attending one of his public lectures in the early nineties in Peradeniya. I don’t remember the exact title, but it was about the purported death of Marxism following the collapse of the Soviet Bloc. The funeral was for Marxism, not Marx, at least in the right-wing press which of course dominated the media at the time. Desmond criticised those who announced the death of Marxism and their ideological preferences as well. He essentially asked and answered the following question: ‘Marx va maranna hadanne kavuda saha ai (Who wants to kill Marx and why)?

A question was put to him after he delivered his speech. Actually there were three questions asked in Sinhala and which could be translated as follows: ‘Is Marx’s death not called for by those who hold a gal-katas to the head of workers to compel them to strike? Is Marx’s death not sought by leftists who opt for coalition politics? Is Marx not being killed by those who have put a full stop to the dialectic following the assassination of Trotsky in 1940?’

There was a pause. Then he answered in a measured tone, again in Sinhala of course: ‘ow, ow saha ow (yes, yes and yes). Thereafter he spoke at length on the wider political spectrum and how the ‘left’ in its error could in word and deed play adjunct to capital and capital interests.

Criticism is easy, and this one learnt without having to attend any classes on political theory. Self-criticism is a different creature altogether. Desmond had the kind of humility that comes from deep and serious reflection on all manner of processes. It can’t be taught, but the possibility of humility and indeed its worth can be taught, not by ‘teaching’ per se but being that kind of individual. Desmond seemed like that. At least to me, in the few chance encounters I’ve had with him.

I haven’t spoken with Desmond in quite a while. Our encounters have been sporadic and random, sometimes somewhere in the Arts Faculty and sometimes somewhere in Kandy. He never taught me so I never expected him to know me. I would introduce myself and he would say ‘of course,’ and speak as though to a friend from a long time ago. Simple.

I don’t remember much of professors and lecturers who didn’t teach me or whose extracurricular work I was not a part of, for example theatre. Names were known. Faces became familiar and then with time less so. Desmond was different. Quiet and self-effacing and yet most certainly a presence in the University of Peradeniya and perhaps elsewhere too, I wouldn’t know.

It would have been good to say ‘hello’ and wish him in person, but I am not like that and he wouldn’t expect such things either. I just happened to see a social media post wishing him. So I shall too, here. Good health, peace of mind, deep reflection and wholesome engagement, as always, Desmond. Happy birthday!

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title ‘The Recurrent Thursday’]

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No requiems for the Scandal of the Century

 

There’s an old song probably penned by Gamini Haththotuwegama, widely recognised as the Father of Street-Theatre in Sri Lanka, which speaks of the violence associated with the insurrection of 1971. That song was probably more appropriate for the ‘bheeshanaya’ of the late eighties. Looking back, the two insurrections were quite distinct from one another and hindsight makes us wonder who the ‘rebels’ were fighting for. For real.  

The song had this line: 'amu amuve goda gaehuva, vala nodamaa pilissuva, aesipiya nohela oba dutuva, mama dutuvaa…daena daena apa atharin nopeni giyaa.’ So, the translation: ‘[they] were piled up alive (raw), weren’t cremated but buried..you saw and so did I…and with our full knowledge they disappeared.’

This song came to me as I was seeking some solace from Gabriel José García Márquez. As often happens in moments of despair, I seek out my favourite writers. Sometimes it’s Márquez, sometimes Pablo Neruda. Sometimes, Faiz Ahmed Faiz or Nazim Hikmet.

Sometimes just a random page in a random book answers the unanswerable, but I wasn’t looking for an answer. I had just read a BBC report where the US Ambassador to Israel, Mike Huckabee’ had suggested that ‘Muslim countries’ (their quote) should give up some of their land to create a future Palestinian state.  He said, also, that ‘maybe, if there is such a desire for the Palestinian state, there would be someone who would say, we’d like to host it.’

Sounded like a requiem. In his thinking, there’s no Palestinian state (true, technically) and those who want a state for Palestinians should facilitate a mass exodus and generously offer real estate to those forced out of their homes, their homeland. That kind of logic could have been used by those who supported Zionism back in the day to, say, carve out a Jewish enclave somewhere in the USA.

Things don’t happen that way. Politics inform the cartographer. Countries are born, they decay and they die. Boundaries are made and erased and redrawn. That’s the history of the world.

Anyway, Huckabee made me think of a collection of essays by Márquez titled ‘THE SCANDAL OF THE CENTURY and Other Writings.’ For me, at least, the massacre of Palestinians by Isreal forces with the unabashed and absolute support of the US and her allies in Europe and other parts of THAT empire which includes, at least, Australia, is THE scandal of this century. So far. The world, or rather the hegemonic media houses of the world, have seen and looked the other way while people were buried alive in their thousands.

Among those buried are infants, pregnant women, the sick, elderly and dying. Among them are UN workers and doctors whose only objective was to respond to a humanitarian crisis of unprecedented proportion.

They were slaughtered in cold blood. And the excuse has been ‘Isreal has the right to defend her existence.’

If defending existence is the rule of thumb then every single response to Zionist aggression over many decades, whatever the form that response took, terrorism included, is justified.

But that’s wrong, isn’t it? Or is it? The logic of the Zionists and their vocal apologists in fact validate any and all acts of violence because all the violent have to say is ‘we are defending our right to exist.’ Subjectivities explode, friends.  And people die. In their thousands. Sorry, they don’t die, they are butchered. And there’s no butchery in this century that comes anywhere close to what happens in the hell that Israel has turned Occupied Palestine into.  

Márquez, in a speech titled ‘The beloved though distant homeland,’ delivered in Medellín, Colombia, in 2003, quotes Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra: ‘All these squalls to which we have been subjected are signs that the weather will soon improve and things will go well for us, because it is not possible for the bad or the good to endure forever, and from this it follows that since the bad has lasted so long a time, the good is close at hand.’

Cervantes wasn’t talking of Colombia, but Márquez says it applies to his country.

He explains thus.

‘Last year [that is, in 2002] close to 400,000 Colombians had to flee their houses and land because of the violence, as almost 3 million others had already done for the same reason over the previous half-century.’

Cervantes (and Márquez) could have been talking about Palestine.

But Márquez believes that ‘we still have a deeper country to discover in the midst of disaster: a secret Colombia that no longer fits in the moulds we had forged for ourselves with our historical follies.’

‘A secret Palestine’ also works. But Márquez is generous and self-effacing. The ‘forging’ he speaks of was not the product of collective decision-making. There was no unanimous vote on measures that turned Occupied Palestine into the hell it has become. There were deliberate decisions. Genocide was an objective. It still is. Huckabee would know, for that’s the history of his country as well.  

There are, however, nations we can re-imagine and populate. Gentler ones. Gamini Haththotuwega knew this. And that’s why the song has these lines as well:

‘Unge leyin, dadi mau-piya gunayen, game godin sidaadiyen, kadaagena ena haema paeththen, ranchu gaesee enavaa, satan vadee enavaa.’

(From their blood, from the timbre of motherhood and fatherhood, from village and city, breaking through from all sides, as a multitude, they [will] arrive fighting, again and again.’)

We could write a requiem for the scandal of this century.

Later, perhaps. For, like W H Auden said in his celebrated poem on the Spanish Civil War, ‘today, the struggle.’ The struggle for a country that was, is and will be. Palestine. 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title ‘The Recurrent Thursday’]

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Today is (also) "Teachers' Day"

 

Professor Arjuna Parakrama would have been 26 or 27 of age when he completed his Masters at Pittsburgh University, Pennsylvania. I believe he submitted a collection of poems in lieu of a thesis or as part fulfilment of the thesis requirement. He dedicated it to his teachers. I have mentioned elsewhere his explanation which could be summarised as follows:

‘People don’t remember their teachers, but what they’ve given is so much of who we are.’

There are no self-made people in this world, although many make that claim or act as though their life journeys were bereft of people, (formal) teachers included.  

What made me remember Arjuna’s comment, which by the way I think of often and have inspired me to keep in touch with my teachers from kindergarten to university, is a note written by a 15 year old girl to his speech and drama teacher who, almost at the age of 88, finally decided to stop her classes.

Lakshmi Jeganathan, Aunty Lakshmi to all her students and their parents, called me recently to tell me about this letter. She sounded really happy. She called me, in particular, to tell me that not all students are terrified of her (as I was and have claimed publicly!). The reference was to an article I wrote for the Sunday Island 22 years ago titled ‘Of lessons learnt on dreaded Saturdays and unlearning the mis-learnt.’

I was scared of her as a child. I was always in awe of her, back then and now. It was when I was an undergraduate and became fascinated with theatre that I first came to realise how much I owe her. And later, I realised that I couldn’t pay the debt I owed, for she more than anyone else provided the foundation for my abiding love of literature. She knows I was terrified of her, but Aunty Lakshmi also knows I am grateful and that I love her very much.  

But this letter made me realise how stupid I was back then and how thoughtful, caring, appreciative and knowledgeable Salma is.

Dearest Aunty Lakshmi,

To be honest, Aunty, when I heard the news about you stopping classes I was devastated. I was so upset that I started replaying moments that I have had in this class because, Aunty, I started this class when I was 5 years old. Aunty, I’m 15 now. It went so fast and I wish I could replay all those memories over and over again. This class holds such a special place in my heart. Like all the times you told us stories about your life. Aunty, you built this confidence in me and it’s because of you that I have no fear of speaking in front of an audience. It’s because of you that I was confident to join my school’s debating club which is such a big deal in my life. Aunty, you taught me how to read with emotion and express myself. I could not be more grateful for how much you’ve helped me. Aunty, in my time in this class I hope I’ve made you proud. I hope I am [one of] those students you remember. Mondays are going to be so empty now. And Aunty, I’m really sorry for all those classes I missed because I regret it so much now. Aunty, I’m going to miss you more than words could express. You truly mean the world to me because there aren’t teachers like you; you inspire me so much. Thank you for being there for me because, Aunty, you’re practically family and it’s so tough not to see your family. This is really tough for me, Aunty, cause I’m gonna miss saying “I’m sorry I am late,’ or hearing you read poems so memorisingly or how you mime so well. Aunty’ let’s be real; there’s no one as dedicated and committed as you. Aunty, I really appreciate what you have done for me and I hope I achieve big things and tell you about it in the future. I hope I am [one of the] students you talk about because, Aunty, I am going to think about you quite often, because everything I am is because you trust me. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. And of my god, Aunty, I’m gonna miss you like really miss you because no matter what you can’t forget daily and you can’t stop loving family and Aunty, like I said, you are family. And I will truly love and miss you. And I’ll do my best and keep the legacy going.  

If any of her students (those terrified of her like me and those who saw the love, dedication and nurturing like Salma) were to remember her today and think about their lives, they would no doubt acknowledge what Salma has above. She didn’t teach us the ‘A B C.’ She prepared us for lifelong and useful engagement with family, friends, colleagues and strangers. With confidence and humility.

Arjuna was right. He was young then. Salma is even younger than he was then. It took me a lot more time to understand and appreciate. Yes, today (is also) “Teachers’ Day” and, with no disrespect to the many who have taught and keep teaching me, I would dedicate this day to Lakshmi Jeganathan, our Aunty Lakshmi.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title ‘The Recurrent Thursday’]

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Iron-domes are (also) made of words

 

The character Rodion Raskolnikov made an unforgettable observation in Fyodor Dostoevsky's 'Crime and Punishment.’ It is a response to a question put to him by his sister Dunya: ‘Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why have you shed blood?’

Here’s the response:

'Which all men shed, he put in almost frantically, ‘which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind.’
This was his justification for the murder of an unscrupulous pawnbroker, an old woman who hoards money and other valuables. Raskolnikov reasons that with the money thus obtained he could drag himself out of poverty and go on to perform great deeds. So, in essence, some crimes are justifiable if they pave the way for so-called higher goals of supposedly ‘better’ men.  

Sound familiar?  

Remember the scandalous and largely ignored narrative about Iraq (of Saddam Hussein) possessing ‘weapons of mass destruction’ (WMD) which manufactured an excuse for the invasion of that country? Well, sanctions on Iraq, it is estimated, caused approximately 2 million deaths, and according to UNICEF, resulted in the deaths of a half a million children under the age of five. Violent death count estimates, i.e. beginning with the 2003 invasion and the ensuing occupation and insurgency, and civil war, range from 600,000 to over 1 million.  

Note: the US Government and the countries that made up the cringe-worthy ‘Coalition of the Willing’ are yet to provide one shred of evidence that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction.

The narrative created an excuse for butchery. The butchers went scot-free. Another such individual, a butcher by the same token, Barack Obama, was honoured with the Nobel Peace Prize, no less ‘for his "extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.’ The world cheered and thereby affirmed Raskolnikov’s observation.

People who are justifiably skeptical about today’s narrative regarding Iran’s nuclear weapons capabilities may not remember that Obama brought it up way back in 2012.  

What of Iran’s nuclear capabilities though?

A few days ago the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), Rafael Grossi, said that ‘more than 400 kilograms of enriched uranium remains unaccounted for in Iran following Israeli and US airstrikes on key nuclear facilities.’

Now there are 59 countries with Uranium deposits. There are nine with nuclear weapons. Iran is not one of them. Grossi himself knows that Iran’s stockpile has only 60% purity whereas it should be 90% to build a nuclear weapon. He doesn’t know where this (at the moment) harmless (in nuclear-strike terms) stockpile is. He’s not worried about countries that do have strike-capability and have stocks to blow up the planet several times over. He doesn’t seem to be overly anxious about the fact that the sole clandestine nuclear weapons power in the Middle East is not Iran but Israel, a country that has steadfastly refused to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT) and has never allowed UN safeguards on its facilities.

Israel, meanwhile has, in the name of dealing with a clearly non-existent existential threat, perpetrated the worst crimes against humanity in this century in terms of intensity. In Gaza. We need not go over the numbers. The world, at least those who purchase the Washington narrative, does not seem to mind.

This shouldn’t surprise anyone, especially since the world remembers Hitler and not King Leopold,
under whose watch at least 1-5 million people and probably in the region of 10 million were killed in what is today the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The key word is narrative. The word. Then pen. It can be the staunchest comrade-at-arms of the sword.  The sword needs the pen, in the before, while and after of butchery. The pen or rather the keyboard these days, needs to re-dress tyrants as ‘benefactors-of-humankind.’

Raskolnikov, after the act, is wracked with remorse. He is forced to contend with guilt and horror at the consequences, both to himself and the world around him. The tyrants of the world have one advantage over Dostoevsky’s character. They are not burdened by remorse. They, in contrast, have the cover of self-righteousness which is tenaciously protected by bucks and guns. Sorry, drones. It’s an iron-dome of a different and more pernicious kind, one might say.  

Tyrants need the likes of Rafael Grossi. They are needed to construct Iron-Dome Narratives. 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title ‘The Recurrent Thursday’]

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Words that come (too) easy

 

Some may say that Elli Robert Fitoussi, the French singer and musician born to a Tunisian Jewish family and better known by his professional name, F R David, is a one-hit wonder. He is, after all, best known for his 1982 international hit single ‘Words’ which was the title song of his debut album of the same name.

People familiar with music from the eighties would know the lyrics.

Words don't come easy to me
How can I find a way to make you see I love you?
Words don't come easy
Words don't come easy to me
This is the only way for me to say I love you
Words don't come easy

Words don’t come easy when it’s about expressing sentiments such as love. Words do come easy in other contexts, though.  Today I am thinking of a few words that have slipped off certain tongues or, as one might say, from forked tongues, as easy as certain prayers from certain mouths. Mantras, almost.

Here’s a term: existential threat. Here’s another: rogue regimes. And yet another: the era of impunity.

The last two came from Jeb Bush, one time US presidential hopeful, the son of US President George Bush (Snr) and the brother of US President George W Bush. The former Florida Governor in a social media post has claimed that the US attack on Iranian nuclear facilities ‘reassesses American (sic) strength, and sends an unmistakable message to rogue regimes: the era of impunity is over.’

Iran is not done-n-dusted, of course. That endgame may keep people waiting. It was an attack and there was a message. Here’s another way of reading both attack and message that is quite different to Jeb’s: ‘the long era of impunity enjoyed by the world’s worst thug, a rogue regime if ever there was one, the US in case you’ve not got it already, is yet to end.’ Need we even elaborate?  

Existential threat. Now that’s one for the ages. Who has used that term most in the last so many decades but most persistently since October 7, 2023? Well, Israel. Well, Zionists. Well, the USA. Well, the NYT, the BBC and other adjuncts of Washington-Speak. Well, the client states of the USA, including Canada, some in Europe and some down under.

Existential threats can come in various forms. For example, blankets infected with smallpox. For example, the guns-in-booty-out form so loved by old style colonials. For example, ‘the rules-based world order’ where rules protect the prerogative to plunder and subjugate by some and not all. And of course nuclear weapons.

Russia, the USA, China, France, the United Kingdom, India, Pakistan, Israel and North Korea possess nuclear warheads, a total of well over 12,000, each capable of causing over half a million fatalities. Italy, Türkiye, Belgium, Germany, Netherlands and Belarus host nuclear weapons.  According to the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons. While the range of a nuclear warhead can vary depending on the delivery system, the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, the longest-delivery system, is estimated to have the capacity to travel 6,000 to 9,300 miles. It can’t be difficult to figure out which countries face ‘existential threats’ from those which possess such capacity. Therefore, if ‘existential threat’ is reason enough to declare war or in the very least plan and execute ways and means of eliminating such threats, then all such countries have every right to do so.  If this means acquiring nuclear weapon capability, that’s alright too, it can be argued.  

This is the problem of words coming (too) easy. The utterers slip over their tongues. They fail to see that their ‘reasoning’ can be thrown back at them. It is perhaps a malady that afflicts the powerful: we are right because we say so; our logic is a one-way street and cannot be used against us. Something like that.

F R David’s song has this lovely line: ‘But my words are coming out wrong, girl, I reveal my heart to you, and hope that you believe it's true ‘cause words don’t come easy to me.’

Yeah. Right. The words are coming all wrong; not because they don’t come easy but because they in fact do come easy.  Carelessly. They sounds vulgar. Utterly.

Elli Robert Fitoussi, wherever he is right now, might not agree and indeed may be appalled and object to his words being twisted, but then again, I don’t have nuclear weapons. Words are all I have. And all I am saying is ‘I love you too much not to say what I feel, even if “my words are coming all wrong”!’

[This article was first published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Tanques, tanks and other misconceptions

 

 

This country, Sri Lanka, is littered with tanks. Tanks? Well, that’s the common English or rather Sri Lankan English translation of the Sinhala word ‘wewa.’ The translation or rather the transliteration says a lot about conceptions, misconceptions and general ignorance. Or was it a deliberate mis-naming?  

The word ‘tank’ comes from the Portuguese ‘tanque,’ which they borrowed from the Gujarati ‘tankh’ which means ‘cistern, underground reservoir for water,’ or the Marathi word ‘taken’ or ‘tanka’ which means simply reservoir. Trace it back further and linguists would say it’s from the Sanskrit word ‘tadaga,’ which means ‘pond’ or ‘lake.’ Anyway, they all refer to a container or containment of water.

Today is could mean a closed container for liquids or gases, an open container for storing water or other liquids, a cage for fish and corals, a pond, a pool, a small lake that is natural or artificial, an armoured fighting vehicle, a large reservoir built to irrigate land or generate hydropower, and even a prison cell!

The key element in all this is containment. And that is not the ‘whew.’ Not according to Peter Wise. When I met this irrepressible resident of the regions surrounding Thanamalwila more than twenty years ago, I was told that a wewa is not a tank or a reservoir for those terms don’t capture the true social, cultural and ecological weight of this particular kind of water-body.

People in Sri Lanka know what a wewa is. Children learn about the great bodies of water built by their ancestors, the Kala Wewa, the Tisa Wewa, the Nuwara Wewa, Minneriya, Giritale, Parakrama Samudra and so on. But theen there are the innumerable ‘lesser’ wew (wewas?) sometimes crafted into entire cascade systems. They are ingeniously designed water conservation mechanisms where at the top end you get the polkatu weva, then the kulu weva, then the gam weva associated with a particular village, followed by the maha weva and then of course the mighty ocean. They have certain common features. There are the sluice gates, a spill and canals leading into tracts of paddy fields of sizes corresponding to the capacities of the particular wewa.

But they are people. They are elements of a social order that is acutely aware of ecological factors and more so the related dependencies. The cascade systems traced by the names mentioned above are very much in evidence even today. There’s a lot of scholarship on how things were and how things are today which question the ‘logic’ of dominant development paradigms and points towards alternatives which take into account catchments and their conservation, soil types, water tables, the intersections of human activity and foraging preferences of other creatures, raising of water tables and indeed, in today’s context, sustainable climate resilient agriculture.  

The point is that water can be caught, trapped and released, but ‘tank’ makes people and the environment invisible. When key elements cannot be seen (or aren’t shown), everything is reducible to simple arithmetic. It greatly enhances the probability of error and possibility of engendering disasters unimagined.  

A wewa is about the past, present and future. A wewa is about a social as well as ecological system. A wewa is about collective well being. A wewa is not a stand-alone liquid island. It is a part of, feeds off and feeds other ‘islands,’ some of which are not stagnant but move laterally and vertically.  Some are made of water and others are not. There are keywords here: whole and wholesome, in particular.

The ancients knew. They got it. Others in more recent times probably suspected. Very few understood. Speaking strictly for myself, I do not. Nevertheless, I am fascinated. This is why, reading Udula Bandara Avsadahamy’s ‘Wewa’ which he dubs, ‘a study on the social, economic, environmental and technological antecedents of the “wewa,”’ I am compelled to read further and more importantly walk as much of the vast territories of which the ‘tanque’ is a prominent but not self-contained feature as I can in the time I have left. This is why I desire even more than before to talk to those who have walked, observed, studied and figured out the secrets of that which is sacred associated with the ‘wewa.’ And this is what inspired the following which can be read as the reader will.

The Portuguese saw contained water
and they called it tanque
and so we have tanks
but a 'weva' is no ‘tankiya’
and is not water contained and nothing else
for water is caught, it flows, conserved and released
and does so much more
for the above and below
of earthly things — creatures and vegetation
but we see water,
contained,
still but for a ripple or two,
We are water bodies
and are seen as such
we remain unseen, you and I,
offer thanks to nomenclature
the chronic idiocy of eyes
the humour of wisdom,
and return to the sacred
which must remain a secret.

There are tanks. There is a ‘wewa.’ We would do well not to confuse them. We would do much better, in fact, not to treat them as coterminous. 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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The wealth and poverty of Nalin De Silva

 

The

More than twenty years ago, when I worked for the Sunday edition of ‘The Island,’ I would step into the editorial office of our sister paper, ‘Divaina,’ just to chit-chat with fellow journalists. I enjoyed conversations with almost all the journalists working there, young and old. On one such occasion, I noticed Dr Nalin De Silva standing near a table, looking a bit out of place.  

I had met him a few times before that. He recognised me when I greeted him. This was a time when he wrote weekly columns for the ‘Divaina,' the Midweek Review of ‘The Island’ and also for the science weekly, ‘Vidusara,’ if I remember right. So I asked the natural question: ‘did you come to submit an article?’ Of course the question was asked in Sinhala and his response was likewise in Sinhala. Essentially, the following:

‘No, Malinda. I came to collect the payment. It’s a small amount. They don’t pay me regularly (hariyata gevanne naha). They don’t understand that it is a big amount for me. It was heartbreaking to hear that. Nalin, who was the professor of mathematics at Colombo University, had been sacked. He would be reinstated years later, but that’s another story. The fact was that he was going through a really hard time.

Looking back, one might say, that Nalin never had it easy. He was vilified no end and not always by people endowed with any kind of political, ideological, philosophical or moral integrity. He wrote and he spoke. He stood his ground and argued. He did not mince his words and maybe he should have.

I remember running into him in Colombo Campus about 30 years ago. I was speaking with Dr Arjuna Parakrama of the English Department, my chess coach and a family friend. The two had arranged to debate one another on some topic which was not mentioned. They spoke about the logistics, that much I remember. Then Arjuna said ‘Nalin, we must make sure that we don’t become anyone’s pawn.’ Nalin muttered something and left. I didn’t hear, so I asked Arjuna.

‘He said you are already a pawn.’

Arjuna took it in his stride. He too was one who stood his ground, although he spoke and wrote much less than Nalin. A pity, I should add, even though ideologically and politically I was closer to Nalin than to him.

On the 2nd of May it will be a year since Nalin passed away. His sharp and telling arguments that countered all manner of assaults on the nation and its heritage are no doubt missed by ideological fellow travellers and probably offers much relief of his detractors, especially since it is clear that at least for now ‘the enemy’ that he perceived has gained much ground.

The enormity of the man in the politico-ideological firmament is undisputed. He played a key role in unshackling radical youth from all the errors of Marxist, materialistic and modernist postulates. The resurgence of the political right certainly dealt heavy blows to Marxists, but at the ideological level with regard to emancipatory politics, Nalin’s interventions certainly unsettled Marxists as well as Marxist parties and groups who, interestingly, abandoned the ‘class project’ and embraced all kinds of causes just to retain a ‘left’ badge which meant something only to them and nothing or next to nothing for others. Such individuals, unsurprisingly, ended up being quite comfy with right wing projects. Nalin’s ‘Mage Lokaya’ (‘My world’) inflicted deep wounds, suffice to say.

Nalin of course was not the first to take on Marxists, but in the very least, in Sri Lanka, his was a voice that they simply could not refuse to hear. Whether or not such debates served to engineer some kind of progressive leap in discourses related to social transformation it is hard to say conclusively, one way or the other. However, to the extent that any serious intellectual exercise is a non-negotiable element of emancipatory politics, few would disagree that Nalin did his bit. And more.
Nevertheless, he was more effective on the erroneously formulated idea of ‘the national question.’ Nalin systematically debunked ahistorical claims of Tamil chauvinists and in the process undressed their apologists in Marxist/leftist garb. One recalls that Nalin, along with Gunadasa Amarasekera, S L Gunasekera and a handful of others, took on an ‘enemy’ poor in theory but rich in political and economic strength. This was in the 1990s. That was a time when ‘Sinhala’ and ‘Buddhist’ were terms that could only be uttered at the risk of being called racists, chauvinists, warmongers etc. Interestingly, the name-callers had no issue whatsoever with racists, chauvinists and terrorists belonging to other communities, ethnic and religious.

The nineties were marked by a political culture where anyone opposed to federalism was vilified,  Nalin did not care. He was relentless. He wrote and wrote and wrote. Week after week. For years. Decades. He took his detractors on almost singlehandedly. Many were in NGOs with dubious agenda and they had the bucks. Those who subscribed to ideologies that Nalin opposed had ample support of those in power. They had the kind of access to both public and private media that should have made control of the ideological space a piece of cake. Nalin just wrote to a few Sinhala newspapers. He prevailed. Or rather, the ideas he tried to disseminate took root.

Nalin was ridiculed over his ideas about Natha Deviyo. He responded with a book titled ‘Batahira vidyaava arsenic saha deviyo (Western science, arsenic and god).’ It is not a coincidence that those who laughed at Nalin do not ever take issue with theist subscribing to the Judeo-Christian religions. At the same time they treat Western science as divine writ. The last word. They genuflect before western science even though western science has long since abandoned the idea of objective reality.

Nalin did expend some energy on developing a political organisation or else trying to convince established parties to accept his views. He was political in that sense too. This exposed him to additional fire for his political opponents pinned the since of the party on the man. To be expected of course. Few political pundits can claim to be immune from such attacks though.  

Nalin argued against Cartesian logic and proposed instead what he called the ‘Chathuskotika’ method of inquiry, four-fold as opposed to the Aristotelian two-fold.  In ‘Marxvaadaye Daridrathavaya’ and ‘Apohakaye Roopikaya’ he did raise issues regarding key concepts of Marxism and demystified Marxist dialectics respectively, necessary interventions useful even for Marxist scholars as well as those who privileged slogan over activism that considered relentless study integral to the revolutionary drive.

He would often draw from cartesian logic when it comes to political practice. Perhaps a remnant of dabbling with Trotskyism in his younger years. A pity, certainly, and a contradiction, for the rich and complex logic system he developed was in a sense a result of his efforts to debunk the Trotskyism of his younger years.

He was far from perfect. But he was absolutely honest. He did not comprise, as many others have, his convictions in order to secure some kind of personal benefit. This is why the image of that encounter at the ‘Divaina’ is so deeply etched in my mind. He was poor, absolutely, compared to those who took pleasure in ridiculing him. He was one of the richest minds this country has seen over the last 50 years or so. He made a difference and his ideas may continue to inform ideological debates and consequent political practice for a long time more to come.  

Nalin De Silva was unperturbed by praise or blame. He lived a simple life even as he chose complex subjects to write about. He planted many seeds. They will grow into tall trees, by and by.  

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Water is indeed land

 

A few weeks ago I wrote about land. The title was ‘The land that time should not make us forget.’ That article was concluded as follows:

‘Land is not just square-somethings. Land is made also of heart and mind, of knowledge and knowing, of the conscious and a conscience. That land, torn and yet beautiful, has seen the ravages of time. It carries signs that yell, ‘forget, forget, forget!’ We should not.

Several of my friends responded to the piece, pointing to important factors that I had failed to mention. Kumi Nesiah offered the following:

‘The economic driver of land (resource) theft is almost entirely by animal consumers (land, ocean, etc). Human habitats including all the biggest cities like New York occupy less than 1% of utilized land. Eighty three percent of farmland (stolen land) is occupied by livestock producers. We were all “indigenous” once. Now, we are all living in stolen and commoditized property, often in slums. Indigenous populations and biodiversity are disappearing daily due, almost entirely, to the intrinsic cruelty and “unsustainability” of nonvegan consumerism.’

I posited land as a metaphor, arguing that ‘all things owned or are associated with entitlements of one kind or another.’ For example culture, history, heritage and lifestyle. Geethanjana Kudaligama, added ‘language’ to this list:

‘The other storage of cultural memory that is passed from generation to generation is the language of any given community. Language is not only a tool of communication. It is also the storage of knowledge, ethos and mythos, folklore, and anything and everything that shapes a given community and distinguishes it from another. As a store, language keeps accumulating this community’s cultural knowledge for future use. Once the language is removed from a person, that person's true identity will be removed permanently.’

Both commends call out for elaboration and one hopes that Kumi and Geethanjana will do the honours. Otherwise I would have to, I suppose, and that would be a poorer intervention. Today, however, I write about a simple and yet vast element that I missed. Water.

Tharindu Amunugama said, ‘water is vital too; the one who controls water will rule the land.’

How true! We didn’t need the sabre-rattling from our ‘friends’ across the Palk Straits to know this. ‘We will starve you of water!’ That was the threat. It is a threat that needs to be taken as a rude reminder to those who are naive and easily swayed by sweet nothings uttered so easily that they become blind to the Trojan element of the horses (to be) gifted. Dependencies of any kind are like narcotics. Deny it and the body contorts in excruciating pain. Minds get blown to pieces. Happens to people. Happens to countries.

Water. Let’s get back to it. Our ancestors knew its value. They knew ‘rain water harvesting’ long before it became a term in development handbooks. They knew the lay of the land. They knew it was not just about contours and soil composition, but the complex whole of a specific area or system. This is why there were forbidden forests up in the hills. They knew of catchment and runoff. They knew about the natural cycles. They knew water.

Water is a life-giver and life-protector. Water, like land, is a metaphor. Thirst quenchers are divine. Thirst-givers are devils. There are thirsts that can be ignored simply because they are non-essentials in the serious matter of survival. Basic needs, material and otherwise. Those who control ‘water,’ rule, yes. And if those who have such control deny access, they are tyrants. Terrorists, in fact. We didn’t need ‘Mavil Aru’ to know this. We didn’t need to know about the Indus Water Treaty (signed in Karachi on September 19, 1960, by Jawaharlal Nehru and Pakistani president Ayub Khan, the respective Prime Ministers of India and Pakistan at the time) to know this.

When a tank breaches, villages are abandoned. That says it all, doesn’t it? The question is, what are these tanks that we must protect from breaching of all kinds? Again, like ‘land’ we return to metaphoric application: culture, history, heritage and lifestyle, language and the structures and hegemonic homo-centric cultures Kumi alludes to.

If those who control water rule the land, then there’s a case for rules that draw from and affirm commonality. Common property. Common property that is not homo-centric. The water conservation efforts of our ancestors recognised all creatures and their needs. They didn’t send rent invoices to the fish, the birds and other creatures, domesticated and otherwise, who slaked their thirst at such places.

Water. It is another name for land. Indeed. In word and deed.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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