A couple of years ago when the country, like the rest of the world, was battling the Covid-19 pandemic, we saw a surge of volunteerism that is not uncommon in times of trouble. No one died of hunger during this time. People got together to make sure that those who were most needy in the neighbourhood had basic needs met.
During this time, many groups mobilised resources, especially money, to support the efforts of the health authorities. Money was found for medicines, medical equipment and even to expand facilities in hospitals.
A group of men and women who had entered university together more than 40 years before and were connected through WhatsApp decided to ‘do something.’ Someone had posted the requirements of a hospital, I believe a children’s ward to be more specific. Other suggestions were posted. The amount needed was calculated. Arrangements were made to purchase various items. Eventually, whatever was collected was delivered.
Of course there was discussion. People debated the merits of each proposal. Options were weighed. Thus did they go about figuring out how the best value for money could be obtained. Old and not so old personal issues, not atypically, did intrude. In one instance, the proposer rather than the proposed being disliked, the proposal was criticised.
Things got heated. Things got out of hand. Out of the blue came the assertion, ‘all this stuff is what the state should do!’ No one really argued that the state should navel-gaze and twiddle thumbs, but this was a crisis, a pandemic, an unprecedented situation and as such the general consensus was, ‘let’s just do what we can simply because it could mean the difference between life and death.’
It’s an age-old issue. The state and the citizen. The collective and the individual. Rights and responsibilities. The social contract in laws, values and norms.
The laws, as Ru Freeman points out, ‘should be the last resort in our interactions, to be summoned when all conversation is spent, when all negotiation is done — in other words, when we are broke.
This side of all that, it always comes down to a personal choice. She nutshells it in a collection of essays titled ‘Bon Courage.’ The essay concerned was called ‘Many rights, few responsibilities.’
‘As a Sri Lankan, I grew up understanding that what is given freely must still be earned. A free education must be earned by upholding respect for education and rigorous intellectual pursuits. Free health care must still be earned by the purchase and consumption and, if possible, the cultivation of native vegetables, fruits and herbs. The freely given affections of parents and grandparents and extended family must be earned by a willingness to tend to the elderly, a consideration for the dying, and the transmission of those values to a younger generation.’
Education is not free. Health is not free. The people of this country pay for these things, directly or indirectly. Ask students in any university who pays for his or her education and the vast majority would mention parents, an older sibling or a close relative. Ask them thereafter, ‘who pays the person who cleans the washrooms, cuts the grass, fixes technical problems, teaches, counsels, maintains the gymnasium etc?’ There will be silence. Some might venture an answer.
The reluctance or ignorance can be put down to a flaw in the education system that simply does not inform students about resources, who provides them and in what ways. That’s not part of civic education, sadly, but that’s not something that parents cannot teach their children.
Politicians are frequently and
not unjustly berated for wasting public funds. They are irresponsible
and that’s a generous word to use on them. It begs the question, ‘am I
responsible?’
Responsibility and being responsible are not dead
in our country. There are those who do honest work, those who go beyond
the call of duty, those who do what they can to cure the country’s ills
to the extent of this ability, those who note the warts but are not
blinded by blemish to see the incredible beauty of this land, those
whose minds and hearts are not warped by wrongs suffered whether real or
perceived, those whose success, wealth and power have not translated
into arrogance and condescension and those who resist everything that
says ‘don’t smile, just frown.’
Such people are not weighed down
by ‘rights.’ They make everyone fly on the wings of responsibility.
This, I feel, is why we as a nation though downed again and again just
cannot be counted out.
Other articles in this series:
Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon
Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?
Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing
Journalism inadvertently learned
Reflections on the young poetic heart
Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus
The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'
Subverting the indecency of the mind
Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'
Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter
Seeing, unseeing and seeing again
Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy
The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga
The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down)
Every mountain, every rock, is sacred
Manufacturing passivity and obedience
Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited
In praise of courage, determination and insanity
The relative values of life and death
Poetry and poets will not be buried
Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990)
Sorrowing and delighting the world
Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi
Letters that cut and heal the heart
A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya
The soft rain of neighbourliness
Reflections on waves and markings
Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra
The right time, the right person
The silent equivalent of a thousand words
Crazy cousins are besties for life
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
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