A suspected new mural by artist Banksy is pictured in Marsh Lane in Bristol, Britain, February 13, 2020. REUTERS/Rebecca Naden
['The
Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News
from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 212th article in the
new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given
below]
Helpless,
in Sinhala would be asarana, literally without succour of any kind;
innocence would be ahinsaka or without the compulsion to cause harm.
I’ve heard politicians, journalists, commentators on social media
platforms and even academics use these words interchangeably as though
one implies the other or, preposterously, that they are synonymous.
It
is not always incorrect, for there are people in this world who would
not harm a fly, so to speak, who are also helpless in many ways. On the
other hand there are similarly harmless people who are not exactly
helpless.
It is tragic when people are both innocent and
helpless, but how often do we, when encountering helplessness, ask
ourselves, ‘is there innocence here as well?’
I’ve seen
helplessness and the helpless. I’ve seen the helpless engaged in
activities that are not necessarily compatible with words like innocent
and innocence. There are times when I brush off such transgressions on
account of perceived helplessness. But there are times when those who
are helpless are certainly nothing close to innocent. And there are
situations where those who are hardly helpless act as though there can’t
be anyone more innocent. At such times I wonder about language, words
and their abuse. And I wonder about ignorance and naïveté.
People
are resourceful. They have to live. They have to eat and breathe. They
have to do something with the ‘everyday’ to obtain some semblance of
meaning regarding their existence so that they can do it all over again
the next day. To do this, it is possible that innocence has to be
compromised in some way.
Then again there are those who
exaggerate their trials and tribulations, they use perceived
helplessness as a tool to obtain pity and exploit it.
The
question, then, is, should anyone assume that the helpless are innocent?
Are there ways of determining quickly whether innocence is in fact a
companion of helplessness? Is it easier to assume ‘probably not
innocent,’ and turn away?
Many decades ago my father offered some advice on all this without exactly using these words. He was talking of privilege.
Now
anyone can always name someone who is more privileged and someone who
is less. Anyone can abuse privilege. Anyone can abuse absence of
privilege or the condition of being less privileged. He didn’t say all
that but he said something along the following lines:
‘Remember
that you are privileged in certain ways. So if anyone decides to harm
you out of envy or some notion of justice, don’t think bad of that
person. But remember that if you allow it to happen a second time it
just means you are foolish.’
I believe it was in the course of a discussion about politics and that he added, ‘in politics you cannot afford to be innocent.’
These
are not theories and formulae that are cast in stone of course. Someone
else might say, ‘be alert, don’t let anyone take you for a fool.’
Over
the years, I’ve learned that it is tedious to be alert at all times. It
requires one to be suspicious of one and all. It pushes one to assume
that anything said is a lie, that there’s manipulation and mischief
afoot. Those are dark thoughts that can cloud the particular
interaction. This can be extrapolated to larger contexts made of more
than one individual, made of multiple processes and applied even to even
entire systems.
That’s cynicism through and through and I am
not saying that is necessarily bad. After all, the world’s blemishes are
so many that it would be absolutely naive to assume the opposite, that
it’s all about sunshiny days and seasons of fragrances and orchards of
the sweetest fruits.
We live, we learn, we notice patterns and
tendencies and we become better at reading signs and extracting their
meanings, this is true. There’s always the possibility of error, though.
There’s always the possibility of being hit between the eyes by a
pernicious brick hurled by someone or some group or some movement
believed to be innocent, benign, unblemished and saintly.
Over the years, I’ve developed a technique that yields peace of mind if not anything else. Here goes:
Someone
claims helplessness and solicits help, that is support that can be
rendered. A promise is often made: ‘I will repay you.’ Typically it is
financial but even in situations where no money is involved, similar
pledges are made: ‘thanks, I appreciate and will never forget; in fact
one day I will do the same for you.’
And so I respond thus:
‘No, there’s nothing to repay. This, in fact, is me repaying some
kindness rendered to me in some previous lifetimes. It’s all done. Even.
Don’t even think about repayment.’
What gets shelved by this is
the burden of feeling indebted and the burden of giving residence to
the thought that someone owes something to the giver.
Such
processes could impoverish in some way, but they leave one thing intact.
Innocence, the softer, more beautiful and far more fragile cousin of
helplessness, contrary to what I believe is common belief.
In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)
Mobsters on and off the screen
We're here because we're here because we're here
Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson
A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku
Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end
Sapan and voices that erase borders
Problem elephants and problem humans
The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo
Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning
Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home
Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)
A gateway to illumination in West Virginia
Through strange fissures into magical orchards
There's sea glass love few will see
Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha
Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse
The responsible will not be broken
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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