Stop Press! ~ Malinda Words

I wanted to write about two terms that are of particular political interest to me in these terrible days of absolutely barbaric assaults on civilians in Gaza and the West Bank and the shocking silence of the mainstream media: writers' bloc (yes, not ‘block’ and the apostrophe after and not before the 's') and dead-lines (not ‘deadlines’). I can’t.

I’ve seen ‘Stop Press’ exclamation in newspapers from the time I was very small. It took me a while to understand that it referred to the fact that the particular story thus marked was added after the printing process started. It has to be something important enough, of course. Most editors, especially those who have extraordinary long lives in such positions, have had to stop the press one time or another. Gamini Weerakoon too, I’m sure.

I didn’t know of a Gamini Weerakoon for many years, even though I had read it avidly since ours was an ‘Island household.’ We have bought the paper since its inception and I always read the editorial, his included, after he became the editor of the ‘Daily Island.’ I didn’t know because editorials don’t carry bylines. I first met the man when I joined the ‘Sunday Island’ in October 2000.

Journalists of both the daily and Sunday papers shared the same office space down Bloemendhal Road. Only the two editors and the then Deputy Editor of the daily paper, my friend and batchmate from the University of Peradeniya, Prabath Sahabandu (the current editor) had cubicles back then. All of us could submit content to the ‘other paper’ if we wanted to. I did.

Gamma allowed me to write a column for the Midweek Review and, during the 2001 General Election accommodated a special column related to associated political issues titled ‘The Election Monitor.’ Those who worked directly under him would have benefitted much more than I did. They probably have many ‘Gamma Stories’ to tell, far more than I.

I remember two incidents. Sometime in 2001, again around the time of the election, a brash and utterly obnoxious doctor charged into the editorial offices of the Island, angered apparently by something published that was critical of his brother-in-law, a ‘revolutionary’ leader killed during the unprecedented blood shedding of the late eighties.

‘Who is the *&%$$ing editor?’ he is said to have thundered.

Everyone had been shocked, I was told later. Except Gamma. He had just walked out of his room and calmly said, ‘I am the &%$$ing editor.’

Gamma always stood his ground, in word and deed.

His political preferences in terms of parties notwithstanding Gamma adopted a liberal editorial policy. He gave space to everyone along the political spectrum. He was always kind to me. I will never forget something he told me about writing. He called me into his office. He didn’t have to. He was kind.

‘Let me give you a piece of unsolicited advice. You don’t have to be angry when you are critical. Sometimes you can say it softly and be more effective.’

He was right. Absolutely. I’ve not always been soft, but even when I am sharp I remember what Gamma said and try not to be angry. I have not always been successful.

In later years, when he wrote for the Sunday Leader he did refer to me, critically. This was in 2006 when the then government was involved in ‘peace talks’ with the LTTE. Gamma was opposed to any talks with the LTTE and noted, in passing, that some columnists (that’s me) previously of this view had changed their stance. I won’t debate the point here; what counts is the affection he showed me.

He had a sense of humour. I remember some of the young journalists bringing a cake to celebrate some anniversary. The two editors were invited to cut the cake. It is no secret that they didn’t see eye to eye. Manik ambled to the middle of the office and asked ‘where’s Gamma?’

Gamma was a few minutes late. When he did arrive, Prabath made a joke about it. He said something like ‘Manik was asking where you were…you both only pretend to be angry.’
Gamma had a butter knife in his hand and promptly responded, ‘Ah! Is that so? Ask him to come. We can bury the hatchet for good.’ We all laughed. Manik would too, I’m sure, if he read this. ‘The Island’ was a fun place back then. A lot of words, a lot of laughs. It helped that there were people like Shamindra Ferdinando and Rex Clementine around; they seemed to have been born to be mischievous around. It had to do with leadership too. Both Manik and Gamma were gentle in their own ways and both liked a good joke.

Gamma kept his anxieties to himself as far as I know. There was one occasion when I felt he was genuinely upset. This was in 2003-4, around the time he was rather unceremoniously ‘unseated.’ The complaint had been that circulation had gone down. Well, newspaper owners rarely divulge true numbers. Gamma had gone to several newspaper stands and inquired. ‘No one said that there was a drop in sales,’ he told me.

He left. It may have hurt, but he didn’t show it. He continued to write, this time under his name. He went to the Orient Club. He enjoyed his drink. In the few times that I met him, he was his usual self; he always offered to buy a drink, always articulated his opinions, was cogent in his arguments, accommodating of different opinions and genuinely interested in what I did. I am sure it was the same with everyone else.

When I saw the Facebook post of my friend and former colleague at ‘The Island’ and ‘Rivira,’ Dhammika Ratnaweera, about Gamma passing away, I suddenly felt that things had come to a sudden halt. There’s always something to write about and that’s also something being around people like Gamma taught me. But I cannot write about all those other things. I can’t stop the presses, but I must stop now. Out of deep respect and much sadness.

['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 266th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]

12 November 2023

Stop Press!

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