Kaduwa.
That’s the Sinhala word for sword. Kaduwa in certain contexts is a
reference to English. Whoever came up with the idea was truly inspired.
English is a weapon. Cuts. Divides. Puts down. Differentiates. It is an
instrument conferred by the British to those who willingly submitted
themselves to serve the colonial rulers and be their adjuncts in the
exercise of control, theft and bloodletting. The British left. English
didn’t. Those who continued to look after the interests of the colonial
masters found it quite useful. For years the sword of coercion and that
of domination worked hand in hand. Still does.
Swords are
unionised, I sometimes feel. One cuts and the other approves. For a long
time it was guns-in-booty-out with invaders finding a useful ally in
the priest. ‘The gun and bible’ is a colonial story. Language was and is
the unnamed third in the triumvirate. Indeed, one could argue that in
non-colonial context too, language is a sword; it approves, mis-narrates
and silences.
This is not a Sri Lankan story though. It is not
a long-ago story either. It’s today. All over the world. Let’s take a
look at some choice cuts.
The BBC, having played cagey over the
unprecedented violence unleashed by Israel against Palestinian
civilians and civilian targets, reluctantly started covering ‘the other
side’ only after massive protests broke out in London and in fact all
parts of the world. Then again, it had the word and therefore the twist.
Right now, the hot story is about an agreement over the release
of hostages taken by Hamas. Hasn’t happened yet, so it is a story that
is unfolding. The story is being frequently updated.
Here’s how
the BBC headlined it: Israel and Hamas agree to pause fighting for
release of 50 hostages. Here’s the ‘afterthought’ in considerably
smaller font: ‘As part of the deal, Israel will release 150 Palestinian
women and teenagers held in Israeli detention.’
Two categories: hostages and detainees. The Israel citizens captured by Hamas are hostages, yes. They were captured. They were not arrested. Hamas does not have any legal authority to arrest anyone in Israel. When Israel authorities capture Palestinians in Gaza or the West Bank, it is also illegal simply because Israel is an occupying force. In any event, to say these 150 women and teenagers are detainees and not hostages is just crass wordplay. If someone lists all the restrictions imposed on Palestinians without naming the community and asked reporters working for such media houses to name the condition, I have no doubt that terms such as detention, imprisonment and hostage would be uttered. Not if the name 'Palestine' is slipped into that narrative. Oh no! The BBC, the New York Times and other such media houses will never acknowledge the undeniable truth that Israel has held all Palestinians hostage for years.
There’s a big difference between ’14,000 dead’ and ’14,000 killed.’ The tendency is to insert a quote about killing (for example, ‘Hamas-run health ministry says more than 14,000 people — including more than 5,000 children — have been killed in Israel’s campaign.’). So it sounds like a claim. Unverified. The numbers related to the Hamas attack are mentioned as fact. No quotes. No ‘someone said’ or ‘someone claimed.’
But it’s not about the numbers only. It’s about the difference between ‘killed’ and ‘dead.’ Hamas killed. Israel, technically, has not killed anyone. People just ‘died.’
So this is why I have been dwelling on the ways in which language can inflict harm or cause damage. Whoever said that the pen is mightier than the sword probably believed that the written word could best instruments that can cause physical injury. In certain instances, this may be true. In general though the pen is as pernicious an instrument as a sword or gun or bomb or bayonet. It cuts, it incapacities, it diminishes victims.
When reporters of outfits like the BBC or New York Times hammer out their news stories about the deliberate targeting of civilians in Gaza and the West Bank by the occupying forces of Isreal, blood does not ooze out of keyboards. It’s a cut nevertheless, each and every one of them.
['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 275th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]
malindadocs@gmail.com
Other articles in this series:
Residents of and residency in heart and mind
Merit, integrity and seniority in the superior courts
Hunters and 'victims' of immemorial light
The unbearable lightness of pause
Seasons bookeneded by leaves on park benches
The world shall not be emptied of poetry
Reclaiming the everyday with solidarities of tender fury
An Aussie broke a SLan heart in Ind for Afg
Writing magical pieces about something beautiful when time permits
The scattered archives of art and protest
Friendship that keep friends permanently at 16
Amherst: silent, rural, poetic and serendipitous
The virtues of unemployability
A breathless hush at the close
Ahmed Issa, fearless and audacious in Gaza
Let us take a deep breath now...
How Grolier Poetry writes 'Harvard Square'
Following children and their smiles
Let's plant words in cracks and craters
When the earth closes upon us...
Let us now march to the battleground of words
The most pernicious human shield
Who bombed Frankfurter Buchmesse
Love's austere and lonely offices
The mysteriously enjoined in the middle of nowhere
Reflections on the unimaginable
Jackson Anthony is a book and will be read
A village called Narberth Bookshop
'Irvin' and other one-word poems
Earth pieces Kerala and Sri Lanka
In the land of insomnial poets
When you don't need an invitation, it's home
When the Canadian House of Commons applauded a Nazi...
The importance of not skipping steps
No free passes to the Land of Integrity
Hector Kobbekaduwa is not a building, statue, street or stamp
Rajagala and the Parable of the Panner
Let's show love to Starbucks employees!
Octavio Paz and Arthur C Clarke in the stratosphere
9/11 and the calm metal instrument of Salvador Allende's voice
Whitman, Neruda and things that wait in all things
Thilina Kaluthotage's eyes keep watch
Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars
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
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