Lumumba Vea lives for us all

Sarath S De Silva’s ‘Kotuwa Pitakotuwa 1’ is a book I haven’t read. Vihanga Perera WhatsApped me the cover page and also a couple of pages from the book. He did so because there’s a reference to my father, Gamini Seneviratne.

De Silva recollects a couple of poetry magazines published in the University of Ceylon, Peradeniya, back in the early nineteen sixties. He says they were titled ‘Nisades I’ and ‘Nisades II’. From what I remember, there was a magazine titled ‘Poetry Peradeniya’ and later, ‘Peradeniya Kavi’ which I believe was bi or tri lingual. My father was associated with both.  

De Silva remembered but a few lines from a poem he believes my father wrote:

‘Meruva namuth lumumbaava
merune naa
aprikaava.’

[Although Lumumba was killed, Africa did not die]

Years ago, decades in fact, my father related a story about Lumumba. This was when he saw a photograph of the statue of Governor Ward in Kandy and in front of the Dalada Maligawa being removed (to be replaced by one of Madduma Bandara). It appeared on the front page of the Daily News or the Island, I can’t remember which.

‘When Lumumba was killed, we marched from Peradeniya to Kandy,’ that’s how he started the story.

He told me about Patrice Lumumba, Congo’s first Prime Minister after gaining independence from Belgium in June 1960. He was assassinated in January 1961. He was just 35.

Lumumba was a symbol of Congolese nationalism during the struggle against Belgian colonial rule which began when the butcher King Leopold established the Congo Free State in 1885. Around 10 million Congolese were killed between 1885 and 1908, even as Leopold plundered rubber and ivory.

His ‘Independence Speech’ is hailed as one of the most important in the 20th Century. Malcolm X observed that Lumumba was ‘the greatest Black man who ever walked the African continent.’ He spoke before King Baudouin of Belgium, the great-great-nephew of the aforementioned butcher.

Lumumba was ousted in a military coup led by Mobutu Sese Seku who captured and flew him to Katanga where he was tortured and eventually executed by a firing squad. Then his body was thrown into a shallow grave only to be dug up later, dismembered and his remains dissolved in acid.

It is said that the only remnant of Lumumba was a gold-crowned tooth, which Belgian police officer  Gérard Soete kept for 39 years until his death in 2000. Soete confessed that he was the one responsible for dismembering the body and dissolving Lumumba’s remains.

Africa did not die then. Lived. Lives. Present. Continuous. And while the continent lives, the people of at least 10 countries cheer their heroes playing their hearts out at the Football World Cup. They turn up, they cheer. But one man stands out.

Michel Kuka Mboladinga, better known by his nickname ‘Lumumba Vea,’ or ‘Lumumba Lives. He is the Congolese national team’s most famous fan. It all began during the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations in Morocco, when he stood upon a pedestal with a steely gaze during every Congo match, remaining perfectly still with his right arm raised from beginning to end.

He was not granted a US visa to watch the Democratic Republic of Congo play Uzbekistan, but he was in Guadalajara, Mexico, to watch them against Colombia. He stood still throughout the game. The picture says it all.

Lumumba was killed, my father told me. Lumumba lives, says Michel Kuka Mboladinga. Africa lives, says Africans, as did my father, more than 60 years ago.

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In the name of 'The Father'

 

Portrait of Gamini Seneviratne, painted by the late Kulanatha Senadheera 

Almost four years ago, not too long before Galle Face was re-named and the word ‘aragalaya’ came to dominate conversation, a father offered some advice to his daughter who had been agitating at Independence Square for a few days and informed him that the plan was to march to Galle Face.

The father could not stop her even if he wanted to. He did not want to. He knew enough about agitation, the way things could snowball into dimensions unexpected and the possibility of violence. He said as much.

‘It would be foolish to think that there’s nothing to worry about. Things can get dangerous. If things come to a head, it’s not necessarily the leaders who get killed. I am scared because I love you. But also because I love you, I will not say “don’t go.” History could be made and if that’s the history you want to make, I would want you to be a part of it. For this, you have my blessings. Just make sure you have enough water with you at all times.’

Something along those lines. I was that father and the girl was my daughter. I remember remembering when I uttered those words something my own father told me back in bheeshanaya times.

‘When we marched to Kandy from Peradeniya to protest against the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, we were ready for anything. Anything included getting beaten or killed. But that ‘anything’ somehow was nothing compared to the ‘anything’ that might happen to you or your friends.’

Some of my friends were arrested. Some were tortured. Some were killed. My father didn’t say ‘no.’ At the time I did not know and probably could not know anything of his anxieties, but in March or early April 2022, I knew. I think I told my girl this as well.

Such moments don’t come along all the time, although that particular moment stretched into days, weeks and months. At one point she confessed that she doesn’t know much about many things and that she ought to read a lot more. Today she reads a lot about political philosophy and we have highly stimulating conversations about ‘old’ thinkers and their continuing relevance, discussions which enlighten me much more than they do her.

My father kept his anxieties to himself. He may have shared them with my late mother. My mother, for her part, was as reticent about such things. I do remember something she said a few days before I entered university: ‘there’s no point telling you not to get involved in student politics — you are the kind who would — but be careful.’ That was all. I can only imagine the dimensions of her anxieties and even suffering, for mothers are somehow different from fathers, although they are both parents to rebellious children.

I know more about fatherhood but of course my knowledge is limited by the particular ways of my daughters, their convictions and agitation, and the risks they take whether or not they are aware of their true dimensions.

There must have been times when I was livid about my parents’ imperfections, but today if I am asked, I probably wouldn’t be able to name even one. Anyway, even if I could, I would not. This is because I am well aware of my imperfections and more than this I know my girls understand the way and why-not of my fathering, even if they may not forgive all that I did that I should not have and all that I didn’t do that I ought to have done.

It doesn’t mean there are no regrets. Of course there are! Wisdom comes late. Too late, sometimes. There is one consolation though, and this I told her when she turned 25 a couple of days ago: ‘The only consolation is that you’ve acquired so much more by yourself than what we’ve given you to understand and deal with what life and the world tosses your way.’

She’s far away. Too far away for the assurances that presence and immediacy make possible. Too far away ‘to watch over.’ My father may have felt the same way but unlike me he never mentioned such things. I might have wondered why and even been annoyed about the distances he kept in such things, but after all these years I can say with confidence that he was wise. Wiser than I could ever be with regard to my daughters. But I do remember him ‘reading’ my palm one day and saying ‘you have an incredible ability to remain calm in the midst of all the tempests you create, but it drives people around you crazy!’ I remember saying, ‘that’s not written on my palm; you are just saying what you think you know about me!’ I remember both of us and everyone around us laughing. Today, I think that’s the closest he came to blurting out his anxieties about me.

I can’t keep things to myself and this may (or may not) have cost my daughters. But to the girl who turned 25 I simply said, ‘I’ve held you close all these years, but you’ve held me closer, and believe me, that’s the greatest blessing.’

We love. We just love. There’s nothing more we can do or give. This I say for myself and, in a way, in the name of my father. Gamini Seneviratne. Eighty eight years old, almost. Impossible. And yet present, always. In his own way. As is his right.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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Patrice Lumumba did not die on January 17, 1961

Fifty six years ago almost to the day a man was killed.  Now that’s not news.  Every single day thousands of people are killed.  Thousands perish in war.  Thousands die of curable diseases.  It was like that back in 1961 as well.  

But this murder was different.  It has been referred to as the most important assassination of the 20th century.  Patrice Lumumba was killed on the 17th of January 1961.  This was seven months after he was elected as the first Prime Minister of independent Congo. He was 34 at the time.

In September he was deposed through a coup d’état by  Joseph-Désiré Mobutu who proceeded to arrest him in December with logistical support from Belgium and the United States of America.  Lumumba was first brutally beaten and tortured by Katangan and Belgian officers while President Moïse Tshombe (President of the State of Katanga that had newly declared independence) and his cabinet decided what to do with him.  On the 17th of January, sometime after 10pm, Lumumba, along with two political associates, was lined up against a tree and shot.   It is claimed that the Belgians and their counterparts later wished to get rid of the bodies, and did so by digging up and dismembering the corpses, then dissolving them in sulfuric acid while the bones were ground and scattered.

Efforts to get the UN to intervene and prevent all this failed.  The UN Security Council of the time voted 8-2 against the pro-Lumumbaresolution.  Several countries withdrew military contingents serving the UN in protest, including Ceylon.  Secretary-General of the United Nations Dag Hammarskjöld was party to the crime that took place thereafter.  

There’s a long and brutal history behind all this and a long and brutal history that followed the assassination.  It’s not just Lumumba and it is not the the Congo.   But that’s a different essay altogether.  Well, a whole library of theses, rather.  

The assassination horrified the world.  There were demonstrations in many cities on all continents.  in Yugoslavia, protesters sacked the Belgian embassy and confronted the police. In London, a crowd marched from Trafalgar Square to the Belgian embassy, where a letter of protest was delivered and where protesters clashed with police. In New York City, a demonstration at the United Nations Security Council turned violent and spilled over into the streets.  There was also a demonstration in Kandy, organized by left-wing students of the University of Peradeniya.  They marched to Kandy and attempted unsuccessfully to pull down the statue of Governor Henry Ward.  They made speeches.  

It was 16 years later that I first heard of Lumumba.  The Daily News carried a picture. I can’t remember what exactly it was.  Perhaps it was one of the statue being removed or else that of Madduma Bandara being put up in its place.   Seeing this, my father, Gamini Seneviratne, related a story.  

He told me about the protest.  And he told me how ‘legends’ are born.  He had been one of the students who took part in that march.  He said that they tried to pull down the statue but the rope had snapped.  However, he was known for awhile as the man who pulled down (not tried to pull down) the Ward Statue.  

He went on to tell me about Patrice Lumumba and sketched for me the history.  Then he shared with me a slogan they had shouted:  මැරුවේ නමුත් ලුමුම්බාව මැරුණේ නෑ අප්රිකාව (meruve namuth lumumbaava, marune naha aprikaava, ‘although Lumumba was murdered, Africa did not die’).

That line, apparently, he had included in a poem which was later taken as an example of the direction in which Sinhala poetry ought to go by someone who wrote an article on the subject.   

That’s what interests me right now.  Taking down a statue is a symbolic act.  Easy.  Perhaps even necessary in the process of what some might call necessary exorcism.   Makes sense only if other more pernicious processes are taken on and defeated though.  

People are not statues.  They are not taken down.  They are silenced, enslaved and even murdered.  Lumumba is still iconic.  He still inspires.  His murder was not the original sin in the Congo as some claim, but it is still as heinous as any committed in that country or elsewhere.  He still inspires people in that country and in that continent and in fact in other parts of the world as well.

Africa did not die on account of that vile act that the worst perpetrators of human right violations in this world sanctioned and participated in.  

Faiz Ahmed Faiz in a poem ‘We who were executed,’ dedicated to Ethel and Julius Rosenberg (legally murdered in the so-called ‘Land of the Free and Home of the Brave’) had something to say about these kinds of murders.  Agha Shahid Ali’s translation has the following lines:

Holding up our sorrows as banners

new lovers will emerge

from the lanes where we were killed

and embark, in caravans, on those highways of desire.

It’s because of them that we shortened the distances of sorrow,

it’s because of them that we went out to make the world our own,

we who were murdered in the darkest lanes.

Or shot at night in an isolated spot just as Lumbumba was.   Africa is not dead, but then one could also say ‘Perhaps Africa will die’ and if that’s a tragedy it will only be stopped because people like Patrice Lumumba stand up and because their assassinations inspire others to remember brutality, dream of better times and resist. And resist. And resist.  

This, then, is a salute to a warrior who saw beyond both warrior and war, thereby differentiated himself from brutes who quickly forget what they are fighting for, and most importantly provided an example, a template and a dream worth pursuing.  

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindasenevi@gmail.com. This article was first published in the Sunday Observer (January 21, 2018)

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පියවරු සහ පුත්තු (හෝ දියණියන්)

මගේ අම්මා සංසාරේ ඈ ගොනු කර ගත් කර්ම ඵල වලට අනුකූල භවයක් පතා අපෙන් සදහටම සමුගෙන දැනට පස් වසරකි.  ඈ අපෙන් සමුගත් දුක්බර මොහොතේ දී මාගේ මිතුරියක් මගෙන් මෙසේ ඇසුවාය: 'අම්මා ට ඔයා ගැන ආඩම්බරයක් තිබුනද?'

මා සිතන පරිදි සියලු දෙමාපියෝ තමන්ගේ දරුවන් පිළිබඳව ආඩම්බර වේ.  ඒ බව දරුවන්ට නොකිව්වද, ආඩම්බරයක් නොදැනෙන මවුපියන් අඩුය.  නොකියන්නේ දරුවන් හදා වඩා ගැනීම ජීවිතාන්තය දක්වා දිවෙන ක්‍රියා වලියක් බැවිනි.  දෙමාපියන් ට දරුවන් ගැන දැනෙන හැම දේම දනවන්නේ නැත්තේ ඉන් අනිසි ප්‍රයෝජන ගත හැකි බැවිනි.  එසේ වුවහොත් ඉන් පීඩා විඳින්නෙත් දරුවන්ම වන බැවිනි.  මෙය දකුණු ආසියාවේ පොදු සිරිතක් විය හැකිය.  ආදරය, දයාව නොපෙන්නනවා ම නොවේ.  විටෙක හිස අතගා එය පෙන්වති.  විටෙක සිනහවකින් ද විටෙක වදනකින් ද දැනෙන දේ දරුවන්ට දනවන්න දෙමාපියන් ප්‍රමාද වන්නේ නැත.  එත් එය එක ප්‍රමාණයකටය.  දරුවන් ගැන දෙමාපියන් වැඩිපුරම උදම් අනන්නේ දරුවන් නොමැති තැන හි ය.  අන් අයට ය.  දරුවන්ගේ සවන් වලට එවන් වදන් වැටෙනුයේ කලාතුරකිනි.

මාගේ මිතුරිය මෙසේද ඇසුවාය: 'මව්වරුන්ට මේ තරම් ලැදි ඇයි, මව්වරුන් ගැනම ලියවෙන්නේ ඇයි?'   නිහඬව නගන ප්‍රශ්නය මෙයයි: 'පියවරු නොසලකා හැරෙන්නේ ඇයි?'  එය පරණ යි.  එය ලස්සනටම අසා ඇත්තේ මාලිනි ජයරත්න ය.  ඇය අසන ඒ දුක්බර ප්‍රශ්නය වඩාත් දුක්බර වන්නේ එය ඇයගේ ජීවන මගේ සහකාරයා වන ටී. ඇම්. ජයරත්න ගේ මියුරු හඬින් ප්‍රකාශ වූ බැවිනි.  

'පිය සෙනෙහස නැතිද දරුවනි හඳුනන්නේ...අම්මාවරුන් පමණද මතු බුදු වන්නේ?'

නිගමනය සඳහන් වන්නේ ගීතයේ මුල් කොටසෙහිය:  'පිය සෙනෙහසට කව් ගී ලියවුණා මදි.'    

සත්‍යයකි.  පියවරු පිලිබඳ කව් ගී ඉතා අඩුය.  ඉතින් අප අපෙන් මෙසේ අසමු.  අපගේ පියවරු අපගේ ළමා වියේ, ගැටවර වියේ, වැඩිහිටි ලොවට පිවිසීමට සූදානම් වන අවදියන් හි අම්මාවරුන් තරම් අප අසල ගතින්, වදනින් සහ මනසින් නොසිටියේද?  සිටියත් නොසිටියා මෙන් දුරස්ථ බවක් පෙන්නුවේද ඔවුන්?  මම නොදනිමි.  සෑම පිය-පුතු සම්බන්ධයක් ම එම පියාට සහ පුතාට සුවිශේෂ වේ.  ඒ අනුව මටද මගේ පියා සමගත් මාගේ දරුවන් සමගත් ඇති සම්බන්ධය සුවිශේෂ වේ. 

මම දරුවන් හදා වඩා ගන්නා ආකාරය ගැන ඇතැම් අවස්ථාවලදී මගේ අප්පච්චී මට බැණ වැදී ඇත.  ඇතැම් අවස්ථා වලදී මම පෙරලා ඔහුගෙන් මෙසේ අසා ඇත: 'දරුවෝ හදන හැටි ගැන අප්පච්චි මොනවාද දන්නේ?  අපි පොඩි කාලේ අප්පච්චි අපිත් එක්ක ගෙදර හිටියේ මොනතරම් අඩුවෙන්ද!'  ඒ අවස්ථා ගැන අද සිතද්දී එවන් ප්‍රකාශ වලින් උත්පාදනය වූ නිහැඬියාව තුල ගැබ් වූ වේදනාව සියුම් ලෙස දැනේ.  මට ලැජ්ජාවක් මෙන් ම දුකක් ද දැනේ.  මොන තරම් අසත්පුරුශයෙක්ද කියා මම මගෙන් ප්‍රශ්න කරමි.  

අපගේ ළමා කාලයට අම්මාගේ ආලෝකය මෙන්ම හෙවනල්ලද වැටුනද අප්පච්චි ගේ ඇසුර සාපේක්ෂව අල්ප විය.  ළමා වියද තුරුණු වියද ගත වූ පසු මාගේ මිතුරෙක් 'ගැහැණු' සහ 'පිරිමි' අතර පවතින ප්‍රධාන වෙනසක් පවසද්දී ඔහු මාගේ අම්මා සහ අප්පච්චි විස්තර කරනවා යැයි සිතුනි. 

'අම්මලාට ළමයින්ගේ උපන් දින මතකයි.  ළමයින්ට එන්නත් විදින්න අවශ්‍ය  කවද්ද කොයි කාලේද කියලත් මතකයි.  පන්ති වලට ගෙනියන්නේ කවදද, කීයටද, ළමයින් වඩා කැමති පාට මොනවාද අකමැති කෑම වර්ග මොනවාද....මේවා සියල්ල අම්මලා දන්නවා.  එතකොට තාත්තලා? තාත්තලා ට ලාවට මතකයක් තියෙනවා අවුරුදු 15 ක කාලයක් තමන් ගේ ගෙදර කොට පුද්ගලයින් ජීවත් වුන බව.'

දැන් මම පියෙක් වෙමි. මාගේ පීතෘත්වය ගැන කල්පනා කරද්දී මාලිනි ජයරත්න මහත්මිය ඕනවට වඩා පරිත්‍යාගශීලී වුනා දැයි මට සිතේ.  'අම්මාවරුන් පමණ යි මතු බුදු වන්නේ,' යන නිගමනය අසාධාරණ නොවේ යැයි සිතේ.  මොන තරම් කැප වූවද මොන තරම් දායක වූව ද පියවරුන්ට කිසි සේත් සිතාගන්නට වත් නොහැකි ආකාරයෙන් මව්වරු දරුවන් 'හදති'.    මට එසේ සිතේ.  ඇතැම් විට මම හොඳ පියෙක් නොවන නිසා විය හැකිය.  එත් මට එසේ සිතේ.  අමරදේව ශූරීන් ගේ 'තාත්තා වුනත්' ගීතයෙන් මතු කරන්නේ මෙම තත්වය විය යුතුයි.  

ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත් පියවරු ළමයින් අතර, ඔවුන්ගේ ළමා කාලය පුරා, ඔවුන් අසලම වෙසෙති.  'නිසි දේ' තෝරා ගැනීමට බොහෝ අවස්ථා වලදී අපොහොසත් වූවද ඔවුන් සිය දරුවන් අසලම රැඳී සිටිති.  බිය වෙති. දුක් වෙති. කාටවත් නොපෙනෙන්න කඳුළු සලති.  අප්පච්චි අපට තඩි බෑවේ ඉතා කලාතුරකිනි.  ඒ කාර්යය අම්මාට බාර වී තිබිණ.  අප්පච්චි එකම එක අවස්ථාවකදී කෝට්ටක් ගෙන මට පහර දුන් බව මතක ය.  එයද එකම එක කෝටු පහරකි.  අහල පහල සිටීම ම අප පාලනය කිරීමට ප්‍රමාණවත් විය  ඔහුට.   දැඩි නිහඬතාවයද ඔහු බොහෝ අවස්ථා වලදී උපයෝගී කරගත් අවියකි.  

පාඩම් ගැන, විභාග ගැන, ගෙදර වැඩ ගැන ඉතා අඩුවෙන් විමසු අප්පච්චි කෙසේ වෙතත් අවශ්‍ය යැයි සිතු ජීවිත දැනුම ඔහුට රිසි ආකාරයට අපට නොමසුරුව දුන්නේය.   ළදරු වයසේ සිට ළමා කාලය දක්වාද, ළමා විය සිට ගැටවර වයස හරහා වැඩිහිටි අවදියට පරිච්ඡේදයෙන් පරිච්ඡේදයට පියමන් කරද්දී ඇතිවන සිත් කැළඹීම් අවම කලේ ඔහුටම ආවේනික වූ සියුම් ආකාරයකටය.  ඔහු මට දායාද කල දේ අතරින් ප්‍රධාන වූයේ චෙස් කක්‍රීඩාව ට සහ සාහිත්‍යය ට, ලිවීමට ඇති රුචියයි.  මාගේ ජීවිතය පුර මේ වා කලන මිතුරන් සේ මා අසලම ගැවසී ඇත.  

කෙනෙක් මැදි වියට ආ බව පසක් වන්නේ ඔහු කැඩපතින් බැලු කල ඔහුගේ පියාව පෙනෙන්නට පටන් ගත විට බව සමහරු පවසති.  මට තවම අප්පච්චි කැඩපතෙහි පෙනී නැත.  එත් මා තුල මම ඔහු දකිමි.  අන් අය ද එසේ මා තුල මගේ අප්පච්චි දැක ඇති බව පවසා ඇත.  අප්පච්චි ඉතා පහත් හඬින් කතා කරයි.  'අප්පච්චි ගේ වචන අප්පච්චි ගේ රැවුලේ පැටලිලා නවතිනවා,' යැයි අපි ඔහුට විහිළු කරන්නෙමු.  ඔහු කියන්නේ කුමක්ද කියා තෝරාගැනීමට කෙනෙකුට ඔහු අසල පුටුවක කෙලවරෙහිම හිඳ ගත යුතු වේ.  දැන් දැන් මා ගැනද එවැනිම කතා ඇසෙන්නට පටන් ගෙන ඇත.

මාගේ ළමා කාලයේ 'පීතෘත්වය' මා වෙත පැමිණි අවස්ථා දෙකක් සිහි වේ.  පළමුව නම් අප්පච්චි ඔහුගේ පියා සඳහා ලිවූ කවියකි. අප්පච්චි ලියා ඵල කල පළමු කවි එකතුවෙහි ('Twenty Five Poems' නොහොත් 'කවි විසි පහක්') 'පිදුම' ලෙස එම කවිය සැලකිය හැක.  එහි වූ කව් පෙළක් දෙකක් තවමත් මට මතක ය.

‘You kissed me much, last time we met’.  

'අවසන් මොහොතේ 
අප හමුවූ 
සිප ගත්තෙ හි ය
ඔබ මා නැවත නැවත ...' 

අවසානය මෙසේ ලියවිණ:

'....but this, my first poor giving, which you shall not receive’.  

'මෙය පමණි....මාගේ පළමු වූද, දුප්පත් වූද දීම....ඔබට නොලැබෙන....'

සීයා මිය ගියේ මා උපදින්න ට පෙරය.  එබැවින්ම මාගේ දෙවන 'පිය-කතාව' සීයා ගැනය.  එය ගීතයක් හා බැඳේ.  අප්පච්චි නිතර නිතර ගැයූ ගීයකි එය.

‘Oh my papa’ (මගේ අප්පච්චි) එඩී ෆිෂර් ගේ ජනප්රියම ගීතයකි.  

Oh, my papa, to me he was so wonderful
Oh, my papa, to me he was so good

හරිම අපූරුයි මගේ අප්පච්චි මට 
හරිම හොඳයි මගේ අප්පච්චි මට

Gone are the days when he could take me on his knee
And with a smile he'd change my tears to laughter

කාලය ගෙවී ගෙවී ඇත 
තුරුලට ගෙන ඔහු 
මතකයි ඔහු මගේ කඳුලු පිසදා 
සිනහවන් මැවූ සැටි
ගෙවුනු ඒ කාලේ 

Oh, my papa, so gentle, so adorable
Deep in my heart I miss him so today.

ඉතා මෘදුයි, ආදරණීයයි,  
මගේ අප්පච්චි 
මහදෙහි 
ඉතා ගැඹුරු පතුලෙහි 
ඔහු අද නොමැති බව ය 
සටහන් වන්නේ.

අප්පච්චි එඩී ෆිෂර් ගේ ගීතය තුලින් විස්තර කලේ ඔහුගේ පියා ද නැතහොත් තමන්වමද?  පියවරු එක්තරා ආකාරයකට ඉතාම අසරණ සත්ව විශේෂයක් නොවේද?  ඔවුනට ඔවුන්ගේ තරම නොතේරෙනවා නොවේද?  සැබවින්ම තමන්ගේ  කුදු බවම මෙනෙහි කරමින් තැවෙමින් නොවේද ඔවුන් දරුවන් හදා වඩා ගන්නා කාර්යයෙහි යෙදෙන්නේ?  

එත් පියවරු වන අප එසේ නොවිය යුතුය.  අප අපගේ අප්පච්චිලාට ආදරේ කරමු.  අපගේ දරුවන් අපට ආදරේ කරති.  මා මිතුරිය මා හමුවේ තැබූ පැනයට පිළිතුරක් සපයුවේද නැද්ද නොදනිමි.  එහෙත් දශක ගණනාවක් පුරා පැත්තකට දමා තිබු ප්‍රශ්නයකට දෙකකට පිළිතුරු ලැබුණි යැයි දැනේ.

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Amidst the carnage there will always be those who keep life alive

The late eighties was a terrible time.  It was a time of death, of monumental loss, tragedy beyond description and helplessness that was not considered newsworthy by the bleeding heart champions of human rights. 

I’ve often wondered how we recovered.  I suppose we never recovered fully, for as my friend and batch-mate, Werawellalage Premasiri pointed out recently the roots of today’s human resource crisis are tagged ‘Bheeshanaya (Terror) 1987-89’.  Still, life went on and we came to a place where we could say in one voice, ‘terrorism is a thing of the past’.  Death and loss are lamented collectively as well as personally.  We moved on as a collective but there’s no way to say that a forgetting or dealt-and-done-with skin has grown over the scars of that tragedy.  I tell myself that a couple of millennia worth of engagement with the Buddhist notion of equanimity and a corresponding understanding of the doctrine of impermanence might have helped.  Here’s a story that might explain in a more tangible kind of manner.

It is set in the late eighties and was recounted by a person attached to the Ambalanthota office of the Irrigation Department.  His superior at the time was one Mr. Paranamanne, now no more.  They both enjoyed reading, especially about ancient irrigation works.  R.L. Brohier’s book on the subject fascinated them.   They were wont to go trekking deep into the jungles of the area in search of abandoned irrigation works mentioned in the book.  This was a time when NORAD had helped developed a cascade of village tanks in the Mala-ela river basin (‘mala’ meaning dead and ‘ela’ canal).  They were not getting filled during the rainy season due to insufficient runoff, he explains. 

Anyway, the two explorers had in one of their excursions come across the now famous Mau Ara Dam, then known as Gal Amuna.

Let him take over the narrative: ‘The Mau Ara was untapped even for the Uda walawe Scheme as it fed the Walawe River in the form of seasonal flash floods; (it was therefore) an unreliable water source. Initial investigations showed that damming this and feeding the Malal Ara was a possibility. This new dam was proposed as a water source for the wildlife in the Udawalawe Park and a trans-basin canal would take the water to Malala basin.  As usual the Irrigation Department was not (in favour of) the project (given the) many stakeholders to deal with.’

The two, who were not just adventurers but dedicated public servants who took their jobs very seriously, had then approached the then Director of the Agrarian Research and Training Institute (‘ARTI’ but now HARTI after adding Hector Kobbekaduwa’s name).  The director had visited the area along with the brilliant but eccentric engineer M.S.M. Silva.  They had been convinced of the project’s viability.  

The Director had organized a two day awareness seminar at the ARTI on the Walawe Basin and its irrigation projects attended by the most eminent people on the subjects of Agriculture, Wildlife, Hydrology and Irrigation in order to get the project to the then political administration.

This was twenty years ago.  Today, our narrator tells us, Chamal Rajapaksa (now Speaker) took up the proposal and we have a truly Sri Lankan project executed with local funding and expertise.   My friend Uditha Wijesena, our narrator here, tells me that Chamal in a recent television interview had mentioned his co-adventurer, Mr. Paranamanne as the engineer who deserves the credit for achieving the engineering feat. 

Uditha also credits the Director, ARTI.

‘[He] too played his part by getting the then political administration to take note of a worthy cause.’ Uditha describes him thus: ‘Seeing his stature and the looks my first feeling was that it would be difficult working with this guy.  But, I tell you Malinda, he was such a gentle guy to work with.  He wanted things his way but I don’t think that was being stubborn. ’    

I remember that Director from twenty years ago.  This was at the height of the bheeshanaya.  He was living at his official residence off Wijerama Mawatha.  There were three undergraduates living in that house, two from Bingiriya and one from Galgamuwa, all hiding from the death squads that roamed our villages and turned roadsides into cemeteries and rivers into dead-carrying waterways; all for the crime of being university students and for having been born in the sixties.  I remember him telling me that nothing we do should compromise his work at the ARTI (he knew we were all politically inclined, anti-JVP as well as absolutely opposed to the UNP regime). 

We saw death and brutality.  We plotted revolution.  He helped keep life alive.  Just by doing his job.  He always worked.  His enthusiasm to serve, to do justice to the salary he got, never flagged even though every single government he served under harassed him for having held leftist views when he was an undergraduate (i.e. before he joined the Civil Service), usually by shunting him to some obscure department or tossing him into ‘The Pool’.  Lalith Athulathmudali had to bypass President Premadasa to appoint him as Director, ARTI. 

I remember him telling me somewhere in the year 1994, ‘I saved millions for this country and after thirty years of service I have only ten thousand rupees in my account, I just finished paying the housing loan and don’t even have a car’.  He didn’t have a car when he retired. He still doesn’t have one.  He struggles to pay his medical bills, telephone bill, water and electricity bills and meet his other expenses. 

Uditha related the above story because memory was sparked by a photograph of a man twenty years older than when he had last met him. 

We recovered from those terrible times.  We pulled ourselves out of a rut and we will do so again and again.  And that’s because we are a different kind of society, I like to think.  It is also because of people like Uditha Wijesena and his boss, the late Mr. Paranamanne.  And of course that former Director of the ARTI.   His name:  Gamini Seneviratne.  To me, ‘Appachchi’.  

[First published in the Daily News, July 2011, reproduced here as tribute to my father, who is not exactly in the pink of health right now, and with so much love to my sister Ruvani and her family, who are taking care of him] 

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Notes for a father-poem

'The sky does not become less private although it belongs to everyone else' -- Gamini Seneviratne

Maybe this is a week for remembrances.  Although not exactly planned it so happens that certain things arrive in clusters.  Last morning and the whole of yesterday I was thinking of a friend’s father.  B.S. Goonewardena is the father of my closest school friend, Kanishka.  I met him a few days ago and a couple of things he said made me want to write about him.  In fact I had decided that I would write about him today.   

A few minutes ago, though, having read my earlier post, about love, doors and door-less love, which was in a way a tribute to mothers and motherhood, an appreciative friend sent a long thank-you note, followed by this after-thought: ‘It would be nice to read a nice article about your dad too someday. I am sure you have written and I haven't seen it. But if you have one please share on fb or something. Just a small request.’

Dad?  No, he was, is and always will be Appachchi.  ‘Dad’ reminds me of a Bud Light ad of the nineties where ‘Bud light Johnny’ on a fishing trip with his father and brother, turns to the old man and tries to catch his father’s attention in the manner of a 12 year old asking for pocket money.

‘Dad…,’ he starts.  Then he gets all emotional and tongue-tied (for reasons that quickly become apparent): ‘Dad….you are my dad…’ he goes (that’s news!).  ‘Dad…you are my dad….and I love you man,’ he blurts out with scripted voice-break.  The old man is not impressed: ‘you are not getting my Bud Light, Johnny!’  

He was not and is not and will never be ‘dad’, with or without Bud Light or any other kind of drink, alcoholic or otherwise.  He was a workaholic.  Still is.  When he retired from public service he was the last ‘CCS man’.  Some admired him, many respected, quite a few feared him and some despised him.  He made people uncomfortable just by being; being himself, being committed to his work and being honest.  

It didn’t make things easy for us at home.  He came home late and tired.  It was wonderful when he made us laugh or offered comfort whenever we needed it.  For the most part, though, life revolved around our mother.  The moments of tenderness were rare or perhaps they disappeared as would rain drops in an ocean, such were the dimensions of maternal waters.  It was as though he subscribed to some parental logic of overall giving and restraint.  

Maybe he ‘gave’ in other ways.  He taught me chess.  Having coached chess myself, I realize now that even while playing ‘friendly’ games, he was teaching, encouraging, giving confidence and giving eyes to see the finer points and the poetry that can unfold over the 64 squares.  We once played a 24=game match (over several weeks).  I am sure I was a stronger player at the time, but not as strong as the margin of victory indicated.  He helped analyse adjourned games, even though his older son was a far superior analyst.

I remember one particularly traumatic day in 1977.  This was when I took part in the Novices Tournament. It was my first individual tournament.  I lost a game to an older boy from Ananda College, Ravi Rajasinghe.  I was almost in tears, I can’t remember why.  He came to pick me up from the venue, the Borella YMBA.  He didn’t say much.  He was taking me to a concert by ‘Ustad’ Podiappuhamy in Wellawatte.  I had never heard Raagadhaari music or what is referred to as ‘North Indian Classical Music’ and had forgotten that he had tickets for the performance.  ‘You must have been excited about going to the concert,’ he said softly.  I was not.  It made me feel better, though.    

He never told me the meaning of a word.  ‘Look it up in the dictionary!’ he always said.  I would do so and learn several more words each time I did.  I thought he was being lazy, then, but now I know how much love there was in that suggestion.  That was how he was.  Opened windows. Cleared paths.  Encouraged us to explore.

He watched and watched over too, venturing gently whenever he felt he was needed to calm, commiserate and lift spirits.  And he taught, in many ways.  I remember countless evenings when he talking about all kinds of subjects, using occasion and a rapt (trapped) audience to deviate from point and detail the lives and histories of characters who were marginal to the story.  He was slow and measured in his speech, which made the whole experience even more torturous.

‘This is my way of telling a story!’ he would say if I complained.  ‘You have to tell it in a way that keeps the listener’s attentions,’ I have often retorted.  Looking back, I realize that those conversations or rather monologues were an important part of my education.  History, politics, literature, philosophy, chess and a number of other subjects were ‘taught’ and thankfully without assignments and exams to contend with. 

He loved to elaborate to the point of exasperation (I wanted to get away and just chit-chat with my siblings), and yet whenever a clear, subject-related question was put to him, he explained with utmost clarity and economy.  I am yet to encounter an explication of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar as lucid and compelling as the one he delivered one evening in the matter of just half an hour. No one explained Marx’s Labour Theory of Value as brilliantly as he did one day, when trying to make me understand how capitalism works (for the capitalists, that is). 

As the years went on, we clashed, as fathers and sons are wont to do.  I was always a little boy and worse, the younger son.  He was presumptuous I thought. Prescriptive. Infuriatingly so, for someone in his late teens and early twenties.  I argued. Ranted.  Left in a huff.  It got better as time went on, but we still argue about all kinds of things, even as we agree on a wide range of issues. 

He is 73 now and hasn’t changed at all. He is still a voracious reader.  He still writes. Still insists on long, elaborate explanations and narratives.  Still prescribes.  Is still presumptuous.  The difference is that he has to make up or feels he has to make up for the absence of his wife, our mother.  He tries.  He falls short or so he must feel.  He doesn’t realize that he is all the love there is and all the love that is needed.  He is a biography in which a thousand biographies reside. He is not made for capture, but only occasional expressions of gratitude as warranted by the need to make sure there is no embarrassment.  

‘The sky does not become less private although it belongs to everyone,’ he once wrote.  He could do that well and does it all the time; he collapses vast and elaborate philosophies into a few words.  He is a poet. 

T.M. Jayaratne claimed ‘Piya senehasata kau-gee liyaunaa madi’ (not enough verses have been written about a father’s love).   I am not a poet. 

‘You are in your second childhood,’ I said one day when he had infuriated me over something.  ‘Children are innocent,’ he said softly.

 

Yes.  A child. My father, my appachchi.

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