For Sirajudin Mohamed Nishmi, wherever he may be

 

He was referred to as Nismi, although the name was Nishmi. Some may have used ‘sh’ instead of ’s’ but few, if any, knew his full name. Sirajudin Mohamed Nishmi. We don’t know how he spelled the name. Maybe it was ‘Nizmi.’

Anyway, he was an engineering student at the University of Peradeniya in the turbulent late-eighties. He was more than that. Or less, depending on your political and ideological persuasions.  A student leader. That cannot be disputed.  

Nishmi, by most accounts, is one of thousands ‘disappeared’ during the bheeshanaya. How it happened, where it happened and when it happened, we might never know. His story hasn’t been written either, although there are various accounts of that time which refer to his involvement.

He was the voice of what was at the time called the Action Committee of the university. This was a time when formal student councils didn’t exist or rather were not allowed to exist. Batches of all faculties ‘elected’ representatives. There were no formal elections. Someone would propose and someone else would second and that was all. Organised groups, such as students who were JVPers, would make sure that their ‘people’ by and large became batch-representatives and thereafter faculty-representatives. The Action Committees would decide for the general student body. These decisions, it was pretty clear, came ‘from the top,’ i.e. in alignment with the political interests of the party.

I don’t know if Nishmi was actually a member of the JVP student organisation, the Socialist Students Union. He bossed, in time, the Action Committee. This was sometime in 1987 or 1988. He was in the Engineering Faculty, as mentioned, and I was in the Arts Faculty. He was JVP and I was not. He was in the Action Committee, I was not. He was a student boss, I was just a student, just another recipient of boss-decisions.

Nishmi’s moment probably came after the then Convenor of the Inter University Student, Ranjithan Gunaratnam, ‘moved’ to the higher echelons of the party. That probably coincided with a long period of detention along with dozens of student activists in May 1987. Nishmi was charismatic. He was an excellent orator.

This became clear to me in December 1986 when he was one of two students, the other being Rev Athureliye Rathana Thero, who addressed students in the midst of a token boycott of lectures to commemorate the killing of a student at Peradeniya in 1976. It was the ‘Weerasooriya Commemoration,’ at which Prof Desmond Mallikaarachchi also spoke. All three were top notch speakers, Desmond of course being the one with greater substance and by quite a margin too. Nishmi was less fire than Rev Rathana Thero, but he touched hearts.

Two years later, then the universities reopened after several months, the Action Committee immediately declared a boycott and the entire student body at Peradeniya was asked to attend a meeting at the Medical Faculty. I can’t remember how long it lasted, but the meeting was moved to the gymnasium. That’s where I first witnessed Nishmi’s ability to sway an audience.  

After several months at home, students were not too keen on boycotting lectures. National politics obviously bled into the universities, but the general feeling was one of getting the exams over with and moving out. Nishmi changed all that. He spoke for two hours. Off the cuff. He was logical. He made sense. Of course this doesn’t mean that his analysis was spotless. He inserted ‘facts’ that were useful and left out those which would compromise his ‘line.’

At the end of it, someone came up with a ‘declaration’. It was read out and approved by a show of hands. A forest of hands, actually. I was in a corner. I know I didn’t raise my hand. I know that Dhammika Amarakoon who was standing next to me didn’t either. We were not noticed. We didn’t count. From then onwards it was ‘everyone for the student movement,’ never mind that ‘student movement’ was nothing but a front for the JVP. Those who didn’t go along, went home. Those who remained but objected went silent.

That year, 1987, and the following one too, stretched. The universities were either closed or when open lectures were boycotted. I didn’t see Nishmi much, except at the WUS canteen or thereabouts because the room occupied (probably illegally) by the Action Committee was nearby. But one day he did make the long climb up to Marcus Fernando Hall. I was surprised that he knew me and even more surprised that he had come to speak with me.

We were playing cricket. He knew I was an English medium student. He started talking about ‘The English Medium,’ and I cut him off, explaining that I just happened to be studying in English and that I didn’t really identify with the political leanings of that particular segment of students. Then he cut me off, saying that this was not what he was talking about.

Nishmi simply said that ‘we’ (I think he meant ‘the student movement’ but was generous enough, at least in his mind, to include me) should get the English medium students involved in student politics. We spoke briefly. He needed to mobilise students. Recruitment was probably second-nature to him. It was not my thing. But I was struck by his persistence and his charm. Nishmi had a winning smile; more winning than his rhetoric.

Nishmi got lost in a revolution that was lost before it began, at least according to my analysis. The defeat of the JVP didn’t make me sad. The victory of the most tyrannical regime we have known since Independence didn’t make me happy either. I just thought of those who were killed for no reason at all. Many were innocent. Nishmi was not, at least not to the extent that the party he belonged to was not. I like to think that his intentions were honourable, but I have no way of telling.

All I know is that I was sad, even though I did not know the details of his fate. There were others like that. Is it because he was known and I had the opportunity to speak a few words with him? I don’t know. But he was among the better men in our student days.

A friend who too belonged to the party told me that he had once met someone who looked like Nishmi. That person had Nishmi’s signature half-grin, he said. He had merely tapped my friend and said ‘Malayaa..’ Acknowledgment, and nothing more.

What happened to Nishmi? Maybe he is still alive, using a different name, doing things very different from those that were bread and butter for his activist avatar. Time can change a lot of things. Maybe I might be less inclined to be positive about Nishmi, who can tell? I give him the benefit of the doubt.  

He comes to mind off and on. And I wonder what went wrong. That time, those people, myself, the circumstances; we cannot bring it all back and do it right. But we are in this time. We could do better. Nishmi would, I tell myself.

This article was first published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday.' 

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

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The poetics of pillage

 

There’s no way around it. Richard will be remembered. He will be remembered and others will be forgotten or rather remain forgotten. Aruni Walker put things in perfect in the following elegant and thought-provoking poem titled ‘Remembering Richard,’ which she posted on Facebook:

Let the dead be dead

And not become topics for debate!

Rest in peace, with untold narratives,

Like the first draft of a book—

Unpublished.

Their story, shall only be known

On the tombstone

By crows,

And occasional May beetles.

Richard, as in Richard De Zoysa, abducted and murdered during the tenure of President Ranasinghe Premadasa. Aruni was probably inspired to write the poem by the noise regarding Richard produced by Ashoka Handagama’s film ‘Ranee,’ which was about Richard’s mother Manorani Saravanamuttu, who, after her son’s death, came into prominence as a human rights activist.

I responded by posting an article written more than ten years ago titled ‘Remembering Richard and forgetting Ranjithan,’ Ranjithan was the Convenor of the Inter University Student Federation back in the late eighties. He was captured, tortured and killed.

Aruni responded: ‘You’ve written about selective remembrance. I feel nothing is needed. Just let that vacuum be there, that’s it.’

It is an option worth considering, I told her, because ‘the dead, after all, have been unburdened of memory,’ but observed nevertheless that such a choice tends to serve the interests of the powerful.

Portraits are painted that may or may not resemble the person being portrayed. There’s been criticism, for example, of Handagama’s portrayal of Manorani Saravanamuttu. He has responded saying that it is his piece of fiction and that others are welcome to their personal narratives. The problem is that we are not talking about fictional characters. So, in a sense, if narrative is not in the very least prompted by an honest effort to do justice to the subject, then letting it remain untold has some virtue.

The problem is that vacuums get filled, whether we like it or not. Events and personalities are remembered. They are written and they are read. There’s history and there are histories. Some are privileged, that’s the problem.  Historiography is a competition where some versions get privileged and some are not.

Aruni posted the poem on the 23rd of March. Coincidentally, as I learned from another Facebook post, the 23rd was also Ranjithan’s birthday. His sister, Niranjani, who mentioned the fact, also wrote the following:

Yesterday was [the] 23rd of March. If my elder brother Ranjithan Gunaratnam would have been alive , he would be 64 years. But he was tortured and killed during the dark period in 89 by the Premadasa Ranil regime along with thousands of other dear ones. I personally know that my brother was abducted and held at the Wahara Camp in Kurunagala because we, myself, my mother and my father, were too taken to the same camp. The army personnel confirmed [to] us that my brother was under their custody. We were kept separately and we were shown to him several times. But unfortunately we couldn’t see him as we were blind folded. Definitely he would have seen us. We were detained there for five days. I could still remember how my mother wrapped me with her saree and held tightly closer to her. No words to express the fear the agony the mental torture that we went through. But above all we lost our dear “Periya.”

A few days ago I visited an old friend in Doratiyawa, Kurunegala, who I hadn’t seen in almost 40 years. I asked him about one of his friends who I had met just once. Gamagedara Prematillake joined the JVP after a bomb was thrown at his house. His last words to my friend was, ‘You will most probably never see me again.’ He was killed in the jungles of Sigiriya. He had passed the SLAS Examination, the results being released after he was killed. I remembered Prematilleka. My friend could not forget him, for Prematilleka had mentioned him in several diary entries, thanks to which he, my friend who had actually urged Prematilleka to leave the JVP, was arrested and held for several months. In fact he hadn’t been home when the police arrived. His father and brother were proxy-arrested and released only after he handed himself in. Prematilleka’s family, if still alive, would remember. Maybe other friends too. That’s about it.

Why Richard and why not Ranjithan, we can ask. Why a film on Manorani Saravanamuttu and nothing on Rajamani Gunaratnam? Freedom of choice? Is that a sufficient enough plea?

I was searching for things written about Ranjithan and Richard and came across an article I had written seven years ago titled ‘No movies on the collective dead, ladies and gentlemen.’ Interestingly, I had forgotten about it. Anyway, I asked:

Do we talk about how there are certain names remembered while the nameless are numbered? Do we ask how value is attached to certain victims while others are ‘disappeared’ into a collective, marked by a number?

And I suggested:

Ask 100 readers of English newspapers about those who were killed in 88-89 by the security forces, the police or state-run vigilante groups. Ask them to name victims. Check how many can come up with even a single name apart from Rohana Wijeweera and Richard de Soyza.  Therein lies a story, therein lies a narrative about selectivity, the politics of forgetting, the downsizing of guilt.

I also mentioned that a well-known literary critic and poet Chulananda Samaranayake, in a collection of poems titled ‘Glimpses of a Shattered Island’ had recounted his experiences in one of the many camps for suspected JVPers. He had been asked if he had ever seen a mass grave. He was informed that he would be buried in one.  In one of the poems, he wrote what he did not say that day:

‘Dear Sir,

no point of asking such question

from a man who has already been buried

in a mass grave.’

I opined that perhaps Chulananda has the last line on the condition of amnesia we’ve discussed here. For him, I observed, everyone is buried in a mass grave, ‘some in uniform and some in rags’. He puts it thus:

‘This is a country

buried in the silence, injustice, betrayal.’

It’s all selective and this selectivity is no accident but a deliberate product of political convenience, he would no doubt agree. Death is a leveller, they say. Remembrance also levels, in a sense. It elevates some and re-slays and buries others. No films for the collective dead.

Aruni’s assertion reminded me of something that Shiran Deraniyagala is supposed to have said about archaeological artefacts, ‘if we can’t ensure protection, it is better to let them remain buried.’ So, if we can’t recreate to some degree of accuracy, it is better to let the dead remain buried.

They won’t be, though. Pillage is not the preserve of treasure-hunters or maybe it is, for there are all kinds of treasures that can enrich in all kinds of ways. If desecration is inevitable, justice demands that the desecrators be called out. Then again, one could argue that any excavation is a form of pillage. Why soil our hands, one could argue.

Aruni, inadvertently I believe, has created a topic for debate. I wish I was endowed with the composure that enables equanimity, let’s say. I just found it hard to look the other way when those murdered are re-murdered, sometimes even in the name of keeping their memory alive. She would forgive me, I think.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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'ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි' ගේ නො සිඳෙන කඳුළු උල්පත෴

ඇය 'ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි' වුයේත් ඇගේ ලොකු පුතා 'පෙරියා' වූයේත් පොඩි පුතා 'බබා' වුයේත් ඥාතිත්වයක් පදනම් ව නොවේ. නමුත් එහි ඥාතිත්වයක් නොතිබුණා ද නොවේ. එකී ‘ඥාතිත්වය ' ලෙයින්, ජාතියෙන්, කුලයෙන් හෝ ආගමින් පෙරී ආවක් නොව අසල්වැසිකම, පුද්ගල වටිනාකම්, අපේක්ෂාවන්ගේ පොදු බව සහ දයාබර බව වැනි සාධක මත පමණක් ම ගොඩනැගුණු බැඳීමකි. මට රන්ජිදන්, කුමාර් සහ නිරන්ජනී ගේ මෑණියන් වන ඈ 'ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි' වන්නේ ඈ මාගේ බිරිඳ ට ‘ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ' වූ බැවිනි. කිසිදා නො දුටු රන්ජිදන් 'පෙරියා' වන්නේද , කිසිදා නොදුටු කුමාර් 'බබා' වන්නේද එලෙස ය. නිරන්ජනී නැගෙණියක් සේ දැනෙන්නේ ද ඇය පෙරියා සහ බබා පිලිබඳ ඇති 'සහෝදර' හැඟීම හරහා ම නොවේ.  ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ගේ ගෙදරදී ඇයව මුණ ගැසුණු විට ඇය අප හට දක්වූ සහෝදරත්වය නිසා ද ඇය නැගෙණියක් ලෙස දැනේ.  මේ ඥාතිත්වයට අයිතිවාසිකම් කිව හැක්කේ ඍජුව ම නොවේ. කොටින්ම, මගේ බිරිඳට රන්ජිදන් සහ කුමාර් පිළිවෙලින් පෙරියා සහ බබා වන බැවින් හා ඔවුන්ගේ මව ඇයට ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි වන බැවින්ය.

ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත් මෙය ඥාතිත්වය පිලිබඳ සටහනක් නොවේ. එමෙන් ම, මෙ‘තුල ඥාතිත්වයක් නැත්තේ ද නොවේ.

රන්ජිදන් මගේ බිරිඳට සහෝදරයෙකු වන්නේ ඔවුන් දෙදෙනා එකම ප්‍රදේශයක මිතුරු ගුරු මව්වරුන් දෙදෙනෙකුගේ දරුවන් වූ බැවිනි. පාසල් සමයේ දී දේශපාලනය පිලිබඳ උනන්දුවක් තිබුණ ඇයට එවක 'අන්තරේ' කැඳවුම්කරු සමග කතා බහ කිරීමට බොහෝ දේ තිබිණ. රන්ජිදන් මට සහෝදරයෙකු වන්නේ ජවිපෙ සහ ශිෂ්‍ය ව්‍යාපාරයේ දේශපාලනය ගැන තිබූ පැහැදීමක් නිසා නොවේ. පේරාදෙණිය සරසවිය තුල ඔහුට හිතවත් මෙන්ම දේශපාලනිකව ඔහුට ප්‍රතිවාදී බොහෝ අය පවා ඔහු ගැන කී කතා නිසා ය. දක්ෂයෙක්... කවියෙක්... අවංක කෙනෙක්... මනුස්සයෙක්... ඔහු පිළිබඳ ව මේ හැම නාමයකට ම අදාළ කතා බොහෝ විය. පසු කලෙක, එනම් 1992 න් පසුව, මාගේ ආදරවන්තියගෙන් මෙන්ම ජගත් මාරසිංහගෙන්ද රන්ජිදන් ගැන බොහෝ දෑ දැන ගතිමි. හේ ඉතා දක්ෂයෙකි. අවංක විප්ලවවාදියෙකි. කලාකාමියෙකි. කවියෙකි. සිංහල, දමිළ සහ ඉංග්‍රීසි යන භාෂා ත්‍රිත්වය ම චතුර ලෙස හැසිරවීමටත් හපනෙකි. එමෙන්ම විරල ගණයේ මිනිසෙක් සහ සහෝදරයෙකි.

'රන්ජිදන් සහෝදරයා'ට වඩා 'පෙරියා' නමැති යෙදුම ඔහුට වඩාත් ගැලපෙන බැව් මගේ හැඟීම යි. ඒ දේශපාලන ශබ්දකෝෂයේ 'සහෝදරයා' යන්නෙන් විස්තර කල නොහෙන වටිනාකමක් ඔහුට තිබිය යුතු යැයි මට හැඟෙන හෙයිනි. එබැවින්, රන්ජිදන් ගැන කතා කරද්දී 'පෙරියා' යන නාමය මගේ ආදරවන්තිය විසින් යොදාගත් විට, එය වඩාත් උචිත බවත් ඉන් රන්ජිදන් කිසි දා හමු නො වූ ම‘වැන්නෙකු තුල පවා ඔහු හා ගොඩ නැගුණු ඥාතිත්වයට වඩාත් සාධාරණයක් සිදු වන බවත් මට හැගිණ. එතැන් සිට රන්ජිදන් ‘පෙරියා ' විය. කුමාර් 'බබා' විය. නිරන්ජනී ‘නිරන්ජනී' ම වූ යේ ඔවුන්ගේ ගෘහයේ ද ඇය නිරන්ජනී ම වූ නිසා ය. ඔවුන්ගේ මව ‘ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ' විය.

ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි හමු වූ හැම අවස්ථාවකම ඇගේ දෑස් කඳුලින් පිරී තිබෙනු මා දැක ඇත. ඒ මාගේ බිරිඳ, සාමදානි, දුටු හැම විට ම ඇය තුල ඇයගේ වැඩිමල් පුතා ගැන මතකය අවදි වූ නිසා වන්නට ඇතැයි සිතමි. ඒ නිසා ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි පිලිබඳ මගේ මතකයේ ඇත්තේ ඒ කඳුලින් පිරි දෑස් පමණි. මෑත කාලයේ ඇයව මට දක්නට ලැබුනේ පුවත් පත් වල ය. ඒ දේශපාලන වික්‍රමයන් හේතුවෙන් ‘බබා' හෙවත් කුමාර් සිරගත වූ අවස්ථාවල ඔහුගේ දේශපාලන සගයින් විසින් සංවිධානය කරන ලද උද්ඝෝෂණයන්ට ඇයද සහභාගී වූ නිසා ය. ඒ හැම ඡායා රූපයකම ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි සිටියේ කඳුළු පිරි දෑසිනි.

පෙරියා ගැනත්, බබා ගැනත්, පොදුවේ එකල ‘ජවිපෙ ක්‍රියාකාරිත්වය' ගැනත් සාකච්ඡා වෙද්දී බොහෝ අවස්ථා වල ඒ කඳුළු පිරුණු දෑස් සේම ජීවිතයෙන් වැඩි කාලයක් දුකම වළඳන්න සිදු වූ බැවින් දුකම ලියැවුනු ඇගේ මුහුණත් මට සිහි වේ.

ඔව්, තව ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ලා සිය දහස් ගණනක් අප අතර වෙසෙති. ඒ හා සමාන සංඛ්‍යාවක් සුසුමට, කඳුලට සමු දී මරණය නම් වූ (තාවකාලික) විමුක්තිය වැළඳ ගෙන ඇත. එහෙත් ඒ අය අතුරින් මට ‘ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ' සුවිශේෂී ය. ඒ පෙරියා, බබා සහ නිරන්ජනී, මාගේ බිරිඳ හරහා සහෝදර සහෝදරියන් වූ බැවින් නොවේ. ඇයගේ කඳුළු, ඝාතනය කරන ලද පුතෙකු වෙනුවෙන් සැලෙන කඳුළු වීම නිසා හෝ දේශපාලන තෝරා ගැනීම් හේතුවෙන් ඇයගේ තවත් පුතෙකුගේ සිරගත ව ඇති නිසා ද නොවේ. එමෙන් ම ‘පෙරියා' ගේ මව මට 'ඇන්ටි' වන නිසා ද නොවේ. නිරන්ජනී නිසා ම ය. නිරන්ජනී ගේ දරුවෙකු කෑගල්ලේ ප්‍රධාන පෙලේ පාසලකට ඇතුලත් කරවා ගැනීම සඳහා කරුණු කාරණා පවසන්නට ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි එම විදුහලේ ප්‍රධානියා හමුවීමට ගිය පුවතක් අසන්නට ලැබිණ. විදුහලේ ප්‍රධානියා එහි දී මෙසේ පවසා ඇත: “ඉතින් දෙමළ ඉස්කෝලෙට ළමයව දාගන්න පුළුවන්නේ!" 

ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි මෙන් නිරන්ජනී ද එම පාසලේම බාලාංශ පන්ති වල ළමයින්ට ස්වේච්චාවෙන් උගැන්වූ බවද.සඳහන් කල යුතුවේ.

එය අසා ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ගේ දෑස් කඳුලින් පිරුණිදැයි නො දනිමි. එහෙත් මේ රටේ 'රන්ජිදන් සහෝදරයා' ගැන අසා තිබෙන සියලු දෙනා ගේ හදවත් සසල වියහැකි පුවතකි එය. ඒ රන්ජිදන් පණ පෙවූ ඥාතිත්වය මේ රටේ යම් පමණකින් හෝ නිර්මාණය වී තිබුණි නම්, එවැනි දෙයක් ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි ට කිසිදා අසන්නට නොලැබෙන නිසා. එහෙත් ඇයට එය අැසීමට සිදු විය.

'පෙරියා' යනු 'ලොක්කා' (ලොකු පුතා හෝ ලොකු අයියා) යන්නෙහි දෙමළ වචනය ලෙස මට නො දැනුණේ ඥාතිත්වය නමැති විෂය තුල එක්තරා දේශපාලන කියවීමක් වෙනුවෙන් ඔහු පෙනී සිටි බැවිනි. ඒ වෙනුවෙන් සටන් කිරීමට තීන්දු කල බැවිනි. එම තීන්දුව ම ඔහුව ඝාතනය කිරීමට හේතු සාධක නිර්මාණය කල බැවිනි. බබා ගේ දේශපාලන භාවිතය වෙනස් ය. ඔහු 'දක්ෂයෙක්' යැයි මම නො සිතමි. ඔහු කවියෙක් දැයි මම නොදනිමි. පෙරියා ‘මනුස්සයෙක්' වන අර්ථයෙන් ම බබා ද ‘මනුස්සයෙක් ' දැයි නොදනිමි. ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත්, ඔහු නියෝජනය කරන දේශපාලන ධාරාව පිලිබඳ බරපතල මතවාදී ගැටළු ඇතත්, එය පෙරියා පෙනී සිටි ඥාතිත්වය වෙනුමෙන් ම නාමිකව හෝ පෙනී සිටියි. එම ඥාතිත්වයට අංශුමාත්‍රයක හෝ වරදක් මා දන්නා පරිදි එම පවුලේ කිසිවෙකුගෙන් සිදුවී නැත.

බොහෝ වේදනා විඳින්නට සිදුව ඇති ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටිගේ දෑස් එවන් හේතුවක් නිසා කඳුලින් බර වීම ඇයගේ පුද්ගලික වේදනාව පමණක් කියාපාන්නක් නොවේ. එය සමස්ත සමාජයක් ම ලැජ්ජා වියයුතු කරුණකි. පෙරියා ට මෙන් ම පෙරියා පෝෂණය කල ඥාතිත්වයට ද කරන ලද අපහාසයකි. පෙරියා පණ දුන් ඥාතිත්වය දවසකින් හෝ දෙකකින් සමස්ත සමාජය වැළඳ ගනීවි යැයි ඔහු ද විශ්වාස නොකරන්නට ඇත. මන්ද යත්, ලෝකයේ විපර්යාස සිදුවන්නේ බොහෝ සෙමින් වන බැවිනි. විප්ලව සිදු කලත්, නැතත්, ඔවැනි දේ නීතියෙන් හෝ අණ පනත් මගින් ස්ථාපිත කිරීම වුව පහසු නැත.

“ඉතින් දෙමළ ඉස්කෝලෙට ළමයව දාගන්න පුළුවන්නේ!"

‘ගුණරත්නම් ඇන්ටි 'ට එවැන්නක් අසන්නට ලැබීම ඛේදවාචයකි. එහෙත් ඒ පිලිබඳ ව කඳුළු සැලිය යුත්තේ ඇය පමණක් නොවේ.

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Remembering Richard and forgetting Ranjithan

There were some 60,000 people killed in what is clearly the bloodiest period in post-Independence Sri Lanka, 1988-1990. Our roadsides were turned into crematoriums, our rivers, canals and such into cemeteries. I remember a day in June 1988, in Bingiriya. I remember distinctly thinking this thought: ‘I can’t do anything to stop this!’ ‘This’, then, was an inevitable hurtling of an entire nation over the edge of sanity and into an abyss made of fire and bullets, the order to assassinate and the screams of the dying. Almost twenty two years later, I have a question for everyone reading this: can you name one person who perished during that time?

I am sure that more than 90% of those who grew up speaking English and who live in Colombo (and close to 100% of those in Colombo 3 and 7), if they can come up with any name, it would be that of Richard de Zoysa. That’s one out of over 60,000 victims. Some might remember Nandalal Fernando, Harsha Abeywardena, and Stanley Wijesundera. Those who have had any association with left politics would remember Vijaya Kumaratunga, L.W. Panditha, Devabandara Senanayake, Dharmasiri, A. Jayantha, Chandrawimala and others killed by the JVP. Still, I am willing to bet that if asked to name one person who was killed during that time, nine out of 10 would say ‘Richard de Zoysa’ and that if asked to name a victim who was known, very, very few would speak up.

Is it something to do with the fact that Richard de Zoysa was an exceptional individual? He was certainly a ‘personality’, a public figure inasmuch as any non-politician could be one. He was a poet, a theatre man, a personality in literary circles. A talented and to some an exceptional one too. Richard didn’t fall from the sky. He was born of a woman’s womb, he grew up, went to school, had fun, got his knees bruised etc. He had friends. He had feelings, I am sure. Fears too. Desires. He breathed, he ate, he drank, he sweated, had a pulse etc etc. If you pricked him, he would bleed. When tortured, he would have cried out in pain.

And what of those other 59,999 plus people? Well, they would have been differently talented. They couldn’t have fallen from the sky. They too would have been held in wombs, birthed by mothers, taken care of, sent to school, formed friendships, learnt lessons; they also would have entertained dreams, felt things, breathed, loved, sweated, pulsated etc. If you pricked them, as the bard said, they too would have bled, they would have cried out in pain too when tortured. Their last moment would not have been any different to that of Richard’s in that they too would have released one last sigh as exclamation mark and as question. There are some 60,000 plus question marks and an equal number of exclamation marks, but how is it that we remember and name one but not the 59,000 plus others?

Who has heard of Senadheera from Kurunegala, a teacher and who of Dassanayake from Matale, born with a congenital defect in an eye that made it impossible for him to hide behind a disguise? Dassanayake knew his time was coming and he refused to escape: ‘I have brought too many people into this to leave now,’ he said. He was drawn and quartered, literally, and his body parts hung from a tree in Katugastota. His question/exclamation marks don’t have identity tags. Neither did those of Lalith from Kuliyapitiya, the medical student Atapattu, and countless others, including Thrimavitharana of the Colombo Medical Faculty who had nails driven into his skull, who was tied to the back of a jeep and dragged along a gravel road.

There was a massive crowd attending Thrimavitharana’s funeral. How many remember his name today? This I am asking from the comfortable and comfortably complaining, whining, dining, self-righteous people who think that ability to speak English is a sign of wisdom and a right to be snooty and condescending. Do you remember Thrimavitharana? Richard was special, yes. Talented, yes. Wasn’t Ranjithan Gunaratnam special? Was he not talented? Have you heard that name? Do you know who he was? Do you know what kinds of skills he possessed?

People who had never met Richard know of him. I have never met Ranjithan, I know of him though. He was an engineering student at Peradeniya. Born to humble, dignified and utterly civilized parents who lived in Kegalle, Ranjithan was highly conversant in all three languages. He was a poet. An artist. An orator. He was well read by all accounts, a good friend, a man of immense capacity and endowed with indefatigable energy. Arrested. Tortured. Killed. Each time I look into his mother’s eyes, I see how special each person who died was to those who knew and loved them. But Ranjithan was not Richard. He was not ‘English’. He was Tamil. He was Sinhala. He was Hindu and Buddhist. He was not ‘city’. He was ‘city and village’. His name is not remembered. Why not?

There is, I believe, a politics to remembrance. Sepulchers are not innocent. Commemoration is vile. There is erasing and ‘oblivioning’ in the matter of selective commemoration. No, I am not saying that Richard should not be remembered. I am merely asking myself and you, ‘why do we remember Richard and why have we forgotten Ranjithan, if we ever knew of him that is?’

During the UNP-JVP bheeshanaya of 1988-1990 democracy was bruised and tortured. Our sensibilities were lacerated. We acquired a certain degree of immunity to violence and crime. Death by violent means became something like pickpocketing; a few raised eyebrows, some political mileage for some, sweeping under carpets and years of forgetting. We lost something else. And this is why we can’t dwell in 1989-1990, however sad we are and however much we need to celebrate the lives of those who are not around today. There’s one thing that few acknowledge or even remember today when thinking about Richard or Ranjithan, or any of the other 59,998 plus people. That thing is called HR. Human Resources.

I told this to Werawellalage Premasiri, born Kumarigama, Ampara, my batchmate at Peradeniya, former lecturer in Political Science and now a public servant. I said ‘Aliya, (that was his ‘card’ at campus) me rate maanva sampath pilibandava deventha prashnayak thiyenava’ (there is a huge human resource problem in this country). He answered quietly: mama dannava; ape rate maanava sampath bheeshanaya kaale athurudahan karala demma (the human resources of our country were liquidated during the bheeshanaya).

We lost the best we had, didn’t we? Not all those who died were guilty of wrong doing and even if they were extra-judicial killing was the wrong way to go about sorting out the problem (those who howl about human rights violations were silent back then and those who call for truth commissions and such are conspicuously silent about such mechanisms for that particular blood-letting). I have no doubt about this: we lost our spirit, the cream, the most talented, the young people most endowed with attributes such as integrity, sacrifice, energy and ingenuity.

There were many Richards among them, but they didn’t write in English. They did not get published, they did not have the Lionel Wendt to perform in. They were born to humble parents, raised their voices against injustice and were slaughtered for this crime.

Let us remember them all. Let us remember that if we are struggling today on account of a serious lack of human resources, there are people responsible for this. Let us also remember that the conflict in the North and East saw a similar though less voluminous ‘evacuation’ (since it dragged across several generations). Let us remember that languishing in harsh circumstances in these regions and in the rehabilitation camps are young Tamil people who too are endowed with the same kinds of attributes. Let us remember that there are Richard de Zoysas among them; only, they do not write in English, have not got published and have not played at the Lionel Wendt. They must be allowed to do so.

So when we remember Richard, let us remember these others who didn’t/don’t have a Christian name, were/are quite un-English, but were/are no less talented, no less human.

msenevira@gmail.com


*First published in the Sunday Island in February 2010.

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