Pera de la hera, seenigama, sweet as sugar.

Ramble on

 

I’m back in Hikkaduwa, for the last time I’m sure. Sitting on another balcony, typing to the sound of the sea. It’s a windy day, like one of those days in primary school, just before a storm, where everything is in flux, where everything is slightly otherworldly, kids running here and there, giddy from excitement…

 

Today there is a perahera in Seenigama, the sugar village, or so means the name. A perahera involves something like this: innumerable dance troops (45 in the one today)

elephants, and onlookers. They are held around the country whenever there is a full moon (poya), which is sort of like Sunday for Christians…; people don’t work and they do all their religious things like visit the temple, think about family, turn into better people, more than that I don’t really know. Seenigama is the site of the infamous Foundation of Goodness, so we know quite a few of the people who will be in the perahera, including one unlikely lady by the name of Verity who will be participating in a beautiful Kandian Sari made by her work colleagues.

 

Just quickly, one more Kushil Gunasekara story: he has made the Guardian Weekly. Recently a famous former Indian spin bowler (I forget his name) made a remark comparing the 700 odd wickets that Sri Lanka’s favourite Son, Murali Muralitharan (sp?) had taken to ‘mere run-outs’. Kushil, who is also Murali’s manager, decided that this was definitely defamation and has apparently moved to file a $7 million lawsuit. Brilliant. If special K pulls that one off it will definitely confirm him as a man of infinite wisdom and compassion.

 

Anyway, I didn’t sit down to write about any of the things that I have, but now I have started a ramble, I may as well continue. Verity has now gone to get ready for the perahera, and the storm has definitely come, I’ve had to retreat from the balcony to the room.

 

Briefly, work remains mostly good. Doing lots of mostly boring writing for reports but that will be finished soon and I’ll be able to get back to interesting things. What I am doing now is just like writing essays for Uni, only this time they mean something and I can’t get to radical, have to be a little diplomatic. Topics include: civil society’s access to the law making process, language rights, discriminatory language policy, and alternative dispute resolution. Interesting things, but sitting at a desk all day staring at a computer gets a little tedious.

 

Politics are pretty weird at work, lots of boring bullshit, but it is boring so I won’t blab on about it. I had been travelling around the country doing field visits, but that has finished. Definitely pretty odd being the foreigner in the big 4WD being driven round the country and put up in hotels, but the work that is being done is good and I feel like I believe in it so that lessens the guilt. I’ll go into detail about the work that is being done at some other time.

 

musical change idealism, a rant

Sri Lanka has a resistance, but it is moslty intellectual. Something friends and I find infinitely perplexing is that there seems to be so little resistance or opposition to what is going on from the arts, and especially musically. Where is the underground? Where is the alternate voice? I have always thought that in places where conflicts exist, where radical change is needed, there was always a connection between resistance/alternatives and the arts. South Africa is an often quoted example, the part that music played in the downfall of Apartheid, in galvanising vocal opposition to injustice. In Australia music has gone with all the protest movements I can think of. Creativity and a need to express seem to grow out of scenes of conflict and injustice.

 

So coming to Sri Lanka, a place of much injustice, much conflict, I have been looking for the alternative, the radical, the underground voice which verbalises opposition through music and other arts. But I haven’t seen much of it at all. There are some plays on important issues, mostly funded by non-governmental organisations, but for the most part the active vocalisation of a critique of the state/‘system’ is restricted to the intellectual; to reports written for NGOs, to the occasional parliamentarian, to the few brave journalists who write vocally for non-state media. Sri Lanka has recently been classed as the most dangerous place to be in the world if you are a journalist, especially in the North (whatever such pronouncements are worth). And it is probably this simple fact that is the reason there is little visible cultural voice of resistance: it is simply too dangerous, and people are scared.

 

It is one of the most often discussed (young?) expat themes: the lack of anywhere decent to go out at night, the abominable music that is played everywhere. Last week we were out at a Colombo nightclub, there was a cover band playing music from the early 80’s, there is a saxophone on the bar from which drinks can be poured. In this situation an early Brian Adams song is almost a relief. It is an abominable place. And then one amongst us decided that she was going to do something. She walked through the crowd to the front of the stage, and then, in front of the band (passionately playing a song from the worst period in musical history), she defiantly clamped her hands over her ears and glared at the band.

 

It was one of those moments when you can’t quite believe that someone would do such a lunatic thing, but that it is so radical that you appreciate it. This kind of action would be a fantastic protest at a speech by a bastard politician, or a maniac religious leader, but in that moment it was pretty bloody rude. The band finished their song, looked at her incredulously, gave her the opportunity to say something into the microphone (yelled and unintelligible), and promptly asked whether the crowd wanted to party or listen to the lunatic foreign lady. Party was the answer. We got out of there pretty quickly, but when I got outside I found the protagonist in a screaming match with two Sri Lankan men. Well, she was screaming anyway.

 

I agreed with her sentiment, not her method. But what one of the guys said to her was this, “Hey, I know you guys, yeah, I know you. Just listen to me and think about it. I’m in the middle of the road right? I’m in the middle of the road… And my legs are broken. I’m in the middle of the road and I’ve got two broken legs.” Said protagonist didn’t really respond to this but kept yelling, but what he said was quite powerful.

 

Over the last 20-30 years Sri Lanka has had its legs broken. Most active dissent has been suppressed, in the first part of this year 11 people ‘disappeared’ in Colombo, the number in Jaffna was around 130. There are intellectuals who are part of the upper crust, safe enough and well connected enough, padded by this, who are able to say things reasonably safely. But for those without this it is a place of fear, radical criticism receives radical replies, often in the form of death/disappearance. And if not death, then intimidation of family members is enough. These tools are powerful tools, and they have been used long enough for the effect to be well and truly internalised.

 

Sri Lanka is a traumatised nation, afraid to speak/sing about the issues at hand in an overtly active way. Sure, they get on with business, but the power and passion have been drained from the public cultural sphere, especially in relation to music. All that is left is the hole in the music created by repression and horrible, horrible romantic songs. This conflict has led to the near obliteration of music as a voice of change, something that was the case during decolonisation. But change, it comes nonetheless. There is talk of this country turning into a military dictatorship. That is dramatic and unlikely given the reliance on international assistance, but as far as I can tell, it is not so far from it at the moment. The president decides all and does what he wills.

 

But there are small signs from here and there of the potential for music to open up as a space for social activism/dissent/comment. One of the local radio stations, TNL, is trying to get live music happening. They have a campaign much like Triple J’s ‘Unearthed’, aiming to promote original, local, and live, music. The stations slogan is, ‘Start the music, save the world’. Now I know it is just a slogan, and I know that it is just a commercial radio station, and that it plays trash as much as it plays decent music, but I still think it can mean something. If they can at least start a small live music scene, and if the scene is encouraged to be vocal, Sri Lankan resistance might be able to start moving out of the purely intellectual, and into the cultural.

 

How about that for an obnoxious rant?

A fine day for racism

Things aren’t really this bleak, but every time I write something it seems to be that these are the things that come to mind.

 Today seems to be a fine day for racism. The world is a violent authoritarian today. The celebratory jets (the ones that drop the bombs, the bombs, the bombs are made in… but they are dropped on…) thunder over head, they have been doing it for the last three days, low over colombo, a show of force, the force of Viktory. Most major roads are closed for the morning, many are not at work, or school, staying home to see what happens. I’m at work, its a lock in.

Victory came in the east, Toppigala, an LTTE stronghold, now it has been liberated. Won. Free of all evil. THe East is now ‘officially’ free of LTTE. Today the president sits on a throne and re-enacts an old ritual that Sinhalese Kings once did, he sits and has a scroll delivered to him, a scroll indicating the great victories of his armies. No pomp at all. No propaganda intended. And Sinhala Nationalists fill with pride and fervour, feel the blood rushing to their heads and find the nearest Tamil to harrass. One of my colleagues (Tamil) arrived at work today having walked past the University, students and whoever shouting out insults at her, something that translates close to ‘Black Tiger’. She still wears her potu (Hindu marriage dot) but maybe not for long. She is still living in Sri Lanka, but maybe not for long.

That is what days like this do. A national day of celebration. They don’t celebrate victory, they celebrate killing (which is the cause of the victory). They incease the division, increase the chauvinism, increase the fervour, the hate, and the death.

Going to Kandy

Colombo Fort train station, afternoon rush hour. I’m having a cup of tea in a grimy tea shop, 10 rupees. Waiting for my train. A huge rat runs lethargically through the stools. The boys on their way home from school laugh raucously as it runs under the counter. The fellow dishing out tea shrugs. The older men continue to sit; drinking their tea, smoking their cigarettes, unfazed.  A beggar hobbles up, leaning heavily on his stick, clutching his day’s takings in his trembling left hand. He holds his spoils up to the guy behind the counter, an impressive handful of coins. They clatter down, are counted, and the exchange made, the beggar walks off with a hundred rupee note, a little less than one US dollar. The note and his lungi are the same colour: dirty, but cartoon orange.   It looks like an exchange made daily.

Motorcade

 I got off the train at Colombo Fort Train Station. I pushed through the crowds, found a three-wheeler, haggled, and got in to go home. Half way there, on a street I’ve travelled down many times before (flower road) I noticed an unusual number of military personnel spaced along the street. It is a street with many embassies, but this was weird. Then an order was given and they started pushing all the traffic off the road into side-streets. We were signalled into a tiny lane about 20 meters long, the driver of the three-wheeler saying something about the president, and muttering apologies. I wanted to go have a look on the street but the military man with his automatic rifle didn’t have to do anything more than look at me to let me know that that was not an option. We waited perhaps five minutes before there was any action, a dirt-bike style motorbike with two riders went first (both armed, one facing backwards, rifle ready to fire). Another followed 50m behind, travelling seriously fast. Then a military vehicle filled with armed personnel, guns pointed outwards, fingers on the triggers. Then another, and then the ‘President’s’ shiny black car flanked by two more military vehicles and more dirt-bikes with two riders dispersed through the formation. Fifty metres later an ambulance tailed the whole thing. It made me feel reasonably uncomfortable, and made me think that it would be a shitty existence being the President (or whoever the hell it was) having to get around like that. A minute later the barriers were lifted and we were set free, with a smile and a wave from the man who five minutes before looked ready to kill anything.

Robbery

Going back a bit, Sri Lankan New Year ended with two young men pointing what they claimed to be guns at our heads and ordering us to “sit the fuck down or I’ll fucking kill you”. Now, I recently found out my grandma has been reading this, and I am well aware that the above may not be the most serene of phrases, and that the implication will more than likely worry the hell out of her and others, but that was what was said, so that is what I relate. 

It was 2am, we were intoxicated, walking home along the train tracks… in hindsight an entirely stupid thing to do. But in our defence we hadn’t heard of anything untoward happening in Hikkaduwa until that point. The week after though two others were held up, most probably by one of the fellows who held us up, by the descriptions given.

 

The whole experience was surreal, I told the bigger fellow that he was kidding when he uttered his first charming lines, but quickly realised that no, he wasn’t kidding, and that the shiny steel things they were holding like guns could well be guns.  For a brief idiotic moment I had the desire to fight back, but luckily that lunatic thought passed quickly as the leader of the two shoved me to the ground. Afterwards I was left strangely elated, but that was probably shock, and appreciation that none of us had been hurt. That was what we kept telling ourselves anyway. ‘Who cares that things were lost? We are ok, that’s the important thing, are you ok? I’m ok, we are ok…’ I lost a wallet, Ynys her phone and wallet, and Marcel lost nothing, having got away with simply saying ‘No’ to the attackers and sitting down, bizarre.

 

This experience was probably the beginning of the end of any love I felt for this place, Hikkaduwa. I’ve been back here for a few days now (after my first stint living in Colombo), and it holds as little attraction as it did then. It’s a sad kind of place now that the wet has come, the tourists have gone, and there is nothing to do. Still, there was a moment two nights ago, sitting on the balcony of our Hikkaduwa house (it ceases to be ‘our house’ today, Friday the 14^th of June) when the quiet, the mild tropical air, the insect noises, and all that, had a distinctly calming effect after being in the stink and noise of Colombo for a decent stretch. This place may be a good respite from the city, but as a place to live, for me, it is cloying and claustrophobic, isolating and at the moment, slightly eerie.

 

There is a more global, or at least national, context to this feeling though. At the moment this whole country feels like it is shrinking into itself, or fragmenting in wait of a greater explosion, the country is on repeat. Every conversation you have with someone on the street is of rising living costs, a corrupt government, a war without end in sight. The mood in the last few months has shifted dramatically; every other day a new bomb is found or goes off somewhere in the country, we read of government bombing civilians in the north, local NGO workers killed in the south (by who?), forced evictions of Tamils from Colombo (being referred to as ethnic cleansing, and subsequently ruled unconstitutional by the supreme court), ‘international community’ condemnation, fuel hikes, electricity hikes, military budget increases, fighting, infighting, retaliation, division. Basically the place seems pretty screwed right now, and unless something drastic changes it is hard to see anything getting better before it gets worse. Actually, it seems hard to see anything getting better at all, and maybe that’s a global thing?

 

I start work on Monday (finally! It has been five weeks!), and the organisation is one that through its work is aiming to counteract the depressing sentiments in the above paragraph. The program I will be working on aims to, “…strengthen institutions and processes, at the local and national levels, that remedy past and present injustices that are experienced by politically marginalized and socially disadvantaged groups and have caused and exacerbated conflict and continue to do so.” It’s a bit of a mouthful, but a damn fine sentiment. Basically they are trying to set up processes/understandings which may lay the groundwork for peace.

 

Sadly, since the program started in 2004 the country has been sliding backwards (now at a state of ‘undeclared civil war’). What this means for such programs is that there is less space to operate in, the more ‘warlike’ the situation the less space for ‘civil society’ to act. The more division in society, the more difficult common understanding/respect. BUT, it seems like programs like these are the glue that can make the peace process a reality (nice cliché there?). The problems are another stupid phrase, lack of political will (i.e power hungry evil people up there), and a timeline which is rather longer than it takes to build a house; no chance for immediate, flashy disaster relief here. There can be no Foundation of Goodness’s here, where would you put the advertising sign?

briefly, then.

Colombo, my new home. Feels very cosmopolitan. Or very ex-pat. People go out and do things here, there is a social circle bigger than four. Changes, always, but recently, big ones. The end of life in Hikkaduwa (well mine anyway) came rapidly, but wasn’t out of the blue. The pressure rose, the frustrations continued, I argued with the boss, things deteriorated my mind flew to possibilities of a different life. And I moved. Now I live in a little flat in Colombo with Verity and another AYAD, Jodi. I like it.

I don’t know how useful another diatribe on Kushil Gunasekera would be, but here is something, possibly the last something. That would be nice. Basically he is a megalomaniac, and arguing with megalomaniacs is largely useless. Some quote from somewhere: “There is no point trying to argue with a pig, you will only waste your time and annoy the pig.” Working at the Foundation was like trying to argue with a pig. Thats a little rough on ‘Kushil-Sir’, and a little arrogant of myself, but the point is valid.

Basically I did what I was told, I helped to do this and that, then I started to do work which wasn’t in Kushil’s frame of reference . This was seen as threatening to to the man, and so was undermined. This situation wasn’t very pleasant, blew up, and I hit the eject button. Thats how I saw it anyway. We wished each other well, as best we could.

Now I haven’t worked for a month, and I’m not sure that I know what its all about anymore. I thought I was going to start a new position about two weeks ago, but bureaucracy has had a little play with things, and I’m still waiting on final approval. This is pretty frustrating, both for me and the organisation who has agreed to take me on. Every day I am sure that there will be word the next, but this has been going on for nigh on two weeks.

But once this is all sorted I’m pretty sure that it should be great. The actual position may not be the most exciting or useful thing in of itself, but the chance to work with an established and professional organisation is something I’m definitely ready for. I’ll be working for a  group of lawyers who do access to justice work on an NGO level in relation to tea-pickers, home-based workers, and Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs). They also do work on language rights, which focuses on the problem of a nearly 100% Sinhala speaking police force policing Tamil speaking populations.

My role is to do research for evaluation purposes, I need to do work that was not done when the project started, to do research into what the situation was like in 2004 in order to establish a retrospective baseline. One of the women I’ll be working for has already said she thinks what I’m doing is unnecessary, but the donors want it so they have to do it. She is probably totally correct, but I’m treating it a bit like study, I know nothing about the area and am happy to be working with interesting people doing interesting things, even if what I’ll actually be doing may not be hugely useful. It is a really different work environment from the last 6 or so months at the Foundation, and I’m definitely ready for that.

I was going to upload a few pics of the last month, which has been quite fine (my folks visited and we went gallivanting), but it seems the unpredictable wireless connection has predictably chosen to be unpredictable. So that will have to wait.

ciao,

zzzzzzzzzzz

some links

This one is a story about cricket and terrorism. its funny if it wasn’t so horrendously horribly indicative of the extremist end of Sinhala media. On Tamilnet for precisely that reason.

http://www.tamilnet.com/art.html?catid=13&artid=21917

These ones describe my boss:

http://www.help4nonprofits.com/NP_Bd_FoundersSyndrome_Art.htm

http://www.managementhelp.org/misc/founders.htm

z

issues

I’ve just become aware that I have issues. Ha.

The photos i’ve put on my blog, though perfectly fine for viewing on my screen, are a little gigantic on others. I’ll have to fix this, but not now.

what to do?

z

adams peak clarity, sort of.

A while back I wrote something about going to Adams Peak but never actually getting to the top. My honourable friend Mr Paul Atkinson has cleared it up for me a little (though I must admit I am a little confused by parts of it the gist is what matters):

“Adam’s peak, as you would know if you made it to the top, has significance to all the major religions in Sri Lanka (well at least Hindus, Christians and Buddhists). It pertains to what people believe looks like a giant foot print (ie Adam’s, or Shiva or whoever your favourite deity might be) but any good excuse to put yourself through an ordeal is worthy for the pious (self flagellation, fasting, etc).  I was more struck by the old women making the way up than the pisshead young men but i did hear the old hello Hootha from a few cheeky young blokes. To which i replied oombei tamai hootha! Then realised a may well have misheard the poor fellows. I don’t know if your tourist plug countered the horror stories (planes on fire, no go zones and thieving dogs) but personally i remain jealous of your present work/location.”

As to his last sentence, despite all my grumpyness as to the stupid organisation I work for I would still rather be here than there…