Sri Lanka: The country without citizens.

Edited version originally published on Groundviews.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR:

For someone who is not in the least interested in politics – and is more often than not bored by it – my reaction to the 2010 Presidential Elections was surprising, even to me. Strangely enough though, I found that a lot of people felt much the same way. We were repulsed by constant news of violence; inescapable hoardings with their proclamations that our politicians loved us; posters that made the city walls disappear beneath them; partisan media stuffing propaganda down our unwilling throats; the promises of candidates that we knew to be false.

Yet, despite all this, we cared – albeit, rather reluctantly and in spite of ourselves. We still wanted to be in the know; we still tried to separate fact from the politicians’ fiction. We still agonized over who to support, fought with our friends and colleagues about that choice, and later felt guilty that we might be making the wrong one.

I for one became obsessed with these dilemmas, and, as a first-time voter felt totally out of depth in the process. On the night of the 26^th as the results started trickling and then pouring in I sat glued to my television set, snowy with bad reception, and wrote them feverishly down in my journal, as if my pen might help me make sense of the outcome. It didn’t – and at about 3.30 am my writing had become so unintelligible that I had to give up and get a few hours rest.

It was at least a small comfort that I wasn’t alone in my peculiar fixation with the elections. Being a heavy Facebook and Twitter user, I realized that many people I knew – no matter their age – felt similarly repelled and attracted towards this pivotal election. Some posted the entire election results on their blogs, others constantly updated their statuses with election-related news; some spent their time reading and sharing relevant material and others – like me – couldn’t stop writing about it in any and all fora.

This article, I guess, is proof that this process is continuing.

* * *

I’ve heard it said by a prominent artist that there is no such thing as a citizen of Sri Lanka. That, we are a country without citizens.

The statement stuck with me, purely because I had no idea what he meant. But watching the unravelling chaos the election brought with it in the past weeks, I’ve been able to form my own interpretation (although I can’t be sure that this is how he intended his statement to be read).

Sri Lanka is a country of many publics – too fragmented or just too different to form one cohesive whole. This election enlightened me to this in a way nothing else ever has.

The bigger picture

Published originally on Perambara.org.

Within minutes the crowd grows from a few random stragglers to a swelling, shouting throng. I stand there amongst the women, waiting to be body-searched by female security personnel and there are people actually shoving me, pushing to get to the front of the line – the quicker the search is done, the quicker they can rush to the other side and join their men in the fray. I feel conspicuous in my awkwardness, out of place wearing the embarrassment I always feel as invasive hands search my body for hidden weapons.

The search done, I attempt to cross over but security won’t let me pass. I wave my ministry media ID at them – it’s been a long day – but they look perplexed, as if they’ve never seen a woman media person before. Still, I am small fry and they are watchful of the crowd so they pass me on from one officer to the next. I don’t mind – media ID in one had and camera in the other, I utilize their confusion and start taking photographs of this dynamic, bursting crowd.

A message from a first-time voter

Originally published on Groundviews.

Two choices, by schelly

In 2005, I didn’t vote. Being 21, I was eligible to vote, but I didn’t – and if you asked me why, I would ashamedly admit I simply didn’t care. I was in University abroad, my mind preoccupied with the Arts, my arms wrapped around my glossy new textbooks, my life an adventure waiting to happen. Voting, politics and presidents didn’t register on my radar: the picture they represented was too big for me to fathom and it all seemed so removed from the microcosm of my life. In 2005, my parents were the presidents of my world and I the rebellious citizen, rioting for my right to certain freedoms.

After my university career, I moved back home and joined a media institution – just in time to get a front row seat to some of the most significant events in Sri Lanka’s history. 2 years and the end of a war later, I find both myself and my country in turmoil. Strange, considering we are supposed to be at peace now. But then again, we are supposed to be many things. We are supposed to be a democracy. We are supposed to be opposed to violence because violence is the way of terrorists – and we are supposed to have defeated terrorism. We are supposed to be a liberated people, with freedom of movement, expression and choice.

But it is election time now and what, of all those things, do we have?

Of Great Love

* Originally published in ‘The Insider‘.

The Love Story, by adriana-craciunescu

A couple of weeks ago, I accompanied my parents on what seemed a routine visit to see some old friends of theirs. David and Anna were an elderly British couple – Anna was probably in her 60s, her husband David probably in his 70s – and they were both delightful. For almost two hours we all laughed, joked and conversed with each other, and it was almost easy to ignore the silent 6^th companion sitting with us all the way through: Anna’s cancer, which by now had spread through almost her entire body, leaving her in a wheelchair. I spent the evening mostly listening to these two as they chatted with my parents, recalling their many previous visits to Sri Lanka and vowing that this would not be their last. “We’ll be here next January with our kids” said David, firmly, winking at me.

Our ride home was long and it gave me the time to plug in my ipod, stare out the window and ruminate – one of my favourite pastimes. I switched on my phone and sent my best friend a quick text: “Sigh. I can’t wait to grow old with someone”. I then settled back in my seat, puzzled by my own words and feelings.

I’ve always been a little crazy for passion. From Enid Blyton to Margarett Mitchell, there’s been one kind of love story that has always attracted me more than others. As a child, I watched Beauty and the Beast – the story of a young woman who enters into an agreement with a monster she learns to love – with a sort of terrified enchantment. As I grew up, the stories became more life-like, more advanced and the conflicts became more complex, but it was always that heated, troubled passion that I looked for: that dark, dangerous love. Jane Eyre and her gruff, mysterious Rochester; Scarlett’s sometimes searing, sometimes freezing affection for Rhett; and, inexplicably, my favourite – Cathy’s devastating love for her dark, mad Heathcliff.

Trinco Rising.

Originally published on Perambara.org.

11 years ago, Trincomalee was paradise. I have memories of aquamarine beaches, walking out to sea for miles on shallow sandbanks, spending a morning at Pigeon Island climbing rocks and looking at coral. The only thing that marred our trip was the coral thief we stumbled upon there, who was sternly reprimanded by one of our party for the damage he was doing to the reef. He listened not-so-guiltily to the lecture and scrammed with his hacking knives, leaving the broken coral behind. Even as an innocent 13 year old, I knew he would probably be back for it later.

At 24, I look at Trincomalee with different eyes: not only because I have changed, but because it has too – possibly even more than me. I have lived through the same war, but experienced it predominantly through the news and from a distance . Trinco, on the other hand, has had the war fought at its doorstep and in its back yard. And these waves of violence were only to be followed by another: the tsunami, brought in by the sea that had always been an ally in the past – a source of survival and income for the townsfolk; an omnipresent companion, glinting along the coast. In 2004, that friend turned foe.

Monster? (Part 3)

(contd. from Part 2)

-3- My Weapon

I have been a soldier from the time I was barely out of toddler-hood. I was one of those lucky few who survived early training during which we were given a gun, taught hurriedly how to point and shoot and then shoved forward into the thick of battle. So I was one of those few terrified children who ran in the jungles, shot their too-heavy guns every which way through tear flooded eyes and managed by some miraculous chance to pass the days and months alive and largely unhurt.

I will boast no skill – I had none. All I remember of those days are my tearing gasps, my heart in my ears, a sick sort of adrenalin in my legs and stomach, my wild, haphazard shooting. I ran until my shoes wore out at the bottom. I killed and killed until the sound of the gunshot didn’t scare me, till the recoil didn’t send me flying backwards, till the smell of blood stopped making me want to vomit, till each killing became a triumph of my own survival.

Monster? (Part 2)

(contd. from Part 1)

-2- The Cell.

I don’t quite know how, but it is at once hot and cold in my cell. The walls are grimy and moist with mold and offer no semblance of heat. But still I sweat, sitting here with nothing to do and nowhere to go but into my own mind. I am well used to sweat – from battle or exercise or just traveling over rough terrain on a hot day. This is different – this sweat of maddening stillness. Even now I can feel drops faltering down my spine to lose themselves in the uncomfortable weave of my prison attire.

Sometimes I have an urge to take off my clothes and lie naked on the wet, slimy ground, trading in that constant sweat for filth. I refrain though, knowing the sight would be an invitation too difficult for my frustrated guards to resist.

Monster? (Part 1)

-1- The Verdict

When they read out the verdict, I wasn’t listening. Can you believe it? My entire future hung on one word by that jury and when they uttered it, I simply didn’t hear.

I stood up mechanically at “will the defendant please rise”, like a robot, long unused, creaking to attention. I had been sitting for days and it hurt to stand up. In a starched cotton dress suit and unaccustomed to civilian clothing, I was longing for the familiarity of my uniform. It was that kind of mundane thought that was running through my head at that moment. That and how thin strands of the judge’s grey hair poked out from under his wig, straight out as if electrocuted, making him look vaguely foolish. So preoccupied was I with this caricature before me that when the rest of the courtroom searched by face at the word “guilty”, I only wore a smug smirk.

Gypsy says Merry Christmas

Christmas, by 6Artificial6

Written a few days ago…

It’s that time of year again. Christmas. I can hardly believe it – it can’t possibly have been a year since the last, when I was fighting to stave off the blues and appreciate the reds, greens and golds of the season instead.

I always feel like I’m in a bit of a time-warp around this time of year but this time the feeling’s increased a hundred fold. In a way I feel the year has sped by, yanking me with it, leaving my head a-whirl as I try and look back to see where it’s all gone. But it also feels like last year’s crazy turmoil happened a hundred years ago – another life; another me.

Santa

Santa stares at himself in the mirror, gathering his resolve. He feels strange, dressed as he is all in black. But these are strange times. His customary red suit hangs dry cleaned, ironed and smart in his cupboard which he has left open – a habit his wife hates. Santa shoots a slightly rueful look at the suit, turns back to his reflection and wonders for the umpteenth whether this is a good idea after all.

Then his gaze drops to a lengthy crumpled list on his dresser and, also for the umpteenth time, he realizes that it is. He picks up the list and sits down for a moment to scan it, his free hand automatically dipping into the packet of chocolate chip cookies he always keeps nearby. The rustling of the packet makes his wife stir in her sleep but he keeps munching, albeit a little guiltily. He knows he needs to keep the weight down, especially considering the taxing nature of tonight’s assignment, but he also needs energy. Sugar’s good for energy, he’s heard.

First on the list: Sri Lanka. Santa sits back in his chair, his brows drawing together as he tries to remember where that is. The reindeer always seem to know where they are going but he likes to have some idea as well. After so many years of doing what he does, he guesses he should know the world like the back of his hand. As loathe as he is to admit it, though, his memory isn’t as good as it used to be. He rummages around his person and finally unearths an ancient dog-eared world map from the depths of one of his pockets. Smoothing it out on his lap, he hunches over it, groping absently for his glasses while he squints in the dim light, trying to find the place.