The identity blues of the SLFP

In 2010, the United People's Freedom Alliance (UPFA) obtained 144 seats and a parliamentary majority. There were those who voiced concerns. Some yelled "End of Democracy!" Others hoped for the best. This majority after all was obtained through a system that confers virtual dictatorial powers on the man at the top and his party.

To be sure, some of those who protested this had themselves been beneficiaries of a party-majority before, i.e. when the United National Party (UNP) "ruled" throughout the 1980s. They chose to go dumb over democracy-deficits back then. Pots calling kettles black? Certainly.

Times have changed however. Some of those who rode high on the 2010 majority have switched loyalties. Some haven't. Others continue to hover in-between. Their loyalties remain multi-coloured. That's politics. That's natural. Blame the UNP-manufactured manapa kramaya.

Rumours that stalwarts from the UPFA are to cross over to the UNP have surfaced within the past few days. These would-be defectors cite the decision by the UPFA to nominate Mahinda Rajapaksa for the General Election as reason for disgruntlement. Fair enough. After all, why should the former president come back, given that he lost on January 8? More importantly, why is his party hellbent on giving him a return ticket?

That's just at one level though.

Those expected to defect include Arjuna Ranatunga, Nandimithra Ekanayake, and M. K. D. S. Gunawardena. To these we can add those who jumped the ship to help the then Common Candidate Maithripala Sirisena, including Rajitha Senaratne and Duminda Dissanayake. But that's speculation. Meanwhile, here's food for thought.

Both Ranatunga and Chandrika Kumaratunga distanced themselves early on from Rajapaksa. Kumaratunga didn't help her own party's candidate during his bid for presidency in 2005 for reasons best known to her. Ranatunga subsequently hobnobbed with the likes of Mangala Samaraweera, Sripathi Sooriyarachchi, and Tiran Alles in the (pro-Chandrika) Mahajana Wing. When the former joined the UNP and the latter moved back as an independent candidate, Ranatunga continued to oppose Rajapaksa without "going green".

Now here's my question. If fidelity to party was a priority for these people, how would they save face upon defection? The likes of Gunawardena and Ranatunga were vociferous champions of Maithripala Sirisena's takeover of the SLFP. They spoke little about those with dubious records who crossed over to their side. They spoke nothing about how the UNP tactically positioned itself to attack the SLFP by dividing the party and granting a blank cheque to the Sirisena Faction.

Now here's the pincer. Who's really loyal to the SLFP?

Granted, at a time when the man who heads the party appears divided between the Blues and Greens, it's hard to tell. But I've stated again and again that the likes of Rajitha Senaratne cannot and will not salvage the Blues. This isn't because of his own ambivalent background with regard to party loyalty. This is also because he and the rest of the Sirisena Faction are doing a despicably good job of trashing the UNP while batting for them. I was at the rally for the 20th Amendment. I heard chest-beating words. I saw the Greens being trashed. Rhetoric is cheap, though. Mr Senaratne should know this.

If party-loyalty figures in their opposition to Rajapaksa (whose loyalty to the SLFP is stronger than theirs) then what explains their silence over the UNP's questionable handling of the economy, media freedom (and neutrality), and good governance? Are they so worried about Rajapaksa's return that they prefer the Greens to anything else, including their own party? If that is so, why are they in the SLFP in the first place?

Not for nothing was Maithripala Sirisena's campaign called a "Rainbow Coalition". He owes the Greens for where he is now. One can conclude that his base among SLFPers has increased, particularly among those who (like their counterparts rooting for the UNP) would vote for anyone who leads their party (I'd like to call them kepuwath nil). Again, that's speculation. Leading a party is one thing. Kowtowing to the enemy is another thing. No one, not even those who "bleed blue", likes that if they support the SLFP.

Both Sirisena and Rajapaksa have shown loyalty to the SLFP. Both count in more than four decades of sustained allegiance to it. Currently however, those whom Sirisena placed as its top brass on February 14 (including S. B. Nawinne, who – surprise, surprise! – defected last week) have ambivalent records when it comes to such allegiance. Does the president really expect us to think that his faction, if given a choice between staying with his predecessor and going green, wouldn't choose the latter option?

Let me make one point clear. To claim that the former president isn't loyal to the party while going dumb over the ruling party's policies is duplicitous. In the present context, it would pay to come out of the closet. It would pay to declare fidelity (or absence thereof) to the SLFP.

Politics isn't about honesty. But it pays. Here's why. The likes of Senaratne were voted in by SLFPers. Big disappointment if they keep one foot blue and the other green while bemoaning Rajapaksa's concern for his party's (detrimental) alliance with the UNP. If they continue this way, we can conclude: "Morally bankrupt!"

He needs to come out, hence. So should the rest of his faction. That'll save face. Easily.

Note: By the time this article was published, Rajitha Senaratne had in effect "defected", along with M. K. D. S. Gunawardena, Hirunika Premachandra, and (surprise, surprise!) Patali Champika Ranawaka. That did not save face though. He defected to the UNP, a story we've heard before, isn't it?

Written for: The Nation, July 11 2015

Preserving Chitrasena

Chitrasena did not pass on 10 years ago. He was not taken out or marginalised after death for the simple reason that he can't be. This is not (only) because people love and continue to love him. Not only because what he left behind sticks to collective memory so brilliantly. This is also because there are those who will continue his journey. Like Vajira, an icon on her own right. Or Upeka, leading the second and third generations.

I spoke with both Upeka and her niece Heshma Wignaraja on Tuesday, June 30. The Chitrasena Vajira Dance Foundation unveiled what can only be described as a step forward. That step involves a show. The show has a name. Devánjali. It’s set to be unveiled on July 18 and 19. A press conference organised as a preview of sorts was arranged for us. Things seemed promising. And impressive.

The show's name is interesting. Devánjali is about the worship of gods. Since Chitrasena's legacy borrowed from and added to an art-form which (in its purest form) consisted of deity-worship and ritual, the name is spot on. It speaks a lot, not just about the man whose life is being celebrated but about the art he chose to enmesh himself in. As Heshma implied early on, dance is not sterile. It borrows and adds. More than the cinema or music, it is elusive and difficult to define. What makes Chitrasena stand out is in how he managed to bring together tradition and modernity.

The preview lasted two hours. Heshma, meticulous as always to the last detail, explained her grandfather's legacy. She showed us a video.

Chitrasena's life essentially consisted of three chapters. The first of these was his background. Born into a refined and essentially bilingual theatre family, he came from a generation that had seen and would see Devar Surya Sena and Wilmot Perera. Secondly, he pursued his passion by studying his country's traditional base (through his teacher, Bevilgamuwe Lapaya Gurunnanse). Thirdly, he proceeded beyond Sri Lanka, hobnobbing with the likes of Uday Shankar, going to Shantiniketan, and travelling across the globe with his troupe (the peak of which, Heshma tells us, was the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow).

After the event was over, I talked with Upeka regarding the first of these. I told her that while Chitrasena's art was essentially “native”, critical response initially came from the urban, middle-class, and English-speaking audience, i.e. the kind of people who went to Lionel Wendt, where Karadiya was and Devánjali will be shown. She affirmed this rather cautiously. "My father's contribution was appreciated by the English-speaking intelligentsia. But it was the same thing with the vernacular press. That was at a different time, you must remember. We were hailed and encouraged and not just by audiences. Now we can't even get our show sponsored easily."

Upeka continued to talk about Devánjali. She told me that while the entire Chitrasena family from the first to the third generation (and beyond) are involved, there is a force that drives all their willpower. "That is Heshma," she explained. I agree. For all her simplicity and ease, you can see determination etched on Heshma’s face. In what she says, how she explicates matters, and how she answers query, she is as well-informed and thoughtful as an organiser of an event of this sort should be. There's hardly doubt in what she says. She is confident, both in herself and in what she has learnt.

She is also humble. She identified and praised every member of the Chitrasena Family. There was her grandmother Vajira. There were her mother Anjalika and aunt Upeka. There was also Heshma's generation, ready to take the mantle and doing so already. A vast family, you'll admit, so much the better for those who wish to see the Guru's art preserved.

There were two items from the show shown to us. The first of these was the pantheruwa, revolving around the Goddess Pattini and the dance of victory attendant on the end of a war. Pattini is worshipped by Buddhists and Hindus alike. As Heshma informed us, what gets affirmed here is a sense of inclusiveness, undisturbed by self-imposed “Us v Them” demarcations.

The second item ("Moksha") offers a bit of a paradox. "Moksha" means perfection, a state of enlightenment unfettered by secular art. How can dancing invigorate such perfection? That is at the heart of the item's conflict, which as its organisers subtly implied must be resolved by us. The audience.

One thing is clear. Devánjali isn't merely a tribute to a Master. It's a message. A step forward. It seeks to question, resolve, and liberate the Guru's legacy. As the name itself implies, it will try to showcase his contribution at its roots. In other words, it will reinforce the image of Chitrasena at his traditional base: one which involves the worship of gods and obeisance to ritual. A fitting tribute, no doubt.

Naturally enough, the last word should belong to the lives being celebrated. Here's Vajira on dancing: "It is not merely an exercise." Here's Chitrasena's take: "It is a surrendering of ego." If we are to take all tradition-bound restraints as both mere exercise and remnant of ego, no truer words have been spoken about an art-form which remains as easy to love as it is to neglect.

Written for: The Nation INSIGHT, July 11 2015

Henry Pedris: 100 Years On

Had he survived what got him killed and made him a martyr, how would he have lived? What then would have been his legacy? How would he have made us remember him? Would what we celebrate him for have changed or become distorted? What-ifs and how-comes are questions which assessments of legacies rarely delve into. But I persist. 100 years after the execution of Henry Pedris, where are we? More importantly, where is his legacy?

The popular image of Pedris as a passive victim of imperialism has been sustained to date. Notwithstanding the angry reaction, issuing in fits of violence against the Establishment, towards his imprisonment, the truth was that in the year of his arrest (1915), several other anti-imperialist programs were underway. Pedris inadvertently fell into and became a catalyst for all of them. Perhaps that was what made him a hero in the end.

What’s the bigger picture? He came from the urban bourgeoisie. His father owned (among his other estates) one of the oldest plumbago mines in the country (in Kalutara). His residence was in Cinnamon Gardens. His interests included riding horses. Throughout his life, however, he was caught between two worlds. Pedris hobnobbed with the British aristocracy, yes. But he was also a bit of a paradox.

Like most children from the capitalist aristocracy, he was tutored in the two most privileged schools, the Colombo Academy (later Royal College) and S. Thomas’ College. Unlike most of his compatriots there, however, he was a teetotaler and a devout Buddhist, resented by colonial authorities (in one incident, he refused to make way for a European in a section of a cinema hall reserved for foreigners). That was why or rather how he was caught between two worlds.

The rift between historical actuality and popular consciousness has always distorted myth into truth and the lumpen into a mythical hero. This is true when considering the national heroes who are (ritualistically) celebrated today. Most of those who are said to have continued Pedris’ “legacy” fall into this category: from the urban bourgeoisie who promised to fight for independence but who later paid obeisance to the colonialist.

What of Pedris? It’s true that along with him the likes of the Senanayake brothers (F. R. and D. S.) and D. B. Jayatilaka were imprisoned. It’s also true that they all came from the nouveau riche: a class borne from capitalist enterprise. But Pedris was different. Records testify to his family’s commitment to nationalism and Buddhism. Lady Pedris and her husband, for instance, built a temple (the Isipathanaramaya) dedicated to her son after his death.

Historians can attempt at this point to differentiate between him and those who purported to continue his legacy. What happened in 1915 wasn’t merely a backlash against imperialism: it was also a backlash against the class of brown dependants in power at the time. Perhaps this was summed up in what Sir Christopher Obeysekere, part of the two most powerful families in the country back then (the other being the Bandaranaikes), had to say about those raising anti-colonial sentiments: “Nobodies who hope to make somebodies of themselves.”

The “Nobodies” would of course eventually turn out to be just as much a “Somebody” as he was, the irony being that it was a scion of the Obeysekere-Bandaranaike family who directed a populist movement against the these "Nobodies" (I am referring to S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike). As much as the liberation movements of other colonised countries took strength from the bourgeoisie, here that class virtually kowtowed to the same people they had in their youth avowed to combat. An irony, certainly.

Henry Pedris’ legacy stands out here. Nowhere else did the arrest of an individual bring together the bourgeoisie, representatives of the proletariat, and the clergy (of almost all faiths) together as it did in the days leading to his execution. A. E. Goonesinghe clearly wasn’t a sympathiser of the class from which the incarcerated came. But in what he did during this time, there was a rare and altogether unheard of coming together of the proletariat and bourgeoisie – and that on a platform shared by the Buddhist clergy!

What happened next was avoidable in one way but inevitable in another. Those who had been detained alongside Pedris vowed to get rid of the British. F. R. Senanayake, upon seeing the limp body of the dying martyr, reportedly said, “I take the solemn pledge here and now that even if I am forced to beg on the roads with a coconut shell, I will spend all my wealth to teach these fellows a lesson.” These words seem to echo Pedris’ act of refusing to make way for a European at the theatre.

There is a difference, however.

Senanayake’s statement contains a contradiction which ailed those who would lead the independence movement. “Lead” is a strong word, I suppose: “be put into with a silver spoon” would be a better way of putting it. Senanayake’s “pledge” to “spend all my wealth” was squandered when the anti-imperialist movement was reduced to a simplistic conflict between leftwing and rightwing politics.

His brother’s exit from the Ceylon National Congress, the formation of the predominantly conservative United National Party (UNP), the establishment of Dominion status at a time when demands for complete independence were stifled, and the degeneration of the independence movement into the Kotelawala premiership all affirmed the contradiction his statement echoed: that holders of wealth accumulated through capitalist enterprise would eventually partner up with the same colonial class which they had once vowed to get rid of.

But that’s another story.

Pedris’ legacy, then, is reducible to how he diverged from the comprador class. He came from the same background, yes, but his legacy as a passive sufferer of imperialism has been preserved even today. It’s difficult to speculate, more so to chart the would-have-been of the past to the what-might-be of the future. I can say this much though. Pedris’ legacy was not appropriated in any sense by the bourgeoisie. It was the leftists and nationalists who could and indeed did do that successfully.

100 years after his execution, we face a question. Who continued what he left behind? Certainly not those who were “given” the mandate to lead the independence struggle. Certainly not those who are extrapolated as "heroes" today. No. Those who continue his legacy do so from the sidelines. For that, we are grateful. Otherwise (let's be honest) his name would fall among those it shouldn’t fall among.

Written for: The Nation INSIGHT, July 11 2015

On films that age and books that don't

Some films are fun to watch. Some are boring. All of them differ every time you see them. That's natural. In a world where nothing is as it seems it's also natural that films age when we do. It's not unusual, after all, that the way we see a Disney cartoon now is or will be different from how we see it years later. Time can do wonders. Even with films. Same thing with books, of course, but the catch is that most of what we read stay with us no matter how old we are.

Films are different. There's a reason. Books leave much to imagination. We don't see what we read, to put it in another way. We read what we think and script in what we read. We "see" with our minds. That's why what we go through in books stays with us: because books “read” us the same way we read them.

Think about a book you read recently. Read back. Go through some chapters. Take in what they're trying to get across to you. Put it all away.

Now look at it a week later. The same chapters. Take them in. Not too different to how you looked at them before, is it?

What you watch literally is what stays in your mind, yes. Unlike books, however, these are defined and redefined every time we lay our eyes on them. Conduct that experiment I mentioned above on a film, for instance, and see how it ages subsequently.

Not that this should disappoint. In fact films are made more interesting because of this. They aren't meant to be read the way books are, besides. There's a message in whatever we enjoy as a work of art. That message sticks in different ways. The message of religious leaders, of revolutionaries, or of small-time heroes sticks to us no matter how old we are. Once this is transcribed into film, however, we remember what we see. And what we see gains fresh significance every time we see it, naturally.

Books are priceless. So are films. We read with our minds open and watch with unblinking eyes. It all amounts to the same thing, really. So there's no need to worry. At all.

Written for: The Nation JEANS, July 4 2015

More than just charity

People are frail. They err. They repent. Err again. The world isn't composed of angels, after all. People are good in some ways and bad in others. There are dimensions of both. Once in a while, yes, you hear of people who do good all day and get nothing but rebuke from the rest. But that's rare.

Not that it's unusual, but my guess is that this world is scattered with so much frailty that such exceptional cases demand nothing short of absolute kindness as response. Never happens.

The point is that I've come across such a person. She lives in Piliyandala. Her name is Nandani. The moment you see her, you'll think she has been marked out for misfortune. In a way, she has. That misfortune has unfortunately figured in the greater part of her life, but that's not what I'm writing about here. I'm writing about what she does. About what we should do.

Nandani takes care of some dogs. For free. She feeds them, tends to them, even ensures they are properly medicated. This isn't a problem, you might think. But it is. Last time I checked, there were more than 10 dogs. She has to manage them all. Day in, day out. Tough.

There hasn't been much help from people, either. Whenever there's kindness, there's some way it's made use of. Some people continue to do that. They come by her house, dump their unwanted dogs, and drive away. Sometimes she doesn't even know until it's too late. By then, she has no choice. She has to tend to them whether she can manage it or not. By the looks of it, she can't.

I want to write about her because I've seen her. I've seen where she lives, how she lives, and how she takes care of all these homeless dogs. She never fails by them, although (as she admits) there are days when she is forced (yes, forced!) by circumstance to neglect. Like when she can't get enough food on the table. There's a shop that (begrudgingly, I am forced to conclude) gives her rice (not for free). She doesn't admit it, but almost always that rice is rotting.

I also want to write about her because we live in a country where dogs are pampered. Some are abused of course, but think about how they are celebrated and you'll realise how they're treated. They are pets for the most part, but I doubt Nandani keeps her dogs like that. She treats them. She genuinely cares. Naturally enough, people have exploited her. Makes me ashamed of what we are.

Not everything's bleak, thankfully. She has a daughter. She has neighbours who help (though not all the time). She has her sympathisers. But in a world where kindness is trashed and people would rather say nasty things about each other, she has her detractors. Some say she should just let the dogs go. Others are franker. They think the dogs should be abandoned. 

Whatever the opinion, I know one thing's clear. Nandani loves them all. She loves them so much that she can't let go. There are those who'll scoff at this, no doubt. But think for a moment. If you were to consider a love for a child, created through time and attachment, would her bond with all those homeless waifs be any different?

I don't think so. She didn't wish it to happen this way, after all. It was imposed. On her. And since she was forced into it by others who made use of her love for dogs, I think we should give her the benefit of the doubt. We should give credit and lend support. Not critique.

Let me be clear. She doesn't need charity. She needs help. Our help.

You can call Nandani on 0725235416. She'll be grateful, I should think. As will we.

Written for: The Nation INSIGHT, July 4 2015