Summer Looks Like

Summer looks like swatches of white cloud against a blue-grey sky through a canopy of jack leaves.

Firmament

Summer feels like a towel against your back, as you lie on the roof with the evening breeze in your hair.

Roof

Summer sounds like retro-pop, while sipping iced lemonade to thwart the heat.

Afternoon Fix

Where on earth has the past month gone, I ask as I realise I’ve done nada on the productivity front. Ok, so I read a bit, painted a little more, watched 4 seasons of Alias and procrastinated on re-reading Said’s Orientalism before I head off to the “field”. The best read of the summer so far being Tamima Anam’s A Golden Age, and by painting I mean I actually ripped it up appalled at my own lack of inspiration, and by procrastinating I mean I’ve been shamelessly reading Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse books (We’re talking Twilight for Adults in the form of HBO’s True Blood).

I don’t really have anything worthwhile to say except that I’m sick of seeing a certain someone’s goddamned face plastered across Colombo and that I’m off to Nuwareliya for the weekend.Good times.

Bullet Point Post

My brain has been detoxing from the tedium and stress, so I don’t think I can write coherent prose for the time being. So here’s the Colombo update.

- People were burning tyres on airport road on Saturday. What’s the deal?

- If I see another political poster, I will puke. These people are no eye candy and should realise this fact before polluting the public field of vision with their faces.

- It’s like several cargo ships full to the brim with Sri Lankan flags, exploded in Colombo. Maybe someone should consider collecting a percentage of the proceeds and donating it towards reconstruction.

- The weather is amazing, my house happens to be some kind of wind-tunnel and it is never hot and I love it.

- We have acquired a fish bowl, and I think the cat is having a series of field-days. Zissous and I think he (Socrates) may also be the mastermind behind my transport problems.

- I read Mohsin Hamid’s Reluctant Fundamentalist and I really loved it. Must try to track down Moth Smoke, despite the slim chances finding this in Colombo. Is there a good bookshop in Colombo that I have not yet discovered?

- Also read Arvind Adiga’s The White Tiger. I liked the above better, but this one was delightfully ironic. Although, it reminded me of something else and I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.

- Will be planning a collection of goods for the relief effort as soon as the jet-lag decided to lag someone else.

That’s all for now. I think.

Island Summer, Soon

Per, annual ritual once again I’m sitting in a sparse room: a void which has seen many a stray sock, paper explosions galore and the messes which accumulate in thickets. I never claimed to be tidy. The space is unusually sterile, almost sad considering that it was more a personal space, than the drab dorm rooms had ever been. It’s reassuring though, that I’m going to return to the same slanted skylight and a view of rooftops, with a blue and white Scottish flag fluttering in the breeze over the town hall.

Home is another question, all the footage I’ve seen of the celebrations leaves me nervous. I don’t really know what to expect any more, what this “victory” means on home soil besides what I’ve been seeing from the mechanical eyes of others. Pixellated evidence of rejoicing and suffering juxtaposed side by side. Children hanging on barbed wire fences, while others light crackers and make merry. The e-mail circulations are sending around threats to those who screamed genocide asking for true patriots to forward them the photographs of those who apparently should be “eliminated” and never allowed to set foot in Sri Lanka again. Is this a vigilante proxy-war stirred by the new presidential proclamation of the divide of patriotism (or in Sri Lanka’s case, should it be Jingoism?) and those who do not love their country?  I agree that arm chair fanaticism has risen steeply, among the LTTE supporters abroad who insult the deep scars of the real victims by toting fake bloodied bandages, as if to prove an elusive point. The attack on the Buddhist temples and the students in Sydney was especially horrific, as terror seems to be breeding into new mutated forms of street and cyber wars. But is counter-armchair fanaticism the answer? I do appreciate these are empty threats (because what the hell are they going to do? have someone ready with a rifle at the immigration desks?), but it’s appalling these thought processes spin sticky webs of extremism, at a moment in history where we should celebrate with reconciliation and reconstruction as opposed to trying to kill off those who do not support a political party line or light fire crackers (evidently, I have some very big issues with the fire crackers).

I’m headed home to the purgatory of what next, to the hazy folds of summer, the warm blanket of home which drives other anxieties away, albeit temporary.  24 hours in this place, I’m sustained by the thoughts of an island summer, soon.

Ayubowan

I trawl the Internet for news every few minutes, wondering what has changed. I see people’s digital patriotism and ponder if the rumours are true, as photochemical evidence surface on the news as breaking alerts and exclusive footage. If the war is really at an end. The government has no post-war plan outside an IMF bailout package and that looks shady, considering the level to which the country has managed to alienate itself in the stand-off against the western world and media.

What does this mean to us, the war being over? I think the real war is only beginning- the combat against not only poverty, unemployment, illness, disability, and damage but, possible insurgence. It frightens me the uncertainty as Sri Lanka’s future appears to hang in a balance.  It seems to be the topic on everyone’s tongue, this impending war victory. The end is nigh, they say as they look for out of season firecrackers. The great feats of soldiers of a government who have managed to “destroy terrorism”.  Sri Lanka’s problems always arise from a legacy of myopia we seem to have inherited from the generations before us. We have selective memories and we forget too soon. People are lining up to bid a proverbial Ayubowan to a three decade-long crisis which has no doubt been perpetuated by the poor judgment of the political upper rungs, the ethnic violence and racism which has shadowed our small nation’s history for longer. Real predicaments which run much deeper. Does the end mean, that we forget those who have been truly scarred by the horrors of war? Do we clear our minds of the injustices committed by our own people? Do we choose not to remember the reasons which breathed life into such cruel animosity?

Ayubowan… Welcome. Goodbye. Long life.

Ayubowan… Blood. Death. War.

Ayubowan… Poverty. Displacement. Disease.

The Man Himself

I wrote a post saying everything I wanted to regarding bungling Sri Lankan ambassadorial representation. Thanks to the youtube gods, you can now see the The Man Himself.

Memento Mori

I am preoccupied with the state of my research proposal, trying to establish a framework which unites feminist theory with post-colonial discourse. I ponder about packing up my belongings for the summer amidst end of year exams. 6000 miles away I feel hypocrisy percolating into the distance of my own existence. I read the news each day, and each day I grow more and more ashamed of what Sri Lankans are capable of doing to one other. The blood we are willing to spill to end a war, which in reality we know is only beginning. The ethnic conflict in the island has little to do with the LTTE and more to do with the ignorance and fear with which we treat those we cannot understand.

Last weekend, 430 civilians were killed in indiscriminate bombardments in the North of Sri Lanka. A 100 of them were children. I see images of wounded infants and weeping mothers and my heart breaks a little everyday, as I glance over the news pages guiltily. My distance breathing hypocrisy into my own existence, my own actions of words which are read by a handful. I feel like I should be doing more than talk about this crisis. Yet, every death, every bombing, every child who lost a parent, and every parent who lost a child, I am ashamed to claim kinship to my countrymen whose blood lust astounds and horrifies me.

My predicaments of a 4000 word count and expressing a nature-culture dichotomy seem childishly trivial in the grander scheme of things. Everyday, I read the news my mortification of being associated with my fellow countrymen swells, as I am angered by the sheer immensity of violence and brutality which has eclipsed my country. I blame the government, as much as I blame the LTTE. They seem to be in contest to prove who can claim more civilian lives, to determine who makes the deepest scar upon the face of humanity itself. The UN estimates at least 50,000 people still trapped in the 3 km strip of land, in goodness knows what conditions. I shudder at the thought of it, as I ponder how people can resort to such animosity in committing terrifying atrocities to one another.

I blame the LTTE for their cowardice. For slaughtering thousands of civilians over the years, civilians whose ethnicity they claim to represent as they so selfishly use flesh and blood as a human shield. For rendering so many thousands dead, injured, homeless and abandoned in-limbo tipping towards worse fates.

I blame the government for its inability to acknowledge the human cost of this war. Its ignorance and belief that the only means of creating peace is to wage war, more specifically bombing civilians who have no escape. For rendering so many thousands dead, injured, homeless and abandoned in-limbo tipping towards worse fates.

I blame those who remain in silence forgetting we are indeed a democracy, who refuse to take a stand against the crimes being committed against fellow Sri Lankans. Who quietly live their lives, never speaking of the stench of death which has now drifted to the corners of the world but remains an afterthought in Colombo havens.

I blame those who believe that we are winning a war. Those who devalue the lives of Tamils over the lives of Sinhalese because all terrorists are Tamils afterall.

The 430 people who were slaughtered by aerial bombings this weekend were Sri Lankans too- or don’t those from the war zone qualify? Did they think we Sri Lankans were winning this dastardly war that has claimed thousands of lives in the past three decades.

I maybe incoherent but I am mostly ashamed. Be mindful of death, the thousands being murdered as we choose to close our eyes. Death like bombs don’t discriminate.

Image (c) AFP

Memento Mori.

Two Sides of the Same Coin?

Interview: Both sides of the Sri Lankan conflict – 02 May 09: Aired on Al-Jazeera English.

I suppose, all I can say is make up your own minds because I can’t seem to tell the government’s actions apart from the LTTE’s actions any more.

Two deabauched sides of the same cursed coin.

The May Hurrah!

Some of you may remember that arcane little celebration, we St. Andreans dub The May Dip, which I have written about but unsuccessfully photographed here.  Weather Gods, this time around were kinder as EmC and I wandered out to Castle Sands at 4am for a knee-dip in the North Sea, with bonfires, Octopus floaters and disturbing sunrise streakers. Here are some slightly better pictures.

Almost, Sun

Castle Bathers

Waiting For Sunrise

Almost There

Castle Sands

Sunrise 5:23 am

Are You On The List?

Sunday was spent setting up for what turned out to be a rather spectacular gig. We’re talking a something maybe little less than a 1000 balloons which in reality felt like a good 2000, lots of black fabric and gaffer tape. One of those life experience setting up for a band- check. You know it was good when it made a whole day’s worth of balloon knotting, taping, playlist plotting, wrist-banding and anticipating a balloon drop which was annihilated by stiletto heels and boots worthwhile. Yes, that good.

Interestingly enough, the little observation comes from not the setting up or the funked up performance itself. But the list, nothing more than two pages of names with reserved tickets. Not even the usual connotations of elitism and snobbery which seem to shadow these hallowed halls of learning. Tickets weren’t scarce, although the gig was well attended and “Are you on the list?” did not seem to be the loaded question it actually was, to J and I who had been setting up since 10.30 that morning.

It was a straightforward, simple enough enquiry, to check off those who had the foresight to reserve bands.

“I can be on the list if you want me to be.”

“What are the perks? Do you get anything extra?”

“I’m in the cast, am I on the list?”

“What list? How can I get on the list.”

“What do you have to do to get on the list?”

“Surely someone put me on the list?”

“Maybe I am on the list. I should be. Wait just kidding. What can I do to get on the list?”

*sheer horror* “What list? Do I need to have gotten on the list”

“Can I still get tickets? I got here early”

Talk about loaded questions. J and I were in fits of laughter within 10-15 minutes of banding thanks to the hilarity and variety of responses which came upon “The List”.  Associations of the much-discussed topics of preferential treatment and elitism aside, it was one of those Social-Darwinist moments of getting on the list.

Is it saying something about the place, or humanity in general?

When Everything You See Is A Blur

There’s been a lot going on in the past few days, especially on the civilian devastation front and more I read, the angrier and more depressed I get. The images of men, women and children bee-lining to safety, only to be housed like quarantined cattle ravaged by tragedy and illness. I feel like I should be doing more than trying to keep up with all the Human Rights Watch/BBC updates on the humanitarian crisis. I’ve coaxed family at home to make sure they donate at the collections for the IDPs, but besides that I guess jaded blog posts will have to do for the moment, before I actually get home- exactly a month from today. Tired.