Memories of war, dreams of peace
Voicing hope for a peaceable, egalitarian and democratic future in Sri Lanka
BY NALAKA GUNAWARDENE
The long and bloody Sri Lankan war is over, and not a moment too
soon. I really want to believe it. The alternative is too depressing to
consider.
Of course, there is no independent verification – it has been a
war without witnesses for the past many months, with no journalists or
humanitarian workers allowed access. We know that history is written by victors,
not losers. I am willing to take a leap of faith if that’s what we need to usher
in the long elusive peace.
As we stand on the threshold of peace, I am overwhelmed with
memories of our collective tragedy. I hope we can once again resume our long
suspended dreams for a better today and tomorrow.
I have lived all my adult years with this war providing a
constantly grim, sometimes highly disruptive backdrop. I had just turned
teenager when the Tamil separatist agitations turned into a nasty guerrilla war.
I have seen the war in its many different phases, including several uneasy lulls
when guns were temporarily silent and truces were negotiated.
I watched most of my own friends join the exodus of genes and
talent from a land where they saw no hope or future. I chose to stay on but
questioned the wisdom of it each time a major atrocity took place. I went
through six jobs and one marriage and raised a child who would soon be the same
age as I was when the war started.
It’s hard to believe that I survived this seemingly never-ending
war. I realise that it has scarred me emotionally, perhaps forever.
But I am among the luckier ones: I have lived through it all
with my life and limbs intact. Hundreds of thousands of my fellow Lankans
haven’t been so lucky. The official death count, often quoted in the media, has
been stuck at 70,000 for far too long. We may never know exactly how many lives
perished in the name of liberation, patriotism, anti-terrorism and national
security.
We have only ballpark figures for how many were driven away from
their lands and homes or separated from their loved ones. No family has been
spared. No one has escaped unscathed. This has been everybody’s war.
Lost generation
We can assume that most combatants knew what they were fighting
for even if some were not convinced about the cause or process. In contrast, the
larger number of innocents caught in the crossfire often had no idea what they
were dying for or fleeing from.
Suddenly, the labels and divisions seem to matter less. In my
mind, all the Burghers, Muslims, Sinhalese and Tamils (to list them
alphabetically) who perished in this war have joined a grim roll-call of Sri
Lanka’s lost generation. Among them were people I knew, worked with or cared
for.
Two classmates who joined the official war effort soon gained
wings: smart young men with expensive (and deadly) flying machines. One crashed
in the prime of his youth. The other deserted soon afterwards; he has been
living in exile since.
Some were dreamers and creators. Like my ex-colleague, Sudeepa
Purnajith, the talented cartoonist who died in a bomb attack on a crowded train
in Dehiwala in July 1996. He was 29 and about to get married.
Others suffered from both nature’s fury and man’s inhumanity to
man. Like tsunami survivor, Thillainayagam Theeban, 16, who was shot dead in
Karaitivu on the east coast by unknown gunmen in March 2007. I had tracked his
story for a year after the disaster as a storyteller. Apparently, he was killed
for refusing to be recruited as a child soldier.
I want to believe that these events cannot and will not happen
again. We must not forget the suffering and sacrifices but if we want healing to
begin, we must start forgiving now.
I remember the helpful words of William Makepeace Thackeray:
"Good or bad, guilty or innocent – they are all equal now."
I first invoked these words when the Asian tsunami wreaked havoc
in December 2004. As 40,000 of our people died or disappeared within a few
calamitous hours, some of us naïvely hoped that the pounding from the sea would
help end the war. That was not to be – much more blood had to be spilt before we
reached now and here.
This 30-year war has cost at least thrice as many lives as the
tsunami – young and old, soldiers and rebels, men and women, girls and boys. It
has cut right across our various ethnic, religious, caste and class divides.
"Good or bad, guilty or innocent – they are all equal now."
Lasting peace at last?
Now that the war is officially over, will this mark the
beginning of real peace? I want to believe so. I want to audaciously dream of
peace. The alternative is too dreadful to consider.
I remember the views of my mentor, the late Sir Arthur C.
Clarke, who called Sri Lanka his home for half a century. He lived in Colombo
through two youth insurrections and much of this bloody war, never once giving
up his hope for eventual peace and reconciliation.
He was a master dreamer but a realistic one. Listing ‘three last
wishes’ in his 90th birthday reflections in December 2007, he said: "I dearly
wish to see lasting peace established in Sri Lanka as soon as possible. But I’m
aware that peace cannot just be wished – it requires a great deal of hard work,
courage and persistence."
Switching gears
Indeed there is a huge gulf between warmongering and peace
building. Can a generation raised on war cries and war drums easily switch
gears? Just as the absence of illness is only the beginning of good health, the
silencing of guns is merely the starting point on the long road to peace. I want
to believe that we can sustain peace with the same fervour with which we pursued
or supported the war – on one side or the other.
Can we as a nation finally stop glorifying the war and its
weapons and return to our cultural heritage of ahimsa? How do we turn the
current opportunity for peace into something tangible and lasting so that we
don’t allow political violence and war ever again? Do we have what it takes to
go beyond chest thumping and finger-pointing and begin to care and share? Would
we eventually be able to liberate our minds from our deep-rooted tribalism that
sees everything through the prism of us and them?
Can we expect the state to be magnanimous in victory and begin
to unify our utterly and bitterly divided people? Will our government finally
stop pleading perennial emergency and national security as stock excuses for
sidestepping the rule of law, ignoring rampant corruption and other lapses of
governance?
I have these and many other questions. For a long time we were
told to be good boys and girls, to keep our mouths shut until this war was over.
It is, now, so I hope we can talk freely again.
Without fear of bombs
We want to resume our interrupted lives and dreams. I dream of a
land where the only label that counts is Sri Lankan, by descent or conversion. I
have visions of not being suspected or presumed guilty by the authorities until
I prove or protest my innocence. I want to live without fear of bombs, abductors
and goon squads.
I dream too of a rapid return to the real norms (not rhetoric)
of a functional democracy. This isn’t utopian: as children, my parents’
generation witnessed their country gain political independence and they grew up
in a land where people were free to discuss and debate issues, ask nagging
questions when necessary and change governments regularly through non-violent
elections. These are norms, not privileges, in a free society. Norms my
generation has forsaken, either out of patriotism or in fear of reprisals.
When will our state start trusting all our people again,
irrespective of our origins, allowing everyone the freedom of movement,
expression and dissent? Can our society relearn how to react to each ‘song’ and
not probe the pedigree of its ‘singer’?
Just as important, how soon might we as a nation become tolerant
and accommodating to each other – allowing the full diversity and choices in
political belief, religious faith, intellectual tradition and sexual
orientation? Would we see in our lifetime a pluralistic society that once
thrived on this maritime island through which genes and ideas have flowed freely
for millennia?
Our political leaders, in whom we entrust our collective
destiny, now face a historic choice. Leaders of other nations have stood at such
crossroads and made radically different choices. African analogies can only go
so far in Asia but at this juncture it is tempting to ask: would our leaders now
choose the Mandela Road or the Mugabe Road for the journey ahead?
We can only hope that presidents Mahinda and Mandela share more
than just five of the seven letters in their names.
(Nalaka Gunawardene is chief executive officer of Television for
Education-Asia Pacific, TVEAP, a Colombo-anchored, regionally operating social
enterprise that produces and distributes educational television and video
content on development issues. This article was posted on the Sri Lankan
citizen journalism website, Groundviews, on May 19, 2009.)
Courtesy:
www.groundviews.org
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