History Anthropology and Tamil Separatism
By Kamalika Pieris

New inventions were almost limitless’ (Nissan p 24,). We see here Nissan’s lack of a historical perspective, and her view that life began with the arrival of the white man. Any student of Asian history knows that Asian societies were in a process of constant change long before European conquest. Nissan’s reference to Africa is significant. She compares Sinhala and Tamil ethnic labels to African ethnic labels. (Nissan p 23). It is rarely that Asian social scientists speak of Asia and Africa in the same breath. But for Nissan, both Sri Lanka and African countries are similar—the implication, possibly is that they were backward. This racialist orientation runs through much of the writing of these anthropologists. African researchers are now discovering a greater richness of organisation and culture in the early African world, which the British anthropologists never saw. An example would be the Benin culture. However, the African societies were relatively less well organised politically, and were more heavily dependant on an oral culture. If they had been more sophisticated, the slave trade would never had have taken place. In contrast, Asian societies like Sri Lanka had a sophisticated, literate and politically well organised community early in the 20th century. These anthropologists present the Sinhala and Tamil communities as warring tribes, without any sort of developed history behind them. This sort of approach could be considered racist, and the right of these anthropologists to enter this country and conduct ‘research’ of this sort should now be queried.

The third approach is the most laughable, to try and escape the issue of history by transcending it. The most humourous example of this is David Scott’s Dehistoricising history’’. David Scott is a West Indian anthropologist. He does not appear to know anything about Sri Lanka and this article is a one big laugh from start to finish.

Here are 3 examples of Scott’s writing style. ‘’History is a constant flow from the past, from before, heading somewhere: it has always-already begun’’ (sic p 20). The what-is-the-real-truth-of-Sinhala-history-sort-of-question’’ (sic p 20) ‘’which of the two, have actually gotten the Sinhala past right’ (p 18) Scott suggests that since Sri Lanka’s history is so dominated by its glorious Sinhala-Buddhist past, this history is actually an obstacle to emancipated thinking. Therefore better recast history, demystify it, de-historicise it. History should be recast in order to enable political options’ for the invention of a new sort of community. Scott goes further. He suggests manoeuvring history. ‘’History should be taken as what shall be thought’’ . And the problem at present is whether to proceed on the lines of orthodox history or to ‘pursue some other as yet undelineated one.’’ (P12, 19) He points out the need to devise a ‘historiographical strategy’ that will meet the target. P 20).

After all this babble, Scott eventually finds the new approach right inside the old approach. He falls upon R. A. L. H. Gunawardene’s extremely orthodox study of the ‘’People of the Lion’’ and showers it with praise. He describes this short essay as ‘’taking the entire historical record of Sri Lanka as the object of his inquiry, it sets out to be no less than a thoroughly exhaustive response to the claim to a continuous Sinhala identity’’ (p 16). He refers to this article as a brilliant essay which stimulated Scott’s reflections. (p 24). ‘’The brilliance of Gunawardene’s essay lies precisely in its untimely timeliness, in its precise assessment of the immediate task of intervention, of the object to be unmasked.’’ (p 21). It is a lovely gift to agree with this nonsense. Gunawardene’s article is a lovely gift to the Sinhala-Buddhist lobby. It proves that a Sinhala community did exist and continued to grow.

K. N. O. Dharmadasa’s critical comments on the weaknesses in Gunawardene’s essay were not acceptable to Scott. Scott wonders what to do. He does not suggest that Dharmadasa’s views be accepted and the article adjusted accordingly. No. He suggests either challenging Dharmadasa or pushing him out of the picture. ‘’The sort of view I wish to recommend, a response to Dharmadasa ought to take the form of changing the question itself and with it the problematic on which what history can be can itself be rethought.’’ (p 21), Dharmadasa’’ apoplectic response has been given elsewhere.

Scott’s paper was read initially at the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, Colombo in 1994, when he was a Visiting Fellow there. He acknowledges the contribution of Pradeep Jeganathan, among others, in its formulation and writing. His principal debt however is to Regi Siriwardene whose ‘sounded the disquiet that got it going’. (p 24). Michael Roberts has challenged Scott’s silly utterances. He has pointed out that a ‘dehistoricised history’ is both contradictory and unattainable. He points out that Gunawardene’s excessively praised essay cannot be termed a ‘master text’. It is too brief and also defective. Its survey of the medieaval and early modern periods of Sri Lankan history is weak, Dharmadasa critical argument dead correct, and in any case the article supports the notion of a Sinhala identity. (Roberts. ‘’Sri Lanka collective identities revisited." Vol 1 p. 23). This essay by David Scott can be treated as a cheery insult to the social sciences.

(Concluded)

---

From the book 'The Palm of His Hand' by E.C.T. Candappa
A touch of tenderness

Continued from yesterday

About the author E.C.T. Candappa was one of Sri Lanka's been feature writers in the mid-fifties till the seventies. He was an outstanding journalist at Lake House and distinguished himself as a reporter and feature writer. He is now domiciled in Australia but still very much interested in his country of origin. He visited Sri Lanka last year and interviewed many of the personalities featured in this book.

Raj blanched all over. He felt a chill seize him, and then almost immediately felt hot again.

Premaratne, nicknamed Dracula, came straight to Raj and touched his brow.

It startled him.

There was in that touch a statement of tenderness, of tangible caring, that took Raj back to his childhood. Whenever he was ill he would ask for a particular great-aunt, large and matronly and flabby and soft. She brought with her such a comforting warmth that almost immediately after her arrival he began to feel well again.

Strange, his mother didn't seem to mind. It was her aunt, and in her time had comforted Raj's mother as well during times of illness.

Premaratne reminded him, with ludicrous irony, of that great-aunt. And why not? thought Raj, recollecting again what Premaratne meant in the Sinhala language.

Prema meant love, and ratna meant a precious gem.

When he was born, this man who had come to earn the name of Dracula must have been a tender soft baby, and a loving mother or father or the village Buddhist monk believed that he deserved a noble name.

Raj looked up at the man.

There was on his countenance a serenity that Raj had not imagined he would see. He seemed, indeed, a different man.

Raj had never believed in type-casting people. In the multi-racial society in Ceylon, people attributed certain characteristics to each race, to each caste. Behind each such assumption was blind prejudice. Raj had always maintained, there were good people and bad people in each race and each community. It was the individual that mattered. The way he had been reared, his genetic factors, his education, his environment, his state of health, physical and mental. This was a strong conviction with Raj based on his carefully worked out philosophy and buttressed by his own experience.

"Kohomada ?" "How are you now?" Premaratne asked softly.

There was no sign of the callous, sneering man who had teased, even mildly, tormented patients under his care earlier. He seemed another being purged of his other self.

Unwittingly Raj reached out and placed his hand upon the attendant's arm. It was not a placatory gesture but natural to one in a helpless state. It was a cry of need.

Immediately the other placed his hand on Raj's hand and a silent bond was formed.

It was understood in that moment that the patient needed help and that the attendant would provide it.

Raj needed such an assurance because he did not have a special attendant. His father could barely afford this subsidised ward.

The other patients who had already undergone surgery were convalescing, and though they were able to move about, felt disinclined to do so. The schoolmaster on Raj's left was preoccupied with the post-operative problems, very minor ones, that he was facing. The list of concerns that engaged his mind was almost endless.

And every one of them was articulated many times a day.

When would they remove the sutures, was the wound festering, how will they know unless they dressed it daily, how will they remove the sutures, will they give him an anaesthetic before they did so? Ah, how little he knew! His stomach was puffed because he had been in bed too long, would that affect his wound? Would they give him a purgative? And how would that affect his recovery? And so on and on until finally he fell asleep.

Across the ward, and every time Raj looked in that direction, Mr Jayawardene flashed his cheeky smile.

The young Ajantha had come across haltingly a couple of times and shown a degree of concern Raj would not have expected earlier. The lad had been the epitome of self-centred indifference but now he had seen a world beyond himself and the door to that world had been Raj.

The evening wore on and night descended with tropical swiftness. The sounds of the day and of the hospital diminished save for the occasional sounds that served to emphasise the night. The distant baying of a dog, the hum of dwindling traffic and quite, quite in the background, the passage of a train.

The police officer, Paiva,came up to him and enquired in his incongruously gentle manner how Raj felt. He felt better for his asking. Even in his distress Raj wondered how this man could ever have taken to the Police Force, and stranger still, how the years in it had not coarsened his nature.

Once again, Raj felt, the individual had triumphed. Here again generalisations did not offer much discernment.

Raj knew personally an even higher placed policeman, a deputy inspector general of police. He was an exemplary family man, devoted husband, loving father, good churchman, parish councillor (when he could spare the time to attend meetings), an enthusiastic gardener.

But he had not been tarnished by his world.

Then Raj's thirst began.

Or rather, it came out into the open. It had been lurking under his tongue from the moment he had awoken, casting a tentative feeler around his tongue, a slithery, serpentine probe, swift and slimy, a forked tongue, retracting even as it emerged as one.

Now it was there sitting coiled on his tongue, a part of it slipping down his throat. The sickly heat of its presence dried his lips.

"Watura," he said, softly.

Premaratne raised a teaspoon of cool water to his lips. Part of it spilt down the side of his face but part went down refreshing him beyond belief. It seemed that each molecule sought a microscopic cavity to fill and the tongue swelled with gratitude.

Now it seemed the thirst had changed its form slyly and crept under his bed sheet and turned the rubber sheet into a flat grill fire.

He raised his legs and tried to kick the sheets aside.

Premaratne gently returned his legs to their natural position.

Five minutes later he begged for more water.

Another teaspoonful. A few minutes later, another. He begged for more. Premaratne told him gently that he ought not to take too much water until his kidneys began to function normally.

It seemed now that he was resting on the long body and tail of the thirst while its head was pushing through his gullet licking his tongue with its own. His whole body ached for moisture. He kicked off the damp sheet away from him.

Oh, how wretched he felt. Another tormentor crept in with a memory poised on a trident.

The beer garden near his office. A favourite watering hole for journalists and other professional men.

The sea could be heard from there and seen just a few hundred yards away. And from there the cool breezes blew all day but especially welcome during the sultry evening hours.

In a little cramped pub or restaurant as it was incongruously called, city clerks and wharfies alighted briefly to down a couple of drams of arrack, the potent local brew and eat a plate or two of devilled beef or potato chips. The turn-over was very fast there. It was a drinking place.

(c) E.C.T. Candappa

(Continued tomorrow