Features
Carlo Fonseka in Kataragama
By Uditha Devapriya
“If the duration of contact is not long enough to sustain a burn, then you don’t get burnt. This is what Alice in Wonderland said: ‘Some people get burnt because they forgot the rule that if you hold a red-hot poker for very long, you will get burnt!’”
Carlo Fonseka, Check Mate with Chrismal Warnasuriya, 2012
Prof. Carlo Fonseka always had something to quote from Shakespeare. When I first met him in 2013, he quoted Mark Antony, and recalled that time in 1953, when he and his friends left a school cricket match to watch Joseph Mankiewicz’s version of Julius Caesar at the Savoy. The second time he quoted from Romeo and Juliet, and observed that, passionately attached as Juliet may have been to Romeo, she still insisted on marrying him. I think his point there was that, ultimately, biology triumphs over sentiment.
To quote Shakespeare to make a point about our primordial urges may have been a bit off-putting. But Fonseka spent the better part of his life, and his career, proving not the infallibility, but the ultimate knowability, the reliability, of science. This didn’t win him many friends. Yet it won him many admirers, even from among his critics.
Fonseka belonged to that generation of gentle, radical thinkers who made their mark in our universities in the 1960s. Having broken away from established religion, many of them cultivated a scientific if sophisticated attitude to Buddhism, an attitude that lay a world away from the more emotive world of the Sinhalese villager.
This was around the time that anthropologists, both local and Western, began studying the twin worlds of urban and rural Buddhism: a theme that did much to revive interest not just in Sri Lanka, but also Buddhism in general, across the world.
To say Fonseka took sides in this conflict, between rural and urban Buddhism, would be taking things too far. A brilliant product of the Ceylon Medical College and an even more brilliant product of the University of Edinburg, he specialised in Physiology. In 1967 he returned to Sri Lanka, then Ceylon, with a PhD. Ratnajeevan Hoole speculates that the “erosion of the university ethos” in the country eventually disillusioned him, causing him to abandon his work in physiology in favour of other pathways.
The rift between urban and rural Buddhism – as posited by social scientists in his time – may have been what encouraged him to explore some of the more popular rites and beliefs in Sinhala society. At least two of those rites took him to Kataragama: hook-hanging and firewalking. Consuming pork and liquor, breaking every taboo in the book, he proved that physiology could explain both, in a way devotion could not.
In debunking these rituals, Fonseka risked a torrential backlash. Yet that backlash never really materialised. There are several possible reasons for this. Prime among them would be the time he worked in: a time when everything could be questioned in a spirit of free, critical inquiry, when a healthy culture of scepticism pervaded our intelligentsia.
A more tenable reason, in my view, would be the kind of audience that saw him at work in places like Kataragama. They were largely, though not only, urban and suburban. Buddhist though they were, by the 1960s they had imbibed the intellectual, philosophical, and scientific, view of Buddhism which Fonseka reinforced. Yet at the same time, they were also highly respectful of the myths and rituals of popular Buddhism.
As Gananath Obeyesekere and Richard Gombrich have pointed out, though there is a line that can be drawn between rural and urban Buddhism in Sri Lanka, there is also a permeation of popular religious beliefs in the most cosmopolitan setting. Thus the most avowed rationalist can capitulate to the most ritualistic visions of his faith, as seen in the almost rush for amisa and aloka puja in every nook and corner of Colombo.
I am not an expert on Buddhism, still less on its practice in Sri Lanka, to take this discussion forward. I can only speculate that such a mishmash of popular and intellectual attitudes generated an almost Janus-faced response to Fonseka’s work. Thus, on the one hand, there was a fairly mainstream acceptance of his efforts. On the other hand, there was also a critique of what these efforts meant in the broader context of Sinhalese and Buddhist culture. Perhaps the best example of these contradictory responses came from a devotee of Kataragama, a friend who was residing in Colombo.
Of course the soles of your feet are strong enough to withstand live coals for a few seconds. He had his arguments, and they were fairly convincing. But…
A more intriguing response came from another devotee who shuttles between Kataragama and Colombo.
I won’t argue with his views. But I don’t have to prove my beliefs to anyone.
In the first instance, one discerns a reluctant acknowledgement of the validity of what Fonseka was doing (“But…”). In the second, one notices a pushback (“I have my beliefs, he had his, why should I be the one to prove mine to him?”). The reactions are palpably different: the first person displayed a sheepishness at odds with his fierce attachment to rituals, while the second was visibly irritated, almost unwilling to talk.
In both responses there is some form of admission of the truth of Fonseka’s work. I would argue, though I stand to be corrected, that these responses have been shaped by the contradictory world of urban Buddhists: they are, in essence, accepting of the myth and the myth-busting. The situation is the same in villages, which have been penetrated by the forces of modernity, development, and urbanisation. But the response there is somewhat different. A friend of mine put that in perspective the other day.
A typical urban Buddhist would offer flowers, chant pirith, and still adhere to a scientific view of Buddhism. A typical rural Buddhist would put more emotional power into his rites and ceremonies, he would be disdainful of scientific explanations.
There is very little of this sort of rural Buddhism in Sri Lanka. But I have been to some of these regions and places, and have been astounded by the attitudes I have encountered. The more urbanised villagers I have met have mostly been tolerant but sceptical of rationalist explanations of rituals. Their attitude is closer to that of the second respondent: they are respectful of other viewpoints, but don’t feel obliged to justify theirs. Indeed, often they go beyond this logic by explicitly questioning scientific reason itself.
It’s strange that that we try to prove something and then believe it’s right for all time. Look at gravitational theory, look at Newtonian physics!
We are so sure gods don’t exist, how can we be sure oxygen does?
These are not, as some would be wont to say, ramblings of unsophisticated and ignorant villagers. They reflect a particular viewpoint and worldview, a way of perceiving and responding to the environment around us. Their scepticism of scientific rationality is, in that sense, no different to our scepticism of religious belief.
At the risk of drawing too fine a line between urban and rural Buddhists here, I would say that the tendency among the former, with regard to the sort of myth-busting that Fonseka engaged in, is to accept the rationalist explanation for popular rituals while still taking part in them. The tendency among the latter is dismiss such explanations while questioning the scientific viewpoint. There is still some acknowledgement of the validity of science in Sinhala villages. Yet that is tempered by their attachment to popular beliefs.
Perhaps the easiest way of defining these divisions would be to adopt the Jathika Chintanite dichotomy of Sinhala and Olcott Buddhists. But even this is inadequate. The forebearers of Jathika Chintanaya share the same intellectual lineage as Carlo Fonseka. That they chose to reject this lineage eventually, as I contended months ago, in no way undermines the fact that they hailed from it, and in many ways still subscribe to it.
We must hence look elsewhere when examining the many, paradoxical responses that Sri Lankans have offered with regard to the work of people like Carlo Fonseka: work that, for all the criticisms of it we can bandy about, remains highly important.
Uditha Devapriya is a writer, researcher, and analyst based in Sri Lanka who contributes to a number of publications on topics such as history, art and culture, politics, and foreign policy. He can be reached at .
Features
Combining local resources,traditional knowledge and science to build a food-secure Sri Lanka
World Food Day 2026: Innovating today for a better food future
by Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
What will be on the Sri Lankan dinner table ten years from now? Will our children be able to get nutritious food at a price their families can afford? Will farmers be able to grow enough despite changing weather and rising costs? And how much of the food we produce will actually reach the consumer, instead of being lost or wasted along the way?
These questions can’t wait. A farmer faces unpredictable weather. A family faces rising food costs. Fruit goes unsold after a good harvest. Some children do not get enough nutrition. The future of food is tied to the future of Sri Lanka itself.
World Food Day 2026 is a chance to look beyond the immediate problems and ask whether we can build a food system that feeds our people well, gives farmers better opportunities, protects the environment and makes better use of what we already have. The answer can be yes, but we will have to think differently.
We are not starting from zero. Sri Lanka has diverse crops, fisheries, traditional food knowledge, indigenous varieties, research institutions, universities and a young generation able to create new solutions. What we need is to bring these together and act. Producing more will not secure our food future on its own. It will depend on how intelligently we produce, process, preserve, distribute and consume food.
Making more of what we already have
Innovation does not always mean inventing something new. Often it means finding better uses for the resources we have.
Sri Lanka grows traditional rice varieties, kurakkan, green gram, cowpea, jackfruit, breadfruit, cassava, sweet potato, coconut and palmyrah. All of them have great potential for modern, nutritious, value-added foods. Jackfruit and breadfruit can be made into flour and other convenient products. Traditional rice varieties can go into new foods that suit changing consumer needs. Palmyrah, with its strong cultural heritage, can create new income through better processing, packaging, quality assurance and market development.
The aim is to connect our traditional food knowledge with modern consumer needs and technology, while keeping our food heritage.
Stop wasting the food we produce
Reducing food loss and waste should be a major priority. Seasonal fruits such as mango, banana, papaya and pineapple can be lost in large quantities when production exceeds demand or when storage, transport and processing facilities are inadequate. With suitable technology, these fruits can become dried products, pulps, powders, beverages and other shelf-stable foods.
Agricultural and fisheries by-products are resources too. They could be turned into food ingredients, animal feed, bio-based products and other useful materials, which would move us toward a more circular food economy.
Technology alone is not enough. We need stronger local processing facilities, cold storage, efficient transport, collection centres and market information systems, especially close to where food is produced. Cutting food loss raises the value of what our farmers and fishers already produce.
Nutrition and food safety come first
Food security means more than having enough food. People also need food that is safe and nutritious.
Sri Lanka can develop affordable, nutritious foods from local pulses, grains, vegetables, fruits and fish. Children and other vulnerable groups should get particular attention. Schoolchildren in particular deserve a focus: safe, nutritious, locally sourced products for school feeding programs would support child nutrition, local farmers and domestic food industries at the same time.
Food safety must stay at the centre of food innovation. Good hygiene, quality control, laboratory testing, traceability and appropriate food safety systems are what make new products safe as well as attractive and nutritious.
A food system that can cope with climate change
Climate change is already affecting agricultural production, water availability, crop yields and food prices. We need food systems that can handle changing conditions. That means climate-resilient crops, efficient water use, soil and water conservation, better storage and resource-efficient food processing.
Traditional knowledge matters here. Generations of Sri Lankan farmers have developed practices suited to local climates and ecosystems. Combining that experience with modern science can give us solutions that fit local conditions and are sustainable. Technology alone will not build the future of food. Science, experience and local knowledge together can.
Give young people a bigger role
Sri Lanka’s universities have an important part to play in shaping our food future. Young people should be encouraged to identify real problems in the food system and work on practical solutions in areas such as food waste, sustainable packaging, nutrition, food safety, modernising traditional foods and digital technologies.
A good research project should not always end as a research paper. Where appropriate, research should be supported to move on to products, technologies, enterprises and community solutions. That needs stronger partnerships between universities and industry, along with mentoring, research funding, business support and market connections. If young researchers and entrepreneurs can turn their ideas into viable food innovations, both consumers and producers will benefit.
A pathway designed for Sri Lanka
We do not need to copy food-system models from other countries. We can build a pathway that suits our own resources, culture and needs. It would bring together local resources, traditional knowledge, scientific research, appropriate technology and entrepreneurship, with farmers, fishers, universities, research institutions, food industries, entrepreneurs and policymakers working side by side.
The goal goes beyond selling raw materials. We need to create more value, reduce waste, improve nutrition, generate jobs and strengthen rural livelihoods. This matters especially for small and medium-scale food enterprises, which can drive local economic development when they get the right technical, financial and market support.
The choices we make today
The food future will not create itself. It will be shaped by what we grow, what we research, what we process, what we consume and what we choose not to waste.
So, the question for World Food Day 2026 is this: what can we do today so that every Sri Lankan has safe, nutritious, affordable and sustainable food tomorrow?
The answers are already around us, in our farms, fisheries, food businesses, universities, laboratories and communities. We have the resources, the traditional knowledge, the scientific expertise and talented young people. What we need now is to connect them and act.
A better food future begins with the choices we make today.
Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
Senior Lecturer, Department of Biosystems Technology, Faculty of Technology, University of Ruhuna
Features
20th Anniversary of Digampathana blast – the day Sri Lanka Navy cried
By Admiral Ravindra C Wijegunaratne
WV, RWP and Bar, RSP, VSV, USP, NI (M) (Pakistan), ndc, psn, Bsc
(Hons) (War Studies) (Karachi) MPhil (Madras)
Former Navy Commander and Former Chief of Defence Staff
Former Chairman, Trincomalee Petroleum Terminals Ltd
Former Managing Director Ceylon Petroleum Corporation
Former High Commissioner to Pakistan
The Digampathana suicide truck attack on 16th October 2006 remains the deadliest single strike in Sri Lanka Navy history, leaving scars that time cannot erase.
It was a seemingly ordinary Monday morning on 16 October 2006, but the calm of that day would soon be shattered in a way none of us could have imagined. As the Commandant of the Naval and Maritime Academy and Flag Officer Commanding Naval Fleet at Trincomalee, I was aware that a number of my cadets were travelling that morning, part of a convoy of fifteen buses carrying naval personnel from Trincomalee, Colombo, and other bases, heading toward Dambulla to rendezvous with another group. The convoy also included trucks and escort vehicles, a routine movement planned and coordinated with the army to ensure the roads were clear. The morning started quietly. Some personnel greeted friends, handed over their weapons, or strolled to a nearby tea shop. It all seemed so ordinary—too ordinary for what would come next.

Sri Lanka Navy sunk LTTE Ships carrying arms, ammunition and warlike materials thousand miles away from Sri Lanka in Indian Ocean in September and October 2007.
By late morning, both convoys had reached the small ground at Digampathana, near the Sigiriya junction, and personnel mingled briefly, unaware that a carefully orchestrated act of terror was waiting. Then, suddenly, an empty half-truck veered directly into the convoy. It exploded with a ferocity I can still recall as if it were yesterday. Nuts, bolts, and high explosives tore through the air. Pandemonium erupted instantly. I later learned that 107 of our naval personnel were killed on the spot and another 153 critically injured. The scene was indescribable—bodies scattered, vehicles mangled, personal effects strewn across the ground. I remember later hearing that the head of the suicide bomber was recovered more than 100 meters away from the blast, a grim testament to the sheer force of the explosion.
I was in my office at the Naval and Maritime Academy when my mobile phone rang. A young midshipman from the 21st intake called, his voice trembling: “Sir, there was a huge explosion at the convoy point! Many are dead … my batch mate Wijesundara is among them.” I immediately jumped into my jeep with my escort Chief Petty Officer and driver and rushed to Digampathana, relying on every ounce of my driving skill to reach the scene. The journey, which usually took little more than an hour, felt endless that day, each passing mile weighed down by dread.
When I arrived, I was confronted with a sight that no training can prepare you for. The injured were being rushed to Dambulla Hospital, where doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, improvising in ways that saved lives despite the overwhelming chaos. I went back to the site after visiting the hospital. The remains of our naval personnel were scattered across the ground, and someone had begun collecting weapons and protective gear. I immediately contacted Surgeon Rear Admiral Nico Jayasekara and received his instructions: collect all body parts in separate bags and transport them to the Trincomalee Naval Hospital mortuary. This gruesome work had to be done with care and dignity, and it filled the icebox in my vehicle. Through DNA testing initiated by Rear Admiral Nico, we were able to identify every naval personnel lost that day, bringing some closure to grieving families.
The Navy Commander at the time, Vice Admiral Wasantha Karannagoda, was devastated. I had worked closely with him and knew how deeply he cared for his men. He ensured that the fallen were honoured with full ceremonial naval funerals at Welisara Naval Base, attended by families and comrades. Sixty-seven funerals were conducted in a single day—a number that still haunts me.
The Digampathana attack remains the largest single loss of naval life in our history. It was a day of sorrow, but also a day that reinforced our resolve. The tragedy galvanized the Navy to target the LTTE Sea Tiger wing with renewed determination and reshaped our maritime operations forever. Every time I think of that day, I remember not just the lives lost, but the courage, professionalism, and dedication of those who survived, those who treated the injured, and those who ensured the fallen were honored properly. May the souls of our naval hero’s rest in peace, their sacrifice guiding us and inspiring generations of naval personnel to come.
Features
‘Murder at Whitby Abbey’
Tales of Mystery and Suspense – 24
I was intrigued by the title of a book I found in a book drop at the condominium of a friend, Murder at Whitby Abbey, and I brought it home with me though I will not be able to return it in the near future. It was described on the cover page as ‘a standout in the crowded medieval mystery field’, though I fear I do not know of other books in this field, apart from the Cadfael series, which I have dealt with earlier.
The book, by Cassandra Clark, is set during the reign of Richard II and has as a backdrop his precarious position, which led to his being replaced, and murdered, by his cousin Henry, who reigned as Henry IV. It is a gloomy book, the action taking place in the twelve days of Christmas leading up to the Epiphany. And the gloom is pervasive, even though this is supposed to be a time of festivity, with mummers performing, and many of those in the guest house where the heroine stays going to town to enjoy themselves, with much drinking and much music, which also fills the guesthouse.
The heroine Hildegarde is a nun, sent to try to acquire a relic being sold by Whitby Abbey, though this was also a penance set by the Abbot of the monastery that governed her abbess because she had had sex with a man. Soon after she and her companions reach the Abbey set high on a cliff, she finds that there are other bidders, and soon suspects that the hierarchy, not perhaps the Abbot who seems a weakling, but his rapacious bursar, is determined to make money, and not above creating false relics to sell to several aspirants.
After Hildegarde and her Cistercian companions – Whitby is a Benedictine Foundation – two monks, Gregory and Egbert, and a young priest Mark, reach the abbey, they find that Aelwyn, a monk they had met on their way to the guesthouse had died. This was in the apple store, and they realize, when they find the surplices of novices stuffed into the air vents, that he had been left to suffocate in the overwhelming scent of apples.
The Cistercians are asked to look into the death, perhaps because they are likely to get no cooperation from the Abbey folk, but perhaps because those in charge are keen to know what happened. And the infirmarer, an old monk, suggests Hildegarde talk to a man called Edred who worked for the bursar, and had been a friend of Aelwyn’s. But Edred too is killed, before he can keep an appointment he had made with Hildegarde, drowned in a pool near the farmhouse of the Abbey.
Meanwhile tensions arise between the fisherfolk and the abbey for the bursar wants to charge them for using the beach that technically belongs to the abbey to dry their fish and their nets. This leads to physical battles, when the guards used by the abbey, under the command it seems of the bursar whose determination to make money is not resisted by the abbot and the prior, try to storm the area where the fishermen live.
Hildegard finds out more about what had happened through two youngsters, one of whom Torold is the son of Aelwyn by a woman who worked as a prostitute for a cartel, and with whom Mark fell in love. The other works on the farm and had seen Edred meet someone near the pool, after which that someone left the place by himself. And the boy had also found in the pool a sort of dagger with the seal of the abbey.
He and his dog, and Torold who follows her, rescue Hildegarde from a man at arms who has waylaid her and tries to rape her earlier. Escaping into the abbey she was nearly been raped then by the bursar, but she managed to escape, in the process setting fire to him and the muniments room, which led, when he was rescued, to the discovery of a box with the money he said had been stolen, blame being cast on both Aelwyn and Edred.
Matters come to a head when the fisherfolk try to storm the abbey, being resisted by the men at arms stationed on the towers. But then Hildegarde realizes that behind the murders was the bursar’s clerk, whom she pursued to the cathedral. There is great drama then as she escapes from him when he tries to kill her, and then from the man at arms who had tried to both rape and kill her, but they both fall from the scaffolding she had climbed, the latter coming from a tower where he had been stationed.
Both of them think they run the rapacity of the abbey, the latter claiming to work for the nobles opposed to Richard, who is presented throughout the book as devoted to his subjects, not to power or money. But though the villains die, the bursar continues, having got over the hysteria the fire had caused and his acknowledgment then of guilt – and though the abbot and the prior seem less vicious, whether they will be able to assert themselves is questionable.
Before the climax, when the others in the guesthouse were leaving, Hildegarde found that two of them were in possession of the relic, for which they seem to have paid well. Hildegarde herself had made a derisory offer, but before she leaves the abbot gives her the relic, perhaps in gratitude for what she and her fellow Cistercians had discovered, the abbey having made as much money as it needed and more from the gullible other buyers.
Mark’s inamorata is saved from the stews because she moves in with Edred’s widow whom the bursar had thrown out of the rooms he occupied when her husband was found dead. Hildegarde had paid for lodgings, in a house run by the man who ran the brothels, but he had a kindly side and was going to finance them to make nets for the fishermen.
So, the Cistercians set off for their home as swiftly as they can to get there on the day of the Epiphany, having stopped en route to pray for King Richard whose birthday it was.
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