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‘Ingreesi Mahattaya’ – Two years a village schoolmaster

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By GEORGE BRAINE

Getting on the bus in Badulla town, I asked the driver if he could let me off at the Kendegolla Maha Vidyalaya. He gave me an odd look, but said “Naginna” (get in). The small bus went along the Passara Road, turned left, and began to climb a narrow road, winding past village houses and patches of tea. After half an hour, the driver stopped and pointed to a small white speck on the highest hill, miles from the road. “That’s the school”, he said. My heart sank.

What was I, barely out of my teens, doing in remote Uva hills, hundreds of miles from home? At Maharagama training college, I had met Fawzia, and we had fallen in love. She was from a traditional Malay family, and we did our best to keep the relationship a secret from her folks. When we finished our training, as English teachers, at the end of 1971, in order to be far away from our families, we asked for schools in Uva for our first appointments. Fawzia was sent to a school near Bandarawela and I got Kendegolla.

Getting off the bus, I began to trudge towards the white speck, passing a rustic kopi kade and ramshackle village houses. Idling men hung around, gawking at this strange apparition, me. The white speck disappeared as the footpath dipped or rounded a bend, and I had to ask for directions a couple of times. The walls of the houses were mud coloured, and certainly not the wattle and daub, or baked bricks, of the low country. I later learned that the walls were made of moda gadol (foolish bricks), so called because they were simply dried in the sun, not baked, and could dissolve during rainy weather. Some roofs were of rusty corrugated iron, but most were of straw.

Tired and somewhat disoriented, I reached the school a good 30-minutes later. This was January, the air was cool and damp, and a low cloud hung over the school. Students were milling around, because it was interval time. They had spotted me trudging up, word had spread, and a few teachers were also peering down at me.

Followed by a throng of students, I reached the principal’s office, where a short, balding, older man, and a taller one dressed in “national” costume, greeted me. When I introduced myself as the new English teacher, the tall man blurted “Me lamayinte mona ingreesida” (What English for these children!). But the other person was welcoming, saying he had been requesting an English teacher for years. He turned out to be the principal. (I’ll call him Mr. Senaratne).

After the preliminaries, I needed a place to stay and Mr. Senaratne suggested that Gunaratne, who taught economics, could help me. So I went along with the latter to check-out his boarding. We forded a rocky, shallow stream near the school, and walked single-file along a fast-flowing irrigation channel that skirted the hillside on our left, with terraced paddy fields on the right. I liked the well-built, tiled house where Gunaratne boarded, and the simple family that greeted me. I could share a room with Gunaratne, whose cheerful nature – full of chatter and jokes – I took a liking to.

Teachers and Students

The few hundred students ranged from Grade 1 to 12, divided into the primary and secondary sections. The younger students came from the vicinity, but some students in the secondary section attended school from the surrounding villages, Kendegolla being the only maha vidyalaya for a sprawling, mountainous area. I came to know students who walked four miles each way, on rough, winding, mountainous paths, to attend school, some leaving home, before dawn, without breakfast. None wore shoes. Every day, a couple of students, weak from hunger, would faint during school.

Recently, I dug into my old files and found a programme for Kendegolla’s first sports meet, which I organized in 1972. That programme listed the names of all the teachers of that time. The primary school teachers – Rajapakse, Gunatilleke, Piyadasa, Piyasena, Dissanayake, Seneviratne, Dingiriamma, Senadheera, Premalatha, Margaret, Piyadasa Peiris (some were husband and wife couples) – were from the village itself. Hayath Bee Bee was from some distance away, on the Passara Road, and walked uphill about two miles to school. All the secondary school teachers, except one, were from other areas. Most were recent graduates, and some travelled by bus, from Badulla or beyond. In addition to Gunaratne, my roommate, they were Mendis and his wife Malini, Piyadasa, Piyasoma, and Karunaratne. Later, three more graduates joined the school. Two, Nawalage and Jayasinghe, were ex-monks. Nawalage, who was from far-off Nivithigala, had requested a transfer to a far off area just before he left robes, to avoid embarrassment to his family. From their general demeanor, even the way they walked and talked, one could discern a former ascetic life. Behind their backs, they did not escape the somewhat derogatory heeraluwa label.

Susil was the school drunk. Boyish in appearance, but permanently disheveled, he turned up late to school, looking as if he had slept in a gutter. Sometimes he wore shirt and slacks, a soiled national dress at other times. The principal advised him often, but Susil, on a permanent hangover, only grinned sheepishly, not uttering a word.

One clear difference between the local and other teachers was their dress. All the local men wore the so called national dress, a long white shirt and sarong. Teachers from elsewhere, except for Mendis, wore shirts and pants.

For a rural school in a “difficult” area, without proper roads or basic facilities, to have that many graduate teachers was a rare gift. These graduates were mainly young, dedicated teachers, and they soon produced results, sending a couple of students to university. I remember the students’ names: Premawathie and Podi Appuhamy, who both entered Kelaniya University.

Ironically, despite the qualified and competent teachers at Kendegolla, the local teachers sent their children to schools in Badulla town. These children, wearing neat school uniforms, were in sharp contrast to our scrawny, shabbily dressed students.

During my times, the school consisted of four long, single storied, bare-bones buildings, each housing four or five classes. The classes were not separated, even by a wall. The roofs were tile, and the sides were open, with half-walls running, lengthwise, on each side. Dust blew in, covering the floor and the students’ desks and chairs. No pipe borne water or electricity, of course. A luxuriant bougainvillea bush, near the principal’s office, added the only colour to the school.

Kendegolla was at a high elevation. Once in a while, the entire school would be covered by a passing cloud, darkening the area and lowering the temperature. Students, shivering in the cold, stepped out of the classroom, looking for any patches of sunshine they could find. Teaching was suspended, sometimes for hours, till the cloud drifted away.

Being the only Ingreesi mahattaya, I taught English, from grades 6 to 10, every day, and an occasional lesson for the handful of students in grades 11 and 12. The government distributed free textbooks to all the students, but most had only one “exercise” (writing) book for all their subjects. Each class had 30+ students, and motivating them was the main problem. Without visual or other teaching aids, I relied mainly on reading and recitation, using the good old “chalk and talk” method. I don’t think those students learned much English from me.

Life in the village

School finished at 1.30 in the afternoon, and Gunaratne and I walked along the irrigation channel back to our boarding. Basins of water, with soap, had been laid out for us, and we later sat down for lunch. The local Sinhala haal rice, a couple of vegetables, and dhal. Fish or meat was never served, but we occasionally had an egg, and fried karawala, salted and dried fish. This was a devout Buddhist home. The simple meals were to my liking, although I missed curries cooked with coconut. At Kendegolla, due to the high elevation, not a coconut palm was in sight, and coconuts were a luxury, only available in Badulla town.

The family – husband, wife, two sons and two daughters – had their evening meal after Gunaratne and I had finished, and we usually chatted with the father while he chewed beetle. The two sons sat with us, but were respectful of the father, and barely uttered an opinion. Later, in our room, we listened to the radio, the Sinhala service of Radio Ceylon. During the previous year, 1971, the first JVP insurrection had occurred, and a public inquiry was broadcast on the radio. My former civics teacher in secondary school, Mr. Shanmugam, had joined the police and become an SP. I distinctly remember him being cross examined at the inquiry. Before 9pm, we turned off the kerosene lamp and went to sleep.

Our landlord was comparatively well off, being a carpenter. He also owned a small plot of paddy. The village was surrounded by a large tea plantation, Telbedde Estate, but all the workers there were Tamils residing on the estate. Most villagers scratched a living from subsistence farming, or a little patch of sweet potatoes, a grove of manioc, and various vegetables. A staple food was kollu (horse gram), especially among those who did not own paddy fields. One had to be very poor to be eating it, because kollu was usually fed to horses, and I am now reminded of how Samuel Johnson defined oats: “A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.”

Once, in response to a survey that the Education Department conducted, a large number of families, in the area, indicated an income of Rs. 100/ – not monthly, but annually. That is, about Rs. 10/ per month. In today’s terms, that would be less than Rs. 1000/ for a family, for an entire month. How people managed to feed themselves, leaving cash for clothes and other essentials aside, was a mystery. The “plight of the Kandyan peasantry” is no cliché.

Except for the teachers, no student or villager may have seen the sea, or Colombo, or even Kandy. None may have tasted sea food. The height of sophistication was Badulla town, which glittered at night with electric lights. The town even had water on tap! The cinemas, with a galaxy of popular Sinhala, Tamil, and Hindi films, drew estate workers and villagers from all around.

The village had a small temple, at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by paddy fields. The easy going young monk formed a friendship with me. He was curious about Christianity, and I explained as best as I could, avoiding tricky topics such as the Holy Trinity. On poya days, all the students and the teachers, dressed in white, observed sil at the temple, sitting on the ground of the spotlessly clean premises, in the shade of a bo tree and a small stupa. I recall the peaceful ambience, and the monk’s simple and appealing sermons.

A few afternoons a week, Gunaratne and I collected our soiled clothes in a bundle, and, a towel draped around our necks, walked to the stream to wash our clothes and to bathe. Usually, a few older male students joined us. We first walked downstream and washed our clothes, soaping and pounding them on the rocks. Then, we clambered upstream, sat in a rocky pool, and bathed leisurely, listening to Gunaratne’s endless jokes, always ending with “Hinawela marenewa” (die laughing).

On some evenings, when we were bored, he and I strolled to the edge of a hill, from where we could gaze at Badulla town, down in the valley to our right, and the majestic Namunukula mountain range across the valley to our left. Sometimes, a couple of students came along. As twilight descended, we could see the electric lights twinkling in Badulla. We talked aimlessly, sharing the news and gossip, but were wistful, longing for what we did not have at Kandegolla.

(To be continued)



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Opinion

Ditwah wake-up call demands a national volunteer community service for rebuilding Sri Lanka

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Volunteers helping disaster victims. (Image courtesy BBC)

The Tsunami of 2004 struck our coasts, but the recent Cyclone Ditwah has delivered an unprecedented blow, devastating and traumatising the entire country. President Anura Kumara Dissanayake rightly called it the “largest and most challenging natural disaster” in Sri Lanka’s history.

The toll is staggering: Over 600 people were confirmed dead, with hundreds still missing. More than 2 million citizens – nearly one in ten people—have been affected. 41,000 to 86,000 houses are damaged or completely destroyed. The damage is widespread, with 22 of the island’s 25 districts declared disaster-affected areas. A provisional economic damage estimate reaching up to USD 7 billion—a figure that instantly consumes about 7% of our national GDP. This was not merely a natural disaster; it was a crisis amplified by systemic failure, culminating in a catastrophe that now demands a radical, long-term policy response.

Unlike the Tsunami, the destruction to our vital inland infrastructure—roads, bridges, railway lines, and power networks—has been colossal, crippling the nation’s ability to recover. Over 25,000 members of the tri-forces have been mobilised, and the nation rightly hails their courageous and relentless efforts in rescue and relief. They should now be graduated from ‘Rana Viruvo’ to RUN VIRUVO considering the efforts they are still putting into the relief operations in this unprecedented calamity. But the scale of the rebuilding effort requires a permanently sustained unified national mechanism, perhaps learning from their rich experiences.

Why did devastation reach this cataclysmic level?

Unlike a sudden earthquake/Tsunami, a cyclone’s path is largely traceable. Yet, the “post-mortem” on Ditwah reveals a horrifying truth: the storm’s devastation was amplified by our own institutional failures.

The India Meteorological Department (IMD) which runs the Regional Specialised Meteorological Centre (RMSC) monitors the oceans in this region and issues alerts for cyclones. It serves all the regional countries — Bangladesh, Maldives, Myanmar, Oman, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Thailand. The RMSC first predicted the formation of a depression as early as November 13 and issued an alert over the possibility of a cyclone forming on November 20. From November 23 onwards, IMD/RMSC had been routinely sharing frequent weather updates with Sri Lanka.

Robust models from the India Meteorological Department and the RMSC provided ample warnings of the depression and subsequent cyclonic intensification. Some of these predictions by the RMC and even the BBC forecasted rainfall over 300- 400 mm which could go up to even half a meter per day. True to their forecasts, Matale tragically received unprecedented rainfall of around 520 mm, triggering fatal landslides. Ditwah’s impact was worsened by its unusually slow movement over the island which sustained heavy rainfall over several days.

The Governance Gap

The critical breakdown occurred between the scientific prediction and the state’s executive arm. Warnings, if not taken seriously or acted upon, become meaningless data points. The core issue is a fragmented disaster management system that lacks the “unified command structure” required for real-time data sharing and rapid deployment. As one analyst noted, the disaster delivered a hard lesson: we entered one of our worst natural disasters in decades without a functioning national strategy and with a severe deficit in “adaptive capacity.

Scientific forecasts were not translated into an appropriate, urgent disaster preparedness program by the Sri Lankan state apparatus. Public reports indicate that national preparedness was woefully short of what was needed. The warnings failed to translate into a coherent, proactive response into an appropriate disaster preparedness action program on the island. This failure points directly to long-standing institutional deficits.

The Strategic Imperative: Dedicated Workforce for a $7B Recovery

President Anura Kumara Dissanayake rightly emphasised that restoring public life requires a unified operational mechanism that goes beyond normal state administration. To tackle this immense task, the Government has established a ‘Rebuilding Sri Lanka Fund’ to finance the medium- and long-term recovery, including essential infrastructure and public health issues.

This newly established ‘Rebuilding Sri Lanka Fund’ addresses the financial cost, but it does not solve the fundamental manpower crisis which is a key bottleneck in retarding the progress of this formidable undertaking. Rebuilding 247 kilometers of impacted roads, restoring two-thirds of unusable railway lines, clearing hundreds of landslides, and repairing crucial irrigation systems demands a sustained, disciplined, and massive workforce that normal state administration simply cannot provide. Furthermore, with the changing climate, events of this nature and magnitude may be more frequent in the future.

As such, there is a moral call to a strategic imperative. The immediate, ad-hoc spontaneous public volunteerism is commendable, but the scale of the task ahead requires a permanent, non-partisan national investment in human resources. The time for piecemeal recovery programs is over. Ditwah has forced the issue of structural accountability and national capacity onto the policy agenda.

A Call for Mandatory National Service

One of the most responsible paths forward is to utilise this crisis to institutionalise a robust National Service System, transforming a generation of youth into a standing army for climate resilience and nation-building. To fail to do so would be to guarantee that the next storm will bring an even higher price.

Sri Lanka cannot afford to be unprepared again. The solution is to immediately mobilise and, for the long term, institutionalise the patriotic energy of our youth into a robust, structured National Service System. This service should be more than just disaster relief; it is a long-term investment that will:

i) Build the Nation: Provide a rapid-response labour force for future disasters, infrastructure projects, and conservation efforts.

ii) Forge Character: Instill essential skills like discipline, leadership, accountability, and responsibility in our youth, thereby contributing to lower rates of substance abuse and crime.

iii) Strengthen Unity: Promote social cohesion and reinforce national identity by having youth from all backgrounds work together for a common cause.

The legal framework for such a move already exists. The Mobilisation and Supplementary Forces Act, No. 40 of 1985, already gives the government the powers to issue a National Service Order to enlist people in a National Armed Reserve. This mechanism can be adapted to establish a non-military, civilian-focused service.

Sri Lanka already has a government supported National Volunteer Service affiliated to her Social Services Department. It coordinates volunteers, develops management systems, and works with partners like the UN volunteers. This service can be improved and upgraded to tackle challenges in natural and/or human induced disasters which are going to be more frequent with greater intensity, at times.

In the immediate term, the large number of existing volunteers dispersed all over the island need to be engaged as understudy groups, working directly alongside the armed forces and government departments in the recovery process which is already happening in a number of instances.

Ditwah is our wake-up call for longer-term strategic planning and policy reforms. Alongside reacting to catastrophes in a piecemeal manner in the short-term, we must systematically start building a resilient nation with a vision for the future. Investing in a structured, mandatory Civilian National Service is the only way to safeguard our future against the inevitable challenges of climate change and to truly rebuild Sri Lanka.

Globally over 60 countries have national service portfolios mostly of military nature. Both Germany and France have recently reintroduced their national services to meet their own specific needs. In the US, the National Community Service centers around the Corporation for National and Community Service (CNCS), a federal agency that runs programs like AmeriCorps and Senior Corps, mobilising millions of Americans in service to address needs in education, disaster relief, environment, and more, fostering civic duty and offering educational awards for service.

Incorporate National Service into Educational Reforms

We must mobilize our youthful energy into a national service portfolio unique to our own needs giving due recognition to our history, geography and culture. As a long-term investment, this should be initiated while children are still in school, preparing them mentally and physically to contribute to nation-building.

A well-designed National Volunteer Community Service would instill discipline and foster essential skills like leadership, responsibility, and mutual respect, while contributing at the same time to national development. We can tailor this service to tackle our unique challenges in public safety, disaster relief, and environment conservation.

Existing school programmes like scouting and cadeting can be innovatively transformed to lay a sound foundation for this life-changing National Service for all schoolchildren. According to the initial estimates of UNICEF, over 275,000 children are among the 1.4 million people affected both physically and mentally who need careful rehabilitation.

The current educational reforms are an ideal platform to impart crucial values in patriotism and introduce essential skills like time management, discipline, and accountability. This system could not only build successful individuals but also help decrease social issues like substance abuse and crime among youth.

In the immediate future, to meet the demands of the recovery effort now, currently available volunteers should be engaged as understudy groups, working alongside the armed forces and government departments involved in the rebuilding process. The long-term investment in a Mandatory National Service, on the other hand, will strengthen our national identity and contribute to the “unified operational mechanism” the President has called for.

The author can be contacted at nimsavg@gmail.com

by Emeritus Professor
Nimal Gunatilleke

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Opinion

A national post-cyclone reflection period?

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Security Forces cleaning a flood-hit school

A call to transform schools from shelters of safety into sanctuaries of solidarity

Sri Lanka has faced one of the most devastating natural disasters in its post-independence history. Cyclone Ditwah, with its torrential rains, landslides, flash floods, and widespread displacement, has left an imprint on the nation that will be remembered for decades. While rescue teams continue to work tirelessly and communities rush to rebuild shattered homes and infrastructure, the nation’s disaster assessment is evolving by the day. Funds from government channels, private donations, and the Sri Lankan diaspora are being mobilised and monitored with care. Humanitarian assistance—from the tri-forces and police to religious institutions and village communities—has surged with extraordinary compassion, but as in every disaster, the challenge ahead is not only about restoring physical structures; it is also about restoring the social and emotional fabric of our people for a sustainable future.

Schools on the Frontline of Recovery

The Ministry of Education is now faced with a difficult but essential question: When and how should schools reopen? The complexity of the problem is daunting. Hundreds of schools are either partially submerged, structurally damaged, or being used as temporary shelters, bridges and access roads have collapsed, and teachers and students in highly affected districts have lost family members, homes, and belongings. And yet, not all regions have suffered to the same degree. Some schools remain fully functional, while others will require weeks of rehabilitation.

The country has navigated a similar challenge before. In 2005, following the tsunami that hit mainly the coastal areas of the island, the education system faced a monumental recovery phase, requiring temporary learning spaces, psychosocial support units, and curriculum adjustments. During the COVID-19 pandemic, schools reopened in staggered phases with special protocols. International schools and private educational institutions, with greater autonomy, are likely to restart their academic calendar earlier. Regardless of whether a school belongs to the national, provincial, Pirivena, or international sector, however, education must restart sooner rather than later. The reopening of schools is not merely an administrative decision; it is a symbolic and structural step toward national healing and a restorative future for the country.

Disasters Do Not Discriminate — Neither Should Education

Just like the tsunami of 2004, the major floods of 2016, the landslides of Aranayake (2016), Meeriyabedda (2014), and Badulla (2022), and the Covid-19 pandemic (2021), the cyclone Ditwah has once again exposed the fragile but deeply profound truth that natural phenomena do not recognize distinctions created by humans. Floodwaters do not differentiate between provinces, school systems, or social classes; landslides do not check national exam results before destroying a home; and suffering does not pause to ask whether a child is from a rural Mahaweli village or an elite urban suburb.

In this context, educational institutions have a responsibility that goes far beyond exams and syllabi. This aligns profoundly with an often-cited principle of Jesuit education articulated in 2000 by Fr. Peter-Hans Kolvenbach, S.J., the former Superior General of the Society of Jesus:

Tomorrow’s whole person cannot be whole without an educated awareness of society and culture, with which to contribute socially, generously, in the real world. Tomorrow’s “whole person” must have, in brief, a well-educated solidarity… learned through “contact” rather than “concepts.” When the heart is touched by direct experience, the mind may be challenged to change. Personal involvement with innocent suffering, with the injustice others suffer, is the catalyst for solidarity which then gives rise to intellectual inquiry and moral reflection.”

In this sense, schools must guide children to process what they have witnessed—directly or indirectly—and transform these experiences into moral resilience, empathy, environmental consciousness, and collective responsibility. In doing so, one should bear in mind that every child in Sri Lanka has experienced Cyclone Ditwah in some way:

Children Who Faced the Disaster Directly:

Some children lived through the cyclone in the most harrowing ways—watching floodwaters creep into their homes, escaping rising torrents, or fleeing as landslides tore through familiar ground. Their memories are filled with the sound of rushing water, collapsing earth, and the frantic efforts of parents and neighbours, losing their family members, and trying to keep everyone safe.

Children Who Supported Frontline Families:

Others experienced the crisis through the lens of responsibility. They watched fathers, mothers, siblings, or relatives join rescue teams, distribute supplies, or help evacuate neighbours. These children carried a different kind of fear—waiting in silence, praying that their loved ones would return safely from dangerous missions.

Children Who Witnessed the Disaster Through Media:

Many encountered the cyclone from within their homes or shelters, glued to phones, televisions, and social media feeds. They saw images of villages underwater, families stranded on rooftops, frantic cries for help, boats battling fierce currents, and choppers airlifting stranded people. Even from a distance, these scenes left deep emotional imprints.

Children Who Internalised the Atmosphere of Fear:

Some were not exposed directly to images or destruction, but absorbed the tension in their households—whispered conversations, worried faces, disrupted routines, and sleepless nights. Their experience was shaped by the emotional climate around them: the uncertainty, the stress, and the unspoken fear shared by the adults they depend on.

Children Who Got Involved in Relief Efforts:

Across Sri Lanka, countless children became active participants in relief efforts—some spontaneously, others through families, schools, churches, temples, mosques, and youth groups. Individually, they helped neighbors carry belongings, comfort younger children who were frightened, fetch water and dry rations, and assist the elderly in evacuation centers. Within families, many helped prepare meals for displaced people, sorted clothing donations, packed dry-food parcels, and joined parents in visiting affected households. Through organizations, such as temples, churches, mosques, charity foundations, school associations, clubs, scout groups, Girl Guides, Sunday school units, youth groups, and student unions, children coordinated collection drives, raised funds, gathered books and uniforms for those who are affected, and volunteered at distribution points. These acts, small and large, are beacons of the nation’s hope, revealing that even a crisis as destructive as Cyclone Ditwah, Sri Lankan children were not only making meaning of suffering, but also cultivating compassion, solidarity, and shared responsibility.

In one way or another, Sri Lanka’s children have been touched by the experience. Their hearts are stirred. Their minds are open. While not all trauma comes from direct contact, indirect exposure can be equally jarring, especially for younger children; their psychological, emotional, and social well-being must be handled with sensitivity and foresight. This moment, therefore, is an educational opportunity of rare depth—if we have the courage and creativity to embrace it.

A National Post-Cyclone Reflection Period (NPCRP)?

Once schools reopen, no child should simply return to the classroom as if nothing happened. A top-down insistence on “catching up” academically without addressing emotional wounds will only store up psychological problems for the future. Instead, schools should designate an initial period for reflection, storytelling, sharing, healing, and meaning-making. Hence, a mandatory National Post-Cyclone Reflection Period (NPCRP) is not merely a “feel-good” recommendation. It draws from post-tsunami educational reforms both in Sri Lanka (2004) and in Japan (2011), WHO frameworks for psychosocial healing in schools, UNICEF guidelines on post-disaster learning environments, and our own cultural traditions of collective mourning and remembrance in Sri Lanka. In Sri Lanka, villages often come together after a death for almsgivings, month-mind ceremonies, etc. Our religions—Buddhism, Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism—each emphasize compassion, reflective mourning, and community healing. Why should schools not embody these cultural strengths after a catastrophe that has impacted an entire nation?

(To be concluded)

(Dr. Rashmi M. Fernando, S.J., is a Jesuit priest, educator, and special assistant to the provost at Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles, California, USA.).

by Dr. Rashmi M. Fernando, S.J.

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Opinion

Venerable Mettavihari Denmarke passes away

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Danish Monk

Danish Monk Who Revolutionised Digital Buddhism and World’s Buddhist Media

The Buddhist community in Sri Lanka and around the world is mourning the passing of Venerable Mettavihari Denmarke, the Danish-born monk whose pioneering work transformed the modern dissemination of Theravada Buddhism. He passed away peacefully in Denmark recently, after battling with cancer.

Born Jacub Jacobson, a Christian and a successful businessman in Denmark for more than 18 years, he was drawn to the timeless truth of the Four Noble Truths and the serenity of the Noble Eightfold Path. This spiritual awakening led him to the Buddhist Order, where he was ordained under Ven. Agga Maha Panditha Madihe Pannaseeha Maha Nayake Thera, receiving the name Bhikkhu Mettavihari.

A Life Rooted in Sri Lanka

Venerable Mettavihari first arrived in Sri Lanka in 1969 and immediately felt a deep connection to the island and its people. Inspired by the purity of the Dhamma, he made Sri Lanka his permanent home. In 1988, both he and his wife entered the Buddhist Order – he as a monk and she as a nun dedicating themselves wholeheartedly to the Sasana.

Remembered for Compassion and Humility

I was fortunate to associate with him for over 10 years on several projects. His kindness towards all living beings and his sincere practice of the Dhamma were exemplary even for monks.

I recall one occasion when he attended a full-day workshop on neuroscience and Buddhism simply to encourage me. He stayed throughout, offering blessings and support. That day the devotees responsible for bringing Dana were late, yet he asked only for a piece of bread, as he was committed to maintaining the Vinaya discipline of eating before noon.

He was often seen walking barefoot on alms rounds gentle, humble, and entirely detached from worldly comforts.

His studio was always open to me, welcoming any noble work and encouraging efforts to help people lead meaningful, wholesome lives.

He was a strict Vinaya practitioner, a monk of exceptional discipline, simplicity, integrity, compassion, loving-kindness, and empathy that were beyond imagination.

A Pioneer of Digital Buddhism

Before his ordination, Venerable Mettavihari worked in the IT field in Denmark. He used this expertise to usher Buddhism into the digital age.

Through metta.lk, he created one of the world’s earliest online Buddhist databases, digitising the Tripitaka and making it available in three languages. He also provided email services to temples and ensured that Dhammapada verses accompanied each message quietly spreading the Dhamma across the globe.

Founder of Dharmavahini – Sri Lanka’s First Buddhist TV Channel

He founded Dharmavahini, Sri Lanka’s first Buddhist television channel, run by a small team of volunteers with minimal resources. More than a broadcaster, Dharmavahini was his effort to restore forgotten values in Sri Lankan society.

Today, it remains a landmark contribution to Buddhist media.

Educational Reformer – Founder of Learn TV

After witnessing the educational challenges faced by rural children following the 2004 tsunami, Venerable Mettavihari launched Learn TV, a 24-hour educational channel developed with the Ministry of Education.

This enabled thousands of students, especially those without tuition or teachers, to receive continuous, curriculum-based lessons from home.

A Monk Who Became Sri Lankan at Heart

Fluent in Sinhala and immersed in Sri Lankan culture, he often referred to himself simply as “a Sri Lankan.” During a conversation with friends, he humorously admitted that speaking Danish had become difficult, “because I am now a Sri Lankan.”

Noble Life and a Lasting Legacy

Most Venerable Mettavihari (aged 80)

With boundless compassion and humility, he uplifted countless lives through education, media, technology, and the Dhamma.

His legacy includes:

  • Digitising the Tripitaka and pioneering online Buddhist resources
  • Establishing Dharmavahini, Sri Lanka’s first Buddhist TV channel
  • Launching Learn TV to uplift rural education
  • Advancing global Buddhist communication through IT
  • Strengthening moral values in Sri Lankan society

He was also an ardent supporter of the Light of Asia Foundation since its inception. He supported and guided the production of the Siddhartha movie, the establishment of the Sakya Kingdom, the International Film Festival, and, just a few months ago, he participated in the first production of a short video series on the Sutta which is currently under production and expected to be launched soon.

His life stands as a rare example of innovation, devotion, and deep spiritual conviction.

Venerable Mettavihari passed away mindfully at his home in Denmark.

His passing is a profound loss not only for Sri Lanka, but for the world.

May this noble monk attain the supreme bliss of Nibbana

Lalith de Silva
Former President, Vidyalankara Maha Pirivena Trustee, Light of Asia Foundation

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