Features
‘Brothers in the forest’ – the fight to protect an isolated Amazon tribe
Tomas Anez Dos Santos was working in a small clearing in the Peruvian Amazon, when he heard footsteps approaching in the forest.
He realised he was surrounded, and froze.
“One was standing, aiming with an arrow,” he says. “And somehow he noticed I was here and I started to run.”
He had come face to face with the Mashco Piro. For decades, Tomas – who lives in the small village of Nueva Oceania – had been practically a neighbour to these nomadic people, who shun contact with outsiders. However, until very recently, he had rarely seen them.
The Mashco Piro have chosen to be cut off from the world for more than a century. They hunt with long bows and arrows, relying on the Amazonian rainforest for everything they need.
“They started circling and whistling, imitating animals, many different types of birds,” Tomas recalls.
“I kept saying: ‘Nomole’ (brother). Then they gathered, they felt closer, so we headed toward the river and ran.”
A new report by the human rights organisation, Survival International, says there are at least 196 of what it calls “uncontacted groups” left in the world. The Mashco Piro is believed to be the largest. The report says half of these groups could be wiped out in the next decade if governments don’t do more to protect them.
It claims the biggest risks are from logging, mining or drilling for oil. Uncontacted groups are extremely vulnerable to basic disease – as such, the report says a threat is posed by contact with evangelical missionaries and social media influencers looking for clicks.
Recently, Mashco Piro people have been coming to Nueva Oceania more and more, according to locals.
The village is a fishing community of seven or eight families, sitting high on the banks of the Tauhamanu River in the heart of the Peruvian Amazon, 10 hours from the nearest settlement by boat.
The area is not recognised as a protected reserve for uncontacted groups, and logging companies operate here.
Tomas says that, at times, the noise of logging machinery can be heard day and night, and the Mashco Piro people are seeing their forest disturbed and destroyed.
In Nueva Oceania, people say they are conflicted. They fear the Mashco Piro’s arrows but they also have deep respect for their “brothers” who live in the forest and want to protect them.
“Let them live as they live, we can’t change their culture. That’s why we keep our distance,” says Tomas.
The people in Nueva Oceania are worried about the damage to the Mascho Piro’s livelihood, the threat of violence and the possibility that loggers might expose the Mashco Piro to diseases they have no immunity to.
While we were in the village, the Mashco Piro made their presence felt again. Letitia Rodriguez Lopez, a young mother with a two-year-old daughter, was in the forest picking fruit when she heard them.
“We heard shouting, cries from people, many of them. As if there were a whole group shouting,” she told us.
It was the first time she had encountered the Mashco Piro and she ran. An hour later, her head was still pounding from fear.
“Because there are loggers and companies cutting down the forest they’re running away, maybe out of fear and they end up near us,” she said. “We don’t know how they might react to us. That’s what scares me.”
In 2022, two loggers were attacked by the Mashco Piro while fishing. One was hit by an arrow to the gut. He survived, but the other man was found dead days later with nine arrow wounds in his body.
Google/BBCThe Peruvian government has a policy of non-contact with isolated people, making it illegal to initiate interactions with them.
The policy originated in Brazil after decades of campaigning by indigenous rights groups, who saw that initial contact with isolated people lead to entire groups being wiped out by disease, poverty and malnutrition.
In the 1980s, when the Nahau people in Peru made initial contact with the world outside, 50% of their population died within a matter of years. In the 1990s, the Muruhanua people faced the same fate.
“Isolated indigenous peoples are very vulnerable – epidemiologically, any contact could transmit diseases, and even the simplest ones could wipe them out,” says Issrail Aquisse from the Peruvian indigenous rights group, Femanad. “Culturally too, any contact or interference can be very harmful to their life and health as a society.”
For the neighbours of uncontacted tribes, the reality of no-contact can be tricky.
As Tomas shows us around the forest clearing where he encountered the Mashco Piro, he stops, whistles through his hands and then waits in silence.
“If they answer, we turn back,” he says. All we can hear is the chatter of insects and birds. “They’re not here.”
Tomas feels the government has left the residents of Nueva Oceania to handle a tense situation by themselves.
He plants food in his garden for the Mashco Piro to take. It is a safety measure he and other villagers have come up with to help their neighbours and protect themselves.
“I wish I knew the words to say, ‘Here have these plantains, it’s a gift,'” he adds. “‘You can take them freely. Don’t shoot me.'”
Almost 200km south-east on the other side of the dense forest, the situation is very different. There, by the Manu River, the Mashco Piro live in an area that is officially recognised as a forest reserve.
The Peruvian Ministry of Culture and Fenamad run the “Nomole” control post here, staffed by eight agents. It was set up in 2013 when conflict between Mashco Piro and local villages resulted in several killings.
As the head of the control post, Antonio Trigoso Ydalgo’s job is to stop that from happening again.
The Mashco Piro appear regularly, sometimes several times a week. They are a different group of people from those near Nueva Oceania, and the agents don’t believe they know each other.
“They always come out at the same place. That’s where they shout from,” Antonio says, pointing across the wide Manu River to a small shingly beach on the other side. They ask for plantain, yucca or sugar cane.
“If we don’t answer, they sit there all day waiting,” Antonio says. The agents try to avoid that, in case tourists or local boats pass by. So they usually comply. The control post has a small garden they grow food in. When it runs out, they ask a local village for supplies.
If these aren’t available, the agents ask the Mashco Piro to come back in a few days’ time. It has worked so far, and there has been little conflict recently.
There are about 40 people who Antonio sees regularly – men, women and children from several different families.
They name themselves after animals. The chief is called Kamotolo (Honey Bee). The agents say he is a stern man and never smiles.
Another leader, Tkotko (Vulture) is more of a joker, he laughs a lot and makes fun of the agents. There is a young woman called Yomako (Dragon) who the agents say has a good sense of humour too.
The Mashco Piro don’t seem to have much interest in the outside world but are interested in the personal lives of the agents they meet. They ask about their families and where they live.
When one agent was pregnant and went on maternity leave, they brought a rattle made from the throat of a howler monkey for the baby to play with.
They are interested in the agents’ clothes, especially sports clothes in red or green. “When we approach, we put on old, torn clothes with missing buttons – so they don’t take them,” Antonio says.
“Before, they wore their own traditional clothing – very beautiful skirts made with threads from insect fibres that they crafted themselves. But now some of them, when tourist boats pass, receive clothes or boots.” says Eduardo Pancho Pisarlo, an agent at the control post.
But any time the team ask about life in the forest, the Mashco Piro shut the conversation down.
“Once, I asked how they light their fires,” says Antonio. “They told me, ‘You have wood, you know.’ I insisted, and they said, ‘You already have all these things – why do you want to know?'”
If someone doesn’t appear for quite a while, the agents will ask where they are. If the Mashco Piro say, “Don’t ask”, they take it to mean that person has died.
After years of contact, the agents still know little about how the Mashco Piro live or why they remain in the forest.
It is believed they may be descended from indigenous people who fled into the deep jungle in the late 19th Century, escaping rampant exploitation and widespread massacres by so-called “rubber barons”.
Experts think the Mashco Piro may be closely related to the Yine, an indigenous people from south-eastern Peru. They speak an antiquated dialect of the same language, which the agents, who are also Yine, have been able to learn.
But the Yine have long been river navigators, farmers and fishermen, while the Mashco Piro seem to have forgotten how to do these things. They may have become nomads and hunter-gatherers to stay safe.
“What I understand now is that they stay in one area for a while, set up a camp, and the whole family gather,” says Antonio. “Once they’ve hunted everything around that place, they move to another site.”
Issrail Aquisse from Fenamad says more than 100 people have come to the control post at various times.
“They ask for bananas and cassava to diversify their diet, but some families disappear for months or years after that,” he says.
“They just say: ‘I’m going away for a few moons, then I’ll come back.’ And they say goodbye.”
The Mashco Piro in this area are well protected but the government is building a road which will connect it to an area where illegal mining is widespread.
But it is clear to the agents that the Mashco Piro do not want to join the outside world.
“From my experience here at the post, they don’t want to become ‘civilised’,” Antonio says.
“Maybe the children do, as they grow up and see us wearing clothes, perhaps in 10 or 20 years. But the adults don’t. They don’t even want us here,” he says.
In 2016, a government bill was passed to extend the Mashco Piro’s reserve to an area that would include Nueva Oceania. However, this has never been signed into law.
“We need them to be free like us,” says Tomas. “We know they lived very peacefully for years, and now their forests are being finished off – destroyed.”
(BBC)
The underlying issue in Anuradhapura is a struggle between a few families who, for years, have waged a quiet cold war over control of the Udamaluwa. Similar situations exist in Mihintale as well. These places, among others, are treated as treasures of Buddhism but, in practice, function as tightly controlled economic centres. The same pattern repeats in Kandy around the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic and in Kataragama at the shrine of God Kataragama. Variations of it exist across religious spaces of Islam, Catholicism, and Hinduism too, where institutional authority becomes indistinguishable from localised power networks. What is presented as sacred order often operates as inherited control.
It is indeed devastating to see situations where parents have no alternative but to expose their children to predators in robes for survival. This has nothing to do with religion itself, but with human pathology in the context of survival. These are the questions that demand answers, not superficial responses that treat symptoms while ignoring the conditions that produce them. What is more shocking and disturbing is not the tragedy itself, but the reactions to it. Social media has overwhelmed us, not towards understanding, but towards a fragmented cognitive state with no exit route.
A friend of mine in Nairobi used to keep all his electronic devices at home and go into the forest once a month, spending days there before returning. He called it “detoxification”, but in reality it was an escape from a system that no longer allows uninterrupted thought. Daily life is now saturated with unnecessary content, and attention itself has become a commodity extracted, processed, and sold back to us. This is where we have become unable to understand what really drives certain tragedies we endlessly react to, while remaining blind to the systems that quietly manufacture them.
Multi-dimensional poverty
Poverty is structural, poverty is political, and poverty is functional; it is a tool and a manoeuvring force of power. The question is no longer whether poverty exists, but who benefits from its persistence, and who is forced to survive within it. From education to medicine to basic food supply chains, countries like Sri Lanka are not simply mismanaged; they are structurally captured by a small number of actors who remain stable regardless of who is formally in power. Small-scale enterprises and NGO circuits that circulate foreign funding to “solve structural issues” often operate as hollow administrative performances, producing reports rather than transformation.
Poverty is not merely the absence of money. It is the absence of bandwidth, absence of protection, absence of time, and absence of cognitive stability. As Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir state, “Scarcity captures the mind. Just as the starving subjects had food on their mind, when we experience scarcity of any kind, we become absorbed by it.” This is a description of how human cognition is structurally reorganized under constraint. Scarcity does not sit outside the person; it occupies them.
They also state, “Scarcity leads us to borrow and pushes us deeper into scarcity.” That is the mechanism that must be confronted without euphemism. Poverty is not only deprivation; it is a self-reinforcing trap in which survival decisions generate the next layer of crisis. Once a society crosses a certain threshold of scarcity, it stops producing long-term reasoning as a default condition. It produces short-term survival logic, often mistaken by outsiders for irrationality.
It is precisely here that public discourse becomes intellectually dishonest. Everything is translated into moral language because moral language is easier than structural analysis. But morality without structure becomes theatre. It produces outrage, not understanding, and repetition, not reform.
It is indeed brutal when an individual wearing religious insignia—whether robe, symbol, or institutional identity—is accused of acts that fundamentally contradict the moral authority attached to that position. It is equally brutal when institutions that depend entirely on trust begin to function as shields rather than safeguards. But the deeper question is not shock. The deeper question is what kind of social condition produces families who see placement within such institutions not only as devotion, but as a survival strategy under constraint.
Ethical decision-making
That is where the argument collapses into its most uncomfortable form. Poverty does not produce ethical decision-making environments. It produces constrained optimization under pressure. When food insecurity, debt, and social instability converge, institutional spaces that appear stable become transactional destinations for survival rather than moral choices. To interpret this as purely cultural failure is to deliberately ignore the structural compression of options.
Mullainathan and Shafir describe this clearly: “Instead of saying that scarcity ‘focuses,’ we could just as easily say that scarcity causes us to tunnel: to focus single-mindedly on managing the scarcity at hand.” That tunnelling effect is not abstract. It is visible wherever long-term planning collapses under immediate pressure. Systems then misread this as irresponsibility, when it is in fact cognitive overload produced by structure.
What is rarely acknowledged is how deeply this extends into governance itself. Institutions increasingly operate as if they are managing rational, unconstrained individuals. In reality, they are interacting with populations whose cognitive bandwidth is already structurally taxed. The result is policy failure interpreted as public non-compliance, enforcement interpreted as moral correction, and reform interpreted as communication failure rather than design failure.
Social media has intensified this distortion. It does not merely spread information; it destroys sequencing. Structural problems require temporal depth. Social media removes that depth and replaces it with instantaneous judgment. Every event becomes a surface object, detached from causality. The outcome is a society permanently reacting and never diagnosing.
Poverty, in this environment, becomes invisible in its real form. It is not seen as a continuous structural condition but as episodic failure. A scandal appears, is consumed, and disappears. Another replaces it. Nothing accumulates into understanding because attention itself is exhausted before synthesis can occur.
Modern Condition
The modern condition reflects a reversal of earlier social organization, where human relationships are embedded within abstract systems of finance, law, and administration that often fail to recognize the lived constraints of those they govern. In this disembedded state, institutions increasingly misinterpret human behaviour as their capacity for structural understanding weakens. At the same time, attempts to resolve systemic failures through expanding administrative complexity produce diminishing returns: more regulation, oversight, and reporting generate less coherence. Over time, institutions shift from functional effectiveness to symbolic performance, maintaining the appearance of control rather than achieving it.
This is why public outrage repeatedly fails to translate into structural change. Outrage is not a tool of reconstruction. It is a signal of system fatigue. It circulates, intensifies, and dissipates without altering the underlying architecture. Meanwhile, the conditions that produce repetition remain intact.
The most persistent illusion is that these are separate problems: poverty here, institutional misuse there, media distortion elsewhere. They are not separate. They are expressions of a single condition in which scarcity, complexity, symbolic authority, and fragmented enforcement interact without coordination. The system does not fail in one place; it fails in the gaps between these layers.
Symbolic systems
What makes this condition more severe is that symbolic systems continue to operate at full strength even when structural systems degrade. Religious identity remains powerful. Political rhetoric remains strong. Cultural symbolism remains intact. But enforcement capacity, institutional coherence, and social trust degrade beneath them. That gap is where instability grows. Until that gap is addressed at the level of structure rather than sentiment, repetition remains inevitable. New scandals will emerge, new interpretations will circulate, and new cycles of outrage will follow. Nothing resolves because nothing is being reconstructed beneath the surface of reaction.
This is no longer repairable through adjustment or rhetoric. It is a form of decay that persists until it exhausts itself, because the mechanisms meant to correct it are now part of the same failure. It continues until rupture, not reform. At that point, instability ceases to be episodic and becomes structural. Pressure will accumulate into breakdown, and what follows will not be managed transition but forced reversal. The responsibility lies with those who govern these institutions to prevent that trajectory, not through language, but through change. The drama is ending; farce is over; what we are witnessing is tragedy unfolding with unprecedented consequences.
by Nilantha Ilangamuwa
As Sri Lanka celebrates the birth, Enlightenment and the Parinibbana of the Buddha, almost a month after the rest of the Buddhist-world did so, there is widespread discussion about threats to Buddha Sasana provoked by some recent incidents. Regarding the views expressed about postponing Vesak celebrations in my article ‘May Day and postponement Vesak 2026’ (The Island, 25 May), my very good friend Dr Upali Abeysiri has sent me the following comments: “The Mahanayakas have a good reason to postpone Vesak. The dawning of the full moon has to be on the same constellation (nekatha) as when the Buddha was born and attained enlightenment. Although Adhi Poya is reckoned as the second full moon arising in the same calendar month, this is supposed to be an odd exception.” Though it would have been ideal if a consensus could have been reached prior to the split of celebrations, perhaps, it does not matter very much as celebrations occur on a symbolic rather than an actual date, there being no historical or archaeological evidence confirming exact dates.
Whilst there are no direct threats to Buddha Dhamma, as the expanding horizons of science continue to confirm the fundamentals of Buddha Dhamma, there is no doubt whatsoever that there are threats to Buddha Sasana. However, these threats become important as the Buddha Sasana performs the pivotal role in protecting and propagating the Dhamma and, hence, become an indirect threat to Dhamma itself. Therefore, it should be the concern of all Buddhists and it is in this spirit I am making some comments which some may interpret as disrespectful to the Maha Sangha. I can reassure that my intentions are entirely directed towards the preservation of the Buddha Dhamma and Sasana. Though the Buddha proclaimed that the Sasana consists of Bhikkhu, Bhikkhuni, Upasaka and Upasika, for all practical purposes Sasana had been led by Bhikkhus, often at the expense of others.
There is hardly any doubt that there are external forces at play in Sri Lanka and even some Buddhists seem to object to Sri Lanka being called a Buddhist country. Interestingly, no one seems to object to countries like the UK and the USA being called Christian counties. I
There is no registration or baptism in Buddhism and there are no rewards for Buddhists for conversions. As I pointed out in a previous article, ‘How does the Buddha differ’ (The Island, 1 May) unlike most other religions, Buddhism is not a ‘high-demand’ religion, nor ‘law-based’ religion and is not exclusivist. Perhaps, it is this liberalism, pacifism and gentleness, which are the real strengths, that are being exploited as weaknesses by others.
There will always be external threats and the Buddha too faced many during his lifetime. Before addressing those, is it not more important to address the threats within? One of the most important problems seems to be the breakdown of discipline. Bhikkhus are bound by Vinaya rules, laid down by the Buddha and some recent incidents highlight total deviations. Though there were many previous incidents like unsubstantiated claims of Arahanthood, Bhikkhus attacking each other on YouTube and Bhikkhus conducting YouTube channels, not for the propagation of the Dhamma but for the accumulation of rupees, attention was focused after the detection of 22 young monks carrying narcotic drugs.
Though many commentators were quick to condemn the Sangha on this account, we need to go deeper. Narcotic menace has become a huge problem in Sri Lanka and it looks as if the drug lords would resort to anything to achieve their objectives. Though it looks as if some gullible young monks had been duped by drug lords, we need to question why it was possible. Is it due to the lack of supervision of these novices by their seniors that allowed them to accept a request in a WhatsApp group? Should there be checks and balances on foreign travel by Bhikkhus?
What shocked Buddhists was what followed next; the arrest of the Nayaka of Atamasthana for allegedly having sex with a minor. Anuradhapura was our first capital and Sri Maha Bodhi is the longest surviving authenticated tree in the world. Ruwanweliseya and Jetawanaramaya were among the ten tallest man-made structures in the ancient world, Jetawanaramaya still holding the Guiness record for the largest stupa in the world. Cyberspace is full of theories. Whilst some have condemned the Nayaka Thero even before the conclusion of inquiries whilst others claim that this was a coup by another Nayaka Thera in an attempt of succession.
I was intrigued, reading in a Sri Lankan newspaper about the 80th birthday celebrations of a Nayaka priest, who was convicted in London in 2012 of historical child sex abuse and sentenced to seven years in prison. I remember the case very well as he was the head of the Vihara, we had our first contact on relocating to the UK. I also remember his devotees, who believed that he was wrongly accused, collecting over £50,000 for an appeal. In spite of being represented by one of the top Barristers in the UK, the conviction was upheld but the jail-term was reduced by a year. His name is still on the sex-offenders register in the UK and he is permanently prevented from association with children. One can argue that as he has served the sentence and not reoffended, this should not be held against him but what baffled me is that he is still being referred to as the Chief Sangha Nayaka. Should a person on the sex-offenders register be the Chief Sangha Nayaka?
It is high time we put our own house in order before fighting the external enemies. It is reported that the former president CBK has written to the Mahanayakas requesting urgent reform and we should be obliged to her for taking the lead.
There are many aspects that need urgent reform, the first being removal of caste barriers practiced by some Nikayas, which is the greatest insult to the Buddha who promoted equality. The second is the active encouragement of Bhikkhuni Sasana which has not happened in spite of the landmark ruling by the supreme court. The third is the establishment of proper disciplinary processes under a single Adhikarana Sangha Nayaka with powers and support than allowing the government to take over the control of even non-criminal Vinaya matters.
There are many other issues that need settlement like the controversy of the land of Buddha’s birth which seems to linger on. An expert committee should hear all evidence and settle this issue once and for all.
As I have pointed out on many occasions in these columns, it is high time a Dhamma Sangayana was held, as the last one was 70 years ago. Ideally, it should be different with active participation of lay experts as well. It is the duty of us Buddhists to ensure that the words of wisdom of the Buddha continue to enlighten generations to come.
By Dr Upul Wijayawardhana
The University of Ceylon, Peradeniya, was in our time, a less-crowded residential university, where everybody knew everybody else or at least knew of everybody else.
I knew of Emeritus Professor Vijaya Kumar of the Department of Chemistry at Peradeniya, or Kumar, as we referred to him fondly, before I got to know him. His dear wife Savitri, also a member of the academic staff of the Department of Chemistry, was nicknamed Kumee, by some of their students (of which vintage is unknown to me) and the duo were thereafter referred to affectionately as Kumar and Kumee.
The Faculty of Science became a regular haunt of mine as I would go there in the company of my batchmates to attend lectures on Basic Mathematics given by Professor Maheswaran, as it was a requirement for our General Arts Qualifying Examinations. I would also go there to listen to some excellent talks under a programme that was held in the auditorium of the Science Faculty referred to as “Popular Science Gossip”. The “gossip” at these talks were not confined solely to science but were broad enough to include Literature, History and other branches of knowledge as well. I would often spot Kumar in the audience at these talks or bump into him in the corridors of the Science Faculty. But I got to know him personally only after he became the Warden of Arunachalam, my hall of residence, during my undergraduate years initially, and later, as a member of the academic staff of the Department of English.
Our Science Faculty undergraduate contemporaries, especially those at Arunachalam Hall and its immediate neighbour, Jayatilaka Hall, both within a stone’s throw away from the Science Faculty, shared many an anecdote about Kumar and their other lecturers. One of these anecdotes, had to do with a spectacular (motor car) driving feat of Kumar’s. Legend has it that he drove from his university bungalow-home to the Faculty of Science deploying only the reverse gear of his car! Kumar, on hearing of this, had told certain of his student friends, including some who became his colleagues later on, that this story is one of the biggest yarns he had heard in his life!
Some of his one-time younger colleagues, now in retirement like Kumar, tell me that Kumar exuded warmth and friendliness in all of his professional and administrative interactions with others in the wider university community. But there was no warmth or mercy for those who indulged in the unsavoury pastime of student ‘ragging’. He was a very strong proponent of the need to ensure to all freshers an environment free of the menace of ‘ragging’. He remained ever-vigilant during the ‘ragging’ season. There are stories of his chasing ‘raggers’ and catching them. Professor Maheswaran, who later became an intimate friend and remains so after more than half a century, was another who was fiercely opposed to ‘ragging’. I was a personal witness to Mahes chasing a ‘ragger’ up and down the stairs of the main library to nab him. Yet another of his students has noted that Kumar’s office room in the Faculty was a total mess at all times. It had tables, piled so high with books and documents that one could not easily spot Kumar at his desk. He, however, had the knack of pulling out from amidst the clutter, any document that he needed at any given time. If anybody were to volunteer to help tidy his desk, Kumar would respond firmly with “Don’t you touch my desk!”.
Kumar, like several of his colleagues in the other faculties as well, had his own eccentricities. According to information received from reliable sources, Kumar who taught Organic Chemistry used to carry his lecture notes in his shirt or trouser pocket with ‘the entire lecture condensed in point form on a half-sheet or half of a half-sheet of paper’. The way he rummaged through his sling bag filled to the brim with stuff to find an item that he needed was another ritual that amused onlookers.
Kumar, interestingly enough is a Royal-cum-Thomian product, in that he had his primary education at S.Thomas’ Prep School, Kollupitiya and the entirety of his secondary education at Royal College, which he entered in 1953. In a note written by Kumar himself, he notes that despite having had excellent teachers at Royal, his was not a notable school career. He goes on to say that “the only achievement I could boast of was my being the joint-winner of the school General Knowledge Prize”. However, he had been active in a Scout Group outside of school (1st Port of Colombo, Sea Scouts) where he “was Queen’s Scout, Patrol leader, and later, Assistant Scout Master”.
Kumar entered the Faculty of Science of the University of Ceylon in 1961 and secured from it an honours degree in Chemistry in 1965. He joined the academic staff of the Department of Chemistry in the Faculty of Science, University of Ceylon, Peradeniya in 1965 and left the following year for Magdalen College at Oxford University, from which institution he obtained his doctorate in Chemistry. His entire teaching career was at Peradeniya, where in the period 2003-2006 he served as the Dean of the Faculty of Science, a position that his late father-in-law had held a few decades earlier.
Among the other highlights of his career are: Chairman of the Industrial Technology Institute (formerly the Ceylon Institute of Scientific and Industrial Research, CISIR); Member (representing Sri Lanka) of the Geneva-based UN Commission on Science and Technology from 1999 to 2007 and its President from 2001-2003; President of the Sri Lanka Estate Workers Union from 1989 onwards; Member of the Politburo of the Lanka Sama Samaja Party from 1988 to 2014 and currently, a member of the Executive Committee of the National People’s Power (NPP).
Vijaya and Savitri Kumar are parents of daughters Shamala and Ramya, who are following in the footsteps of their parents: with the former teaching in the Department of Agricultural Economics in the Faculty of Agriculture, University of Peradeniya and the latter, in the Department of Community Medicine at the University of Jaffna.
(I wish to thank the following who assisted me in the writing of this brief essay: Mr. Bandula Warnakulasuriya, Emeritus Professor Ratnayake Bandara, Professor Mahinda Wickramaratne, Professor Swarna Wimalasiri and Mr. Manik de Silva).
*Editor’s note: Prof. Vijaya Kumar, a member of the NPP’s National Executive Committee and is still active in politics turns 84 today. This article by Tissa Jayatilaka, former Executive Director of the United States – Sri Lanka Fulbright Commission for Mutual Academic Exchange, was written for an upcoming collection of essays on Kumar’s life by his friends.
(Colombo Telegraph)
By Tissa Jayatilaka
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