Features
In conversation with Danu Innasithamby: A journey of resilience, family, and creativity
In a world that often demands constant reinvention, Danu Innasithamby has learned to hold fast to the values that matter most—resilience, family, and an unwavering commitment to creativity. In this heartfelt conversation, The Island sits down with Danu to trace a life shaped by the quiet courage of a mother who taught them that strength doesn’t always need to roar.
From the shadows of war-torn Jaffna to the bustling corridors of Colombo’s schools, Danu reflects on the journey of finding one’s voice in a world that didn’t always understand it. They speak candidly about the ways their mother’s love and sacrifices continue to anchor them—lessons in grace and humility that have become the foundation for a life in storytelling and media.
As they share memories of childhood, early days in radio, and the evolution of identity as a queer person, Danu offers a moving portrait of what it means to be seen, to be true to oneself, and to carry forward the strength of those who came before.
You dedicated your memoir to your late mother on her birth anniversary—what inspired you to choose that moment for the book launch
Mummy was always our strength.
Akka and I were so attached to her — because deep down, it was always just the three of us, trying to find our way in this world.
She may not have been powerful, or influential, or known beyond our little circle. But to us, she was everything. A silent fighter. A quiet force. She did things I don’t think anyone else could do — and she did it all with the kind of grace that only she had.
Every child sees their mum as special. But Mummy… she truly was. She gave up her happiness, her comfort, even her dreams, so that we could live ours. Whether it was making sure we got the biggest portion of food, or just being a warm shoulder on the hardest days, she gave and gave and gave — always with a smile, even when there was nothing to smile about.
People often look to the sky to find heaven. But sometimes, heaven is a person. For us, that was Mummy.
That’s why this book is for her.
If she were here, I’d still have done the same.
You mentioned your mother’s strength, silence, and love shaped every chapter. Could you share a particular memory that captures her influence on you during your childhood?
Where do I even begin? There are so many moments, but if I had to choose just one thing—it’s how much of a pillar Dara was to her. She leaned on him for everything. She was almost childlike in some ways, relying on his strength and decisions. But when Dara was no more, something in Mummy changed.
She became brave.
She stepped up and did things that, even now, leave me in awe. From managing the most basic day-to-day tasks—paying bills, balancing whatever little money we had, making sure we were fed, finding ways to keep us in school—she did it all. She became our strength, our guardian, our safe place.
I truly believe women have this remarkable, almost otherworldly ability to transform into warriors when they need to. And in that moment, when the world could’ve broken her, Mummy became everything. Everything we needed.
How did your mother support you during the most turbulent moments of your early life in Jaffna?
She was calm in every storm. She didn’t have many answers, but she always made sure we had a warm meal, a warm bed, and a warm smile. In those days, that was enough. That was everything.
What values or lessons from your mother continue to guide you in your life today, especially in the media world?
One of the most profound things Mummy ever told me wasn’t a long sermon—it was something simple she lived by. Her bedtime prayer was always short, but she left me with this:
“Before you sleep, ask yourself—have you intentionally hurt someone? If not, rest. It’s beyond you now. But if you have, ask for forgiveness. Apologise. Make peace before you close your eyes.”
That one line shaped how I carry myself in the world. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about being accountable. And that… is one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me.
Was your mother aware of your dreams in storytelling and media before her passing? If so, what were her thoughts?
I count myself among the lucky ones—because Mummy got to see me on screen. She was beaming with pride even back when I was just a voice in the night, doing the graveyard shift on radio. That’s how we all started—midnight hours, training wheels. But Mummy? She’d stay up all night, just to make sure I didn’t fall asleep on the job. Only mothers can love like that—quiet, patient, unwavering.
She watched every show I did. Every single one. Even the Tamil ones, where half the time I was bluffing through my lines! And I still remember—just a day before she passed—she watched one of those episodes. She wasn’t well. Those days were hard. But there she was… watching, listening, holding space.
At the time, I had just signed on to my first film. I’d even released a Sinhala track that featured in the movie. One of the last things she asked to hear was that song. She wanted to listen. She always wanted to be part of it all—every step, every stumble, every celebration.
I know she’s still around. Not just in spirit—but in the whisper of instinct, the calm in a storm, the little voice that says, “You’ve got this.”
She never knew I’d write a book. Honestly, neither did I. But I think she sees it all now. And somehow, I feel like she’s reading every word over my shoulder—smiling that knowing smile only she had.
Can you describe your school life in Jaffna and how it was shaped by the conflict around you?
I didn’t stay in school in Jaffna for long—only until Grade 3. But those few years left a deep imprint. School life there was intense, shaped by the reality of war. Teachers were strict, and there was no room for excuses. If there was a curfew, school was closed. If a bomb went off, school was closed. And if a bomb went off during school—you ran and hid. Yet, even amid the chaos, discipline and deadlines were non-negotiable. Our teachers did everything they could with what they had. That resilience stayed with me.
When we moved to Colombo, school life changed—but it wasn’t easier. I joined St. Peter’s College, a respected school, but I struggled to fit in. Many of the kids came from more financially comfortable homes. Mummy did everything to keep up, but it was hard. I stood out, not in the ways a child hopes to. There were names, there were jokes—kids will be kids. I don’t blame anyone today because I know now that we’re all just trying to understand the world at that age. But yes, it hurt. At that time, it stung deeply. Still, I learned. I grew. And I’m grateful. Because all of that—Jaffna, Colombo, the silence, the noise—shaped the person I am today. And I wouldn’t trade that journey for anything.
What was the transition like when you moved from Jaffna to Colombo in terms of education and fitting in?
It wasn’t an easy transition. Suddenly, I was seeing things I’d never seen in my life—electricity that stayed on, chilled drinks, and shops where you could buy whatever you liked if you had the money. Only, I didn’t have the money.
Fitting in was hard. But one thing I’ve always held onto is honesty. I never lied about what I didn’t have. No TV at home? I said it. No beds? That was our truth. Never had KFC? I was fine to admit it. I found it easier to speak the truth than to pretend. Pretending only made the gap feel bigger.
I still remember the first time I accidentally ended up in a shopping mall. A friend and I were walking after school working on a project, and he asked, “Shall we grab a drink here?” I was flustered. Flabbergasted. I didn’t even know how to behave in that world. All I could do was ask him, “How many bus halts from here to my house?”
It felt like a different planet. But I think I was exposed to it all at the right age—old enough to be humbled, young enough to absorb it. And with time, I learned to navigate both worlds.
Were there teachers or school moments that particularly encouraged your creative or storytelling instincts?
The first is Miss Mel, my English Literature teacher. Ironically, she should’ve been the one to absolutely hate me—I spelt everything wrong, confused syntax with drama, and turned every essay into a theatrical production. But she didn’t. Instead, she cheered me on. She loved seeing me on stage and encouraged me to take part in Shakespeare drama competitions, even if I made up half the lines. Miss Mel was a kind soul with an even kinder heart. She passed away last year, but her belief in me still echoes every time I hold a mic or step onto a stage. She was truly remarkable.
Then there’s my choir teacher, Priyanthi. She taught me that voice is not just sound—it’s soul. She gave me the tools to pronounce, project, and most importantly, perform with presence. Her guidance built the foundation for the public speaking I do today.I also must mention Jehan Bastians and Ned. The first time I got on stage with them, I was green, awkward, and borderline dramatic—but they taught me everything from how to stand still (which was a challenge!) to how to deliver lines with meaning.
Every one of them—Miss Mel, Priyanthi, Jehan, and Ned—were instrumental in making me who I am today. They didn’t just teach me subjects. They taught me confidence. They gave me tools that I carry in my heart and use every single day. For that, I’m endlessly grateful.
How did your identity as a queer youth affect your school experience, both in Jaffna and Colombo?
To be honest, growing up in Jaffna, I was too young to even process any of it. And when I was in school, I don’t think I ever really let my emotions go there. Maybe I just didn’t have the language or the space in my mind—I was often lost in my own thoughts.All these terms we hear today—gay, queer, the whole spectrum—I didn’t know any of it back then. I had no frame of reference. I was actually very late to everything—very late. I didn’t even hold someone’s hand until I was in my mid-twenties.
So, for me, discovering who I was, accepting it, and allowing myself to be that person took a long time. My quiet demeanour, maybe even the way I carried myself, yes—it made me a target. I was bullied. Teased. You know, the usual things they do in school. But none of that gave me clarity about my sexuality. If anything, it left me even more confused.
Looking back now, I realise how long it took for me to find the words… and the courage.
Looking back, is there a specific school memory that you feel foreshadowed the path you eventually took in media and storytelling?
I wouldn’t say it all started in school—it was the stage that truly felt like home. While the classroom was where I learned, the stage was where I lived. That feeling of performing, of stepping into a spotlight and expressing something deeper—that’s what shaped me. I didn’t choose media; it somehow chose me. I never mapped it out, never imagined I’d be in it this long. I simply followed the joy of connecting with people, of sharing stories, of giving a voice to things that matter.
What keeps me going is that every single day still feels like my first. That excitement, that nervous energy, that sense of purpose—it’s all still there. I’m deeply grateful for this journey, and for the chance to keep telling stories that touch lives.
by Ifham Nizam
Features
‘Lord Edgware Dies’
It has been some time since I read an Agatha Christie, the plot of which I cannot remember. So, I was delighted to find on the shelves of a friend Lord Edgware Dies, which I had a vague memory of, but no certainty about who had done it.
When I read it, I found that my memory of who was probably the killer was correct, but I could not be certain and the red herrings Christie threw in were so diverting that until almost the very end I wondered if I had been wrong.
The plot is very simple. Jane Wilkinson, who is married to Lord Edgware, tells him that she is desperate for a divorce since she is in love with a very proper Anglo-Catholic peer, Lord Melton, but Edgware refuses to divorce her. She asks Poirot to talk to him, which he does, and is surprised to find that Edgware has told Jane he is prepared to give her a divorce. This was, after he had categorically refused, through a letter, which Jane said she had not received.
That night Edgware is murdered, after Jane had been to see him, or so the butler said, and also Edgware’s secretary. But Jane had been that evening at a grand dinner many miles away, where a dozen fellow guests could swear to her presence.
There was a solution however to the mystery of two Jane Wilkinsons, namely a skilful impersonator called Carlotta Adams who, in the opening chapter had impersonated Jane Wilkinson, who had also been at the performance. But when Poirot goes to see her, he finds that she had been found dead on the morning after Edgware had been killed, of an overdose. And in her bag was a gold case, with a strange inscription, that contained the drug, along with a pair of pince-nez.
Her maid said she had written a letter to her sister in America and posted it the previous night. Poirot asks Inspector Japp to get the letter, and a transcript is received from America, and in it the name of Edgware’s nephew Ronald Marsh is mentioned; he had taken Carlotta to dinner after her performance, with which the book opens, and had then set her a challenge. Japp arrests Marsh, but Poirot is not happy and asks for the original of the letter, which the sister sends him. That shows that a page is missing, and the tear is obvious, though that raises the question as to why it had not simply been cut.
Matters are further complicated by the fact that Marsh had gone in a taxi to the Edgware house, along with Edgware’s daughter Geraldine, in the interval of an opera which had previously seemed to provide them with cast iron alibis. Geraldine had gone in to fetch her pearls so that Marsh could raise money he needed, and thus had an opportunity to kill Edgware, as did Marsh, for the driver said he had got out of the taxi while waiting and gone into the house.
Marsh explained why he had gone to the house on the night of the murder as having followed Bryan Martin, an American actor, who had been in love with Jane, whom he saw go into the house with a key. But there was no one visible when he entered, and Geraldine almost immediately came down and they left together. And Martin too has become an object of suspicion to Poirot, for he had been to see him before the murders were discovered with a story of being followed by a man with a gold tooth – a story Poirot immediately realized was false when he was asked how old the man was, and was told he was young, for young people did not have gold teeth.
A heap of French money Edgware had got for a trip to Paris was missing, but since Marsh had no need for it after his cousin’s offer of help, Poirot deduces that it must have been taken by the butler, who has disappeared. Christie has stressed that he is astonishingly handsome, unusual in a butler, and Poirot notes a resemblance to Martin, so he thinks the mysterious man going into the house must have been him.
Incidentally, later Poirot assumes that Edgware’s change of mind was because he was involved in some scandal, and I believe Christie intends us to see the cause of this in his handsome butler, though this is not specified.
Meanwhile, Poirot has asked Japp to find out the provenance of the case found in Carlotta’s handbag, and it turns out to have been made in Paris, specially commissioned, and collected by a woman with pince-nez.
But then another murder occurs—that of another guest at the grand dinner, which provided Jane with her alibi. The victim is an actor who had been bemused when Jane, at a lunch, thought the Judgment of Paris referred to the city. He told Hastings he wanted to see Poirot, but was killed before he could get to the appointment. Poirot had rushed there when told about his request, but it was too late.
Meanwhile, Poirot has tried out the pince-nez on Edgware’s secretary, but she could not see through these. It was only a chance remark heard outside the theatre that led him to try them out on Wilkinson’s maid Ellis, a spare pair that had been appropriated for the night of the murders.
Poirot then lays things out, having summoned Martin and told him that he probably suppressed Edgware’s letter, as he had been dropped by then and he did not want Jane to marry another. But after teasing Martin, Poirot says that Jane was in fact the murderer, and she got Carlotta to impersonate her at the dinner while she went to the house and killed her husband. After meeting Carlotta later and checking with her through a call that she had
not been rumbled, Jane had gone ahead with the murder – she put veronal into her drink and the case with veronal into the handbag. She forgot to take out the pince-nez she had used earlier to imitate an American. Carlotta had registered as the American in a hotel and Jane had gone to see her, and there they exchanged identities. After seen the letter, she made use of it by tearing off the page that referred to her, and the S of She, so that the person who had challenged Carlotta to impersonate her seemed to be a man.
There is a coda in which Jane, condemned to death, writes to Hastings, still full of pride at her ingenuity hoping she will be remembered.
Features
Desilt reservoirs, learn from our ancient irrigation systems
by Prof. O. A. Ileperuma
Silting of reservoirs is a major problem today affecting our hydropower production and irrigation systems. The main Mahaweli reservoirs are silted to a considerable extent reducing the water holding capacity of them. Due to poor soil management practices, floodwaters deposit large amounts of silt in these reservoirs. When the Polgolla reservoir was fully drained about two years back, one could see mountains of silt in the lower reaches of the reservoir. A rough estimate is that 50% of the total capacity of these reservoirs has been lost to siltation. This is a serious issue which affects not only power and agriculture but also flood control.
Our ancient irrigation systems ensured that desilting of reservoirs took place under royal decree where all users of the reservoirs were ordered to carry out desilting of reservoirs during the dry season. The clay thus collected was used in making bricks for the construction of great stupas which dot the landscape of our ancient kingdoms. This ensured that the reservoirs had their full capacity filled with water for the next cultivating season. Our ancient kings were clever enough not to construct reservoirs by blocking main rivers such as the Mahaweli. A classic example is the Minipe left canal where they tapped only the surface water of Mahaweli. Even the bigger tanks such as Nuwara Wewa and Parakrama Samudraya were fed with minor rivulets. There were also other ingenious features in the cascade irrigation systems built by the ancient kings, such as mud sluice canals and forest reservations between the reservoirs in the cascade system. These reservations helped trap silt and remove excess nutrients, which could otherwise contribute to increasing salinity as water flowed from one reservoir to another.
- Parakrama Samudraya
- Kalawewa
- Kotmale
A classic engineering marvel is the former Yoda Ela, which carries water from Kalawewa to Nuwara Wewa and Tissa Wewa. It is 87 km long although the straight distance between these points is only about 40 km. The gradient of this canal is about 10 cm per km or 6 inches per mile. Yodha Ela functions as a moving reservoir and feeds about 4,600 hectares of paddy lands. It is a winding canal with about 120 smaller reservoirs on its way. It was constructed during the reign of King Dhatusena around 459 AD and later expanded by King Parakramabahu by connecting more reservoirs to the network. Unfortunately, during the Mahaweli project our modern-day engineers constructed a concrete canal replacing the winding path of this Yoda Ela also called Jaya Ganga. This effectively removed the ability of the old Yoda Ela to remove silt and nutrients. The bank of this Ela has wet zone trees such as jak and areca nut growing well. They take up the nutrients from the flowing stream making the water suitable for irrigation later.
Ancient Mesopotamian civilisations depended on dams constructed along the two main rivers, Euphrates and Tigris. After continuous irrigation of their fields over several thousand years, salinity of the irrigated lands increased making them unsuitable for agriculture. People died due to famine and this clearly illustrates the danger of blocking main rivers for agriculture. There is scientific evidence that the salinity of paddy soils in the Mahaweli C area is increasing.
We saw the devastation caused by Cyclone Ditwah. The sluice gates of the Kotmale Reservoir were opened, and Kandy and Peradeniya were flooded. If the reservoir had had greater storage capacity, couldn’t the opening of the gates have been delayed? This may not be an argument that modern-day engineers would readily accept, and I am not an irrigation expert. These ideas may well be naïve. But most of us tend to think of reservoirs mainly in terms of hydropower generation and irrigation, while their role in flood control receives much less attention. The question therefore deserves serious consideration. Could restoring lost reservoir capacity through desilting help improve our ability to manage extreme rainfall and reduce flood risks?
Desilting our reservoirs should be considered a national priority.
Features
Losing out to Ethiopia
Export diversification – Missing the wood for the trees – Part III
by Gomi Senadhira
In Sri Lanka, the word “Ethiopia” is often used as disparaging slang to describe individuals or areas experiencing extreme poverty, starvation, or severe economic hardship. This linguistic habit originated in the 1980s with the Western media coverage of the devastating Ethiopian famine of 1983-85. That media coverage shocked the world but also left an outdated and offensive global stereotype that the country is permanently starving. Much has changed since then. By now, with an annual growth rate of around 9%, it is the fastest-growing economy in sub-Saharan Africa. Ethiopia has also emerged as a highly competitive exporter and is challenging not only its competitors in the region but also countries like Sri Lanka. This article is on how Sri Lanka has lost ground to Ethiopia (and a few other countries) in the GCC markets for agricultural and floricultural products.
Sri Lanka – A Pioneer in the Agriculture and Floricultural Market in the GCC
As discussed in Part II of this article, by the mid-1980s Sri Lanka had established a strong foothold in the GCC’s fruit, vegetable, and floricultural market. Geographical proximity and well-established shipping and air links gave Sri Lanka a strong comparative advantage over Southeast Asian and African nations. Thailand, Vietnam, and Kenya were not even in the market. At that time, Ethiopia was experiencing (as BBC news reports described) “a biblical famine”.
The market was not very large, but it was lucrative and growing. Trade Minister Lalith Athulathmudali as well as the Chairman of the Export Development Board, Victor Santiapillai, who visited Kuwait (and the GCC countries), recognised the market potential for these products and encouraged us to continue with our work. The minister was particularly keen to further develop links between the market for these products, exporters, and his Export Production Villages (EPVs). So, it was becoming a successful case not only for export diversification but also for transferring gains from exports directly to rural households.
From Trailblazer to Tailender
As a result, even by the beginning of this century Sri Lanka had a larger market share than most of its competitors from Asia or Africa. But since then, our competitiveness has weakened significantly. The tables below provide a comparative snapshot of Sri Lanka’s performance vis-à-vis Thailand, Vietnam, Kenya and Ethiopia in the GCC market for vegetables, fruits and floricultural products. As illustrated therein, in 2001 Sri Lanka was ahead of Thailand, Kenya and Ethiopia in this small but rapidly growing market. Since then, we have fallen behind Thailand, Kenya and many other countries in that lucrative market. If this trend continues, Sri Lanka will fall behind Ethiopia within the next few years. (See Table 1)
In the GCC market for vegetables (covered in HS chapter 07), Sri Lanka was ahead of most other competitors in 2001. As illustrated in Table 1 , Sri Lanka had failed to develop this market, while Thailand, Kenya, and even Ethiopia had very efficiently increased their market shares. The GCC is a market to which Sri Lanka can supply some vegetables, like cabbages, by sea. It appears Sri Lanka had also failed to exploit this mode of supply.
We can see a similar trend in the market for fruits. Vietnam, Kenya, and Thailand have emerged as major players, while exports from Sri Lanka have staggered on slowly. In this segment, Vietnam has emerged as a leading player during the last twenty years and the GCC imports from Viet Nam have shot up from US$44 thousand in 2001 to US$346 million by 2024. In part one of these articles, I discussed the remarkable increase of jackfruit exports from Vietnam “…just $3 million in 2015 to an impressive $236.8 million in 2023” while most of our jackfruit production rots under the trees. This explains how countries develop their markets, geographically and product-wise. (See Table 2)
Sri Lanka’s performance has been weakest in the market for floricultural products (HS Chapter 06), which groups live trees, cut flowers, and ornamental foliage. When we first entered the market in the 1980s, the market was dominated by the Netherlands, and Kenya and Ethiopia were not even in the market. At that time, we identified the Gulf states as a market where Sri Lanka could have a dominant presence due to geographical proximity. Even in 2001, Sri Lanka was ahead of Kenya, Ethiopia, and Thailand. But by now, Kenya has emerged as the dominant supplier. Ethiopia is also expanding its market share and is the third-largest exporter. (See Table 3)
Missing the Wood for the Trees
In the mid-1980s, Sri Lanka first established its foothold in the GCC market. Since then, Thailand, Vietnam, Kenya, and even Ethiopia have moved well ahead of us and have become leading players. Why did we lag behind in our export diversification efforts in general and, more particularly, in the GCC market?
The reasons are very clear. After the initial attempts in the 1980s and early 1990s, Sri Lanka has not been proactively involved in identifying, developing, and promoting new products and markets, or protecting and further developing new markets already established. The focus has simply been on traditional exports: tea, coconut, cinnamon, and garments, while other products were almost ignored. In essence, we have been and continue to focus intensely on a narrow group of products and markets, and we have lost sight of the bigger picture.
(The writer can be reached at senadhiragomi@gmail.com)
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