Connect with us

Features

Melody in the military : A brief history of military bands

Published

on

By Uditha Devapriya
udakdev1@gmail.com

On the field and onstage, military bands play a decorative function today. Originally formed to accompany armies to their battles, they flourished in the West after the 17th century. A number of factors, including the rise of trade, industry, literacy, and imperialism, combined to popularise it in Europe and the United States. Yet the history of military and cadet bands goes beyond the West. Though they bear Western insignia now, these troupes are no more Western than are artillery, mathematics, even science. Indeed, they were as much at home among Europeans of the 18th century as they were in Sri Lanka of the 15th.

Military bands emerged when the crescent met the cross, or literally when the Europeans met the Saracens and the Turks during the Crusades. By then the division of the world into West and East had been complete. Yet the writing of music, which military bands obviously depended on, long predates this division: the first written sources on the subject come to us from southern Iraq, or Mesopotamia. The cuneiform script materialised in Ancient Sumer in 3000 BC. Nearly four centuries later, we hear of harps and lyres, used on their own but also as accompaniments to various functions and ceremonies.

Civilisation flourished at roughly the same time in Sumer and Egypt. Archaeologists have unearthed remains of clappers, scrapers, rattlers, clarinets, and oboes in these territories. Sometimes they appear in both places at once, but often they emerge in the one before the other: the clarinet, for instance, is missing in Mesopotamia, but was indigenised in Egypt by 2700 BC. What we can gather is that these instruments acquired a rhythm and pattern of their own, in line with the material conditions of their societies.

Louis XIV

From the early period to the Crusades, there is a long historical development. In the second millennium BC the cuneiform script spread to Anatolia. As with Mesopotamia and Egypt, a musical culture soon evolved. Yet unlike in those two societies, in Anatolia or Turkey music served a different function, more ritualistic; this explains the horn, which was never popular in Mesopotamia, but was indispensable for the Turks. During the Middle Ages the Ottoman Empire emerged as a formidable power and made inroads to Western civilisation. The fall of Constantinople in 1453 thus ensured that, for the next 500 years, “all things Turkish” would intrude on the Western consciousness. These included the military band.

The Ottoman Turks divided the world between what was and what was not theirs. They internalised this dichotomy, at home, by means of a division between believers and non-believers, granting the latter a status of protected persons they referred to as dhimmi. On the other hand, identity being a fluid construct, the State had the right to strip persons of such status and compel them to conform to the dominant Muslim culture. Yet the historian Fernand Braudel has noted that while non-believers wanted to convert, the Ottoman State felt it in their interests not to accommodate them, since converting them meant depriving the Treasury of the taxes it collected from non-believers.

In certain cases, however, the Ottoman State reserved its prerogative to convert. One such prerogative was the right to conscript Christian subjects from the Balkan regions. During the reign of Sultan Orkun (1326-1361) these conscripts were raised to form the most formidable contingent in the Middle Ages, the Janissaries (or “new troops”). The Janissaries then raised their own band, which they called the mehter: the forerunner of today’s military and cadet bands. At first the mehter consisted, among other instruments, of trumpets, kettledrums, bass drums, cymbals, shawms, and Turkish crescents, the latter a percussion stick (known as the “Jingling Johnny”) largely neglected today. Performed together, these instruments often “shrieked in unison” and emphasised “the ruler’s overwhelming might.”

Militaristic though its function was, the mehter played in peacetime as well, especially for the Sultan: on mornings before prayers, and on evenings after prayers. European diplomats in Turkey obviously could not escape these influences. Returning from the Crusades, kings and nobles brought with them their ideas for military contingents, based on what they had seen on “the other side.” Until then the horn and the trumpet had been the mainstay of the European band. The Ottomans were more varied: one chronicler lists clarions, horns, pipes, drums, and cymbals among their instruments, played “to excite their spirit and courage.” As for drums and kettledrums, these were “unknown” and largely alien to European militaries. At the siege of Damietta in 1249, for example, the Ottomans’ use of the kettledrums is said to have had a “frightening impact” on European soldiers.

The Ottoman influence spread to Britain and France. The serpent and the trombone became the first two major additions to the British military band. The oboe is reported to have made its first appearance in 1678 AD, during the reign of Charles II. The cleric Thoinot Arbeau, in his record of Renaissance life, Orchésographie, lists down the war instruments used by the French army; the oboe is not among them. By 1825, though, the French infantry had among its inventory of 36 instruments four oboes and two trombones.

The disbanding of military contingents after the Crusades elevated the role of music in the armies of Europe. We are told of minstrels accompanying the King of France to Calais in 1347, during the Hundred Years’ War, at a not unreasonable pay of “12 pence per diem.” Once at home, these minstrels formed guilds from which military bands would later fill their ranks. This set the foundation for the Europeanisation of Turkish music, a process which culminated with the French Revolution, Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, and the Treaty of Paris, not to mention the disbanding of the Janissary troops in 1826 AD. The Treaty of Paris, which “sealed 40 years of peace” between France and Britain, no doubt gave the militaries of both countries some space to absorb and add to these influences.

Janissary troops, an inescapable feature of cultural life in Europe at this time, had long caught the attention of ambassadors, artists, rulers, and even naturalists, who had noted their formations, instruments, their ranks and their hierarchies. It wasn’t only what was played, but how it was played that entranced these Westerners: one writer in 1891, for instance, refers to soldiers speaking of Turks “throwing up a bass drumstick into the air after the beat and catching it with the other hand in time for the next.” These had a profound influence on military band formations, as much then as today.

Starting with the Calvinist-Lutheran states of central and north Germany and extending later to Austria-Hungary, pseudo-Turkish music became a feature of court music; right until the mid-18th century, when a rift developed between popular and elite culture, these festivities entranced ruler and ruled alike. It was a time of mass artistic plagiarism: popular tunes, for instance, “borrowed from folk songs, theatre songs, patriotic songs, and new compositions”, while Bach (“Symphonies for Wind Instruments”), Mozart (“Serenades K. 375 and 388”), and Beethoven (“Octet in E-flat Major”) found favour with and became “familiar to the officers and wealthier classes of the fighting men within the various regiments.”

Military bands thrived on the whims of rulers, and on social and political change. Louis XIV, the “Sun King”, played a not insignificant part in the popularisation of their music, after he entrusted their training to the composer Jean Baptiste-Lully. Following Austria’s wars with the Turks, Frederick the Great played an equally pivotal role in shaping military music as an expression of the growing tide of European nationalism. When Mahmud II disbanded the Janissaries in 1826, after more than 135,000 of them revolted against him, it was left to European states to fill the resulting lacuna. These developments marked the beginning of the Europeanisation, and Westernisation, of an Oriental artistic form.

Meanwhile, in the United States, the War of Independence did for military bands what the Crusades had done for their European counterparts five centuries earlier. There the drum and the fife became the most sought-after instruments. Curiously enough, however, it was not until the arrival of a Prussian nobleman, Baron Friedrich von Steuben, invited by none less than Benjamin Franklin, that the US Continental Army began turning into a professional body. We are told that music was soon regarded so highly that “a subordinate inspector was appointed for its standardisation.” Not surprisingly, sales of books and staff papers soared at this time, signalling the importance of band contingents.

However, not until the late 19th century did these contingents gain the respect and esteem they are held in today. By 1912 they had commanded enough respect to warrant their own tournaments: a “grand international contest” held in France that year, for instance, offered a sum of £500, equivalent to £57,000 or Rs. 26 million today.

Buttressing all this was another development: the formation of school cadet corps across Western Europe. These corps spread wide and far, taking what had been an Oriental art form to the East and teaching it along Western lines. By now, thanks to the rigidity with which imperialism imposed its culture on its colonies, the Ottoman origins of the military band had been forgotten; it hence wouldn’t be long until, as with mathematics and music, science and art, the Oriental roots of yet another subject would fade away.

The writer is an international relations analyst, researcher, and columnist



Continue Reading
Advertisement
Click to comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Features

Combining local resources,traditional knowledge and science to build a food-secure Sri Lanka

Published

on

World Food Day 2026: Innovating today for a better food future

by Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara

What will be on the Sri Lankan dinner table ten years from now? Will our children be able to get nutritious food at a price their families can afford? Will farmers be able to grow enough despite changing weather and rising costs? And how much of the food we produce will actually reach the consumer, instead of being lost or wasted along the way?

These questions can’t wait. A farmer faces unpredictable weather. A family faces rising food costs. Fruit goes unsold after a good harvest. Some children do not get enough nutrition. The future of food is tied to the future of Sri Lanka itself.

World Food Day 2026 is a chance to look beyond the immediate problems and ask whether we can build a food system that feeds our people well, gives farmers better opportunities, protects the environment and makes better use of what we already have. The answer can be yes, but we will have to think differently.

We are not starting from zero. Sri Lanka has diverse crops, fisheries, traditional food knowledge, indigenous varieties, research institutions, universities and a young generation able to create new solutions. What we need is to bring these together and act. Producing more will not secure our food future on its own. It will depend on how intelligently we produce, process, preserve, distribute and consume food.

Making more of what we already have

Innovation does not always mean inventing something new. Often it means finding better uses for the resources we have.

Sri Lanka grows traditional rice varieties, kurakkan, green gram, cowpea, jackfruit, breadfruit, cassava, sweet potato, coconut and palmyrah. All of them have great potential for modern, nutritious, value-added foods. Jackfruit and breadfruit can be made into flour and other convenient products. Traditional rice varieties can go into new foods that suit changing consumer needs. Palmyrah, with its strong cultural heritage, can create new income through better processing, packaging, quality assurance and market development.

The aim is to connect our traditional food knowledge with modern consumer needs and technology, while keeping our food heritage.

Stop wasting the food we produce

Reducing food loss and waste should be a major priority. Seasonal fruits such as mango, banana, papaya and pineapple can be lost in large quantities when production exceeds demand or when storage, transport and processing facilities are inadequate. With suitable technology, these fruits can become dried products, pulps, powders, beverages and other shelf-stable foods.

Agricultural and fisheries by-products are resources too. They could be turned into food ingredients, animal feed, bio-based products and other useful materials, which would move us toward a more circular food economy.

Technology alone is not enough. We need stronger local processing facilities, cold storage, efficient transport, collection centres and market information systems, especially close to where food is produced. Cutting food loss raises the value of what our farmers and fishers already produce.

Nutrition and food safety come first

Food security means more than having enough food. People also need food that is safe and nutritious.

Sri Lanka can develop affordable, nutritious foods from local pulses, grains, vegetables, fruits and fish. Children and other vulnerable groups should get particular attention. Schoolchildren in particular deserve a focus: safe, nutritious, locally sourced products for school feeding programs would support child nutrition, local farmers and domestic food industries at the same time.

Food safety must stay at the centre of food innovation. Good hygiene, quality control, laboratory testing, traceability and appropriate food safety systems are what make new products safe as well as attractive and nutritious.

A food system that can cope with climate change

Climate change is already affecting agricultural production, water availability, crop yields and food prices. We need food systems that can handle changing conditions. That means climate-resilient crops, efficient water use, soil and water conservation, better storage and resource-efficient food processing.

Traditional knowledge matters here. Generations of Sri Lankan farmers have developed practices suited to local climates and ecosystems. Combining that experience with modern science can give us solutions that fit local conditions and are sustainable. Technology alone will not build the future of food. Science, experience and local knowledge together can.

Give young people a bigger role

Sri Lanka’s universities have an important part to play in shaping our food future. Young people should be encouraged to identify real problems in the food system and work on practical solutions in areas such as food waste, sustainable packaging, nutrition, food safety, modernising traditional foods and digital technologies.

A good research project should not always end as a research paper. Where appropriate, research should be supported to move on to products, technologies, enterprises and community solutions. That needs stronger partnerships between universities and industry, along with mentoring, research funding, business support and market connections. If young researchers and entrepreneurs can turn their ideas into viable food innovations, both consumers and producers will benefit.

A pathway designed for Sri Lanka

We do not need to copy food-system models from other countries. We can build a pathway that suits our own resources, culture and needs. It would bring together local resources, traditional knowledge, scientific research, appropriate technology and entrepreneurship, with farmers, fishers, universities, research institutions, food industries, entrepreneurs and policymakers working side by side.

The goal goes beyond selling raw materials. We need to create more value, reduce waste, improve nutrition, generate jobs and strengthen rural livelihoods. This matters especially for small and medium-scale food enterprises, which can drive local economic development when they get the right technical, financial and market support.

The choices we make today

The food future will not create itself. It will be shaped by what we grow, what we research, what we process, what we consume and what we choose not to waste.

So, the question for World Food Day 2026 is this: what can we do today so that every Sri Lankan has safe, nutritious, affordable and sustainable food tomorrow?

The answers are already around us, in our farms, fisheries, food businesses, universities, laboratories and communities. We have the resources, the traditional knowledge, the scientific expertise and talented young people. What we need now is to connect them and act.

A better food future begins with the choices we make today.

Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara

Senior Lecturer, Department of Biosystems Technology, Faculty of Technology, University of Ruhuna

Continue Reading

Features

20th Anniversary of Digampathana blast – the day Sri Lanka Navy cried

Published

on

Aftermath of the terror attack

By Admiral Ravindra C Wijegunaratne
WV, RWP and Bar, RSP, VSV, USP, NI (M) (Pakistan), ndc, psn, Bsc
(Hons) (War Studies) (Karachi) MPhil (Madras)
Former Navy Commander and Former Chief of Defence Staff
Former Chairman, Trincomalee Petroleum Terminals Ltd
Former Managing Director Ceylon Petroleum Corporation
Former High Commissioner to Pakistan

The Digampathana suicide truck attack on 16th October 2006 remains the deadliest single strike in Sri Lanka Navy history, leaving scars that time cannot erase.

It was a seemingly ordinary Monday morning on 16 October 2006, but the calm of that day would soon be shattered in a way none of us could have imagined. As the Commandant of the Naval and Maritime Academy and Flag Officer Commanding Naval Fleet at Trincomalee, I was aware that a number of my cadets were travelling that morning, part of a convoy of fifteen buses carrying naval personnel from Trincomalee, Colombo, and other bases, heading toward Dambulla to rendezvous with another group. The convoy also included trucks and escort vehicles, a routine movement planned and coordinated with the army to ensure the roads were clear. The morning started quietly. Some personnel greeted friends, handed over their weapons, or strolled to a nearby tea shop. It all seemed so ordinary—too ordinary for what would come next.

Sri Lanka Navy sunk LTTE Ships carrying arms, ammunition and warlike materials thousand miles away from Sri Lanka in Indian Ocean in September and October 2007.

By late morning, both convoys had reached the small ground at Digampathana, near the Sigiriya junction, and personnel mingled briefly, unaware that a carefully orchestrated act of terror was waiting. Then, suddenly, an empty half-truck veered directly into the convoy. It exploded with a ferocity I can still recall as if it were yesterday. Nuts, bolts, and high explosives tore through the air. Pandemonium erupted instantly. I later learned that 107 of our naval personnel were killed on the spot and another 153 critically injured. The scene was indescribable—bodies scattered, vehicles mangled, personal effects strewn across the ground. I remember later hearing that the head of the suicide bomber was recovered more than 100 meters away from the blast, a grim testament to the sheer force of the explosion.

I was in my office at the Naval and Maritime Academy when my mobile phone rang. A young midshipman from the 21st intake called, his voice trembling: “Sir, there was a huge explosion at the convoy point! Many are dead … my batch mate Wijesundara is among them.” I immediately jumped into my jeep with my escort Chief Petty Officer and driver and rushed to Digampathana, relying on every ounce of my driving skill to reach the scene. The journey, which usually took little more than an hour, felt endless that day, each passing mile weighed down by dread.

When I arrived, I was confronted with a sight that no training can prepare you for. The injured were being rushed to Dambulla Hospital, where doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, improvising in ways that saved lives despite the overwhelming chaos. I went back to the site after visiting the hospital. The remains of our naval personnel were scattered across the ground, and someone had begun collecting weapons and protective gear. I immediately contacted Surgeon Rear Admiral Nico Jayasekara and received his instructions: collect all body parts in separate bags and transport them to the Trincomalee Naval Hospital mortuary. This gruesome work had to be done with care and dignity, and it filled the icebox in my vehicle. Through DNA testing initiated by Rear Admiral Nico, we were able to identify every naval personnel lost that day, bringing some closure to grieving families.

The Navy Commander at the time, Vice Admiral Wasantha Karannagoda, was devastated. I had worked closely with him and knew how deeply he cared for his men. He ensured that the fallen were honoured with full ceremonial naval funerals at Welisara Naval Base, attended by families and comrades. Sixty-seven funerals were conducted in a single day—a number that still haunts me.

The Digampathana attack remains the largest single loss of naval life in our history. It was a day of sorrow, but also a day that reinforced our resolve. The tragedy galvanized the Navy to target the LTTE Sea Tiger wing with renewed determination and reshaped our maritime operations forever. Every time I think of that day, I remember not just the lives lost, but the courage, professionalism, and dedication of those who survived, those who treated the injured, and those who ensured the fallen were honored properly. May the souls of our naval hero’s rest in peace, their sacrifice guiding us and inspiring generations of naval personnel to come.

Continue Reading

Features

‘Murder at Whitby Abbey’

Published

on

Tales of Mystery and Suspense – 24

I was intrigued by the title of a book I found in a book drop at the condominium of a friend, Murder at Whitby Abbey, and I brought it home with me though I will not be able to return it in the near future. It was described on the cover page as ‘a standout in the crowded medieval mystery field’, though I fear I do not know of other books in this field, apart from the Cadfael series, which I have dealt with earlier.

The book, by Cassandra Clark, is set during the reign of Richard II and has as a backdrop his precarious position, which led to his being replaced, and murdered, by his cousin Henry, who reigned as Henry IV. It is a gloomy book, the action taking place in the twelve days of Christmas leading up to the Epiphany. And the gloom is pervasive, even though this is supposed to be a time of festivity, with mummers performing, and many of those in the guest house where the heroine stays going to town to enjoy themselves, with much drinking and much music, which also fills the guesthouse.

The heroine Hildegarde is a nun, sent to try to acquire a relic being sold by Whitby Abbey, though this was also a penance set by the Abbot of the monastery that governed her abbess because she had had sex with a man. Soon after she and her companions reach the Abbey set high on a cliff, she finds that there are other bidders, and soon suspects that the hierarchy, not perhaps the Abbot who seems a weakling, but his rapacious bursar, is determined to make money, and not above creating false relics to sell to several aspirants.

After Hildegarde and her Cistercian companions – Whitby is a Benedictine Foundation – two monks, Gregory and Egbert, and a young priest Mark, reach the abbey, they find that Aelwyn, a monk they had met on their way to the guesthouse had died. This was in the apple store, and they realize, when they find the surplices of novices stuffed into the air vents, that he had been left to suffocate in the overwhelming scent of apples.

Clark

The Cistercians are asked to look into the death, perhaps because they are likely to get no cooperation from the Abbey folk, but perhaps because those in charge are keen to know what happened. And the infirmarer, an old monk, suggests Hildegarde talk to a man called Edred who worked for the bursar, and had been a friend of Aelwyn’s. But Edred too is killed, before he can keep an appointment he had made with Hildegarde, drowned in a pool near the farmhouse of the Abbey.

Meanwhile tensions arise between the fisherfolk and the abbey for the bursar wants to charge them for using the beach that technically belongs to the abbey to dry their fish and their nets. This leads to physical battles, when the guards used by the abbey, under the command it seems of the bursar whose determination to make money is not resisted by the abbot and the prior, try to storm the area where the fishermen live.

Hildegard finds out more about what had happened through two youngsters, one of whom Torold is the son of Aelwyn by a woman who worked as a prostitute for a cartel, and with whom Mark fell in love. The other works on the farm and had seen Edred meet someone near the pool, after which that someone left the place by himself. And the boy had also found in the pool a sort of dagger with the seal of the abbey.

He and his dog, and Torold who follows her, rescue Hildegarde from a man at arms who has waylaid her and tries to rape her earlier. Escaping into the abbey she was nearly been raped then by the bursar, but she managed to escape, in the process setting fire to him and the muniments room, which led, when he was rescued, to the discovery of a box with the money he said had been stolen, blame being cast on both Aelwyn and Edred.

Matters come to a head when the fisherfolk try to storm the abbey, being resisted by the men at arms stationed on the towers. But then Hildegarde realizes that behind the murders was the bursar’s clerk, whom she pursued to the cathedral. There is great drama then as she escapes from him when he tries to kill her, and then from the man at arms who had tried to both rape and kill her, but they both fall from the scaffolding she had climbed, the latter coming from a tower where he had been stationed.

Both of them think they run the rapacity of the abbey, the latter claiming to work for the nobles opposed to Richard, who is presented throughout the book as devoted to his subjects, not to power or money. But though the villains die, the bursar continues, having got over the hysteria the fire had caused and his acknowledgment then of guilt – and though the abbot and the prior seem less vicious, whether they will be able to assert themselves is questionable.

Before the climax, when the others in the guesthouse were leaving, Hildegarde found that two of them were in possession of the relic, for which they seem to have paid well. Hildegarde herself had made a derisory offer, but before she leaves the abbot gives her the relic, perhaps in gratitude for what she and her fellow Cistercians had discovered, the abbey having made as much money as it needed and more from the gullible other buyers.

Mark’s inamorata is saved from the stews because she moves in with Edred’s widow whom the bursar had thrown out of the rooms he occupied when her husband was found dead. Hildegarde had paid for lodgings, in a house run by the man who ran the brothels, but he had a kindly side and was going to finance them to make nets for the fishermen.

So, the Cistercians set off for their home as swiftly as they can to get there on the day of the Epiphany, having stopped en route to pray for King Richard whose birthday it was.

Continue Reading

Trending