Features
The Bandarawela experience
(The war years)
Excerpted from Chosen Ground: The Clara Motwani Saga by Goolbai Gunasekara
When war broke out in 1939 its reverberations were worldwide, of course. Not for nothing was it referred to as World War II. Yet the widening ripples of the dreadful conflict barely reached our shores in Sri Lanka. The British Empire had weathered World War I from 1914-18, and so there seemed to be no good reason as to why we should not expect it to do likewise in 1939. Our confidence in the invincibility of the British Empire was such that even the declaration of war. seemed a far away affair which the British would handle with their customary elan, ensuring that the colonies and dominions were protected at all times.
Wiser local brains saw through the facade of invincibility. They realized quite early in the day that if this island were to be the focus of an enemy attack there was no possible way Sri Lanka (then Ceylon) could be defended. The British knew it and local leaders of the political community knew it — but the population at large did not know it, and thus worry was at a minimum.
It was not OUR war after all. The British ruled us, and the people of Ceylon felt that our rulers were well served by having total access to all our resources — especially our rubber, at prices set in Britain. Had the owners of the island’s rubber estates been allowed to sell their produce in the open market at the time, Sri Lanka might not be in the economic doldrums of today. Similarly, all the island’s assets were regarded as Britain’s by right of conquest, and so Ceylonese felt they had done more than their bit as far as the war was concerned. They settled down to see it through.
The question of ‘evacuation’ trembled in the air. Until such time as schools could be transferred up to the hills, schoolchildren in the coastal areas were taught air raid drill. This provided an exciting little interlude in our daily life. It worked thus. A siren would sound that would be heard all over Colombo. At that signal, school kids dived under their desks, or lay flat in the corridors until the all-clear sounded. Sand bags were piled up on roadsides, and even in schools, giving us a thoroughly deceptive feeling of security. As far as school girls were concerned, it made for a welcome break in the monotony of school life.
Eventually, of course, the Principals of the big Colombo schools began making preparations for an exodus up-country. Schools were soon divided to form an ‘Up-country Branch’ and a ‘Colombo Branch’.
The Royal College buildings in Colombo were taken over by the British Government and so the school transferred to a new location at “Glendale” in Bandarawela. St.Thomas’ College, which already had a branch at Gurutalawa, also went to Getambe. Bishopians trotted off to Kandy, and sited themselves at “Fernhill”. Further up was Ladies’ College in “Uplands”, while the students of Bishop’s College and Ladies’ College who were left behind in Colombo, joined up as the “Lake School” – probably the only time these two rival schools have ever been so close.
Somewhere along the way however, our complacency received a little jolt. Singapore fell and the Japanese were too close for comfort. Schools that could afford a quicker evacuation began moving up to the hills. Visakha soon began this process itself. Under the Principals of these schools (mostly foreigners) work and studies went on without missing a beat. A holiday atmosphere may have been noticeable but it did not penetrate into the classroom agendas. My own mother, as Principal of Visakha, had to divide her time between the Colombo branch and the Bandarawela branch. I presume that all the Principals shuttled up and down in a similar manner. Certainly the train journeys up and down were comfortable beyond belief. Snowy white sheets and fluffy pillows were laid on berths in the First Class carriages, which made the journey totally delightful.
Mother eventually used a personal friendship with Mr. D.G.K. Jayakody who had a large home, “Chandragiri” in the hills of Bandarawela. It was rented by Visakha for the new branch school. Temporary classrooms were built while the main house was used for the boarding. One of Mr. Jayakodys granddaughters, Ramya, remains my close friend to this day and her granddaughter, Saveeta, is one of my pupils at the Asian International School at the moment. Another instance of the circle of life!
Classes began. Mrs. Susan George Pulimood (subsequently Principal of Visakha), and Mrs. Chandra Godakumbure, wife of the later Archaeological Commissioner, were among the numerous excellent teachers who went up to Bandarawela. Mother ran both schools in Colombo and Bandarawela on a shuttle system which seemed to work well enough. She had a great time, enjoying the slightly unorthodox atmosphere. Small classes gave her time to get to know every girl intimately — whether the girls enjoyed such close personal attention was another matter. Mother concerned herself with neat cupboards, clean clothes, hairstyles, diet, personal hygiene, exercise and everything else, not really a Principal’s usual business.
It would be correct to say that these mountain schools, so small in number and in size, functioned as happy families. There were compulsory religious activities, of course. The Bandarawela temples and churches never had so many adherents as they did during the war years.
For excitement and entertainment there were the movies. Whatever Britain was doing on the various war fronts, her colonies received regular inputs from the film studios. Two changes a week was the order of the day. Mother would graciously allow her Visakhians to walk into town to see the latest Greer Garson or Ingrid Bergman offerings (among others) on the silver screen. We thrilled to ‘Dangerous Moonlight’, `Mrs. Miniver’, and other movies of high romance. Films that starred Shirley Temple and Margaret O’Brien were considered suitable for us juniors. To this day I remember the hair of Dr.Thelma Gunawardena (now retired Director of National Museums), done in Shirley Temple ringlets.
In Diyatalawa, three or four miles from Bandarawela, there were two theatres which catered to the servicemen and the general public. If the teachers at Visakha felt particularly adventurous, they would walk the distance and back just to see a film that had been highly publicized. Older girls were allowed to accompany them, and there were some touching incidents.
One of the movies had taken an unusually long time to end, and it was dusk when the Visakha contingent finally emerged from the cinema to begin the long walk home. It was a time when violence was minimal. The whole island was safe, safe, safe. Whatever fear the group might have felt was mainly because of animals that may have unexpectedly run across the road. Buses did not run so late and in any case there was petrol rationing.
Cautiously, the Visakhians decided to set off. Sri Lankan voices are not necessarily soft, and a group of British officers soon caught on that this was a bunch of jittery natives. One of the senior officers approached the group. “I can have you escorted back to Bandarawela,” he said, and proceeded to send two cadets along with the nervous ladies . Naturally they got chatting on the way, and the two young soldiers told the Visakhian group that they were the first Ceylonese who had talked to them, apart from the servants they employed.
Seeing the Visakhians hiking up the Visakha hill with two young British soldiers as escorts almost gave Mother a heart attack. She had visions of angry, tradition-oriented parents getting to hear that their offspring had actually arranged to meet those dastardly British soldiers, whose intentions just had to be questionable, if not downright dangerous. She eventually recovered enough to send their C.O. a nice note of thanks, but it was a long, long time before Visakhians undertook that walk to Diyatalawa to see a film, however marvelous it might be.
Then there were the paper chases, otherwise known as the ‘Hares and Hounds’. These were dear to Mother’s heart. Not only were her girls learning the art of simple tracking, but they were also breathing in all that marvelous mountain air for which Bandarawela was justly famous. Writing about the ‘Bandarawela Experience’, author Manel Ratnatunga has this to say:
“But it was only the evacuation of the school to Bandarawela during the war years that brought me close to Mrs. Clara Motwani, our Principal. To all of us in those makeshift classrooms on the hills of Bandarawela, fragrant with eucalyptus and pine, she made us realize that a school could maintain high standards of learning and discipline even in makeshift buildings.
“In the dwindled school the communication gap between ‘the awesome American Principal’ and staff and students was bridged in a manner that would not have been possible in the large and impersonal Colombo buildings. With wisdom and good leadership, Mrs. Motwani altered her style to fit the countryside and keep her homesick brood well and happy.
“So there we were accompanying her on three-mile walks which had us running to keep up with her strong, long strides; visiting the rickety old cinema house atop some garage (she sometimes included the domestics, who looked askance each time there was a kiss on the screen); hitching train rides on excursions to neighbouring townships; trekking cross country over hill and dale. She was always with us, the least exhausted, and perhaps because of that day and age we never crossed the ‘Maginot line’ of respect for the Principal or our teachers. Memories of euphoria.
“For religious instruction, with no Narada Thero of Vajiraramaya Temple on call, Mrs. Motwani’s Visakhians turned to the Czechoslovakian monk, Rev. Nyanasatta, from a lonely hermitage, as he spoke English, rather than to the local monks who sometimes didn’t.”
But alas! My happy days of Dr. Ratnavale’s advised freedom were coming to an end. I was transferred to the Froebel School, also in Bandarawela, which catered mostly to foreign children. Many of the students in this school had fathers in the army and so regular bulletins were reaching us eight-year-olds from other authoritative eight-year-olds. The boys’ favourite game at Froebel was called “Bombers and Blackouts”. We girls were nurses and other unexciting helpers. My friend Suriya (Doreen Wickremasinghe’s daughter) went up to Froebel before I got there but her unusually high IQ placed her in a class or two above me.
Many wealthy Colombo citizens maintained lovely holiday homes in the hill country. The British began commandeering the best unoccupied ones on a year-round basis, for the use of their Army Officers. There was a large Army Cantonment in Diyatalawa, just three. miles from Bandarawela. Wishing to keep the British officers from taking over her upcountry bungalow, Mrs. C.V. Dias, who knew
Mother, asked if she would like to occupy “Suramya’, her beautifully appointed house, which stood on the hill the same as “Chandragiri”.
Mother was delighted and so were Su and I, for “Suramya” was delightfully luxurious. Just below “Suramya” was the holiday home of S.J.E Dias Bandaranaike and his wife Esther. They had three daughters, all of whom now entered Visakha for the duration of the war, as their old school, Bishop’s, was too far away.
Aunty Esther was an Indian, and was not only lovely to look at but also had a formidable brain … something all her three daughters inherited. The eldest, Gwen, became Principal of Bishop’s College. Sonia, who went to Cambridge for her medical degree, practices medicine in Suffolk, while Yasmine, the youngest, is Emeritus Professor of English Literature at Macquarie University in New South Wales, and has been awarded the Order of Australia for services to literature and education.
Aunty Esther had known Mother earlier, but that Bandarawela neighbourliness cemented a strong friendship. Her youngest daughter, Yasmine, became my friend and still is. Yasmine, her sisters, and I would all play Monopoly on the huge Bandaranaike antique beds which served as divans, or comfortably read books together during my holidays from Froebel. These are the memories I have of Bandarawela. These and many others.
The ‘in’ shop at Bandarawela during the war (in fact the only well-stocked one) was a branch of Colombo’s `Millers’. It pretty much catered to everyone’s needs. Our hair was cut by an elderly barber at the Bandarawela Hotel, whose clientele ranged from age three to 83. Hair styles were unheard of. We read of rationing in England, but in Ceylon no one was actually losing weight because of any constraints. In short, food was available. A locally made chocolate, ‘Barbers’, was substituted for Cadbury’s and Nestle’s – but we managed.
On one never-to-be-forgotten day, a bomb (or bombs) fell in Colombo. The girls at Visakha were in a tizzy. No work was done at all. Visakhians tried frantically to call their homes but as each call was a trunk call (which took about two hours to connect) there was little communication between them and their parents. As I remember it, I don’t think anyone was actually killed by those few bombs … but I am open to correction. Certainly, Ceylon had it good during the war.
Colombo, meanwhile, was rapidly becoming a ghost town. On the gates of half the residences of the city there were signs reading “To Let”. A house could be leased for Rs. 100/- a month, and even that was considered a luxury rental.
Back in India my father, nervous about the vulnerability of the island, soon carted his family back to the Nilgiri Hills. The story of how this came about is related later. My sister and I finished the War as pupils at the convent in Ootacamund in India, where we managed, again, to ignore the European conflict as both Father and the Indian newspapers were far more concerned with the doings of Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru and the Indian Congress.
The unorthodox schooling arranged for the Bandarawela Viskhians during the war years has resulted in many tales being told. Dr. Geeta Jayalath remembers Mother tucking her into bed. She was just 10-years old. Incidentally, Geeta was one of the first Visakhians to qualify as a doctor after Mrs. Pulimood introduced the Science stream into Visakha when she succeeded Mother as Principal. Her sister Ishwari Corea, whose name is synonymous with the Public Library, remembers that Visakha-in-the-hills had no boundary walls. Students knew they should not stray out of the general periphery of the school.
One Sunday, Ishwari and a few like-minded dare-devils were merrily coasting up and down the school hill when to their dismay they ran smack into Mother, who, running true to form, was checking up on het boarders when they least expected it. Reversing themselves they sheepishly followed her up the hill. Her ‘punishment’, if it could be called that, was typical. She always explained WHY she was handing out a punishment. She did so now.
“Ishwari,” she said, “I am quite aware you were in no danger, but let us just suppose that your parents had decided to visit you, and that I was unable to find you. What could I have possibly said to them?”
A highly popular `correction’ was being asked to wait over at mealtimes for everyone else to finish. Verona Ranasinghe, one of the stricter Prefects, was constantly on the alert for little miscreants. She reported them to Mother, who tried to make the punishment fit the crime.
What Mother did not know about this particular crime-deterrent was, that the late diners got far more than those who had gone before. There was always plenty of food left over, and the extra banana, the extra slice of pineapple, even any extra caramel pudding was theirs for the asking. Mother had no idea that waiting 15 minutes for dinner was no great hardship, and she always handed out her corrective measures reluctantly. Secretly jubilant, Ishwari and her partners in crime looked so upset that Mother, who hated any disciplinary action connected with food, revoked her order.
“Never mind,” she told the little hypocrites, “I’m sure that my talk with you will of itself be enough to halt any unscheduled walks in future.”
“Oh, thank you Mrs. Motwani,” they chorused, as all that extra food evaporated before their very eyes.
Mother frequently mentioned the livelier (and therefore better remembered) girls in the boarding. Yasoma Rupasinghe was one of these, and Vinitha de Silva (now Dr. de Silva) was another.
“Her eyes literally sparkled,” Mother would say. Then there was pretty Indra de Silva, mother of the famous cricketing Wettamunis, who closely resembled the film star, Deanna Durbin. She was at that time a highly popular actress, and, was reputably Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s (president of the USA) favourite screen idol.
The Hewavitharna girls, Manel, Rani, Sita, Manthri, Kaushalya and Indira were day scholars, but they joined in most of the hostel programs. Manel was Mother’s star pupil in English. It was a talent that flowered, for Manel has become a well-known writer and is the author of many books, one of which was short listed for the Gratiaen Award.
Dhameswari Karunaratne’s parents also lived on the Visakha hill and this little academic genius went on to become the Vice Principal of Visakha after a brilliant scholastic career. She would get a near 100% in every subject, which was terribly discouraging to her classmates who, try as they might, could not retch such perfection.
There were even two boys amidst all these girls and they certainly lent colour, if not spice, to this all-girl establishment. There was no doubt in anyone’s minds that this early exposure to all female company gave these boys a head start in life, for they have both been highly successful in their chosen fields. Channa Gunasekara went on to become Sri Lanka’s Captain of cricket while Singha Basnayake ended a brilliant scholastic career working for the UNO. Lest Visakha takes all the credit I must add that both young men returned to Royal College from whence they had sprung.
There was a personal outcome of the Bandarawela days which concerned Mrs. Pulimood and myself Mrs Pulimood was the only Christian in Visakha at that time. If I happened to be home on vacation from Froebel, Mother sent me along with Mrs. Pulimood to keep her company on the walk to Church and also to fulfil Mother’s belief that all religions are worthy of being studied. As a Syrian Christian, Mrs Pulimood would explain to me that hers was the oldest organized Christian Church, dating back as it did from the arrival of St Thomas (the doubting Thomas of the Gospels) in India. I wonder if she ever realized that my subsequent deeper involvement with Christianity was the result of those first seeds sown by a brilliant teacher.
Father came to Bandarawela only once. We still went to India for holidays but for the greater part of the War, Father was on tour. He stayed put long enough to lecture for two years at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences in Bombay, but he kept telling Mother that she should join him in India as Ceylon’s defences were minimal. Mother would never leave Visakha until Father forced her hand as related elsewhere.
For the present, Mother continued her life as a commuting Principal. Whenever she was down in Colombo she either stayed with Dr. and Mrs. E.M. Wijerama, her close friends, or else with Dr. and Mrs. Blok whose daughter Winifred had been a pupil at Visakha. Winifred was a talented pianist. As a pianist herself, Mother loved listening to Winifred’s playing. It heightened the enjoyment of these rare social evenings of warm hospitality spent in the company of gracious friends.
Features
Quandary of Dengue: Some roving perspectives
Sri Lanka is currently well and truly trapped in the strangling grip of a devastating and severely enhanced dengue outbreak. The numbers alone are staggering; over 44,000 cases have been recorded across the island so far this year, with the highest concentration systematically suffocating the Western, Southern, and Central provinces. Hospitals and healthcare providers are under extreme pressure, but the cold metrics of morbidity do not capture the true implications and dismay of this current wave. What has profoundly shaken the public consciousness and even sent a shudder through the medical community is a grim shift in the implications for the populace.
Dengue has always been quite a threat, looming over our Motherland from time to time. Yet for all that, historically, child deaths due to the virus were relatively rare in Sri Lanka, thanks to scrupulously adhering to robust clinical guidelines, as well as exceptional paediatric monitoring and management. This year, that safety net seems to be straining quite a bit at the edges and among the reported fatalities are a tragic number of children. The virus is moving faster, hitting harder, and exposing a terrifying reality, even stressing that our existing defence mechanisms are perhaps no longer totally sufficient to deal with the problem.
In response, public health authorities have deployed their traditional arsenal. Teams are busy with intensive surveillance, conducting house-to-house inspections, enforcing strict penalties for standing and stagnant water, and sending fogging machinery through the streets to blanket neighbourhoods in chemical mists. Yet, as case counts climb by nearly 50% week over week, an uncomfortable question must be asked: Are these traditional measures sufficient, or are they bordering on an exercise in futility?
The Illusion of the Fog: Why Our Current Strategy May Be Failing?
To understand why Sri Lanka might be in a tight corner, one must look closely at the enemy. Dengue is transmitted primarily by the Aedes aegypti mosquito, a highly adapted, urbanised insect. While Aedes aegypti is widely considered the primary culprit, Aedes albopictus (commonly known as the Asian tiger mosquito) plays a massive, highly dangerous role in Sri Lanka’s dengue transmission as well. In fact, the interplay between these two species is one of the biggest reasons why controlling dengue on the island is so incredibly difficult. These two vectors behave differently, breed in different places, and require distinct strategies to combat their well-recognised roles in the propagation of the disease that is dengue. Understanding how these two mosquito species split the territory could explain why a single controlling method might not always work across the board.
Aedes aegypti mosquitoes are strictly urban and indoor creatures. They live alongside humans inside houses, apartments, and in heavily built-up commercial areas. They rest on dark clothes in closets, under furniture, and behind curtains. They breed in artificial containers, clear, stagnant water in flower vases, plastic cups, concrete sumps, and overhead tanks. They prefer human blood almost exclusively and bite multiple people to get one full meal, thereby spreading the dengue virus rapidly within even a single household.
In contrast, Aedes albopictus is semi-urban and rural, thrives in vegetations, gardens, rubber plantations, and peri-urban areas where green spaces meet houses. The creature rests in shaded bushes, high grass, and low canopy foliage, as well as holes in trees, leaf axils, coconut shells, discarded tyres and trash. The biting behaviour of these mosquitoes is opportunistic. They bite humans but also feed on birds and domestic mammals, indicating that they can survive easily even when human density is low.
The traditional responses we rely on, most notably thermal fogging, are largely cosmetic public relations exercises rather than a totally effective vector control mechanism. Such fogging misses indoor resting sites, drives resistance, and stagnant water elimination fails against cryptic, microscopic breeding sites.
Fogging utilises “adulticides“, chemical sprays meant to kill flying mosquitoes. However, Aedes aegypti is a domestic creature; it rests indoors, hidden in the dark recesses of closets, under beds, and behind curtains. A fogging process achieves very little penetration into these indoor sanctuaries. Furthermore, over-reliance on these pyrethroid-based chemical sprays has accelerated insecticide resistance, effectively rendering the chemicals useless over time.
Similarly, while the National Dengue Control Unit (NDCU), to their eternal credit, aggressively pursues the elimination of visible standing water, the sheer adaptability of the mosquito outpaces manual human labour in trying to eliminate the breeding places of the vectors. Aedes eggs can remain dormant in dry containers for months, hatching the moment a drop of water touches them. In dense, urbanised areas like Colombo and Gampaha, microscopic breeding sites, from the rim of a discarded plastic bottle cap to the base of an indoor potted plant, are impossible to completely police.
If we continue to rely solely on manual cleaning and chemical fogging, we are fighting a twenty-first-century climate-driven crisis with mid-twentieth-century tools. We must look beyond our borders to see how global science is shifting the paradigm of mosquito control.
The Biological Frontier: Insects fighting Mosquitoes
When searching for international alternatives, many look towards the United States, where vector control districts manage complex mosquito populations across diverse ecosystems. A common point of curiosity is the historical use of “mosquito-eating insects.”
In the US, biological control has long featured predatory species. While some point to insects like dragonfly nymphs or giant non-biting mosquito larvae (Toxorhynchites, which actively prey on other mosquito larvae), the most widely used traditional biological agent in American municipal water systems is actually the Gambusia affinis, commonly known as the “mosquitofish.” A single one of these surface-feeding fish can devour hundreds of mosquito larvae a day.
However, American vector management has largely evolved past simply dumping predatory fish into ponds. The true modern frontier in global mosquito control relies on advanced biological and genetic interventions that turn the mosquitoes against themselves.
1. The Wolbachia Revolution
Perhaps the most successful international intervention against dengue is the introduction of Wolbachia-infected mosquitoes. Wolbachia is a naturally occurring bacterium found in up to sixty per cent of all insect species, but crucially, not naturally present in Aedes aegypti.
When scientists introduce Wolbachia into Aedes mosquitoes in a laboratory and release them into the wild, two extraordinary things happen: –
· Viral Suppression: The bacterium competes with viruses like dengue, Zika, and chikungunya inside the mosquito’s body, making it incredibly difficult for the virus to replicate. If the virus cannot replicate, the mosquito cannot transmit it to a human.
· Population Replacement:
Through a mechanism called cytoplasmic incompatibility, when a Wolbachia-carrying male mates with a wild female that does not carry the bacteria, her eggs do not hatch. If a Wolbachia female mates with a wild male, her offspring will carry the bacteria. Over time, the local mosquito population is entirely replaced by harmless, non-transmission-capable mosquitoes.
In comprehensive global trials, such as those conducted by the World Mosquito Programme in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, the introduction of Wolbachia mosquitoes led to a staggering 77% reduction in dengue incidence and an 86% reduction in dengue-related hospitalisations.
2. Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) and Genetic Modifications
Other countries, including parts of the US (such as the Florida Keys) and Brazil, have turned to genetic engineering. Using the Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) or advanced genetic variants (like those developed by Oxitec), millions of bio-engineered male mosquitoes are released into the wild. Because male mosquitoes do not bite humans, and they feed exclusively on nectar, thereby posing zero risk to the public. These males mate with wild females, but pass on a self-limiting gene that causes the female offspring to die in the larval stage before they can ever mature, bite, or transmit disease. This results in a drastic collapse of the localised vector population without the use of even a single drop of toxic chemical pesticide.
Moving beyond the Status Quo: A Blueprint for Sri Lanka
The current dilemma in Sri Lanka is a classical gridlock: we are deploying immense physical effort and economic capital into vector control measures that yield diminishing returns, while our clinical wards fill with critically ill patients. If we are to break this cycle, our public health policy must undergo a rapid structural evolution
We cannot instantly replicate the multimillion-dollar genetic laboratories of the West, but we can modernise our strategy immediately by adopting a highly targeted, multi-tiered approach.
Comprehensive Vector Management Strategy
The following are some thoughts that need to be carefully evaluated in a venture towards getting things under control.
· Shift from Adulticides to Target Microbial Larvicides Immediate Phase
Cease the reliance on sweeping chemical thermal fogging. Instead, deploy specialised microbial larvicides such as Bacillus thuringiensis israelensis (Bti). Bti is a naturally occurring soil bacterium that, when ingested by mosquito larvae, destroys their digestive tracts. It is completely non-toxic to humans, pets, and other aquatic life, and can be distributed via localised backpack sprayers or drones into inaccessible urban sumps.
· Scale Up Localised Wolbachia Trials Intermediate Phase
Sri Lanka has previously initiated small-scale, localised pilot releases of Wolbachia mosquitoes in select urban pockets. Given the severity of the 2026 outbreak, these programmes must be aggressively scaled up into an industrial-level national initiative. Public-private partnerships must be leveraged to establish sustainable, high-capacity mosquito-rearing facilities locally.
· Implement Digital Ovitrap Surveillance Continuous Integration
Replace manual, retroactive searching with predictive digital mapping. Deploy networks of smart “ovitraps” (oviposition traps) across high-burden provinces. These traps monitor egg-laying rates in real-time, allowing automated data systems to predict a spike in the adult mosquito population weeks before an actual clinical outbreak occurs, enabling preventative targeting.
The Cost of Inaction
Maintaining our current trajectory is not a neutral choice; it is an endorsement of escalating mortality. The 2026 outbreak has proven that the ecological dynamics of dengue have changed, fuelled by changing weather patterns and urban density. Our public health response must change with it.
The heart-breaking loss of young lives in this current surge must serve as a stark wake-up call. We must look at the international landscape, embrace the biological innovations that have saved lives across the globe, and transition from a policy of panic-driven reaction to one of scientific eradication. It is no longer just a matter of cleaning our drains; it is a matter of upgrading our science.
Why Aedes albopictus Makes the Sri Lankan Crisis Harder
In Sri Lanka, the geographic landscape transitions quickly from dense concrete cities to lush, tropical vegetation. This creates the perfect environment for both species to thrive simultaneously.
· The Surveillance Blindspot: When health authorities focus heavily on checking indoor water storage and concrete drains in cities, they can completely miss the massive Aedes albopictus populations breeding in the surrounding vegetation, suburban gardens, and rural homesteads of the Southern and Central provinces.
· The Failure of Indoor Fogging:
While indoor residual spraying or targeted indoor fogging might hit Aedes aegypti, it has virtually no effect on Aedes albopictus, which spends its life cycle outdoors in the bushes.
· Climate Resilience:
Aedes albopictus eggs are remarkably tolerant of colder temperatures and varied environments. This allows the vector to push higher into the mountainous terrains of the Central Province, bringing dengue to areas that historically saw very few cases.
To truly bring down the case numbers in a severely enhanced outbreak, public health interventions must be dual-targeted: addressing the indoor, urban threat of Aedes aegypti while simultaneously tackling the outdoor, ecological stronghold of Aedes albopictus. We cannot sit back on our laurels of the past. We need to move forward resolutely.
Features
ANURADHAPURA ANTHEM c.1893
R. W. Ievers, who wrote this poem, was the Government Agent of the North Central Province during 1884, 1886, and 1890. He is the author of the Manual of the North Central Province (1899) and a half dozen published reports on the life and practices in the Province. Before his death, he shared it with his good friend H.C.P. Bell, the Archaeological Commissioner of Ceylon at the time. In 1917, Bell had it published in the Times of Ceylon – Christmas Number. Since then, it remained unknown for 109 years, until Ievers’s great-grandson, Turtle Bunbury, historian and author of Living in Sri Lanka (2006) with James Fennell, tipped me off about its source – H.C.P. Bell: Archaeologist of Ceylon and the Maldives (1993), written by Bell’s granddaughters Bethia N. Bell and Heather M. Bell.
THE ANTHEM
Anuradhapura! City grand and vast,
Lanka’s famous Capital, in ages of the past:
In the Mahawansa the story has been told
Of thy palaces, and temples, and pinnacles of gold.
Hail! then hail! to the worth of a bygone day,
Hail! all hail! to the relics of kingly sway
Hail to thee, Fair City, glorious in decay,
Hail! thrice hail! Forever and for aye!
Si monumentum quaeris
– cast your gaze around
Ruined fanes and dagobas everywhere abound
Alas! for glory faded, for erstwhile beauty sped
For hierarchs and heroes, long numbered with the dead
Hail! then hail!…
Great Ruwanaveli Seya, once fairest of the fair,
The splendour of thy palmy days has melted into air;
And like Imperial Caesar now ‘dead and turned into clay’,
Thy sacred bricks ‘may stop a hole to keep the wind away.’
Note by Tillakaratne:
Since 1873, Bhikku Naranvita Sumanasara has been doing conservation work on this stupa. In 1876, Governor William Gregory, after visiting the work site, wrote that its conservation was not just a religious work but a great National Monument.
See ‘Bayagiri’ massive – ‘Fearless Mount’ forsooth – Centre once of schism rank, from ‘Great Vihara’ truth.
Patched up by prison labour, anew it flaunts on high
A ‘hideous excrescence’ athwart a tranquil sky.
Note by H. C. P. Bell
: T. N. Christie, Planting Member at the time protested in the Legislative Council against the abortive “restoration” by prison labour of the Abhayagiri Dagaba, dubbing its truncated pinnacle, half restored, a “hideous excrescence”.
Jetawanarama, Great Sena’s priestly boon
Comely shape and giddy height will crumble all too soon;
Where forest trees and chequered shade a peaceful picture lend,
From cruel axe and ruthless spade, may gracious Heaven defend.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
Two decades after these poems were written, the surrounding area of the Jetawanarama was still covered in forest, and the Atamasthana Committee conditionally allowed a monk to clear a limited number of trees. But not a tree remained unfelled, contrary to what the monk was authorized to do.
Thuparama graceful, in outline clear and bold,
Begirt with column chaste and slim, a gem in the ring of gold
To thee pertains high honour a pious people gave – The tomb of Sanghamitta, and Prince Mahinda’s grave.
Note by
H. C. P. Bell: The ruins are pointed out, wrongly, as the tradional tombs of Arahat Mahinda and Sanghamitta Theranee.
With bricks and mortar bolstered up, behold the Sacred Bo;
To some – misguided mortals – ‘tis but a ‘bo-gas’ show.
Where humble Mirisveti a monarch’s fad recalls,
Lo! Royal Siam’s silver now builds its futile walls.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
According to Mahawansa, Mirisavetiya was so named after King Dutugemunu’s compunction at forgetting chillies (miris) in his alms giving to monks on one occasion. The restoration work on the Mirisavetiya began under the Ceylon Government, with funds provided by the King of Siam. When the money flow began to cease, work also ceased, and bats began to frequent the holed structure.
- Ruwanveli Seya in the background. Murage in the front c. 1900 From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
- Bhayagriya (Abhayagiriya) c. 1900 From: Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
- Jetawanaramaya c. 1900. From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
What need to tell of sculptures, of ‘pokunas’ galore,
Of balustrades and Yogi stones and half a hundred more,
Of Brazen Palace spacious, with gilt-roofed storeys dight –
A modern race more ‘brazen’ would desecrate each site.
For midst these sacred ruins of shrines and cloistered hall,
A reckless generation disports with little balls,
Whilst ‘Parliamentary language’ and imprecations deep
Disturb the peaceful solitude where saintly Rahats sleep.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
After European residents, old city Anuradhapura in the late 19th century, the area still being cleared between Ruwanveli Seya and Thuparama, was used a ‘golf links’. Ievers did not like the area used as a playground:
Iconoclasts and vandals have had their little day;
No more shall ancient pillars to culverts find their way.
No more a watchful Government such sacrilege condones –
One may not meddle with the gods, nor tamper with the stones.
Anuradhapura! Thy glory shall revive;
Yhu [sic] sons shall swarm within thee like bees about a hive.
The effort of the present for past neglect atones;
New breath of life resuscitates this vale of driest bones.
Composed by R. W. Ievers
(1850-1905)
Introduced by Lokubanda Tillakaratne
Features
Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation: Restoring Mobility, Dignity and Hope Across Sri Lanka
For thousands of Sri Lankans living with limb loss and physical disabilities, access to quality rehabilitation services remains a significant challenge. Yet, for more than three decades, our organisation has quietly transformed lives through innovation, compassion and community-based care. The Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited (MRFGL), supported by the Meththa Foundation-UK and in partnership with the Manitha Neyam Trust, the LEBARA Foundation and the Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Jaffna, emerged as one of Sri Lanka’s most effective voluntary rehabilitation service providers, restoring mobility, independence and dignity to some of the country’s most vulnerable citizens.
The Foundation’s roots stretch back to 1994, when a group of expatriate Sri Lankan professionals in the United Kingdom recognised the severe shortage of rehabilitation services available to disabled persons in Sri Lanka. Drawing upon their expertise in rehabilitation medicine and allied healthcare professions, they established the Meththa Foundation-UK with a simple but powerful vision: to provide affordable, high-quality prosthetic and rehabilitation services to those who needed them most.
What began as an effort to recycle and repurpose high-quality prosthetic components donated by the UK’s National Health Service has evolved into a comprehensive rehabilitation network serving communities across the island.
Clinical services commenced in Sri Lanka in 1995 through a mobile outreach programme that initially supported injured soldiers and later expanded to civilians affected by conflict and disability. The majority of them were victims of land mines. In 2010, the Sri Lankan arm of the organisation was formally registered as the Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited, strengthening its ability to deliver sustainable services nationwide.
Today, the Foundation operates four modern rehabilitation centres located in Mahawa, Mankulam, Balapitiya and Kilinochchi. These centres provide prosthetic and orthotic services, posture and mobility support, limb repairs, and rehabilitation assistance to patients from diverse social and economic backgrounds.
Recognising that many disabled individuals live in remote areas with limited access to healthcare, Meththa Foundation also established a mobile outreach service in 2011. Through a successful “Hub and Spoke” model, rehabilitation teams travel regularly to underserved communities, ensuring that patients are not denied care simply because of distance or financial hardship.
The scale of the Foundation’s work is impressive. During 2025 alone, the organisation recorded approximately 2,000 patient contacts, including the provision of 350 new artificial limbs, 850 limb repairs and around 800 other rehabilitation devices. For many beneficiaries, these interventions represent far more than medical treatment; they offer a pathway back to employment, education and social participation.
Innovation has become a hallmark of the Foundation’s approach. Through an active research and development programme, MRFGL has developed affordable prosthetic technologies specifically suited to Sri Lankan conditions. Among its achievements is the development of a modular below-knee artificial limb system manufactured largely from locally sourced materials. The Foundation has also designed low-cost prosthetic knee components that significantly reduce the financial burden on patients while maintaining quality and functionality. These developments are funded by generous International Grants facilitated by affluent members of the Meththa Foundation-UK. Service users are encouraged to donate whatever they can but for those who cannot, which is a majority the services are entirely free.
These innovations not only make rehabilitation more affordable but also strengthen local manufacturing capabilities and reduce dependence on imported components.
Equally important is the Foundation’s commitment for building local expertise. Recognising the shortage of trained rehabilitation professionals in Sri Lanka, Meththa Foundation
established an apprentice-based vocational training programme that recruits and trains young people as prosthetists, orthotists and rehabilitation technicians. Several locally trained staff members are now employed across the Foundation’s centres, helping to create a sustainable workforce for the future.
The organisation’s work has attracted growing recognition within the healthcare sector. Discussions have already taken place with health authorities regarding the potential use of Meththa-designed prosthetic components within Government hospitals. Such collaboration could significantly expand access to affordable rehabilitation services throughout the country.
Beyond its clinical achievements, the Foundation’s impact is measured in restored confidence and renewed independence. Surveys conducted among beneficiaries indicate that many educated amputees successfully return to productive lives after receiving rehabilitation support. However, the findings also highlight an ongoing challenge among poorer and less educated amputees, many of whom struggle to access follow-up care due to transportation difficulties and financial constraints.
To address this issue, the organisation hopes to -expand its mobile services and community outreach programmes. Additional funding would allow rehabilitation teams to reach isolated communities more frequently, ensuring that vulnerable patients continue to receive the support they need.
Operating on an annual expenditure of approximately Rs. 30 million in Sri Lanka, supplemented by overseas fundraising and donations, the Foundation remains heavily reliant on the partnership of charitable trusts such as the Manitha Neyam Trust and LEBARA Foundation and generosity of individual well-wishers. Every contribution directly supports the provision of artificial limbs, mobility devices, training programmes and outreach services for those who might otherwise be left behind.
As Sri Lanka continues to strengthen its healthcare and social welfare systems, organisations such as the Meththa Foundation demonstrate how innovation, volunteerism and dedication can create lasting social
By helping individuals regain mobility and independence, the Foundation is not merely providing artificial limbs—it is rebuilding lives and restoring hope.
For many “beneficiaries, every step they take is a testament to the life-changing work of the Meththa foundation
www.meththafoundation-sl-uk.org
Chairman’s WhatsApp contact number +94 77 788 6119
Prof S P Lamabadusurira, Chairman and Dr B Panagamuwa, ✍️
First Trustee
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