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Carlo Fonseka in Kataragama

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Prof. Carlo Fonseka

By Uditha Devapriya

“If the duration of contact is not long enough to sustain a burn, then you don’t get burnt. This is what Alice in Wonderland said: ‘Some people get burnt because they forgot the rule that if you hold a red-hot poker for very long, you will get burnt!’”

Carlo Fonseka, Check Mate with Chrismal Warnasuriya, 2012

Prof. Carlo Fonseka always had something to quote from Shakespeare. When I first met him in 2013, he quoted Mark Antony, and recalled that time in 1953, when he and his friends left a school cricket match to watch Joseph Mankiewicz’s version of Julius Caesar at the Savoy. The second time he quoted from Romeo and Juliet, and observed that, passionately attached as Juliet may have been to Romeo, she still insisted on marrying him. I think his point there was that, ultimately, biology triumphs over sentiment.

To quote Shakespeare to make a point about our primordial urges may have been a bit off-putting. But Fonseka spent the better part of his life, and his career, proving not the infallibility, but the ultimate knowability, the reliability, of science. This didn’t win him many friends. Yet it won him many admirers, even from among his critics.

Fonseka belonged to that generation of gentle, radical thinkers who made their mark in our universities in the 1960s. Having broken away from established religion, many of them cultivated a scientific if sophisticated attitude to Buddhism, an attitude that lay a world away from the more emotive world of the Sinhalese villager.

This was around the time that anthropologists, both local and Western, began studying the twin worlds of urban and rural Buddhism: a theme that did much to revive interest not just in Sri Lanka, but also Buddhism in general, across the world.

To say Fonseka took sides in this conflict, between rural and urban Buddhism, would be taking things too far. A brilliant product of the Ceylon Medical College and an even more brilliant product of the University of Edinburg, he specialised in Physiology. In 1967 he returned to Sri Lanka, then Ceylon, with a PhD. Ratnajeevan Hoole speculates that the “erosion of the university ethos” in the country eventually disillusioned him, causing him to abandon his work in physiology in favour of other pathways.

The rift between urban and rural Buddhism – as posited by social scientists in his time – may have been what encouraged him to explore some of the more popular rites and beliefs in Sinhala society. At least two of those rites took him to Kataragama: hook-hanging and firewalking. Consuming pork and liquor, breaking every taboo in the book, he proved that physiology could explain both, in a way devotion could not.

In debunking these rituals, Fonseka risked a torrential backlash. Yet that backlash never really materialised. There are several possible reasons for this. Prime among them would be the time he worked in: a time when everything could be questioned in a spirit of free, critical inquiry, when a healthy culture of scepticism pervaded our intelligentsia.

A more tenable reason, in my view, would be the kind of audience that saw him at work in places like Kataragama. They were largely, though not only, urban and suburban. Buddhist though they were, by the 1960s they had imbibed the intellectual, philosophical, and scientific, view of Buddhism which Fonseka reinforced. Yet at the same time, they were also highly respectful of the myths and rituals of popular Buddhism.

As Gananath Obeyesekere and Richard Gombrich have pointed out, though there is a line that can be drawn between rural and urban Buddhism in Sri Lanka, there is also a permeation of popular religious beliefs in the most cosmopolitan setting. Thus the most avowed rationalist can capitulate to the most ritualistic visions of his faith, as seen in the almost rush for amisa and aloka puja in every nook and corner of Colombo.

I am not an expert on Buddhism, still less on its practice in Sri Lanka, to take this discussion forward. I can only speculate that such a mishmash of popular and intellectual attitudes generated an almost Janus-faced response to Fonseka’s work. Thus, on the one hand, there was a fairly mainstream acceptance of his efforts. On the other hand, there was also a critique of what these efforts meant in the broader context of Sinhalese and Buddhist culture. Perhaps the best example of these contradictory responses came from a devotee of Kataragama, a friend who was residing in Colombo.

Of course the soles of your feet are strong enough to withstand live coals for a few seconds. He had his arguments, and they were fairly convincing. But…

A more intriguing response came from another devotee who shuttles between Kataragama and Colombo.

I won’t argue with his views. But I don’t have to prove my beliefs to anyone.

In the first instance, one discerns a reluctant acknowledgement of the validity of what Fonseka was doing (“But…”). In the second, one notices a pushback (“I have my beliefs, he had his, why should I be the one to prove mine to him?”). The reactions are palpably different: the first person displayed a sheepishness at odds with his fierce attachment to rituals, while the second was visibly irritated, almost unwilling to talk.

In both responses there is some form of admission of the truth of Fonseka’s work. I would argue, though I stand to be corrected, that these responses have been shaped by the contradictory world of urban Buddhists: they are, in essence, accepting of the myth and the myth-busting. The situation is the same in villages, which have been penetrated by the forces of modernity, development, and urbanisation. But the response there is somewhat different. A friend of mine put that in perspective the other day.

A typical urban Buddhist would offer flowers, chant pirith, and still adhere to a scientific view of Buddhism. A typical rural Buddhist would put more emotional power into his rites and ceremonies, he would be disdainful of scientific explanations.

There is very little of this sort of rural Buddhism in Sri Lanka. But I have been to some of these regions and places, and have been astounded by the attitudes I have encountered. The more urbanised villagers I have met have mostly been tolerant but sceptical of rationalist explanations of rituals. Their attitude is closer to that of the second respondent: they are respectful of other viewpoints, but don’t feel obliged to justify theirs. Indeed, often they go beyond this logic by explicitly questioning scientific reason itself.

It’s strange that that we try to prove something and then believe it’s right for all time. Look at gravitational theory, look at Newtonian physics!

We are so sure gods don’t exist, how can we be sure oxygen does?

These are not, as some would be wont to say, ramblings of unsophisticated and ignorant villagers. They reflect a particular viewpoint and worldview, a way of perceiving and responding to the environment around us. Their scepticism of scientific rationality is, in that sense, no different to our scepticism of religious belief.

At the risk of drawing too fine a line between urban and rural Buddhists here, I would say that the tendency among the former, with regard to the sort of myth-busting that Fonseka engaged in, is to accept the rationalist explanation for popular rituals while still taking part in them. The tendency among the latter is dismiss such explanations while questioning the scientific viewpoint. There is still some acknowledgement of the validity of science in Sinhala villages. Yet that is tempered by their attachment to popular beliefs.

Perhaps the easiest way of defining these divisions would be to adopt the Jathika Chintanite dichotomy of Sinhala and Olcott Buddhists. But even this is inadequate. The forebearers of Jathika Chintanaya share the same intellectual lineage as Carlo Fonseka. That they chose to reject this lineage eventually, as I contended months ago, in no way undermines the fact that they hailed from it, and in many ways still subscribe to it.

We must hence look elsewhere when examining the many, paradoxical responses that Sri Lankans have offered with regard to the work of people like Carlo Fonseka: work that, for all the criticisms of it we can bandy about, remains highly important.

Uditha Devapriya is a writer, researcher, and analyst based in Sri Lanka who contributes to a number of publications on topics such as history, art and culture, politics, and foreign policy. He can be reached at .



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Politics of Enforced Disappearances in Sri Lanka

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Image courtesy UNHRC

In 2016, I participated in research focused on gathering information about reconciliation mechanisms in post-war Sri Lanka. During one of the interviews, a Tamil mother, from the Eastern part of the country, broke into tears as she shared her story. Her son had disappeared, and, according to some of the neighbours, he was apparently abducted by a paramilitary group. Her story goes as follows: After hearing the news, she began searching for her son and went to the police station to file a case. However, police refused to file the case and directed her to a military camp. In the military camp, she was directed to an officer, who took her to a room with scattered flesh and blood stains. Then the officer, pointing to the room has told the lady that, ‘This is your son’.

In another instance, in the same year, while we were working in Kurunegala, an elderly mother, wearing a white saree, approached us and shared her story. She held a stained envelope, and when she carefully took out a piece of paper, related to her son, she broke into tears. She handled the paper with such tenderness, as though it were a part of her son himself. Her son was abducted by a para military group in 1989 and never returned.

These two stories have remained deeply etched in my mind for several years, leaving a lasting impact. Now, with the release of the Batalanda Commission Report, which sheds light on the atrocities committed during a dark chapter of Sri Lanka’s history, coupled with the release of the movie ‘Rani’, there is renewed attention on enforced disappearances. These disappearances, which were once shrouded in silence and denial, are now gaining significant traction among the public. Thus, it is timely to discuss the stories of enforced disappearances and the political dynamics surrounding them.

The Effect

Enforced disappearance is often employed as a strategy of terror, deliberately designed to instil fear and insecurity within a society. The tactic goes beyond the direct impact on the immediate family members of the disappeared individuals. The psychological and emotional toll on these families is profound, as they are left with uncertainty, grief, and often a sense of helplessness. However, the effects of enforced disappearance extend far beyond these immediate circles. It creates a pervasive atmosphere of fear that affects entire communities, undermining trust and cohesion. The mere threat of disappearance looms over the population, causing widespread anxiety and eroding the sense of safety that is essential for the social fabric to thrive. The fear it engenders forces people into silence, discourages activism, and ultimately weakens the collective spirit of resistance against injustice.

Absence of the body

For years, the families and loved ones of the disappeared hold on to a fragile hope, clinging to the belief that their loved ones may still be alive. The absence of a physical body leaves room for uncertainty and unresolved grief, creating a painful paradox where the possibility of closure remains out of reach. Without the tangible proof of death—such as a body to bury or mourn over—the search continues, driven by the hope that one day they will find answers. This absence extends beyond just the physical body; it symbolizes the void left in the lives of the families, as they are left in a perpetual state of waiting, unable to fully mourn or heal. The constant uncertainty fuels a never-ending cycle of searching, questioning, and longing.

Making a spectacle of unidentified bodies

In 1989, as a small child, I found myself surrounded by an atmosphere that was both suffocating and frightening, filled with sights and sounds that I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time, but that would forever leave a mark on my memory. I can still vividly recall the smell of burning rubber that hung thick in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke that lingered long after the flames had died down. The piles of tyres, set ablaze, were a regular feature of the streets where I lived. Yet, it wasn’t just the sight of the burning tyres that etched itself into my consciousness. As the flames raged on, the shadows of bodies emerged—neither completely visible nor entirely hidden.

Though my parents tried their best to shield me from the horror outside our home, I would sneak a peek whenever I thought no one was watching, desperate to understand the meaning behind what was unfolding before me. It was as though I knew something important was happening—something I couldn’t yet comprehend but could feel in the very air I breathed. I understood that the flames, the smoke, and the bodies all signified something far greater than I could put into words.

The burning piles of tyres—and, of course, bodies—which people spoke of in hushed tones, served as a chilling spectacle, conveying the threatening message the government sent to the public, especially targeting the young rebels and anyone who dared to challenge the state

Unable to seek justice

The absence of the body makes justice seem like a distant, unreachable concept. In cases of disappearance, where no physical evidence of the victim’s fate exists, the path to justice is often blocked. Without the body, there is no concrete proof of the crime, no tangible evidence that can be presented in court, and no clear sign that a crime was even committed. This leaves families and loved ones of the disappeared in a state of uncertainty, with no clear answers about what happened to their dear ones. As a result, families are forced to live in a limbo, where their grief is ignored and their calls for justice are silenced.

Undemocratic actions under a Democratic Government

Governments are meant to serve and protect the people who elect them, not to subject them to violence, fear, or oppression. Irrespective of the situation, no government, under any circumstances, has the right to make its citizens disappear. A government is a democratically elected body that holds its power and authority through the consent of the governed, with the explicit responsibility to safeguard the rights, freedoms, and lives of its citizens. When a government starts to take actions that involve the arbitrary killing or disappearance of its own people, it betrays the very principles it was founded upon.

The act of making people disappear and killing represents a fundamental breach of human rights and the rule of law. These are not actions that belong to a legitimate government that is accountable to its people. Instead, they signal a state that has become corrupt and tyrannical, where those in power are no longer bound by any ethical or legal standards. When the government becomes the perpetrator of violence against its own citizens, it destroys the trust between the state and the people, undermining the core foundation of democracy.

In such a scenario, the authority of law collapses. Courts become powerless, and law enforcement agencies are either complicit in the wrongdoing or rendered ineffective. This breakdown in legal authority does not just mean a failure to protect the rights of individuals; it signals the descent of society into anarchy. When the government wields power in such a violent and oppressive way, it erodes the social contract. When this relationship is violated through actions like disappearances, those in power essentially declare that they are above the law, which leads to a breakdown of social order. It no longer becomes a state that works for its people but rather a regime that rules through fear, repression, and violence.

by Dr. Anushka Kahandagamage

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Hazard warning lights at Lotus Tower

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Lotus Tower enveloped in mist

Much has been written about the use of Hazard Warning Lights at Lotus Tower (LT)

Now it looks as if the authorities have got the day and night in a ‘twist’.

During the day time LT is in darkness. What should be ‘on’ during the day are the High Intensity Strobe Lights. It is observed that the authorities switch them ‘on’ in the night instead!

According to the ICAO recommendations what should be ‘on’ in the night are the low intensity strobe lights. High intensity in the night as is now, can momentarily blind the pilots.

At this time of the year the island experiences afternoon thunder showers which make the LT and the natural horizon invisible. (See picture) in a phenomenon known as ‘white out’ caused by fog (low cloud), mist and rain. However, the LT is kept dark and not lit up and that could be dangerous to air traffic.

In short what is needed are white strobe lights 24/7 (day and night). High Intensity by day and Low Intensity at night. They are known as ‘attention getters’.

The red lights must be ‘on’ at sunset and ‘off’ by sunrise (as correctly carried out currently).

I am aware that the Organisation of Professional Associations (OPA) has written to the LT authorities at the request of the Association of Airline Pilots, Sri Lanka, about three months ago but strangely the OPA has not even received an acknowledgement!

GUWAN SEEYA

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Ninth Iftar celebration organised by Police Buddhist and Religious Affairs Association, Wellawatte

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Islam is a peaceful religion that guides people to fulfil the five pillars of Islam, namely, Kalima, Prayer, Sakkath, Fasting and Hajj and through them to attain the grace of God.

The fact that the Holy Quran, the sacred book of Muslims, was revealed on one of the odd nights of the month of Ramadan, makes people realize the special importance of the month of Ramadan.

Fasting, the Holy Quran states, “0 you who believe, fasting is prescribed for you as it was prescribed for those before you, that you may become pure.” (2.183)

Muslims observe the first fast in the early hours of the evening when the first crescent of the month of Ramadan is sighted. The special feature of Ramadan fasting is to wake up early in the morning, eat before the sunrise (Sahur) and then fast for 14 hours until the evening prayer (Mahrib), remember the Creator and worship Him five times a day, break the fast at the time of Iftar (Mahrib), eat food with dates and spend the 30 days of Ramadan.

Ramadan fasting increases fear and faith in Allah, and it is not equal for the wealthy to live luxuriously without realizing the poverty of the poor and the poor to die of poverty. Therefore, fasting has been emphasized as the fourth Pillar in Islam to make the rich aware of the nature of poverty and to make the rich aware of the nature of hunger and to give charity.

Ramadan fasting is a shield for Muslims. The main objectives of fasting are the virtues, characteristics, morality and spiritual attraction of a person.

When approaching fasting from a medical perspective, it is said that ‘a disease-free life is an inexhaustible wealth’, so the good deed of fasting provides great benefits to the body.

Generally, it is a universal law to give rest to all the machines that have power. That is, it allows the machines to continue to function well. Similarly, it is necessary to give rest to our bodies. The fasting of the month of Ramadan explains this very simply.

“Historically, fasting has been proven to be very safe for most people,” says Babar Basir, a cardiologist at Henry Ford Health in Detroit, USA. “Ramadan fasting is a form of intermittent fasting that can help you lose fat without losing muscle, improve insulin levels, burn fat, and increase human growth hormone,” he says.

All wealthy. Muslims are required to give 2’/2 percent of their annual income to the poor in charity. This is why Muslims give more charity in the form of money, food, and clothing during Ramadan.

Anas (Kali) reported that the Prophet (Sal) said, “The best charity is to feed a hungry person.” This shows how great an act it is to feed a hungry person.

Fasting during the holy month of Ramadan, one of the most sacred duties of Muslims, is Providing facilities for fasting and breaking it is also a pious act that brings benefits. In that way, the Sri Lanka Police, as a way of receiving the blessings of Allah, have organized the Police Iftar ceremony to break the fast for the fasting people.

The Police Iftar ceremony, which is organized annually by the Sri Lanka Police Buddhist and Religious Affairs Association for Muslim police officers serving in the Sri Lanka Police, will be held for the 9th time this year on the 24th at the invitation of the Acting Inspector General of Police Mr. Priyantha Weerasooriya and will be held at the Marine Grand Reception Hall in Wellawatte under the participation of the Hon. Minister of Public Security and Parliamentary Affairs Mr. K.M. Ananda Wijepala. Muslim members of Parliament, Foreign Ambassadors of Islamic countries, High-ranking Police officers and Muslim Police officers, as well as members of the public, are also expected to attend the Iftar ceremony.

a.f. fUARD
Chief Inspector of Police
International Affairs
Criminal Investigation Department

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