There is a school for 400 children in Solan, Himachal, called Southvale: The World School. The school is run by young MBAs. The owner is Rishabh Chopra and the technical operations are under Snigdha Parihar. It emphasizes on education, but more than that, a moral social code with compassion towards all. “We believe in raising a league of future generations that is socially, morally and intellectually awake.”
During the Covid lockdown they experimented by asking each one of their children to feed and foster street animals. Now, they have made it mandatory for each child and staff member in the school to foster a stray animal, be it a dog, cow, cat or even birds. Their debates, elocution, research-station projects, etc., are centred around animals. The children are taught to save a little from their food and kitchen waste and keep the fostered animal fed. “To make this act sustainable and institutionalised, we have developed the “Log Book” activity which is drawn from Charles Duhigg’s book “The Power of Habit”. It works on the basic principle of cue, routine and reward. The cue is a stray animal, the routine is feeding and logging the activity in a book. The reward is a mention of the student in the circular for parents, and a Facebook post with the picture of the child carrying out the deed. “The aim is to add love and compassion in society, to add meaning to human life and to pass on virtue to the kids who become the flag bearers of kindness.
The Yellow Train School in Coimbatore teaches organic farming and how to coexist with wild animals. Situated among green fields, orchard groves, cows and peacocks, the focus is more on the development of a child as a part of a natural world, rather than on textbook lessons. The Marudam Farm School in Thiruvannamalai, founded in 2009, has the same approach. The students are involved in afforestation, organic farming, and in building an intimate relationship with nature. A lot of importance is given to arts and crafts, and sports as well. An education to bring about sensitive and intelligent human beings.
The Chirag School is in the village of Simayal in the Nainital district, Uttarakhand. Founded in 2006 by Kanai Lal, the teachers are college graduates from local communities, and the emphasis is on how to preserve the local culture and heritage of the Himalayas. Sumit Arora, the principal, takes children on field trips to understand nature, and importance of natural springs in the Himalayas. The children learn how to dispose of waste without burning it.
SECMOL was founded in 1988 near the village of Phey in the Indus Valley by Sonam Wangchuk, (on whom the film Three Idiots’ character, played by Aamir Khan, is based) with an entirely new education system. The SECMOL Campus is an eco-village where students, staff, and volunteers live, work and learn practical, environmental, social and traditional knowledge, values, and skills together. The Campus is solar powered and solar heated; students learn ancient Ladakhi songs, dance and history, alongside modern academic knowledge.In June 2016, Parmira Sarma and Mazin Mukhtar founded the Akshar school in Pamohi, Guwahati, Assam, From gardening skills, taking care of animals, understanding renewable energy, to utilising the power of technology, this school shows us the kind of education we need now. Akshar School believes in the complete development of an individual, so that they can be the citizens the world needs now. The school has a unique system of payment: those parents that have a problem with the fees can hand over plastic polythene bags and plastic waste as an equivalent. The school makes students pledge that they will not burn plastic.
Normal schools are now producing children that have lost all ties with nature. That means unhappy children who seek their whole lives for something that might make them happy – jobs, promotion, bigger cars and houses – only to realize that nothing works. We are producing children that are afraid of all other species, that rely on violence to get their way, that believe that the only good tree is the one that makes tooth picks. That is why our country is so unhappy, and each generation is getting unhappier.
If we could just emulate these schools and teach children that the meaning of happiness is to coexist and harmonise with nature, that happiness comes from not wanting but giving, that compassion is what makes the world go around, we might survive. We have all the technology we need to make children understand the world. Left to me I would make these things compulsory :
1. No leather in shoes or bags.
2. Each child has to plant seven trees a year and look after them.
3. Each child has to show evidence that they look after the animals in their area.
4. One hour every day watching National Geographic, and a new idea by a student in the school assembly every day on how to save the planet.
5. Very judicious use of paper, and certainly no plastic.
6. Common sharing of food without anyone knowing who brought it, so that there is no shaming of any child.
7. An organic garden in every school : if there is lack of space it could be in pots on the terrace. The children should bring in the seeds of all the fruit they eat, and a nursery could be made in the school.
8. An insistence on vegetarianism and giving the reasons why.
9. One hour a week on reading all the main religious texts of every religion, so that every child is familiar with the Puranas/Vedas/the Mahabharata/Ramayana/the Quran and the Bible, the books of the Jains and Buddhists.
10. No exams except the 10th and the 12th.
We teach Biology, but do we teach children to respect animals? Until I stopped it, biology included killing frogs and mice in class. We teach Physics and Natural Sciences, but do we teach children how to protect the planet? Isn’t it more common to hear, ‘Stay away from the dog, it will bite’ rather than, ‘It’s hot, let’s keep a bowl of water for stray animals and birds?’
How many principals have the sense to adopt stray animals in the campus ? Very few. Most of them have Indian dogs picked up by local municipalities and thrown away. So children learn that animals can be throwaways – like old clothes.
All we teach children is how to be afraid, how to compete in an ugly manner, how to succeed at others’ expense, how to be the same as everyone else, how to get their way with brute strength. How to want, want and want, and take, take and take. Few children even understand the beauty of a starry sky, and practically no child has ever wondered where the stars went.
I was brought up with hours of moral science and that included respecting the world around me. My school had no exams, so I never learnt or wanted to compete, we never had any pocket money so money is something to be given to help others. I was taught to be innovative and independent and happy, and no matter what life has brought, my education has stood me in good stead. We should all send our children to Southvale.
( To join the animal welfare movement contact firstname.lastname@example.org, www.peopleforanimalsindia.org)
When a wonderful human being crosses the great divide
Sarasaviya took this picture of Punya and Milroy at their home after the “Abhimani” Legendary Award was conferred on Punya, during their last visit to Sri Lanka to attend the Sarasaviya Festival in 2016.
“There are friends,
There is family,
And then there are friends
That become family”
Such a friend was Milroy, whose passing away a few days ago, we learnt with heavy hearts and deep sorrow.
To those who didn’t know him, he was the husband of Punya Heendeniya, the actress who captivated the hearts and minds of a nation by her portrayal of Nanda in the film classic “Gamperaliya”; Nanda was the quintessential Sinhala upper class village maiden who valued tradition over love.
To MBS (Siri) he was a lifelong friend “who stayed forever, beyond word, beyond distance, beyond time”.
To me (Kumar Gunawardane) who came to know him through Siri and also through his brothers, he was a pleasant companion, and good friend.
“He loved music, sing songs and kalawaa (art) in all its forms. That is why he married me. He went out of his way to help the needy in whatever way he could. He did everything for me and the children.
“In the last year or two he took to understanding what real Buddha Dharma was.
“May he attain the supreme bliss of Nibbana!”
“We met on the very first day in the “Block”; alphabetically we were next to each other, Milroy de Silva and MBS de Silva. That day, wearing our white jackets and ties back to front, we had to march to the Anatomy laboratory, jeered by serried ranks of haughty seniors. The naked bodies lying on marble slabs was nauseating. I was directed to the appropriate cadaver by a tutor and paired with a brilliant student JBC De Silva, to dissect the upper limb. Confused and bewildered I could only gaze at the colleague carving the other arm. He looked equally nonplussed wielding a scalpel nonchalantly, while another student recited the instructions from Cunningham’s manual of Anatomy. Our eyes met and that was the start of a beautiful friendship; a coming together of the high-spirited and full of joie de vivre. We immediately downed tools and scampered to the canteen to revive ourselves with a cup of tea, laced with condensed milk, and the cheapest available cigarette ‘Peacock’. Our interests were similar; studies took a back seat, larking around taking precedence. The friendship was sealed further when we joined Bloemfontein the formidable male medical student hostel alternatively feared and lauded.
“I remember our first Block dance at the King George’s hall. He was smartly dressed in black tuxedo pants and a cream jacket; only missing element was a lady companion. I, who wore a black shirt and a white tie, had a beautiful girl on my arm. I asked Milroy where he came by his tuxedo and he disdainfully replied I have two brothers who are doctors and one tuxedo for the whole family and now it is my turn to have it!!
“Our bonds strengthened during our intern year. Milroy returned to his roots in Galle and I joined him a few months later at Mahamodara, the hospital by the sea. It was a year of back breaking work, but also a year of fun and frolic.
“Milroy was then posted as chief (District Medical Officer) of the Moneragala hospital. But “I was left high and dry, Milroy, thoughtful as ever arranged for me to work with his brother Dr A.S.H De Silva, who had a thriving general practice just down the road from the hospital. Three months later, I got a posting to Buttala, which was then a mostly elephant and serpent infested jungle. It was classed as a ‘punishment’ station by the Health Department. The attractions however were the proximity to Milroy, and also the predecessors who included medical giants such as Professor Rajasooriya and the distinguished surgeons Dr Bartholomeuz, and R. L. Spittel the Surgeon of the Wilderness. In this pastoral outpost Milroy was bowled over by the image of Punya. He was at a loss to reach her. I advised him to write and he did so with panache. She invited him to visit them at Mirigama, her hometown to meet her folk. They teamed up in Punya’s own words for 52 years seven months and 22 days; a match made in heaven.
“As a dutiful father, he wanted to give his son and daughter the best education available and so it was that he and Punya migrated to Zambia. It was here that they demonstrated hidden strengths of character which helped them overcome adversities and even threats to their lives and move over to England. Milroy re-invented himself and rose to top of the ladder to become a consultant psychiatrist. His two children also became consultants in the NHS, the son a gastroenterologist and daughter an endocrinologist. He acknowledged freely Punya’s role not only in all his triumphs, but also in the hazards and misfortunes in their paths.
“Yet, more than all this was his humanity and humility, generosity to those less well endowed especially relatives and also to those medical graduates at the threshold of their careers. They were gracious hosts; Punya was an accomplished cook and less well known, a euphonious singer. I and my good friend Karu had the good fortune to enjoy their hospitality on many occasions in London.
“Milroy my friend, “To live in the hearts of those we love is never to die”
“May your journey in Samsara be short and my you attain the Supreme bliss of Nibbana!”
I first got to know Milroy at Bloemfontein, the medical student’s hostel adjoining Carey College. He was a dapper figure, stylishly dressed with an unceasing gentle smile on his face. His chums, Siri, Gerry, Wicky and others were always friendly with us juniors and never intimidating. Their banter and capers in the dining room and the spacious portico were invariably hilarious.
My friendship with Siri was cemented in the hurly-burly of the Galle hospital, where I too did my internship. When I was unemployed after its completion it was Siri who arranged for me to work with Dr ASH, Milroy’s brother. ASH and Kingsley, another brother became my friends and mentors.
“Punya was a heartthrob of many young bucks of our era. But only one, Milroy, could win her hand and her heart. What a splendid partnership it was.
The Buddha Dhamma teaches that death is natural and inevitable. Yet it is sorrowful and we pray for you and your family’s peace and comfort. Their sadness is soothed by the beauty of your life, a life well lived. As the Buddha said death has no fear to those who fashioned life as a garland of beautiful deeds.
May you attain the Supreme Bliss of Nibbana!
A New Arrival at the Pathfinder Wildlife Preservation Centre
A newly hatched blue and gold macaw bred at the Pathfinder Wildlife Preservation Centre being attended to by a staff member Sisira Kumara.
The Pathfinder Wildlife Preservation Centre has a comprehensive collection of rare macaws, cockatoos, lorikeets, and parrots from Southeast Asia, Africa, and Latin America. The collection also includes a range of Arowana fish. This unique collection was originally presented to the Centre by Nimal Jayawardena, a leading business person, lawyer, and wildlife expert.
Imagining Malinda Seneviratne
By Uditha Devapriya
I’d like to begin this tribute with a memory. I wasn’t always an avid reader of newspapers. My father, on the other hand, was. Somewhere in middle school, in Grade Eight I believe, I began picking them up once he had done with them, poring over the columns.
My eyes rested on certain topics more than others. They’d invariably centre on the war. How were we fighting the enemy? How was that enemy fighting back? What new conspiracies had been unearthed? Who had unearthed them? Who was next on the enemy’s kill list? The peace process, dead as a dodo long before it died, had floundered. Officially, we were back at war. As intriguing as that would have been, it was also disconcerting.
Even more disconcerting was the ambivalent stand of the English language press on the war. Not that the editorials called for a cessation of hostilities, much less a return to the peace process. But beneath the fine print, one could discern an almost confused pacifism, an almost abstruse neutralism.
This conformed to the same pattern: an acknowledgement of the heroism of the armed forces followed by a critique of government policy. Ultimately it all boiled down to, not whether the government was conducting the war properly, but whether the war had to be conducted at all. Even there the editors remained indecisive: they concluded that the LTTE had to be defeated, yet refused to endorse the war being waged to achieve that end.
None of that felt frustrating, of course. Cut off from the fears of a war next door, one could only revel in the delicatessen of wartime journalism. Yet it was clear the scales tilted to a side: very few writing in English advocated a military solution to the world’s longest running ongoing ethnic conflict. What explained their hesitation?
I didn’t bother finding out, but given the preponderance of those who wrote against the war, I was transfixed by those who wrote in support of it. Of them, one in particular caught my attention. Seven years later I met him: a coincidence I ponder over even now.
I have known Malinda Seneviratne in his many forms: writer, poet, translator, activist, editor, citizen, father, husband, and teacher. Yet I can’t recall why I wanted to meet him. Was it the eloquent prose, sharp as nails even at its most polemical? The equally eloquent poetry, haiku-like and evocative of both Neruda and Galeano? Or the activism, unabashedly nationalist in a country whose Westernised intelligentsia abhors such “tribalist” sentiments?
Malinda’s political education began with the Left, first with his father Gamini, then with a batch-mate of his father, Nanda Wickramasinghe (attached to the Revolutionary Communist League at the University of Peradeniya), and finally with Vijaya Kumaratunga and Ossie Abeygunasekera (until the latter’s defection to the UNP). The Ratawesi Peramuna, precursor to the Sihala Urumaya, came later.
His activism in (and for) the Ratawesi Peramuna followed his return from Harvard (where he completed his Bachelor’s in Sociology) in 1991. It was while in this group that he deepened his friendship with two of his biggest influences, Patali Champika Ranawaka and Athuraliye Rathana Thera. It was also his activities there that landed him in trouble; the police swooped on a meeting organised in 1992 at Wadduwa, following an exhibition of LTTE, IPKF, and JVP human rights abuses held in Matara, was intercepted by the police, who proceeded to arrest 15 members, including Ranawaka, Rathana Thera, and Malinda.
Held for three weeks, and tortured on the orders of a drunken OIC, they filed a fundamental rights case at the Supreme Court. Upholding their case, the Court, which acknowledged that the RP did not constitute a threat to national security and did not warrant the treatment meted out to its members, ordered the State to pay Rs 5,000 for each applicant. The Human Rights Library of the University of Minnesota later archived the case, “Channa Pieris and Others v. Attorney General and Others.” In the meantime, the Ratawesi Peramuna turned into Janatha Mithuro, a green socialist/nationalist outfit preaching the gospel of alternative development paradigms (what Ranakawa called the “third chapter of development”).
Malinda ended his political associations once he started out on his journalistic (and writing) career in the 2000s. By then he had gone through Janatha Mithuro, Sihala Urumaya, and the National Movement Against Terrorism (2006-7). These are, no doubt, colourful affiliations, befitting a colourful memoir. Yet, despite his activism, it’s hard to put a finger on his convictions: he just can’t be categorised in the same way his opponents, or for that matter his allies, can.
On the ‘national Question’, on the 13th Amendment, on our relations with India, indeed on global politics, he projects a provocative perspective. Thus, for instance, while he supported the Sihala Urumaya’s and Hela Urumaya’s parliamentary aspirations, he critiqued the latter’s decision to field Buddhist monks at elections. Even so, however, he does not oppose the entry of monks on a matter of unyielding principle: for him, they constitute a group having as much a right to parliamentary representation as any other.
In any case, whatever those convictions, the more I read him in my middle school years, the curiouser I got: then as now, what defines Malinda is the contrast, one could say paradox, between his ideological predilections and his poetic instincts. The two do get together, more often than you’d think, in his anthologies (just sample his poems on Geneva). And yet there’s a disjuncture between them. Perhaps this was what made me want to visit him.
Our first meeting went by innocuously enough. Lasting a little more than an hour, it ended on the promise of a second meeting, which transpired a month later – to be followed by another, and then another. The rapport between us grew quickly; by the time of the third meeting, he was asking me to come in and write to the paper he supervised as editor.
I hesitated at first. With characteristic flippancy, though, he shrugged my concerns aside: “When you work for me,” he promised, “you will write on everything.” I thus gave in: as with all 21-year-olds new to the trade, I wanted to write and be read in print. A few months later, in fulfilment of a promise he made before the January 2015 election, I was in.
Malinda taught several lessons as a writer, journalist, and senior. First and foremost among them was the line between writing news and writing features. For no matter what people may say, a good writer does not necessarily make for a good reporter. Pen and paper in hand, you need to record whatever it is that you’re covering is putting out to the public. Cutting through a morass of irrelevant anecdotes, you need to distil what you heard. And of course, you need to separate facts from comment: you can’t editorialise.
This proved to be a difficult exercise for me, far more difficult than the light pieces I ended up submitting to the features section. Suffice it to say, then, that insofar as Malinda taught me anything about journalism, it was that I could never aspire to be a journalist.
The second lesson was simpler: no matter how good (or bad) you may be as a journalist, if your editor doesn’t encourage you, your ink will dry. This applies to other professions also: where would Thomas Wolfe be, for instance, without Max Perkins?
Malinda, of course, was not my first editor. Yet he and I shared interests which immediately bridged the gap between him and me. In the end, I wound up writing on topics I had always wanted to talk about. That could not have been possible without him.
The third lesson, the most important one, was that writing to newspapers is never going to be a stable profession, especially not here. I learnt this lesson the hard way: five months after I got in, his paper closed down. Petrified for days, wondering whether I would ever be able to write again, I eventually came to realise that, as shocking an experience as it may have been to me, for Malinda it did not mean much: he’d been pole-vaulting from one paper to another from the day he left active politics for journalism.
His experience there became my guide: one evening, after the storm clouds of his termination had died down, he told me bluntly, “In this trade, if you’re good enough, you’ll never be out of tenure.” I disputed him. Six years later, having contributed to every paper he wrote to and is writing to, I realise I was wrong to do so.
Having read him and met him, I thus ended up learning under Malinda: a trajectory I am yet to go through a second time with anyone else in his line of work. I can’t really assess him, or do him justice, except maybe to note that, for the little or the lot he taught, he never demanded a payback.
Perhaps that’s just as well. For without taking away anything from what he did, I was hardly the only person he supported this way. Many others, most of them as young as I, all of them endowed with a superior penmanship, also found their way to the pages of the papers he oversaw. I know for a fact that he always insisted on compensating them – in full.
The West Indian international relations scholar Herb Addo once wrote that Andre Gunder Frank, from whom he learnt about the political economy of underdevelopment, “taught me nothing.” For his contemporaries, Addo argued, Frank “taught from a distance”, yet let his students develop as individual, independent intellectuals, in their own right.
By no means do I suggest that Malinda taught me nothing, or that he did so from a distance. But reflecting on how he taught all that one needed to know, and how he dismisses it today as though was just letting me evolve on my own, I wonder: was he, as Frank had been to Addo, a teacher in the Gibran vein, leading me to the threshold of my mind?
The writer can be reached at email@example.com
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