By Uditha Devapriya
The most populated and densely populated region in Asia, South Asia is a sprawling mass of land and sea. It covers around five million square kilometres, or 3.5 percent of the world’s land surface, and houses a quarter of humanity. Within its frontiers, eight countries shelter a dazzling potpourri of ethnicities, faiths, dialects, cultural and behavioural patterns, alternating between conflict and coexistence.
Nations thrive on borders, and borders define their state of being, as they do elsewhere. In South Asia, however, communities define themselves beyond borders. Very few ethnic groups find themselves unable to claim a home in more than one country, and among those exceptions are the Sinhalese. Yet even the Sinhalese are wedded to other ethnic groups, by virtue of the past.
South Asia is defined by a country, the most populous after China, and an ocean that bears its name, the largest after the Pacific and the Atlantic. But South Asia isn’t only India, just as the Indian Ocean isn’t South Asia: occupying 20 percent of the world’s sea surface or a total of 118 million square kilometres, it covers the East African coast to the west and the Arabian Peninsula to the northwest, extending from Thailand to Australia to the east and the fringes of the sea covered by the North Atlantic Treaty to the south. If not the busiest ocean in the world, it is the most contested: the sea, after all, accounts for more than 90 percent of trade and commerce, and it depends on shipping containers and freighters.
The Indian Ocean links West Asia with the South China Sea, and it is there that containers and freighters matter. According to Brookings Institute, no fewer than 36 million oil barrels pass through it every day. That’s 40 percent of global oil supplies, or 64 percent of oil trade.
Oil is big business, but that’s not all there is to the Indian Ocean.
Before the arrival of the Portuguese, in the 15th century, the area witnessed several waves of trade and proselytisation, above all from the Arabs. Milo Kearney puts it in his study of the rise of maritime commerce in the region that it was the Sumerians, the first people in history to create a civilisation of their own, who gained control of trade over a significant part of the Indian Ocean somewhere in the third or fourth millennium BC.
When the ox-drawn plough was invented in the fourth millennium BC, the Sumerians harvested a surplus of wheat and barley that they proceeded to trade for other goods. This brought to life an advanced social structure, based on carefully defined hierarchies of power and authority and a flourishing mercantile community. From the links the latter established with the Indus Valley, they spread wide and far through their intermediaries, to Spain to the West, in the Atlantic, and to China to the East, in the Pacific.
By the second millennium BC the Mediterranean was rapidly coming into contact with the Indian Ocean. Then as now, the key to gaining control of trade in the area was the monsoon: the southwest from May to September, the northeast from October to November. Although figuring in the works of early Greek writers, Herodotus included, it isn’t until Alexander the Great’s conquests in the fourth century BC that, as Ephraim Lytle puts it, “[m]ore reliable and detailed information begins to emerge.”
However vague and unreliable these may seem to us, they are the precursors to more descriptive accounts of ambassadors, traders, and historians that we get in later times, in particular during the rule of the Ptolemaic dynasty in Hellenistic Egypt. If we are to believe Kosmas Indikopleustes, the Europeans, Chinese, and Persians, and even Ethiopians were vying for access to trade over the sea.
With maritime commerce, however, comes the prospect of piracy; then as now, as the Rig Veda tells us, ships had to be secured from the gaze of seaborne outlaws along the Strait of Hormuz and the Gulf of Aden. From the Greeks to the Romans to the Arabs, the key to all these attempts to wrest control of the region was the monsoon. Shifting between two cycles or seasons, the monsoon is, as Robert Kaplan notes, “more than just a storm system.”
When the Roman General Gallus sailed up the Nile to the frontiers of Ethiopia, Strabo of Amasia, the geographer accompanying him, heard of more than 120 Western merchant ships setting sail to India from the port of Myos Hormos in the Red Sea using seasonal winds. Constructed by the Ptolemies in the third century BC, it was this port which afforded traders to the West of the Suez a passage to the Indian Ocean. Trade from such places enabled the rise of an entire exchange system that flourished at the time of the Mauryans in India and the Qin Emperors in China. Through commerce, the Indian Ocean “held a central position.”
Roman merchants ramped up trade in spices and luxury goods, with Roman coinage making its way to India. During Claudius’s reign, the monsoon diverted off course a ship belonging to a tax collector, Annius Plocamus, to the port of Sri Lanka; though both the Romans and Greeks had heard of this country, Taprobane, it was a freedman of Plocamus who first came into contact with it. The envoys sent back to Rome by the king of Taprobane at the time — Vasabha, Vankanasika Tissa, or Chandra Mukhasiva — were, as one scholar has averred, not Sinhalese but Tamil, with their leader, Rachias, serving as a chief courtier.
Arab engagement with the Indian Ocean began somewhere in the eighth century AD, peaking in the 11th and 12th before ebbing somewhere in the 14th. It did not die down completely: the Mughals remained in power until the 17th century, and with the patronage of the Kandyan kings, Arabs continued as traders and advisors, and even courtiers, in Sri Lanka, long after Portuguese and Dutch conquest.
The Europeans of these centuries were not like the Greeks and the Romans before them; for them, the Indian Ocean represented “the imaginary treasure house of unlimited wealth.” As Eric Wolf has observed in his Europe and the People Without History, it was their voyages to Asia that really sparked off their voyages to Africa and America.
By the time they sailed to the Indian Ocean in the 15th century AD, power was in the hands of tributary overlords — these were hardly feudal states in the European sense — with far larger populations and population densities and far greater levels of productivity than in Europe. The fate of 400 years of European conquest of this stretch of sea was sealed with the arrival of Vasco da Gama in India in 1497 AD; eight years later, the first Portuguese fleet found its way to Sri Lanka, unleashing three waves of colonialism that ended, on paper at least, towards the second half of the 20th century.
Geography survives history. The littoral states, chokepoints, and sea lines of communication across the Indian Ocean remain as they were when the Arabs came into contact with them a thousand years ago. But the politics governing them has changed, dramatically.
From a peripheral outpost in the Cold War — one which underlay a fundamental imbalance of power between the US and the Soviet Union, as the latter was to learn later on — South Asia has evolved into a hotbed of tension between India and Pakistan to the northeast and India and China to the northwest today. The return of the Taliban has merely exacerbated these tensions to an entirely new level, as events there foretell.
Ved Malik has called South Asia a “unified security zone”, and indeed ever since K. M. Panikkar claimed that the Indian Ocean should remain Indian, the entire area, extending to the corners of the Horn of Africa and the Seychelles, has become trapped in a security quagmire. When Barry Buzan formulated his theory of regional security complexes, he took as his unit of analysis the Indian subcontinent; in his assertion that states fear neighbouring states more than distant ones, he described the existential threat that subcontinent continues to face, even now.
To understand South Asia, we must understand its history before we do its geography. This is essential, not because geography is a secondary concern, but because history can help us understand the geopolitics of the region today. The two great wars of the last century were defined by the Atlantic and the Pacific. Not so the wars of the future, if they are waged at all and if they involve India and China athwart the Indian Ocean.
Someone called Europe an idea; Gandhi called Western civilisation a good idea. But South Asia is more than just an idea, good or bad: it is a tangible reality, playing host to a potpourri of ethnicities that have somehow learnt to live with one another. The problems of the coming decade — the rise of China and the return of the Taliban, to mention two — will be decided in this theatre. It is time we see the players, and start making some decisions.
The writer can be reached at email@example.com
An amazing Sri Lankan – ‘the power of one’
By Siri Ipalawatte – Canberra
From Tidbinbilla to rain forests, red wines to thelijja, cappaccino to kurumba, five-stars to homestay…. Just when I thought I had touched every nook and cranny of Sri Lanka, it sprung yet another surprise. An old Uni friend suggested ‘why not visit the unusual and weird landscape called Ussangoda—the place in Hindu Mythology where King Ravana landed his air machine, dandu-monara? And off came another nugget! He said a batchmate of ours lived in a century-old house in a village called Kiula — an exotic name from the fact that the water in the area is kiul as it gets mixed with an underground seashell bed and salt water —very close to Ussangoda. This chance encounter led to a number of texts and mobile calls, and a few days later, a memorable sleepover in his house located between the 217 and 218t kilometre-post on the A2 highway between the sleepy towns of Hungama and Ambalantota in the southern Sri Lanka.
Exactly to the minute at 12.20 pm on one Sunday we drove up to the newly renovated old bungalow, and there was my friend—dressed in white drill trousers, open neck shirt, and sporting a perfect stubble—waiting on the huge front porch to receive us. Of course, he receives us as if we might have been royalty. This is his manner. He greets us with an emotional hug, holding a few extra seconds to compensate for the similar greeting that has not taken place recently between us.
We are shown a room—Wow! We are in a Dutch mansion. He seems to have frequent foreign visitors and in order to make them comfortable, even if they stay for lunch or tea only, he had built a set of large rooms, each with en-suite. Everything from the linen to the china in these rooms is spotless and clean as clean could be. After finishing our quick wash and change we sit in the backyard verandah — an outer open-air courtyard facing a fish pond and herbal garden, surrounded on three sides by bedrooms, bathrooms and the kitchen, and have our lunch. He has extremely well-trained helpers: look like they have been with him a lifetime, they are respectful without being submissive.
I hear echoes of soft footsteps; children walk in one by one, some still in school uniform, and my friend signals the start of classes. The dining table is pushed back to the sidewall, and huge vetakeiya mats with colourful designs and borders are spread on the floor. The children sit devotedly holding various musical instruments. Then, begin the sound of notes emanating from varied musical instruments. I am pleased to notice that the tunings performed by the children themselves, with the help of an iPad!
Music gradually becomes diverse with so many instruments; tabla, sitar, violin, guitar, flute — and notes, both musical and vocal rising to a crescendo as the afternoon progresses —swara, raga, and a wide range of the traditional theme songs with tone of love, sadness, anxiety, motivation, devotion and spirituality. I felt truly happy and energised to share the afternoon with these engaged and intelligent young children who gave us an evening of musical magic that I will never forget. The class ended with all standing up and singing the national anthem together.
I am totally puzzled! How have these rural small children developed such strong, balanced and varied performing abilities? I know their minds and hearts are passionate about arts and music and they love to learn. But who would provide resources and opportunities to fulfill their passions? We often get caught up in what the typical career locations —cities, elite venues, large arts institutions— have to offer, but we forget what opportunity and experience might exist in these smaller, and often forgotten rural spaces. I think my friend wants to make people aware of the amazing qualities and gifts these Kiula children have to offer outsiders. And he has a fascinating story to share with me.
He had come to this village first in 2002, while he was the Chairman of a large corporation in Sri Lanka and quite by chance, bought an old ancestral house of a local politician that was in a dilapidated condition. In 2009, upon his retirement from an active career spanning 45 years, both in Sri Lanka and abroad, he sold his Colombo property, moved to this village having restored and renovated the house, to make it his retirement home. Through routine interaction with the villagers, he soon realised that the village children and their parents had a very limited view of the world and had a low level of self-esteem. Since he had the intention of spending his retirement years productively, he saw that there was an opportunity for him to be of assistance to the village children, to get a broader view of the world and have dreams of better futures for themselves.
He picked on the idea of expanding their knowledge and also their dreams and launched a mobile library. Not only did he buy second-hand books but he also begged his friends to donate whatever books they could, getting a fairly good collection. His first initiative was to begin a mobile library on a tuk-tuk, sent around the village every Saturday afternoon, lent free of charge to village children who became members of the ‘Kiula Kiyawana Gunaya free mobile library service’. Soon, there was widespread interest among children to read and after three years the activity was extended to invite them to contribute their own poetry and essays to a lithographed publication, called ‘Kiula Vimansa Athwela’. While these activities were progressing and the interest of village children on literary pursuits were growing, he moved on to facilitate them to learn music. An initiative that began with learning Sri Lankan folk music was later extended to learning Indian Classical Music.
On a chance meeting of an old friend, who is a graduate of the Bathkhande Sangeeth Vidyapith of Lucknow, India, and his local school in Badulla, an affiliated institute, he realised that he could provide an opportunity for Kiula children to prepare for the Bathkande Sangeeth Vidyapith examinations as external candidates. So, in 2013, commenced free classes in Indian classical music for a group of about 12 students. The first batch of students appeared for the Preveshika level exam in 2014, examined by a visiting Indian Professor and they did very well at the exam having obtained first and second division passes.
Initially, he had hired the music teachers from nearby schools to teach the music classes and the rest were taught by him, using smart classroom techniques —TV and Internet resources. At present, the music classes are taught entirely by old students who have reached the Visharad levels and a scholarship type payment is made to them.
In 2020, a total of 28 students sat for 34 subject areas in vocal music, violin, sitar, tabla, bansoori flute and esraj. Seven students who had reached the Visharad II level at the last exam have completed their final theory examination and now are Vishards. A further nine are at the Madyama (Diploma) level with 17 at the Prathama and Praveshika levels.
As he saw the need for the children to learn English and develop a better worldview, he also conducts free English and mixed learning classes. A few students are learning Japanese, Hindi and Tamil. Japanese taught by a lecturer with a PhD from Japan—one of his own students at Kelaniya Uni and a friend, retired after serving in JAICA. Hindi teacher’s services are obtained from the Swami Vivekananda Indian Cultural Institute, in Colombo and online Tamil teacher is the wife of a friend. In order to beat the Covid blues of the kids, he began organising online Sangeetha Ekamuthuwa on every Sunday afternoon using Zoom—and now is in its 21 week!
All activities are at no cost to the parents of the children, and even examination fees for the Bathkhande Exams are provided by his own savings. He has two daughters who live and work in the USA and they are his primary source of outside assistance. The only donations he has accepted over the years were used and new books and used and new musical instruments.
He would like to think of this initiative as proof of what one person can do, in a small way, on his or her own to cause change and he is very happy that his consistent effort has now proven to have paid off. He calls it ‘The Power of One’.
The virus and I
By Ransiri Menike Silva
Opening the newspapers these days is a hazardous exercise, one never knows from which page the Coronavirus will attack you, from a variety of angles and views that are factual, theoretical or speculative. For there it is, lurking furtively to pounce on the reader. And it is all so unutterably boring!
Is there nothing else to talk about? I wondered, so many interesting and entertaining things going on around us, like the acrobatic antics of our politicians and BIG (not bed) bugs have suddenly been stamped underground. No wonder it is so dull. I had just decided to terminate my subscription to my newspaper dealer, when I hit the jackpot, the virus came my way!
Summoning my regular trishaw man, Ranjith, not only for transport but also to ‘get shot’ himself along with me, we hit the road. The neighbourhood was familiar, the atmosphere not. We were travelling a muted world that was so soothing that I wondered why it could not always be so. The roads were full of pedestrians walking single file, in cliques or family groups. The traffic comprised two wheelers, three-wheelers and four-wheelers, yet there was no harsh screeching of brakes, no incessant honking, no heavy thump of badly negotiated speed bumps. All were heading one way. Nature contributed in her own way.
The breeze was gentle and the leaves rustled softly. A bird chirped on the top most branch of a tree and the telephone wires were bereft of noisy babblers. There were no raucous crows, mewing cats, whining dogs and snivelling kids, only the loud persistent announcements of a lone squirrel about his discovery of a bunch of ripe mangoes.
When we reached our destination the gates were open and the entire location swarming with busy people. It was dotted with billowing tents and awnings of a wisely chosen off-white shade that was easy on the eyes. These housed tables, chairs, writing material, forms and officials offering every form of assistance.
A hesitant expression or gesture from a new entrant had a squad of helpers instantly materialising to offer help with a chair; table; water; snacks; drinks; tissues; as well as by mending broken footwear, massaging tired feet and of course showing the way to the toilets. My Tuk Tuk had hardly stopped outside the main gate when a posse of policemen converged upon it and bore me off to a comfortable chair with the assurance, “Don’t worry Amma we will look after you.”
On spotting my escort returning after parking his vehicle following the unspoken instructions issued by the authorities, a senior police officer guided me to the correct place, his arm protectively around me like a mother with her new born babe; depositing me carefully in a chair he left me with a cheery wave to ‘mother’ some other ‘Amma’. Later he suddenly materialized beside me with the triumphant announcement, “Now it’s your turn Amma go that way.”
How on earth had he known? I wondered thoroughly surprised, but before I could show him my appreciation in an appropriate manner, he had vanished. While Ranjith was attending to all the formalities on my behalf, I sat back in my chair and watched the passing scene as I usually do as a writer. Something was definitely out of the place here. What? No queues! Unbelievable with such an enormous crowd. There were only about three or four people lined up (Ranjith was one) in front of each official who attended to their work. As each one was dismissed another automatically joined the line, not in a haphazard manner but from a row of applicants lolling in shaded comfort under an awning. That was the queue!
Families with no facilities to leave their young children at home alone arrived en masse. The mother joined the queue first and the others took off to some other part of the garden where they could enjoy themselves without disturbing others. I even spotted a lively ‘hide and seek’ game going on with young volunteer workers!
“That way” involved climbing two shallow steps to enter the second phase of our adventure and I found myself hauled up with one to my left, one to my right, one behind me and the other in front of me. Here a right royal welcome awaited us now labelled the ‘Ammai-Puthai’ duo. We were provided tidy packages of fresh milk cartons with straws and tissues before being escorted along an airy corridor to another part of the same property; then they turned back to attend to others following behind.
On spotting us, the ‘Ammai-Puthai’ duo, we were accorded special attention as we were the only elderly parent-child group present. I noted that each tent housed a different set of people who had been assigned separate rooms for treatment. The open-air arrangement was cool and refreshing, and the unlittered grass surprising. Then I saw youngsters with garbage bags collecting litter even before it hit the ground. A voluntary act that uplifted my spirits. When it was our turn the forms we had been issued earlier were collected and filled with more vital details, including the date for the second ‘shot’.
Smart blue uniformed matrons supervised everything. When my turn came, I was deposited gently in a chair, my left sleeve rolled up and the upper arm sterilized. Then the needle was jabbed in and pulled out before I could even summon up a grimace. What an anti-climax! Of course I heard a few stray noises emitted by some who probably expected it to be the done thing, but all others were as unaffected as I was. All forms were returned to us and we were advised to wait for 20 minutes to monitor any adverse reactions. Sitting there I wryly recalled the time our dog contracted rabies when I was an adolescent. Each day, after school, we had to report to the MRI for 18 days to get our anti-rabies vaccinations around the ‘buriya’ (navel) with a syringe so enormous that it resembled some ancient torture device! I have yet to see another one of that size.
Our wait was thankfully uneventful, no sneeze or even a sniffle. There were no musical chants from mobile phones but animated comical gesturing into them by their owners instead. When our time to leave was officially approved we were instructed to use the rear gate for exiting. Standing on the grass verge till Ranjith brought his Tuk Tuk around I could not help reflecting amusedly on the great ‘surgical trauma’ we had just undergone. We drove home in silence in keeping with the trend of the day and were finally back at home to relax, eat and sleep.
This, however, turned out an unfulfilled dream, for in a very short while the calls started coming in without a break. They came from friends and relatives who had also been ‘shot’ that day and were keen to share their individual experiences with me. They were from locations wide apart; Dehiwala, Moratuwa, Thelawala, Campbell Park (Borella) and De Zoysa Pura. Their experiences were almost identical to mine with only a few minor variations. The overall impression was the almost unbelievable efficiency evident at all these centres. It was obvious that this discipline was not due to any outside pressure but came from within all the volunteer workers; psyche that lay submerged until a time of need, when it swims to the surface.
It happens every day, unknown to the general public, in small and essential ways. It has happened before and will continue to happen in the future. Warmth and care for others is an intrinsic trait. We always share whatever we have with others, even sacrificing our own possessions to gift to another. It is a tradition among us, to never let a visitor leave without serving a cup of tea and other refreshments if available. Often it will be an impromptu invitation to a meal at a table loaded with hurriedly prepared extras. An outstanding example of this was during the Tsunami when everybody came together in one tight group.
When we come together at such times, it is evident that, whatever we may call ourselves outwardly, we are ‘one’ people sans differences of skin colour, age, gender, social status or personal beliefs. Foreigners who have encountered this, either in our own country or elsewhere are overwhelmed by this unmatchable intrinsic quality that has existed since the beginning of time, long before ‘Karuna’ (kindness) was instilled in us by all the religious teachers of the world.
The most publicised comment about this comes from Edward Snowden, the well-known whistleblower who exposed the workings of the US intelligence community to the world. In his latest book ‘Permanent Record’ he writes in detail about the kindness and generosity of his poverty-ridden Sri Lankan hosts, who had helped him enormously, declaring his gratitude, saying that he would forever be in their debt.
I feel proud and privileged to be a part of such a wonderful nation even in a minuscule way. I hope you are too. I also thank the Coronavirus for affording me the chance in an oblique way, to publicise my undying loyalty to my wonderful country. I am proud to be a Lankan and hope you are, too.
Travellers and traders: Muslims of Sri Lanka
By Uditha Devapriya
In 851 AD, an Arab merchant, called Soleyman, wrote an account of his travels to the island of Serendib. Impressionistic but insightful, it records the earliest known engagement of a Muslim with Sri Pada, also known as Samantukuta.
Soleyman does not refer to Sri Pada as “aadam malayi”, the name we see in later Muslim reconstructions of the peak. Instead he calls it “Al-Rohoun”, which is what the ninth century Indian poet Rajasekhara used in the Balaramanaya. “Rohoun” was a corruption of Ruhuna, to which the area around the mountain belonged. Literary sources inform us that this was the term used, and preferred, by Arabs and Indians from that time.
Around five centuries later, the scholar and traveller Ibn Batuta is reported to have climbed the peak. Patronised by the king of Jaffna, Batuta ascended the summit and came across a grotto bearing the name “Iskander.” Poets, travellers, and even historians would later posit this as evidence for the view, now largely debunked, that Alexander the Great climbed Sri Pada on his horse. Writing of his ascent, Batuta also noted that a Muslim Imam called Abu Abdallah, said to have died in 953 AD, was the first Muslim to make the climb. What we can speculate about from Batuta’s travels, other than the identity of “Iskander”, is that Muslim engagement with the summit dates to the 9th centuries.
Muslim engagement with Sri Lanka, of course, precedes these pilgrimages, while Arab engagement with the island predates even the coming of Islam. From the Mahavamsa we know that Pandukabhaya, after emerging triumphant from his war with his uncles, settled a community of “yonas” at the Western gate of his capital, Anuradhapura. “Yona”, we know well enough, was the term the Portuguese and the Dutch later used on Arabs.
We can’t really confirm whether the community Mahanama Thera referred to were the ancestors of the traders and settlers European colonisers encountered many centuries later. Yet, the coincidence is striking: it suggests that European colonisers considered the Arabs as alien to the country as the yonas of yore. Of course, the truth was more complex than such colonialist perceptions would suggest: by the 15th century, Arabs had become active participants in Sri Lanka’s economic, cultural, and political life.
We come across extensive references to Arabs in the country no earlier than in the sixth century AD. The literary sources we have tell us that merchants, from this period, made their way to Sri Lanka through three trade routes: the Indian to the North, the Chinese to the East, and the Arab to the West. Braudel writes that by the seventh century, trade in the Far East was dominated by these three economies. Sri Lanka’s receptivity to all three had a great deal to do with its emergence as a distinct geographic entity, separated but not cut off from the Indian subcontinent. It is from this vantage point that we should delve into the Arab origins of the Muslims, specifically Moors, of Sri Lanka.
Where did Arab traders settle in Sri Lanka? One school of thought argues that they first settled in localities in the north. Another school contends that they moved southwest, with records showing that a landing was made in Barberyn in 1024 AD. It must be noted that two of the oldest mosques were built in the latter region: the construction of the oldest of them, Al Abrar, dates to the 10th century, and that of the other, Kechchimalai, to the 12th.
Regardless of where they settled, we know what role they played in Sri Lankan society: they were, first and foremost, traders and merchants. In this, they became intermediaries between the island and the world. Enmeshing themselves in the commercial fabric of the country, they introduced practices that may not have been familiar to locals before their arrival. To say this is certainly not to deny the vitality of Sinhala civilisation; merely to note that the assimilation of other groups to that civilisation reinforced that vitality.
These encounters were hardly limited to the southwest, or even the north. Wherever they settled, Muslim traders wielded much influence, serving not just as merchants but also patrons of society. Encountering Colombo, for instance, Ibn Batuta wrote of a vizier called Jalasti, who had with him a retinue of 500 Abyssinians. Tennent suggested that his presence showed the Sinhalese were indifferent to commerce. Tennent’s view is, in one sense, a generalisation in line with colonialist readings of Sinhala culture, but it belies the reality of Muslim involvement of the island’s trade after the 10th century.
Their sense of privilege and proportion was significantly enlarged by a concession they won from Sinhala rulers: the ability to be tried by their own laws. This was an expedient necessitated by commerce: according to Lorna Dewaraja, whenever a dispute arose in any of the ports where they traded, it had to be settled “by a tribunal consisting of Muslim priests, merchants, and mariners.” Such privileges were crucial, because like any trade-based community Arab Muslims required a body of laws they could apply to their kind, wherever and in whatever part of the world they operated from. Their importance in this regard was not lost on local rulers: part of the reason why Arya Cakravari patronised Ibn Batuta so well was his desire to tap into Arab trade in the region.
Unlike European colonisers, even Muslims from other parts of the region, Arab traders formed one of the more peaceful communities in the island. Their pacifist nature, a stark contrast to the fanaticism of their compatriots in India, the Maldives, and South-East Asia, encouraged Sinhala kings to grant them settlements of their own. Eventually they became not just a part, but a fact, of life in the country.
In his account of Portuguese rule in Sri Lanka, Paul E. Pieris recounts an incident where, upon their first arrival in the island, the colonialists managed to anger locals by attempts to slaughter their cattle. What is fascinating about this episode is that Muslim settlements in Sri Lanka preceded the Portuguese by nine centuries, and even more fascinating, the fact that cattle slaughter was one of the few crimes for which a refugee could not escape the brunt of the law if he or she escaped to a viharagam (where cattle were held in high regard). It was, to borrow the parlance of modern law, a non-bailable offence.
Based on such fragmentary evidence, the conclusion we can reach is that cattle slaughter would have been tolerated as a practice of a community, in this case Muslims, assimilated to the country’s society. When committed by a foreign group, on the other hand, it would have constituted an act of disrespect, or even aggression.
There is, of course, no doubt that Muslim settlers and local communities faced a common enemy in the European coloniser. In their attempts to convince the king of the perfidious nature of the Portuguese, for example, Buddhist monks actively took the side of Muslim traders, warning the Sinhalese court of the dangers of allowing the Westerners too many privileges. By this point the reputation of Muslims had transcended their position as mere traders; they had entered other fields, as diverse as medicine and the crafts, flourishing in whatever domain they settled in. In incorporating them into the court, as physicians or members of the military, the Sinhala polity thus absorbed them into its social structure. It is this that explains the high regard Buddhist monks had for them. Historians who tend to play with categories of race, without noting the role caste played in Sinhala society, fail to appreciate fully the implications of such developments.
We see these processes continue in the Kandyan kingdom. For a social structure that was so rigid and fixed, it is astonishing that it absorbed outside communities so well. Muslims not surprisingly figured in its scheme of things: they were decreed a place in the Sinhala caste system, banded together with the karavas or the fisher folk. They were also allowed their own headmen for the villages they settled in. This gave them a twin advantage: while maintaining amicable relations with the king, they continued with their cultural practices that set them apart from other social and caste groups. Readily genuflecting before rulers and nobles, they played a role as merchants, physicians, and envoys.
The fact that we do not come across records of tensions between them and other groups, particularly those such as the Buddhist clergy, indicates that, for all its limitations, Kandyan feudalism did a better job than British colonialism in maintaining inter-group relations. To say this is by no means to romanticise the caste system; only to suggest, as historians like Lorna Dewaraja have, that colonialism brought an end to a period of symbiotic harmony between groups who were, with the advent of Western rule, to see themselves in ethnic rather than caste terms. This, however, is an entirely new domain of research, one which most contemporary scholars, barring the likes of Asiff Hussein, have not explored. That it should be explored is implied in the unfortunate, though hardly inevitable, conflagrations of ethnic tension which crop up from time to time today. As Regi Siriwardena suggested a long time ago, what needs to be emphasised is not imagined unity, but actual diversity: a diversity that remained a force for unity for so long.
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