Features
Senarat Paranavitana, the gentleman I knew.
by Raja de Silva
An inevitable change in our social life has resulted from the restriction to our movement caused by the onset of Covid-19. We tend to refrain from visiting friends and relatives, staying in our homes instead; we have more time to think of the past and reflect on those we knew in days gone by. Very recently I had a rare visit from a relative, a medical man who is also an amateur antiquarian. He asked me to relate something about the legendary Paranavitana, whose last living erstwhile assistant I am. Like Hercule Poirot, I consulted my little grey cells and told him old stories, which I now place on record.
1.The interview
The year was 1949 and I had appeared before Paranavitana, Archaeological Commissioner (AC) (1940-1956), who together with Director of Museums, Paul Deraniyagala and the Professor of Chemistry, A. Kandiah constituted an Interview Board at the Archaeological Department. Three of us friends had applied for the post of Archaeological Chemist to be trained in India, and I was the first to be interviewed. Paranavitana commenced his inquisition with the following memorable words.
AC
: Mr. de Silva, we have your biodata with us. Tell me, who was your mother?
RH de S (knowing that the purpose of this question was to find out my caste): My mother’s maiden name was Jayawickrama, Sir.
AC
: Jayawickrama from Kurunegala?
RH de S: No Sir, from the South, in Mirissa.
AC
: Any relation of Francis Jayawickrama who helped to restore the Tissamaharama Mahathupa?
RH de S: Her father, Sir.
AC
(with a gleam in his eye): If you were to join this department it is not impossible that one day you would be able to restore old dagobas in a more scientific manner.
I knew of course that the superstructure of the Tissamaharama Mahathupa was of a most peculiar shape, conical in silhouette, unlike the familiar superstructures of all restored dagobas in Anuradhapura and Polonnaruva.
After a second interview at the Public Services Commission, and being appointed a Probationer I was immediately sent for a two-year period of training by the Archaeological Chemist in India, Dehra Dun.
Smoking
One day the AC called me and Saddhamangala Karunaratne (SK) Assistant Commissioner, who was appointed a year after me, to his room to speak generally about our duties. His opening move was to slide two tins of cigarettes forward, a Navy Cut and Bristol, the latter of which he used to smoke. I took a Navy Cut and put it in my shirt pocket. SK declined. When we came away, I asked SK why he didn’t accept a cigarette. His reply was, ‘How could I smoke in front of the AC?’ From then on the AC used to offer me a cigarette but none to SK.
Post-luncheon nap
One early afternoon the AC had sent his peon on several occasions to my office requesting me to see him. It was about 2.10 when I appeared in the AC’s office soon after returning to work from my lunch break. The following dialogue took place:
AC
: I have sent for you many times; where were you?
RH de S: I went home to lunch, Sir.
AC
: Where do you live?
RH de S: In Ward Place, Sir.
AC
: Don’t you know the lunch period is 12 to 1? It is now past 2.
RH de S: I know Sir, but I have a nap for one hour after lunch, because my efficiency is then better in the afternoon.
AC
: Is that so?
and the AC told me what he wanted done.
From then on I was allowed to continue this salutary practice. I made a discovery 13 years later, when I moved into the office of the AC, that there was an ante-room provided with a large safe, a small table and chair for having lunch, a wash-basin and a cane easy-chair ideal for reposing in for forty-winks. It served me as it must have done the Old Chief.
Drinks
At the outset, the AC told me that the Sigiriya fresco pocket had been closed to the public from 1947, and I was to go there often and attend to the paintings, some of which were cracked and in danger of falling off. In 1952/53 I used to occupy room No. 2 at the circuit bungalow, whereas the AC was often in room No. 1, after peering at the ancient writings on the gallery wall. One evening after sundown, he summoned me from room No. 2 where I had taken refuge and told me to get into his Willy’s station wagon. He told his chauffeur to drive us to the Rest House one minute away. Once we were settled comfortably in the verandah, with the waiter standing by, the AC asked me what I would like to drink, to which I replied, ‘A small whiskey and water please’. He ordered a wee whiskey for me and a small brandy and ginger ale for himself. He next announced, ‘You may smoke’, at which I brought out my packet of Gold Flake cigarettes and laid it on the table. The AC extracted his tin of Bristol from his coat-pocket and lit a cigarette, while I gave my Gold Flake a rest. We spent close to half an hour at the Rest House, and I remember what the AC told me, as if it were yesterday. ‘Do not accept anything from those junior officers in the field. They might put king coconuts in your car or offer you cigarettes or soft drinks. Do not take anything’. This was (I believed) in order that I would not become familiar with or beholden to anybody.
Again in 1954, in Anuradhapura, the AC took me out one evening to the Grand Hotel (now Tissawewa Rest House) for a drink. One drink; the same, and I did not smoke. I have no doubt that Driver Grade 1 Dassanaike would have duly reported to the minor staff that the lokumahattaya had given me a drink; my reputation would have gone up through the ceiling.
After about two years work at Sigiriya, I was able to inform the AC that, in my opinion, it was safe to open the fresco pocket to the public, provided that only a few people were allowed in at any one time. This was done in 1954, and the AC was commended in the newspapers.
Barber’s saloon
On the occasion of the retirement of a senior Assistant Commissioner P.H. Wilson Peiris, ARIBA, in the course of the AC’s valedictory speech, he referred to an incident concerning Peiris’s little son who used to roam about exploring the Archaeological Department. One entrance to the AC’s private office had swivel half-doors (as was common in barber’s saloons). The AC related how the little boy pushed open the two flaps of this entrance and inquired of him who had looked up in surprise, ‘Barber saloon ekak the?’. AC had replied, ‘Nää puthè, barber saloon ekak nevey’. The boy had retreated in disappointment. The AC concluded by declaring that we would all miss the intrepid young explorer.
The gourami
In the garden of the Polonnaruva circuit bungalow, Conservation Assistant Shanmuganathan had built a pond rather like the ancient lotus pond in the archeological reserve. It contained water and a gourami fish lived there. The AC on circuit never failed to feed the gourami a crumb or two after breakfast. One day, Hinton (the bungalow keeper) was suddenly informed that the AC on circuit, was arriving at the bungalow to dinner. The resourceful Hinton executed the gourami and served a fish course to the AC. The next morning when the AC looked to feed the gourami, he was aghast to find it missing. On inquiry, Hinton had professed no knowledge of the fate of the fish. A well-wisher who aspired to be the circuit bungalow keeper had ratted to the AC that Hinton was the guilty party. It was common knowledge that Hinton was no more at the circuit bungalow. On a visit of mine to Dimbulagala, ten miles away, I met Hinton who related to me the story of his banishment. Several years later, feeling that Hinton had served a long enough sentence among wild bears, who infested the jungles around the Maravidiya caves, I restored him to the Polonnaruva Circuit Bungalow.
Out of favour
Misfortune had set in. In 1954, certain paintings in one of the Maravidiya caves at Dimbulagala were subject to vandalism by a fanatic carrying buckets of cow-dung and applying it in water over the paintings (ASCAR 1954, 8, para 32). On the occasion of the AC seeing me at the Anuradhapura circuit bungalow, the following dialogue took place one morning.
AC
: I want you to give instructions to Sarath Wattala to clean those paintings at Dimbulagala.
Assistant Commissioner (Chemist): Sorry, Sir, I am unable to do so.
AC
: Why?
Assistant Commissioner (Chemist): He is the Modellor, and he would not know the difference between an acid and an alkali, Sir.
AC
. You do not like him, do you?
Assistant Commissioner (Chemist): Sir, it is not a question of like or dislike. He is just not suitable for the job you wish me to give him. I shall try to clean the paintings myself.
That was the end of the conversation, which I saw had displeased the AC, who left Anuradhapura in continuation of his circuit. However, in a day or two I received written orders from the AC to give instructions to Sarath Wattala to clean the Dimbulagala paintings. I replied, from Anuradhapura, that as explained personally, I regretted it was not possible for me to do as the AC required, but that I would attempt to clean the paintings. All attempts, including an effort by Luciano Maranzi, UNESCO expert, failed. In this connection, Paranavitana later (1958) wrote ‘In caves on the adjoining hill at Dimbulagala, there were, before a fanatic recently obliterated them, fragmentary paintings of the first half of the 12th century.’
The AC was annoyed with me. In February 1956 I was given nine months duty leave by the AC to attend a British Council course in the Preservation of Works of Art. But, the AC arranged for my junior colleague, Saddhamangala Karunaratne (SK), Assistant Commissioner (Epigraphist), to study for a PhD at Cambridge University, for a period of three years on duty leave. For this purpose, the AC had addressed Government stating that “with my imminent retirement, it is necessary to have an officer trained in research work so that he may be equipped to head the Archaeological Department“. SK was chosen for such a scholarship abroad. I saw that letter in the file in 1957 when I was senior Assistant Commissioner (detailed to look after administration), while the Acting AC, Claudio Sestieri, was to be free to do field work and train the staff in excavation. SK left for Cambridge in 1957.
It was now my turn to be righteously annoyed. I wanted to show the retired AC that I was capable of research work, and how better than by criticizing one of his own theories?
I published a long newspaper article in the Sunday Observer dated April 4, 1957, criticizing Paranavitana’s theory that the Dakkhina thupa, Anuradhapura, was built on the site of King Dutugemunu’s cremation (See de Silva, Raja 2005, 93 – 103). There was no reply from my old chief, who was by then Professor of Archaeology, Peradeniya University.
Lost ground retrieved
The Government (1959) agreed (on representation made by me) that I should be given the same facility for post-graduate research work abroad as was given to SK. I was to be given a placement at Oxford University, provided that my university professor and my departmental head testify to my good character and capability to undertake research work. The certificates were to be sent to Oxford through the Education Officer, Ceylon High Commission in London. The Chemistry Professor sent his recommendation (on my request) direct to London. I informed Professor Paranavitana of this requirement, and kindly requested that the required certificate be sent to London. Mirabileé dictu, my old AC sent me (for onward transmission) a recommendation that was couched in superlative terms. I realized what a warm-hearted gentleman Paranavitana was, and humbly thanked him for the splendid certificate. I was thus able to be on duty leave in Oxford for a period of three years from August 1959.
Retired AC becomes Professor
After I was appointed AC in 1967, my former AC used to visit me in my office, whenever he came to the Library to refer documents. I would get up, go round to the visitor’s side and sit down to converse about his requirements. To assist Professor Paranavitana in his researches, I was able to obtain the approval of the Ministry of Cultural Affairs to give him all his requirements free of charge. I used to take to his residence rubbings of inscriptions that he wished to inspect; I was once shown on a rubbing the spots where the words Platava (Plato), Alaksandara (Alexander), and Abrasthita (Aphrodite) were seen by him. The Professor used to give me autographed off-prints of his academic papers, which I have safeguarded to this day.
My old chief died in 1972. It gave me satisfaction to persuade a chieftan of the Lake House Press, to bring out from their press, the former AC’s latest book, The Story of Sigiriya, before the date of his state funeral.
Paranavitana was roundly criticized by latter day scholars for his study and publication of later interlinear writings on old inscribed stones. I replied to several of these critics and defended Paranavitana from the insinuated charge that there were no interlinear writings and he was therefore an intellectual fraud. My defense of Paranavitana was titled ‘Paranavitana and the interlinear writings’ in my book Digging into the past (2005: 203-216), where I showed that his peers CE Godakumbure and Saddhamangala Karunaratne had both accepted that there were interlinear writings on stones.
Senarat Paranavitana the scholar, is justly remembered as the greatest Sri Lankan archaeologist of the first half of the 20th century. But not second to him was Paranavitana the gentleman, who was not known to many people outside the Archaeological Department. It was an honour to have known him.
Features
A murder that shook British India and toppled a king
It looked like an ordinary murder.
One hundred years ago on this day – 12 January 1925 – a group of men attacked a couple on a car ride in a upmarket suburb in Bombay (now Mumbai) in colonial India, shooting the man dead and slashing the woman’s face.
But the story that unfolded brought global spotlight on the case, while its complexity put the country’s then British rulers in a spot of bother, and eventually forced an Indian king to abdicate.
Newspapers and magazines described the murder as “perhaps the most sensational crime committed in British India”, and it became “the talk of the city” during the investigation and subsequent trial.
The victim, Abdul Kadir Bawla, 25, was an influential textile businessman and the city’s youngest municipal official. His female companion, Mumtaz Begum, 22, was a courtesan on the run from the harem of a princely state and had been staying with Bawla for the last few months.
On the evening of the murder, Bawla and Mumtaz Begum were in the car with three others, driving in Malabar Hill, an affluent area along the shore of the Arabian Sea. Cars were a rarity in India at the time, and only the rich owned them.
Suddenly, another car overtook them. Before they could react, it collided with theirs, forcing them to stop, according to intelligence and newspaper reports.
The attackers showered expletives on Bawla and shouted “get the lady out”, Mumtaz Begum later told the Bombay High Court.
They then shot Bawla, who died a few hours later.
A group of British soldiers, who had inadvertently taken a wrong turn on their way back from a golf game, heard the gunshots and rushed to the scene.
They managed to catch one of the culprits, but one officer suffered gunshot wounds when an attacker opened fire at them.
Before fleeing, the remaining attackers made two attempts to snatch the injured Mumtaz Begum from the British officers, who were trying to rush her to the hospital.
The newspapers suggested that attackers’ aim was likely abducting Mumtaz Begum, as Bawla – whom she had met while performing in Mumbai a few months earlier and had been living with since – had earlier received several threats for sheltering her.
The Illustrated Weekly of India promised readers exclusive photographs of Mumtaz Begum, while the police planned to issue a daily bulletin to the press, Marathi newspaper Navakal reported.
Even Bollywood found the case compelling enough to adapt it into a silent murder thriller within months.
“The case went beyond the usual murder mystery as it involved a rich and young tycoon, a slighted king, and a beautiful woman,” says Dhaval Kulkarni, author of The Bawla Murder Case: Love, Lust and Crime in Colonial India.
The attackers’ footprints, as speculated in the media, led investigators to the influential princely state of Indore, which was a British ally. Mumtaz Begum, a Muslim, had lived in the harem of its Hindu king, Maharaja Tukoji Rao Holkar III.
Mumtaz Begum was famed for her beauty. “In her own class, it was said, Mumtaz was without a peer,” KL Gauba wrote in his 1945 book, Famous Trials for Love and Murder.
But the Maharaja’s (king’s) attempts to control her – preventing her from seeing her family alone and keeping her under constant surveillance – soured their relationship, says Kulkarni.
“I was kept under surveillance. I was allowed to see visitors and my relations but somebody always accompanied me,” Mumtaz Begum testified in the court.
In Indore, she gave birth to a baby girl, who died soon after.
“After my child was born, I was unwilling to stay at Indore. I was unwilling because the nurses killed the female child that was born,” Mumtaz Begum told the court.
Within months, she escaped to the northern Indian city of Amritsar, her mother’s place of birth, but troubles followed.
She was watched there too. Mumtaz Begum’s stepfather told the court that the Maharaja wept and begged her to return. But she refused and moved to Bombay, where the surveillance continued.
The trial confirmed what media had speculated following the murder: representatives of the Maharaja had indeed threatened Bawla with dire consequences if he continued to shelter Mumtaz Begum, but he had ignored the warnings.
Following a lead given by Shafi Ahmed, the only attacker captured at the scene, the Bombay police arrested seven men from Indore.
The investigation revealed links to the Maharaja that were hard to ignore. Most of the arrested men were employed by the Indore princely state, had applied for leave around the same time and were in Bombay at the time of the crime.
The murder put the British government in a tough spot. Though it happened in Bombay, the investigation clearly showed the plot was planned in Indore, which had strong ties to the British.
Terming it “the most awkward affair” for the British government, The New Statesman wrote that if it were a minor state, “there would be no particular cause for anxiety”.
“But Indore has been a powerful feudatory of the Raj,” it said.
The British government initially tried to keep mum about the murder’s Indore connection in public. But in private, it discussed the issue with much alarm, communication between the governments of Bombay and British India shows.
Bombay police commissioner Patrick Kelly told the British government that all evidence “points at present to a conspiracy hatched in Indore or by instigation from Indore to abduct Mumtaj [sic] through hired desperadoes”.
The government faced pressure from different sides. Bawla’s community of wealthy Memons, a Muslim community with roots in modern-day Gujarat, raised the issue with the government. His fellow municipal officials mourned his death, saying, “there surely must be something more behind the scene”.
Indian lawmakers demanded answers in the upper house of British India’s legislature and the case was even discussed in the British House of Commons.
Rohidas Narayan Dusar, a former police officer, writes in his book on the murder that the investigators were under pressure to go slow, but that then police commissioner Kelly threatened to resign.
The case drew top lawyers for both the defence and the prosecution when it reached the Bombay High Court.
One of them was Muhammad Ali Jinnah, who would later become the founding father of Pakistan after India’s partition in 1947. Jinnah defended Anandrao Gangaram Phanse, one of the accused and a top general with the Indore army. Jinnah managed to save his client from the death penalty.
The court sentenced three men to death and three to life imprisonment, but it stopped short of holding the Maharaja accountable.
Justice LC Crump, who led the trial, noted, however, that “there were persons behind them [assailants] whom we cannot precisely indicate”.
“But where an attempt is made to kidnap a woman, who was for 10 years the mistress of the Maharaja of Indore, it is not in the least unreasonable to look to Indore as the quarter from which this attack may have emanated,” the judge remarked.
The case’s prominence meant the British government had to act quickly against the Maharaja. They gave him a choice: face a commission of inquiry or abdicate, according to documents presented to parliament in India.
The Maharaja chose to quit. “I abdicate my throne in favour of my son on the understanding that no further inquiry into my alleged connection with the Malabar Hill Tragedy will be made,” he wrote to the British government.
After abdicating, the Maharaja stirred more controversy by insisting on marrying an American woman against the will of his family and community. Eventually, she converted to Hinduism and they wed, according to a British home department report.
Meanwhile, Mumtaz Begum received offers from Hollywood and later moved to the US to try her luck there. She faded into obscurity after that.
[BBC]
Features
Sri Lanka’s Perennial Rice Crisis: Scarcity Despite Self-Sufficiency
by Rajan Philips
The ideological Left and Right in Sri Lanka have staked out their positions on the country’s perennial rice crisis. In the view of the ideological Left, the country’s food crisis including the recent rice crisis is even traceable to the allegedly flawed IMF program. And the preferred solution is getting back to the future and achieving self-sufficiency in food based on a public distribution system that has been neglected and/or abandoned after 1977. What is conveniently forgotten is the scourge of shortages and the ridiculous restrictions on inter-district movement of rice before 1977 that set the political stage ready for the ideological and even habitual, but not at all pragmatically calibrated, launching of economic liberalization.
For the Right which is nowhere near what it was in 1977, the current and the recurrent September to December rice crisis is the cumulative result of the failed policies of price controls, import controls that were reintroduced after 2005, and the old self sufficiency mindset itself. Open up the market for locally produced rice to compete with imported rice and establish steady supplies and a price equilibrium. If prices occasionally rise to become unaffordable, people can eat bread until the hidden hand imposes a new price equilibrium. That is the gospel according to the Right.
Self-sufficiency in Rice
The fact of the matter is that based on annual production and consumption estimates, Sri Lanka has achieved self-sufficiency in rice, and this has been so for about three decades. That it happened under the open economy is not denied. In fact, pursuing self-sufficiency in rice has been a traditional UNP goal and not the SLFP’s. CP de Silva after an illustrious Civil Service career working under Prime Minister DS Senanayake, introduced self-sufficiency to the SLFP vocabulary after becoming a powerful Minister in the 1956 SWRD Bandaranaike government. He was quickly rebuked in parliament by his elder cousin, the LSSP’s Colvin R de Silva, that “one can achieve self-sufficiency only in one’s grave.”
Positive free trade has historically been the cry of the Left from the 19th century. Yet specific to rice and Sri Lanka, the balanced position articulated by Dr. Gamani Corea is a timeless advice, that “agricultural policies should not be guided entirely by considerations of comparative advantage,” … and that it would be “fool-hardy not to achieve a minimum self-reliance in basic food stuffs.” And none more so than in the areas paddy cultivation and rice production that have been so integral to Sri Lanka’s civilizational existence.
At the same time, self-sufficiency in rice is not assured year after year due to adverse climate conditions. Alternating droughts and floods can upset all the self-sufficiency planning, as it happened in 2016. Now we know economic blunders such as the man-made fertilizer crisis can drastically impact our self-sufficiency as we saw in 2022. One would hope that the Rajapaksa history will never repeat itself, but weather disruptions can occur any year and every year. So, there has to be a well laid out Plan B for dealing with shortfalls in rice due to weather conditions.
But the recurrent September-December rice crisis is not due to weather but the manipulation of the supply-demand imbalance between the near constant monthly demand for rice and its biannual supply from the harvests of the Maha and Yala cultivating seasons. The well established seasonal pattern is that the main Maha season accounts for about 60% of local production and its harvest arrives in the mostly in the month of March every year. The harvest of the smaller Yala season brings the balance 40% usually during the month of August.
Monthly ‘Rice-Flow’
The paddy and rice statistics for the year 2023 indicate a total production of just over 3.0M metric tons of rice (out of 4.5M metric tons of paddy) and a total consumption of just under 2.5M metric tons, indicating a net surplus of about half a million metric tons. The monthly ‘rice-flow’ is conditioned by the steady monthly demand of approximately 205,000 metric tons of rice and its biannual points of supply of 1.8M metric tons of the Maha season rice in March-April, and 1.2M metric tons of the Yala season rice in August-September.
The Maha season supply of 1.8M metric tons alone can meet the monthly requirements until about the month of October. With the addition of the Yala supply of 1.2M metric tons by September, a positive ‘rice-flow’ can be maintained (with a surplus of 0.5M metric tons) until the next Maha harvest. This would usually be the case every year unless there is a weather disruption. The recurrent reality, however, is that supply levels drop, and prices increase during the months of September to December, causing rice shortages and price increases and forcing governments to rush in rice imports and exercise price control to avoid a political crisis. Usually, the governments’ remedies have been making matters worse.
The monthly retail price fluctuation is across the main paddy and rice types (samba, nadu, red rice etc.) and it has shown a generally consistent pattern of increasing prices from September to December, falling prices from January to March, slight increases in April, May and June, and ending with decreases over July and August. The highest retail price per kilogram of rice is registered in December and the lowest in March, with a Rs. 10 to Rs. 15 average difference between the two.
The general diagnosis is that the rising price from September to December and the falling price from January to March is the result of supply manipulation by a few large rice millers with large storage capacities who collude among them to restrict supply before December and glut the market after January. The main objective would seem to be not profiteering in the months of September to January but driving down the prices after January so that the millers can pay the minimum price to the farmers for purchasing paddy after the new Maha season harvest in March. The farmers are constantly in a bind no matter what the season is. They have no storage capacity and are constrained to turn over their harvest not to any miller or buyer, but generally to the one to whom they are invariably indebted to for obtaining seed paddy, purchasing fertilizer and other inputs.
The alternative explanation is that the rice stocks with millers go down during the year end months even as the demand for rice slightly goes up due to the increase in the number of tourists arriving in the country. When imports were freely allowed, the explanation goes, the recurring shortfalls were compensated by imported rice varieties so that rice supplies were maintained, and sharp price increases were avoided. This pattern was apparently broken after 2005 by the restriction on imports and high import duties and the impacts on the people became harder.
But the dispute over imports does not explain why rice stocks should fall below demand levels at any time during the year unless there have been weather disruptions. The additional demand attributed to tourist populations or beer production is likely to marginal at best. While there must be flexibility in turning to imports to deal with shortfalls in local production due to adverse whether conditions, relying on imports should not be the answer to supply manipulations by large rice millers.
Todate the problem of the market power of the large rice millers has been seen as more of a political problem but not as a technical as a technical challenge. At the political level, i.e., ministerial and cabinet level, the response to the rice crisis all these years has been one of inaction and overreaction. The inaction is by the government towards the widely acknowledged problem of a handful of large rice millers controlling the marketing and pricing of locally produced rice during the inter-seasonal months between end of the yala season harvest and the beginning of the maha season harvest. The overreaction is also by the government to address rice shortage and price increase by enforcing price controls and allowing rice imports.
For the present NPP government, unlike its recent predecessors, there is no evidence of there being vested interests to be served or having economic IOUs to anyone. On the other hand, every government this century – whether governments of the Rajapaksas by the Rajapaksas for the Rajapaksas, or the Sirisena-Ranil misadventure, or the Ranil-Rajapaksa caretaker regime – have been notorious for safeguarding vested interests and doling out IOUs. Or mostly IOUs in the case of the Rajapaksas.
As well, the NPP government notwithstanding its ideological prehistory is turning out to be the most practical government that this country has seen in a long time. By being practical in governing – I mean a governing approach to achieve results through actions based on evidence and information. Specific to the rice situation, Sri Lanka has gone through both the public distribution system and the private marketing system, and neither approach has by itself always produced the desired results.
Being practical in this instance would mean leveraging what works and under-using what does not. It also means that the government must rapidly work towards establishing a comprehensive database covering the rice milling industry, as well as a marketing information system for the rice sector at all levels. Agricultural Economists and Professionals have been calling for this for some time and it is a task that requires the government’s immediate attention.
(To be continued)
Features
Wars They Waged; Price We Paid
by Nilantha Ilangamuwa
The Vietnam War should have been the United States’ breaking point—a humiliating defeat that exposed the futility of projecting brute force in a world that had long learned to resist imperialism. But instead of becoming a sobering moment of reflection, it ignited a chain reaction of conflicts, interventions, and proxy wars that would devastate nations and leave millions dead. From Ronald Reagan to Joe Biden, the American war machine has not only endured but expanded, thriving on chaos and suffering. With Donald Trump poised to return, his new administration promises to perpetuate this bloodstained legacy, consolidating power at home while unleashing destruction abroad.
Reagan’s tenure marked a revival of the Cold War mindset, framed by a simplistic, almost cartoonish view of global politics. His administration orchestrated covert operations and military interventions with reckless abandon, leaving a trail of devastation across continents. In Grenada, a minuscule island nation, the U.S. flexed its muscle in a laughable display of overkill. Yet, the price for the people of Grenada was far from humorous—hundreds of civilians dead in an operation sold as a “rescue mission.” In Lebanon, Reagan’s deployment of U.S. Marines ended in catastrophe, with 241 servicemen killed in a suicide bombing. The retaliatory shelling of Lebanese villages left countless civilians dead, their stories erased in the official narrative.
George H. W. Bush brought the carnage to Panama and Iraq. Operation Just Cause in Panama left at least 3,000 civilians dead, according to independent estimates—numbers far higher than the official U.S. tally. The Gulf War of 1991 killed tens of thousands of Iraqi soldiers and civilians, with entire neighbourhoods flattened by American air-power. The sanctions that followed—a form of economic warfare—led to the deaths of an estimated 500,000 Iraqi children, as reported by UNICEF. But these deaths were dismissed by then-Secretary of State Madeleine Albright as a price worth paying.
Bill Clinton’s presidency, often remembered for its charm and centrism, was anything but peaceful. Under his watch, NATO’s bombing campaign in Kosovo killed an estimated 500 civilians, while strikes on critical infrastructure plunged the region into chaos. In Somalia, Clinton inherited and expanded a disastrous intervention that culminated in the infamous Black Hawk Down incident. The fallout was not limited to American soldiers—it cost the lives of an estimated 10,000 Somali civilians caught in the crossfire.
The Bush-Cheney years saw the bloodbath reach industrial levels. The 2003 invasion of Iraq, based on falsified intelligence, unleashed a catastrophe of staggering proportions. By conservative estimates, 200,000 Iraqi civilians died in the war, though many argue the real number exceeds half a million. Afghanistan, initially framed as a righteous response to 9/11, turned into a graveyard for American credibility. The war cost over 70,000 Afghan civilian lives, with many more lost to starvation and disease caused by the destruction of infrastructure. These numbers, while horrifying, barely scratch the surface.
Barack Obama, heralded as a harbinger of change, instead became the drone king. Under his administration, drone strikes killed an estimated 3,800 people in Pakistan, Yemen, and Somalia. These numbers include as many as 800 civilians, though independent investigations suggest the real toll is much higher. Libya, once a stable if repressive state, was reduced to a failed state after NATO’s intervention, with Obama admitting it was his greatest foreign policy mistake. Yet his admission did nothing to rebuild Libya, now a haven for human traffickers and militia warlords.
Donald Trump’s first term shattered even the pretense of restraint. Civilian casualties from U.S. airstrikes in Syria and Iraq soared, with independent monitors estimating at least 4,500 civilians killed in 2017 alone. In Somalia, Trump’s loosening of drone strike protocols led to a surge in civilian deaths, including women and children obliterated in remote villages. Yemen’s civil war, fueled by U.S.-supplied bombs and logistical support to Saudi Arabia, created what the U.N. calls the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. By some estimates, over 377,000 Yemenis have died—many of them from famine and disease exacerbated by the relentless bombing campaigns.
Joe Biden’s administration, while promising a pivot to diplomacy, has only perpetuated the violence. The withdrawal from Afghanistan, while ending America’s longest war, was executed with callous disregard for human life. At least 170 civilians were killed in a single ISIS-K bombing during the chaotic evacuation. Biden’s continued drone strikes and military presence in Syria ensure that civilians remain collateral in America’s unending “war on terror.” In Ukraine, U.S. military aid fuels a war that has already claimed tens of thousands of lives on both sides, with no end in sight.
Across these decades, the pattern is unmistakable: the United States does not fight wars for freedom or democracy. It fights for hegemony, resources, and geopolitical advantage, with human lives as expendable currency. The statistics are staggering but fail to capture the depth of the tragedy. From Vietnam to Yemen, from Iraq to Libya, the human cost is always paid by those least equipped to bear it: the poor, the displaced, the voiceless.
In just days, Donald Trump will return to the White House, his second administration poised to escalate the already relentless machinery of American war. This time, the gloves are off—his power more consolidated, his team of loyalists more ruthless, and his ambitions unrestrained. The team surrounding him will be battle-hardened ideologues with little patience for opposition. Trump has openly embraced authoritarian impulses, and his foreign policy will likely mirror his domestic ambitions—unapologetic, ruthless, and geared toward consolidating dominance. For the impoverished, this is a death sentence.
The costs will not be borne by those who plan wars from air-conditioned offices or justify them in press briefings but by the powerless: Yemeni mothers sifting through rubble for scraps, Syrian children cowering as drones circle above, and Gazan families freezing to death amid the ruins of their bombed-out homes. These are not accidents of war; they are deliberate outcomes of a global system that treats human life as expendable in the pursuit of dominance over dignity. The bombs will continue to fall, the starving will continue to die, and the architects of this destruction will dine in opulence, their hands stained with the blood of the voiceless. Yet, at the start of every year, we exchange ‘Happy New Year’ greetings — an ironic paradox of human behaviour.
We collectively absorb these atrocities—not with shock or outrage, but with numbed detachment, anesthetized by the relentless churn of media cycles and the droning rationalizations of pundits. It is not that we do not care—it is that we have been conditioned not to. Once our souls have been amputated by decades of warmongering, by a system that normalizes suffering as the cost of ‘security,’ we survive in resignation, compelled by the machinery of indifference to keep moving forward.
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