Features

Situlpauwa, Veddas, building a bungalow at Thenaddi Bay on idyllic East coast

Published

3 years ago

2023/03/12

Thilina Walpola

Excerpted from te authorized biography of Thilo Hoffmann by Douglas B. Ranasinghe

(Continued from last week)

Thilo continues: “The Ven. Bhikkhu Sumedha, a long-time friend who had grown up in Switzerland, spent his early hermit years as a Buddhist monk at Situlpauwa and at the top of Vedahitikanda. He later obtained higher ordination, and died in Kandy in 2006. On his occasional visits to Colombo, dana was regularly offered at our house. Situlpauwa was then a jungle-covered site with only an occasional hermit monk in residence, and wildlife roaming freely through it. Today, as a result of restoration and development, the jungle has given way to concrete, electric lights, noise and commerce.”

During his time in Sri Lanka Thilo has been dismayed to witness such change, in diverse ways, at countless holy and historical places. He adds one example: “We may perhaps record two different alterations at the famous Koneswaram Temple, on Swami Rock at Trincomalee. The entire temple has been ‘restored’ and renovated, covering under cement and plaster and layers of glossy new paint all traces of its ancient history.

“It is also the site of an act of vandalism. There on a stone pillar was an inscription in high relief recording the death of a young Dutch woman who in the 18th century threw herself over the precipice after watching her lover’s ship sail away. This was chiselled away in the 1980s, a testimony to the prevalent politico-religious chauvinism.”

Veddas

In 1950 Thilo and Mae visited the Pollebedda Veddas in the company of Dr R. L. Spittel. After Thilo finished work at the office on Friday, they drove through the night to Maha Oya, via Haputale, Badulla and Bibile. In the early morning Spittel took them to Pollebedda, deep in the dry zone jungle, where a small and reasonably typical Vedda community was living.

Dr Spittel pointed out two younger men whom he described as “good throwbacks” and who, though of mixed blood, showed external characteristics of the Vedda race. He explained that the pure Veddas had ceased to exist some 20 years earlier as by then they had all been absorbed in the Sinhalese and Tamil populations. Thilo adds that other authorities with first-hand knowledge of the Veddas agree with this view. A dance was performed, and the visitors observed the families in their daily activties. Most had huts to live in, and were cultivating. There was one tent-like hut covered with pieces of tree bark. Rats were an item in the diet.

Twenty-six years later, in July 1976, the Hoffmanns again visited Pollebedda, which is about 15 km south of Maha Oya along the Rambukkan Oya. They camped out in a vain bid to see a rare bird, the broad-billed roller, which had been reported there. The place had changed beyond recognition, the thick forest had been cleared, and chenas had turned it into a ‘scrub desert’. A school building and teachers’ quarters had been put up. There was no trace of the Vedda settlement. Thilo explains:

“Today’s `show-Veddas’ of Dambana (so styled by the Seligmanns even a century ago), led by the offspring of a southern Sinhalese, masquerade as true Veddas for a gullible public. There is the strong impression that an outside ‘guru’ is instructing them in some of the old Vedda facts and customs obtained from the literature, e.g. the present name of the ‘chief, or the offering of bees’ honey to the sacred Tooth Relic. If you discount the costume and appendages (axe, bow and arrow) none of the Dambana villagers even look like Veddas.

Well before the Maduru Oya National Park had been declared, large areas in it north of Dambana and Maha Oya had been cleared of jungle and settled. Village infrastructure had been established, schools and ancillary buildings constructed. ‘Vedda life’ had been greatly restricted and consisted chiefly of poaching (not with bow and arrow) as in all villages in jungle areas.

When the Park was declared all the people living within its boundaries and in the bed of the new reservoir were given alternative land and habitations in newly developed areas. The people of Dambana, although the village itself is not in the Park, were offered irrigable land and houses below the nearby Ratkinda reservoir.

All accepted and moved except the fake Vedda chief Tisahamy, a Sinhalese who had shrewdly adopted the name of Dr Spittel’s hero, and his family. He successfully defied law and authority, lived in a large house in the midst of a banana plantation just inside the National Park boundary, and, with his young offspring play-acted the Vedda for assorted local and foreign tourists. Supported by sponsors and gurus, he even obtained an order from the District Court which forced the Wildlife Department to demolish the gate they had put up at the boundary of the Park.

Time went by and the new Tisahamy died. Recent history was quickly forgotten, and with the help of journalists, gullible politicians, foreign and local anthropologists the Vedda race was miraculously resuscitated. The settlers from Ratkinda now returned to Dambana, as the life of a show-Vedda had become full of promise.

Soon the motley crowd became even the internationally acknowledged representatives of the ‘indigenous people’ of Sri Lanka, and their leaders put in an expenses-paid appearance at the Permanent Forum of Indigenous People of the UN in Geneva, Switzerland. Local intellectuals and politicians recognized this set-up early as a god-sent opportunity to gain status and publicity. The highest authorities were persuaded to accord the “Veddas” privileges not given to any others, such as free movement and hunting, with guns, within the National Park.

This is the story of a scrappy bunch of villagers who by ruse and the cunning ‘PR-ship’ of their leader and his advisors became the `indigenous people’ of Sri Lanka, and as such are being cuddled by the State, the tourists and some of the island’s elite. Others have joined the bandwagon and, true to form, new demands are being presented.

If these, or other, villagers want to re-enact Vedda customs and habits in order to generate attention and income for themselves then that is their business. But they cannot expect nor be given special rights and privileges under the laws of the country.

The East

Few today are aware that the southern part of the Eastern Province, including Batticaloa, was virtually cut off from the rest of the country until the mid 20th century. At the time of Thilo’s first visits the motorable road ended at Polonnaruwa. Then, the railway bridges at Manampitiya and Valaichchenai (which had been opened in 1928) were converted to dual rail and road use, and connecting roads built, which allowed for the first time relatively easy access to that part of the East of Sri Lanka.

Before this Batticaloa could be reached from Colombo by road only via Beragala (below Haputale, at 3,500 ft, or 1,100 m a.s.1.) – Wellawaya – Pottuvil, or even more tediously via Badulla – Passara – Bibile – Eravur; and before the Second World War only by boat. To get to Batticaloa from Trincomalee ferries had to be used at seven places and the 80-mile (130 km) trip needed a full day.

Until the Second World War there had been a coastal shipping service for cargo and passengers. The vessels were named after the wives of past British Governors: Lady Manning, etc. and the line was called ‘the Lady line’. The small steamboats berthed at all coastal towns of some importance: Chilaw, Negombo, Colombo, Beruwela, Galle, Hambantota, Arugam Bay, Batticaloa, Kalkudah, Trincomalee and KKS. Until recently the remnants of the old piers could be seen at Hambantota and Kalkudah.

The East thus very much led a life of its own. It was and is distinctly different from the North. Its coconut industry – this too is not well known – was pioneered by British proprietary planters who settled there in the 19th century. The transformation of the Eastern Province began with the Gal Oya Development Project in the 1950s. Even until the end of that decade there was a change in the direction of milestones near Siyambalanduwa, because the road had been constructed starting from both ends.

The Eastern Province has a great touristic potential, but its development should be undertaken with circumspection and responsibility. Earlier attempts, especially at Kalkudah and Passikudah and to some extent at Arugam Bay and in the wider Trincomalee area, do not inspire much hope that natural and traditional assets will be suitably protected and preserved.

Thenaddi Bay

In the 1960s Thilo purchased a piece of land on the beach at Thenaddi Bay, a few miles north of Valaichchenai. For several years he had been searching for a suitable site on the East coast between Panama and Trincomalee. Then one day Mr S.V.O. Somanader of Kalkudah, who knew of his interest, drew his attention to a plot available at Kayankerni. Thilo had a look at the one-inch map, and instantly bought it without having seen it!

It proved to be a ‘dream’ location, alone in the centre of the wide bay with sandy, tree-fringed beaches and with crystal-clear blue water, except during the north-east monsoon when the sea is rough.

The tiny village of Kayankerni is a stronghold of the so-called Coast Veddas, a group of people who Thilo says are “as racially mixed as their forest-dwelling relatives, who deny any connection”. Here also is a small and simple temple in which the mysterious Kapal-Theivam (Kapalpei) ceremony is celebrated. The powerful deity is a foreigner who arrived in a ship. In the temple compound the wooden model of a ship is displayed atop a high pole.

First, the basic unit of the holiday home was constructed: a fortress-like large rectangle of 15-foot high white walls, roofs sloping inward, an open inner courtyard with a well in its centre, and a wide seaward veranda. Thilo received enthusiastic and active assistance from his friend Lalith Senanayake.

In the following years, sporadically, many additions were made: bedrooms, a roof-top veranda with a spiral staircase; a guest-house, separate but connected by a covered passageway, with `meda midula’ and kitchen; a boathouse, a water tower, a garage, and eventually a two-storied rear wing.

Xavier Jobin and Stanley Gnanam, both of Baurs’ Palugaswewa Estate, with their wide experience in building, contributed greatly, also to necessary alterations and repairs; and Mr S. M. Sathiacama, then an engineer at Baurs, was very helpful. The very extensive roofs were covered with country tiles, which were frequently damaged by playful monkeys – who also “harvested” all the coconuts, well before maturity, on the 20-odd palms near the house!

Geoffrey Bawa, who was a friend of the Hoffmanns, called it “the best non-architect house I have seen”. There was no electricity. Kerosene fuelled the lamps at night and the refrigerator.For Thilo, working and sweating in the house and land was a regular and satisfying recreation. There was always something needing repair or maintenance or development. The first and often exasperating task on arrival was to start the fridge and the motor of the water pump. One of the most exhilarating moments of Thilo’s life, he recounts, was when he struck water some 10 or 12 feet down a hot and narrow cement tube. It was the first well on the property, and the main house was then built around it.

In the rear of the property Thilo developed his own little jungle from “the most thorny and impenetrable thicket in the world”. Along the beach he planted wind and salt resistant shrubs and palmyra palms.

For many years the Hoffmanns and their friends spent the most memorable weekends and holidays in this “magical” place, considered by some as the best times of their lives. There were marvellous coral reefs at the northern end of the bay, and others several miles long fringed the bay towards the open sea. These were rich in marine life, and comparable to the Maldives. There was fishing, diving, and snorkeling as well as underwater photography.

They did excursions up and down the coast to Trincomalee, the Baron’s Cap area – Toppigala, later of LTTE fame, locally called Kudumbi Kanda – and other remote inland wildlife areas. In most of these elephants were numerous. There was a fibreglass boat with outboard motor, which was later seized by the LTTE. They often went to Tamankaduwa, where elephants congregate in large numbers at times; up to more than 200 together have been observed by Thilo in that area1. Occasionally elephants even visited his property.

Thilo knew all the unique villus along the Mahaweli Ganga, which are fed and maintained by water from the river. They are part of the great biological diversity in the neglected Flood Plains and Somawathiya National Parks and adjoining protected areas; some of these form beautiful, wide landscapes, known to few. Their restoration now as effective conservation areas is a national duty.

The coast northward of the bungalow to Panichchankerni, Vakarai, Verugal, and especially from Ichchilampatai to Foul Point and Seruwawila, was little affected by any modern influences. Thinly populated – with a temporary migration during the south-west monsoon of fishermen from the west coast – it appeared as it would have centuries ago: lagoons, mangroves, a vast extent of jungle in the hinterland, rocky outcrops in forests and along the shore sticking out of the sea like monuments, coral reefs, the white beaches, venerable old trees, lonely temples and holy places.

From February to October there was almost permanent good weather, turning hot in May with the strong blowing of the warm kachan wind from the land. Blue sky, blue water, wide sandy beaches and the green fringe of ancient forest trees exemplified here the wonder of nearly untouched nature with man a small, well-fitting part of it – man and nature in balance. To add to all this, remarks Thilo, there is a wonderful smell of the flowering goda ratmal (Ixora arborea).

Seasonally the warm and calm water teems with tiny fluorescent organisms. At night the shallow waves running along the smooth shore light up like a moving illumination, and a swimming person is outlined with brightness in the clear water. Again, seasonally, the coastal jungle would be alive with swarms of fireflies sparkling at night, larger than elsewhere in the island.

At times, depending on climate and wind, the coastal water would be invaded by vast numbers of jellyfish. These beautiful, translucent creatures make swimming virtually impossible, not so much because of their sting but the unpleasant sensation of touch. Some, of course, are dangerous such as the Portuguese man-of-war which Thilo has observed on both the west and east coasts.

Also dangerous to bathers are the estuarine stingrays which seasonally bury themselves in the sand along the shallow shore and so become nearly invisible. They can inflict very painful wounds when trod upon.

In the 1970s much fuss was made about the sudden proliferation of the crown-of-thorns starfish, a beautiful blue and black inhabitant of tropical coral reefs. It was feared that the reefs would be destroyed. Panicked countermeasures were taken. The very people who were exploiting the reefs for the live fish trade were employed at great cost to spear and kill the starfish. The effect was the opposite of what was desired. The ‘blue stars’ were everywhere and visibly depleted the corals. In the early 1980s it all just died down, and in 1982 Thilo could not find a single crown-of-thorns in the extensive reefs around Thenaddi Bay.

During the north-east monsoon interesting items were washed ashore, for instance ambergris, a fatty grey substance, derived from sperm whales, and worth its weight in gold. On one occasion the part skeleton of a whale shark was left behind by the tide.

Twice, large fishing boats or rafts from Burma, across the Bay of Bengal, had been washed up on the wide beach near the bungalow. They were made of bamboo well tied together with string. A hut-like upper structure held a fireplace. Thilo found them unbelievably sturdy, intact after being storm-driven thousands of miles across the sea. Eventually both of them disintegrated on the wave-battered beach.

But, increasingly, ugly waste is also being swept ashore. Blobs of tar from boiler waste illegally discharged from passing ships, and literally millions of pieces of plastic in all colours and shapes originating from garbage on land and at sea now litter the sandy beaches.

(To be continued)

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Features

Quandary of Dengue: Some roving perspectives

Published

10 hours ago

2026/06/26

Thilina Walpola

Sri Lanka is currently well and truly trapped in the strangling grip of a devastating and severely enhanced dengue outbreak. The numbers alone are staggering; over 44,000 cases have been recorded across the island so far this year, with the highest concentration systematically suffocating the Western, Southern, and Central provinces. Hospitals and healthcare providers are under extreme pressure, but the cold metrics of morbidity do not capture the true implications and dismay of this current wave. What has profoundly shaken the public consciousness and even sent a shudder through the medical community is a grim shift in the implications for the populace.

Dengue has always been quite a threat, looming over our Motherland from time to time. Yet for all that, historically, child deaths due to the virus were relatively rare in Sri Lanka, thanks to scrupulously adhering to robust clinical guidelines, as well as exceptional paediatric monitoring and management. This year, that safety net seems to be straining quite a bit at the edges and among the reported fatalities are a tragic number of children. The virus is moving faster, hitting harder, and exposing a terrifying reality, even stressing that our existing defence mechanisms are perhaps no longer totally sufficient to deal with the problem.

In response, public health authorities have deployed their traditional arsenal. Teams are busy with intensive surveillance, conducting house-to-house inspections, enforcing strict penalties for standing and stagnant water, and sending fogging machinery through the streets to blanket neighbourhoods in chemical mists. Yet, as case counts climb by nearly 50% week over week, an uncomfortable question must be asked: Are these traditional measures sufficient, or are they bordering on an exercise in futility?

The Illusion of the Fog: Why Our Current Strategy May Be Failing?

To understand why Sri Lanka might be in a tight corner, one must look closely at the enemy. Dengue is transmitted primarily by the Aedes aegypti mosquito, a highly adapted, urbanised insect. While Aedes aegypti is widely considered the primary culprit, Aedes albopictus (commonly known as the Asian tiger mosquito) plays a massive, highly dangerous role in Sri Lanka’s dengue transmission as well. In fact, the interplay between these two species is one of the biggest reasons why controlling dengue on the island is so incredibly difficult. These two vectors behave differently, breed in different places, and require distinct strategies to combat their well-recognised roles in the propagation of the disease that is dengue. Understanding how these two mosquito species split the territory could explain why a single controlling method might not always work across the board.

Aedes aegypti mosquitoes are strictly urban and indoor creatures. They live alongside humans inside houses, apartments, and in heavily built-up commercial areas. They rest on dark clothes in closets, under furniture, and behind curtains. They breed in artificial containers, clear, stagnant water in flower vases, plastic cups, concrete sumps, and overhead tanks. They prefer human blood almost exclusively and bite multiple people to get one full meal, thereby spreading the dengue virus rapidly within even a single household.

In contrast, Aedes albopictus is semi-urban and rural, thrives in vegetations, gardens, rubber plantations, and peri-urban areas where green spaces meet houses. The creature rests in shaded bushes, high grass, and low canopy foliage, as well as holes in trees, leaf axils, coconut shells, discarded tyres and trash. The biting behaviour of these mosquitoes is opportunistic. They bite humans but also feed on birds and domestic mammals, indicating that they can survive easily even when human density is low.

The traditional responses we rely on, most notably thermal fogging, are largely cosmetic public relations exercises rather than a totally effective vector control mechanism. Such fogging misses indoor resting sites, drives resistance, and stagnant water elimination fails against cryptic, microscopic breeding sites.

Fogging utilises “adulticides“, chemical sprays meant to kill flying mosquitoes. However, Aedes aegypti is a domestic creature; it rests indoors, hidden in the dark recesses of closets, under beds, and behind curtains. A fogging process achieves very little penetration into these indoor sanctuaries. Furthermore, over-reliance on these pyrethroid-based chemical sprays has accelerated insecticide resistance, effectively rendering the chemicals useless over time.

Similarly, while the National Dengue Control Unit (NDCU), to their eternal credit, aggressively pursues the elimination of visible standing water, the sheer adaptability of the mosquito outpaces manual human labour in trying to eliminate the breeding places of the vectors. Aedes eggs can remain dormant in dry containers for months, hatching the moment a drop of water touches them. In dense, urbanised areas like Colombo and Gampaha, microscopic breeding sites, from the rim of a discarded plastic bottle cap to the base of an indoor potted plant, are impossible to completely police.

If we continue to rely solely on manual cleaning and chemical fogging, we are fighting a twenty-first-century climate-driven crisis with mid-twentieth-century tools. We must look beyond our borders to see how global science is shifting the paradigm of mosquito control.

The Biological Frontier: Insects fighting Mosquitoes

When searching for international alternatives, many look towards the United States, where vector control districts manage complex mosquito populations across diverse ecosystems. A common point of curiosity is the historical use of “mosquito-eating insects.”

In the US, biological control has long featured predatory species. While some point to insects like dragonfly nymphs or giant non-biting mosquito larvae (Toxorhynchites, which actively prey on other mosquito larvae), the most widely used traditional biological agent in American municipal water systems is actually the Gambusia affinis, commonly known as the “mosquitofish.” A single one of these surface-feeding fish can devour hundreds of mosquito larvae a day.

However, American vector management has largely evolved past simply dumping predatory fish into ponds. The true modern frontier in global mosquito control relies on advanced biological and genetic interventions that turn the mosquitoes against themselves.

1. The Wolbachia Revolution

Perhaps the most successful international intervention against dengue is the introduction of Wolbachia-infected mosquitoes. Wolbachia is a naturally occurring bacterium found in up to sixty per cent of all insect species, but crucially, not naturally present in Aedes aegypti.

When scientists introduce Wolbachia into Aedes mosquitoes in a laboratory and release them into the wild, two extraordinary things happen: –

· Viral Suppression: The bacterium competes with viruses like dengue, Zika, and chikungunya inside the mosquito’s body, making it incredibly difficult for the virus to replicate. If the virus cannot replicate, the mosquito cannot transmit it to a human.

· Population Replacement:

Through a mechanism called cytoplasmic incompatibility, when a Wolbachia-carrying male mates with a wild female that does not carry the bacteria, her eggs do not hatch. If a Wolbachia female mates with a wild male, her offspring will carry the bacteria. Over time, the local mosquito population is entirely replaced by harmless, non-transmission-capable mosquitoes.

In comprehensive global trials, such as those conducted by the World Mosquito Programme in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, the introduction of Wolbachia mosquitoes led to a staggering 77% reduction in dengue incidence and an 86% reduction in dengue-related hospitalisations.

2. Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) and Genetic Modifications

Other countries, including parts of the US (such as the Florida Keys) and Brazil, have turned to genetic engineering. Using the Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) or advanced genetic variants (like those developed by Oxitec), millions of bio-engineered male mosquitoes are released into the wild. Because male mosquitoes do not bite humans, and they feed exclusively on nectar, thereby posing zero risk to the public. These males mate with wild females, but pass on a self-limiting gene that causes the female offspring to die in the larval stage before they can ever mature, bite, or transmit disease. This results in a drastic collapse of the localised vector population without the use of even a single drop of toxic chemical pesticide.

Moving beyond the Status Quo: A Blueprint for Sri Lanka

The current dilemma in Sri Lanka is a classical gridlock: we are deploying immense physical effort and economic capital into vector control measures that yield diminishing returns, while our clinical wards fill with critically ill patients. If we are to break this cycle, our public health policy must undergo a rapid structural evolution

We cannot instantly replicate the multimillion-dollar genetic laboratories of the West, but we can modernise our strategy immediately by adopting a highly targeted, multi-tiered approach.

Comprehensive Vector Management Strategy

The following are some thoughts that need to be carefully evaluated in a venture towards getting things under control.

· Shift from Adulticides to Target Microbial Larvicides Immediate Phase

Cease the reliance on sweeping chemical thermal fogging. Instead, deploy specialised microbial larvicides such as Bacillus thuringiensis israelensis (Bti). Bti is a naturally occurring soil bacterium that, when ingested by mosquito larvae, destroys their digestive tracts. It is completely non-toxic to humans, pets, and other aquatic life, and can be distributed via localised backpack sprayers or drones into inaccessible urban sumps.

· Scale Up Localised Wolbachia Trials Intermediate Phase

Sri Lanka has previously initiated small-scale, localised pilot releases of Wolbachia mosquitoes in select urban pockets. Given the severity of the 2026 outbreak, these programmes must be aggressively scaled up into an industrial-level national initiative. Public-private partnerships must be leveraged to establish sustainable, high-capacity mosquito-rearing facilities locally.

· Implement Digital Ovitrap Surveillance Continuous Integration

Replace manual, retroactive searching with predictive digital mapping. Deploy networks of smart “ovitraps” (oviposition traps) across high-burden provinces. These traps monitor egg-laying rates in real-time, allowing automated data systems to predict a spike in the adult mosquito population weeks before an actual clinical outbreak occurs, enabling preventative targeting.

The Cost of Inaction

Maintaining our current trajectory is not a neutral choice; it is an endorsement of escalating mortality. The 2026 outbreak has proven that the ecological dynamics of dengue have changed, fuelled by changing weather patterns and urban density. Our public health response must change with it.

The heart-breaking loss of young lives in this current surge must serve as a stark wake-up call. We must look at the international landscape, embrace the biological innovations that have saved lives across the globe, and transition from a policy of panic-driven reaction to one of scientific eradication. It is no longer just a matter of cleaning our drains; it is a matter of upgrading our science.

Why Aedes albopictus Makes the Sri Lankan Crisis Harder

In Sri Lanka, the geographic landscape transitions quickly from dense concrete cities to lush, tropical vegetation. This creates the perfect environment for both species to thrive simultaneously.

· The Surveillance Blindspot: When health authorities focus heavily on checking indoor water storage and concrete drains in cities, they can completely miss the massive Aedes albopictus populations breeding in the surrounding vegetation, suburban gardens, and rural homesteads of the Southern and Central provinces.

· The Failure of Indoor Fogging:

While indoor residual spraying or targeted indoor fogging might hit Aedes aegypti, it has virtually no effect on Aedes albopictus, which spends its life cycle outdoors in the bushes.

· Climate Resilience:

Aedes albopictus eggs are remarkably tolerant of colder temperatures and varied environments. This allows the vector to push higher into the mountainous terrains of the Central Province, bringing dengue to areas that historically saw very few cases.

To truly bring down the case numbers in a severely enhanced outbreak, public health interventions must be dual-targeted: addressing the indoor, urban threat of Aedes aegypti while simultaneously tackling the outdoor, ecological stronghold of Aedes albopictus. We cannot sit back on our laurels of the past. We need to move forward resolutely.

Features

ANURADHAPURA ANTHEM c.1893

Published

10 hours ago

2026/06/26

Thilina Walpola

Anuradhapura. Image courtesy Central Cultural Fund

R. W. Ievers, who wrote this poem, was the Government Agent of the North Central Province during 1884, 1886, and 1890. He is the author of the Manual of the North Central Province (1899) and a half dozen published reports on the life and practices in the Province. Before his death, he shared it with his good friend H.C.P. Bell, the Archaeological Commissioner of Ceylon at the time. In 1917, Bell had it published in the Times of Ceylon – Christmas Number. Since then, it remained unknown for 109 years, until Ievers’s great-grandson, Turtle Bunbury, historian and author of Living in Sri Lanka (2006) with James Fennell, tipped me off about its source – H.C.P. Bell: Archaeologist of Ceylon and the Maldives (1993), written by Bell’s granddaughters Bethia N. Bell and Heather M. Bell.

THE ANTHEM

Anuradhapura! City grand and vast,

Lanka’s famous Capital, in ages of the past:

In the Mahawansa the story has been told

Of thy palaces, and temples, and pinnacles of gold.

Hail! then hail! to the worth of a bygone day,

Hail! all hail! to the relics of kingly sway

Hail to thee, Fair City, glorious in decay,

Hail! thrice hail! Forever and for aye!

Si monumentum quaeris

– cast your gaze around

Ruined fanes and dagobas everywhere abound

Alas! for glory faded, for erstwhile beauty sped

For hierarchs and heroes, long numbered with the dead

Hail! then hail!…

Great Ruwanaveli Seya, once fairest of the fair,

The splendour of thy palmy days has melted into air;

And like Imperial Caesar now ‘dead and turned into clay’,

Thy sacred bricks ‘may stop a hole to keep the wind away.’

Note by Tillakaratne:

Since 1873, Bhikku Naranvita Sumanasara has been doing conservation work on this stupa. In 1876, Governor William Gregory, after visiting the work site, wrote that its conservation was not just a religious work but a great National Monument.

See ‘Bayagiri’ massive – ‘Fearless Mount’ forsooth – Centre once of schism rank, from ‘Great Vihara’ truth.

Patched up by prison labour, anew it flaunts on high

A ‘hideous excrescence’ athwart a tranquil sky.

Note by H. C. P. Bell

: T. N. Christie, Planting Member at the time protested in the Legislative Council against the abortive “restoration” by prison labour of the Abhayagiri Dagaba, dubbing its truncated pinnacle, half restored, a “hideous excrescence”.

Jetawanarama, Great Sena’s priestly boon

Comely shape and giddy height will crumble all too soon;

Where forest trees and chequered shade a peaceful picture lend,

From cruel axe and ruthless spade, may gracious Heaven defend.

Note by H. C. P. Bell:

Two decades after these poems were written, the surrounding area of the Jetawanarama was still covered in forest, and the Atamasthana Committee conditionally allowed a monk to clear a limited number of trees. But not a tree remained unfelled, contrary to what the monk was authorized to do.

Thuparama graceful, in outline clear and bold,

Begirt with column chaste and slim, a gem in the ring of gold

To thee pertains high honour a pious people gave – The tomb of Sanghamitta, and Prince Mahinda’s grave.

Note by

H. C. P. Bell: The ruins are pointed out, wrongly, as the tradional tombs of Arahat Mahinda and Sanghamitta Theranee.

With bricks and mortar bolstered up, behold the Sacred Bo;

To some – misguided mortals – ‘tis but a ‘bo-gas’ show.

Where humble Mirisveti a monarch’s fad recalls,

Lo! Royal Siam’s silver now builds its futile walls.

Note by H. C. P. Bell:

According to Mahawansa, Mirisavetiya was so named after King Dutugemunu’s compunction at forgetting chillies (miris) in his alms giving to monks on one occasion. The restoration work on the Mirisavetiya began under the Ceylon Government, with funds provided by the King of Siam. When the money flow began to cease, work also ceased, and bats began to frequent the holed structure.

: Ruwanveli Seya in the background. Murage in the front c. 1900 From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)

: Bhayagriya (Abhayagiriya) c. 1900 From: Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)

: Jetawanaramaya c. 1900. From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)

What need to tell of sculptures, of ‘pokunas’ galore,

Of balustrades and Yogi stones and half a hundred more,

Of Brazen Palace spacious, with gilt-roofed storeys dight –

A modern race more ‘brazen’ would desecrate each site.

For midst these sacred ruins of shrines and cloistered hall,

A reckless generation disports with little balls,

Whilst ‘Parliamentary language’ and imprecations deep

Disturb the peaceful solitude where saintly Rahats sleep.

Note by H. C. P. Bell:

After European residents, old city Anuradhapura in the late 19th century, the area still being cleared between Ruwanveli Seya and Thuparama, was used a ‘golf links’. Ievers did not like the area used as a playground:

Iconoclasts and vandals have had their little day;

No more shall ancient pillars to culverts find their way.

No more a watchful Government such sacrilege condones –

One may not meddle with the gods, nor tamper with the stones.

Anuradhapura! Thy glory shall revive;

Yhu [sic] sons shall swarm within thee like bees about a hive.

The effort of the present for past neglect atones;

New breath of life resuscitates this vale of driest bones.

Composed by R. W. Ievers
(1850-1905)
Introduced by Lokubanda Tillakaratne

Features

Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation: Restoring Mobility, Dignity and Hope Across Sri Lanka

Published

10 hours ago

2026/06/26

Thilina Walpola

Mahawa Factory

For thousands of Sri Lankans living with limb loss and physical disabilities, access to quality rehabilitation services remains a significant challenge. Yet, for more than three decades, our organisation has quietly transformed lives through innovation, compassion and community-based care. The Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited (MRFGL), supported by the Meththa Foundation-UK and in partnership with the Manitha Neyam Trust, the LEBARA Foundation and the Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Jaffna, emerged as one of Sri Lanka’s most effective voluntary rehabilitation service providers, restoring mobility, independence and dignity to some of the country’s most vulnerable citizens.

The Foundation’s roots stretch back to 1994, when a group of expatriate Sri Lankan professionals in the United Kingdom recognised the severe shortage of rehabilitation services available to disabled persons in Sri Lanka. Drawing upon their expertise in rehabilitation medicine and allied healthcare professions, they established the Meththa Foundation-UK with a simple but powerful vision: to provide affordable, high-quality prosthetic and rehabilitation services to those who needed them most.

Below knee artificial limb Designed and made at Mahawa

What began as an effort to recycle and repurpose high-quality prosthetic components donated by the UK’s National Health Service has evolved into a comprehensive rehabilitation network serving communities across the island.

Clinical services commenced in Sri Lanka in 1995 through a mobile outreach programme that initially supported injured soldiers and later expanded to civilians affected by conflict and disability. The majority of them were victims of land mines. In 2010, the Sri Lankan arm of the organisation was formally registered as the Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited, strengthening its ability to deliver sustainable services nationwide.

Today, the Foundation operates four modern rehabilitation centres located in Mahawa, Mankulam, Balapitiya and Kilinochchi. These centres provide prosthetic and orthotic services, posture and mobility support, limb repairs, and rehabilitation assistance to patients from diverse social and economic backgrounds.

Recognising that many disabled individuals live in remote areas with limited access to healthcare, Meththa Foundation also established a mobile outreach service in 2011. Through a successful “Hub and Spoke” model, rehabilitation teams travel regularly to underserved communities, ensuring that patients are not denied care simply because of distance or financial hardship.

The scale of the Foundation’s work is impressive. During 2025 alone, the organisation recorded approximately 2,000 patient contacts, including the provision of 350 new artificial limbs, 850 limb repairs and around 800 other rehabilitation devices. For many beneficiaries, these interventions represent far more than medical treatment; they offer a pathway back to employment, education and social participation.

Innovation has become a hallmark of the Foundation’s approach. Through an active research and development programme, MRFGL has developed affordable prosthetic technologies specifically suited to Sri Lankan conditions. Among its achievements is the development of a modular below-knee artificial limb system manufactured largely from locally sourced materials. The Foundation has also designed low-cost prosthetic knee components that significantly reduce the financial burden on patients while maintaining quality and functionality. These developments are funded by generous International Grants facilitated by affluent members of the Meththa Foundation-UK. Service users are encouraged to donate whatever they can but for those who cannot, which is a majority the services are entirely free.

These innovations not only make rehabilitation more affordable but also strengthen local manufacturing capabilities and reduce dependence on imported components.

Equally important is the Foundation’s commitment for building local expertise. Recognising the shortage of trained rehabilitation professionals in Sri Lanka, Meththa Foundation

established an apprentice-based vocational training programme that recruits and trains young people as prosthetists, orthotists and rehabilitation technicians. Several locally trained staff members are now employed across the Foundation’s centres, helping to create a sustainable workforce for the future.

The organisation’s work has attracted growing recognition within the healthcare sector. Discussions have already taken place with health authorities regarding the potential use of Meththa-designed prosthetic components within Government hospitals. Such collaboration could significantly expand access to affordable rehabilitation services throughout the country.

Beyond its clinical achievements, the Foundation’s impact is measured in restored confidence and renewed independence. Surveys conducted among beneficiaries indicate that many educated amputees successfully return to productive lives after receiving rehabilitation support. However, the findings also highlight an ongoing challenge among poorer and less educated amputees, many of whom struggle to access follow-up care due to transportation difficulties and financial constraints.

To address this issue, the organisation hopes to -expand its mobile services and community outreach programmes. Additional funding would allow rehabilitation teams to reach isolated communities more frequently, ensuring that vulnerable patients continue to receive the support they need.

Operating on an annual expenditure of approximately Rs. 30 million in Sri Lanka, supplemented by overseas fundraising and donations, the Foundation remains heavily reliant on the partnership of charitable trusts such as the Manitha Neyam Trust and LEBARA Foundation and generosity of individual well-wishers. Every contribution directly supports the provision of artificial limbs, mobility devices, training programmes and outreach services for those who might otherwise be left behind.

As Sri Lanka continues to strengthen its healthcare and social welfare systems, organisations such as the Meththa Foundation demonstrate how innovation, volunteerism and dedication can create lasting social

By helping individuals regain mobility and independence, the Foundation is not merely providing artificial limbs—it is rebuilding lives and restoring hope.

For many “beneficiaries, every step they take is a testament to the life-changing work of the Meththa foundation

www.meththafoundation-sl-uk.org

Chairman’s WhatsApp contact number +94 77 788 6119

Prof S P Lamabadusurira, Chairman and Dr B Panagamuwa, ✍️
First Trustee