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Travel and exploration in the jungles, coast and Kataragama

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By Douglas B. Ranasinghe

excerpted from from the authorized biography of Thilo Hoffmann

Soon after their marriage, Thilo and Mae began to make extensive journeys through the country, during weekends and holidays. Once, on one of their first, they found themselves at Arugam Bay late in the afternoon. The old resthouse on the dunes consisted of a small trellised veranda, a dining room beyond that, two bedrooms, kitchen and staff quarters. It was already occupied. However, the resthouse keeper and the occupants graciously allowed the Hoffmanns to put up for the night on the veranda.

Before dusk, they went for a drive towards Komari. On their return, a fine male leopard crossed the road just ahead of the car. It was Mae’s first. Back at the resthouse, lit by cosy kerosene lamps, she recounted the episode to their new acquaintances, who were four Sri Lankan hunters, probably planters as Thilo now surmises. After she had finished, one of them in turn, told of an experience with a leopard. During this lengthy and enthusiastic account Thilo absent-mindedly asked – so his wife used to recall – three times: “Was it a bear?”

After the third time Mae lost her temper and upbraided him severely. Since that time, throughout their lives, whenever his attention began to wane she would say: “Was it a bear?”

In their younger years Mae used to join Thilo in almost all his travels in the island. He recalls:

“She had great endurance and stamina. Despite her rather fragile physique she would outwalk me. Together we faced many hardships without any complaints from her, such as tick bites galore, and leeches in wet areas and remote jungle tanks.

He continues:

“Three times I came down with malaria and once with a nasty hepatitis attack. During a memorable three-day walk along the Kala Oya I became infected with amoebiasis, which months later confined me to hospital for one month whilst undergoing emetine treatment. With my friend Marcel Roth (who was then chef at the GFH) I did the 25 mile trek along the left bank through thick riverine jungle, never stepping on the other side of the river which was the Wilpattu National Park.

“We slept on sandy patches, one night in close proximity to a herd of elephants whom we heard throughout. The two of us scrupulously boils the water we drank except once when thirst overpowered our good sense. That is how we contracted amoebiasis. Marcel, as a result, nearly died of a cyst in the liver some time later. We found my Land Rover in an open field about two miles east of Elavankulam, where my appu Velu had it left three days earlier. This was well before the large Rajanganaya reservoir was built further up-river (or the ill-conceived Inginimitiya tank, both areas then teeming with elephants).”

Mae was not only the accountant in the family (see Chapter I) but also the photographer and movie-maker. In 1951 Thilo’s parents, on their first visit to the couple, brought them an American-made Bell and Howell movie camera as a present. Mae and Thilo’s involvement in photography is described in the next Chapter. In 1967, for his 45th birthday, she gave him a fine pair of binoculars, which she could barely afford. It thereafter accompanied him wherever he went.

Dr and Mrs Hoffmann on that visit together with their son and daughter-in-law visited the ruined cities, Kandy and Horton Plains, which was then accessible by car only via Diyagama East Estate off Agarapatana. Over the years both Thilo’s and Mae’s parents visited Ceylon, later Sri Lanka, several times.

So did their brothers and sisters and, later, nephews. They all got to know the island quite well and appreciate its attractions.Memorable incidents were many across the years. A few of these to do with nature and travel are found across this book; two others ‘off beat’ are recounted here.

One day at Kinellan Estate, Ella the Hoffmanns Jr. and Sr. were sitting down to lunch with the Superintendent and his wife in the open veranda. From the ceiling fell a thin stream of liquid on to the plate before Thilo’s father. The food on the table was ruined. The culprit was one of a family of ‘polecats’ (Indian palm civets) which had their home in the roof!

In another of Thilo’s stories, the local fauna again turned on them:

“We were on our way to Arugam Bay where in the dunes the Boyd-Mosses had a romantic abode made mostly of remnants from a demolished tea factory. At that time Durban Boyd-Moss was the superintendent of Baurs’ Chelsea Estate.

“While driving past Tirukkovil my wife spotted a bull being tormented by two men who threw chunks of road ‘metal’ (stone) at it from a heap on the roadside. The bull’s head was tied down to one of its front legs and it was lying on the ground.

“As I was supposed to do something about this, I got down from the car, shouted at the miscreants, took an open pocket-knife to cut the rope, and slowly approached the lying bull from front, making appropriate calming noises. When I touched its head the bull jumped up and charged into my lower legs. I flew up in the air and somersaulted, still holding the open knife. On coming down I lost for a moment all sense of orientation. Then I ran blindly right into a deep wide drain. Here I lay with the bull butting me continuously.

“My brother, a strong man, eventually managed to pull it off me by its loose tethering rope. It then went for the other two men. They ran across the dry paddy fields, leaping over the bunds like in a steeplechase. It was first shock, then great fun for all, except for the bruises and bleeding abrasions, and my brother’s rope burns on legs and arms which became infected and took a long time to heal.”

Milo and Mae travelled for a variety of interests. There was a total eclipse of the sun in June 1955. He took a half-day’s leave and drove with her to Tabbowa.

They waited on the bund of the tank. Around noon, as ‘night’ fell rapidly the singing of birds and the chirping of cicadas ceased. Mimosa plants folded up their leaves, birds were roosting, total silence reigned and the air became chilly. The sun had disappeared behind the moon which was outlined by faint light around its edges. The wonder did not last long, ‘dawn’ broke quickly, and soon the world around was normal again.

A similar, later incident illustrates the conditions in those decades:

“One memorable night, in March 1978, on the southern shore of the Jaffna Lagoon we witnessed the total eclipse of the full moon lying on our camp beds. As we had been en route for some days, we were unaware of the event, and wondered whether we had had one too many!

“This casual and easy way of passing a night outdoors was then possible as there were fewer people, less violence and more jungles. I never experienced the slightest apprehension of danger, be it from humans, or wild animals. I never carried a weapon on these occasions (even in the days when this was permitted). The attitude of the people, especially of the rural population, towards foreigners was then generally friendly and trusting.

“In our travels through the island, we often used to camp overnight at any suitable spot along the route, selected at random. We did not use tents, but just unfolded camp beds, made a fire for cooking and slept under the open sky — all in the dry zone where the weather is predictable. Rivers and tanks offered fine opportunities for bathing and washing. When we stayed longer in one place we used a heavy tarpaulin from one of Baurs’ open lorries. It was stretched over a rope strung between two trees. At one end it reached the ground and, with a trench dug there, gave excellent spacious shelter even in bad weather.

“Places where I remember camping are Kokkilai, Kuchchaveli, the Parangi Aru, the Modaragam Aru, Mail Villu (then in Wilpattu West Sanctuary), Kala Oya, along the road from Puttalam to Anuradhapura (then all in jungle), on the Kumbukkan Oya, Potana, off Galge, at Mullegama, Maha Oya, Inginiyagala and Koddiyar Bay.”

In the earlier decades of the twentieth century, John Still described the northern dry-zone jungles as “the great plains that are now so empty of men”. This is how Thilo first saw them. When he arrived in Ceylon the island had just over six million inhabitants; today there are more than three times that.

For half a century Thilo and Mae, and after her death then he, would continue travelling and exploring all parts of the island, unique in character and variety, including unspoilt and beautiful areas unknown to most Sri Lankans then and now. The knowledge and experience he gained of the country in this way would form the basis for his work in conservation.

Kataratgama

Thilo records his memories of a famous place, and his thoughts on its transformation:

“I remember vividly an early occasion when my wife and I decided to visit Kataragama for the first time, to watch the annual fire-walking ceremony. This was in 1949, when the event fell on a weekend. I took half-a-day’s leave, as we worked on Saturdays.

“We drove in our open MG to Tissamaharama, where we arrived shortly after noon. From there we walked because during the festival season vehicles were prohibited on the dirt track which led to the holy shrine in the jungle. This kept away idle thrill-seekers, as only genuine pilgrims and serious observers like us undertook the tough 17 km long walk in great heat.

“Only some years later was a jeep track provided via Yodawewa and Katagamuwa, opening the floodgates to sightseers. Today there is a motorable highway. Kataragama has lost its mystic charm and changed beyond recognition. We reached our destination by early evening. Across the Menik Ganga was only a narrow hanging footbridge. There were no pilgrim rests or any other places at which to stay.

“Until late in the night we watched the fascinating scenes and events, moving amongst a multitude of mostly Hindu but also many Buddhist pilgrims. The scenes at the river, the peraheras with one elephant carrying a symbol of God Kataragama (Skanda) to the Valliamma Shrine and back, the devotees with small silver spears stuck through cheeks and tongue and on breast and arms, the kavadi bearers walking on sandals of nails, people rolling on the ground around the main temple, the pujas, the offerings of flowers and fruit, the frenzy and ecstasy in the smoke-filled dimly lit temple itself, with the deafening noise of drums, conch, flute and bells, the smells of burning joss-sticks, incense, camphor and coconut oil and of sweating humanity: these are indelible in my memory, as is the image of a man and a woman who frantically tried to place burning lumps of camphor on their tongues, picking them up with bare fingers from bowls filled with holy ash. All these acts are in fulfillment of vows in penance.

“We watched and moved amongst the crowds till about midnight, when we tried to get some rest at the foot of a large tree. We had brought with us neither food nor drink, and, of course, none were on sale.

The fire-walking was said to start at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning. Hours earlier the fire had been lit, so that when the time came there was a deep bed of red hot embers, left from burning entire logs. Soon people began to assemble around the fire in a wide circle sitting on the ground. We were assigned places right in front. The heat was great and several times we had to move backwards. Preparations continued for quite a while yet, including those of the fire-walking devotees who were kept in a separate abode nearby. My wife and I were the only white people present.

“By about 4 a.m. all was ready, and the first barefoot devotee walked across the bed of embers which was about 35 feet long and six feet wide. Attendants saw to it that all proceeded in an orderly fashion and that the embers were not unduly disturbed. One after another the walkers were sent through the embers, some marching slowly and deliberately, others in a hurry, nearly running, and some quite obviously in a trance. One stumbled and embers were sprayed in all directions. There were about 20 participants and if I remember correctly one or two were women. No burns were reported, and all went well. (Some years later a misguided Christian priest tried it and burned his feet badly.)

“When it was all over daylight began tentatively to break. Exhausted as we were, we began the return walk, another 17 km to Tissa, together with hundreds of pilgrims. I remember a Tamil man who walked ahead of us for some time with his little daughter of perhaps five or six years chanting a religious verse which ended with “Haro hara”, when the girl’s clear silvery voice chimed in. For us this was an enchanting episode.

“A beautiful but hot day was coming up as we trekked along the foot of Vedahitikanda hill. We were dead tired, and my wife almost had to drag me over the last kilometres to our car, which we had left near the Tissa resthouse. For an hour or two we slept in the car, and then I drove all the way back to Colombo. That night we slept like logs, a memorable experience behind us, one of so many similar ones in our long lives ahead.”

“Kataragama was then a truly sylvan shrine with only a few ancient temples and other buildings, a mosque, the Basnayaka’s and the GA’s residences and a row of seasonal shops (’boutiques’), all in a garden of trees. During most of the year the area was left in solitude for wildlife to roam – elephants, sambhur, spotted deer, leopard and bear.

“Today we have a modern ‘Holy City’ in its place with many unnecessary concrete ’embellishments’, lamp-posts, hotels, pilgrim rests, bridges and tarred roads. The avenue between the two main temples is fringed with exotic Tabebuia trees. The whole area now is a great commercial enterprise.

In later years we used to meet Swami Gowripala (Herr Schon-feldt) there and also Kalki Swami (Mike Wilson).”

Lost to modernity

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.

(To be continued)



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Features

Forest cover loss threatens rare freshwater fish in Sinharaja streams

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Washbasin

When discussions turn to Sri Lanka’s freshwater fish diversity and the urgent need to conserve it, attention is often focused on rivers, streams, reservoirs and water quality.

Yet scientists are increasingly finding that what happens on the land surrounding these waterways can be just as important as what happens in the water itself.

A recent study led by researcher Janamina Bandara of the Wildlife Conservation Society, Galle, together with researchers Sudath Nanayakkara and Sahan Randeniya, highlights how changes in forest cover caused by human activities can significantly influence freshwater fish populations in the hill streams surrounding the Sinharaja rainforest.

Their research sheds light on a relatively understudied aspect of tropical freshwater ecosystems—how alterations to vegetation cover, particularly through commercial cultivation such as tea and cardamom plantations, affect fish communities inhabiting headwater streams.

Hidden Riches of Tropical Streams

Forest plant saplings

Sri Lanka’s freshwater ecosystems are globally recognised for their remarkable biodiversity and high levels of endemism. However, despite their ecological significance, many ecological processes operating within these habitats remain poorly understood.

“Freshwater ecosystems in the tropics harbour extraordinary biodiversity, but many of the ecological relationships within these systems are still not fully documented,” researcher Janamina Bandara told The Island.

The study focused on sub-montane streams in the Sinharaja landscape, examining how varying levels of forest cover influence freshwater fish assemblages.

Researchers investigated whether fish communities differed between streams flowing through relatively undisturbed forests and those surrounded by modified vegetation resulting from agricultural activities.

Spotlight on a Critically Endangered Species

Leaf litter bay / Restoration activities

Particular attention was given to the critically endangered Rakwana loach (Schistura madhavai), a highly restricted endemic fish species first described from the Suriyakanda-Rakwana region.

Commonly referred to as a hill-stream loach, the species inhabits clear, fast-flowing streams and is considered highly sensitive to environmental disturbances.

According to Bandara, while broad community-level analyses did not reveal dramatic differences across all fish populations, species-specific responses painted a very different picture.

“Our findings show that Schistura madhavai exhibits a clear preference for streams flowing through intact forest habitats,” he explained. “The species becomes less common in areas where surrounding vegetation has been altered by human activities.”

Why Forests Matter to Fish

Forests bordering streams play multiple ecological roles. They regulate water temperature by providing shade, contribute organic matter that supports aquatic food webs, stabilise stream banks and help maintain water quality.

When these forests are removed or replaced with plantation crops, the resulting environmental changes can cascade through freshwater ecosystems.

Bandara noted that altered forest cover can influence water chemistry, microclimatic conditions, stream-bed composition and the availability of food resources.

“As riparian vegetation changes, a series of environmental conditions within the stream also change. Sensitive species such as Schistura madhavai appear particularly vulnerable to these shifts and may gradually disappear from modified habitats,” he said.

The research suggests that even subtle changes in habitat structure can have disproportionate impacts on species with narrow ecological requirements.

The Importance of Looking Beyond Numbers

Schistura madhavai

One of the most intriguing findings of the study is that ecosystem degradation may not always be apparent when scientists assess entire fish communities collectively.

In some instances, environmental variables appeared to have little effect on overall fish abundance or diversity. However, when individual species were examined separately, clear patterns emerged.

For example, variations in the amount of detritus—organic matter that accumulates on stream beds and serves as a vital food resource—did not significantly affect the overall fish assemblage. Yet for certain species, including habitat specialists, such changes proved critically important.

“This highlights a key conservation challenge,” Bandara said. “If we only look at total fish numbers or community-wide patterns, we may overlook serious declines occurring among environmentally sensitive species.”

Indicator Species as Ecological Sentinels

The findings underscore the importance of using so-called “indicator species” in environmental monitoring programmes.

Indicator species are organisms whose presence, absence or abundance reflects the health of an ecosystem. Because they respond rapidly to environmental change, they can provide early warnings of ecological degradation.

The Rakwana loach appears to fit this role exceptionally well.

“Species with narrow habitat requirements often act as ecological sentinels,” Bandara observed. “Monitoring them can provide a much clearer picture of ecosystem health than relying solely on broad biodiversity assessments.”

For conservation practitioners, this means that protecting sensitive endemic species may also help safeguard entire freshwater ecosystems.

Restoring Streamside Forests

Perhaps the study’s most important conservation message concerns the restoration of degraded riparian forests—the vegetation growing alongside streams and rivers.

Researchers argue that restoring these streamside habitats should be a priority in freshwater biodiversity conservation efforts.

Healthy riparian vegetation provides shade, reduces erosion, filters pollutants, enhances habitat complexity and supports the intricate ecological interactions upon which aquatic life depends.

“The restoration of degraded riparian forests is likely to be one of the most effective conservation measures for protecting freshwater biodiversity,” Bandara emphasised.

Such efforts could prove particularly valuable in landscapes where agricultural expansion has fragmented natural habitats.

Awareness sessions

A Broader Lesson for Conservation

The study offers a timely reminder that freshwater conservation cannot be achieved by focusing exclusively on water bodies themselves. The surrounding landscape matters immensely.

From the mist-laden streams flowing down the Sinharaja foothills to the countless rivulets nourishing Sri Lanka’s river systems, the fate of freshwater biodiversity is intimately linked to the health of adjacent forests.

As conservationists grapple with accelerating habitat loss and climate-related pressures, the research demonstrates that protecting and restoring forest cover may be just as important as safeguarding the streams themselves.

In the case of the elusive Rakwana loach, the message is clear: save the forest, and you may save the fish.

For Sri Lanka’s unique freshwater biodiversity, that lesson could not be more important.

By Ifham Nizam

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Turning Promises into Justice

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File photo of lawyers protesting against the Prevention of Terrorism Act in Colombo

Sri Lankans have reason to take satisfaction in their country’s latest international achievement. Sri Lanka has climbed 14 places in the 2026 Global Peace Index to rank 67 in the world out of 163 countries that were assessed. At a time when global peacefulness is reported to be at its lowest level since the inception of the Index, and when more countries are experiencing deterioration than improvement, Sri Lanka’s progress stands out. The ranking reflects the country’s recovery from nearly three decades of war, its efforts to strengthen political stability and public security, and its resilience in overcoming the economic and political crises of recent years. The Global Peace Index assesses the strength of institutions, societal safety and security, and the capacity of societies to manage conflict peacefully.

The challenge is to consolidate the gains that have been made and address those unresolved issues that continue to cast a shadow over the country’s future. It is in this context that two recent announcements by the government assume particular significance. Foreign Minister Vijitha Herath has announced that the Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA), one of the most controversial laws in the country, will be repealed and replaced within two months. A report prepared by a committee appointed to make recommendations has already been handed over to him. According to the minister, the new legislation, to be known as the State Prevention of Terrorism Act, incorporates recommendations from civil society and is intended to comply with international standards on counter terrorism.

At the same time, Justice and National Integration Minister Harshana Nanayakkara has reaffirmed the government’s commitment to uncovering the truth about missing persons. During a visit to the Chemmani mass grave excavation site in Jaffna, he stated that the excavations should be completed expeditiously so that justice can be done and assured that the necessary resources have been allocated for the task. The excavations are taking place under judicial supervision with the participation of forensic experts, archaeologists, lawyers and representatives of the Office on Missing Persons. These commitments made by the government address two of the most contentious issues that have troubled Sri Lanka for decades. They also suggest that the government believes the country is now in a position to deal with difficult questions from its past rather than postpone them indefinitely.

After Breakthroughs

The timing of the pledge to repeal the PTA is particularly noteworthy. For many years successive governments promised to replace the law but failed to do so. Sri Lanka undertook to repeal it in 2017 as part of its commitments linked to retaining GSP Plus trade concessions by the European Union. Yet despite repeated assurances the law remained in force. The question therefore arises as to why the government now appears determined to act. One possible explanation is that the Easter Sunday investigations have reached a decisive stage. The investigation into the bombings that killed more than 260 people in 2019 appears to have made significant breakthroughs. If these investigations continue along their present course, it is possible that accountability will extend beyond those who directly carried out the attacks to those who may have facilitated, enabled or been part of a wider criminal conspiracy.

There is broad agreement within society that those who masterminded the dastardly Easter bombing must be held accountable and that the victims deserve the truth and justice. However, it is important that the process by which responsibility is determined is seen by the public to be fair, lawful and impartial. If those accused are convicted following a transparent judicial process that respects due process and the rule of law, the outcome is far more likely to gain acceptance across society. This is where the repeal of the PTA becomes important. A transition from a law associated with prolonged detention and exceptional powers to one that is more consistent with human rights standards would strengthen rather than weaken the legitimacy of the investigations. Accountability obtained through a process that is visibly fair will be more durable and less vulnerable to allegations of political motivation or selective justice.

The Chemmani excavations may also provide an example of how such credibility can be built. The process is taking place under judicial supervision and in full public view with the participation of independent experts. Whatever conclusions emerge, and follow up action is decided on, the process itself should command respect because it is transparent and accountable. The same principles can be applied to the Easter Sunday investigations. Public confidence is strengthened when investigations are conducted openly, when legal safeguards are respected and when the rights of both victims and accused persons are protected. The significance of these investigations may extend beyond the tragedy itself. There is likely to be an overlap between those who are eventually found responsible for the Easter Sunday conspiracy and elements of the state apparatus that exercised power during the final stages of the war.

Setting Precedent

For many years Sri Lanka has struggled to address allegations of wartime abuses. The issue has remained politically sensitive because it touches upon the conduct of those who were regarded by many as wartime heroes. Yet if the Easter Sunday investigations establish that senior officials can be investigated and held accountable when evidence warrants it, an important precedent will have been set. Once the deck is cleared through the Easter Sunday investigations and the judicial process that follows, it may become less difficult to address allegations relating to wartime abuses, including those connected to sites such as Chemmani where evidence is now being painstakingly uncovered. This would also strengthen Sri Lanka’s position internationally.

Since the end of the war in 2009, the country has remained under varying degrees of scrutiny by the United Nations Human Rights Council. In October 2025, the Council renewed the mandate of the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights to continue collecting and preserving evidence relating to past violations. The next review of Sri Lanka is due in September this year. The government now has an opportunity to demonstrate that Sri Lanka is capable of addressing difficult issues through its own institutions and according to its own democratic values. The commitments to repeal the PTA and to pursue investigations into missing persons can be seen in that light. Those who were victimized query as to what happened to their loved ones and to the information they know full well they entrusted to the government authorities and to the commissions of inquiry that were appointed. These are opportunities to show that accountability and national ownership can go hand in hand.

Reconciliation requires the difficult task of remembering truthfully. Too often Sri Lanka has sought stability by postponing difficult questions. Yet unresolved grievances do not disappear. They persist across generations and continue to shape political attitudes and communal relationships. Sri Lanka’s rise in the Global Peace Index is an achievement worth celebrating. But the true measure of peace is not only the absence of conflict. It is the presence of justice, trust and confidence in public institutions. The government’s commitments on PTA repeal, the Easter Sunday investigations and the search for truth regarding the disappeared suggest an awareness that old approaches have run their course. The government has an opportunity to break with the patterns of the past. The test now lies in implementation.

by Jehan Perera

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The burden, and also strength, of the critical scholar in the Humanities

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The biggest part of the challenge of a critical scholar in the humanities is having to engage critically with the very realities that define her existence as a social being. She cannot even begin to comment on the focus of her study without creating shock waves that would hit her own self in some form. One could argue that the scholars in the field of the humanities are part of what is being studied in one way or another. Critical scholarship in those fields entails destabilising the ground beneath their own feet.

An essential part of scholarly inquiry is being able to objectify what is being studied and examine it closely but at a distance, that, too, in a manner that scholar’s personal biases do not affect the judgement. Any failure to comply with this requirement immediately brands the study as unscientific. To try to understand this using an example situation, I would assume that a scientist who experiments with sodium and chlorine as chemical elements have the privilege of entering the experiment without any personal and emotional ties to either of the elements, placing one element in contact with the other without having to raise questions about her own existence, and observing and recording the outcome of the experiment without having to simultaneously examine what sort of implications the outcome has had for her as a person. The findings of the experiment may certainly advance her/him in the domain of science, but it is unlikely that the outcome of the study would result in any transformation within her as a social being.

The same privilege is not available for the (critical) scholars in the humanities. What chemical elements are for the scientist, the different social, political, cultural, gender, ethnic, racial, and religious identities are for those in the humanities. What the controlled, and also largely predictable, laboratory environment is for the scientist, the uncontrolled, even erratic, society is for those in the humanities. What the scientific experiments where the composition and behaviour of the individual chemical elements are explored is for the scientist, a close examination of phenomena and topics that cut across the categories of the social, the political, the cultural, and the religious is for those in the humanities.

The relatively clear differentiation or separation that is there between the scientist’s personal space and the laboratory setting where she conducts her research is not there in the case of her counterpart in the humanities. The latter does not have a separate laboratory setting that she can step into from her personal space, as the social space, which is her site of research, has her personal space already embedded in it. The freedom that the scientist has to cut herself off from what shapes her existence as a social and political being, as she enters her laboratory, is not available for her counterpart in the humanities, for the simple reason that the social and the political, which define her life outside her research, is also at the core of what they engage with in their research. Even in a setting where the latter locks herself up in a room and cuts herself off from the rest of society, the social and the political continue to define both her perspective and the object of study. Even the most effective scientist (but may not be the ideal scientist) has the option of taking her life, defined by the social, the political, the cultural and the religious, for granted, as her success is measured purely on the basis of her scholarly output; however, even the most ineffective scholar in the humanities would have to acknowledge the nexus between her personal life and her scholarly life, explicitly or implicitly, and her engagement with the chosen object of study will entail some sort of an engagement with her existence.

To use an example from the field of language studies which my work is primarily in, New Varieties of English, like what is called Sri Lankan English, is a topic that I try to engage with in both my teaching and research. Approached from a critical point of view, Sri Lankan English as a New Variety of English is more a political category than a linguistic one. The claims that you make may be based on linguistic evidence, but the conceptualisation of a separate form of English as Sri Lankan English even on the basis of objective linguistic evidence is primarily a political claim. The creation of such a category invariably results in a reconfiguration of the linguistic terrain of the country. Every claim that is made in favour of Sri Lankan English as a category results in a certain destablilisation of Sinhala and English, which are my first language and second language respectively, and the tense relations between which two languages have shaped my identity in a fundamental way. It is not only the two languages that get shaken; the broader ethnic identities that are associated with the two languages also undergo transformation, and this transformation certainly has an impact on who/what I am.

Even when I find the case for Sri Lankan English to be convincing, I feel compelled to word the arguments carefully. This feeling of compulsion to word the arguments carefully is certainly in recognition of the need to make academically-sound arguments; however, in addition to that, it has also to do with my position outside the social class which has traditionally been seen as having proprietary rights over the language. In that setting, I am less of an academic with an objective mindset than of a strategist who is enmeshed in the ethnic and class relations that define the topic of Sri Lankan English. At the same time, in a context where one’s knowledge of English is a primary determiner of her success in society and what is predominantly valued is the so-called proper forms of English, I have had to ask myself if any claims, including the most convincing, academically-sound ones, in the direction of legitimising Sri Lankan English should not be with caution.

I have also had to reconcile between two seemingly contradictory positions involved in making a case for Sri Lankan English, especially in the context of an English Honours programme, that, too, at a leading university in the country. On the one hand, making a case for Sri Lankan English entails encouraging deviation from the established norm/s of the language; on the other hand, considering the nature of the programme, the need to require the students to make that case using a normative form of English that would be recognised internationally could not be overlooked. At one level, this seeming contradiction could easily be dismissed as hypocrisy, but a closer and more serious reading of the situation would see in it a certain “maneuvering” and “negotiating” that the scholars in the discipline of English Studies stationed in peripheral contexts like ours are constrained to undertake in their engagement with the topic at hand. Although the arguments that get made have the appearance of truth, a close analysis of those arguments would indicate a certain identity politics that is being played. This identity politics has a direct bearing on the identity of the scholar who engages with the topic.

Accordingly, to make a claim in the humanities from a critical point of view is also to question in some form what defines one’s own identity, and this may not be the most comfortable undertaking for many of us in the field. This explains, at least to a certain extent, why some scholarly engagements with history results in mere glorifications of the mainstream historical narratives; why some scholarly engagements with literature and language results in a mere celebration of the mainstream literary traditions and hegemonic languages; how some scholarly engagements with the idea of culture directly subscribe to the position that culture should always be preserved and celebrated. Such approaches leave the status-quo largely untouched, and therefore the amount of unsettling that the scholars have to deal with is minimal. How much value that they are in a position to add to the existing scholarship, of course, is a question.

Any act of critical scholarship in the field of the humanities entails the scholar having to challenge in some form what defines her personal existence. This may not be the most comfortable move to make, but that is the only way the scholar could try to make a contribution of value to the field. It is important that this dilemma that the critical scholars in the humanities have to go through is recognised for what it is.

(Nandaka Maduranga Kalugampitiya is attached to the Department of English, University of Peradeniya.)

Kuppi is a politics and pedagogy happening on the margins of the lecture hall that parodies, subverts, and simultaneously reaffirms social hierarchies.

by Nandaka Maduranga
Kalugampitiya

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