Portrait

Michael Jackson has died. It’s pretty surreal. This was the star of my generation. The legend. By the time we came around John Lennon, Bob Marley and Bob Dylan were already gone. We would only grow up hearing stories of the enigma that surrounded each of those people, and the phenomenal effect they had on the world. We would, in turn, learn to love their music, their personas, basking in the glory of that curious thing that happens post-mortem: where something takes on a rosy hue in memory. We lived in a world where they became hugely sensationalised, glamourised, romanticised and possibly overrated, simply because they were dead. I barely remember the passing of Kurt Cobain.

But M.J was ours. He was all ours. And now he’s dead.

I grew up singing ‘bidet, bidet’ for Beat It. I grew up pissing myself in fear watching Thriller. I grew up owning the CDs and a video tape of all the Number One videos. I grew up in a world that liked Michael Jackson, that treated him like a star, a king. I watched it fast turning into a world which wanted to crucify him, for his eccentricities, his alleged sicknesses. But by that time, I had already made up my mind about how I felt about him. I liked him. And that wasn’t about to change, regardless of the increasingly weird behaviour, the exceedingly bizarre face or the return trips to courtrooms. By that time, luckily, I was old enough to separate the career from the personal life.

More than anything, I grew up wanting to dance. And anyone who grew up wanting to dance hasn’t escaped the Michael Jackson fever. At some point in all our lives, as dancers or aspiring dancers, we have all admired him, looked to him, imitated him. Even the great Akram Khan, British-Indian dancer and choreographer, whom I love endlessly, once said something to the effect of, “I grew up seeing white people onstage, in the movies. And then Michael Jackson came out with Thriller, and I saw that there was a possibility that brown people could do great things, too”. Michael Jackson gave a lot of people hope, he was the poster boy for dreams of dancing, hidden away in our minds. For people dancing in the privacy of their bedrooms and showers, little boys and girls who dreamed of enormous stages. An entire generation of black and brown people, to whom he inadvertently reached out, but also the masses of white people, who had found their King of Pop.

He affected a lot of different people. From Akram Khan to Elizabeth Taylor. From me, to the children playing cricket down the street. He reached out to this side of the world, a lot, too. From the West, to the East. He was a man that literally touched the world. His career reached out across borders of age, race and more importantly, artistic tastes. He achieved both mainstream and critical acclaim for his music and performances, and all the things he pioneered as an artist. He had fans who listened to all kinds of music. Those who listened to Pop liked him, those who listened to Rock liked him, even those of us who have a penchant for the more obscure liked him. He was respected, truly respected.

No popular artist working today can even come close to matching that kind of success. Today, all mainstream artists are lost in a sea of mediocrity, to be forgotten after a single or two. He, on the other hand, worked hard to stay put. He revolutionsed pop music in the ’80s, using rock instruments, heavy electronic lead and bass guitars in dance music. He revolutionised the music video, turning it into an epic extravaganza of plots, characters and special effects, much like a film. He revolutionised live performances for pop artist, making them an action and energy packed all-round experience for the audience, with unbelievable dancing, gimmicks, and expensive stage sets.

Another characteristic of his career, unusual for artists from the crazy ’80s and ’90s, is that he is timeless. I can listen to the albums Bad, Dangerous or Thriller today and it seems current, not outdated. It’s interesting. It’s certainly better than a lot of the shit people churn out these days. It seems even more current and intrinsic than music that is actually currently popular in the mainstream.

His performances were skillful, amazing, perfect. That level of expertise and energy, seldom have I seen others bring to a live stage. Today, I see all these popular new artists performing live, and it’s a true test of how good they really are. And mostly, they all fail miserably. They are boring, and mostly, they are lazy.

Michael Jackson, live, was never lazy. Every second of every song, he is working, he is there, a 100% and he is giving it to you. He made up in glamour for what he didn’t have in vocals, he made up in dancing for what he lacked in lyrical profundity. He always came through for the people who came to see him. He always lived up to the reputation that preceded him.

And now he’s dead. We have lost not only a singer, not only a dancer, but a man who worked hard and earned respect and admiration the good old fashioned way. And that’s what the industry will miss the most. An example of how simple, pure hard work can produce magical results. An example of a true professional, who was willing to do what it takes to become what he did. An example of skill and expertise earned through endless commitment to achieving perfection, and an example of how tireless perfectionism pays off. He was a pro, and, in short, that’s all needs to be said about the man.

This is not a generic loss I feel. I actually liked this guy. It’s not me acknowledging this loss for the rest of the world. I was a fan. It’s my loss, too. And in the years to come, I will remember him for myself. I won’t be living with stories of greatness anymore, I will have known myself this man who was larger, and weirder, than life itself.

Collecting donations in cash or kind is a curious thing. You are compelled to find out how much people are willing to part with, in the name of the greater good, a ‘cause’ greater than their own needs, and essentially, how generous or giving they are. In a time where money is difficult to come by for most of us, it is especially heartwarming when people are eager to give. But this is not something I’m readily willing to find out about people. In fact, I’ve been kind of weary of collecting money from people because it would mean I’m peeping in on this very personal detail. It’s funny, but also interesting. Of course, at the end of the day, everyone that does donate in my eyes is generous. But some give more and than others. And this knowledge is a burden I would sometimes rather not shoulder.

I have always been a bit weary of people who like the glamour of ‘causes’. Go Green! Power to the poor! Free Palestine! I wonder, sometimes, whether any of these people are really willing to do what it takes to see the changes they claim they want to see. And whether they truly believe the sweeping statements they stand by, or claim to do so simply because it seems like the kind of thing they should believe, in order to appear to be a certain kind of person.

And this is why I hate the pretentious: it’s like you have this archetype in your mind, this vague, abstract concept of a personality, which might not even really be humanly plausible. Artist. Liberal. Activist. Intellectual. And then you have this checklist of things that you need to be/believe in to be that archetype. “I should think that Che is cool and that weed should be legal and that the rich are the evil.” Or, “I should listen to a certain type of music, like a certain kind of book, and whether I actually like these things or not is immaterial”. There are very few people I know who actually un-pretentiously form their own opinions and carefully think about what they believe to be right and wrong, and most importantly, are up to changing their minds as they grow older and wiser. They don’t really care what ‘type’ of person that makes them. Luckily, they are all my friends.

I see people who are all about the hoo haa about Iraq but don’t bother to treat those who are waiters or drivers like human beings. I see people who are always so busy sending things to the IDPs but won’t stop to give a beggar in Colombo a red cent. I see people who spend a lot of time writing about the evils of the elite, but wouldn’t take a stray dog in from the cold, leave alone another person.

It’s wonderful when people want to help, but I believe true generosity comes from wanting to help anyone you can help, anytime you can help. It’s not about choosing your causes, choosing who deserves your goodness, and who doesn’t. That’s not a judgment I feel we are fit to make about others.

It could be buying the tri-shaw driver a maalu paan the next time you stop at Perera and Sons to buy yourself something. It could be saying ‘Good Morning’ to the man whose job it is to open the door for you at Food City. It could be letting a friend share your home in a time of need. It could be taking the neighbourhood’s stray dog to the vet. It could be, literally, the famed helping-an-old -lady-cross-the-street.

Really, the opportunities present themselves to us all the time, and most of the time, we don’t even notice. We walk on by, rushing to hand in our large donations to a cause that is in our eyes more worthy than a shabby beggar, a stray animal, a cab driver who likes a chat just as much as the next person.

What cause do I believe in? Well, mostly, I believe in the cause of human decency, pure and simple. Very easily achieved, results guaranteed to satisfy all parties involved. It won’t take a minute out of your day.

The last time I was in London, it was 2005, I was 4 years younger, I was with my mother and a lot happened.

I was there for one and a half weeks, and it seemed as though everything happened all at once.

The Live 8 concert happened. Approximately 200,000 people, I’m certain from all over the UK, spilled into Hyde Park to see it. To see everyone from Coldplay to U2 to Elton John to Annie Lennox to Madonna. And of course, Pink Floyd reunited, for the first time together with Roger Waters on the same stage since 1981.

Wimbledon happened. I think Federer won.

I went to my first Pride parade, as London Gay Pride week unfolded. It was beautiful, colourful and lots of mischief and fun, and I saw Ian McKellan in the flesh.

The July 07th bombings, which came to be known as the 7/7 bombings happened, leaving 52 dead and 700 injured.

I saw the amazing, enigmatic, utterly skillful Akram Khan dance for the first time, at the premier of Zero Degrees at the Sadler’s Wells theatre.

I saw the work of Frida Kahlo, alive as I had never seen them before, at the Tate’s Summer exhibition.

London won the bid for the 2012 Olympics, incidentally the day before the bombs, and it hence became London 2012.

Personally, a lot of other stuff happened too. I was ever the theatre enthusiast: I saw the Phantom of the Opera, and A Winter’s Tale at the Globe. I was the tourist; we went on the London Eye, I did the wax museum. I went to beautiful, beautiful Oxford. I flirted shamelessly, and batted my eyelids at bars to get drinks. I wanted to buy everything I saw. And it was nicest because for that time, I had my mother all to myself, and we had a good old time, us girls.

I cringe when I read my posts from then, but in a way, I am so glad I have the posts, however embarrassing the may be. It’s not only a record of all the things I did there and what a wonderful time I had, but it’s also a reminder of who I was then.

This time I go with a serious schedule, and by myself. I’ve relatively calmer, more interested in music and theatre than in spending 25 quid on the Wax Museum, and even though I could legitimately drink, something I couldn’t do last time, I’ve already done and gotten over drinking, and don’t anymore. Is life always this ironic?

London town, here I come.

David tagged me, in this on-going tagging fever that RD started. To put into five words how I feel is difficult. As you already probably know if you read my blog, I like the sound of my own voice. I like to talk, and in the blogging equivalent, I like to blog. I like to put all my thoughts down, arrange them one by one, carefully, meaningfully. This is one of the reasons I blog. Writing them down helps me to make sense of them, to organise them.

But, OK. This is a challenge. Five words. Here goes.

1. Distrusting
2. Fearful
3. Despair
4. Hopeful
5. Overwhelmed

I think the last one is the most true to how I feel. Right now, I’m feeling so much, so many different things all at once, I feel tired. It’s hard to go around feeling so much, all the time. My mind is constantly bombarded with thoughts of those in the IDP camps and hospitals. My heart aches with despair and worry, for all those overseas, who are worrying day and night about the members of their families who got left behind. My very body it seems is heavy.

And yet my mind rationalises, telling me to feel hope and positivity. And so, we come to number 4. Perhaps the most important feeling to harbour right now, hope, but also the hardest to feel. Some days, I feel like I’m forcing myself.

But I am forcing myself. To be patient, to see the bright side, to give it a chance. And maybe for now, that’s good enough.

I tag no one. Everyone, it seems, has a pretty clear idea of how they feel.

…as I walk down the grand, wooden staircase, the banister gleaming, my footsteps echoing, in my mind’s eye, I can see myself, walking down these very same steps, years ago. There used to be a time, when I was never far from this place. Sitting with the girls at the bar, laughing with the boys down below, on the sprawling green lawn.

All the names, written in white block letters, names of captains, names of presidents, names of friends, mingle with the very air of the place. This was a time before. I was young, and foolish. Not just in the way in which we all say it, but truly young, and truly foolish. The place becomes a time in my life, and not really a place at all.

The structure has remained the same, it should look no different to me than it did then, but it does. It does not contain the same feelings, the same expectations, the same excitement as it once did. Coming here today does not mean the same things that it did then, when coming here meant so many things, all at once, too much to feel, for a girl so young and so very foolish.

I have spent many hours here, desiring, being desired. Sitting cross-legged on the lawn, being affected by some oarsman or the other, knowing very well that I’m having an effect on them too. Pretending not to look, not to care, but inside, tripping up with a woozy kind of joy. When the veil of night comes to cover all our mischievous agendas, hands get held, lips get kissed, hearts get broken and mended again, falling in and out of love. Friends get drunk, earning but never losing respect, carrying each other out, holding onto shoulders and doubling up with laughter.

This place reminds me not only of the things I used to do, but the way I used to be. Do I long for who I was then? Frivolous not in a crass, stupid way alone, but in a carefree way. Today it seems my every move is planned carefully, my heart content, not constantly agonising, searching, yearning. I did dangerous things, not entirely dangerous to myself, but small, selfish things. I did detrimental things. Not things that scarred one for life, but momentous things that lasted just a second in all its powerful glory, until I moved onto the next one.

I did not dare calculate how I affected others, afraid to find that I was truly normal, and solely unremarkable except for the way I made people feel. But I used this as much as I could, as much as I was allowed to, by all the good friends who wearily watched over me, ever ready to cut in, but also eager to let me stumble and learn.

I did things in an unhesitating way. In a forceful, potent kind of way. I never failed. I never missed. I always got what I wanted, who I wanted. And this place has seen a lot of that. What and who I wanted was not always exactly right. It was always what and who I wanted then, right then. And I was young and foolish enough to not look beyond, to be able to work towards that without a care in the world, without having to think ‘What next?’ until it came right to me and tapped me on the shoulder.

It was a wonderful kind of abandon, careless but never reckless. It all seems like a distant dream. A vague memory that doesn’t even seem to really belong to me.

In the end, I still managed to preserve every part of who I am for the right one, the right now. I am still whole. Different, but whole. This place has remained the same over the years. People still come and go, all the people I used to know and some people that I don’t, and some people that I know still, from the bottom of my heart. And it seems I have moved on, in all the good ways, the comfortable ways. It’s nice to revisit, like a relic of my past life, my past self. Nostalgia is good, but it is too connected to the past to be my favourite feeling. If there is one thing my past self and my present self have in common, it is the desire to live in the present.

And so I walk on, the nostalgia fades, to be replaced by all that I am feeling, and all that I am, right now.

Both the BBC and Aljazeera have reported that the LTTE has confirmed that Prabhakaran is dead. This may not have been necessary for those of us living here, but it may play an important role in giving Sri Lankan Tamils diaspora who supported the LTTE cause some reason to move on.

Even Pathmanathan has now said, “We have already announced that we have given up violence and agreed to enter a democratic process to achieve the rights for the Tamil (self) determination of our people.” It is such a tragedy that it took them 30 years to figure this one out, and that it cost so many countless innocent lives, but maybe this is truly a case of better late than never.

D.B.S Jeyraj, as usual, has interesting take on things, saying, “What is pathetic about the pro-tiger Tamil diaspora is that they are not only denying their departed leader tribute and homage but also depriving all the other senior tiger leaders due recongnition after death. The LTTE that made a fetish out of commemorating their dead (great heroes) is being denied any form of recognition let alone glorification after such mass death.”

Anyhow, there is a very different, much greater cause that needs fighting for. In Sri Lanka there are currently approximately 275,000 displaced people in IDP camps and hospitals in the North: ill, old, young, maimed, hopeless, fearful. We can start by giving them the basics: drinking water, milk powder, a pillow to rest their heads on. Maybe we can move on to fulfilling the more complex needs that arise within a human: toys for the children, vocational training for the young, psychological relief for the traumatised. Maybe in time we can give them the strength to support themselves, give them back their lives in some form, and most importantly, work together to give them the framework in which they can live their lives free from fear.

These people, they need more than our sympathy. They need our help. They need more than for us to see their pictures on the internet, and shed a tear. They need food, and clothing and medicine. They need more than for us to shout about what a great humanitarian crisis Sri Lanka is facing. They need to be able to go back to their homes. They need more from us, they deserve more from us. There is not much use in sympathy. But there is a lot of use in actual, practical service.

These people, as Indi says, are not beggars. They are not parasites, looking to leech off society. They are not always keen to ask for your help, leave alone beg for it. They are people, proud people, once people who had nice homes and and well kept gardens. These are people who were probably good at their jobs and had plans for their children. So they don’t need you to feel sorry for them. They need you to come in and merely help them get back on their feet so that they can move on with their lives.

This cause will take a long time to materialise. But Sri Lankans are used to supporting causes that take a long time to show results. Some of us are used to backing our armed forces as they fought a 3o year war. Some of us are used to supporting the rebels as they fought for an elusive homeland for 30 years. It all took years. And this will take as long, maybe even longer. This will require just as much patience, just as much commitment.

But this is a cause that needs every single one of us. Let’s leave the cause of war behind, and work for this cause of peace. Let’s leave the cause of destruction behind and work for the cause of rehabilitation. Let’s leave the cause of ethnic nationalism behind and work for the cause of unity.

This cause is a very real cause. It will be much more useful than supporting a war, much more fruitful than supporting a cause of extremism and violence. Let’s support a cause that is truly worthy. A cause that is not selfish. A cause which we can support with pride and dignity.

Yesterday, a friend and I were in the thick of things down Parliament Road. Driving down Cotta Road on a moped, we squeezed past literally hundreds of big, empty red buses, which were simply stopped, blocking the entire road. There were, again literally, thousands of people on the streets, from Borella to Parliament Grounds. Mostly they were young men, but there were also the old, the very, very young, and the women. Mostly, the young men were all wasted. They had probably been drinking all the way from Puttalam or Bandarawela or wherever it is that they came from. Because they had come from everywhere.

A few times, we tried to ask very innocent questions, like why were there all these buses, and was there any other road we could take? And we were met with shouting, groping, scolding, sarcasm and insults.

Now I can see why some people were scared by these celebratory masses of drunk men. I was quite scared, tense to say the least. I told my friend, let’s not draw any attention to ourselves, let’s just get out of here. There was a distinctive attitude of aggression and arrogance in the air. There was a lot of ego, and even a weird sense of militancy. It felt like all these men were letting out all the anger, frustration and desperation they had felt over the last so many years on this one concentrated occasion. This is a fair bit of anger and frustration, as you can imagine. It is the anger and frustration of literally thousands of people, all channeled into ‘celebrating’. I can easily imagine how this kind of gathering could have spun out of control.

The President was not the calm, collected man we saw in Parliament, speaking solemn words of reassurance and promise. He was the politician speaking to the adoring masses, the menacing, fist-shaking, fat politician, shouting slogans of war and victory. The mass hysteria was more than palpable. People parrot his propaganda word for word, I’ve noticed. And no doubt, his speech on Parliament Grounds will be repeated for months to come.

Propaganda is useful. It works to get people motivated, it keeps the morale high. There are a lot of ideas being promoted to the people right now, and what I disagree with is not the strong idea that we won the war, but that we did it the right way. Perhaps there is no right way to fight a war, but then that’s the point: we should be teaching our children and youth that this was a war we were forced to fight, and that war is not the answer. The idea of war and fighting itself is being glorified and placed on a very high pedestal. All the very small children I saw at the Commemoration ceremony yesterday, all gleefully waving flags and clapping with joy, are being taught that fighting is the way to fix things, to ‘win’ things.

I principally don’t agree with war and violence as a solution to anything. But we did engage in a war and therefore we have engaged in a lot of violence. All I wish is that there was some note of regret, some note of solemnity, so that people can know that wars are not a glamorous end to things, and that fighting is not an awesome, brave solution. War is something that a nation should enter into with great caution, seriousness and thought. A military victory is something that a nation should acknowledge with pride, yes, but also a pinch of regret for all the destruction and death, a somber thought for the magnitude of loss. And I don’t mean going on and going on about all the death and destruction caused by the enemy, as if we ourselves have not caused any death or destruction. I mean actually acknowledging that war itself inherently means death and destruction, whoever it may be that is causing it.

As I watched all the faces of the wide-eyed children at that ceremony, I felt a little anxious. There they were, possibly with dreamy visions of gun-toting heroes in camouflage outfits in their heads, wishing that one day they too will grow up to be that brave and useful to their nation; believing that freedom and sovereignty can be won only through annihilation and war, going home thinking perhaps, that they have nothing and no one to fear, because if it ever comes right down to it, wars can be waged and even won. They will grow up thinking that war is a good choice, a right choice, that killing is necessary to wipe out threats.

Along with all the “Jayawewa”s, I wish the President had inspired a moment of quiet thought amongst the people gathered there yesterday. I wish he would have used the power he wields over them and their every thought to say to them, “I wish we had never fought this war. I wish we had found another way. But we couldn’t, and we had to fight, and I am sorry for all the loss and the permanent damage”. I wish there was just a moment of mature contemplation of the price Sri Lanka has paid, as a nation. I wish there had been one thought spared for what a terrible thing war truly is, just one moment in which he had acknowledged the true nature of war, so unnecessarily destructive and futile.

I wish he had made a point to tell all the children there that he wishes they should never have to fight, a war or otherwise. I wish he had said to them, “War is not the only option. Give peace a chance”.

I may have come off as negative or pessimistic in my post before. Don’t get me wrong, I feel this. I feel the relief, and the joy, and more than anything, I feel the hope.

The President’s speech in Parliament was impressive. He said everything that was expected of him as a President. He reassured the people that there would be no more talk of ‘minorities’ and that all would be treated as equals. He gave the International Community a resounding and confident ‘fuck off’. And he established that there would be only those that love this country, and those that don’t: a patriotism which would of course be measured by their standards of what is love for one’s country and what is not. Despite this last point, he gave me hope. He convinced me that he is not racist. That his government is not a racist government. I hope I am right. He gave me hope that his intentions are good. That their intentions for Sri Lanka are pure. There is a lot of change to be made, and he gave me hope that they are ready to make these changes, no matter how challenging they may be.

But he has a little more convincing to do. And he has a lot to prove. He has to convince me that he will stand against corruption just as strongly as he stood against terrorism. That he will fight for freedom of expression just as he has fought for freedom from the LTTE. He has to prove that their armed forces will never again rape and pillage and assassinate. That they will never plunder and molest and murder. He has to prove that they will never lie to or betray or steal from its own people. He has to earn my trust, whatever that may mean to him. But I am willing to wait. I am willing to give them a chance. I am willing to hope.

All this won’t happen over night. And certainly, all this, one man and one government alone cannot do. It is up to us. It is up to each individual to reverse the terrible vicious cycle that this war has created. The vicious cycle of violence: the armed struggle of the LTTE began because they felt as though they weren’t being treated with equality. But because of the war, the ethnic divide has deepened. Because of the war, racism has increased. Because of the war, some Tamils are reluctant to trust the Sinhalese and some Sinhalese are uneasy about standing in a bus with a Tamil. It is up to each one of us to end the distrust, the suspcion, the hatred, the paranoia, the bitterness towards each other. It is up to each one of us to grow bigger than revenge. It is up to each one of us to foster an atmosphere of trust, kindness and security for each other.

I hope those who left this island will return. I hope they will stop being so angry, forgive the feeling of betrayal, and return home to give Sri Lanka a chance. I hope they will see that not everyone is out to get them. I hope they understand that the longer they insist that there is no other way, there actually is no other way.

I hope we have it in us. I hope we have the sensibility, the sensitivity. I hope we have the strength, the maturity. I hope we have the determination, the commitment. I hope we have the patience to work for the change, and then that we have the good karma to live long enough to see it happen.

On the streets, I see people celebrating. Dancing, singing, eating kiribath. On local TV, there’s song after song, talk show after talk show, programme after programme about how great our troops are and how our motherland is once again a free land. Some of the talk shows were interesting, some unfortunately used this opportunity to showcase a numner of quacks who made every manner of overly dramatic, aggrandized statements about this victory. There are music vidoes which display strong Sinhalese symbols like images of a lion, kiribath, the Kandyan drum, which people are so used to believing are actually Sri Lankan symbols. Between the local news which is heavily pro GoSL and international news which is almost all heavily pro-LTTE or at least LTTE sympathetic, there’s no one who seems to know what’s really going on. To me, it seems as though all of these people have kind of missed the point.

So it’s over. The war is won. Prabhakaran is probably dead. And am I happy? I don’t know if I’m happy. I feel an enormous amount of relief, yes. I feel a certain amazement, a sense of shock and disbelief as I watch the regular news updates on all the different channels, both local and international. I feel hopeful. But mostly, it still feels surreal. It hasn’t really sunken in.

It feels deeper, more complicated. Not so simple, not so black and white. There is too much baggage, 30 years of it, in fact to be outright jumping-for-joy. It is bitter-sweet. There has been so much death and destruction and torture and trauma. This is allegedly the end to all that, but it did happen. And it is a disgrace to the memory of those that paid the price to act like it didn’t.

Am I happy that Prabhakaran could be dead? I was not happy when they executed Saddam Hussein. I believe that rejoicing about a death, even the death of a man who has terrorised a nation for almost 30 years, is shallow. It’s as shallow and egoistic as capital punishment. It doesn’t acknowledge the reality. It is just a show of power. I think there is more to be gained by learning what makes men like that tick, and trying to understand why they did what they did in order to avoid it happening again, than killing them as a public display of ones own authority. Also it’s a bit too morbid for my liking to party about someone being dead, no matter who it may be.

However, I completely understand the sentiment that many Sri Lankans must feel right now. People have a right to be happy, people have a right to be smug, even. People have a right to sing as loud as they like. Sri Lankans everywhere have suffered enough. They have a right to live in peace now. But maybe it is because I have never truly suffered because of the war that I am not rejoicing. Maybe if I’d lost someone, or had been hurt, I’d be on the streets too. Who knows?

This war has been long and hard, and in one way or another, we have all paid a price: some have paid a price bigger than others. So I think it’s a time to be looking forward for different options and looking back to everything that has been destroyed, instead of standing on the streets with these smug looks on our faces and shouting ‘SO THERE!’. It’s the adult equivalent of ‘Nyah nyah nyah boo boo, you can’t catch me’, except it’s more ‘Ha ha, we got those motherfuckers’. Sure, we defeated them, but it came at a terrible, terrible price, and it’s far too soon to forget that. It’s far too soon to forget the brave young men who died in the service of the SLA, all the innocent children, men and women who died for no reason, all the mislead, misguided young cadres of the LTTE who may have, in another life, lived perfectly content lives free of killing and being killed.

Not to be a downer. This was necessary. Maybe it was even necessary for Prabhakaran to die. This had to happen for anything else to happen in this country. I realise that. But I’m more interested in seeing what will happen now.

Things can go two ways. We can start from square one and create a system that works equally for every law-abiding Sri Lankan citizen. Which means a lot will have to be changed. From the roots, the very foundations of this country’s mindset, politics and governmental system, it will all have to change. I say this, because no matter what, no matter what anybody says, at the end of the day this war really was an ethnic conflict. And although the battle may be won, the conflict will continue unless it is resolved now. Or we can create a military state where everyone is always under careful watch and any source of dissent is ‘taken care of’, whether they be an actual potential threat to society or just someone peacefully voicing their opinion. There is no real way to tell the difference between the two kinds of people until it’s too late, so they’ll all be deemed dangerous.

So what keeps me from rejoicing yet, is that ‘What now?’ nagging me, at the back of my mind.

To me, this is more of a beginning than an end. More a crucial turning point than a final victory. It will be the decisions that will be made following this military success that will assure this island a true Sri Lankan victory in the time to come.

Hilary Clinton told Congress, “I think that the Sri Lankan Government knows that the entire world is very disappointed that in its efforts to end what it sees as 25 years of conflict, it is causing such untold suffering,”.

Of all the voices calling for a ceasefire, Hilary’s is the most whiny.

I don’t agree with the particular way in which the GoSL has handled the situation, but no one can deny its success. And maybe these things aren’t as easy and black and white as we imagine; maybe sometimes difficult decisions have to be made, and under immense pressure. Of course there is a huge humanitarian crisis, and both the LTTE and the GoSL are responsible for it. But from what I can see, at least the GoSL is trying in whatever way they can in the current circumstances to get aid to the IDPs trapped in with the Tigers. The Tigers have sat on their arses for 25 years, they haven’t done anything for the people in the North in terms of development and now they’re losing and they’re using these innocent people to prolong their defeat.

Mostly, it’s so rich that this comment comes from the Americans. They started this whole War on Terror thing, which made it fashionable to go after the terrorists and tear down entire nations in the name of doing so. What about the humanitarian crisis in the Middle East created single handedly by America’s unplanned and unwise attacks on Afghanistan and Iraq? Worse, what about the religiously and nationalistically bigoted anti-Muslim (or Moslem, as they who cannot pronounce anything properly say) culture and climate they have created worldwide? If it were the Al Quaeda we were talking about, they would see nothing wrong in going all out to defeat it, no matter what the cost. And they would not only make this seem acceptable, but noble and ‘right’; their destiny. A huge number of terribly atrocious things are justified because it’s them. But if it’s a third world country, it’s ‘oh poo, these terrible savage natives, they should be taught to care more about people.’

The SLA is guilty of terrible, terrible things. True. But why aren’t the likes of the America helping to diffuse the real situation instead of just sitting up on their moral high-horses and judging everyone?