August 6th

August 6th 2011 is only a few days away, and it marks the 56th anniversary of the US atomic bombing of Hiroshima on the same day in 1945. As if that was not enough, three days later, on August 9th, the US atom-bombed Nagasaki as well with the same devastating results. The Hiroshima bomb was crudely and thoughtlessly referred to as ‘Little Boy’ and the Nagasaki bomb as ‘Fat Man’ as if the whole thing was some kind of joke or as if the consequences of these actions would somehow diminish if the instruments of destruction christened with cartoonist names. Up to now, these two cities are the only examples of self-conscious savagery perpetrated through the use of atomic technology on civilian populations.

Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Dome, 1945

In the first eight weeks to four months of the bombings, the direct results of the explosions as well as radiation ensured the violent deaths of 90,000 - 166,000 people in Hiroshima and 60,000–80,000 in Nagasaki. All these are now statistics more or less accepted. The actual necessity to use this kind of technology to halt the Second World War in the pacific theatre by ensuring Japan’s surrender remains a debate that has not been settled.

Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Dome,
Today

I was born on the same day 17 years later in another place and in another time in far less significant circumstances; but my parents and teachers ensured that I always knew what happened on that same day in 1945 in a country that I hardly knew at the time. I guess formal education and common sense was far more attuned to the affairs of the world and its pains at that time.

Japanese dramatist Hisashi Inoue’s character Takeso Fukuyoshi in the play Face of Jizo (父と暮せば - Chichi to Kuraseba) is the ghost of a victim of the Hiroshima bombing who returns to his old home to somehow placate the problems of guilt over survival that his daughter Mituse Fukuyoshi who survived the bombing has in her mind. Due to her sense of guilt, she had also exiled feelings of love and passion to remote corners of her conscience. She herself suffers from radiation sickness, despite survival. At one point, Takeso attempts to teach his daughter how to narrate a story to little children that would capture their interest and imagination while also bringing to their attention the devastation of the bombing. In one of his relatively long but memorable monologues as the ‘Little One Inch-High Warrior of Hiroshima,’ he remarks:

“Having found himself inside the red ogre’s belly, the Little One Inch-High Warrior of Hiroshima pushes the tile from the bomb zone hard against the ogre’s lower tummy and says, “Hey, ogre! Unplug your ears of all your wax and listen to me! In my hand I have a tile that was burnt by the atom bomb in Hiroshima. You know that an atom bomb was detonated at the height of 580 meters above Hiroshima in the morning, on that day. One second after that there was a fireball with a temperature of 12, 000 degrees centigrade. Hey, get that? 12, 000 degrees. The surface temperature of the Sun is 6000 degrees, so that day the sky was lit up with two suns floating there at 580 meters above the ground. That’s two Suns, for one second then another, side by side, up in the sky. Everything on the ground, the people and the birds and the bugs, the fish, the buildings and the big stone lanterns, it all melted in a flash. Every single thing under the sun bubbled, foamed and melted. Roof tiles melted too. Then the atomic blast itself arrived. At 350 meters a second, an atomic blast is faster than the speed of sound. The melted tiles were blasted too, and they grew little needles which cooled into jagged thorns like sharp little icicles, like the blades of a grater or iron spikes. With these terrifying spikes I am goanna grate your liver into slivers of pulp! Grate and grate and gate and grate….”

My Sinhala ‘translation’ of the English version (by Roger Pulvers) reads as follows:

රතු රකුසගේ බඩ ගෙඩිය ඇතුළට පැනගත්තට පස්සේ හිරොෂිමාවේ අඟලක් උස පුංචි රණවිරුවා බොම්බෙ වැටුණු පලාතෙන් අහුලා ගත්තු උළු කැටයකින් රාස්සයාගේ බණ්ඩියේ පහළ කොටසට හොදට වැරෙන් ඇනලා ඇහුවා මෙන්න මෙහෙම: ‘‘ ඕයිි, රාස්ස පප්පේ !  ඔය කන්දෙකෙන් බේරෙන කුණු අයින් කොරං අහගන්නවා මං කියන දේ හොඳින් ! මගේ අතේ තියෙනවා හිරොෂිමාවට න්‍යෂ්ටික බෝම්බේ දාපු වෙලේ පිච්චිලා උනුවෙලා කැරකිලා ගිය උළු කෑල්ලක්. තෝ දන්නවද, එදා උදේ හිරොෂිමාවට මීටර් 580 ක් ඉහළ ආකාසේ න්‍යෂ්ටික බෝම්බයක් පුපුරා ඇරපු විත්තිය? ඊට තප්පරේකට පස්සේ අවිලූණා ආකාසේ මහා ගිනි බෝලයක්. එකේ රස්නේ සෙන්ටිග්‍රෙඞ් අංශක 12,000 ක්. තේරුණාද ඒක? විහිලූවක් නෙමේ මේක. අංශක 12,000 ක්. හැමදාම පායන ඉරෙත් මතුපිට උෂ්ණය අංශක 6,000 ක් විතරයි. ඉතින්  ඕයි, එදා දවසේ පොලොවේ ඉදං මීටර් 580 ක් උඩ ආකාසේ පත්තු වුණා ඉරවල් දෙකක්ම. අමතක කරන්නෙපා, ඉරවල් දෙකක්; ඉස්සෙල්ලා එකක්, ඊට තප්පරේකට පස්සේ තවත් එකක් ළඟ ළඟම පත්තු වුණා මුළු ආකාසෙම එළිය කරගෙන. මිනිස්සුයි, කුරුල්ලොයි, කුරුමිනියොයි, මාළුයි, ගොඩනැගිලියි, අර විශාල ගල් ලන්තෑරුම් කුලූණුයි, කොටින්ම කියනවා නම් පොලොවේ තිබ්ච්ච හැම හත්ඉලව්වක්ම එක මොහොතෙන් උණු වෙලා ගියා. ඉරට පහළින් තිබුන හැම දෙයක්ම බුබුළු දාලා පෙන දාලා උණුවෙලා දියවෙලා ගියා. ඒ රස්නේට පස්සේ තමයි න්‍යෂටික පිපිරිල්ල ආවේ. තප්පරේකට මීටර් 350 ක වේගෙන් ගමන් කරපු ඒ පිපිරිල්ල සද්දේ වේගයටත් වැඩිය වේගවත්. දිය වෙච්ච උළු කැටත් පිපිරිලා ගියා. ඒවායින් පුංචි ඉදිකටු මතු වුනා. ඒවා හීතල වෙන කොට උල් වෙච්ච කටු බවට පත් වුණා ඉබේටම. ඒවැයි තිබ්බේ පුදුම මුවහතක්. හරියට ඇඹරුම් මැෂිමක තල වගේ. නැත්තං යකඩ උල් වගේ. මේ අති භයානක උල්වලින් තොගේ කැවුත්තට ඇනලා, කපලා, කොටලා මං ඒක සම්බල් කොරනවා. කෑලි කෑලි කෑලිවලට කපලා කපලා කපලා දානවා !’’

This is not the time to discuss the assumptions, the logic and the method of my translation. Though clearly an exaggerated performance with some comic elements, Inoue’s words above narrated through the voice of Takeso are anything but an exaggeration or a joke.  These words came to me as 6th August 2011 approached partly because I was keenly interested in translating Inoue’s play into Sinhala which I had read at least three times and had deeply touched me. 

Additional Panels, Maruki Museum - July 2011

They also came to me after visiting the Maruki Museum in Saitama in early July with my students. The Maruki Museum is well known for what is known as the Hiroshima Panels. The panels consist of 15 painted foldable panels (1.8 meters x 7.2 meters each) painted by Maruki Iro and Maruki Toshi over a period of 32 years, from 1950 to 1982. The two artists also lost family members in the Hiroshima bombing. The panels are now housed in what used to be the couple’s home and studio. In addition to the Hiroshima panels, the collection also houses some artifacts of the devastation of Hiroshima collected by the two artists and some other panels of 20th century human cruelty such as the Rape of Nanking by the Imperial Japanese Army (1937–1938), Nazi Germany’s Jewish concentration camps among others. These are not works of art meant to generate pleasure; they are supposed to nudge people to remember, ponder, reflect and be disturbed so that events such as these are not lost in social amnesia. At least, that seems to have been the idea of the artists (Click Here for Hiroshima Panels - Maruki Museum).



'Atomic Desert' by Maruki Iro and Maruki Toshi - Hiroshima Panels

I must confess I was very sad the moment I saw the collection; that was not because of the graphic, dark and extremely painful subject matter with images of aimlessly wandering people, death and destruction unmistakably linked to vagaries of war. I was sad because of the emptiness of the place due to the very low numbers of people who came to see the collection, which was simply one hour or so from Tokyo by train. But access was not too convenient as one also had to take a ten minute taxi drive from the nearest station which was not exactly the centre of the universe. In addition to my group which included five people, there were only two other elderly visitors on that day.

Hiroshima Panels, Maruki Museum - July 2011

The woman at the reception said that at the best of times, the Collection attracted 15, 000 visitors a year, which was still a mere 41 people a day. But she also noted that since recent times, the numbers had dwindled significantly, and on some days absolutely no one came. They were finding it very difficult to maintain the place attested by the dust seen in some places and the lack of air-conditioning that was also affecting the artworks. Even if schoolchildren came sometimes with their teachers, these tended to be mostly from private schools; public schools apparently showed no serious interest. I was wandering if the memory of Hiroshima itself was disintegrating even though it is one of the most painful events of recent Japanese and global history. Of course in Hiroshima itself and in Nagasaki too, as memorials have now become institutionalized calendar events, public memory seems to be intact. But I wonder what would be the situation even in these places, if the institutional aspects of memory were not in place. Will individuals still remember or care once the direct victims of the bombing and their immediate kith and kin are gone? Would anyone care beyond the narratives of a handful of ritualized memory? Will erasure completely take over as it often does in almost all situations? I am not suggesting that people should be endlessly bound to and imprisoned in the past and should with live with its pains, burdens and anxieties.

Hiroshima Panels, Maruki Museum - July 2011

But if the current state of the Maruki Musem is any indication, it seems that much of the present generations living in Tokyo and Saitama prefectures and beyond, have already succumbed to a certain sense of amnesia. And if the lack of interest of public schools in the collection is any indication, then formal education that obviously lacks creative reassessment of the past is one of the culprits. Naturally, young people should enjoy life to the fullest, even in these post-Fukushima times. After all, one cannot simply be too worried about the possibility of radiation in the air if one were to live a relatively complete life in these times. Young people should spend hordes of yen on fashion, sake, rock concerts and endless consumption in general; surely, they should go to Shibuya and get drunk and spend the night in the streets if that is what makes them happy; and it certainly does no harm to others. But if that is all they do and if they sever their links to the past so completely, dismantle their conscience so fully, and have no real sense of history, then they would simply become a generation that is lost with only a generic sense of self-identity. They would have no capacity to learn from the past; they might have knowledge from formal systems of unimaginative schooling devoid of wisdom and compassion. They would be the forbearers of brave new world that is already here which would be unimaginably sterile and equally as dangerous.

That is what I am sad about; and I wish that people would learn from history.

THOUGHTS ON THE RUN

Environs

Grounds through the Trees

I have been amazed at the kind of thoughts, images and senses of feeling that have been popping into my mind triggered by fleeting sightings of scenes and individuals that I see, only to disappear a moment or two later while jogging around the athletics oval of Hitotsubashi University, and sometimes along the wooded cross-country track that runs adjacent to this ground and the nearby baseball ground. I was amazed not because they were profound by any means! I was intrigued and also relieved because of the seamless manner in which they entered my mind without burdening it and without imposing any responsibilities of analysis. They were simply thoughts, images and minor events to be seen and perhaps forgotten.

Woods and the Carpet of Leaves

Though a long term practice since late 1980s, jogging quite literally took a back seat in my life in recent times in Colombo, mainly due to too much work. But I managed to rekindle that practice which I always enjoyed since about May this year on a regular basis mostly as a result of the relatively flexible schedule that I enjoy at the moment and also because of the inviting nature of the environment within which it could be done. After all, no dogs were chasing me, no mad drivers were trying to run me over, no politicians were speeding past me with their stooges wagging their hands out of the windows, and no carbon monoxide fumes to gas me to death. But of course, if invisible radiation is creeping into my system in the midst of these idyllic conditions is anyone’s guess; one thing that is clear is that the Japanese government cannot be believed and cannot be taken seriously when it comes to its ‘news’ on the Fukushima nuclear disaster and its aftermath, which has now become an absurd drama of epic proportions. But it is certainly not funny. But I decided quite some time ago that I willnot worry about this for the moment.

A Field of Flowers along the Long Distance Track

Back to my thoughts and fleeting moments: I wanted to write about these things from the moment I realized that they were present in my mind’s eye; but could never get myself to do it because by the time I came home, I was too bored to commit them to paper or a digital record. I also thought they were simply ephemeral moments that would disintegrate into non-events moments later. But I was wrong. Some of them continue to be in my mind, and perhaps may disappear in time and would be replaced by yet other moments. In any event, I figured it does not really matter what remains and what does not; but if I could pen down some of these things I thought in the very least my writing might improve somewhat which has become increasingly imprisoned in an academic lexicon that neither helps me nor anyone else that I know of. Two months after my first failed attempt I actually nagged to do it.

Long Distance Track

When I started my regular jogging in Japan it was usually at about 4.45 or 5.00 in the evening. Though the oval was never crowded, it had quite a bit of life at that time as was there much light. The magnificent trees and the surrounding woods were the things that always relaxed me. A cool breeze that almost always came my way, flowed through the trees, carrying their scents and sometimes the smell of coking ramen noodles, perhaps from nearby student dorms or homes of the townsfolk. It almost seemed liking singing trying to relax both the body and soul of an old man fast approaching his half century on the planet. When I first started jogging I was convinced that I must be the oldest creature trying to be fit. And I seemed to be right. There were so many young Japanese men and sometimes women sprinters practicing, cautiously avoiding any collision with me. And then, there was the nightmare of having to listen to cheerleaders practicing; young and full of life for sure; but annoying as hell and very loud as well. What was worse, I guess was its seeming quality of simulation from American iconic popular culture that I have often thought the world can do without. Ok, at this age, I have my biases well formed; but I am beginning to like them; besides, they hurt no one. And when I am writing as a citizen of the world, I do not have to be politically correct.

Carpet of Leaves in the Woods

Jogging with light around also meant that I could see the outlines of trees and other features of the surrounding areas much more clearly; it also meant that my shadow was constantly following me though it took me quite a bit of time to realize it. I guess we take too many things for granted like the shadow and over time things very close to us and even people close to us might not be seen by us. Without us knowing, they might take leave of our consciousness. But the shadow following me gave me all kinds of ideas; one evening I came home and write a poem on the shadow. When it comes to poetry and lyrics, I have noticed that I can write almost immediately on the spot if I can find a piece of paper or soon after when in a more convenient place; this is not the case with prose, either academic or mindless things like these lines. Anyway, ‘Shadows’ flows as follows:

ආවේය පිටුපසින්

ලූහුබඳිමින්

නොනැවතීම

සෙවනැල්ල;

කොපමණ දිව්වත්

යාඥා කළත්

ආඥා කළත්

බැගෑපත් වුවත්

කන්නලව් කළත්

සෙවනැල්ල තවමත්

මා පිටුපසය.

But the shadow stopped following me by about mid early July. The approach of summer with its heat and the scorching sun meant that I could begin my jogging at 06.00 or sometimes 07.00 in the evening; at that time the last rays of the sun had gone beyond the line of trees and the was no source to give life to the shadow. In the dim light that was left, the same scene I had seen countless times before seemed more blurred, surreal and even magical. If the trees, the ground and everything else seemed like a precise landscape painting by Constable before, now it looked like an expression of expressionism, less clear and leaving room for more interpretation and for imagination to work on. I must confess that I prefer this version of the day. It is instances like this when the sun dies and darkness surrounds that one realizes how much light there is in the midst of darkness; how much can be seen when the source of light has been extinguished; how much can be felt because of familiarity.

Octo Plus, Reverse and Hulk

And then, one day my ageist assumptions were shattered when I saw Octo Plus; that is what I have called him in my mind’s eye ever since I saw him first nearly two months ago. He was clearly an octogenarian; quite possibly over eighty years old, and hence Octo Plus. Surely, I could not insult the old man by calling him Octopus, now could I? He is the slowest jogger I have ever seen and probably ever will. He suddenly emerges out of the tree line and presents a performance that varies between a very slow walk and an even slower jog. He emerges into and out of the regular jogging tracks of the oval, and sometimes vanishes into the cross country track and its wooded environs; sometimes he remerges from this and engages in a regime of exercise that seems to be a sort of tai-chi and some other concoction that he must have had plenty of time to devise. I have not seen Octo Plus in a few weeks; I hope he is OK. I already miss his grey flannel-like track suite and his slow-motion jog.

And then, about four weeks ago one evening, I think in my eighth lap, I saw from the corner of my right eye, Reverse in full throttle; at least in what was full throttle for him. Reverse is an amazing man, not as ancient as Octo Plus, but certainly much more senior than moi. He does not jog; he does not run; he does not walk; he does not sprint; he does no tai-chi. He simply walks backwards and never collides with anyone. He suddenly appears from perhaps the trees themselves for all I know; then equally as suddenly he vanishes in the midst of his steadfast reversal, perhaps into the clouds or the dust, only to reappear a few days later. He is a veritable David Copperfield when it comes to his disappearing act. I for one, could never fathom where he come from and where he went to. After all, there is so much an approaching half centurion can take from the corners of his eyes; and it is simply too rude to gape even at these amazing sons of the planet in the Japanese social milieu. One never looks at another directly. But I know by now that these guys see everything and take most things in; they simply do not show it as do we, gaping at everyone like circus monkeys. When it comes to notice-ability, I am particularly disadvantaged in these environs. The thought has often come to my mind, how could I simply disappear for a moment or two, if I so wish. Not in this place. A 172 CM, 65 KG black frame with graying hair and beard simply cannot avoid being seen among these shadows of samurai; no such luck. But I hope that someone would at least compose a very short haiku verse on this sight, which surely must be quite weird. What is sad is, if that haiku ever gets written, I will never know. That is sad, isn’t it?

Hulk ‘s appearance on the scene is far less surreal than Octo Plus or Reverse. He simply rides his bicycle which he parks under the trees beyond the oval like most others, takes a large plastic bag from the rear luggage rack of the bicycle, marches to the right hand corner of the oval and very decisively opens his bag after some routine twisting around. That must be some form of Japanese exercise. And then, he takes a whole range of iron balls from his bag and simply throws them around with all his might. And they fall at different places making an almost indistinguishable ‘thud.’ When he gets tired of this, he takes a bunch of heavy iron chains linked to each other and throw them around making quite a bit of racket. But Hulk has a sense of precision and control. Neither his iron balls nor his chains ever gets out into the jogging track. At the end of about one hour, when he has had enough of throwing hardware around, he gets all his cherished junk into his bag, mounts his bike and rides into the distant darkness; unlike the Hulk we all know form that tiresome American cartoon series, he never strips his clothes or that of anyone else, does not scream at anyone and he does not turn green; not even pink. After all, how could he? He is Japanese; it’s not in the rule book of good behavior.

I could see the goings and comings of Hulk as well as what he does more clearly because he was always in the playground itself which made his presence more visible. Comparatively, both Reverse and Octo Plus often used the outermost track which exiled them to the margins of the ground, literally and metaphorically, ensuring their relative invisibility.

Music

What I enjoy most is the music of the trees and the wind and the dancing of the leaves. They always help me relax. But they also make me lose track of time and count of the number of laps I am supposed to jog. But then, what difference does it make? Not that the world is going to change and become the ‘Planet of the Apes’ if I jog for an additional lap or so; not that democracy will suddenly arrive in distant and mauled Lanka if I jog a lap or so less. That is the true greatness of flexibility of time. It is not a luxury at one’s disposal all the time though. But when it is offered to you in a platter, one might as well enjoy it. Anyway, music that nature makes in conjunction with the wind and foliage is not the only kind of music that I heard in the world of my jogging. The ‘left-right, up-down’ kind of orders accompanied by the truly loud characterless music that I had no option but to tolerate while the cheerleaders were around was truly unpleasant. I even held my breath while passing them hoping it would block my ears while passing them; the only thing that achieved was to nearly burst my insides. I am thankful that by early July, the Hell’s Angels have gone someplace, leaving me alone! And I truly do not need to know where. Anyway, on a few occasions in May, through the whispers of the wind and the fluttering of the leaves, I was convinced I heard music that was not made by nature, and it was beautiful. It was a violin played by an expert. Clearly, this was not the work of an amateur. I thought this was some kind of improvisation of what many of us just call ‘western classical music’. But for an uncultured lout like myself who cannot easily differentiate between Wagner’s ‘Funeral March’ and Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons,’ it was not possible to really figure out what exactly maestro was playing from his invisible stage. But then, I thought, why should I know what it was or where he was. He was providing me live music, and he was clearly not a cheerleader. Then one day, I suddenly saw him, through the trees, in the woods under a large tree not too far from the pond where I rest after jogging watching the ducks if they have not migrated to some godforsaken place.


Pond and its Reflections

A few days later, he played the flute, equally elegantly; and that day, there were ducks in the pond too. I was convinced they enjoyed the music too because they were very quite on the water, almost still. Then he disappeared without warning with his music. I have not seen or heard him for over a month. I often wondered where he went and thought he must have rejoined the rat race from which he must have taken a respite to practice his music for a short time. I felt sad that I could not go up to him and thank him in language that he understood to say how much I enjoyed his music.

Culture

I know that the word ‘culture’ is one of the most abused and misused words in any language in today’s contexts just as much as ‘fundamentalism,’ ‘art’ and ‘nationalism.’ But it was a word, in terms of the ideas it conjures, that constantly came into my mind while jogging; that is because fleeting images constantly pointed to ramifications, interpretations, over-interpretations, nuances and nonsense that emanate from the idea of culture, and occupied an unsettled corner in my mind. Of course, all these images made their presence felt when situated in the context of cultural terrains that popular and academic discourses often quite simplistically suggest as ‘Japanese culture.’ This includes a preoccupation with iconic things like sake, sushi, the kimonos as well as notions of precision that has to do with technology and issues of what seems like unwavering attention to ethics in day to day practices. To me, this entire discourse was interesting not because of its existence in reality but due to the almost mythological sense it created.

One hears this from many locals as well as foreigners. Japan in that sense is a highly mythologized place. And the discourse further suggests that the present is linked in almost a linear fashion to the mists of the past as if the past was a constant companion of the present. Japanese television relentlessly offers images of growling and unsmiling samurai types chasing other such men around the countryside and rescuing kimono-clad women from yet other bands of samurai who might be wearing somewhat darker costumes. And then suddenly, in the midst of this TV narrative, we are shockingly transported in ‘Star Wars’ fashion to the present through a series of very loud and often uncreative advertisements on food, alcohol, underwear and what not. And one does not even have to scream ‘beam me up Scotty” to go through this entire process. Anyway, culture presented in this way seems not only to be a linked to the past through some kind of linear umbilical cord, but also as a set of objects and practices that persist in the present unchanged.

That was the source of the contradiction that opened up in my mind what seemed like binary opposites of culture: something of awe, unchanged and linked to the past versus something ordinary, constantly changing and often borrowed. Not that I did not know all of this before; but it was quite interesting to see the contradictions in the uncritical discourses on culture and what was seen on ground -- albeit as fleeting images while jogging! I was intrigued when I saw a young father trying to teach his very small son Tai-chi which itself was borrowed from China a long time ago; but the son’s attention span with this ancient art form was clearly very limited. He soon grabbed a baseball bat, adorned his head with an appropriate hat and was ready to be a star of a practice borrowed from the US more clearly since the end of World War Two. And the father was ever ready to teach him baseball just as much as Tai-Ichi. The cheerleaders were on the other hand, perfecting a process of simulation to such an extent that they could have seriously challenged many of their American counterparts. The young sprinters in training were certainly not running around in kimonos and the minstrel in my midst was certainly not playing an ancient Kabuki or Noh hit composed by some unknown Shogun for his beloved Geisha; he was experimenting with the music of one of the ‘western’ maestros; too bad I could not figure out whose music it was.

This then was culture as it was evolving on the ground that seeped into my mind as I was jogging. It was not something that inspired awe; it was nothing extraordinary; it was noting particularly ancient. It was quite ordinary and routine. The linkages to the ancient past do exist but certainly not in this particular context. Where it does exist, it is often in simulated circumstances rather than in people’s day to day practices despite their beliefs to the contrary. It is also in this context that the young students in my classes were clueless about art forms in their own temples and shrines as if it was something strange from Timbuktu and did not know the name of their Emperor which I could spell for them in ten seconds; but of course, all of them took out their mobile phones and gallivanted to the internet in search for the Emperors’ name the moment the question came out of the horse’s mouth! That was the work of culture too. Culture here or anywhere else is not something neat and black and white; if at all, its messy and comes in shades of gray as well as any other color one can think of.

A Seminar of the Institute for the Study of Global Issues

Insistent Narratives, Consistent Voices: Representations of Political Violence and Memory
in Contemporary Sri Lankan Visual Arts

Etching By T. Shanaathanan, Jaffna, Sri Lanka

Sasanka Perera
Professor of Anthropology, Department of Sociology, University of Colombo, Sri Lanka
(Visiting Professor, Institute for the Study of Global Issues - Hitotsubashi University)

Date:
Friday, June 3rd, 2011

Time:
16:00 to 17:30

Place:
Mercury Tower # 3405 (4th floor)
East Campus - Hitotsubashi University
Kunitachi, Tokyo

All Are Welcome

A Poem from Kosala Ruwan Senarath

ගෙවා ආ බොහෝ දුර

හමුවූ තැන්වල,
ජීවිතය
ආලෝකවත් කළ බොහෝ දෙන
යත්නම් ඈතින් ඈතටම...


කිසිත් ක්ෂණයක
නසිතූ විරූ හැඟීමකින්
ඇවිලුණු සිත
කරත් වියමන්
හෘදයංගම ගුරුතුමණි
ඔබ ගැන,

දේශන ශාලවක
විෂයගත දේශනයක
යෙදුණු හෝරවක, දෙකක,
විෂය යැයි සම්මත
නේක විධ දෑ අතර
ඔබ,
එකම පරමාදර්ශයමය
එකම තරු ළකුණමය

නාමමාත්රි්ක ඇදුරන් මහැදුරන් ගහන
පුරවර සරසවි මුඩු බිමෙහි
ඔබෙන් හිස්වන මේ බිම
කෙසේනම් කෙන් බිමක් වෙත්ද
ඔබේ චින්තනයෙන් හිස්වන විදු සිත්
කෙසේනම් අවිද්යාහවෙන් මිදෙත්ද
කෙසේනම් ආලොකය ලබත්ද


ජීවිතයේ හමුවූ එකම
ගුරු තරුවගේ
නික්මයාම අස
හද කොනේ සුසුමින් විකසිත
එකම අපේක්ෂව
ඔබ අභිමුව පවසනු වස්
අවසරයි...


ඉස්පාසුවක් වෙත්නම්
ඇවිත් යන්න එන්න ගුරුතුමණි

Koothu Performance, University of Jaffna, 4th March 2010

Some moments of the Koothu Performance at University of Jaffna on 4^th March 2011 organized as part of the conference ‘Rethinking Sri Lankan Art History: Objects, Methods and Politics.’

ආයුබෝවන්; වනක්කම්; ගුඞ් මෝනින්ග්

ආයුබෝවන්;
වනක්කම්;
ගුඞ් මෝනින්ග්.


කියූ දෙයක් නැත.
නොකියූ දෙයක් ද නැත.
කියූ දේ ඇති දෙයක් ද නැත,
ඝෝෂාව මිස.


ආයුබෝවන්;
වනක්කම්;
ගුඞ් මෝනින්ග්.

කොළඹ 28 දෙසැම්බර් 2010

Remnants

Top: Gadaladeniya Temple, Kandy, SL, 2003Bottom: Tivanka Image House, Polonnaruwa, SL, 2003