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Suicidal
Heritage
Given that
the Sinhala race traces its culture (peraheras, architecture,
cuisine and lots else) to the Indian state of Kerala; its ethnicity to
the Indian state of Gujrat (whence Ashok hailed); its language to the
Indian state of Bihar; and its religion to the Indian state of
Maharashtra, one might think that racial purity was the last thing that
the Sinhalese might claim for their own. One might also be forgiven for
concluding that the Sinhalese, representing as they do, so rich a
genetic cocktail, might not be given to sneering at their Dravidian
brethren. But as one so often is these days, one would be wrong.
Whether
one’s roots wend their way into the hills of Travancore or the beaches
of the Coromandel, we have to come to terms with the fact that there is
no such thing as ‘pure Sinhalese.’ And that was the case even before
1505, when the Portuguese set up shop here and succumbed to the
hospitality of Sinhala womenfolk, enriching the rich blend of blood
types to which our race has been heir. And with regular and not
insignificant contributions from the Dutch and the British, the
gene-pool that is now called Sinhala has been shandied by an army of
Robert Knoxes, making us a good deal lighter-skinned than our Tamil
brethren. Good Sinhala mothers still shower talcum powder on their brats
in the hope that they will look even more like the itinerant progenitors
to whom they owe their complexion.
Racism
is the last resort of the scoundrel. Adolph Hitler was a mere corporal
in the German army, his only wound of war being a mighty chip on his
shoulder. Stunted and possessed of only a single testis, he was a
walking inferiority complex, waiting to get even with someone. Members
of the neo-Nazi parties that Hitler spawned aren’t a lot different:
nothing could be easier than picking on a passing minority on which to
pin the blame for your troubles.
Nothing
could be easier too, than the creation of a racial stereotype, and
stereotypes abound in Sri Lanka. The Burghers have ‘personality but no
brains;’ the Tamils have ‘brains but will always ‘pull’ for
other Tamils;’ the Muslims are ‘great businessmen and breed like
rabbits;’ these are all among the stereotypes we have invented so as
to distance ourselves from the hoi polloi.
Two
decades of war have not taught some of us, albeit a few, that there is
no percentage in racism. When they are shot, will not both Sinhalese and
Tamils bleed? When their loved ones are killed, will not both Sinhalese
and Tamils grieve? When they are slighted, will not both Sinhalese and
Tamils avenge? And after an year-and-a-half of peace, when the Sihala
Urumaya is marginalised, will they not continue to talk rot?
Last
week’s declaration that the Sihala Urumaya will develop a suicide
squad to curb Tamil exapansionism came as no surprise to anyone. Hardly
anyone takes the uru-meeyas, as they are affectionately known,
seriously. In the 2000 general election, they managed to get a single MP
into parliament on the strength of having won 4% of the national vote: a
creditable achievement for a fledgling party. The backstabbing,
intrigue, deception and betrayal that followed however, saw the party
split neatly in two. It seemed that the Sinhala purists had proved to
everyone’s satisfaction that they were precisely that: rebels without
a pedigree.
A
mere year later, in the December 2001 elections, the uru-meeyas
were sent packing. Even the saucepan wielding mamas of Colombo 7, whose
sons were safely secreted in the public schools of England, deserted
them. Now, rising from the ashes in the security of a hard-won peace,
the uru-meeyas have reared their ugly heads and are anxious to
recruit suicide cadres. Perhaps they could do us all a favour and start
by volunteering their politburo, whose Dutch courage (no pun intended)
knows no bounds.
It
is a good thing that everyone, including us at The Sunday Leader,
laughs off the uru-meeyas. Every society must have its cranks,
and diversity is, after all, the spice of life. But there is a sinister
side to this threat, and that needs to be exposed.
Where
was Sihala Urumaya when the war raged on? Where were these strident
housewives when Sinhala youth were being wheeled into the General
Hospital from the battlefields of Pooneryn, Mullaitivu, Kilinochchi,
Jaffna? Where were they when the pyres on which our young heroes lay lit
up the night skies of the south? Did they once reach out to the widows
and the orphans of two decades of misery? Did they offer succour, or
even a job, to the thousands of young men who lost their arms, legs and
future in this war?
It
is very easy to churn out hateful racist rhetoric under the cover of
peace. Where were these paper Tigers during the war? When one day their
children ask them, ‘What did you do in the war, daddy?’ their answer
will be, ‘Why son, I was stabbing backs!’
The
Sri Lankan nation prides itself on being politically mature. If there
exists in our polity a party that thinks it can only express itself
through bombs, we are scraping the bottom indeed. There must come a time
when the Sinhalese can hold their heads up high and join international
society as full and equal members, and not look to be treated like
clowns. The Sihala Urumaya little realises the ridicule they have
attracted not just towards themselves, but the race they claim to
represent, by making the kinds of ludicrous assertions they do. Sadly,
it is not a laughing matter, as those who laughed off the events of
September 9, 2001 found out. The world has passed that point.
Sri
Lanka must be tolerant of the likes of the Sihala Urumaya, for that is
what democracy is about; but it seems that these touts for the nobility
of the Sinhala race have no such notions of tolerance. Thanks to that
same democracy, the people of Sri Lanka have the freedom to judge, and
they are at liberty to choose. Whether choosing the Urumaya will do
their heritage any good at all is moot indeed, unless it is their
heritage itself that is intended to be detonated by those suicide bombs.
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