Protesters who are backed by the opposition party JVP (People’s Liberation Front) demonstrate against the presidency during a protest march in Colombo October 27, 2009. Reuters, via Daylife.com.
The Emergency Regulations has been extended by another 30 days by parliament, yesterday. It’s been over six months since the end of the hostilities between Government forces and the LTTE, by means of total annihilation of the LTTE. But the state of emergency, which allows the State to search arbitrarily, or detain for 30 days. goes on. This reminds me of a post I wrote on a few remarks made by the former Secretary to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Palitha Kohona.
The fact of the matter is, that the Emergency Regulations have given the state an open trump card to use whenever needed, to supress those who oppose. White van abductions which a few hours later turn out to be arrests, can be covered in the sweet tasting syrup of National Security, using the ERs as a sheild.
The bigger question however, is when the demilitarization of Sri Lanka will start, and when will people go back to a state of life where uniforms, check points, arrests are not abundant. A state of life where the war is a thing of the past, and dark relics and reminders of the grim days past are scarce.
The latter part does not seem to be changing either. Whilst many checkpoints have closed down, those in the Capital city still remain, and the extremely heavy armed military presence continues on. The Rajapaksa Government should realise that winning the war is not enough. One needs to address the harder, and more difficult role of healing the wounds that the 30 years of fighting caused to the nation. And healing the scars of oppression and discrimination against Tamils that ran for decades more. The start, would be by letting out the hundreds of thousands of people that are still detained in the internment camps.
SRI LANKA, Matara, 10 October 2009. A van transporting ballot boxes containing votes of the Southern Provincial Council Elections enters the heavily secured Matara Technical College Premises, where the counting of votes took place. The local elections are the last to be held, prior to the Presidential and General elections scheduled for early 2010.
Nikon D300 with Nikkor 18-105 VR @ 18mm, f/5. Shot at ISO 400 in 1/30 Sec.
A photo essay from my shots can be seen here on the Perambara site, and the entire Perambara flickr stream can be seen here.
Of emerald starfish and a chocolate cone
And strawberry ice cream with a marshmallow throne
Dreams that they dreamt of before hearts of stone
Stuff that they wanted all on their own
The chocolate melted, the marshmallow overthrown
Ice cream covers up the emerald, blown
He should have left, he should have known
All that will stay is her lingering cologne
The sighs of pleasure the silent moan
Have withered away into a heartless groan
Mere flesh and mere bone
Was this where all the emotions were grown?
Like a lone flame the love in him shone
And was taken apart in a a heartless cyclone
He is broken, and she has flown
The marshmallow and ice cream are now all alone
As you lie at night to sleep,
Ask the lord your soul to keep.
If you die before you wake,
It won’t be the lord your soul did take.
Through the darkness I will creep,
Through your window I will leap.
Before the calming daylight break,
Blood will pool at your feet to a lake.
No one will then see and weep,
From your body the blood that seep.
On your tombstone they will make,
The one who died, whose life was fake.
When judgement comes to you in a heap,
What you sow, you shall reap.
No one will cry, no hearts will quake.
Your death will not be seen a mistake.
`
As the dagger goes into lord’s sheep,
It would be swift, wound of justice deep.
In this I will happily partake,
Cos your death? It’s for everybody’s sake.
Part 8 of a story with several parts. Part 1 and 2 can be read here. The remainder is yet to be finished.
He opened his eyes. Not that it made much of a difference. His left was blind, his right, almost. Unless he held in onto his face, everything was a blur. He reached his hand out and grabbed the alarm clock which he knew was at his bedside. He hadn’t set an alarm in close to a decade.
The time read 21:32. He knew it was late. Not that it really mattered now. Time had come to standstill. He wanted out. He wanted a cigarette. He remembered the last time he smoked, thirty years ago. Read the rest of this entry »
The café had seen many come and go. But he unlike many who passed through, he remembered the days before the “up market” coffee shop came into being. Those days, it was simple hot dogs and iced coffee. No foreign and exotic sounding mixtures that were brewed up. This also meant there were no hefty price tags to pay. Things were simple then. He liked things that way. Now, things were not. In his own words, things were “far from“.
He took another sip of the bitter tasting muddy liquid. He didn’t like espresso much. It gave him too much of a rush. He used to joke around that his senses would be heightened so much, that he would sense the heartbeat of the person next to him drop. Now however, he needed it. Not want, need. Ever since he put down the last cigarette three days ago, he needed large amounts of coffee to fight off the shakes, the wondering mind and the nervousness.
He took the final drag from the last cigarette he will ever smoke, before taking a long look at it and crushing the butt out with his shoe. The shoes were old. Probably about an year. He got them the same time they fought. Memories, he told himself.
He felt the salt in his mouth. The taste of tears mixed with dried sweat, now running down his cheek. It mixed with the bitter aftertaste of the cigarette.
He coughed as he slipped his hand into his pocket and took out the phone. The familiar sequence of numbers he has dialled so many times. The same number that called him two hours ago.
I’m the boy standing by the stop sign, when cars go by without slowing.
The one who stands atop the tower, which sways with the rough winds blowing.
I’m the boy who looks at the eclipse through the smoked glass.
The one who failed at poetry, sitting at the back of the class
I’m the boy covered in sweat, in the midst of the crowd so refreshed.
The one who wipes his beady brow, not lifting his bowed down head.
I’m the boy who wore the shirt stained in drops of red.
The one who slowly walked onto the track, and now nobody cares is dead.
