Inauguration day in Washington DC

Mostly, I spent the day in my cozy apartment, working on a spring semester course, answering emails and writing a recommendation.   When possible, I avoid both large crowds and cold weather.  Being ‘part of history’ electronically, was fine.  But throughout Washington and at American University, the electricity of this unique day in US history was in the air.  News coverage the local NPR news outlet, WAMU, was non-stop. I remember two interviews in particular.   A woman from New York was interviewed.  She was a Swedish citizen who had lived in the US for eight years.  “The election of Barak Obama has made me feel different about America,” she said.  “I never thought about becoming a citizen, but now I am going to apply.”  Another woman, an African American, shared sentiments that were expressed in different ways, by many.  “Barak Obama’s election means that, now, all of our children have a chance to succeed.”

When President Obama completed the oath of office with the words, “so help me God” a roar went up from the crowd and many people said they cried.  I was one of them.

In mid afternoon, I took my bicycle out for a brief shopping trip.  Cycling is an exception to my strictures against cold weather.  Students were streaming back from the metro and shuttle bus stops along Nebraska avenue, shivering but energized.  One young woman told me she had taken the metro to the mall at midnight, the night before.  Her early arrival secured a spot as close to the speechmaking as anyone could be who didn’t have a ticket.  Now she was “cold and very tired.”  “Was it worth it?, I asked.  Her response was identical to that of every student whom I queried about their experience.

“It was awesome!!”

Epitaph of an assassinated Sri Lankan journalist and patriot

I received the following several days ago.  It was widely circulated among friends of Sri Lanka in the US.

'I hope my murder will be seen not as a defeat of freedom but an inspiration'

This extraordinary article by the editor of the Sri Lankan Sunday Leader, Lasantha Wicrematunge, was published three days after he was shot dead in Colombo

No other profession calls on its practitioners to lay down their lives for their art save the armed forces - and, in Sri Lanka, journalism. In the course of the last few years, the independent media have increasingly come under attack. Electronic and print institutions have been burned, bombed, sealed and coerced. Countless journalists have been harassed, threatened and killed. It has been my honour to belong to all those categories, and now especially the last.

I have been in the business of journalism a good long time. Indeed, 2009 will be the Sunday Leader's 15th year. Many things have changed in Sri Lanka during that time, and it does not need me to tell you that the greater part of that change has been for the worse. We find ourselves in the midst of a civil war ruthlessly prosecuted by protagonists whose bloodlust knows no bounds. Terror, whether perpetrated by terrorists or the state, has become the order of the day. Indeed, murder has become the primary tool whereby the state seeks to control the organs of liberty. Today it is the journalists, tomorrow it will be the judges. For neither group have the risks ever been higher or the stakes lower.

Why then do we do it? I often wonder that. After all, I too am a husband, and the father of three wonderful children. I too have responsibilities and obligations that transcend my profession, be it the law or journalism. Is it worth the risk? Many people tell me it is not. Friends tell me to revert to the bar, and goodness knows it offers a better and safer livelihood.

Others, including political leaders on both sides, have at various times sought to induce me to take to politics, going so far as to offer me ministries of my choice. Diplomats, recognising the risk journalists face in Sri Lanka, have offered me safe passage and the right of residence in their countries.

Whatever else I may have been stuck for, I have not been stuck for choice.

But there is a calling that is yet above high office, fame, lucre and security. It is the call of conscience.

The Sunday Leader has been a controversial newspaper because we say it like we see it: whether it be a spade, a thief or a murderer, we call it by that name. We do not hide behind euphemism. The investigative articles we print are supported by documentary evidence thanks to the public-spiritedness of citizens who at great risk to themselves pass on this material to us. We have exposed scandal after scandal, and never once in these 15 years has anyone proved us wrong or successfully prosecuted us.

The free media serve as a mirror in which the public can see itself sans mascara and styling gel. From us you learn the state of your nation, and especially its management by the people you elected to give your children a better future. Sometimes the image you see in that mirror is not a pleasant one. But while you may grumble in the privacy of your armchair, the journalists who hold the mirror up to you do so publicly and at great risk to themselves. That is our calling, and we do not shirk it.

The Sunday Leader has never sought safety by unquestioningly articulating the majority view. Let's face it, that is the way to sell newspapers. On the contrary, as our opinion pieces over the years amply demonstrate, we often voice ideas that many people find distasteful. For instance, we have consistently espoused the view that while separatist terrorism must be eradicated, it is more important to address the root causes of terrorism, and urge government to view Sri Lanka's ethnic strife in the context of history and not through the telescope of terrorism. We have also agitated against state terrorism in the so-called war against terror, and made no secret of our horror that Sri Lanka is the only country in the world routinely to bomb its own citizens. For these views we have been labelled traitors; and if this be treachery, we wear that label proudly.

Many people suspect that the Sunday Leader has a political agenda: it does not. If we appear more critical of the government than of the opposition, it is only because we believe that - excuse cricketing argot - there is no point in bowling to the fielding side. Remember that for the few years of our existence in which the United National party was in office, we proved to be the biggest thorn in its flesh, exposing excess and corruption wherever it occurred.

Indeed, the stream of embarrassing expositions we published may well have served to precipitate the downfall of that government.

Neither should our distaste for the war be interpreted to mean that we support the Tamil Tigers. The LTTE is among the most ruthless and bloodthirsty organisations to have infested the planet. There is no gainsaying that it must be eradicated. But to do so by violating the rights of Tamil citizens, bombing and shooting mercilessly, is not only wrong but shames the Sinhalese, whose claim to be custodians of the dhamma is for ever called into question by this savagery - much of it unknown to the public because of censorship.

What is more, a military occupation of the country's north and east will require the Tamil people of those regions to live eternally as second-class citizens, deprived of all self-respect. Do not imagine you can placate them by showering "development" and "reconstruction" on them in the postwar era. The wounds of war will scar them for ever, and you will have an even more bitter and hateful diaspora to contend with. A problem amenable to a political solution will thus become a festering wound that will yield strife for all eternity. If I seem angry and frustrated, it is only because most of my compatriots - and all the government - cannot see this writing so plainly on the wall.

It is well known that I was on two occasions brutally assaulted, while on another my house was sprayed with machine-gun fire. Despite the government's sanctimonious assurances, there was never a serious police inquiry into the perpetrators of these attacks, and the attackers were never apprehended.

In all these cases, I have reason to believe the attacks were inspired by the government. When finally I am killed, it will be the government that kills me.

The irony in this is that, unknown to most of the public, President Mahinda Rajapaksa and I have been friends for more than a quarter-century. Indeed, I suspect that I am one of the few people remaining to routinely address him by his first name and use the familiar Sinhala address - oya - when talking to him.

Although I do not attend the meetings he periodically holds for newspaper editors, hardly a month passes when we do not meet, privately or with a few close friends present, late at night at President's House. There we swap yarns, discuss politics and joke about the good old days. A few remarks to him would therefore be in order here.

Mahinda, when you finally fought your way to the Sri Lanka Freedom party presidential nomination in 2005, nowhere were you welcomed more warmly than in this column. Indeed, we broke with a decade of tradition by referring to you throughout by your first name. So well known were your commitments to human rights and liberal values that we ushered you in like a breath of fresh air.

Then, through an act of folly, you got involved in the Helping Hambantota scandal. It was after a lot of soul-searching that we broke the story, urging you to return the money. By the time you did, several weeks later, a great blow had been struck to your reputation. It is one you are still trying to live down.

You have told me yourself that you were not greedy for the presidency. You did not have to hanker after it: it fell into your lap. You have told me that your sons are your greatest joy, and that you love spending time with them, leaving your brothers to operate the machinery of state. Now, it is clear to all who will see that that machinery has operated so well, my sons and daughter do not have a father.

In the wake of my death I know you will make all the usual sanctimonious noises and call upon the police to hold a swift and thorough inquiry.

But like all the inquiries you have ordered in the past, nothing will come of this one, too. For truth be told, we both know who will be behind my death, but dare not call his name. Not just my life but yours too depends on it.

As for me, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I walked tall and bowed to no man. And I have not travelled this journey alone. Fellow journalists in other branches of the media walked with me: most are now dead, imprisoned without trial or exiled in far-off lands. Others walk in the shadow of death that your presidency has cast on the freedoms for which you once fought so hard. You will never be allowed to forget that my death took place under your watch. As anguished as I know you will be, I also know that you will have no choice but to protect my killers: you will see to it that the guilty one is never convicted. You have no choice.

As for the readers of the Sunday Leader, what can I say but thank you for supporting our mission. We have espoused unpopular causes, stood up for those too feeble to stand up for themselves, locked horns with the high and mighty so swollen with power that they have forgotten their roots, exposed corruption and the waste of your hard-earned tax rupees, and made sure that whatever the propaganda of the day, you were allowed to hear a contrary view. For this I - and my family - have paid the price that I had long known I would one day have to pay. I am, and have always been, ready for that. I have done nothing to prevent this outcome: no security, no precautions. I want my murderer to know that I am not a coward like he is, hiding behind human shields while condemning thousands of innocents to death. What am I among so many? It has long been written that my life would be taken, and by whom. All that remained to be written was when.

That the Sunday Leader will continue fighting the good fight, too, is written. For I did not fight this fight alone. Many more of us have to be - and will be - killed before the Leader is laid to rest. I hope my assassination will be seen not as a defeat of freedom but an inspiration for those who survive to step up their efforts. Indeed, I hope that it will help galvanise forces that will usher in a new era of human liberty in our beloved motherland. I also hope it will open the eyes of your president to the fact that however many are slaughtered in the name of patriotism, the human spirit will endure and flourish.

People often ask me why I take such risks and tell me it is a matter of time before I am bumped off. Of course I know that: it is inevitable. But if we do not speak out now, there will be no one left to speak for those who cannot, whether they be ethnic minorities, the disadvantaged or the persecuted. An example that has inspired me throughout my career in journalism has been that of the German theologian, Martin Niemöller. In his youth he was an antisemite and an admirer of Hitler. As nazism took hold of Germany, however, he saw nazism for what it was. It was not just the Jews Hitler sought to extirpate, it was just about anyone with an alternate point of view. Niemöller spoke out, and for his trouble was incarcerated in the Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1937 to 1945, and very nearly executed. While incarcerated, he wrote a poem that, from the first time I read it in my teenage years, stuck hauntingly in my mind:

First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

If you remember nothing else, let it be this: the Leader is there for you, be you Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim, low-caste, homosexual, dissident or disabled.

Its staff will fight on, unbowed and unafraid, with the courage to which you have become accustomed. Do not take that commitment for granted. Let there be no doubt that whatever sacrifices we journalists make, they are not made for our own glory or enrichment: they are made for you. Whether you deserve their sacrifice is another matter. As for me, God knows I tried.

• This is an edited version of an article published in the Sunday Leader editorial column on 11 January. Its author, who co-founded the paper in 1994, was killed three days earlier by unidentified gunmen as he drove to work. He is believed to have written the editorial just days before his death. The full version is at www.thesundayleader.lk

Pray for Gaza

Among my emails this evening was one from a former student, a Palestinian.  He is working in Africa, but his family is in Gaza.  After reading his email, I decided it was important to stop what I was doing and share it with Dormgrandpop readers.  The letter follows. ( I have made only a few changes to preserve the anonymity of his family.)

Thanks very much for your e-mails’ support again, and thanks for your phone calls. This makes me feel that I am not a lone, and many people in the world cares about people in Gaza. I passed your greetings and support letters to my family, which gave them support.  

Fifteen days and the war on Gaza still goes on, a war that does not differentiate between a child, a woman, or old man. A war that does not disguise between a school, a mosque or a house.

I am still following the news minute by minute to check on my family, it is so hard to see a real war going against your people, and you far a way and cant do anything to help my people.

Western media shows the war as it is against Hamas, yet what is going on the ground is a war against civilian people. So far, more than 800 civilians have been killed and over 3500 injures. 35% are children and women. Mosques, UNRWA schools, and houses are attacked, which means that no place is safe in Gaza any more.

 All of my family are staying in one room, and expecting that a rocket could attack them any moment, they prefer to die all together. My little brothers and sisters are very scared and don’t sleep well bombing does not stop day and night.

 My younger sister is pregnant, and she is due next week, and she lives a very hard time. My niece  3 years is very scared as well, and when I talked to her she said: “I am afraid from the rocket, it destroys our house, it killed my friends whom went with me to the kindergarten”.  A neighbor 4 years old, and another  3.5 years old have been attacked by an F16 rocket while they were staying with their family at home. The rocket killed three more of their  brothers aged 13,  12 and 15. Their sister  is 11 years old lost her arm and their mother is in trauma. This is an example of a family, lives not far from my house, of the massacre. In addition, eight houses in my neighbourhood have been completely destroyed. This is why I am so worry about my family.

 Another friend 23 years old from Rafa city (South Gaza Strip) went on the first day of the war to check on his fiancé in Jabalia camp, he was having a cup of tea with his fiancé when a rocket attacked the house and killed him.

 I can not express enough how dirty this war is, and the amount of destruction it made. My family tells me that Gaza is completely different now. Israeli aircrafts changed the whole Gaza Strip. This happens after a year and a half of closure, in a lack of basic goods and gas. My family is staying with no power or water for fifteen days. Luckily, the telecommunication is still working, otherwise I will go crazy.

Hospitals in Gaza lack for medical support, it reached a point where injures are treated on the ground, as there are no more beds available. Fridges can not accept any more in the light of dramatic increase in number.

 Security Council called for ceasefire yesterday, and Israeli forces do not care about it. I am wondering when, “the what so called International Community”, takes a real action on the ground to stop this war.

 People in Gaza are very happy of all demonstrations going on in the world, and make them feel that they are not a lone.

Palestinians are human being, and they are asking for protection and freedom as other people in the world. They want to live peacefully, and move freely. Yet, they still need your prayer.

 My family still safe.

 Please find below a letter from my sister.

 

Regards,

 

WAR IS CRUEL

      Actually, I am living in a place which you can consider quiet if to be compared with other places in the devastated Gaza Strip. However, as long as you live in this small province, you are targeted. At least, you hear the too annoying sound of the reconnaissance plane which does not leave the sky of the Gaza Strip at all. Moreover you have to hear the frightful sound of the air strikes of the F16 airplanes. Every type of destroying weapons is used by Israel against unarmed civilians. Too many people are now homeless and they don't know what harm they cause to others in order to deserve such pitiless punishment. I imagined myself in their situation: away from my dearest home, in this very cold weather, and without any basic supplies... It's really a grave circumstances which I hope that no body in this world goes through. I imagined that in few seconds my home has become a mass of stones. Of course, in this case, I lost every thing: clothes, toys, books, journals,.... till the biggest thing at my house. Nothing is left, NOTHING. At that moment, I burst in tears and opened a drawer in my private room in which I keep my precious things. I looked at the photo album, the souvenirs, gifts, official documents, etc. Then, I asked myself where can I hide them in order not to be burnt by the explosions that might target the house -all what I want is to leave something for remembrance. Alas! I found no place because every span of the land of Gaza is under risk. I couldn't stop crying; the feeling of being tyrannized is too bitter. I'm sure that those who were treated unjusticly one day understand my feelings.

The disaster is continuous ....15.....

Pray for  Gaza 

Parenting as a spritual practice

The following ‘advice’ appeared in this month’s newsletter from Friends Meeting of Washington.  It was excerpted from Pendle Hill Pamphlet #396, by Eileen Flanigan, entitled  God Raising Us:  Parenting as a Spritual Practice.

God has continually used my two children to raise me out of selfishness and make more self aware.  Through them, God has taught me patience, surrender, and self control as well as testimonies of peace simplicity and integrity.  They have helped me find God, not just in silence and solitude, but in the midst of chaos and crying.  While I still have much to learn I have found that naming parenting as a spiritual practice helps me follow this path more consciously so I can pay attention to the lessons God continues to send my way.

I could say much the same thing about ‘professing as a spiritual practice,’ especially when it is combined with living on campus in a an undergraduate residence hall.

Holiday Newsletter

Dear Dormgrandpop Readers,

I wanted to share this years ‘Holiday Newsletter’ with you. As in the last couple of newsletters, I have decided to use my blog (dormgrandpop. blogspot.com) as a departure point for chronicling a busy year.  First, a brief family news update.  The sad event was  my father’s death, just a few days before his 97th birthday.  [my wife]  continued her very active life.  No doubt she will share news of this with some of you. [my daughter] is fully occupied with her expanding landscape design business.  I had the opportunity to view some of her creations on a recent trip to Florida and they are beautiful.  She traveled to South Africa in the fall and will be in Panama over the holidays.  [my son]  accepted an exciting and challenging new position.  After #1 grandson Adam completes high school, this spring, the family will be moving to a new home.  All four grandchildren are expanding their horizons and doing well.  My work as faculty-member, academic administrator and ‘dormgrandpop’ remains, for the most part, fun and challenging.   I have no immediate retirement plans.  Here are a few additional items and reflections, excerpted (in italics)  from my blog.

January 16. A death in the family: It is truly a blessing to have had long lived parents. Especially with my father, we spent long hours together, one on one, over many years. There were few, if any, unanswered questions or unexpressed thoughts. We were 'complete' when he died. How could anyone ask for more?

February 17.  The weight of the world means nothing to me.  My sister, Brook, shared a poem entitled ‘Bird.’  Here is the concluding stanza:  

I bathe in dust and there I’ll rest

When time has stilled my feathered breast

No stone shall mark my passage here

No funeral pyre, no jeweled bier.

Where human souls may hope to soar 

I have already gone before

The weight of the world means nothing to me.

March 12.  Alive for 70 years.  I made a quick trip to Sri Lanka, attending to Board of Director responsibilities with the International Centre for Ethnic Studies.  My hostess, after learning that my 70th birthday was upcoming, made plans to invite  some Sri Lankan friends over for a quiet celebration.  She is 72.  When I remarked that a 70th birthday does not, necessarily seem like something to celebrate she responded: “having lived 70 years and being in good health:  those are things  to celebrate!”

April 9. Choosing ‘Mr. American.’  I was asked to serve as one of three judges for the ‘Mr. American’ context, sponsored by AU’s Residence Hall Association.  The contest lasted less that two hours and was, I thought, refreshingly unprofessional.  With one exception, the talent competition exhibited no exceptional talent; answers to questions were unpolished.  Each contestant had a small cadre of supporters who cheered their candidate, when not distracted by conversation.  By 9 PM we judges had made our choice, prizes were awarded and we all returned to dorm rooms or the Library to write term papers, study or complete end of semester projects.

May 11. Serving AU students and their parents on ‘Moving Out Saturday.’  Saturday was the final “moving out day” for most AU students.  The day was chilly and a bit rainy, but everyone was in excellent spirits for an event that tests the resiliency of all.  For me, it is a bitter sweet time, since I will be saying farewells - often final farewells - to students who, in some cases, have been my friends for four years.  I have watched them transform themselves from wide-eyed first year students to mature graduates, facing ‘real life’ with a mixture of self-confidence and trepidation.

June 12.  The Rip Van Winkle effect - JFK Airport after 30 years.  This was written as I was departing on a month-long trip to Singapore, Malaysia and Sri Lanka.  When I worked on global modeling, consulted internationally, and regularly visited the International Institute for Applied Systems Analysis, near Vienna,  I mostly began my journeys at  JFK International Airport.  ... Yesterday, I returned to JFK after a hiatus of more than three decades,  My mental images of the 1970s were still with me, but I looked in vain for familiar sights.  I could have wandered about, like old Rip Van Winkle asking about the fate of other familiar landmarks, but my queries, like his,  would mostly have been in vain. When I last embarked from Kennedy, many of those now busying themselves with the tasks that a great international airport demands hadn’t even been born. 

July 5.  The costs that terrorism imposes on a society.  This was written after a meeting at Sri Lanka’s Board of Investment and Trade in downtown Colombo. To approach the building, we had to pass through two airport-style security checks, one outside the building and another more rigorous one inside.  Our meeting lasted an hour. Dealing with security upped our time by an additional 75 minutes.  Who can count the costs of turning a vibrant commercial district into a sterile, security-enforced wasteland?  Who can measure the impact on prospective investor confidence of having to transit such an area before meeting with government officials on a prospective business deal?

August 18. Moving in Saturday.  ‘Moving in Saturday’ is when a new class of first year students, accompanied by parents and relatives, arrive at AU and begin settling into dorm life. Each year, I am  impressed by everyone’s good humor.  My families have driven long distances and are experiencing a major life transition. All seemed to show patience, consideration and love for one another in what can be a stressful time.  This year, unseasonably  cool Washington weather helped.  On a morning when the Russians were invading Georgia and there were a host of other unresolved problems in the world, moving in day at AU  was a time that one could renew hope in the fundamental resilience and goodness of the human spirit.

September 22. An unanticipated trip to Colombo.  This posting describes a hastily arranged to help launch Sinhala and Tamil translations of Lessons from the War: Consequences and Failures (an excerpt from my book, Paradise Poisoned). I wrote about the role personal relationship played in the project and in planning the trip, on very short notice.  When I coach students on how to get things done in an organization, I emphasize the importance of relationships based on shared experiences that contribute to mutual understanding, mutual respect, friendship  and trust.  My relationship with the Social Science Association of Sri Lanka’s Executive Director spans more than 20 years.  Our friendship began when I taught at Colombo University.  For planning this trip. I called upon a relationship with a Sri Lankan travel agent whom I have known nearly as long.

October 12.  A letter to my grandson about choosing a college.  My feeling is that AU is the best of the three Washington-based Universities as far as undergraduate education is concerned.  The campus has become quite beautiful - more beautiful than when your dad attended - and the faculty is stronger too.  A number of senior faculty do teach at least one undergraduate course, however many undergraduate courses, especially in the first and second year are taught by younger ‘temporary faculty’ who are not on tenure track.  I should say that many of these are fine teachers, including several who were my doctoral students, but they do lack the depth of research experience that more senior faculty offer. Building a relationship with a senior faculty member can be helpful when you are applying to graduate school.

November 12. The world is a different place.  What is most remarkable about the election was the reaction around the world.  I could experience this vicariously when I spoke with my daughter, who had recently returned to the US after a public service trip to South Africa.  The country was agog with excitement, she reported, with many many young people wearing Obama tee shirts.  I look forward to traveling internationally  once again and not having to contemplate conversations about my country’s President and foreign policy that are an embarrassment.

December 13.  Quiet listening.  This posting described ‘study break hours,’ which I hold in my AU apartment, from 10:45 until midnight, on evenings before final examinations.  These events feature high energy snacks and conversation.  The conversations in which I share - or to which I listen - suggest that stereotypes of a younger generation, devoid of social skills, whose members primarily communicate via Twitter and text-messaging need qualification. ... I treasure these times of quiet listening, when I am accepted as a non intrusive, non threatening sojourner in a world that few older adults, especially of my generation,have been privileged to share. 

My love and best wishes to all for the new year.

Dormgrandpop