I’ve given up processing Sri Lanka’s history or the current historical. Eight years ago, my father called Sri Lanka a “god forsaken country“. I’m glad he’s not alive to see his prophesies become historical face.
Generations of privilege insulates most people I know and me from that swirl – for now. That privilege lets me remain thankful for the privilege of food on the plate, the water from the tap, the flushing toilet, the colours of the sunrise and the sunset.
I’ve kept television and social media out of my life for years. So keeping out the world is easier. But that doesn’t mean it exists. It finds a way it. The unavoidable are the stories trickling in from the web of friends, friends of friends, friends of relatives and relatives of friends. It extends into many crevices. The wildest come from the overlapping shadows were banking, government, and foreign institutions.
The people recounting these conversations are bewildered by what they heard. Each story has missing pieces. You can spend hours speculating what they are. Or shrug, and try to make it through another day.
Stepping back, though, is a shadow of the same familiar story. Influential privilege people playing chess with the lives of the lesser blessed. At one level, it’s “great” powers jostling for influence on this patch of the planet. Lower down, a bunch of local thieves are fighting for an impoverished throne so they can loot the scraps of aid money.
The result is an ancient one.
Lives crushed. Future generations are malnourished by want of food, education, and opportunities. Their despair fermented into rage and violence. Tools for the powerful dressed in white who keep perpetuating the cycle and smiling at the cameras. They always win because we let them win.
In the face of all this, writing a blog post is about as futile.