On Sunday June 15th 2014, in Sri Lanka, the land of my birth and a country I feel deeply tied to by both love and despair, the Bodhu Bala Sena went on the warpath. In English, “Bodhu Bala Sena” translates as the “Buddha Power Force,” a puzzling oxy-moron that represents a militant faction of Buddhist monks dead set on defending the country from what they see as encroachment from Muslims and Christians by any means necessary.
Sri Lanka is a country of deep devotions. Almost every street in the capital, Colombo, boasts churches, mosques, and temples, often in close proximity. Lonely country crossroads shelter shrines to Ganesh or St. Sebastian. But the most ubiquitous religious icons are the Buddha statues dotting the country from tiny garden shrines to 80-foot tall figures rising from the forest in the ancient Buddhist citadels of Polonaruwa and Anuradhapura. For much of the country’s history (despite a 26 year long ethnic civil war) the religions have generally coexisted.
Yet in recent times a brand of militant nationalist Buddhism led by the BBS has risen to prominence in part as a response to what monks see as the unchecked spread of Islam and the economic strength of the Muslim community. These monks have assumed the mantle of defending Sinhala Buddhism, the racial and religious strain of Theravada Buddhism in Sri Lanka that has existed on the island since ancient times, and they have grown stronger and more vociferous with time.
June 15th, 2014, however, marked a new demonstration of the power of the BBS. The monks gathered in a town called Aluthgama. Their chief was delivering a hate filled speech warning Muslims that they lived in a Buddhist country. “In this country we still have a Sinhala police; we still have a Sinhala army. After today if a single Marakkalaya [derogatory term for Muslims] or some other paraya [derogatory term for alien] touches a single Sinhalese… it will be their end,” shouted the head monk, Gnanasara Thera. A crowd of 7,000 gathered to see the strange sight of an orange robed monk shouting racial epitaphs and threatening violence. That night, after the speech, inflamed Sinhala mobs roamed the streets setting fire to buildings, harassing and attacking Muslims. By the end of the day, there were three confirmed deaths, 78 injured persons, numerous businesses and homes destroyed.
I called Muslim friends in the country, they were all safe but afraid. “Being a minority in Sri Lanka is like being in an abusive marriage. We never know when we are going to get whacked!” said one on her Facebook page.
As a Sinhala Buddhist myself, watching the riots in Aluthgama has been a heartbreaking act of profound cognitive dissonance. The Buddhism I was taught as a child stressed love and compassion. Buddhism now joins Christianity and Islam in a disturbing trend towards fundamentalism and exclusion. And like moderate Christians and Muslims, moderate Buddhists too must now attempt to present a reasoned counter-balance to those of these reactionary religious tendencies.
These riots also made me confront something I’ve never felt before, the despair of Muslims who strive to be both be faithful to their deeply held sacred beliefs and separate themselves from dangerous fundamentalists. For the first time I felt what it was to be lumped in with dangerous people who would kill in the name of our supposedly shared beliefs. What does it mean to call oneself a Buddhist when these are the actions committed in the name of Buddhism? I’m sure this is a question that Muslims are faced with constantly, as they are caught in the vice between Islamic fundamentalism and international anti-Muslim fervor. The day after Charlie Hebdo happened, a Muslim friend reacting to the push for Muslims to separate themselves from the attacks wrote, “Sorry, folks. I’m an immoderate Muslim. Why on earth would I want moderate amounts of love, compassion, joy, peace, or the countless other positive aspects Islam brings to my life?”
Ultimately, whether Buddhism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, or any other ism, the world-wide push towards fundamentalism is also heartbreaking in that it forces those of us sustained by some sort of faith to have to say, what should be obvious, these acts of violence do not speak for us.
Nayomi Munaweera is a Sri Lankan-American author. Her debut novel, Island of a Thousand Mirrors, was initially published in South Asia in 2013. It was long-listed for the Man Asia Literary Prize and won the Commonwealth Regional Prize for Asia. It was long listed for the Dublin IMPAC Prize and short listed for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature.
The Commonwealth Foundation has announced the regional winners for the 2013 Commonwealth Book Prize and Commonwealth Short Story Prize. Representing Africa, Asia, Canada & Europe, Caribbean, and the Pacific regions, these writers will now compete to become the overall winner, to be announced at Hay Festival UK on 31 May.
The Commonwealth Book Prize is awarded for the best first novel, and the Commonwealth Short Story Prize for the best piece of unpublished short fiction.
Part of Commonwealth Writers, the prizes unearth, develop and promote the best of new writing from across the Commonwealth, developing literary connections worldwide and consistently bringing less-heard voices to the fore. The cultural breadth of stories from this year’s regional winners includes Sri Lanka on the eve of independence from British Colonial rule, the Socialist regime of 1970s Jamaica, and a South Africa riven by apartheid.
On winning for her debut novel Island of a Thousand Mirrors, Nayomi Munaweera, said: “I am absolutely delighted. After a decade spent writing and publishing, the idea that the book would one day find itself in this esteemed company was beyond what I allowed myself to dream of. I am incredibly grateful to represent Sri Lanka, a small place, but one with many stories to share with the world.”
I went in with my eyes wide open, knowing the subject would be dark, unaware of the treatment of it by this woman with a dazzling smile who asked me to review it within an hour of meeting her. Growing up in India, some latitudes north of the Sri Lankan civil war, meant it had remotely touched me as a child and teenager through political rhetoric, waves of radiated human anguish and the assassination of a Prime Minister, but beyond that, I was a clean slate. What I was unprepared for, was how much Nayomi Munaweera’s labour of love would demand from me as a human bystander, make me invest in the lives of its characters and their teardrop-shaped country, draw me in and make me stay, in spite of the savagery around me. There are novels you breeze through, nod “Good read”, and move on. Pick up Island of a Thousand Mirrors only if you’re willing to carry it within you for life. Crafted in present tense and delightfully crisp sentences, one is busy falling in love with the emerald isle and the language used to sketch it, pretending nothing untoward will ever happen on this idyll where Munaweera’s father grew up. But that is the curse of history and hindsight: we’re forced to look back over our shoulder and bear witness to its horrors. In the creation of drama, several authors rely on words of deafening thunder and grandiose landscapes of pain. Nayomi Munaweera makes you do the work, as her sentences play supporting roles in a beguilingly simple manner: her descriptions exquisitely gut-wrenching, her voice matter-of-fact, she draws out your blood, your angst, your despair at being human, like a literary shaman. This searing debut, so beautiful it hurts, is pyrotechnics and poetry. Award-worthy, absolutely, but ultimately, so deeply enriching that you’ll be infinitely poorer for giving it a miss.
Available at all leading bookstores at Rs. 1000. Reviewed by DilNavaz Bamboat