Haakon Aasprong

Making a Home away from Home

On up-country Tamil identity and social complexity at a Sri Lankan university

Master's thesis in Social Anthropology

Trondheim, June 2006 Prologue – A Lunch Hour Encounter It is almost 1130 am and in Gemba dining hall the lines are growing rapidly. I am sitting by myself, writing notes, now and then throwing curious but hidden glances at people around me. Am I being studied too? How novel a sight am I? I am certainly attracting a lot of attention, or is that just my imagination? No, people are looking and smiling, though always from a safe distance. I am sure they are talking about me. If only I could understand. There are not many vacant tables left now. When someone sits down with me I will start a conversation.

The room is spacious with a high ceiling and windows on two walls making sure it is bathed in light. There are twenty-five or so round tables, each with room for seven or eight people. The large, ornamented main entrance is right opposite of the kitchen counter and the line now stretches about 30 meters and out the door. Not all who come in come for food, though, some heading instead up the wide stone staircase to the left - up to the students’ common room, from which the faint, crackling sound of a TV could have been heard, had everyone downstairs held their breath. But no one is. The hall is full of noise. Young men and women are chattering away, in the line and at the tables – joking, laughing, shouting, teasing. The room feels playful and happy. The sweet smell of curries seeps from the kitchen as they are continuously dished out. Still, everybody waits patiently for their turn, perhaps with exception to the occasional Buddhist monk, draped in orange or saffron robes, using the privilege of the clergy to cut in front. They take their meals to an adjacent, smaller room.

All tables are taken now and it is becoming obvious that the students are hesitant to sit with me. The other tables see a steady rotation, people leaving soon after finishing their meals. An old man with a wash rag comes around collecting empty plates and tea cups, swiping bits and pieces of food into a cardboard box. It seems to be enough to keep the flies at bay and the stray dogs from becoming regular inventory. The line extends a good distance out the main entrance now. My gaze wanders out the side door. A distance off, perched on the small rise in the terrain, I can see the Senate building where the Vice-Chancellor has his office. The heavy grey sky is resting upon it, waiting to unload its rain. It is while I am thinking I should pick myself up and head outside that three clean-looking, young men, all carrying plates of rice and curry, sit down at my table and offer me broad smiles. One of them introduces himself as Siva1, as the sun pierces through the layer of clouds.

1 The name, like all students’ names in the following, is a pseudonym.

i Contents

Prologue – A Lunch Hour Encounter i Contents ii Abbreviations iv

Introduction 1

Chapter 1 – A Cambridge by the Mahaweli 6

A Brief History 6 The Campus 9 The Social Landscape - Some Statistics 12 Social Differentiation 14 Language and Class 14 Culture, Ethnicity and Ethnic Markers 16 A Note on Caste 18 Universities - Ivory Towers? Microcosms? 18

Chapter 2 – Communal Loyalties in National Politics 22

The Plague of Primordial Politics 22 Two Points of View on One Troubled Past 24 The Sinhalese: Defenders of the Island Fortress of Buddhism 26 The Sri Lanka Tamils – Self-Preservation through Separatism 28 History and Heritage – Conceptualisations of the Past 31 Claiming a Say – Minor Players with Major Grievances 32 The Moors – Caught in the Middle 35

Chapter 3 – A People in the Making 37

The Politics of Naming 37 A Story of Arrival, Emplacement and Marginalization 39 Tamils of a Different Kind? 42 The Plantation Sector – A People Bonded? 43 King Tea and His Subjects 44 The Suppression of Women 48 Of Social Mobility, Caste and Class 49 Trade Union Politics 50 The Educational Barrier 52 Making a Home Away from Home – The Defiance of a People Ignored 54

Montage of Images - 58 -

ii Chapter 4 – From the Plantations to Peradeniya 62

Presenting the Core Group (CG) 63 Degrees of Intimacy 65 Bonding through Shared Coordinates 67 “We Are Indian!” 70 Away Together – Bonding Off-campus 71 Keeping up Appearances 75 Clothes and Hygiene 75 Alpaculture 78 From Periphery to Centre 81 Between Tradition and Modernity 83 Making Ends Meet 88 Obligations and Aspirations 90 What about Politics? 91

Chapter 5 – Conflict, Cooperation and Impression Management on Campus 94

Is Every Tamil a Potential Tiger? 95 A Peripheral View of the Conflict 96 Tamil Disunity 97 Campus Politics and the Students’ Union 98 Campus as Sanctuary and a Strategy of Appeasement 99 Major Moments of Unrest 100 Strikes, Demonstrations and the CG's Involvement 103 Campus Culture and the Controversy of the Rag 106 Pride in Being a Peradeniyan 107 Ragging, Raggers and Anti-Raggers 108 The Rituals 109 The Ragger’s Case – Explicit and Implicit Motivation 114 As Seen from the Pillars 116 The Clash of Faculties 118 Manoeuvring as a Minority 121

Concluding Remarks 123

Appendix I – Map of Peradeniya University Campus 129 Appendix II – Campus Etiquette Taught through Ragging 130 Appendix III –Image Descriptions 131 Literature 132

iii Abbreviations

ACELF - All-Ceylon Estate Labour Federation CICLU - Ceylon Indian Congress Labour Union CLU - Ceylon Labour Union CWC - Ceylon Workers’ Congress IUSF - Inter-University Students’ Federation JVP - Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (People’s Liberation Front) PSU - Peradeniya Students’ Union SLFP - Sri Lanka Freedom Party SSA - Social Scientists’ Association SSS - Samavadi Sishya Sangamaya (Students’ Socialist Association) SSU - Socialist Students’ Union LTTE - Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam UCPF - Up-country People’s Front UCTSU - Up-country Tamils Students’ Union UCWF - Up-country Workers’ Front UNP - United National Party UTHR (J) - University Teachers of Human Rights (Jaffna) WUS - World University Service

iv Acknowledgements

This master’s thesis was submitted for evaluation to the Department of Social Anthropology at The Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), in the spring of 2006. It is based upon field work conducted, as part of the degree program, in the period of January to August 2006. Economically, the field work was made possible by a grant from NTNU Office of International Relations, as well as funding from the Norwegian State Educational Loan Fund. During the two last years, a great many people have contributed in some way or another to my project, and I owe all of them my gratitude. First and foremost I wish to thank the many Sri Lankans whose names I either do not know because our encounters were brief, or cannot mention because there are too many of you. You are the man in the street, the woman on the bus, and the child smiling at me as I pass by. You made my stay in Sri Lanka all the nicer by sharing in your warmth.

At home, my supervisor, Tord Larsen, has provided good help and valuable advice through all stages of the research. I am grateful to Indra de Soysa for his help in preparing me for the fieldwork and for listening to and responding to my ideas. Likewise I wish to thank Malathi de Alwis who in Colombo took the time to meet with me and advised me to choose the University of Peradeniya as field site. There are a number of scholars at that institution who deserve separate mention, particularly S. Sivamohan, H. M. D. R. Herath, and V. Nandakumar, who helped me adjust and made me feel welcome, but also K. T. Silva, M. Sinnathambi, S. Vijesandiran, and S. Rajendran, who all let me share in their knowledge and experience. There were other scholars, too, and NGO personnel, whose help made my task much easier. I am particularly in debt to K. M. de Silva and his International Centre for Ethnic Studies (ICES), Kandy, for letting me use their excellent library. The ever-smiling ICES librarian, Mrs. Kanthi Gamage, showed remarkable skill at locating relevant material for me. Similarly, I wish to thank Lalith Abeysinghe at the Satyodaya Centre for Social Research & Encounter for granting me access to their library, which does not stand back to any other with regard to the Sri Lankan up-country. I am also grateful to the Human Development Organisation (HDO) and its leader P. P. Sivapragasam for friendly conversation and an introduction to their work. I was inspired by Jude Fernando whom I was privileged to meet on one of his visits to his native Sri Lanka, and by Daniel Bass, whose academic interests

v coincide with mine and who, unknowingly, has helped me shape some of the ideas in this thesis.

Rebecca Ennen, Jill Shirey, Lisa Moore and Stuart Strange provided friendship, good conversation and enthusiasm for Sri Lanka. They have, moreover, reviewed drafts of the thesis. I am forever thankful to Mrs. Leona Yogaraj and her family for taking me into their home and giving me a place to live. Your hospitality is treasured. Hospitality, however, is not difficult to come by in Sri Lanka, and I need to thank all the families who have put me up, for one night or for many, and who have cooked for me and made me feel at home. In this regard, I owe much to you, Ravindraprasath, and to your family. I will not forget our friendship and the kindness you have offered me. One day I hope to show you my country like you have shown me yours.

There is one person who has followed me every step along the road, from the first attempts at hammering out a project description, through the frustration of converting lived experience to coherent text and through the final phase of preparing the end product. Silje, you have offered me your unfaltering love and support and for that I am forever grateful. Though our separate field works took us half a world apart, it was your emails and text messages which kept me calm when frustration and uncertainty descended on me. Your deep-seated social commitment and outcries against injustices of all sorts have moved and inspired me. Your voice has become my conscience.

Finally, I am indebted to so many of the students of Peradeniya, who treated me as if I were one of them. You know who you are. I never regretted my choice to spend these months with you and in my heart I never really left. Not a day goes by in these uncertain times when I do not think about you, for with you is the power to break the spiral of violence and create a better future.

Trondheim, May 2006

vi Introduction

It is my modest opinion that few, if any, places on earth provide a better opportunity for the study of the complexities of human interaction, than does Sri Lanka. In the shadow of regional superpower India, a civilization has emerged over the last 2,500 years or so, which, although very much culturally flavoured by its neighbour, has a soul and a heartbeat of its own. As far as tropical islands go, Sri Lanka has it all: mountains, beaches, dense jungles, barren plains and grassy hills, and it seems that her people are as diverse as her habitats. Through the centuries traders, settlers, invaders, adventurers, soldiers and colonizers alike have added to the population, all bringing with them something of their own – a something which would inevitably change through the encounters with other people’s “somethings”. Cultural hybridity has, though largely unrecognized, left its imprint on food, art, clothing, architecture, and language, but whilst the adding of novel cultural curries to the national menu has continued right up to our time, diversity seems by necessity to entail friction and Sri Lanka has been no exception. Not all new arrivals have had noble intentions, of course, whether they were South Indian invaders or European colonizers, and the islands’ inhabitants have oftentimes sought to defend themselves against such forces. More worrisome in a contemporary context is the kind of tension stemming from communal bickering and attempts of one segment of the population to subordinate others. As we shall see, such strife has been characteristic of the period since Independence in 1948. Communal aggression, as articulated on a national level, is sadly the cause for much of the international interest in Sri Lanka and constitutes the framework within which this thesis attempts to locate itself.

Our magnifying glass is, however, hovering over a university campus, or more specifically: a group of students at this campus. The university is the reputed University of Peradeniya, located near Kandy in the island’s interior, and the students are 15 Up-country- and four Sri Lanka Tamils2, all aged 21-22 and studying in year one, at the Faculty of Arts3. Formally they are the male, Tamil-ethnicity segment of a student cohort, but in effect the group is united by strong bonds of friendship and support. For the sake of convenience I shall refer to the group as the Core Group (CG), and it shall be our point of departure as we explore the socially multi-faceted campus. For Peradeniya is indeed a complex social field, reflecting the diversity

2 Up-country Tamils are also known as “Indian Tamils,” “Estate Tamils,” and “Hill-country Tamils.” 3 The faculty offers two kinds of bachelor degrees: specialized and general. The former are conducted over four years, the latter over three.

1 of the country it serves, though being no mirror image. We shall not attempt to describe campus from a privileged birds-eye-view, which is in the least a dubious task. Rather, we are after our 19 students’ experience of university life and the ways in which they situate themselves within this social matrix. By observing and attempting to explain their actions, we are given a glimpse of university life from an atypical perspective – that is the perspective of the participating, but nonetheless marginalized, minority. Tamils, as well as Tamil-speakers in general4, are clearly outnumbered at Peradeniya as on a national basis. Complicating matters further is the case that “Tamil” by no means is a homogenous ethnic category and this thesis is mainly concerned with the sub-category of Up-country Tamils. They are the ones who dominate the CG.

There are a number of reasons why Up-country Tamils deserve anthropological attention. The people itself is a young one and an idea of a unique ethnic identity is still in the process of articulation. Their immigration to the island began as late as in the 1830’s at which time they arrived as labour immigrants from South India. Today, they are in many ways a “diaspora next-door” (Bass 2004:375) and in a difficult situation vis-à-vis their Sri Lankan contemporaries, who have tended to be suspicious of their true loyalties and treated them as tools of Indian imperialism. Their employment as plantation labour in the up- and mid- country has to a large degree isolated them from mainstream society and while they enjoyed citizenship and limited voting rights under British rule, they were, following Independence, disenfranchised and rendered stateless. Confined to conditions of semi-slavery in the plantation sector, the Up-country Tamils have been lagging behind the national averages with regard to indicators of quality of life. They are, moreover, as the Pastor of the Peradeniya campus church explained to me, “a voiceless community,” or in anthropological terms “a muted group”, and have been largely ignored when not suspected of disloyalty. Their position with regard to the ethnic conflict is likewise marginal – most Up-country Tamils seeing nothing to gain from backing the LTTE’s claim to a separate state in the north and east. This, however, has not prevented their treatment as potential terrorists by the state apparatus and the Sinhalese majority. Of special importance in the context of university education is the educational backwardness of the plantation sector. In addition to poor educational facilities, there is a lack of role models who can share their experiences and give guidance to young people of ambition. The 15 CG Up-country Tamils I have followed are all among the first in

4 The latter category includes a majority of the island’s Moors/Muslims.

2 their communities to obtain a university education. They are, in other words, treading new ground, relying on each other and their own decisions, in a place which is conceptually, if not physically, far removed from their home communities. It is their task to make of campus a home away from home.

This being said, it was the CG students who “found me” and not vice versa. Arriving with the intention of studying the dissemination of and perpetuation of nationalist ideologies within the student body in general, it was a chance encounter with Siva, who was to be a close friend and a key informant, which led me to change course. In hind sight, I see clearly that it was the right thing to do. And if one wants to study Up-country Tamil university students, there is no place better at Peradeniya than the Faculty of Arts in which to do it. Up-country Tamils are nearly non-existent in the other, more prestigious faculties. With my ad hoc choice of informants followed an ad hoc choice of thematic interest. Only in retrospect, can I see clearly that what fascinated me so much about the CG was a curiosity concerning what it was that held them together as a group and moreover which considerations that governed their relations to others on campus. The thesis attempts to provide some answers, but such answers cannot be derived from observations made at campus alone. The students are embedded in a larger context, and actions on a Sri Lankan macro-level carry repercussions locally. Furthermore, all students bring with them a reservoir of off-campus experience, which necessarily manifests itself in certain ways. I have therefore found it necessary to devote a large part of the thesis to contextual information.

Complexity is a key word in that which follows. Considerations influencing campus behaviour are many, just as they are context dependent. Ethnicity, religion, language, class, caste, age, gender, political persuasion, field of study, place of residence, home region, and I am sure, a number of other social statuses, many firmly embedded in hierarchical relations, can be activated in every interaction. Of these, class and ethnicity seem to be of utmost importance in everyday life, the former an explicit and horizontal category and the latter an implicit and vertical one. The two compete for prominence, as is best felt by the marginalized ethnic Other. Seeking to avoid potentially embarrassing stigma, therefore, minority students may in certain contexts attempt to underplay their ethnic identity and appeal in stead to notions of class solidarity and egalitarianism. The ethnic minority, however, always risks the redefinition of a social situation to their disfavour and must therefore act cautiously. While

3 students’ rhetoric tends to revolve around class, ethnicity remains the most important designator of one’s social and supportive networks.

Upon arrival at Peradeniya I initially hoped to find on-campus accommodation, preferably in a campus hostel, but had to settle with an off-campus room. I did, in other words, not live in the field, as would have been ideal, but needed to travel to campus each day. In this manner I was not able to follow the students in all aspects of their daily routine, though I did spend the night in their hostel on some occasions. The majority of information produced through the research is the product of informal conversations with informants. These conversations took place in a variety of settings – the number of participants at any time varying from a single individual to a crowd. I would often meet the students casually and coincidentally in their own arenas, for instance on a bench under a tree, in the library, in their hostels or in a dining hall. The topics of our conversations would usually be provided by context, as for instance a political meeting, a visit to the campus barber, and so on. Occasionally we would talk of our backgrounds, current work, ambitions and so on. On other occasions, and usually only if conversation dried up, I would lead it on to a topic of my choice. Conversation did, however, always have a friendly, almost collegiate tone to it. I was treated as a student myself – albeit a foreign one. I was, moreover, privileged to go on a number of trips with the students, to their home villages/plantations, where I could catch a glimpse life there whilst being introduced to relations and friends. Typically these trips were not arranged for my benefit alone, but for a group of students, essentially anyone from the batch who wanted to join, though often excluding the females, for reasons which I will return to later.

In a field such as the Peradeniya campus, I was to learn, it is difficult to maintain an air of non-partiality. I soon realized that I, in the eyes and minds of a large part of the student body, had become associated with the Tamil students in general,and the Up-country Tamils in particular. I never experienced any aggression on behalf of other students, but I do believe that particularly some Sinhalese students, who otherwise would have approached me, might have avoided me. The Sinhalese students who did approach me, were generally curious with what it was that had brought me there, and some were perhaps a bit of disappointed that I had not more actively reached out to them. I did not openly confess to be studying the CG in particular, but preferred to explain that I had come to study student life and social relations on campus. My relations to the students, moreover, may have been coloured somewhat by my Norwegian nationality, which I never attempted to hide. The Norwegian diplomacy has since

4 2001 facilitated the peace process and was instrumental in bringing about the seize fire which has lasted up to present day (May, 2006), but which now seems to be under threat. I was frequently asked what I thought of the conflict and the Norwegian involvement, and strove to give honest, though non-provocative answers, while stressing that my being there had nothing whatsoever to do with the diplomacy. While I did spend a majority of my time talking and being with the CG students and their friends, I did also spend some time with students of other backgrounds, in order to gain a wider perspective on social interaction. These contacts have proved themselves to be valuable on a personal level as well as on an academic one.

One of the largest challenges in conducting the field work was in negotiating the language barrier existing between the CG and I. Although I strove to learn Tamil, I never reached a level where I could converse significantly, my learning process hindered by their comparatively good mastery of English. Speaking in English I do believe they were most often able to express themselves towards me as they wished, helping each other find the right words. I did, however, lose out on much backstage interaction, as they would speak Tamil amongst themselves. This is a flaw in the research, but I do not believe it invalidates or compromises my findings.

The first chapter of the thesis introduces the reader to the University of Peradeniya and its campus, students and history. In Chapter 2 we temporarily leave Peradeniya to get an idea of the workings of national politics. We are also introduced to the ethnic groups of the island, conflicting nationalisms, and the basics of the communal conflict. The Up-country Tamils, are devoted Chapter 3 in its entirety. Here we shall examine their living and working conditions on the plantations, as well as social and political differentiation, and the emergence of Up- country Tamil ethnic identity. Chapter 4 takes us back to Peradeniya and the CG. We are now better able to examine the internal dynamics of the group and to shed some light on the sources of group cohesion. We shall, moreover, discuss the CG’s unique position as compared to Up-country Tamils in the plantations. Chapter 5 is a natural continuation of the discussion as we move our gaze from the group’s internal to its external relations. We shall see here how national politics manifests itself in the CG students’ everyday lives. We will, moreover, look at campus politics and class conflict as it plays out on campus and attempt to understand how the ways that the CG students position themselves with regard to these matters reflect their exposed position as a marginalized ethnic minority seeking a safety it does not have in numbers. Only when the CG students feel safe can campus truly be a home away from home.

5 Chapter 1 – A Cambridge by the Mahaweli

The establishment of the University of Ceylon fifty years ago was an event of momentous significance in the process of change that culminated in the emergence of Sri Lanka as an independent nation. The vision of its pioneers was that the new university would not only cater to the manpower needs of the country at the higher rungs of administration and the professions and thus serve the utilitarian purposes of education in a modern society, but also produce an educated elite that would provide guidance and direction to the intellectual and cultural development of the country, inculcate the spirit of free inquiry and facilitate the pursuit of ‘Learning for Wisdom’.” (The University of Peradeniya 1992: i)

A Brief History Tucked away in a green and fertile valley at the western perimeter of the Sri Lankan up- country5, lies the University of Peradeniya. For more than 60 years, though under different names6, its doors have been open to the young and ambitious who seek higher education and new opportunities. 60 years is admittedly a rather young age for a university, but the institution is nonetheless six years older than the small island nation whose people it serves. Indeed, Peradeniya’s history is intertwined with that of Sri Lanka. Graduates have become prominent and powerful figures in politics, trade, arts and academia; student movements rooted on campus have sent shock waves into the halls of parliament; but most importantly: the successes and failures of Peradeniya have in many ways mirrored those of the nation. The struggle for a Sri Lankan university gathered momentum along with a national revival at the beginning of the 20th century (Wimalaratne 1992:1) and the institution, once established, served as a potent symbol of and to the nation, which since the 16th century, had been colonized by three different European powers. The independent university signalled the time for Sri Lanka to stand on its own two feet.

It was a complicated and drawn-out process which culminated in the establishment of The University of Ceylon in Colombo in 1942. While the first Indian universities were founded as early as 1857, the British colonial administration in Sri Lanka saw little reason to follow India’s footsteps. Not until 1912 did the Legislative Council recommend the building of an independent university, but then plans were postponed, first due to the First World War and an inability to agree upon the site, and later due to the Second World War and a shortage in

5 “The up-country” and “the hill-country” are interchangeable terms for the central highlands of Sri Lanka. I will, however, only make use of the former. 6 The university received its current name in 1978, but was from the inception known as “The University of Ceylon”, from 1952 to 1972 as “The University of Ceylon, Peradeniya”, and from 1972 to 1978 as “The University of Sri Lanka – Peradeniya Campus”.

6 building materials (de Silva 1992). The university, it was therefore decided, should first function from the premises of the Ceylon University College in Colombo, which had been affiliated with, and issued degrees on behalf of, the University of London, before moving to its new site inland when the time was ready. That the transition would take a full decade came as a disappointment to everyone involved, and the university’s first Vice-Chancellor, Sir Ivor Jennings, remarked with sadness that due to the delays “we are having to shift a full-fledged University” (quoted in Wimalaratne 1992:8). The new site, a heavily landscaped 363 acre tea estate7 at Peradeniya, was, however, a magnificent one and, in the words of de Silva, “of exhilarating scenic beauty” (1992: 3). The university would be distinguished by its architecture, too. Jennings praised the architects for having adapted the buildings to the landscape, noting how “the ornamentation is reminiscent of Anuradhapura and Polonnaruwa”8 (Jennings 1993:59). The transfer from Colombo was initiated in 1949 and completed in 1952, but the opening ceremony was “rescheduled” from 1952 to 1954 due to the death of King George VI. When, the Duke of Edinburgh, on April 20, in the presence of Queen Elizabeth II gave the opening address, therefore, he could only, humorously, declare the university to be “more open than usual” (quoted in Gunawardana 1992:ix). The Duke, more ominously, warned that “beautiful buildings and lovely surroundings will not by themselves ensure the success of the University.” That success, he noted, would depend also on the quality of the graduates and on the “teaching and administrative staff who must found and build up traditions which will be a source of strength and pride to all of Ceylon” (quoted in Wimalaratne 1992:9).

Much has been written on the history of the university since then, and we will return to parts of it later, suffice it here to paint the broad strokes. After moving to Peradeniya, it continued to grow quickly and enjoyed a brief heyday. When, in 1955, Jennings retired and returned to his native Britain, he left behind a university which “had acquired a reputation for the standards it maintained and seemed poised for development into one of the major Universities of the Commonwealth” (de Silva 1992:5). But it was also a university within a system which carried the seeds of its undoing. The government pressed for political control, while the masses, educated as they were in Sinhala and Tamil9, were excluded and resented being so. Indeed, the university was never intended to cater a cross-section of the population. Peiris

7 “Estate” is commonly used in Sri Lankan English for “plantation” and I use the two terms interchangeably. 8 These are the most famous of the island’s ancient capitals, located in the interior lowlands 9 According to Jayawardene only 6.3 percent of the population were literate in English in 1946 (1992).

7 calls Peradeniya of the 1950’s a “national showpiece and an institution held in high esteem by the political elite” (1995a:112). Admissions were low, partly due to restrictions on accommodation, but also to keep graduate employment levels high, and the restrictive policies gave the university a chance to evolve on its own terms. The government, however, gave in to mounting pressure from the people and imposed changes in the admission policies without significantly increasing the funding. Enrolment soon exceeded the levels envisaged, and insufficient steps were being taken to alleviate pressure on the facilities, resulting in a drop in academic standards. Student enrolment, particularly in the arts, leaped again when the university in the early 1960’s took the momentous decision to offer classes in the vernaculars. The Annual Report of 1965 states that the Peradeniya campus, designed as it were to accommodate short of 2500, had more than twice as many students on roll (Pathmanathan 1992:55). The university, which had up until now been purely residential, saw for the first time a need to admit non-residential students in order to cope (de Silva 1992). Still, there were large numbers of qualified applicants, rejected by the universities10. Rural youth aiming at university education were frustrated and angry. (Indaratne 1992; Pathmanathan 1992). Their discontent came to expression during the national youth insurrection of 1971, instigated by the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP), a self-proclaimed Marxist party, involving large numbers of university students. With exception to a few years in the late 1970s, the years since then up until the 1990s, have been characterized by instability, unrest and frequent disruptions in the academic programme. The degree of political control over the university would vary, but no solution seemed quite fit to re-establish an environment conducive to learning. Student politics grew steadily more ruthless and campus was fraught with violence, the peak of which was reached with a second national youth insurrection in the late 1980’s. Again, radical undergraduates from Peradeniya, were among the leading insurgents.

While we today may hope that the darkest days have passed, the Sri Lankan university system still has issues which need to be resolved. The bottle neck of limited capacity persists, denying admission to thousands of qualified applicants annually. Moreover, radicalized elements within the student body do still wield considerable power and are capable of upsetting the university authorities, if not even the central government. One may think that all which is left of the grandness of the University of Peradeniya is the natural splendour of the campus, but that depends on the eye of the beholder. The university has shown a remarkable

10 Paralleling the expansions in the universities had been a sharp increase in enrolment in primary and secondary schools – from 867,000 in 1945 to 2,716,000 in 1970 (Samaranayake 1992).

8 degree of resilience. It was in 2005 the second largest of 13 Sri Lankan universities, with 10,813 of a total 68,440 university students on roll11 (University Grants Commission, n.d:”Strength and Finance of University Sector - 2005”). Janice Jiggins, a former student of the university, writes in a memoir that she remembers it, “not for its setting, whose beauty for [her] is forever blurred by the tension and brutalities of the last twenty years, but for its devotion to learning” (Jiggins 1992:115). Peradeniya’s biggest challenge is perhaps to pass that devotion on to its many students, and to inspire them and afford them with the opportunity, to nurture it themselves.

The Campus12 Located approximately eight kilometres from Kandy – capital of the Central Province, the University of Peradeniya covers today some 700 hectares, 150 of which are developed. To the north, the university grounds are delimited by the much-travelled Colombo-Kandy Road, and to the west are the pine-covered hills of the Hantana range. To the south and the east, however, are no clear perimeters, university land blending into the surrounding areas. Right through campus, dividing it in two, flows the majestic Mahaweli Ganga, Sri Lanka’s largest river. Six of seven faculties are located on the larger eastern side, while the Faculty of Engineering, alone on the western side, is connected to the rest of campus by a massive concrete footbridge and a steel railway bridge. Along the river on its western side runs the Gampala Road, which once on the southern side of campus, continues into the hill country. Similarly, beneath the Hantana hills on the eastern side, runs another road, less busy, to the town of Galaha. Of the six faculties on the eastern side of the Mahaweli, the faculties of Medicine and Dental Science are located in the north, near Kandy Road. The faculties of Agriculture, Veterinary Science, Science and Arts are all located between the river and Galaha Road with the Faculty of Arts occupying the largest area and the southernmost spot. It is from here the footbridge connects with the western side. There is a railway, slicing campus in two, and a small station is located between the faculties of Agriculture and Science. At the heart of campus are the sports grounds, including tired tennis courts, a hockey pitch circumscribed by a dirt running track, a cricket field and a combined rugby and football pitch. There is also a modern swimming pool and a gymnasium, which is among the largest in Sri Lanka. Close by is the World University Service (WUS) complex, a student welfare centre with facilities such as a reasonably priced hair salon and tailor shop, student counselling, a

11 These numbers exclude the Open University with its 23,518 students. 12 For a map of the Peradeniya campus, see Appendix I.

9 small book shop, a convenience store, a dining hall and the main office of the students’ political body, the Students’ Union. In the lower Hantana hills, gazing down at the rest of campus, are university-sponsored places of worship for the major religions: a Buddhist vihara, a Christian ecumenical church, a Muslim mosque and a Hindu kovil, all connected by a looping tarmac road. Also available to students are banking and postal services as well as a number of telecommunication and photocopying shops.

There are, dispersed around campus, staff quarters and at least 17 gender segregated halls of residence, providing accommodation to approximately half of the undergraduates. Most of the buildings are stone-faced or have plastered and white-washed walls, and there is, as Jennings commented on, a wealth of detailed ornamentation in traditional Sinhalese style. Richly molded stone bases, double pitched tile roofs, square carrying-pillars on stone platforms, door and window architraves, gargoyles, carved stone columns, urns and moonstones all provide the buildings with a distinct flavor (D’Alwis 1992:16). Students do often jokingly refer to their hall of residence as their “palace”, emphasizing the contrast between the grand design and today’s cramped living conditions. At the inception of the university, however, students lived comfortably with servants looking after their everyday needs, so that they could devote themselves completely to learning. The halls are large and airy, with green lawn-covered atriums, along the edges of which balconies run. Today, the balconies are covered with clothes and towels drying off in the sun, just as the walls inside the rooms are covered by trousers and shirts hanging from nails. But the crowded inside space is to some degree mitigated by the openness of the landscape. The University Architect, Shirley D’Alwis, wrote in the Ceylon University College Magazine, before the construction was initiated, that the university’s lay-out was typical of the “traditional Sinhalese openness and spaciousness as found at Anuradhapura” (D’Alwis 1992:15). He further pointed out that the buildings were grouped in logical sequence, with the most important ones, such at the Convocation Hall, the Senate and the Main Library at the core13. The openness is indeed one of the most salient features of Peradeniya’s design, but G. H. Peiris points to some shortcomings with it. He notes that with two main roads dissecting campus and its borders being blurry at best, it has always been difficult to keep unwanted elements out. Furthermore, the scattering of buildings discourages contact between faculties, adding to them an enclave character. To counter such a

13 The Convocation Hall was never built.

10 tendency students from different faculties are placed in the same halls of residence, leaving some of them to walk long distances for lectures (Peiris 1995b).

As the largest structure on campus, the Main Library is a source of pride to staff and students both. With seven floors it is an impressive building and a solid reminder of the golden days. On each side of its sole entrance sits a uniformed security guard whose task it is to check student ID’s and make sure that no bags are brought in or books smuggled out. The collection of books – largest in Sri Lanka and large even in a South-Asian context, is subdivided into English, Sinhalese and Tamil sections. Available are also computers with internet access, as well as large reading rooms with wooden furniture that creaks when people move about. There is a photocopying counter where three old machines are put to good use by clerks who know their quirks well, but never seem to catch up with the line of people waiting.

Describing campus more vividly is difficult to do without falling prey to clichés. Yet, Peradeniya is the kind of place which has people going lyrical about it, and with good reason. With the arrival of dawn, it is the grass-covered, seesawed peaks of Hantana that are first painted in the golden hue of morning while mist pulls through the pine forests below. As the sun rises, campus is bathed in cool morning light and its pink buildings begin gradually to give off a radiant glow. The chattering crickets have long since fallen silent, and only a few students are up and about. The birds have, however, woken and dominate the early morning, only alarmed by the occasional old grunting bus or lorry, rushing on by. Meanwhile, in the trees by the silvery Mahaweli, packs of monkeys begin to stir as they prepare for a new day while stray dogs rummage around scouring for food, or sleep undisturbed in the same corridors and pathways where crowds will soon gather.

The first students arrive at the Faculty of Arts at around 7 am. Many come walking from their halls of residence, the chill air making it a comfortable time of the day for such a stroll. Small groups of men and women catch up on the latest events as they head for breakfast in one of the dining halls, and young lovers can be seen sitting on benches or leaning on the crawling branches of fig trees. Soon, athletes emerge on the running track and cricket field for early morning practice. From the sports grounds they can see the never-ending stream of jam- packed buses, which stop to unload passengers by the Arts Theatre. These are the non- residential students, some of whom live as far as one or two hours away. As they exit the buses, they straighten their clothes and head with determined strides across the road, down a

11 flight of stairs, and into the heart of campus. A number of stone benches beneath the shade- providing canopies of three magnificent fig trees make a popular gathering point - the site fittingly dubbed “Polonnaruwa”. The colonnades by the building entrances are other such places to hang around while waiting for classes to begin or friends to show up. When classes do begin, the young men and women take their places by wooden desks, attentively watching their lecturer and ready to jot down notes. Though classes vary in size and composition, the lecturers seem to command the same respect and authority everywhere.

At lunch the students will go to one of the many dining halls or buy home-cooked and packed lunches which are sold out of cardboard boxes by private vendors. Gemba and WUS, the two larger dining halls at the Faculty of Arts will be crammed full, the lines often extending out the entrance. After finishing their meals of rice and curry, students may relax in common areas outside or in the recreational room above Gemba, where there is an old television and English, Sinhala and Tamil dailies. Some use this time to catch up on their studies, while others, comfortable in reclining wicker chairs, prefer to catch up on some sleep. There is not much activity until the worst of the heat gives in, and the women, if they have to go out in the sun, will do so protected by umbrellas. The same umbrellas may again come in handy if the skies turn grey and threaten to explode with thunder and rain. By 4 a.m., when lectures are finished, most students retreat for the halls or for off-campus residences. The vehicles passing through campus become fewer and farther between and even the birds fall silent after a manic peak at sunset. In the rooms and on the balconies of the hostels, students chat amiably, while in the moonlight there is hardly a soul to be seen, and only the chatter of crickets to be heard, until the next morning.

The Social Landscape - Some Statistics Some demographic information on the composition of the student body can be useful. Although completely up-to-date statistics are not available, a statistical handbook for the university was published in 2003 (University of Peradeniya 2003). It reveals an increase in the total undergraduate population from 7,976 in 2002 to 9,238 in 200314, in other words an increase of 1262 students. 735 of these were admitted to the arts faculty, which in 2003 had 2,982 students on roll. The increase, just shy of 25 percent, placed almost a third of the total undergraduate population, and more than 58 percent of those admitted in 2003, in the Faculty

14 Recall that the student population in 2005 was 10,813 (University Grants Commission n.d.:Strength and Finance of University Sector – 2005).

12 of Arts. The dramatically increased intake of undergraduates resulted from an attempt to remove backlogs of secondary school-leavers whose admission was delayed due to the above mentioned disruptions in the academic programs. The data show that parallel with the increased intake of undergraduates there has been a nearly 41 percent decrease in the postgraduate population, from 2557 in 2002 to 1511 in 2003 (from 1080 to 794 in the Faculty of Arts). Indeed, Peradeniya is very much an undergraduate institution during the weekdays, and postgraduate students come for lectures primarily in the weekends.

There were, in 2003, a few more male than female undergraduates, the males accounting for approximately 51 percent of the total. At the arts faculty, however, female undergraduates accounted for nearly 67 percent, or if you, as the statistics do, count the bhikkhus15 as a separate category, the female students constitute nearly 71 percent of the remaining student body. It is intriguing, also, that nearly 41 percent of the students who received financial assistance through the university in 2003, were in the arts faculty, while they only accounted for somewhat more than 32 percent of the undergraduates, suggesting that a large share of these students come from low-income households. Because of the backlogs, the undergraduates are relatively old. Only seven percent of the undergraduates were, in 2003, younger than 22, fewer than six percent were older than 26, while a majority of more than 87 percent was between the ages of 22 and 26.

The Faculty of Arts is the only faculty to offer courses in the vernaculars. In 2003 nearly 82 percent of the arts-students followed classes in Sinhala, just short of 13 percent followed classes in Tamil, and a little more than five percent attended classes in English. Only seven students out of 1250 had chosen English as their subject for degree specialization, making this the least popular choice after Western Classic Culture (two students). The most popular subjects were Economics, Geography, and Management, chosen by 208, 162 and 143 students respectively. As for religion, more than 81 percent of the undergraduates in the Faculty of Arts were categorized as Buddhists, more than 11 percent as Muslims, short of five percent as Hindus, and the remainder as Christians (mainly Roman Catholics). Corresponding figures for ethnicity show that just shy of 83 percent were Sinhalese, 11 percent were Muslims16, less than five percent Sri Lanka Tamils, and only 26 students, or just short of 1 percent, Up-

15 Buddhist monks 16 “Muslim”, is, in Sri Lanka, both an ethnic and a religious label, as nearly all Muslims belong to the ethnic group which is also called “Moor.” More on this follows in Chapter 2.

13 country Tamils17. Finally, it should also be noticed that the large majority of the Up-country Tamil students were enrolled at the Faculty of Arts and only nine in other faculties, notably the faculties of Medicine and Science. Although these numbers are likely to have changed somewhat, the pattern of distribution is probably much the same today.

The statistics give us some clues regarding the composition of the student body. We see that the two nearly overlapping categories of “Buddhist” and “Sinhalese” constitute a large majority of the students, both in general and in the Faculty of Arts. The Tamils, whom are nearly all Hindu and the Muslims, constitute the Tamil-speaking student population, and these students like the Sinhalese, when given a choice, prefer to follow classes in their mother tongue. We see that among the Tamil speakers in the arts faculty, the majority is Muslim, the second largest group is Sri Lanka Tamil and the smallest group is that of the Up-country Tamils. In a sense the latter group is therefore a minority within a minority of Tamils within a minority of Tamil speakers. We have seen, moreover, that nearly all Up-country Tamils are in the arts faculty and that this faculty has a higher than average proportion of female students and students from low-income households. The statistics do not, however, immediately reveal to us how class and medium of instruction coalesce to make one of the most visible social fault lines in the arts faculty. Nor do they tell us much about how ethnic identity is perceived and communicated, or about how people conceptualise cultural difference. Let us, therefore, look beyond the quantitative data.

Social Differentiation Language and Class The stereotype is that students in the English language stream are from urban, upper-class families. This is because the social elites tend to send their children to private, English- medium primary and secondary schools, whereas practically all public schools teach in Sinhala or Tamil. Though English is taught as a subject in all schools, the quality of the education varies greatly, and the recruiting of qualified teaching personnel to remote areas has proved to be difficult. Students’ choices of language stream at the university, therefore, reflect a class hierarchy in society at large. It is, moreover, a commonly held assumption that a good command of English is necessary to be a lucrative employee, and this is a source of much grievance among those educated in the vernaculars. Language is very much a touchy issue in

17 The statistical yearbook have them labelled as ”Tamil” and ”Indian Tamil”.

14 Sri Lanka today precisely because of its association with class and economic performance, but also because Sri Lanka is a post-colonial state and English is the language of the last colonial power. A post-Independence swell of nationalism argued for the replacement of the colonial language, religion and culture with “native” alternatives. Radical Sinhalese linguistic and cultural nationalisms found particularly firm support at the lower rungs of society, among the many rural villagers deprived of opportunities for social mobility. The pressure they mounted on politicians for language reforms led, among other things, to the setting up of vernacular language streams in some university faculties. It was argued that it should be one’s birth right not to have to speak English and many young people railed against learning it, thereby digging their own holes. For the situation remains today that English-speakers have, arguably unfair, advantages on the job market. The English language is commonly referred to in Sinhalese as “kaduwa” (the sword), the term metaphorically illustrating how it is like a weapon which affords its master success by cutting down those who do not own it. The word conveys some of the resentment which the masses carry against the English-speakers and their success (Caspersz 2003). Perhaps English may be seen as a sword in another sense too. A lower-class person seeking to learn English risks being frowned upon by others. I found that many of the students, perhaps particularly in the Sinhalese language stream, were reluctant to speak English with me in front of their peers. Undoubtedly, they were embarrassed to speak to a foreigner and afraid to make mistakes, but I do not believe that to be the whole story. One does not, after all, want to come across as an upper class pretender.

The English medium students stand apart from the rest in more ways than one, but the most immediately striking divergence is with regard to their appearance. While most other students adhere to a conformist dress code, the English medium students seem to be westernized, using clothes to express individuality and uniqueness. English medium students of both genders can be seen in modern sneakers, jeans or baggy pants, and T-shirts. Some female students may even opt for knee-length skirts and blouses with chic designs and daring cuts. At any rate, the clothes they wear visibly set them apart from the rest of the student body, so as if to say “we are not like you” or “we dare to be different.” For the English-medium students, however, being different seems to be the norm, and the students validate each others’ looks with compliments and attention in a way which is strikingly similar to westernized youth in other places.

15 Culture, Ethnicity and Ethnic Markers We have seen how the arrangement of separate language streams works to separate students on the basis of class. As language groups in Sri Lanka overlap with ethnic categories, the educational setting also separates on basis of ethnicity, though Tamils and Muslims follow the same language stream. The social structure is, in other words, to some degree reinforced by practicalities. A legitimate assumption, then, is that the Muslims and Tamils, sharing language and therefore class rooms, socialize more extensively and get on better with each other than they do with the Sinhalese. This is not necessarily the case. I was told by Tamil and Sinhalese students alike that while Tamils and Muslims share language, the Sinhalese and Tamils share culture and even religion. Hinduism and Buddhism are recognized as sister religions, and in Sri Lanka, these faiths have influenced and acted on each other over centuries. Hindus and Buddhists worship many of the same deities and share several shrines, temples, and holy places. They, furthermore, worship in much the same manner and follow the same lunar calendar. Although a philosophical approach to the two faiths may suggest seemingly insurmountable divergences, these are not experienced by the masses of adherents. Muslim culture, religion and manner of worship, by contrast, are seen by Sinhalese and Tamils, on campus as elsewhere, as wholly alien and incompatible with their own beliefs and practises. Relations between the ethnic groups may, quite simplistically, be illustrated as below – the thickness of the arrows indicating the perceived degree of cultural similarity:

The question arises as to how ethnic identity is communicated and perceived on campus. Can a Peradeniya student easily determine the ethnicity of those in his or her vicinity? And what does the social landscape look like through native eyes? Contrary to much popular belief, and due to centuries of miscegenation, there are no biological “race markers” or physical traits

16 making it possible to distinguish between Sinhalese, Tamils and Muslims. Intermarrying is in fact described in the Sinhalese charter myth, in which the first settlers take South Indian wives. Still, popular race theory lives on, and its adherents may claim that the Sinhalese are fairer than the Tamils. There ideas are derived from what was a language theory categorizing Sinhala as an Indo-Aryan language and Tamil as a Dravidian language. While university students should have learned that such language categories do not apply to people, I believe certain internalized presumptions about complexion and origin may exist among them, too. However, I do not think anyone will openly take a guess at another’s ethnicity, based on complexion alone. Ethnic markers, in stead, are to be found in language. There are few Sinhalese who speak Tamil and vice versa, and though there are exceptions, bilinguals tend to have accents. During the island-wide anti-Tamil riots in 1983, mobs would command those they suspected of being Tamils to pronounce certain words in Sinhala – words which would give them away. It is only among the Muslims, many of whom today live in Sinhalese areas, that a significant number have a perfect command of both languages. Another reliable ethnic marker is names, both family- and given names18.

Yet, the most obvious give-away of ethnic identity, although mainly with the female students, is the way they dress. Applying to female students is a strict, ethnicity-dependent dress code. Muslim females, for instance, wear large dark-coloured frocks and pastel-coloured scarves, which I was told, however, is a fairly new custom in Sri Lankan campuses, encouraged by Muslim student organizations. The Sinhalese female students, on the other hand, show some skin. A typical Sinhalese outfit consists of a long skirt, high-heeled shoes or sandals, and a blouse which modestly covers the shoulders, but not the upper arms. Tamil women are somewhere in the middle of this “continuum of covering up.” They are more modest than the Sinhalese, and cover more of their arms and chest. Typically, they wear skirts and blouses or an Indian salwar, and most often have a pottu – the “Indian” beauty mark, between their eyebrows. Male dress codes, in contrast, fail to distinguish in any clear manner between the ethnic groups. Male students typically wear dark, polished shoes or sandals, cotton trousers and long-sleeved, fairly plain shirts which are tucked in. Hair styles and facial hair varies perhaps somewhat on ethnic lines It is my impression that some haircuts, such as relatively long and centre-parted hair, is more popular with the Sinhalese males, and likewise, that beards may be the most common among Muslims. Both these impressions are poorly founded,

18 A Sinhalese taxi driver named Mohan, upon introducing himself to me, explained that his grandfather was a Tamil.

17 however. What is important to note is that ethnic identity is immediately more visible on women than on men, and I argue that this should be interpreted as a recognition of women’s role as reproducers carriers of culture. Metaphorically, the female body constitutes a whole which can be invaded, resulting in the watering out of the blood line, just as is the case with cultures. The perceived continuity of a people depends on maintaining control of the female procreative powers, and to do so it is necessary to restrain their interaction with “outsiders.” As we shall see in Chapter 5, a need to protect one’s women is very much felt among the Peradeniya undergraduates, and the ethno-specific dress codes function as a means of enabling such control. That dress codes have become stricter in recent years, at least among the Muslims, imply that ethnic consciousness is alive and kicking.

A Note on Caste The university statistics do not include data on caste and I find this to be symptomatic of how caste is treated in Sri Lankan society. In fact, the importance of caste is often denied, although a caste system is well established among both the Sinhalese and the Tamils. Sri Lankan caste systems differ from the Indian one, however, in that they can be depicted as downward- pointing triangles – the majority of people belonging to the Sinhalese Govigama or Tamil Vellalar castes consisting of cultivators. Many Sri Lankans, and the university students I spoke with were no exception, will dismiss the caste system as an archaic institution which is of little relevance today, except for when arranging marriages. Some students shrugged and claimed that caste may play a part in the village life or among overly traditional people, but not on campus. They would mention that there were romantic relationships among students which could never work because the families of one or both involved would object to the other’s caste. That castes are still largely endogamous is attested to by the newspapers’ many pages of “marriage proposals”– personals which seldom fail to mention caste status. I do, however, believe it to be a safe assumption that caste is effective, also on campus, in shaping relations other than romantic ones, though primarily within ethnic groups. Yet, the hidden and indirect ways in which caste works makes it difficult to study. Though I shall return in chapters four and five with some remarks on caste and Tamil disunity, the scope of this thesis prevents me from giving the workings of caste on campus a thorough examination.

Universities - Ivory Towers? Microcosms? Bruce Matthews claims in an essay assessing the state of Sri Lankan university education, that “in many ways the universities are a microcosm of Lankan society as a whole” (1995:78). It

18 should be apparent from what I have written so far that Peradeniya’s undergraduate student body is highly heterogeneous, as is the rest of Sri Lanka’s population, but one may ask to which degree the two populations mirror one another? Different but related questions regard the degree of university autonomy from government and societal affairs. Dennis Austin wrote, in the early 1980’s, on the topic that:

It is impossible for universities in the modern world, at least in the third world, to separate themselves from society or government. . . . They may shape, even direct, its young aspirants to membership in the elite but they themselves are shaped, and are frequently distorted by politics. They mirror the fortunes of the state, and the state in Sri Lanka has only rarely been at ease” (1981:204).

Has Peradeniya at all, resembled an ivory tower, aloof from the turmoil which has ravaged elsewhere in society and how have societal forces affected the intake and output of students?

When Matthews refers to Sri Lankan universities as “microcosms”, he recognizes the plurality of the student bodies – a result of reforms in admission procedures which have taken place since the late 1950’s. Still, a number of Sri Lankan universities, such as the University of Jaffna, the Eastern University and the South-Eastern University, have an undeniable regional or ethnic character and the departments and courses available in a given university tend to attract students from certain social categories. Peradeniya for instance, being one of only two universities with a department devoted to the study of Arabic & Islamic Civilization, draws a large number of Muslim students. While Peradeniya undoubtedly has become less of an elitist institution after its doors were burst open to a vernacular-educated clientele, admissions are still skewed to the disadvantage certain categories of people. Up-country Tamils, for instance, have not yet been fully able to claim their due share of the enrolment, just as the share of rural Sinhalese from educationally backward areas, is unduly low. As mentioned earlier, schools in these areas suffer acutely from a lack of resources and qualified personnel, handicapping their students in the competition against students from schools in other, more well-to-do, areas. Signs are, on the other hand, that students from relatively wealthy families are increasingly abandoning domestic universities, gravitating in stead to foreign ones, such as in Australia and the USA. They may choose to do so for a number of reasons. Sri Lankan universities do, for instance, no longer carry the kind of prestige which Peradeniya enjoyed in its heyday. The competition for admissions to Sri Lankan universities is, moreover, immense, and there are few private degree-awarding alternatives. Finally, there is a wish to avoid violent initiation rituals and aggression from lower-class students – subjects which I will return to in Chapter 5.

19 An important point to make is that although the undergraduate student body, as a whole, may be fairly representative of the larger population, the make-up of each faculty is skewed along a socio-economic axis – this because most faculties do not offer vernacular language streams. At Peradeniya, for instance, the Faculty of Arts is the only option for the great many who are academically apt but unable to follow lectures in English.

Austin (1981:210) points out three strains of questions relating to the universities, which have been central to issues of distribution of power in society at large. These are the controversy regarding medium of instruction, the regulation of admission procedures, and the need to defend the universities against political control. We shall see now how the three themes are interrelated in a historical perspective. As I have already noted, the native language streams were not introduced without a fair bit of pressure from the population. The Sinhala nationalist movement gathered momentum in the 1950’s as bhikkhus took on the role of political agitators, arguing that it was time for the Sinhalese to reclaim all that which had been denied them for so long. The rallying of forces led the government to pass, in 1958, the “Sinhala Only Bill,” bestowing on Sinhala the status of sole official language (ibid:212). The development, it must be understood, came partly in response to disproportionately high levels of Tamil employment in the government sector and enrolment in the universities, both of which were direct results of Tamils’ generally superior English skills19. Sri Lanka Tamils, who in 1953 accounted for only 11 percent of the population, had then 33.7 percent of the total university enrolment, whereas the Sinhalese, accounting for 69.3 percent of the population, had 60.2 percent of the enrolment (ibid:210). These statistics were political dynamite in the hands of Sinhalese nationalists, who, antagonistic of Tamils as well as of the anglicized elites, saw the promotion of the Sinhalese language in universities and public affairs as the only way of putting things right. While the introduction of Sinhala and Tamil language streams changed the overall ethnic balance much in favour of the Sinhalese, English remained medium of instruction in the more prestigious disciplines such as engineering and medicine. At this point, moreover, a highly radicalized student body added to the pressure on the government which responded by introducing further measures favouring the Sinhalese. 1973 saw the introduction of “standardisation”, an attempt to reform university admissions so that the number admitted to each language stream would be proportional to the number sitting for school-leaving exams within the same stream. In effect, what the policy did was to lower

19 American missionaries did early on set up a number of excellent mission schools on the Jaffna peninsula. The Tamils, moreover, seemed more opportunistic when it came to embracing the English language.

20 the entrance requirements for Sinhalese students in relation to Tamil-speaking students. When this too proved insufficient in radically altering the numbers, a district quota system was introduced, which favoured students from typically Sinhalese areas. The effects this time were dramatic, and Tamil enrolment fell almost immediately both percentage-wise and in absolute numbers (ibid:221). Admission procedures have, since then, been changed several times and are no longer as blatantly discriminating20. However, the controversy regarding admissions illustrates well how the rise of communal tension and opportunistic political activity has revolved around the universities – much against the wish of their administrators. To repeat Austin: “universities . . . are shaped, and are frequently distorted by politics” (Austin 1981:204). Peradeniya has had particularly rough run-ins with political currents from above and below, which have challenged its autonomy and ability to function satisfactorily. The university continues indeed to face such challenges today. To understand the conflict of competing interests better, however, we need to delve deeper into national politics, which is what we shall do in the following chapter.

20 Admissions have since 1979 been based on a three-tier system considering an “All Island Merit Quota”, a “District Merit Quota” and an “Educationally Disadvantaged District Quota” (today constituting respectively 40, 55 and five percent) (Matthews 1995:80; University Grants Commission, n.d.:”The University Admissions”).

21 Chapter 2 – Communal Loyalties in National Politics

The Plague of Primordial Politics Geertz noted in the early 60’s that “considered as societies, the new [postcolonial] states are abnormally susceptible to serious dissatisfaction based on primordial attachments” (1963:109). In the same text he went on to point out two sometimes conflicting motives experienced by these states’ citizens. These are: 1) the need to have ones primordial21 identity acknowledged and accepted by others, and 2) the wish to live within a state which effectively looks after one’s practical needs. The two motives, he elaborated, may contradict because people are afraid of losing themselves by committing “to an overarching and somewhat alien civil order” (ibid:109). There is, according to Geertz, no fundamental difference between the way primordial attachments work in this respect, whether they are based on assumed blood ties, language, region, religion, custom or a combination of a number of these. They may all, because of their very “givenness” challenge the idea of what constitutes the nation, or where a state’s borders should be drawn. Geertz turned to Sri Lanka (then Ceylon) to exemplify and noted that “Ceylon, which, having made one of the quietest entries into the family of new states is now [in 1962] the scene of one of its noisiest communal uproars” (ibid:121).

What Geertz had seen when he wrote the above remarks was only the beginning of what has been a dark chapter in the history of communal relations in Sri Lanka. The peaceful and rather undramatic transfer of power in 1948, from the colonial administration to the first independent government led by D. S. Senanayake and his United National Party (UNP), heralded greatness for times to come. The sadder have been the turn of events since then, and the more emphasized Sri Lanka’s failure to meet politically inclusive ideals. The great challenge for Sri Lanka, as for so many other postcolonial states, has been what Geertz called the “political normalization of primordial discontent” (ibid:129), the need establish an equilibrium of the multiple forces battling for power and avoid a collapse into communal majoritarianism. The British had, during their rule, introduced a system of “communal representation” to the Legislative Council, thereby securing the representation of Up- and Low-country Sinhalese as well as Sri Lanka Tamils, Muslims and Burghers22 (Wilson 2000). At Independence, the stage seemed to be set for an internal power struggle between these

21 Geertz defines a primordial attachment as “one that stems from the ‘givens’ – or, more precisely, as culture is inevitably involved in such matters, the assumed ‘givens’ – of social existence” (1963:109). 22 The descendents of Westerners who married native women.

22 groupings. Still, K. M. de Silva notes that in the years following 1948, “little was seen of the divisions and bitterness which were tearing at the recent independence of the new nations of South Asia” (1981:489). The divisions and the bitterness were all there, however, though it would take politicians nearly a decade to attempt to capitalize on them. De Silva remarks that the ease with which the transfer of power came about simply was not “emotionally satisfying” (ibid:492). As opposed to India the masses had not been included in an anti-colonial movement and so large numbers of people viewed the new ruling elite with suspicion, believing them to be little better than the colonial administration. Yet, Senanayake’s government did not cave in to the growing movement of Sinhalese Buddhist nationalists requesting compensation for historical injustices done to Buddhism, the Sinhalese language and Sinhalese culture. It espoused in stead an inclusive nationalism23 while adamantly preserving the state’s secular status. These ideas did not resonate well with the increasingly agitated Sinhalese masses, but it was only when S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike in 1951 broke out of the UNP, forming the Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP), that someone actively vied their support. Bandaranaike went on to win a massive victory in the general elections of 1956. He had risen to power by promising to make Sinhala the sole administrative language, but by doing so he had also effectively alienated the Tamils who had been largely sympathetic to Senanayake’s government. Competing with Bandaranaike’s SLFP and Senanayake’s UNP were also the explicitly Tamil parties. The Tamil Federal Party, formed as early as 1949, had been pressing for constitutional reform and a federal state. It was, however, the more moderate Tamil Congress which, alongside the UNP, had received most popular support. With the ’56 elections this was to change. Tamil linguistic nationalism was on the rise, much in response to its Sinhalese counterpart. Bandaranaike could not back down on his promised language policy and a federal state was a political impossibility. It was quite simply unacceptable to the Sinhalese nationalists who constituted the brunt of his voters and to whom Sri Lanka had to be “the land of the Sinhalese and the country in which Buddhism stood forth in its purest form” (ibid:512)24. The two ethnic groups had become firmly entrenched in political opposition, but the elections of 1956 did also establish what was essentially a two- party system in Sri Lanka. Granted, there is a plethora of minor parties, most of which have

23 The inclusiveness stopped short of the Up-country Tamils who were rendered stateless and disenfranchised by legislation passed in the late 1940’s. We shall return to this in Chapter 3. 24 Bandaranaike was in 1959 executed by a bhikkhu, unable to calm the nationalistic forces he himself had stirred.

23 an ethnic character25, but their significance is mainly in the (often shifting) alliances they establish with either of the main actors. Sri Lankan anthropologist S. J. Tambiah summarizes the political situation accordingly: “Sri Lankan politics . . . is enacted in an arena where the majority group, the Sinhalese, has a ‘bipolar’ division within and is ranged against a minority which according to context is regarded as an enemy and an ally” (1992:61). While this has broadly been the case since 1956, the situation gained another dimension in the late 60’s, with the emergence of the JVP at a time when the country was facing severe economic crisis. The JVP was able to win over a large segment of the rural young who were disillusioned with the socialism espoused by the SLFP, and led them in two failed insurrections against the government26. Since then, the JVP has been reborn under new leadership as a legitimate political party, though it still finds most of its support among the Sinhalese rural poor and is located on the extreme political left, advocating a mix of Marxism and Sinhalese nationalism. It has been successful at converting ethnic antagonism fostered by the civil war into electoral support, and maintains a hard-line approach with regard to the Tamil separatist movement.

The presidential elections of 2005 provided an illustrating example of how communal motives are still a deciding factor in Sri Lankan politics. The SLFP’s Mahinda Rajapakse won with a narrow margin ahead of the UNP’s Ranil Wickremesinghe, the two receiving 50,29 and 48.43 percent of the votes, respectively. It has been argued that Wickremesinghe would have won the election had not the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) called a boycott in the northern and eastern districts. The votes of the Sri Lankan Tamils who are far more favourably disposed to the UNP and Wickremesinghe than to the SLFP and Rajapakse, could very well have changed the election outcome.

Two Points of View on One Troubled Past Unfortunately, it is the calamities affecting Sri Lanka which have tended to make the island nation newsworthy around the world. The country was, of course, at the centre of the world’s attention on December 26, 2004, and in the weeks thereafter, when it was struck by the Indian Ocean tsunami which in Sri Lanka alone claimed more than 35,000 lives and displaced more than half a million people (UN Office n.d.: Sri Lanka). But the country had been no stranger to international news agencies and foreign press who since the early 1980’s have faithfully

25 Examples are the Sri Lanka Tamils “Federal Party”, the Muslims “Sri Lanka Muslim Congress” and the Up- country Tamils “Ceylon Workers’ Congress.” 26 In 1971 and 1987- 89.

24 reported on the ethnic conflict which has threatened to tear the island apart. It is estimated that more than 65,000 lives – many of them civilian, were lost between the intensification of hostilities in 1983 and the ceasefire brokered in 2002 (Wikipedia: Ethnic Conflict in Sri Lanka). The ceasefire, facilitated by a Norwegian diplomatic delegation, was largely respected up until the latter part of 2005, although the parties had not met for talks since 2003. Towards the end of 2005 the number of reported ceasefire violations escalated sharply, primarily with the LTTE as aggressors, and the country seemed again to be on the brink of civil war. The immediate crisis was appeared to have been averted in February 2006, as the parties met for talks in Geneva – the outcome of which was reported to be promising. Before they would sit down together again, however, violence in the north and east spiralled to war- like conditions, and today (May, 2006) a peaceful resolution seems as far away as ever.

Those who take an interest in Sri Lankan affairs will quickly realize how divergent people’s perceptions of the conflict are and notice how the involved parties tend to demonize each other, often through the media. That there is a high degree of emotional involvement is not surprising when one considers such factors as: 1) the modest size of the island and the population; 2) the prevailing socio-cultural heterogeneity; 3) the religious sentiments involved; and 4) Sri Lanka’s economic stagnation. In short: the conflict involves everyone, directly or indirectly. The Tamil separatists have shown time and time again that they are capable of striking hard, also outside areas of their control such as in the heart of Colombo. This has led to a militarization of public space where armed checkpoints and military personnel have become part of the urban environment. Civilian Tamils have more than any others been subjected to the suspicion, and all too often harassment, of the Sinhalese dominated security forces (Tambiah 1986:15). The Sinhalese are on their part furious with how the separatists have targeted civilians and even bhikkhus, and carry a deep-seated fear of terrorist attacks which they know can take place anywhere and at any time. The protracted strife has drained the Sri Lankan treasury and discouraged long-term economic investments and entrepreneurial activity, the effects of which all feel, not least in terms of the high levels of unemployment27 and cost of living. A system of free schooling has, moreover, contributed to a decidedly competitive educational environment where dreams and aspirations are easily

27 Estimated unemployment rate for the first quarter of 2003 was 9.2 percent (Nanayakkara 2004:16). This rate gives a false impression, however. Large numbers of underemployed are excluded as the survey counts a person working as little as one hour a week as employed. The levels of unemployment are particularly high among educated youth. The National Youth Survey of 2000 found that 59.46 percent of people between 15 and 29 years, holding university degrees or a higher level of education, were unemployed (Lakshman 2002).

25 crushed. Blaming others for one’s misfortunes is one way of salvaging some self esteem. Unfortunately, the scapegoats are all too often the ethnic Other. Emotional involvement has caused an entrenchedness of position which permeates discourse and threatens a peaceful resolution. Everyone has a bias – a distinct perspective, and even scholarly publications are frequently and correctly accused of having political agendas. Of this biased scholarship Dagmar Hellmann-Rajanayagam noted that “scholars of vast and erudite knowledge practised history in order to put the other group firmly in its place” (1994:18). Dennis Austin and Anirudha Gupta were led to propose that “all history is made up but the history of Sri Lanka is more made up than most”, before going on to note that “virtually every document put out by the government or its opponents begins with the myths surrounding Tamil kings and Buddhist priests” (Austin 1988:2). In the following I will, rather than pretend to present an unbiased account of the conflict, attempt to reproduce the perspectives of the parties involved. Needless to say, my presentations will fail to give justice to complexities as well as the diversity of views on either side. The reader must be aware that the views I present are not the views of all Tamils or all Sinhalese, but I do believe that they account for some of the more commonly shared ideas relating to the conflict on each side. Knowledge of these views will be of value to the reader when we later shall attempt to understand certain social processes which take place in the periphery of, but nonetheless in the context of, the ethnic conflict.

The Sinhalese: Defenders of the Island Fortress of Buddhism A faded sticker glued to the wall of one of Peradeniya’s dining halls reads: “Oh Sinhalese Sons, Why Are You Silent When Your Country Is Being Torn Apart?” Next to it is another sticker featuring a map of the territory controlled or contested by the LTTE. On it are 4 large, dark red circles. They single out areas I assume to be sacred or of great significance to Buddhists. One of these is the island of Nainativu (Nagadipa) off the Jaffna peninsula, where Buddha, according to myth, walked ashore on his second visit to the island. There are altogether 16 Buddhist places of veneration throughout the island. They are pilgrimage destinations and several of them, like Nainativu, are thought to have been visited by the Buddha himself or to contain his relics28. The strong belief in the existence of a sacred tie between Buddhism, the Sinhalese people and the Sri Lankan nation is an anchor point of the Sinhalese Buddhist’s identity. It is this belief which enables a determined opposition, on behalf of Sinhalese Buddhists, to any devolution of power to the Tamil population in the north

28 The most famous of these sites is arguably Kandy’s Sri Dalada Maligawa (Temple of the Tooth), which is said to contain Buddha’s upper eye-tooth.

26 and east. In their view, Sri Lanka was entrusted to the Sinhalese people by Buddha himself. For historical confirmation the Sinhalese turn to The Mahavamsa (The Great Chronicle) – the most important of a number of vamsas (chronicles). These are mytho-historical texts put in writing by scholastic monks and the Mahavamsa, composed in the 6th century CE, is the oldest. It holds that Buddha, on his death bed, exclaimed: “Vijaya, son of king Sihabahu, is come to Lanka from the country of Lala, together with seven hundred followers. In Lanka, O lord of gods, will my religion be established, therefore carefully protect him with his followers and Lanka” (Mahamana n.d.: Chap. VII). While the historical accuracy of the vamsas is questionable, it tends to be accepted at face value by the Sinhalese who make active use them to argue for a privileged position of Buddhism and Sinhalese culture. The passage quoted above is taken as evidence that their project was sanctioned by the Buddha himself, that he made them the guardians of the true form of Buddhism,29 and that Sri Lanka, therefore, is their island – not for selfish reasons, but for the noble cause of protecting the teachings of the Buddha (de Silva 1981). The Mahavamsa, moreover, is taken as proof that the Sinhalese were the first to settle on the island, with the arrival of Vijaya, their mythic ancestor, some time in the fifth century BCE.

Tambiah has described the Sinhalese as “a majority with a minority complex” (1986). In a Sri Lankan context they are the clear majority, numbering around 14 million (Nanayakkara 2005:Table 2.9), but in the region they are vastly outnumbered by Tamils. The Indian state of Tamil Nadu alone has a Tamil population surpassing 60 million (Census of India 2001, n.d.: Provisional Population Totals). What some Sinhalese fear is a Dravidian movement seeking to unify the Tamils of Sri Lanka and India. Some are certain it is happening already and the most anxious are convinced that the Tamil agenda is to exterminate the Sinhalese people along with its culture, language and religion. “Why should Tamils live in Sri Lanka,” they might ask “when they have Tamil Nadu?” and the Tamil population is looked upon as the outcome of centuries of Indian expansionist strategies. Tamils are denied roots to the island, and are instead treated as an invading people. Tambiah (1992) has shown how a discourse of a national unity threatened by South Indian Tamil invaders is embedded in the Mahavamsa. The chronicle tells us the stories of heroic Sinhalese kings such as Dutthagamani and Parakrama Bahu who, by defeating the Tamil conquerors, secured Sri Lanka for the Sinhalese and for Buddhism. Dutthagamani, after slaying the Tamil king Elara and his army, apparently

29 The Theravada school

27 felt remorse, but the Mahavamsa explains that he was comforted by the Buddhist clergy who assured him that only one-and-a-half of those slain, were human beings30. The rest were unbelievers and therefore “not more to be esteemed than beasts” (Mahamana, n.d.: Chap. XXV). The acceptance of, and the constant referring to, the Mahavamsa as historical source validates an opposition between the Tamils and the Sinhalese which is based on primordial identities, derived from a conflation of language, religion and ethnicity. But such a conflation is a contemporary phenomenon, which projected onto people and events of the chronicle, creates a black/white picture denied of complexities. Tambiah notes accordingly that

A primordial golden age with a perfect fit between Sinhala people, Sinhala language, Buddhism, and the entire territorial space of the island could not have existed in Dutthagamani’s time, and probably did not exist at the time the Mahavamsa was composed (1992:137).

The account of Dutthagamani’s heroism is a justification of violence against non-Buddhists and has, along with an acceptance of bhikkhus as the traditional advisors of the king, made possible a politicization of the sangha (the order Buddhist monks) and a situation where a hard-line approach against Tamil separatists is most heavily advocated by it. A case in point was the hunger strike engaged in by a prominent bhikkhu politician in Kandy in June, 2005, in front of the Dalada Maligawa temple. The “fast-unto-death” was staged in protest of the government’s attempt to set up a tsunami aid distribution deal with the LTTE. The bhikkhu sat for seven days withouth touching food or water, before the strike ended on assurances from the President that the sangha would be consulted in the matter. It is difficult to overestimate the influence of the Buddhist clergy. By evoking religious sentiments they are able to reach out to the Sinhala Buddhist masses and mount great pressure on the politicians. On the fifth day of the Kandy hunger strike, the sangha called for half a day’s closure of all downtown businesses as a sign of respect. As far as I know, and I was there, not one shop remained open.

The Sri Lanka Tamils – Self-Preservation through Separatism The Sri Lanka Tamils do of course not see themselves as invaders. Rather, they point out that Sri Lanka has been their home for centuries. Some have inverted the Sinhalese account of history, arguing that Dravidians were the first to settle in Sri Lanka, but that they were exterminated by subsequent Indo-Aryan invaders. No one knows with certainty when the Dravidian immigration began, but, in the words of K. M. de Silva: “come they did from very

30 One had embraced the three refuges of Buddha, dhamma (doctrine) and sangha (order of monks) and the other had committed to the five precepts.

28 early times” (1981:12). The above-mentioned Tamil king Elara usurped the throne in the capital Anuradhapura in 227 BCE, and succeeded two other Tamil adventurer-rulers (ibid:37). The Sri Lanka Tamils have, in other words, a history on the island which dates back more than 2200 years, though the first settlers may have been absorbed into the Sinhala mainstream and today’s Tamils are likely to have descended from later waves of immigration. Interestingly, the Mahavamsa proclaims Elara to have been a “virtuous and just king” (Tambiah 1992:130), whose only noteworthy flaw was not being Buddhist. We see in this a theme of persecution which A. J. Wilson (2000) argues was much later to become a significant determinant for the formation of a Tamil nationalism. However, the lack of historical material from early times, apart from Buddhist sources, leaves us with little regarding the quality and degree of historical interaction between Sri Lanka Tamils and Sinhalese. The topic is one of controversy because nationalisms tend to rely on history for authority and legitimation. For the Sinhalese Buddhist nationalist, a questioning of the Mahavamsa’s authority is unacceptable, as illustrated by the commotion which followed the publication of Tambiah’s Buddhism Betrayed? (1992). The work implicated the chronicle’s authors in a political project: the construction of a Buddhist (mainly Sinhalese) polity, perceived to be threatened by the Hindus (mainly Tamils) of the island as well as of the Indian mainland31. K. M. de Silva asserts that Dutthagamani’s victory over Elara was not the victory of “a self-conscious Sinhalese proto-nationalism over Dravidian imperialism”, that “neither the Sinhalese nor the Tamils remained racially pure,” and that “there is no reason to suppose that tension was the normal state of affairs between them” (de Silva 1977:37-38). The very categories of “Sinhalese” and “Tamil” may in other words be misguiding in the sense that they are informed by later events and contemporary associations. The same line of argument is followed by Jonathan Spencer who asserts that “the understanding of the national past as a history of warring ‘communities’, ‘races’, or ‘ethnic groups’ is a product of colonial readings of the available sources on the Sri Lankan past” (1990:5). The vamsas, as read in a 20th century Sri Lankan political climate, influenced by the gathering winds of ethnic or racial consciousness, validates a world-view based on eternal ethnic opposition. It was difficult to see that communal relations could ever have been different – that the very communities could have been different. This, however, must not be taken to mean that pre-colonial relations between the ancestors of today’s Tamils and Sinhalese were nothing but harmonious. There were wars and riots, but these tended to align on religious rather than linguistic or ethnic lines

31 The time of the Mahavamsa’s creation coincided with the rise of three rather militant Hindu Tamil kingdoms in South India.

29 (ibid:8). Nationalisms – Sinhalese and Tamil, therefore, must be seen as modern constructs and reactions to the changing circumstances accompanying colonialism and later, Independence. That being said, Sri Lanka Tamil nationalism evolved as much in direct response to its Sinhalese counterpart as in response to anything else. The British Empire had protected the Sri Lanka Tamils’ regional autonomy and reaping the benefits of excellent missionary schooling, Tamils did well in the Civil Service. As Wilson points out, the sense of safety provided by the British may have prevented unification of a people “highly splintered for reasons of caste, region, religion (Hindus versus Christians), politics and class” (2000:23)32. There was what he calls a “national awareness” (ibid:42), based upon perceived differences from the Sinhalese and a rich cultural and religious heritage, but there was during the British rule, and in the decades following Independence, no significant movement for a separate state. The Federal Party did at first not pursue separatism but a federal union with some devolution of power to the provinces. They also demanded that the Sinhalese colonisation of Tamil areas in the north and east – areas often referred to as the Tamil homelands, to stop, that the Up-country Tamils should be re-enfranchised, and that the Tamil language should have the same official recognition and status as Sinhala. It was when subsequent governments failed to meet these requests – the major political parties yielding rather to waves of Sinhalese nationalism, that a full-blown Tamil nationalism and demands for self-rule emerged. Since then, the Sri Lanka Tamils have found ample reason to feel slighted by the state and the Sinhalese majority. Anti-Tamil riots, the growth of militant Buddhism, the continued Sinhalese colonisation of “Tamil homelands”, the implementation of the “Sinhala Only Act”, educational discrimination at all levels, the political exclusion of Tamil politicians, the implementation of the discriminatory 1972 constitution33, and several broken promises on behalf of the government, were all factors further alienating the Sri Lanka Tamil population further. The 1983 riots34 are by many, in retrospect, seen as the beginning of the civil war and a point of no return. As Peter Kloos (2001) points out, however, it is problematic to define such a decisive moment. The riots were an important event but Kloos sees the impetus for armed struggle as having been instigated much earlier. “In restricting the

32 See Pfaffenberger (1990) for an account of caste discrimination in Jaffna during the colonial period. Wilson (2000) focuses less on conflict but gives a fuller account of the caste hierarchy. Both emphasise that it was mainly the Vellalar caste which was able to make use of the missionary schooling system to launch civil careers. 33 This constitution conferred a special status upon Buddhism, bestowing on it state guardianship. The constitution moreover reaffirmed Sinhala’s position as sole official language (Kearney 1978:529). 34 These island-wide riots, initiated in response to an LTTE ambush on government soldiers, were particularly sombre as law enforcement failed to intervene during the first 24 hours. The highly organized fashion in which they were carried out also suggests that the rioters were helped by the authorities. For a discussion of the 1983 riots and what made them possible, see Tambiah (1986).

30 freedom of political manoeuvre of the Tamil minority,” he notes, “the Sinhala majority in Sri Lanka, in the course of its policies left little room for the Tamil population to pursue peaceful policies with any trust” (ibid:192). In the words of Wilson: “The actions of the UF [United Front] government left the FP [Federal Party] and the Tamils with no alternative but to turn their backs on the single federalised island entity they had striven for . . . .” (2000:99). Tamil nationalism, therefore, was born gradually and as a defensive reaction to the insensitivity of the state and the ethnic majority to the grievances of the state’s largest minority. The turn to militancy in the late 70’s should not have come as a complete surprise to anyone and Tamil nationalists are likely to nod in approval of Kloos when he warns: “Deny the adversary all freedom to political manoeuvre peaceful or military, and he will resort to terrorism” (2001:192). As we shall see later, however, the Sri Lanka Tamil separatists have not been as sensitive towards other minorities’ situations as they would have liked the Sinhalese to be towards their own.

History and Heritage – Conceptualisations of the Past E. Valentine Daniel postulates in the essay “Of Heritage and History” (1994) a fundamental difference in how Sri Lanka Tamils and Sinhalese orient towards the past. He calls these respective dispositions “heritage” and “history,” and makes it very clear that these are cultural constructions and that their concealed character usually allows them to go undetected. The Sinhalese, according to Daniel, internalize from childhood an historical consciousness and a pride in Sinhalese history because they see their contemporary culture and society as the culmination of a chain of historical events. Their relationship with the past is a causal one and the chain of events is recorded in the Buddhist chronicles. The vamsas are indeed unique in a South Asian context for presenting what appear to be objective historical accounts, and Daniel remarks that it is not their actual truth value which is important, but the fact that they are accepted as historically valid. The Sri Lanka Tamils have no similar historical accounts or any such historical consciousness. They rather take pride in a rich cultural and religious heritage – a symbolic reservoir which can be enacted in the present. For them, in fact, the past exists only through this re-enactment. It is the heritage which makes a Tamil, Tamil – not a historical process. Daniel concludes that “when compared to the linguistic consciousness and the awareness of the literary and religious heritage of the Tamils, the consciousness of their political history is as dim as a candle before the sun” (ibid:27, original emphasis). While Daniel makes no claim for these cultural differences to be absolute he argues that they do have a broad validity. However, as the Sri Lanka Tamils, following Independence, came

31 under attack by Sinhalese Buddhist nationalists whose beliefs and arguments rested on their historical accounts, Tamils increasingly felt the need to reply in the same manner, accepting the premises laid down by the majority. This gave rise to the Tamil homelands rhetoric, as well as a range of speculations regarding Dravidian and Indo-Aryan immigration to the island. Hellmann-Rajanayagam, on her part, argues that Tamils use history not to prove who they are but to prove “their right to be” (1994:5). Their history, in other words, is a defence against Sinhalese history’s claim to the entire island. Hellmann-Rajanayagam agrees with Daniel that Tamil identity, unlike Sinhalese, does not rest on a sense of history but on cultural and religious traditions. She maintains that: “if religion and culture could confer a sense of identity, then history could only justify one’s existence” (ibid:17, original emphasis). Paradoxically, the Sri Lanka Tamils’ evocation of history to argue their right to be, has separated them from other Tamils, in India and Sri Lanka – their emphasis on historical uniqueness being at odds with a regional Tamil unity (ibid:19). As we shall see in Chapter 4, there is a related idea, that the Sri Lanka Tamil cultural and religious heritage is “purer” than that of their Tamil compatriots on Sri Lanka or in India.

Claiming a Say – Minor Players with Major Grievances Wilson (2000) notes that the Sri Lanka Tamils tended to see themselves as one of the island’s two founding races, but that they were with Independence conceptually “demoted” to minority status. The Sri Lanka Tamils remain, however, the largest ethnic minority and as it is generally acknowledged that Sri Lanka will somehow have to solve the “Tamil problem,” they are not ignored by the public eye. Media coverage of the conflict tends to focus almost exclusively on the two largest ethnic groups of the island, making it is easy to lose sight of the ethnic and cultural diversity existing in their shadows. Sri Lanka’s location on the trade route between China and Arabia has from time immemorial made it a favoured stop for sea faring traders, some of whom settled and made it their home. In newer times, colonial administrations have altered the demographics further through trade or by shifting populations of colonial subjects. The Sri Lankan Department of Census and Statistics, in its latest census survey, operates with eight ethnic categories. These are (in order of size): “Sinhalese”, “Sri Lankan Tamil”, “Sri Lankan Moor” 35, “Indian Tamil” (Up-country Tamil), “Malay”, “Burgher or Eurasian”, “Sri Lanka Chetty” and “Bharatha.” The latter two categories both

35 The survey actually registered more Sri Lankan Moors than Sri Lanka Tamils, but one can safely assume that it was because the political climate made it impossible to carry out the survey in the predominantly Sri Lanka Tamil districts of the north and east.

32 appeared in the census for the first time and numbered roughly 13,000 people altogether (Nayanakkara 2005: Table 2.9). Not included in the census was the category of “Indian Moor.” This group of descendents of Indian Muslim traders, who immigrated in colonial times, has not been included since 1971. Similarly, a category which was included in the census up until 1963 but which is now gone, is that of the “Veddahs”, descendents of the island’s indigenous hunter-gatherers. Their numbers are greatly diminished due to assimilation and intrusion into their territories. Indeed, the modern multi-ethnic state has posted a challenge and called for the adaptation of all the ethnic minorities of the island.

The Malays have fared better than most. In the 1881 census they numbered 8,900. In 2001, however, their numbers had reached 54,800 and in the interval they registered population increase in every survey (ibid). The Malays are descendents of mainly Javanese soldiers brought to the island by the Dutch between 1650 and 1788 (Osman & Sourjah 2005:50). The soldiers were renowned for their martial prowess and recruited by the British to a separate Malay regiment as well as to the police, fire brigade, estates, and prison- and customs departments (ibid:51-52, Halaldheen 2002). The Malays have been able to maintain their Muslim faith, a distinct culture, and a separate language which is a creolized version of Malay, influenced by Tamil, Sinhala, English and Arabic. Today, most Malays live in Colombo and in a few other urban centres. Unemployment is on the rise as they face increasing competition in their traditional occupational areas. Politically, Malay identity is threatened by a tendency to subsume it to the religious category “Muslim,” which again is equated with “Moor” (Osman & Sourjah 2005:57).

The Burghers and the Eurasians are declining in numbers. Their collective population size recorded a peak with the 1953 census but has since then dwindled to 35,300 (Nanayakkara 2005: Table 2.9). Burghers are people with traces of Portuguese or Dutch blood, while the Eurasians have partial British ancestry, but the groups are diverse with regard to how “watered out” their European biological and cultural heritage is. Being English speaking and Christian, however, they were privileged by the British and did exceptionally well in British Ceylon, attaining high levels of education and a place in the local bourgeoisie (Jayawardena 2000:232). Independence left the Burgers and Eurasians bereft of their special standing and their mixed heritage was seen as a threat by Sinhalese as well as Tamils and Muslims, among whom ideas of national and ethnic purity were fast taking root. Moreover, their Christian faith and bourgeoisie status left them prone to attacks from the lower classes and as communal

33 tensions intensified, many chose to emigrate to Western countries. (Colin-Thome & Ragel 2005:46). However, not all Burghers were affluent and for those who were not, emigration was no option. Those who could not afford private schooling, moreover, found themselves educationally disadvantaged, unable to attend classes in their mother tongue36 (ibid:22).

Two other ethnic groups, which were both part of the colonial bourgeoisie, were the Sri Lanka Chetties37 and the Bharathas. These were South Indian communities who came in large numbers for work and trade from the 19th century and onwards (Jayawardena 2000:207), though they have had trade links to the island since the 13th century (Tambiah 2005:2). The Chetties were so successful that they, by the middle of the 19th century, controlled nearly all Indo-Ceylon and internal trade (Jayawardena 2005:133). The failure to include these groups as separate ethnic categories in previous census surveys stems from a tendency to see them as Tamil castes. This is perhaps because Tamil used to be their mother tongue. They have, however, as will become apparent later, little in common with the Up-country Tamils who immigrated in the same period. Following the post-Independence language reforms, most Chetties chose to enrol their children in the Sinhala language streams (Tambiah 2005:7). The 2001 census placed the Chetty population at 10,800 and the Bharata population at 2,200 and it is quite possible that these populations are diminishing quickly due to assimilation (ibid:6). Another group of Indians enticed by business opportunities on the island in colonial times, were the Indian Moors. Their influence on the retail trade, resented by the Sinhalese, was a major factor leading to anti-Muslim riots in 191538. All Indian Moors were not wealthy traders, however. Many of those who arrived in the British period came to work on plantations. The last census in which the Indian Moors constituted a separate category was conducted in 1971 at which time they numbered 27,400.

The final census in which the Veddahs appeared was conducted in 1963 and registered their population at a mere 400. But they have never been many and their highest recorded population size was 5,300 in 1911. In their native tongue Veddahs call themselves “Wanniya- laeto” which means forest-dwellers and they are descendents of the indigenous islanders. With each wave of immigrants and especially with the rapid post-Independence population

36 The Batticaloa Burghers do for instance speak only English and Portuguese. 37 Better known as Colombo Chetties, although they have settled in other places too. 38 For information on the well documented riots and their impact, see Kearney (1970) and the following three articles in that issue. Kearney writes that “the suppression of the riots assumed a role in Ceylon similar to that of the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh massacre in Amritsar for the Indian nationalist movement” (ibid:219). See also Tambiah (1992:8) for some of the nationalistic sentiments that led to, and were strengthened by, the riots.

34 growth, the Veddahs have had to choose between assimilation and further isolation. However, while census numbers suggest that the Veddahs are rapidly being assimilated, their identification with the Sinhalese and Tamils may be superficial and a matter of nominally accepting other cultural codes while retaining a deeper identification with one’s own community. A deep-seated Veddah identity is suggested by the survival of a unique matrilineal system of descent (Cultural Survival of Sri Lanka, n.d.: Sri Lanka’s Indigenous Wanniya-laeto).

The Moors – Caught in the Middle The largest Sri Lankan Muslim ethnicity by far, constituting approximately 96 percent of the Muslim population, is that of the Sri Lanka Moors. Because of their numbers, the ethnic group tends to be conflated with the religious category “Muslim”39. The Sri Lanka Moors maintain a separate ethnic identity, claiming descent from Arab traders who visited and settled on the island in pre-colonial times. While de Silva (1981:72) does not question the Moors’ Arab ancestry, their claim is, according to Kumari Jawawardena, a fairly new one, stemming from around the turn of the 20th century. She sees it as a political expression of a status superior to that of the Indian Moors who are of South Indian origin and whose immigration was of a later date (2000:220). Asserting Arab ancestry was, however, whether factual or not, also a way of creating distance to the Sri Lanka Tamils with whom the Moors share their mother tongue40. Sri Lanka Tamils, in attempt to create a common front of Tamil speakers in opposition to the Sinhalese, have denied the Muslims’ claim to Arab descent and argued in stead that they are Tamils who converted to Islam. The Muslims on their part perceived in the Tamil rhetoric a threat to their religious identity (ibid:225). When, after Independence, communal tension increased between Tamils and the Sinhalese, relations between Sri Lanka Tamils and Muslims were tested too. Large numbers of Muslims lived in the areas in the north and on the east coast claimed by the Tamil separatists, and feared subordination to them if they should have their Eelam.

Many Muslims prospered in trade and business during the British rule and tended therefore to be politically conservative (ibid:226). They won little popularity among the Sinhalese, but their stance against the Tamil separatism has gradually changed that. The UNP and the SLFP

39 “Muslim” may therefore in the following be taken to mean “Moor” unless otherwise is explicitly mentioned. 40 Why the Moors speak Tamil seems to be a matter of some controversy. Tamil was, however, a lingua franca of trade in the region, and it is possible that Arab traders married Tamil women.

35 urged Muslim politicians to defect from Tamil parties and join them in stead, promising state offices and positions of influence, and so the Muslims and Sinhalese developed a “symbiotic and pragmatic relationship,” which “seemed like ‘collusion’ to the Tamils” (Balachandran 2005:Divide and rule). The Muslims also formed a separate political party, the Sri Lanka Muslim Congress. In response to the Tamil separatists’ call for Eelam, moreover, leading Muslim politicians formulated a demand for a separate Muslim majority polity on the south- east coast, and for the safeguarding of Muslims’ rights in Tamil areas. The Tamil separatists, in turn, have interpreted such demands as attempts to divide their traditional homelands. Relations between Sri Lanka Tamils and Muslims reached a nadir in October 1990, when all Jaffna Muslims – the number was in the thousands41, were forced to leave the peninsula in an LTTE orchestrated mass expulsion. The community was given only 48 hours to respond and the evicted had to leave everything which they were unable to transport. The rationale behind the expulsion was that the LTTE expected an imminent government invasion of Jaffna and that there were collaborators among the Muslims. To this date only 10 to 15 percent of the displaced have dared return (Hasbullah 2004:231). Most of them have after all these years little to return to and with the added risk of the separatists’ unpredictability they choose instead the relative safety afforded by life as internal refugees. The east coast Muslims have also, from time to time, been targeted by the LTTE and attempted coerced into loyalty. Relations between Muslims and Sri Lanka Tamils remain tense today as the Tiger leadership refuses Muslim participation as a third party in peace talks with the government. We shall, however, leave the Muslims here and turn our attention to the Up-country Tamils – the ethnic group of primary interest to this thesis. Like the other minorities, their position in the contemporary Sri Lankan political landscape is marginal and peripheral and it has been so throughout their history on the island. Chapter 3 is in its entirety devoted to them.

41 The exact figure is a matter of controversy but the census undertaken in 1981 lists the Muslim population to have been just shy of 13,000 (Nanayakkara 2005: Table 2.10), while Hasbullah (2004:225) operates with 15,000. See Hasbullah for a brief but helpful discussion of the consequences for the internally displaced Muslims.

36 Chapter 3 – A People in the Making

The irreversible end of oppression is in sight. Then will open a new chapter in human history, also for the plantation people. The history of People who are free. (Caspersz 2000:7)

Ceylon black tea is world famous and its export has from the beginning until present day been a backbone in the Sri Lankan economy. But while the produce has attained world-wide fame, the producers have been largely ignored in their own home country. They, who have known only the green hills of the islands’ interior where they have toiled for generations, devoting their lives to labour in fields and factories, were treated with suspicion as a people in transit. Perceived as aliens, their loyalties were questioned and their civil rights denied. To prevent them from affecting change through democratic means, they were robbed of the franchise and citizenship they had enjoyed under British rule. To secure large profits for the state and export companies, their wages were kept at a subsistence minimum, or below. Bonds of debt prevented the work force from seeking employment elsewhere, and while it was foreign exchange earnings generated through tea export which enabled a system of free schooling in post-Independence Sri Lanka, the education of tea workers was never made a priority, for why should tea pluckers need to read and write? The history of the Up-country Tamils of Sri Lanka is undoubtedly one of exploitation and discrimination. But it is also one of resilience and resistance. It is, moreover, a history only beginning to unfold, just as Up-country Tamil identity is still in the making, and it is a history which deserves to be widely known, in Sri Lanka as in any other country where one can expect to be served a cup of Ceylon tea.

The Politics of Naming What is in a name? Or to state the fundamental question in an even plainer fashion: what is a name? It is easier to start by asserting what names are not. Names are for instance usually not arbitrarily chosen. And while names may purport to be mere labels attached to objective realities, they are not. In other words: names create that which they name – they are signs producing that which they signify. There are no a priori units to which the words of our languages have a 1:1 fit. Language is a system of classification and so speech, and name- giving, are acts of classifying. This is as true for the physical as for the social world (indeed, the divide is an act of classification itself). Classifications, in turn, decide how we perceive our surroundings and how we relate and respond to them. Names are therefore constitutive in a double sense: 1) they shape our ideas of what the world is like and 2) through our actions,

37 make the world more similar to our ideas. In this manner, social categories tend to become self-fulfilling prophesies. Even our most basic distinctions, such as that between man and woman, are problematic when we take them to be god-given or biological Truths, placing them above the sphere of that which is challengeable. The notion of human races is another deep-seated system of classification, although it makes no sense biologically speaking. As we saw in the previous chapter, the Sri Lankan ethnic conflict is often portrayed as a battle between Indo-Ariyan and Dravidian races. Whether we speak of races, ethnicities or cultures, however, the fact remains that our classifications are but approximations of reality – a map of a landscape. But while the map does not change the landscape (only our ideas of it), social categories and their names do influence the way people relate to one another. Naming, therefore, is a political act. Those who, like scholars, hold the power of naming, also hold the power to define reality. For anthropologists, whose primary objectives have been descriptive, this duality is a troubling paradox.

The ethnic group, which I fairly consistently up until now have referred to as “Up-country Tamil,” has been, and still is, referred to by a number of other names. These are names given by others, or names originating from within, but they have in common that not one of them is felt to adequately describe the entire category. What this confusion reveals is more than anything a struggle to define boundaries. Various names reflect different aspects of a shared experience or emphasize certain differences from the island’s other Tamils, whom I have referred to as “Sri Lanka Tamils42.” Let us look at some alternatives43. Bass notes that the derogatory “coolie” was frequently employed in colonial times. The word referred to labourers of Indian or Chinese origin and conveyed a sense of racial inferiority (2004:96). While several other names were used in this era44, the only one to have persevered is the one which first received official status: “Indian Tamil.” This is, as we have seen, still used in the official census, although it attracts criticism. The term postulates the continued dominance of Indian ancestry on the formation of group identity, suggesting that the target population not really belongs in Sri Lanka. In this sense, the nomenclature fits well with the suspicious questioning of the Up-country Tamils’ loyalties. When the Up-country Tamils after Independence were disenfranchised, what had been a descriptive term had become

42 My use of “Sri Lanka Tamil” is at the lack of a better alternative. I will not, as Bass (2004:91), use “Jaffna Tamil”, since many eastern Tamils would recent that. I do not suggest that Sri Lanka Tamils are more Sri Lankan than Up-country Tamils, rather that their traditional settlements have covered wider areas. 43 For much more thorough accounts, see Daniel (1996:20-24) and Bass (2004:95-117). 44 For instance “Malabar”, “Malabar coolie”, “Ceylon Tamil”, “Indians”, and “Estate Labourers”.

38 prescriptive (ibid:102). Other names proposed since then have sought to emphasize the Up- country Tamils’ dissociation with India and new beginnings in Sri Lanka. “Tamil of Indian Origin” or “Indian Origin Tamil” were two such alternatives, but seeing as all Tamils on the island at one point arrived from India, further modification was necessary. “Tamil of Recent Indian Origin” is fairly precise, but rather long-winded. The much snappier “New Tamil” (as opposed to “Old Tamil”) was rejected by Up-country Tamils who saw it as denying them of a heritage as proud as that of the Sri Lanka Tamils. “Plantation Tamil” and “Estate Tamil” are on the other hand two varieties which have many adherents. These emphasise how the history of the people is intertwined with the plantation sector and reflect the fact that most Up- country Tamils still live within it. The terms do not include residents of up-country towns, however, as do “Up-country Tamil” and “Hill-country Tamil.” The latter two, moreover, reflect a phenomenological attachment to the landscapes of the island’s interior. All these last four terms can be perceived as exclusive in the sense that the people living outside the up- country and the plantations are defined away. This need not be the case, however, if the names are taken as recognition of the immense importance of the plantations and the up- country in shaping a collective identity, rather than as defining criteria for membership. When I, as Bass, have chosen to use “Up-country Tamil” it is primarily because it agrees with the Tamil term which seems to be coming out on top: “malaiyakam thamilar” (literally Tamils of the Mountains or Hills). I do believe, after all, that it should be the prerogative of the group in question to name itself. There is, however, no clear consensus among the Up-country Tamils.

It has been argued that the multitude of names for Up-country Tamils is indicative of an identity crises facing them as a people (Sinnathamby 2004:183). Bass argues that an ethnic identity only began to emerge in the 1970’s along with an identification with the hilly landscape of the island’s interior. This fits well with the popularity of “malaiyakam thamilar”, which became prominent only in the 1990’s (2005:117). Up-country Tamil identity is indeed, as Daniel writes, “caught in the throes of change” (1996a:19), and Up-country Tamils are “most aware of their nonessentialness, that they are beings in the making. . . “ (ibid:42).

A Story of Arrival, Emplacement and Marginalization The beginning of the Up-country Tamils’ history coincides with that of the Sri Lankan plantation economy. The crop of choice was coffee, and not tea, and it was the British who, in the 1830’s, shortly after conquering the kingdom of Kandy, made it big business. K. M. de Silva notes in A History of Sri Lanka that the plantations by 1846 numbered between 500 and

39 600, and that expansion continued into the 1870’s (1981:269). The British were, however, hampered by a shortage of labour supply as there were not substantial numbers among the Sinhalese who were willing to take permanent employment on the plantations (Hollup 1994:19). The solution lay in a reliance on immigrant labour from South India. Labour recruitment was left to the planters who made use of private agents, known as kangānis. These were themselves South Indians and travelled frequently to India where they made use of their social networks in recruiting labour gangs, sometimes as many as 50-75 a time, nearly all of them male seasonal labourers (ibid:28). The journey to the plantations, although relatively short, was not easy. In the words of a “typical Up-country Tamil orator” as constructed by Daniel:45

Many died of disease before they even reached the mountains. Some died in the sea when their boats capsized in monsoon storms. Others died en route in the dense jungles of the North Western and North Central Provinces. . . . Some died of cholera, typhoid, smallpox, and malaria. Some were eaten by wild animals. (Daniel 1996a:33-34)

The story goes on to describe how the first immigrants were tricked by planters and kangānis who withheld their wages, thereby trapping them in debt so that they were unable to return to India in the slack season. Corroborating this view, Bass rejects the idea of seasonal migration as a myth. He argues that the journey by foot was too arduous to be carried out annually and estimates that as many as a quarter of the immigrants arriving in the 1850’s and 1860’s died en route to the up-country. He moreover points out that few, if any, of the immigrants could have afforded to travel by train (Bass 2004:24-25). The pattern of immigration was to change when a coffee blight appeared in 1869 and over the next decade devastated the industry (de Silva 1981:286). Mainly tea, but also rubber, replaced coffee as the plantations recovered. Along with the tea, which was more demanding on labour and needed all-year cultivation, followed tasks such as plucking and weeding, seen as unsuitable to men. The new crop, therefore, favoured the recruitment of family units rather than individual males and the arrival of women and children provided for more stability in the labour force (Bass 2004:22).

Immigration peaked towards the end of the 19th and in the beginning of the 20th century, but was halted by Indian authorities in 1939 in response to anti-Indian sentiments among the Sinhalese (ibid:22). By then the Up-country Tamil population exceeded 800,000 and was concentrated in the plantations (Nanayakkara 2005:Table 2.9; Hollup 1994:23). Bass notes that “Up-country Tamils had become emplaced in Sri Lanka and identified themselves as a

45 The historical oration is constructed from 25 oral accounts gathered by Daniel from Up-country Tamils.

40 local community” (Bass 2004:22, my emphasis). At this point they had also received limited voting rights46 under the 1931 Donoughmore Constitution’s implementation of universal suffrage47. The Up-country Tamils used their franchise in the two general elections of 1931 and 1936, mobilizing 148,000 and 225,000 voters respectively, and held large influence, particularly in the up-country constituencies (Hollup 1994:38). Yet, the reader will recall from the previous chapter that Sinhalese Buddhist nationalism was, in this period, fast becoming a factor to be reckoned with. Large segments of the Sinhalese thoroughly disliked the political influence of the Up-country Tamils – in their eyes foreigners with only a transitory interest in Sri Lanka. Relations soured further with the international depression of the 1930’s and the collapse of export markets which was a heavy blow to the vulnerable Sri Lankan economy (ibid:39). Competition, in turn, sharpened along communal lines and Sinhalese who lacked experience with Up-country Tamils, would think they were as well off as the Chetties and other Indian origin traders, whose financial success they despised (ibid:40).

The sum of this nationalistic pressure was directed at D. S. Senanayake as he assumed power after Independence, and one of the first actions of his government was to pass legislation which effectively disenfranchised and rendered stateless the vast majority of Up-country Tamils. The move was undoubtedly influenced by the Up-country Tamils’ unfailing support of leftist parties. The Up-country Tamils’ own party, the Ceylon Indian Congress (CIC), won seven seats in the 1947 Parliamentary election and the Up-country Tamils, moreover, helped secure seats for a number of leftist candidates. The new legislation required of all Up-country Tamils a rigid documentation of ancestry as precondition for citizenship – requirements which most people on the island would have had difficulties in meeting. The government next sought to have the Up-country Tamils repatriated to India, but met little goodwill with Indian Prime Minister Nehru and his government. A deal was struck, following Nehru’s death in 1964, between his successor Shastri, and the then Prime Minster of Sri Lanka, Sirimavo Bandaranaike. The so-called Sirimavo-Shastri Pact allowed for the repatriation of 525,000 persons plus natural increase to India, while 300,000 persons and their natural increase would be granted Sri Lankan citizenship. The 150,000 whose fate was left undecided had by 1974 grown to 200,000 at which point it was decided they should be divided equally between the two countries. But repatriation was slow and halted altogether in 1983 due to warlike

46 Criteria were five years continuous residence in the country and the successful completion of a literacy test (Hollup 1994:38). 47 De Silva notes only four percent of the population had held franchise under the previous constitution and that the Donoughmore Constitution made Sri Lanka the first Asian country with universal suffrage (1981:422).

41 conditions, before finally, in 1986, the Sri Lankan government decided to grant citizenship to all remaining Up-country Tamils (ibid:43). By then, nearly a third of all Up-country Tamils had been repatriated to India (Bass 2004:24). The re-enfranchisement was politically motivated, just as the disenfranchisement had been. The UNP sought to secure the continued support of Up-country Tamil politicians and simultaneously pit them against the militant separatists in the north and east (ibid:145). Regardless, re-enfranchisement was a watershed in the history of the remaining Up-country Tamils, allowing them as a people for the first time some formal recognition of their belonging to Sri Lanka.

Tamils of a Different Kind? Daniel has shown how an emerging Up-country Tamil identity is informed by a disposition towards the past which differs from that of the Sinhalese or the Sri Lanka Tamils. We recall from Chapter 2 that while the Sinhalese primarily see the present as a point in a causal chain of events, Sri Lanka Tamils relate to the past as heritage which can be acted out in the present. Up-country Tamils, claims Daniel, combine these dispositions, and he writes that “the Estate Tamils’ view of the past can be apperceived at dead center of a palpable dialectic entailing heritage and history” (1996a:29). While the Up-country Tamils, like the Sri Lanka Tamils, see themselves as carriers of a great heritage, a Jaffna centred cultural hegemony has their language and variety of Hinduism branded as inferior. The Up-country Tamils retain, however, what Daniel calls a “bardic heritage”, consisting of “poetry, song, drumming, and the art of story telling,” with “temporal as well as spatial extensions” (ibid:30). The bardic heritage takes as its primary subject matter the history of the Up-country Tamil people, and relives it – “touching each individual’s innermost being with a clarity of felt immediacy” (ibid:30). In the words of Daniel, “heritage intersects with history, to be nourished by a common experience” (ibid, original emphasis). The common experience is one of suffering and the metaphor for this suffering is labour.

The discontent of Daniel’s “typical orator” with the lack of Jaffna Tamil solidarity is obvious. “And what did the Jaffna Tamils do?”, he asks when speaking of disenfranchisement – “They did not care about us most of the time” (1996a:38). Among the Up-country Tamils is prevalent a sense of having been let down, not only by the state and the Sinhalese, but also by the other Tamils on the island. The much more affluent Sri Lanka Tamils have had little interest in their situation and have only occasionally paid heed to their grievances – most notably when they have themselves stood to gain from it. K. M. de Silva, for instance, notes

42 that G. G. Ponnambalam championed the voting rights of Up-country Tamils when the Sinhalese after 1931 attempted to restrict them. In this manner he sought to enlarge the bloc of minorities which he led in a campaign for balanced representation in the legislature (1986:106). With the rise of separatism after Independence, the Up-Country- and Sri Lanka Tamils stood further apart than ever and the above mentioned cultural hegemony was reinforced by their differing economic and political positions. Daniel notes how the schoolteachers in the estates have tended to be Sri Lanka Tamils:

These teachers are the ones who introduced the Estate Tamil child to classical Tamil literature, in a modern dialect of Tamil. This dialect of Tamil, which is alien to the student, is called centamir (elegant or pure Tamil) by the teacher while he or she simultaneously brands the Tamil spoken by Estate Tamil students kotuntamir (course or corrupt Tamil). (Daniel 1996a:29, original emphasis).

In a similar manner, Sri Lanka Tamil teachers in estate schools teach what Sri Lanka Tamils claim is a pure Hinduism rather than that adhered to by Up-country Tamils. Resulting is a hierarchy of Tamilness, the peak of which is defined by the Jaffna high-caste.

The Plantation Sector – A People Bonded? Daniel recounts a story, written by the Up-country Tamil poet C. V. Velupillai, in which the fate of the Up-country Tamil people is explained as a curse caste upon them by Lord Siva. Their curse is the pain of labour and it will be lifted only “after the last [tea] leaf has been harvested” (1996a:40). The catch is that by providing labour to the tea industry, the Up- country Tamils are prolonging the status quo of their captivity. When the tea bushes are pruned, their leaves grow more luxuriantly, and estate labour becomes a Sisyphean task. Lack of social mobility among the Up-country Tamils has primarily to be explained with regard to their political, economic and social marginalization within the national polity. We have seen how disenfranchisement and repatriation were largely to blame for the former. The remainder of the chapter will seek to explain the physical confinement of a large segment of the Up- country Tamil population to the plantation sector where their labour has been exploited.

For statistical purposes Sri Lanka tends to be divided in three sectors: the urban, the rural and that of the plantations. It is often said that the plantations from the beginning were run as enclaves, largely unconcerned with Sri Lankan society (Silva 1991). The idea of the plantations as isolated and self-contained units has led anthropologist Oddvar Hollup to treat

43 them as total institutions, though he concedes that a plantation “is not completely closed and absolute” (1994:xvii). Yet,

the plantation is both a territorial and socio-economic unit where the Tamil estate workers are born, bred and die, buried in the land (under the tea bushes) they have cultivated, often on the estate account. . . . Work, housing, and conditions of life including recreation, take place within the same physical and organisational territory of the estate. As a result, the Tamil estate workers’ view of the outside world is often limited to the boundaries of the estate. (Hollup 1994:xvii)

Bass disagrees with this approach, arguing that to see the plantations as total institutions “undermines Up-country Tamils’ many connections to the island,” that Up-country Tamils have always been “aware of the outside world, gaining information from travelling merchants, pilgrims and estate workers” and that “plantations in the colonial era were never totally isolated communities, due to the continuous stream of new migrants. . .” (2004:26-27). A total institution needs not and cannot be completely isolated, however, as there will always be a flow of personnel. Goffman himself defines a total institution as “a place of residence and work where a large number of like-situated individuals, cut off from the wider society for an appreciable period of time, together lead an enclosed, formally administered round of life.” Goffman (1991:11). “Cut off from the wider society” must be taken to mean a sense of restricted movement and not complete isolation. As will become apparent in the following, estate workers are very much tied to the plantations. In my opinion, however, tea estates differ from most total institutions in another way. Goffman takes great care to describe the passing in and out of total institutions and the upheaval in individuals’ lives resulting from it. Estate residents may not in the same way as convicts or psychiatric patients experience the relative deprivation of life on the “inside” because the vast majority has only experienced the “outside” indirectly, through media and through other people. As long as a large part of the estate population have no direct experience of their relative deprivation, the political mobilization of pressure for change is hampered. It takes a perspective which is not granted many estate residents to fathom the structural discrimination to which they have been and still are subjected. Paradoxically therefore, it may seem as if a certain degree of participation in mainstream society is necessary for the creation of a popular impetus for change.

King Tea and His Subjects Not surprisingly and as is suggested by the omnipresence of tea bushes, life on Sri Lankan tea estates revolve around tea. But life here is not as idyllic as the tea-covered hills are beautiful. In fact, living and working conditions on the estates stand in a clear contrast to the natural

44 splendour of the landscapes in which they are located. Most estate residents still live in the simple accommodation afforded to them by the original British planters, known as line rooms or “lines.” Each of these, most often dingy and ill-maintained buildings, accommodate approximately ten households which a one-room segment for each48. The walls are of brick, metal or wood, the roofs of sheet metal, while the floors in the sparsely furnished rooms are of cement or more commonly clay. The standard is so poor that M. Sinnathamby, citing the Ministry of Housing, Construction and Public Utilities, warns that 85 percent of the houses are “beyond repair” (2004:185). The poverty of the residents is readily visible from the lack of furniture and the manner of decorating. Decorations typically include free calendars (provided by local businesses), colourful posters (of Tamil movie stars, animals, western children, famous cricket players, and Hindu gods), family photographs, plastic flowers, old worn-out dolls, stuffed animals, plastic trinkets, and other such personal mementos. Beds often double as sofas, and where more expensive furniture has been purchased, it is not uncommon to find the protective plastic covers left on. Towards the end of the 20th century, there were still estates that had not yet been fully electrified. In fact, in 1996/97 only 12.3 percent of estate households used electricity as their main energy source for lighting and 98.5 percent were dependent on firewood for cooking (Satyodaya 2005:7). The line rooms are small49 and households are sometimes composed of as many as 8-10 people, though the lack of living space encourages smaller household sizes50. Only a very few households have pipe born drinking water in their own residence, most having to fetch drinking water from common wells, tanks or shared taps. Latrine facilities are commonly shared by many households and a lack of sanitation in the cramped living space has had detrimental effects on residents’ health. Children urinate in the gutter which runs in front of each line, and the stench of urine and garbage grows with the midday sun. Sinnathamby, himself an Up-country Tamil, writes that “common areas are dirty with stagnant water, open sewers and fly-infested garbage pits” (2004:185), an observation I too was to make a number of times.

The unhygienic conditions coupled with the arduous character of estate labour and the up- country climate leaves estate residents particularly prone to health problems. Malnutrition is

48 In some estates the lines have been expanded so as to accommodate each household with a small sleeping area. The line rooms also usually have a small kitchen. 49 Bass (2004:49) calculates the average line room size of one line at the estate where he did fieldwork to be just short of 37 m2. 50 The Satyodaya Centre for Social Research and Encounter cites a World Bank survey which places the average household size in the estate sector in 1996/97 to be 4.74, - slightly higher than the national average (2005:Table 3.1).

45 widespread and diseases such as anaemia, infectious diarrhoea, bronchitis, asthma, influenza, and rheumatic heart disease are common on the estates (Hollup 1994:60). The situation is aggravated by the inadequate health care on offer, represented by dispensaries headed by, all too often, unqualified Estate Medical Assistants (EMA). Hollup notes that the EMA’s frequently neglect their responsibilities or find they lack the most basic of medical supplies because of the low priority given by estate managements to medical services. Although there are signs of improvement in the estate sector today, death rates as well as infant mortality rates have been much higher than national averages (ibid:60). Far from all estates have their own maternity wards, and the ones available do not necessarily maintain proper hygienic standards. Poor transport facilities, moreover, makes it difficult to transport labouring women to hospitals if there should be complications. For many years there were no child care facilities in the estates, forcing women with small children but without other possible caretakers, to them into the field. Although it now has become common for estates to have day care units, Bass notes that “the staff are usually overworked, under-trained and outnumbered by all of the children under their responsibility. . . “ (2004:50-51), while Hollup observes that disproportionately many Sinhalese are offered positions as attendants. For Up- country Tamil parents, who want their children to be socialised into their own culture, it is unacceptable that the attendants in some cases do not even speak Tamil (1994:100).

Estate labour is often back-breaking, the hours long and the wages low. A captive labour force has made it possible for the estate managements to dictate the conditions of employment and a quarrelsome labourer could find himself and his household discharged and evicted. The lack of minimum wages and guaranteed work hours has left the labourers in no position to turn down offers of employment, while they can seldom afford to strike. The fact that the labour force is based on family units and is reproduced within the estate, has encouraged a clear-cut division of labour. This again has worked to maintain the order of things. While the plucking of tea is designated as women’s work, pruning, spraying, fertilising and cutting drains belongs to the sphere of men. But while some of the men’s tasks supposedly require more muscle power, plucking is an equally strenuous exercise. Men’s work is moreover task-based and often completed early in the day, while women work a fixed number of hours in addition to having to meet production quotas. The female tea plucker usually begins work at 7.30 am, working first until noon, with only a short tea break at 10 am. After lunch, at 1 or 1.30 pm, they continue plucking for another three hours or so and then need to have their tea weighed before they can go home (Samarasinghe 1999:154). While in the field, the pluckers carry the

46 tea leaves in baskets suspended from their heads onto their backs. This arduous exercise necessarily leads to sore limbs and forehead as well as back problems. For a full day’s wages a plucker needs 25 kilograms and there are only small bonuses for additional weight. Even so, to people living on a subsistence minimum, they are good incentives for productivity. Males, being paid on piece-work basis, prefer to work continuously and at high intensity until finished, commonly around 2 pm. They are, however, sometimes offered extra contract work in the afternoons, allowing for additional income (Hollup 1994:97).

The darkest side of estate life, although a “symptom” rather than the “disease,” is the proliferation of social problems. On visiting a plantation I was typically asked of my opinion of the place. On one occasion I misunderstood this question for an attempt to elicit praise, and as I do not find it the least bit difficult to go into raptures over the natural beauty of the up- country, I did just that. The young man whom I was talking with looked at me with a surprised air and asked me if I did not know of all the poverty, alcoholism and abuse. Bass points out that in the relatively large up-country town of Hatton, liquor stores and bars outnumber places of worship by a ratio of more than thirteen to one (2004:64). Indeed, it was common for me to hear it joked, by young and old, that liquor stores are the true temples. Hollup has noted that although as much as 80-90 percent of the wages are needed for food, it is the norm among males that they buy some liquor on pay day (1994:129). The liquor stores, moreover, grant customers credit thereby trapping them in debt – a tradition carried on from the days of company stores. Alcohol abuse is, in other words, by no means a new phenomenon within the plantation economy. In the days of coffee plantations, labourers used the liquor as means of escape and a whole industry was prepared to make money on their misfortune. Kumari Jayawardena writes of this period that ”while the planters were consuming imported beer and spirits, the plantation workers were flocking to the taverns that were springing up in their areas serving arrack and toddy” (2000:99). Alongside such legal businesses, moreover, has been the illicit production and sale of kassipu, a Sri Lankan moonshine. Plantation labourers, along with the Kandyan peasantry and the west coast working class, provided a market readily exploited by liquor traders (ibid:101-102) and the exploitation continues today. Up-country Tamil scholar S. Vijesandiran, speaking on the detrimental effects of alcoholism, notes that “the lives of all members of a plantation household are directly or indirectly affected by [it]” (2005:iii). He warns that the level of alcohol consumption has created disorganisation and contributes to the abuse of women and children. Likewise, estate residents told me that such abuse while under the influence was

47 common, though I would not as readily blame alcoholism as to see family violence as another symptom of a structural problem. Plantation society is highly hierarchic and patriarchal. The failure of a man to provide for himself and his family is a huge personal disappointment. When cramped living conditions offer no privacy or place of retreat, that retreat is in stead found in liquor. But drinking aggravates problems and emphasizes individual inadequacies, and likely contributes to the high suicide rates in the plantation sector. At one of the estates I visited a young man informed me that 15 people had committed suicide over the past year, one of them a personal friend of his who had hanged himself after failing to provide for his wife and two young children.

The Suppression of Women Several NGO’s and academic think tanks engaging with the estate sector have warned about the discrimination of plantation women and the neglect of their rights. The Colombo-based Social Scientists’ Association (SSA) states in a document resulting from a conference on human rights in the plantation sector that

Sexual abuse and violence is widespread in the plantations. Women are battered, raped, harassed and abused and there is a growing number of cases of suicides, incest, alleged accidental household deaths and sexual violence. Domestic violence or wife battery is relatively high. (SSA 1997:11)

Furthermore, they caution that women are discriminated against with regard to salaries, education, and reproductive rights. A heightened quality of life in the plantations depends on an effort to deal with the concerns of women, who constitute more than half the work force. According to Vidyamali Samarasinghe (1999), male dominated labour unions are the biggest obstacle to an improvement of social conditions for the plantation women. Although Up- country Tamil women have the highest employment rate of all ethnic groups in Sri Lanka, that does not translate to economic and political power. Observing that women’s husbands or fathers tend to collect their wages, Hollup notes that “the wage earning role of the females in the plantations does not a priori make them more independent so as to challenge the male’s role as the head and main breadwinner” (1994: 90). The oldest working male is the household’s undisputed leader, at least outwards, and women’s behaviour should be respectfully subdued51. The same is true for social and organisational life. Women are expected to leave the social sphere to men and upon reaching reproductive age should never

51 Women are, however, not without influence in household economics and may complain bitterly, for instance, about the spending of wages on alcohol (Hollup 1994:126).

48 socialize with males outside the family without a chaperone. “An adult woman who speaks to males, goes to the bazaar and the cinema without someone to accompany her,” writes Hollup, “would be looked upon as a ‘prostitute’” (ibid:101). Women, though members of the trade unions, are politically sidelined in these. Estate managements, on their part, are wary of taking steps to empower women or to improve their working conditions, as long as the unions do not put such demands forth. Clearly, the estate managements are afraid of antagonizing male union members. Although men and women presumably have the same wages today, this disregards the fact that women are denied additional supplements which are given men (SSA 1997:10). One should also keep in mind that women have primary responsibility for children and do most of the household work such as cooking, washing and sweeping. A typical estate woman will be up at 5.30 am or earlier to prepare breakfast for her household, she has to hurry home at midday to prepare lunch and when finished plucking in the afternoon, she returns home to other chores. Women are denied opportunities of career advancement and are often ill-treated in the work situation. Practically all work supervisors are men and Bass notes that sexual harassment of the pluckers is prevalent (2004:56). Samarasinghe, in his paper, concludes that estate women are in dire need of a leadership to promote their cause and that the way forward is through their education (1999:159). Particularly young girls’ schooling suffers from their preoccupation with household chores.

Samarasinghe’s description of the estates fit well with observations I was able to make myself during my visits to the up-country. For instance did one woman, in her late forties and a mother of two, confide in me that she is not like the typical women of the estates, that is, subject to a husband’s decisions. Indeed, she is an independent and self-assured woman whose relationship with her husband is warm and based on equity and mutual respect. Her remarks, however, suggest that their marriage is an exception rather than the rule.

Of Social Mobility, Caste and Class Caste and class hierarchies seemingly conflate among Up-country Tamils although they may come to expression differently, it seems that the losers are the same in both “games.” Indian immigrant labourers were mainly landless, low-caste people, who had little or nothing to lose by leaving India, and as such constituted a homogenous category (1994:25). If conditions on the plantations were harsh, the lives they left behind were harsher. The kangānis, in contrast, were of higher caste and social standing and Hollup describes relations between kangānis and

49 labour gangs as paternalistic (ibid:32). The kangāni system, however, was eliminated after Independence at which time the talaivars, the local trade union representatives, claimed their power. These tended, however, to be former kangānis or their children, just as leadership on higher levels of the trade unions most often was exclusively composed of high caste, middle class people. We shall deal more with caste’s importance in structuring trade union politics, but let us first look at caste in other contexts of estate society.

Hollup notes a high degree of sub-caste endogamy (around 90 percent in the two estates where he conducted research), and he sees indications of so-called love marriages, often non- endogamous, becoming more common. Such a trend may, in his opinion, be attributable to a number of factors, such as 1) the early independence of working youth, 2) a weakening of patriarchy due to landlessness, 3) the close proximity of young men and women in the working situation and 4) decreasing numbers among high castes (ibid:259). Possible signs of a decreasing importance of caste can be found elsewhere, too. While housing and labour in the fields used to be organised according to caste considerations, this is no longer the case and the number of castes on the estates is decreasing (ibid:220). Living and working conditions has made untouchability unfeasible, although restrictions on commensality still exist (ibid:230). Inter-caste interaction is, in other words, more relaxed than in the typical South Indian village. Caste is, however, an important designator of social mobility and Hollup notes that ”high caste membership is an important precondition for employment within the retail trade, dominated and controlled by the larger community of Estate Tamils residing in towns in the plantation districts and Colombo” (ibid:241). Shop owners prefer to employ people of their own caste. There is, furthermore, a ritual sanctioning of caste differences in estate festivals in which the castes are expected to perform their traditional duties (ibid:290). The recognition of caste is in other words continuously there, though it does not always come to expression in everyday interaction.

Trade Union Politics Incidentally, as I write these words it is May 1st – the International Workers’ Day and Sri Lankan online newspapers remind the public of the red-letter day with pictures of heavily burdened workers. In countries such as Sri Lanka, where there are strong socialist traditions as well a continued exploitation of labour, the day has not lost its significance. Sri Lankan trade unions first became a factor to be reckoned with at the beginning of the 20th century, at a time when the much larger labour population in the plantations went unorganised (de Silva

50 1981:409)52. Key reasons for the absence of organisation were the labourer’s isolation, a hierarchical structure with ties of caste and kinship which prevented the formation of an egalitarian working class consciousness, the paternalism of planters and kangānis, low levels of education and widespread illiteracy, the absence of an intelligentsia and a middle class, a sense of transient residency and the idea of a return to India, abuse of alcohol, and the fatalistic nature of Hinduism (Kader 2002a:3-7). Non-skilled “Indians” in Colombo were for some time unionised within the Ceylon Labour Union (CLU), but a fall-out with the Sinhalese members, who treated them as foreign competitors, led to their exclusion. The first plantation labour union, the All-Ceylon Estate Labour Federation (ACELF) was formed in 1931 by K. Natesa Iyer, a South Indian, Brahmin journalist and former CLU activist, who upon being excluded decided to focus his efforts on the up-country (Kader 2002b:10-11). Since then there has been a plethora of up-country unions-cum-political parties53. The first major one was the Ceylon Indian Congress (CIC)/ Ceylon Indian Congress Labour Union (CICLU), formed in 1939 and 1940, respectively. The union wing would, in 1950, after a power struggle, part ways with the political party and change its name to Ceylon Workers’ Congress (CWC). Under the unrivalled leadership of S. Thondaman from 1956 until his death in 1999, it became the dominant union, and has remained so until present day (Kader 2002c:7-8). CWC tactics, notes Kader, included “liquor and bribery, intimidation and thuggery” (2002c:9) and one can legitimately question whether the union has had the best interest of the Up-country Tamil people as its main priority. Yet, its success encouraged other, smaller unions to follow suit. Corruption has been, and still is, prevalent in the unions as the leaders are in ambivalent positions with vested interests in seeing a system of labour exploitation continued, lest the basis of their power should disappear. High caste politicians would risk being challenged by educated low-castes and the system of patronage would be less effective if the standard of living went up. Likewise, Bass notes that the union leader’s main source of income and power is in the labourers monthly due (2004:225). Thondaman, himself the owner of an estate and employer of the workers whose rights he was supposedly looking after, was in a highly ambiguous position (2004:209), and though he held several ministerial posts, he effected little change. There is therefore among Up-country Tamils a strong distrust of the Unions and of the system of patronage although nine out of ten are organised (Hollup 1994:190). When the Up-country People’s Front (UCPF) and its union, the Up-Country Workers’ Front (UCWF),

52 In fact, the plantation labourers were relatively better off at this time and K. M. de Silva identifies this difference as part of the Colombo movement’s incentive for action (1981:411). 53 Kader places the number at 146 in August 2002 (2002c:3).

51 formed in the late ‘80s, however, many plantation labourers were convinced they had been given a more honest alternative. The UCPF grew quickly and in 1994 its leader Chandrasekeran, copying Thondaman, secured a ministerial post for himself54. Many feel that he continued to copy Thondaman during his brief spell of power, that he was corrupted and that he forgot the people he represented. Although the UCPF remains a large union today, Chandrasekeran lost much credibility. Around these two “giants” is an excess of other, smaller unions, and so a single estate may have a number of competing talaivars. Political unity would have improved the Up-country Tamils bargaining position vis-à-vis the state but a unified front is not on the horizon. “The unions,” writes Bass, “replicate the biases and hierarchies of Up-Country Tamil society on caste, class and gender lines” (2004:224), and as long as they do so they will be in no position to deal with discrimination based on the very same hierarchies. A continued disillusionment with democratic means may carry repercussions. Bass warns that rising aspirations and levels of education, along with continued under-employment, may lead to a militant uprising, as it did with the turn to militancy among the Sri Lanka Tamils (ibid:250). His sentiments are echoed by Sinnathamby who warns that “if meaningful steps are not taken to improve the youths’ life prospects, the emergence of youth militancy on the plantations in the near future will be inevitable” (2004:194).

The Educational Barrier Up-country Tamils are stereotypically portrayed as ignorant of the value of education. A superficial glance at the statistics may seem to support that notion. The University Teachers for Human Rights (Jaffna) (UTHR(J)) – a group of researcher-activists, submitted in 1993 a special report on the state of education in the plantation sector. Their numbers show that the estate literacy level in 1987 was at 67 percent compared to an 87 percent national average; that in 1984 the pupil:teacher-ratio was 55:1, compared to the nation-wide 34:1; that 22 percent of estate-school teachers are volunteers; and that the drop-out rate by 6th grade is 70 percent compared to a 10 percent national average (1993: 3.2.2). Sinnathamby notes that although much has improved in recent years, the level of education remains lower among the Up-country Tamils than in other ethnic groups and that the plantation sector is particularly lagging behind with regard to tertiary and technical education and job recruitment (2004:193). One of the most acute problems is the lack of qualified teaching personnel in subjects such as

54 The following events were dramatic as Thondaman and the CWC too joined the government coalition, thereby outmanoeuvring Chandrasekeran with a superior number of MP’s. Chandrasekeran, in turn, crossed back to the opposition, so as not to fall into the shadow of CWC (Bass 2004:259).

52 science, mathematics and English. When I visited a plantation in Badulla district, a senior teacher at the plantation’s primary school was elated to learn of my presence and gathered 40 of his students for a Sunday “English camp.” They had no English teacher and he said he could not let an opportunity such as this one, to inspire the children, pass him by. The lack of teachers makes it tremendously difficult for plantation students to compete on a national scale and obtain marks good enough for post-secondary education. As it is, the demand for university education is much higher than the supply and only 12 percent or so of the qualified applicants to the universities are admitted every year (Perera 2002). The unavailability of certain subjects makes it impossible for students in areas of the up-country to pursue careers in law, medicine and engineering. If a young Up-country Tamil student against all odds should be accepted to a university, the added expenses placed on the household may be too much. Consequently, many young people in the plantation sector drop out of school, but they are not necessarily willing to work on the estates, finding it degrading. Some seek, in stead, employment as unskilled labourers in Colombo or as domestic workers in the Middle East.

The poor state of plantation schools has its roots in the neglect shown by planters and plantation managers. These people saw no reason to educate the labour force, seeing in education rather a threat to the stability of labour supply. Subsequent governments, on their part, felt no need to interfere with the plantations’ decisions. After disenfranchisement it could not even be argued that they were disregarding the welfare of their own citizens. Being disenfranchised, of course, excluded the Up-country Tamils from the universities and higher education (Hollup 1994: 207). Plantation schools remained the plantations’ responsibility until the late ‘70s (Bass 2004:51) and much has improved since then. In 1973, writes Bass, half of the estate residents received no schooling at all, a fraction which had shrunk to a quarter in 1995 (ibid:52). It should be noted, however, that there are regional differences. It is most difficult to recruit teachers to the so-called remote areas of the up-country, such as Badulla. These are, moreover, the areas with the poorest infrastructure and transport facilities. A headmaster at a district school in Badulla complained to me that some of his students had to walk 15 km, or more, to and from school because there was no school transport. He added that the children were undernourished and did not have access to proper food at school. The combination of the two, in his opinion, forced children to drop out.

53 Making a Home Away from Home – The Defiance of a People Ignored The Up-country Tamil people’s history in Sri Lanka is in a way the history of a Cinderella- like stepchild. Their past on the island covers only a few generations, reaching back to the 1830’s, which is regarded a short sojourn by the historically conscious Sinhalese. Like Cinderella they have laboured without a chance to taste the fruits of their labour, and they have never quite achieved a status equal to that of their older siblings55. We know that in real life there are no fairy-tale endings, but if we were to imagine a parallel to Cinderella marrying the prince, I suppose it would be a unification of the Up-country Tamil people – their marrying themselves, so to speak, teaming forces in a concerted effort to claim their rightful place among equals. To stretch the metaphor a little further, there are signs that such a union is taking place, although it is perhaps too soon to say whether it will be a happy one. Up- country Tamils have, at any rate, begun to think of themselves as a people, sharing a history and a future. Although suspected of otherwise, the Up-country Tamils have come to stay.

Bass’ approach to the study of Up-country Tamil identity is enlightening. To him it is logical to treat the Up-country Tamils as a “diaspora-next-door.” He argues that for a large majority, India is as distant to an Up-country Tamil as it is to a Tamil in Malaysia, Fiji or Trinidad. The narrow stretch of water separating Sri Lanka and India, at one point no more than 64 km wide, might as well have been an untraversable ocean as long as there is no ferry service. The proximity to India does, however, make Indian media and popular culture readily accessible (2004:152). Tamils in Sri Lanka follow Tamil Nadu radio- and television broadcasts and they watch Tamil movies, produced in Chennai. Up-country Tamils, therefore, will not forget their people’s Indian origin, but a continued identification with their ancestral homelands in India is not at odds with their identification with Sri Lanka. Like Bass, I prefer to stress the process of emplacement in the up-country rather than displacement from India, choosing to highlight positive adaptive strategies and the germination of ethnic identity rather than a potentially traumatic discontinuity and loss of identity. The Up-country Tamils have made a new home for themselves in a place where they were not really wanted. They belong in Sri Lanka although they were for a large part met with suspicion and excluded from mainstream society.

To distinguish between different ways of belonging to Sri Lanka, Bass distinguishes between being “Lankan” and “Sri Lankan” (ibid: 127). While he points out that these categories are his

55 Yet, in this story, all siblings have somehow been mistreated.

54 own and make little sense in emic discourse, he sees them as useful in differentiating between an experiential and a formal form of attachment. While Up-country Tamils are Lankans in the sense that they have long identified with, and felt at home in the up-country, they are only in the process of becoming Sri Lankan in the sense that they are still fighting for the same political, social and economic rights as others. In the eyes of many they are still “second-class citizens.” I find Bass’ distinction somewhat problematic, however. While arguing that Up- country Tamils have been Lankan for generations, that is to say that they have long experienced a belonging to the island, and in particular to the up-country, he writes that they have only recently become Sri Lankan, indicating their inclusion in mainstream society (2004:127). Moreover, the distinction between Lankan and Sri Lankan, Bass argues, fits the distinction between the Tamil place terms “ur” and “kiramam” as discussed by E. Valentine Daniel (1984:70). One’s “ur” is one’s ancestral home, defined not by its borders but by its essence, an essence which is compatible with one’s own essence. A “kiramam”, on the other hand is any formal place of human settlement, defined by its exterior borders. Bass reasons that if one is Lankan, one will say that one’s “ur” is in Sri Lanka. This is the case with the younger generation, but not with people over the age of 50. They locate their “ur” in Tamil Nadu. If Bass’ observations are indeed correct, they seem to contradict the earlier statement that Up-country Tamils have been Lankan for generations. Bass feels that the shift of “ur” is only the final step of becoming Lankan – a “sealing of the deal” (personal communication), but why should that shift taking place over the course of a single generation?

Bass does not provide an answer, though he, as I, thinks it significant that young Up-country Tamils gradually have begun to move away from the plantations. It is also likely that the re- enfranchisement provided the Up-country Tamils some hope of inclusion in Sri Lankan society. In my opinion the distinction between “Lankan” and “Sri Lankan” fails to be constructive if it is the case that an increased inclusion in mainstream society (the criteria of being Sri Lankan) also leads to and increased identification with the Up-country (the criteria of being Lankan). It seems rather to me that the inclusion of Up-country Tamils in Sri Lankan society and their success at obtaining certain rights and a voice for themselves, marked a watershed in processes of identity formation – individual as well as collective. By taking a step towards being Sri Lankan, and by gradually being accepted by other Sri Lankans as such, I believe the Up-country Tamils could finally begin to feel Sri Lankan – or Lankan if you will. Yet, I suggest that a sense of being Lankan does not rest on being Sri Lankan (though it helps), but on seeing a commitment to the land as one's best option for social mobility and a

55 better life. Consequentially, it is likely that the bonds to India, as experienced by the Up- country Tamils, should weaken with time.

Yet, if commitment to the up-country was gradually seen as the Up-country Tamils’ best choice, it may also, with the passing of time, have been perceived as the only choice. The decades following Independence saw a drastic watering out of their numbers. Hundreds of thousands left to India, where they experienced continued physical hardships and discrimination, and when starvation and anti-Tamil riots hit the up-country in the 70’s, thousands migrated to settle down in the dry, LTTE-controlled jungles of the north (University Teachers for Human Rights (Jaffna) 1993:1.1). Many of the internal migrants were in fact forcibly returned to the hills after the 1983 riots, striking home the message that there was no other home for Up-country Tamils, than the up-country (ibid:2.6). The UTHR (J) writes that “despite the terrible violence inflicted on them during July l983, like it or not, there was now no going to India or to the North-East. If need be, they must fight to live in dignity” (ibid). Central in fronting this attitude was Chandrasekeran and the UCPF. He seemed to be a man prepared to fight, which was why ordinary plantation people loved him, while the CWC as well as the government feared him. He was accused of being militant and of having connections to the LTTE, and along with two UCPF notables, Dharmalingam and B. A. Kader, he was eventually arrested and served three years in prison for having harboured an LTTE cadre56 (Bass 2004:257). The arrest aside, the UCPF intellectual and ideological program stressed an Up-country Tamil identity rather than one of a worker (ibid:252), and the party’s importance in articulating this identity should not be underestimated.

Yet, the articulation of an Up-country Tamil ethnic identity has not evolved in the political sphere alone. Since Independence, the plantation sector has attracted the attention of a vast number of NGOs (national as well as international), which have engaged with all aspects of Up-country Tamils’ lives. Some have sought to help formulate political demands and to raise awareness around them while others have focused on social work. Then there were those which have celebrated and sought to “save” Up-country Tamil culture. Common to all the organizations is that they have targeted out people who in turn gradually have begun to see themselves as a people with a unique culture. Up-country Tamil culture has, in other words, been objectified, and as a consequence, its significance has changed. For instance have the

56 All three were eventually acquitted on all charges.

56 Up-country Tamil festivals been imbued with new meaning. Each estate has its own festivals, the largest of which is devoted to the Hindu goddess Mariyamman. Its planning and execution involves a remarkable effort on part of the residents. Knowing that it will attract the attention of outsiders and nearby estates, the festival is created not only as an act of worship, but as re- presentation of culture. The cultural aspect may even have surpassed the religious aspect in importance, as is indicated by the participation of non-Hindu residents (Bass 2004:288). Events are compared, praised, criticised and documented all over the up-country by people who now readily see themselves as being “of the same kind”. Festivals, however, do also articulate social difference, such as represented by the caste hierarchy (Hollup 1994:304). Only if the emerging ethnic identity is strong enough to battle it out with the older and more deeply engraved caste and class solidarities, can effective, collective action which aspires to raise the quality of life for Up-country Tamils in general, take place. In other words: only when the leaders and political representatives of Up-country Tamils feel the same obligations towards all Up-country Tamils, will the truly marginalized have someone to champion their cause.

Similarly, only when the state feels the same obligation towards all its citizens, will the Up- country Tamils feel a full identification with their country. As the ethnic conflict remains unresolved and ethnic tension continues to ride high, however, the ill-treatment of the Up- country Tamil Cinderella will probably continue. Many Tamils, and particularly young men, find themselves being treated by the authorities as potential terrorists. Up-country Tamils have on their part, because of difficulties in obtaining birth certificates57, often been denied official identity cards, without which they can be arrested and detained on suspicion. Such arrests have in times of escalated conflict occurred daily. Without the identity cards, moreover, travel to and employment in Colombo and other urban centres, has been impossible (Francis 1997:7). Even Up-country Tamils with proper papers risk being arrested on suspicion, under the provisions of outdated legislation (Caspersz 1996:3). It is not surprising then if the Up-country Tamils do not feel completely Sri Lankan yet.

57 For more on this, see Cruize (2000).

57 See Appendix III for descriptions.

58 See Appendix III for descriptions.

59 See Appendix III for descriptions.

60 See Appendix III for descriptions

61 Chapter 4 – From the Plantations to Peradeniya

It is time to return to the Peradeniya campus, but this time we shall attempt to see it from a new perspective – that is through the eyes of Up-country Tamil students. The reader will recall the social diversity of campus from Chapter 1. Information on the ethnic break-down of the undergraduate student body is repeated in Table 1 below.

Table 1: Total undergraduates enrolled at the University of Peradeniya, 2003 – by ethnicity58: Faculty Sinhala Tamil Muslims Burgher Ind. Tamil Others Total Agriculture 1008 22 30 - - 1 1061 Arts 2473 146 337 - 26 - 2982 Dental 411 74 19 1 - 1 506 Engineering 1326 495 80 - - 2 1903 Medicine 985 23 36 - 7 16 1067 Science 1117 48 48 1 2 15 1231 Vet. Medicine 398 75 4 - - 11 488 Total 7718 883 554 2 35 46 9238

Seeing as this data does not include the students who were enrolled in 2004, I supplement it with some of my own data. Table 2 below has the number of Tamil and Up-country Tamil 1st year students enrolled at the Faculty of Arts in 2004, broken down on gender and batch.

Table 2: 1st year Tamil and Up-country Tamil enrolment at the Faculty of Arts, University of Peradeniya, 2004 – by gender and batch59 Batch Gender Tamils Up-country Tamils Total 1 Males 7 9 16 Females 8 13 21 2 Males 4 15 19 Females 8 15 23 Total 27 52 79

The above data suggest that there were, depending on the numbers enrolled in other faculties, in the area of 80-100 Up-country Tamil undergraduates at Peradeniya in 2004 – in other words more than twice as many as the year before60. I will not speculate on what caused this sudden increase, other than that a change in regional quotas used in the admissions procedures may have had an influence. At any rate, fewer Up-country Tamils were admitted in 2005 and the category of Up-country Tamil is still the smallest of the main ethnic categories, at the university as a whole and at the Faculty of Arts.

58 Figures are taken from The University of Peradeniya – Statistical Handbook 2003 59 Data collected informally by the anthropologist – subject to minor errors. 60 I have no reason to believe that the proportion of Up-country Tamil students in the Faculty of Arts should have decreased significantly in this period.

62 I propose that the Up-country Tamil students’ position as a marginalized minority influences their experience of university life. In investigating that proposition we shall now, at last, turn to the group of Tamil and Up-country Tamil students, mentioned introductorily, and referred to as the CG (Core Group). We shall deal with themes important to the group’s functioning – themes such as: identity formation and negotiation, social cohesion, agency, economic marginalization and ways of relating to tradition and modernity. By proceeding in this manner, the reader is given a chance to become acquainted with the group and to understand it as a collective with a shared reservoir of experience. We will then, in Chapter 5, turn to their functioning as a social unit within the larger social and political matrix that is campus.

Presenting the Core Group (CG) To recap quickly: the CG consists of 15 Up-country Tamil and 4 Sri Lanka Tamil male students, at the time of the study aged 21 or 22 and studying at the Faculty of Arts. When I first met these young men in January 2005 they were still very much newcomers at the university, having entered only in May the previous year – in other words, they were still in their first year of study. As first-year students they were known by others, and referred to themselves, as “freshers” or “juniors”, in contrast to older students who are referred to as “seniors” (second-year students are also known as “rag-seniors,” for reasons which will become clear later). During the CG students’ first year at Peradeniya they all lived in the same hall of residence, a grand building in the lower hills of Hantana, a short walk from the faculty. In May 2005, however, about halfway through my fieldwork, they graduated to year two, after which the university no longer put them up in campus accommodation, forcing most of them to rent private rooms off-campus.

The CG corresponds, in fact, to the male segment of Batch 2 in Table 2 above. “Batch” refers to a secondary school cohort – that is, the segment of students who sat for GCE A/L61 examinations the same year. The term is, however, flexible, and used with varying degrees of inclusiveness, the exact meaning sometimes having to be derived from context. At the most inclusive the term may refer to the entire student population who graduated from secondary school at the same time. At the most exclusive it refers to an ethno-linguistic, faculty-based segment of this population. The latter is more common in everyday usage and a Tamil student

61 General Certificate of Education – A-levels is the highest level of secondary education. Education in Sri Lanka builds in large part on the British model.

63 referring to his or her “batch”, more specifically than referring to all those who entered university along with him/her, usually refers to only the Tamils (which includes both Sri Lanka Tamils and Up-country Tamils) at a given faculty within that group. This use of “batch” corresponds to the use in Table 2. At other times “batch” may be expanded to denote all Tamil-speakers, also including the Muslims.

Several of the recent years have differed from the norm with regard to admissions at the University of Peradeniya. A problem of backlogs due to interruptions in the academic programs led the administrative authorities to take in “double batches” in certain faculties, certain years62. As shown in Table 2, two batches were admitted to the Faculty of Arts in 2004. Batch 1 completed A/L in 2002 and was admitted to the university in April while the CG’s batch (batch 2) completed A/L in 2003 and was admitted in May. The Tamil Batch One consisted of 36 students (21 female and 16 male) and the Tamil Batch Two of 43 students (24 female and 19 male). Interestingly and quite exceptionally, a 65 percent majority of the students in both batches are Up-country Tamils, born and raised in up- or mid-country estates. In the CG the corresponding percentage is 79. All of them, with the exception of one, are Hindu (the last is a Roman Catholic), though the degree of religious fervour varies from individual to individual. Although there are a few of these students who tend to keep a little more to themselves and therefore participate less in social activities, it would be difficult to count someone out of the group. Batch association along with gender seems to be the key criteria for social participation. Although interaction with female students is frequent and unstrained in a number of social arenas on and off campus, it is fair to say that not only is the interaction between genders more limited, but generally it is of a qualitatively different kind than that between males. It is true that males and females frequently refer to each other in terms of kinship, as brothers or sisters, but constant gossip among the males about possible or impossible romantic relationships reveals that inter-gender relations have another dimension too. It is nearly unthinkable that a young Tamil man and woman should spend much time with one another, away from other people. Moreover, men and women live in separate halls, and for the juniors, the halls are perhaps the most important social arena. There is admittedly also a good bit of socializing between students of the two batches, though there are factors restricting it, such as the fact that the students are from separate cohorts and again, that they

62 Double batches were according to The Statistical Handbook (2003) admitted at the Dental Faculty in 1999, the Science Faculty in 2000, the Agriculture-, Dental- and Medicine Faculties in 2001, the Veterinary Faculty in 2002, and at the Arts-, Engineering-, Medicine- and Science Faculties in 2003. In 2004 the double batch at the Faculty of Arts was the only one.

64 were accommodated in different halls during the first year. I will return to the importance of shared accommodation in the following as we look at which other factors that contribute in determining social networks on campus.

Degrees of Intimacy There is no arguing that the student population at Peradeniya is diverse and, as we have seen, it features groups of students of different ethnicities, religions, mother-tongues, geographical origin, political persuasion and socio-economic classes. Which of these statuses that are activated at any time is to some degree dependent on circumstance. Other factors, such as place of residence, cohort, field of study, and classes attended come into play as well. While not all of the CG members are Up-country Tamils, a clear majority of them are. Of the four Sri Lanka Tamils, three are from the war-torn areas on the east coast while one is from the west coast. None of them are, however, from the Jaffna peninsula. There are four Jaffna Tamils among the males in Batch 1 and though they largely get on well with the others, they also spend much time alone, and there are instances of tension with the rest of the batch. Still there seems to be more interaction between these subgroups of Tamils than between Tamil and Muslim or Sinhalese students. A number of factors can be used to explain these differing degrees of intimacy. First, sharing of accommodation seems to be of great importance. Being hall mates, or even better, room mates, offers ample opportunity for socializing and developing intra- as well as inter-ethnic friendships. However, in times of trouble such as during the communal riots of 1983, policies of multi-ethnic hostels have backfired, with minority groups being targeted and harassed by a majority. It is likely that fear of such incidents has resulted in a cautiousness with assigning students from different backgrounds to the same hostels. At any rate, the allocation of rooms within the hostels is to a large degree decided by the students themselves and it is not uncommon to unofficially swap rooms if there is tension between roommates. Shankar, one of the CG Up-country Tamils, was for instance originally placed in a room with three Sinhalese students, one of them a senior residing there unofficially63. Shankar did not get on well with his room mates and it was decided that he should swap rooms with Jayakumar, another Up-country Tamil CG student, who was living in a wholly Tamil room. Whether because of individual traits, a better command of Sinhala, or some other reason, Jayakumar got on much better with the Sinhalese

63 The practice of unofficially residing with juniors during the second or third year is called “gadje” and is quite common. A staff officer at the Student Services Branch at the university estimated that there may be as many as 2000 living this way while the university mainly chooses to look the other way.

65 students. He is, moreover, on friendly terms with a number of other Sinhalese students and has even jokingly professed that he would like to have a Sinhalese girlfriend. The example illustrates how ethnic, communal or personal friction in the halls can sometimes be avoided by unofficial ad hoc measures, but also that living together not necessarily means building friendships. It is commonly the case that room mates share ethnic and regional background. I was interested to hear that the CG students, upon becoming seniors, encouraged the new “freshers” to find room mates of different backgrounds, though “background” in this case may have referred solely to geographic origin.

In discussing the degrees of intimacy among students it is necessary to take into account the teaching situation. As I’ve already mentioned, a large majority of students follow classes conducted in their mother tongue, mainly due to a lack of confidence in own English proficiency. The result is a language based separation of the Sinhalese from the Tamils, an educational segregation that has been enforced through the entire system of education. Many Muslims are from Sinhalese areas and tend to bilingual. Theoretically they are able to follow classes in both Sinhala- and Tamil-medium, placing them in a rather unique position. Tamil is, however, their traditional language and so they too tend to follow the Tamil medium lectures. The Muslim students, moreover, do often have joint batch meetings with the Tamils. While language of instruction separates students in class rooms along ethnic lines, so does interest. Classes at the Sinhala Department or at the Department of Pali64 and Buddhist Studies are, for instance, nearly exclusively attended by Sinhalese students, classes at the Department of Arabic and Islamic Civilization, by Muslims, and classes at the Department of Tamil and Hindu Civilization, by Tamils65.

I believe social intimacy with regard to the CG Up-country Tamils, for our purposes can be visualized as building upon a set of concentric status-spheres, the innermost sphere being that of the ethnic (sub-)group. In the case of the CG, ethnic sub-group nearly overlaps with batch membership and thus the two reinforce each other. There are however distinct cultural and linguistic differences between the Up-country Tamils and Tamils of the east, west and north66. The second sphere therefore, is built upon the overarching ethnic label “Tamil”. Moving

64 Pali is the ancient, Sanskrit derived, scriptural and liturgical language of Theravada Buddhism. 65 The first year arts students must choose three subjects in addition to two mandatory foundation courses, but all instruction is offered in the vernaculars. 66 As we have seen, the latter three are usually lumped together in the category Sri Lanka Tamil, neglecting distinct cultural variations in what is by no means a homogenous group.

66 outwards from here it is problematic to rank the importance of statuses but we can envision a third sphere building on the statuses of shared language, shared accommodation, and shared classes. A fourth sphere is based on socio-economic status. A majority of students, regardless of ethnicity, share a semi-hostile view of the students from the upper class, nearly all to be found in the English-medium stream. More on that will follow.

Figure 1

This model is of course an oversimplification with several statuses left out, and there are many exceptions, but I believe it is valid in a general sense. The more that is shared, whether it is ethnicity, access to common social arenas or socio-economic status, the more likely the relation is to be an intimate one. Most of the CG-students are Up-country Tamils, while all are Tamil and Tamil-speakers, all lived in the same hall, as I entered the field, all shared a number of classes and all come from a working class background in the estates. This indicates a strong social cohesion. It should be noted also that older students whom I talked with were of the opinion that batch solidarity becomes less important as the study progresses. This seems to be a logical extension of the above stated ideas, as students will find they have less in common with the passing of time. They move off campus, specialize in different academic fields and probably spend less time together.

Bonding through Shared Coordinates The previous chapter dealt with the Up-country Tamil people in general, and with life on the plantations in particular, seeing as it has been, and still is, so important to the construction of

67 an Up-country Tamil identity. In the following I will attempt to reason that the strong cohesion in the CG is much due to so many of its members sharing very similar backgrounds – that is, the plantation experience. I will seek to demonstrate for the reader how the estates, though they are in many ways isolated from their surroundings, also closely resemble one another and as such are a source of shared references for the Up-country Tamil university students. I, moreover, believe that growing up in the plantation sector may lead to the embodiment of a unique way of being-in-the-world and the sharing of certain “mental coordinates” upon which the task of making sense of one’s existence rests.

Having been to the home estates of nine of the CG Up-country Tamils as well as the homes of some of their female batch mates, it strikes me that these communities appear to be very similar, on a purely visual level as well as on a structural and cultural one. Coincidentally, all the CG students were from tea estates, all of which, of course, revolve around tea. The physical scenery of rolling hills covered by a thick green carpet of tea bushes is recurrent everywhere in the up-country. Though tea is also grown in the mid- and low-country the best quality yield is grown at an incline in high altitude. To an outsider, these green hills, under a bright, blue sky, may appear stunningly beautiful. Yet, for one born and raised on such an estate the feelings are bound to be more ambivalent. The tea is one’s livelihood, without which one would have nothing, but at the same time the prospects of social mobility within the estate are next to none. The tea-covered hills are like prison walls which leave one with little or no alternative to following the footsteps of one’s hard-toiling parents and grandparents. As noted earlier, the quality of life on the estates is lagging behind the national average on almost every level. With this in mind I understand much better the hesitant response I received from Siva, a CG Up-country Tamil, as I, on my first visit to his estate, praised its beauty. To him it is a tainted beauty at best. Even so, Daniel Bass argues that the “sense of place” has been neglected in the study of Up-country Tamil identity construction. He notes that “Up-country Tamils are linked together by common bonds of culture, language, history and heritage, but one of their most fundamental connections is spatial” (2004:27). There is a sense of belonging to the hills and that sense has been constitutive to the Up- country Tamils as a people.

In addition to the physical restraints dictated by the tea itself, there are historical and economic factors which have led the estates to develop along parallel lines. The immigration of family units from South India gave stability to the labour force and encouraged the

68 maintenance of tradition. Family has stayed important to Up-country Tamils and as such is a shared point of reference for the CG Up-country Tamils. This is not to say that family is not of important in a larger Sri Lankan or South-Asian context. Yet, living conditions on the estates favour well-organized households and children are from an early age taught to share and to contribute in whichever way they can. Being patriarchal societies, moreover, the fathers hold great authority until the children are married or financially independent (Hollup 1994:78). The CG Up-country Tamils generally displayed a remarkable respect for their parents and their advice. The ones who are from estates closer to Peradeniya would often take the opportunity to go home in the weekends, to be with family, but also to help out with work such as cultivation of vegetable gardens. The sibling relationship is also special and particularly older siblings should be treated with respect. True to the principle of seniority, an older sibling has the prerogative of requesting favours of a younger one. The kinship metaphor is often extended to cover non-family members. On campus, male students of the same age, from all ethnic groups, typically address each other as “machang”, a Sinhala term which literally means “brother-in-law”, and which, unlike Tamil sibling terms, does not recognize seniority. As mentioned earlier, male and female students refer to one another as brother and sister, just as those of one’s own generation in the estates and villages may be referred to in that manner. Furthermore, in the estates and elsewhere, non-related people who are senior to oneself are respectfully addressed as “uncle” or “auntie”. The use of kinship terms creates large symbolic family networks, and the CG becomes for its members such a family. It is, rather importantly, also the only family available a large part of the time. Bass notes of the importance of relatives and extended families among Up-country Tamils that “to lose those connections must foster a sense of despair.” (2004: 368). When Up-country Tamil university students arrive at campus as newcomers, they are far removed from their families and their homes. They are a minority among strangers in an unfamiliar environment, and they experience stress and pressure. It is in this context that relations with peers symbolically and emotionally take the place of family relations, affording a sense of safety and security.

Another element of the CG Up-country Tamils’ shared experience is a good knowledge of the up-country. The region is after all not large geographically speaking, though travel can be time-consuming due to the poor quality of the roads and transport. Most students know fairly well a number of other estates and have relatives in other places. The students, moreover, share a cultural awareness and enjoy partaking in festivals and events, not only in their own estates. We will return to this later in the chapter.The challenge of making ends meet is

69 another topic which we will explore in more detail later. Suffice it, in this context, to note that there is relatively little economic differentiation within the estates and that the challenge inherent in making money stretch to cover the most important expenses is one that most Tamils from the plantations are familiar with (Hollup 1994: 146). Though the CG Up-country Tamils’ families in general may be a little better off than the average worker households on the estates, they all have difficulties in coping with the loss of a potential income and the increased living expenses incurred by a family member going to university. Several of the families would not have been able to afford it if not for friends and relatives pitching in, again stressing the debts the students carry towards a larger collective at home. The CG Up-country Tamils are in turn used to being economically minded. The experience of poverty is harsh, but made more bearable by being shared.

“We Are Indian!” The term “Indian Tamil”, as we saw in Chapter 3, is problematic as it implicitly questions loyalties, denying the people it denotes a status of being altogether Sri Lankan. The CG Up- country Tamils did, however, often employ this term themselves. Arguably this has to do with “Indian Tamil” being used by the university administration and that the students wished not to confuse the visiting anthropologist, but I would be careful so as not to underestimate the importance a sense of being Indian has on Up-country Tamils’ identity formation. I discussed in Chapter 3 how a link to India is likely to maintain as long as the Up-country Tamil people continue to be marginalized and treated with suspicion. Such marginalization is felt by Up- country Tamil university students, too. One of them, Kannappan, at the time in the fourth and final year of his B.A., was annoyed that the news media neglected Up-country Tamil news altogether and he expressed the wish to create a web-based news-service devoted to that niche. No such service is available today and until the concerns of Up-country Tamils become a priority in the public sphere, I believe a full identification with Sri Lanka is precluded, making a continued identification with India not only possible, but necessary. The CG Up- country Tamils’ identification with India was to confuse me thoroughly when I was still fresh in the field and rather ignorant of social categories and subsumed them to the category “Tamil.” Siva, from a very remote estate in Badulla district, felt the need, during one of our very first conversations, to emphasize that he and his friends were in fact Indian. He had been talking to me about the Indian Tamils, and I, not being familiar with the nomenclature, assumed he was talking about students of Indian nationality. Not having heard of them before I excitedly asked him who they were. “We are Indian”, was Siva’s reply. The CG Up-country

70 Tamils are aware of their people’s history of emigration, isolation, exploitation, disenfranchisement, and continued marginalization. It is a history remarkably void of achievements such as their university enrolment – a history in which few have had such opportunity to make something of themselves as they now have. The CG Up-country Tamils have followed a path leading off the estates and possibly to well-paid jobs and higher social status. Taking into account the dismal state of educational opportunities in the estate sector, this is in itself a huge accomplishment, and it is reason for immense pride. At the same time the future will remain full of uncertainties for themselves and their families and they find that they carry the hopes and aspirations of many on their shoulders.

Away Together – Bonding Off-campus There is a tradition at Peradeniya that the students, three or four months into each academic year, go on so-called batch-trips. It is a practise encouraged by the university which even grants the students some time off. The purpose of the trips is to promote batch cohesion each batch going to different destinations. The senior batches are granted leaves spanning several days, and can decide for themselves in batch meetings where they want to go. “Freshers” get only one day off and traditionally visit the relatively proximate but nonetheless magnificent ancient cultural sites of Dambulla and Sigiriya67. While batch trips emphasise the position of the batch as the most important social group, this is particularly true for small batches such as that of the CG. The CG was, however, to go on other trips together, spontaneous as well as well-planned, and did so even before the first-year batch trip which coincided with my arrival at Peradeniya. While the official batch trips include both males and females, however, informal overnight trips will, for practical reasons, usually only include the male segment, this because it is considered inappropriate for unmarried, adult males and females to sleep in the same quarters, making the arrangement of accommodation more complicated. Trips made at the students’ own initiative may come about for several reasons and occasions. In addition to the purely recreational, holiday-like journeys, which sometimes last up to a week, there is the participation in rituals such as weddings, funerals and festivals, and even politically motivated travelling. We shall deal with the former two here and return to an example of the latter in the next chapter.

67 Both are popular tourist destinations in the interior of Sri Lanka. Dambulla is famous for its painted Buddhist caves, while Sigiriya offers the ruins of an old capital built on and around a picturesque rock, rising dramatically out of the landscape.

71 During my months at Perdeniya I was privileged to be invited along with the CG on a number of recreational trips. To save money, destinations on such trips are usually restricted to the students’ villages where the students lodge in each others’ homes, a crowd of five to ten or more perhaps spending the night in one small room. If several students live in the same area the group may shift about, sleeping and eating in different places, in order to limit the expenditure for one particular family, but also, I believe, because it is considered a great honour to host the students (and a visiting foreigner). Even the poorest of families will insist on serving such prominent guests. In this manner the students become better acquainted with each others’ communities and families, allowing symbolic and real family networks to fuse. Although the CG is dominated by Up-country Tamils, most of whom are frequent participants on such social trips, some Sri Lanka Tamils do also frequently come along. When travelling in the up-country they are given unique opportunities to compare life in the estates with life in Tamil communities elsewhere. As the Up-country Tamil students are eager to see other parts of Sri Lanka too, trips are also occasionally arranged to the home areas of Sri Lanka Tamil students. On one occasion, approximately ten males and (rather unusually) ten females arranged a 4-day trip to the Batticaloa-area on the east coast, visiting students’ families there. Trips like these are educational for all involved and they sometimes spur discussions and comparisons of Sri Lanka Tamil culture and Up-country Tamil culture. Some of the students expressed great satisfaction at being able to see the country this way, grateful for the opportunity, which they see as a bonus to being at the university. Three of the most eager explorers in the CG, wanting to make use of every opportunity to see new a new place, were able to travel successively for two weeks, combining the Batticaloa-trip with a visit to friends in Nuwara Eliya and Jaffna. But while seeing new places and the homes of friends may be the main incentive for travelling, much can happen on the trips which is not on the “official program, ” and as I will return to in greater detail shortly, there was for instance quite a bit of drinking. This suggests that the travelling provides opportunities for the students to lower their shoulders and escape from the worries of the “real world”, if only for a short time.

When travelling I would often notice how the CG students seemed to relax and act more freely once we found ourselves in predominantly Tamil areas. Travelling by bus or train someone would typically begin singing a Tamil film song, everyone else soon joining in until all were singing on the top of their lungs, drumming on walls, seats and whatever percussion at hand. Although the mood is light-hearted and students chat and joke from the onset of a journey, it seems they are careful not to draw too much attention to themselves. The

72 uninhibited joy that comes to expression at a later point, a joy stemming from a combination of being on holiday with good friends and from returning to “their own” areas, would possibly have been frowned upon near Kandy and Peradeniya, but not deeper into the up-country or in other Tamil parts of the island. There are, however, times when restraint is required in the Tamil areas, too. A situation from the Batticaloa-trip is illustrative. In this region, the LTTE has de facto control of large areas and contests the government where it does not. The result is a patchwork of unofficial borders dotted with armed government and LTTE checkpoints. While we were lodging and spending most of our time on government land, a private bus had been rented to take the entire group on a sight-seeing trip to three prominent temples on the LTTE-side. To reach the temples and to return home, therefore, we needed to pass through a government checkpoint. At the first crossing, two of the male students whose proficiency of Sinhala is fairly fluent, stepped out and explained to the soldiers where we were going and why. The soldiers inspected their identity papers and looked quickly through the vehicle before giving us a go-ahead. Though most border-crossings are, barring the hassle, unproblematic, stories are bountiful of government soldiers who have abused their powers and of young Tamil men who have disappeared without evidence, particularly during the late 80’s. The reader will, moreover, recall from Chapter 3 that Up-country Tamils, too, have learned to fear law enforcement. It is therefore understandable why the students chose to approach the soldiers with a respectful demeanour. On the return journey, however, a telling incident took place. Feeling exceptionally happy and cheerful after a successful excursion, the students were in the midst of a Tamil film-song chorus when the bus approached the checkpoint. As we were flagged down, the passengers quickly realized where we were and fell silent. Worried glances were exchanged before a stern-looking soldier put his face in through the driver’s window and delivered an angry reprimand. Were we not aware that this was a government checkpoint? He was visibly upset and aggressive, seeing the students’ light- hearted behaviour as disrespectful and unacceptable. After some apologizing, however, we were allowed to drive on.

The symbolic kinship of the CG Up-country Tamils not only affords safety and comfort, but does also entail obligations. Sadly, during my first month at Peradeniya, one of the Up- country Tamil female first-year students, Priyamani, was diagnosed with anaemia and hospitalized in Kandy. Her condition deteriorated quickly, and she died shortly thereafter. Every day during her hospitalization her fellow students, male and female, took turns visiting her so she would never be alone. Her death came as a shock to everyone who knew her, not

73 least to the students, and the days following Priyamani’s passing away featured an extraordinary display of commitment on part of the students. They were indispensable to the family in helping with formalities such as obtaining a death certificate and arranging with transport of the body to the estate. A batch meeting, also attended by the Muslim students, was held on the day following Priyamani’s death, and it was decided to take a collection from the students to help the family cover funeral expenses. The university administration also contributed, as is common procedure, and the students made sure this money reached the family. As is Tamil and Sinhalese custom a wake was arranged. Priyamani’s body was put on display for three days before the burial and people came from near and far to pay their last respect68. Priyamani’s batch mates had arranged with a bus so that all students who wanted to could visit the funeral home. The trip was made on the second day of the wake. A large part of the Tamil-medium first-year batches, and nearly all the Tamil students in them, went. Furthermore, several Tamil students from the senior batches came along and so did a number of female Sinhalese students from Priyamani’s hall of residence69, as well as some members of the academic staff. The influx of people at a funeral can be tremendous and on this occasion hundreds showed up. As is customary, the visitors need to be served food and drinks – an enormous task, in this case wholly taken care of by the Up-country Tamil Peradeniya students. The female students cooked constantly while the males served and made sure that everyone’s needs were looked after. While most students returned to Peradeniya after a few hours, a number of Up-country Tamils stayed to help with the wake and with the following day’s burial. In fact, some of the more conscientious ones hardly slept or rested until the entire event was concluded. Their assistance was again indispensable during the final funeral ceremony. At this point they struggled to hold back a highly emotional crowd, including the family, which was in the process of whipping itself into a frenzy of mourning.

A happier occasion followed only a few weeks later as the brother of a female batch mate of the CG students got married. The whole batch was invited for a reception and a large number of students of both genders showed up, danced, ate, were photographed with the bride and groom and otherwise took part in the festivities.

68 For a more comprehensive description of the Up-country Tamil burial ritual, see Hollup (1994:302-303). 69 Several months later, during a meeting of the CG’s batch, the Sinhala batch representative gave a speech where he among other things expressed regret that none of the Sinhalese male students had visited the funeral home.

74 Keeping up Appearances In retrospect I find it amusing to think of how I must have appeared to students at Peradeniya when I first arrived, dressed as I was in jeans and T-shirts, only occasionally clean-shaven. I must have broken a number of codes of conduct relating to cleanliness and my somewhat casual attitude towards my own hair style was certainly at odds with the CG-students’ careful approach involving mirrors, hair oil and careful combing. I am sure I was excused many a time, as one excuses outsiders who do not know any better, until I gradually began to pick up on the proper ways of doing things, such as eating with one’s fingers and dressing appropriately. I did, however, never come close to internalizing the whole set of social codes. Some of these, such as not washing in the halls of residence between 6 am and 8 am, are campus-specific, while others, such as not wearing shorts or sarongs in public70, are of a general character. At any rate, I soon noticed that the CG students, as most other students at the university, are very particular about how they present themselves to their surroundings. This is at odds with the Sri Lankan stereotype of Up-country Tamils as unclean, careless and immoral people. I do not know to which degree the Up-country Tamil students at Peradeniya are confronted with such a stigma, but it is obvious that they will not let their behaviour confirm the stereotype. Every detail of their attire and appearance is attended to in an almost obsessive manner, particularly when they go off campus. Their pattern of behaviour is reminiscent of that of the Sámi people studied by Eidheim (1971), who in similar attempts at avoiding a stereotype labelling them as unhygienic, over-communicate the opposite message.

Clothes and Hygiene “In dress and demeanour, the undergraduate has tended to remain a conformist”, writes G. H. Peiris (1995:185) in an essay discussing the troubles at Peradeniya over the last decades. He goes on by stating that:

What you are likely to see often on the campus are men with clean-shaven faces (with a well- trimmed moustache and may be a goatee retained here and there), shirts buttoned up to the penultimate level, slacks, shoes and socks; and women with neatly combed and plaited hair, frock or saree in pastel shades – nothing chic, but just prim and proper. Primary colours and primeval beards, the plunging neckline and the exposed midriff are found, if at all, mainly among the staff (ibid:186).

70 In Sri Lanka and other south Asian countries, shorts are not considered an appropriate garment for adults, while sarongs are associated with village life and lack of education.

75 It is an interesting point that, although sometimes violent conflicts have raged among students and between students and staff, there is very little rebellious over the undergraduates’ attire. This is at any rate true for the large majority of them, who would never think of dressing contrary to the conservative norm71. There are some exceptions and interesting variations, however. Although senior students usually stay well within the norm, it is my impression that they are freer to use stronger colour and in the case of males, grow facial hair. New students, in contrast, have to respect an even stricter dress code during the 3-month period of introductory ragging rituals, but I will return to that subject in detail in the next chapter. Related to the conformity of the majority is the near total disregard of their dress code displayed by the upper-class students. I will return to these students in Chapter 5, but should mention here that they dress much more akin to trend-conscious western youth, taking their cues from American and European popular culture. As Peiris points out, the staff seems to be more lax in choice of attire than the students are, and among the academic personnel, this is perhaps particularly true of those who have either studied or worked abroad. It is for example quite common to see female lecturers in trousers and even blue jeans. The non-academic staffers dress mainly according to their rank and the tasks they carry out – some of those at the lower end of the status-hierarchy wearing sarongs and looking much like village people. In a discussion of colonial influence and the “Europeanization” of the Sri Lankan elites Daniel points out that there is a “tacit hierarchy established between those who wear trousers and are therefore assumed to speak English and those who wear sarongs or the national dress” (1996b: 48). Of the same phenomena Bass (2004: 305) points out in a footnote that Estate Tamil women, like most Sri Lankan women, wear saris or long dresses, and that jeans are associated with modernity and urbanity. We see how the social hierarchy is re-presented in attire, the picture complicated just a little by the presence of a segment (the upper class and to some extent westernized scholars) who in communicating its “modernity” distances itself from the majority, using a set of cultural codes which the majority finds unintelligible. The “real” elites have a cultural capital that separates them from mere social climbers. They allege to not care much about the lower class students, just as the lower class students do not pay much heed to them. It is as if they play different games altogether, yet, as we shall see, much of the tension on campus stems from friction between these groups.

71 Recall the discussion in the Chapter 1 section on ethnic markers, of the separate ethnic dress codes applying to female students, while the male students follow much the same code.

76 Returning to the CG students we understand that the care they take in their appearance is no less than what Sri Lankan society expects of university students. Their social positions as people of higher learning should be visible to one and all. While nearly all of them prefer to wear a traditional sarong at home (be it on an estate or in a hostel), they will don a pair of perfectly pressed trousers when in public. Siva, once found it necessary to excuse some villagers on a bus we had boarded. They were wearing sarongs and he told me that this is because they are “uneducated”. Indeed, that is the common assumption of anyone wearing sarong in public – a message often lost on western tourists who in attempts to “do like the natives” create awkward, but amusing situations where they dress far below the status which is automatically accorded to them. Clothes, as indicators of educational level and economic success, are of course powerful means of communicating one’s social status. For one who has had to climb the social ladder this aspect of communicating identity becomes perhaps doubly important. Indeed, it seems to me that the more marginal and exposed groups on campus are also the ones which are the most conformist with regard to appearance.

I did on several occasions witness the CG’s morning routine in their hall, and it is a routine which is quite impressive in its thoroughness. There is a similar concern always to wash properly and look clean while travelling – a feat considering that the CG students usually travel light with no more than two trousers and two shirts and often only one of each. After every leg of a journey, when arriving in a new place, the students will change to sarongs and wash their faces, arms and legs, while also washing, or at least wringing up, dirty clothes. The following morning the clothes will be dry and ready for ironing, but before they dress there is the morning wash. Full-body baths are, when possible, only taken mid-day, as there is a strong belief that getting the hair wet in the somewhat cooler morning or evening air, is like asking to catch a cold. Baths are taken in wells, lakes, rivers or in designated places in the villages where piped water runs constantly for that purpose. The entire body, including private parts, is soaped down to the point where the white froth covers everything but the eyes, and then rinsed carefully off. There is, moreover, a very particular manner in which all this should be done and, when bathing with the CG, I repeatedly provoked worried head-shakes and surprised gazes. I would be scolded for not rinsing off all the soap, for not drying my hair properly or for not scrubbing thoroughly enough. The last was the case as I one morning at 0415, along with Shankar of the CG, whose home I had been visiting, was getting ready to leave for the bus stand. Hurriedly, I splashed some water in my face, got dressed and was ready to leave. I realized, however, that I had misjudged the situation when Shankar, who had

77 taken a bath only hours earlier, did a complete soap-scrub-and-rinse routine on arms, legs and face and asked me, with a surprised look, if I was finished washing. However, if I did not quite live up to the students’ standards in attire and cleanliness (though I was never berated for this), I was very much admired for my pale skin. Much importance is attached to one’s complexion in Sri Lanka, as is immediately apparent from marriage proposals in newspaper classifieds. These ads will typically mention that one seeks someone of fair complexion or that one is fair oneself. Even on moderately sunny days, a bird’s-eye-view of crowded places will reveal an ocean of umbrellas. I was surprised to see several of the CG-students use face- whitening creams, with names such as Fair & Lovely, and which are marketed at women, on a daily basis.

The sentiments underlying all their concern with appearance was nicely summed up by one of the CG Up-country Tamils, Madhavan, who on the Batticaloa-trip humorously announced that “before we left my shoes were black and my face brown. Now my shoes are brown and my face is black!”

Alpaculture While the CG students carefully monitor their appearance in public and are much concerned with presenting themselves to others in a respectable manner, back-stage behaviour is at times characterized by a collective, humorous exploration of that which is considered inappropriate conduct – such as can only be expected from uneducated men. When I was with the CG they used the constructed joke-word alpaculture to refer to such conduct. As far as I know it is a word they themselves invented, and it was translated to me as “silly culture”. Typical alpa behaviour includes, the wearing of dirty or inappropriate clothes, urinating on the roadside, drinking excessive amounts of alcohol, smoking cigarettes, and getting into fights. Though the students frequently joke about all of this in an ironic manner, it was particularly the drinking and smoking they themselves indulged in when I was around. Whenever the CG students engage in activities of this kind, which is never when there are strangers around, they may, with poorly hidden satisfaction, joke that “this is alpa”. In other words, they are fully aware that the given conduct is inappropriate and that it should be hidden from outsiders. As a consequence the arenas for such activities are shielded from the public. Campus is relatively shielded, and as long as students do not drink or misbehave in front of staff, some degree of unseemliness is tolerated. The halls of residence are, however, the domain of wardens and sub-wardens who keep an eye on the residents and make sure there is no noise at night. On the

78 other hand, it is quite common that drinking, as part of of “ground parties” or “mahapola parties”72 takes place at the campus sports grounds late at night, though this has largely been a Sinhalese tradition. The CG students seem to be of the impression that the use of alcohol is more prevalent among the Sinhalese students. When the CG had “drinking parties” during my time in the field, they were usually held in the estates and villages and they arranged it so that a room or building is vacated for the purpose, or if that was not possible, they found a secluded spot under the open sky. The following description of a small party thrown by the CG students at an estate near Talawakelle, in Nuwara Eilya District, is illustrative of how such events may proceed.

It was late March and festival season in the up-country, when approximately ten students and the anthropologist decided to go on a four-day trip in Nuwara Eliya District. The trip was to be purely recreational, spurred on by the possibility of witnessing festival events, but just as importantly we wanted to visit some of the students’ families. Already on the first evening there had been an improvised party in the basement of an empty restaurant. On the second day, in a different estate, the students were talking about having a new one. The host on this occasion would be Kumaran, whose family lives in a relatively new, though simple and modest-sized house, in an area where a housing project has replaced the lines. The houses have earthen floors and are sparsely furnished, but in each there are two small bed-rooms, a living-room and a tiny kitchen – a definitive upgrade from the line rooms. However, there was not room for all the guests to sleep in his family’s house, and so Kumaran had arranged with some relatives living just nearby for part of the group to sleep in their house, which would be vacated for the evening. With a house at our disposal and eager to celebrate, the students decided that there would indeed be some festivities this evening too. Our host, Kumaran, arranged the purchase of 2 bottles of arrack and some cigarettes and his mother contributed by making some snacks for all to enjoy. The party began around 10 pm, after dinner was done with and when there had been some time to rest after that day’s activities. The group gathered at the venue in high spirits, and the bottles of arrack were quickly assailed, though the students clearly did not enjoy the taste of the liquor which they mixed with large amounts of Coca Cola. A cigarette or two was lit and passed around, and when I readied my camera the students were eager to pose for pictures with drinks and cigarettes in hand. Within a short time they began to sing and, as usual, with the singing followed dancing and drumming – the

72 The mahapola is a grant afforded monthly to most of the students and a mahapola party is a party taknig place shortly after the money is in hand.

79 dancers imitating the style of Chennai movies. This all carried on for more than an hour, at which point the last bottle had long since been emptied. Though everyone present seemed to be enjoying themselves, one or two were worried that I was not – I suspect because I did not dance quite as much as the rest (though I was enjoying myself immensely watching them) and I was repeatedly reassured that they would end the party if I wanted to sleep. The party died down for other reasons, however, as one of the boys vomited and passed out drunk near the entrance. The others’ reactions revealed that this was not a situation they were familiar with, and some of them even turned to me for advice, fearing for his friend’s health. It was then decided that the function was finished and that everyone should go to sleep.

In a small village, this kind of event will hardly go unnoticed. In this case, the mother who prepared the snacks, the one who sold the alcoholic beverages, and anyone who came near the festivities, would have known them. Of course, people talk in villages, too. However, this kind of partying, though not explicitly approved of, is not a case of serious misbehaviour on part of the students. Granted, drinking is stigmatised as a low-class and low-caste activity, but drinking among the marginalized estate workers follows a pattern very different from that of the students. Furthermore, we need to remember that the occasion was special; a prominent visit coinciding with the temple festival, at which time drinking is common. Because of such mitigating circumstances, the party was, I believe, no scandalous episode, but merely a bit unusual, and outsiders who were directly involved probably turned a blind eye.

It is my impression that when the students engage in “alpaculture” such as drinking and smoking, they are for a short time unburdening themselves of the colossal expectations that have been placed on their shoulders by their families and communities. For a short period the students have no worries, think only of the present and have a much needed break from the demanding everyday routine of university life. The willingness to pose for “incriminating” photos furthermore exposes a certain pride connected to the handling of these “illegal” substances. Perhaps engaging in alpaculture is also about exploring a sense of independence and manhood. As university students and participants in urban society the CG students are to a larger degree than estate workers informed by western and Sinhalese fashion, norms and values. To them, drinking and smoking may take on a new significance – meanings which are not necessarily connected with poverty and stigma, but with comradeship, agency and individual freedom all at the same time. That which is alpa may have an alluring attraction in being symbols of a western liberal attitude. In discussing alcohol consumption on the estates,

80 Hollup notes that ”the drinking pattern among the plantation workers is characterised by the fact that liquor is consumed individually and there is no kind of conviviality” (1994:130). He also points out that on the estates, drinking is considered a low caste practise, and therefore stigmatized (ibid: 131). It seems to me that the drinking patterns displayed by the CG students are of a qualitatively different kind than what is common on the estates. First of all, and as illustrated above, whenever I drank with the CG there was a celebration of life and friendship which I have never experienced the likes of. The drinking was nothing but convivial in its nature, as indicated by the sharing of bottles, glasses, cigarettes and food. In my view these events are about young men escaping their burdens and exploring unknown ground, but more importantly about expressing and celebrating friendship and solidarity. The students are on the other hand very much aware of the stigma attached to drinking and the tragedies that sometimes derive from the practise. Several of them have close relatives who are alcoholics and they know families which have been ruined by drinking problems. Well aware of that, they find themselves in ambivalent positions. While curious about the effects of liquor; while wanting to experience and re-experience the collective high; while longing for the escape which alcohol provides from the pressure and responsibilities of every-day life, there are more responsible and sober sentiments which restrain their actions. No one wants to be like the ridiculed village fool or a drunken father or uncle. Most importantly, no one wants to misuse the chance they have been given to make for themselves and their families a better life.

From Periphery to Centre Speaking of the Up-country Tamil diaspora as a whole, Bass writes that its “cultural pluralism … has facilitated a self-consciousness about beliefs and practices and the objectification of culture in opposition to other cultures” (2004:270). To an even greater extent than for their families, who are living and working in the estates, the ones who leave it in search of jobs, for educational purposes, or for other reasons, are exposed to the plurality and complexity of Sri Lankan culture. They not only hear of and see people different from themselves, but have to deal with such difference on a daily basis. Accordingly they are, at least to some degree, afforded with a perspective on their own beliefs and practises, in particular where these are not shared by the majority. At Peradeniya, the linguistic, religious and ethnic majority is constituted by the Sinhalese student body and a quick stroll around the premises quickly reveals the predominance of the Sinhala language. Nearly all posters and notices are in Sinhala and at general meetings, nearly all the talking is done in the majority language.

81 Language is, however, just one of many sets of cultural codes, albeit a pervasive one. In dress and demeanour too, it is the Sinhalese students who stand out. A young Sinhalese woman’s clothes, though modest by western standard, is daring by a Tamil, not to mention a Muslim, one. Interaction between the genders seems, moreover, to be less constrained among the Sinhalese. Unmarried Sinhalese students engage in romantic relationships and couples frequently spend time together alone in romantic places. It was explained to me by one of the CG Up-country Tamils that when an umbrella is left unfolded at the top of the Mahaweli riverbank, it belongs to a Sinhalese couple who wants privacy. That particular section of the riverbank is, in other words, off-limits to others. My friend insisted the couples were having sexual intercourse down there by the riverside, hidden by the dense vegetation. Although I find this last bit highly unlikely, the very idea illustrates the laxity of moral many Up-country Tamils attribute to the Sinhalese73. Moreover, as I touched upon in the previous subchapter, it is the Sinhalese who tend drink alcohol on the campus grounds, and it is felt that the Sinhalese in general are less restrained when it comes to drinking. But if Sinhalese culture is seen as liberal and morally lenient by the Tamils, western culture is felt to be outrageously so. I was confronted with many beliefs – some of them misapprehensions and some fairly accurate, about the lax moral code of western culture, advanced by wide-eyed and astonished male students. They could ask, for instance, whether it is true that in America all people have sex before they are 18; whether western women really sleep with men they do not know; if it is true that people have many sexual partners; whether I drink alcohol every day; whether women also drink and smoke, and so on. Though, most of the CG students are fairly unfamiliar with western popular culture, preferring Tamil films and TV in stead, stories of the stereotypical wild and immoral westerners are spread by other means, whether by rumour, Tamil-language magazines or the internet. Interestingly, moreover, nearly all English- language movies screened in Sri Lankan cinemas are of a soft-pornographic character.

As with alpaculture, there is an ambivalent attitude towards these morally questionable elements of western and Sinhalese culture (the latter sometimes seen as a less extreme version of the former). When I attempted to have CG students air their views on topics such as love marriages, pre-marital sexual relations and drinking, they would often contradict themselves, indicating that these are still questions they have not reflected much upon and that they are pulled between traditional and modern values. The only CG student who claimed to have had

73 Interestingly, some of the Jaffna Tamil students expressed similar sentiments with regard to the Up-country Tamils, feeling there was too intimate contact between some of the male and female students of the batch.

82 sexual intercourse did, for instance, express regret and said that it had been wrong of him. I asked if either he or his partner had experienced difficulties afterwards, but this was not the case. His regret was based on a moral stand. To have sexual relations before marriage is just not proper. The conversation moved on and he wanted to know how things are in own my country, Norway. I explained that it is quite common there for young and unmarried people to have sex and that although this was frowned upon only years ago it is accepted today. He then expressed a desire that such pre-marital sexual relations should be legitimate in Tamil culture. This would be good, he explained, since young males will strive to have sex no matter what, and that as long as it is culturally illegitimate to do so there will be more rape and prostitution. His reasoning is illustrative of the process of adapting to a new context in which one is exposed to ways of thinking which break with internalized norms and values. The movement from estate to campus; from rural to urban society; from periphery to centre; entails a series of such adaptive challenges. We shall in the following look at how the CG Up-country Tamils cope with this, examining how they situate themselves with regard to the modern and the traditional, how they are exposed to and make use of new technology, how they overcome financial challenges and how new surroundings shape and inform their thinking of life in the estates.

Between Tradition and Modernity I feel it necessary to point out that a distinction between the estate sector as a domain of the traditional and campus as a domain of the modern is not an unproblematic one, and it is not my intention to claim that such a simplistic opposition is absolute. One should indeed be careful not to label the estates as backwards and isolated. There is a case that the estates from the very beginning have been modern, in that they are capitalistic in their nature and produce for a global economy (Bass 2004:334). Hollup makes a point that they were also at odds with the worker’s traditional values, and he writes that “the adaptation to the plantation setting and its particular organisation tends to disintegrate the domestic hierarchy over time, and induces changes in the immigrant group’s traditional value orientation” (1994:79). This is for instance illustrated by the increasing frequency of inter-caste “love marriages”. It may be argued therefore that migration from India entailed a shift from tradition to modernity, but this argument rests on the assumption that there at one point existed some “authentic” tradition. Anthropologists have now realized, of course, that there is no such thing as “authentic” cultures or traditions. Tradition is constantly reinvented, just as it takes on new significance in new contexts. An example from the up-country is the changing significance of the goddess

83 Mariyamman, who was for long associated with smallpox and seen as both protector against, and cause of the disease. The frequency of smallpox and other such infectious diseases added to her importance. Despite smallpox being eradicated in the 70’s, Mariyamman remained popular as the disease took on a metaphoric significance and she is still the deity most commonly worshipped by Up-country Tamils (Daniel 2004:273). Modernity, meanwhile, manifests itself in many ways, one of them being the adoption of modern technology. While mobile phones, television and recorded digital media are becoming more common in the plantation sector, they are far from common property. And while multinational companies make sure their products are stocked in the most ramshackle of village shops, consumer goods remain unattainable to the majority of impoverished estate residents. Modernity regularly visits the estates in the guise of NGO social workers, tourists or returning labour migrants, but in the life of a typical estate labourer, the presence of an outsider merely constitutes a curious disruption from the everyday routine. He or she is still living very much like his or her parents and their parents’ parents, and these lives are felt to be traditional. When I use the terms “traditional” and “modern,” I am mainly referring to an ideational continuum. In dealing with the Up-country Tamil students at the university, I am saying that they to some degree picture themselves as traditional – as carriers of tradition or of a certain heritage. This heritage is in turn challenged by the heterogeneity of campus, and its students who may be carriers of other traditions. Some students, mainly those of the upper class, are also proponents of “the modern,” and as modernity is inseparable from urbanity, it encompasses their very existence.

In a text on student politics at Peradeniya, Gamini Samaranayke writes that “through University education [students] were influenced by Western concepts of progress, individualism, achievement and success” (1992:105). In fact, a young woman or man arriving to study at the University of Peradeniya, is not only suddenly exposed to modernity in a new way, but is expected to embrace it. New students at the Faculty of Arts follow a mandatory English course and two rather broad introductory courses, before choosing three subjects for their first year of study. They are in other words exposed to a variety of fields of study, perhaps affording them with new ideas, interests and perspectives. As students they have come to broaden their horizons and the university is a gateway to the world. They are taught to be critical and questioning. They are encouraged to use the libraries for research, and though there are those who complain that today’s students are too passive and too heavily reliant on lecture notes (Peiris 1995:186), the CG students, at least, were no strangers to the library. Campus furthermore makes available computer facilities and internet access to

84 students. Hardly any of the Up-country Tamil students I talked with had any experience with computers prior to enrolling and had to start with the absolute basics74. Several of the CG students were eager to learn more about computers and were convinced that there were benefits in doing so. However, seeing as the only source of computer education was costly off-campus tuition, they remained self-taught, their use largely restricted to emailing and web- browsing for entertainment purposes. Emailing, in fact, seemed to offer ample challenge as passwords, in some instances, were forgotten or accounts deleted due to inactivity.

Though the use of computers still hasn’t quite been adopted into the CG students’ everyday routine, they seem eager to acquire mobile phones. Such phones are fast becoming common property at the university, but I was surprised to find that some of the CG students, though only two or three from the up-country, had obtained phones for themselves. I am not sure how they managed to afford it, but the pattern of use revealed that there was little money left for actually using the phones. Only once or twice did I see any of the CG students use a mobile phone for calling, though they often called each other for fun, hanging up before anyone could answer. When they called me in this manner, it could be a sign that I should call back, but not always. One of the CG Sri Lanka Tamil students, Krisnan, enjoyed prank calling me, but I once answered his call before he hung up. When Krisnan realized this he sadly lamented “Ayooo!”75 and explained to me that my quick finger had cost him 13 rupees. As a cheaper option to calling, text messaging is more common, though marginally so. The ones in the CG who most frequently send messages, and who have the most streamlined and abbreviated text message language, are the Sri Lanka Tamils. Ring-tones and other free “extras” is on the other hand a great source of entertainment for all. Ranganath – somewhat of a comedian, was proud of his ring-tones which sounded like cats and frogs. He occasionally played tricks on other students by playing these and pretend to be surprised, looking for the animal. The CG students sometimes also asked to see my phone and it was invariably the built-in camera and the ring- tones which received most attention. In fact, the mobile phone camera was as popular as my rather expensive digital SLR camera because the latter does not display real-time images. There seemed to be little interest in technical specifications and such, I suppose because these carried little meaning to the CG students, whose inexperience with this kind of technology perhaps had them appreciate the immediate entertainment value rather than the mechanics

74 Incidentally, a brand new and well-equipped IT-centre, intended not only to make the technology available to the students, but also to teach such basic computing skills free of charge, was finished and taken in use during my field work. No teaching program was yet initiated as I left the field, however. 75 A common Sri Lankan exclamation perhaps best translated as “Oh dear!”

85 behind it. Prices, however, were of significant importance as equipment can easily be appreciated from a price tag. The students would unembarrassedly ask me how much I had paid for this and that, in no way intending to make me feel uncomfortable, but curious to learn. Likewise, I believe the wish to learn about computers, to buy mobile phones, and so on, derives largely from a wish to be a part of a modern, future oriented world.

However, on campus, the students also learn to be suspicious or even hostile towards modernity and towards those who master its symbols. I am referring here to the cultivation of class mentality and the conflict between the (vernacular speaking) lower class students and the English medium or upper class students. The two categories are also known respectively as raggers and anti-raggers, because of their positioning with regard to the ragging rituals, which we shall return to in depth in the next chapter76. Let me point out here that there is a sense of animosity fostered towards the anti-raggers, the reasons for which are complex. It will be remembered that the elites stand out from the rest in dress as well as demeanour, but they are also known for their refusal to take part in ragging, and for this they are likely to be interpreted as placing of oneself above tradition – in this case university tradition. This has the raggers think of them as snobbish and proud. Other students, moreover, assume that the anti- raggers’ connections will secure them well-paid, high-status jobs, as indeed is true in some cases. Their English proficiency and upper-class refinement marks them out as attractive on the job market. To the many from impoverished backgrounds, who have struggled all their lives and who in all probability will not find lucrative jobs after graduation, the seeming ease with which the upper class students achieve success is hard to accept. Modernity, in this context, is equated to individuality and tradition with community. Anti-raggers are perceived to be modern, self-centred and as lacking respect for a “university subculture” celebrating equality. Where does this leave the Tamil and Up-country Tamils students such as the CG? As we shall see in the following chapter, they tend to play the class card and under- communicate ethnic difference in their relations to the Sinhalese. This is, however, as I see it, more a matter of convenience than conviction, as is their embrace of campus culture. What regards their own culture and origins, I am left with the impression that the CG Up-country Tamils are ambivalent. While they were always proud to show me their estates and teach me about their ways, they seemed somewhat apologetic of the living conditions, the widespread social problems and the general low levels of education. Although most of them claimed to be

76 These terms are, however, misguiding as they imply that group membership is based on ideological stands toward ragging, rather than class. The statuses of ragger and anti-ragger are in large part ascribed.

86 religious, their worship was low key and they did not seem to be taken into festivals and rituals in the same way that many of the plantation people were. My presence in the field may to some extent have influenced their behaviour, but I do also believe the students felt it inappropriate, as educated people, to take on the roles of true participants in the rituals. They were, for instance, proud to show me traditional rites of penance such as hook-hangings and fire-walking, but none of them expressed any desire to take part in these rituals themselves77. I believe that most of the CG Up-country Tamils considered temple sight-seeing to be more of a cultural exercise than a religious one. Some were, however, of the opinion that their female batch mates were more religiously minded than they were.

It is a common assumption that progressive attitudes are encouraged by high levels of education, and I personally expected to see gender equality promoted and discussed among the students – also among the Up-country Tamils. Let me first note that the subjugation of women to men, at least in the public sphere, is in no way exclusive to Up-country Tamil society, but is the norm in Sri Lanka as a whole, which is perhaps surprising considering that Sri Lanka has had two female heads of state and has an educational system which ensures free education to all. It surprised me to see how the gender relations from the estates were reproduced on campus. This came most obviously to expression at batch-meetings, when female students would hardly ever speak. On occasions the male students would even take complete control by calling a “pocket”, an informal meeting before the batch meeting, at which they would discuss the matters at hand and seek agreements. On one occasion, as a new Batch President and Vice-President78 were to be elected, I suggested to one of the CG Up- country Tamils that they might elect a woman. The suggestion was immediately dismissed and when I asked why, he explained that this was not tradition. Besides, one of the key tasks of the Batch President was to stop quarrelling and fights, which was not a task for a woman. Indeed, the possibility of electing a female was never discussed and two males got the jobs. I did not develop relations of trust to the female part of the batch, but the ones I talked with generally seemed embarrassed to discuss the topic of empowerment of women. Granted, this may have been because they felt unsure of me or because there were other people around, but I believe it goes to show that the topic of gender equality at least is not an altogether uncontroversial one. As we shall see later, moreover, a gender hierarchy is reinforced by

77 The only CG student who expressed such a desire was Ramadas, a Sri Lanka Tamil from the west coast. He was known to be one of the most religious in the batch and when Siva and I visited his village he insisted that we would participate in the famous fire-walking ritual at Muneshwaram, which we did. 78 These are the representatives of the batch when dealing with other batches or the administration.

87 ragging and the most egalitarian community on campus with regard to the gender roles, seems to be that of the anti-raggers – the proponents of modernity.

Making Ends Meet Let me repeat again that it is not only the Up-country Tamil students, or the minority students, who come from financially burdened families. In fact, Peiris estimates that as many as 15 to 20 percent of university students experience acute financial problems during their time in the university (1995:193). Although university education in theory is free, the loss of a provider who in turn is likely to become a dependent, is a large burden for a household already struggling to get by. In Peiris’ words:

A university student whose parents cannot set apart a substantial sum of money for his or her education, has to live frugally, and even forego some of the basic essentials. In the case of the relatively poor students at Peradeniya, this type of hardship and privation tends to coexist with other handicaps such as those relating to fluency in English, and lack of self-confidence, among others. This in turn probably finds expression in the students’ academic performance. (1995:195)

For the CG students another disadvantage can be added to the list: they belong to an ethnic minority whose relationship with the majority, at times in the past, has been severely troubled. Their ethnic otherness prevents them from being fully accepted in a horizontal community. As noted earlier then, the experience of poverty works instead to increase cohesion within the Up-country Tamil segment of the CG.

I’ve only had occasional glimpses of how the CG students meet the challenge of making ends meet on campus. Their pride in managing on their own, with only one or two exceptions (and then because of unforeseen expenses and with obvious misgivings), kept them from approaching me to ask for help. On the contrary, it was common that they would insist on buying me lunch when I was dining with them on campus, which was almost every day. Likewise, when we were travelling, someone would often have money ready and pay my bus fare before I was able to do so myself. Granted, this is the expected behaviour of a host, but as time passed and we became more intimate, they could easily have expected me to pay my own way, as I insisted I would. The generosity I was met with was moving and the friendliness genuine. Siva, whom I befriended early on and who throughout the fieldwork remained my closest friend, was therefore offended when I suggested that I could compensate him somewhat for the research-related help he had offered me. He berated me for suggesting such a formalization of our relationship, making it very clear that he did not want my money,

88 but my friendship. Although the students were stretched on money during the first part of my fieldwork (their second semester), the modest, monthly Mahapola scholarship, in some cases along with some help from home, was sufficient to cover regular and foreseen expenses. With the start of their second year things were to get much more difficult. The reader will remember that they at this time were forced onto the private housing market. While the heavily subsidized campus lodging is quite reasonably priced at 75 rupees a month, the private rooms cost ten-fold that or more. Even so, private rooms are smaller and more basic than in the hostels, and to make them affordable at least three or four people have to share. There are no cooking opportunities, complicating matters further as the only affordable meals are available on campus. As a result the students got into a habit of staying there in the afternoons, having dinner there before walking home in the evening. The poorer students are heavily reliant on other subsidized campus services, such as the campus barber and tailor who charge far less than their colleagues elsewhere. When some of the CG students could afford to attend private and rather costly English tuition classes, they could usually only do so because of financial support from family and friends. The students rarely have money to spend on entertainment, but a game of cricket does not cost money and is commonly engaged in. Most evenings, however, are rather non-eventful and pass as students visit one another and chat into the late hours.

The financial difficulties that came with the second year of study led several of the CG Up- country Tamils to consider part-time work in order to get by. Siva was for example tempted to join a network marketing sales pitch, and considered it for a long time before turning it down. He did, however, not wholly reject the idea of taking a job but decent part-time work is hard to find. Shankar and Kumaran were able to share a nightshift at a turf accountant. Shankar complained that the work got in the way of his studies, but that he did not have a choice. Other students combine their studies with work in vegetable gardens in the estates. As most of the estates are only a two- to four hour bus ride away, many go home in weekends and holidays to give a helping hand on small plots. One CG Up-country Tamil, Gopalan, has his own piece of land which he farms in the weekends, making him financially self-sufficient.

When I have included this brief outline of students’ economic difficulties, it is to make one simple point: although the CG Up-country Tamils have caught a lucky break in being admitted to the university, their lives are far from trouble free. Making ends meet is a real challenge, not made any easier by being in an environment conducive to spending. In a sense

89 the CG Up-country Tamils are nearly as far removed from mainstream society on campus as they were on the estates. In fact, the modern and urban setting may serve to emphasise their backwardness and economic disadvantage.

Obligations and Aspirations A few Up-country Tamil scholars and NGO-staffers voiced the opinion to me that Up-country Tamil university students seem eager to give something back to their communities but that words are not converted to action. Some are of the opinion that those who manage to make better lives for themselves neglect the responsibility they have towards the ones who cannot. While I am convinced that the CG Up-country Tamils have a sincere desire to help improve living conditions on the estates as well as the educational opportunities for the children there, it is a difficult task. The Up-country Tamil university graduates are still so few that they are somewhat akin to educational pioneers in their own communities. They are admired for attaining higher education, but perhaps just as much for having left the estates. In noting that there is a stronger push away from estate work, than there is a pull towards anything else, Bass writes that “Estate Tamil youth want jobs outside the estates, not because they have clearly defined career ambitions, but out of a simple desire for something better.” (2004: 250). Yet, plantation residents may not be aware of just how bad conditions are on the estates compared to other places. Distance grants perspective, as have the CG Up-country Tamils found. Being at Peradeniya has afforded them with a new view of the plantation sector and they see, perhaps for the first time, clearly how Up-country Tamils have been discriminated against. Bass confirms this in noting that estate residents often believe conditions to be better at estates other than their own, and further that their own estate’s problems, being local, are to be blamed on poor union officials or corrupt estate managements. Estate residents are in other words blinded from seeing the larger structural problems until they at one point get to see them from a distance (ibid: 382). The discovery may be overwhelming and discouraging.

The CG Up-country Tamils’ desire to help is expressed in different ways. Most common is perhaps volunteer teaching in estate schools during holidays and breaks in the university academic program. A number of the students have done this, as it seems to me, on an idealistic basis. The work involves a sacrifice of one’s own time but is also an honour, and the volunteer teachers are treated by their pupils with utmost respect just as they themselves carry deep respect for their former teachers and senior staff. As volunteers, the students function not

90 only as teachers, but also as living proof that higher education is attainable, also for estate people. Volunteer teaching needs, however, not take place in one’s own estate. Towards the end of my fieldwork, Kannappan, a Christian convert and recent graduate, told me of a project he had initiated. Teaching both the university and at a private tuition centre, he made a decent salary, half of which he spent on travelling in the Tamil communities surrounding Peradeniya, teaching a handpicked number of children. Being the only Up-country Tamil from his batch to graduate he was a role model to the younger Up-country Tamil students and aware of his influence and responsibilities. His zeal and authority made him a natural leader and the CG students were eager to work with him on his project, so as to reach out to more children. A separate, but related project was discussed by some of the same students. They told me that they wanted to create a “student NGO” which would strive to improve educational opportunities in the estates. Though no clear plan was formulated, they wanted to secure funding so as to provide resources for school children.

Since I left the field I have not heard news regarding the two projects and while I am afraid the latter may have stranded in the process of translating idea into action, I am positive that Kannappan is still continuing some sort of social work. While there is no lack of will to act, action requires devoted leadership and determination, and I am afraid that a sense of helplessness and lack of confidence in one’s own abilities is more prevalent. It is quite likely that a sense of being marginalized has the university students underestimate their own ability to initiate and influence change. The same lack of confidence may prove an obstacle when the students in time graduate and seek employment. True, their aspirations are already sober- minded as unemployment rates among graduates in Sri Lanka are high and arts students are not in high demand. Moreover, their ethnicity, class, caste and relatively poor English-skills will not make the task any easier for them. When I asked them about their future plans, their answers tended to be characterized by uncertainty. Of the replies I got, however, a recurrent one was the expressed wish to work for an NGO in the up-country. Such work would let the student combine own aspirations for secure and high-status employment, with an obligation and a wish to give something back to their own communities.

What about Politics? When I first visited the student quarters in one of the large halls of residence at Peradeniya, I was, as I would always be, offered tea and a small snack. The mug which I was handed featured a logo reading “Up-Country Tamil Student Union” (UCTSU), and it triggered my

91 curiosity. When I inquired about it I learned that several of the CG Up-country Tamils were members and to some degree involved in its work. The UCTSU, it was explained to me, is looking after the interests of Up-country Tamil students, but is also getting involved in issues deemed to be of importance to Up-country Tamils in general and to the up-country as a region. It was for instance in the midst of staging protests against the building of a massive hydro-power project in Nuwara Eilya District79, which, it was argued, would cause serious damage to the environment and people living in the area. Siva told me he would like to join them in a demonstration if he could manage to get away from campus, but if any of the students did join the protest I never got to hear of it.

Politicians are everywhere an exposed breed and in Sri Lanka they are either despised or loved, though perhaps most often the former. Politics have since Independence been characterized by patronage of one’s supporters and distrust and fear of one’s opponents. Policies have been shaped by opportunism more than by ideology, politicians often playing several horses in order to remain on top. As in the plantation sector, the power struggle has in large part ruined whatever trust laymen had in the non-partiality of the system, and anyone who has been around knows from personal experience that corruption is widespread and that who you know accounts for more than what you know. The communal character of national politics has in particular hurt minorities such as the Up-country Tamils, who in addition to having been neglected by successive governments have been let down by their own politicians. It is not strange then that many Up-country Tamil students react with vehemence at the mere mention of politics. Students are by no means apathetic to political issues, however, large or small, but I believe a lack of faith in the system along with their marginality and more immediate concerns such as studies, financial difficulties, relations to other groups on campus, and so on, serve to relegate the importance of political activity in their daily lives. National and regional politics, though frequently discussed, do not inspire to collective action in any significant degree – at any rate not as with their Sinhalese counterparts.

The most politically minded of the Up-country Tamil students whom I got to know is a science student. Jayaraj, though from the same cohort as the CG students, did not socialize much with them. His social commitment consumed much of his time and he enthusiastically spoke to me of that which he was trying to accomplish. He was, for instance, setting up a fund

79 The Upper Kotmale Hydro Power project.

92 to help the poorest of the Tamil university students and he claimed to have recruited nine donors, in addition to himself, who would deposit 10,000 rupees each onto a bank account, the annual interest of which was to be donated away. Jayaraj showed me a pile of applications for grants from students who had lost family members or houses in the tsunami. Although the Up-country Tamils were not directly affected by this disaster, he explained, another one could strike them at another time, and so Tamils need to show each other solidarity. Jayaraj was, moreover, an ardent opponent of the hydro power plant project and proudly showed me self- produced posters and information material outlining the potential dangers of the projected dam. On another occasion he got into a debate with Kannappan, who had then just recently graduated and accepted a position of assistant lecturer at the Department of Sociology. Kannappan had expressed embarrassment on behalf of the Up-country Tamil people for not working together to improve their own situation. In stead, he said, they are tearing each other down, thinking only of one’s own immediate benefit. He went on to complain about the Up- country Tamil politicians, saying he would not have anything to do with politics himself, but then he changed his mind as if suddenly convinced that he should enter politics to be an honourable exception. Kannappan criticized Jayaraj for talking rather than acting, and pointed out that having meetings which sometimes reach a fever pitch does not mean that anything will improve. Jayaraj in turn objected to the allegations but said that to get anything done one needs to work through the system and that is always difficult. Kannappan, disagreeing, argued that nothing is solved by submitting to a system of political patronage. What is needed, in his opinion, is not a pragmatic approach, but the integrity and courage to stand up against injustice in any shape or form. These remarks, I believe, must be seen in light the last years political development in Sri Lanka where the CWC, has switched allegiance between the UNP and SLFP in order to retain influence, but thereby betraying itself and the mandate received from its voters. Though Jayaraj and Kannappan, as far as I can tell, are exceptional among the Up-country Tamil students with regard to level of social commitment, they are not the only ones who feel let down by the Up-country Tamil politicians. The opinion was voiced in somewhat different ways by different people that the labour unions seem to be there for its leaders rather than for its members, and there is an expressed desire for a more honest alternative.

93 Chapter 5 – Conflict, Cooperation and Impression Management on Campus

The title of this thesis, “Making a Home away from Home”, alludes simultaneously to the emplacement process of the Up-country Tamil people in Sri Lanka, and the task that Up- country Tamil students are faced with in making campus, with its multifarious social landscape, their own home. The former aspect was highlighted in chapters 3 and 4, and in this chapter we will deal primarily with the latter. We have examined the internal dynamics and sources of cohesion of the CG, as well as the cultural, economic and political backdrop of its members, with particular emphasis on the Up-country Tamils. We also briefly touched upon impression management in discussing the CG students’ concern with maintaining a clean and dignified appearance, though this largely with regard to off-campus contexts. The reader will, however, remember from Chapter 1 that the CG by no means has campus to itself, and if interaction between the social groups and categories on campus was only indirectly touched upon in the previous chapter, it will be our primary focus from here on.

Dealing comprehensively with social life on campus is a mammoth task well outside the scope of this thesis. To do so would at any rate have required a different and more extensive field work. What I will attempt, however, is to emphasize aspects of campus life which are illustrative of the social complexities at hand, and in turn try to outline the concerns which inform the CG students’ actions in given situations. Inter-communal interaction is still characterized by underlying ethnic tension, although Peradeniya is today relatively calm and peaceful compared to some earlier periods. Students from the ethnic minorities, more so than others, are in a situation where their behaviour is prone to be taken as representative of their “kind”, and must therefore be extra careful. But there are also situations where the importance of ethnic identity seemingly is subordinated to that of other statuses. It may for instance seem as if the big, insurmountable divide, around which everything else is structured, is based on class. Yet, I will argue that on campus, ethnicity is an imperative status which always somehow informs actors’ choices, but that the CG students are able to play down its importance because, in their case, class solidarity and ethnic solidarity tend to harmonize. But first, let us attend to how the Tamil students are perceived by the Sinhalese majority.

94 Is Every Tamil a Potential Tiger? We must not fall prey to thinking that the Tamil and Sinhalese students do not at all get along, just as one is likewise mistaken if one believes that, in a larger context, all relations between Tamils and Sinhalese in Sri Lanka are troubled. In many parts of the country, the two peoples have lived as neighbours and in peace for centuries, and they continue to do so today. It is all too easy to generalize a model of ethnic relations from violent confrontations of the past, or from the events that media pay attention to. As an anthropologist it is particularly important not to jump to such conclusions. I admit I was surprised when I, some time into the fieldwork, sat with some of the CG students as a crowd of Sinhalese students leaving a meeting walked right past us. I was surprised because the CG students smiled warmly and greeted many of them, who in turn smiled back or even stopped for a quick chat. I had not been aware that the students were on friendly terms with so many of the Sinhalese – a realization which did not fit well with my preconceived understanding of the ethnic dynamics on campus. Granted, nearly all CG students had professed to have Sinhalese friends, but I found it difficult to accept this at face value. Now the living proof paraded in front of me. Genuine smiles were telling me that I was wrong.

That being said, there seems to be a qualitative difference between inter- and intra ethnic friendships on campus, and it was only on a few occasions that I witnessed any extensive socialization between students of different ethnic groups. Those who claim that there is no “ethnic problem” usually point to the language barrier to explain why peer groups are based on ethnicity. While the importance of the lapse in communication resulting from the language issue is difficult to underestimate, it is not the whole story. It is a fact that Sri Lanka has been through a long and bloody civil war which has claimed an estimated 65,000 lives since 1983, and that a final resolution still seems far off. The major daily newspapers, whose objectivity is questionable, are full of material on the conflict – allegations against the LTTE, whether true or false, making excellent headlines. People’s worries that the country is slipping back to a full-blown war are real and campus is not a sanctuary where one is exempted from such thoughts. On the contrary, the university brings together people from all parts of the island – people who know little of each other and who need to earn each others’ trust. Some students, from ethnically homogenous areas, are for the first time living in proximity of the ethnic Other, and to compound matters further, they are most likely not able to communicate with him freely. It was with this in mind that I, when entering the field, expected ethnic relations to

95 be characterized by some degree of hostility and suspicion. When they are not openly so, however, there are good reasons for that being the case. There is a need for those who do not have safety in numbers to appease the ones who do.

With regard to the Up-country Tamil students there is an added concern, which is that that the differentiation between Up-country Tamils and Sri Lanka Tamils is lost on many Sinhalese. While there are few outright supporters of the LTTE among the former category, who do not stand to gain anything from the success of the separatist-movement, far from all Sinhalese realize this. In fact, in the eyes of some, any Tamil is a potential Tiger. Consequentially, Kannappan once explained to me, Up-country Tamil students have a justified fear of retaliations directed at them in event of an exceptionally nasty LTTE-attack or the return of full-blown war. Such a retaliation would not be unprecedented, the riots of 1983 having set a sad example. To avoid something similar from happening again, Kannappan felt it was important to build relations with the Sinhalese students and explain to them the different positions of Up-country Tamils and Sri Lanka Tamils. We will later see that the CG Up- country Tamils, in principal agreeing with Kannappan, followed a similar strategy.

A Peripheral View of the Conflict The issue of LTTE-support among the Up-country Tamil students deserves a somewhat more thorough examination. While it is true that there are few outright LTTE-supporters among them, it is also true that few of the ones I talked with wholly denounced the Tigers and their methods. In fact, I found it difficult to assert any clear-cut position from any of the CG Up- country Tamils. It is likely that they in the campus-context found it difficult to express any such grievances out of fear of alienating or angering Sri Lankan Tamil students, who on the whole tended to be more sympathetic towards the rebels. The LTTE is known to strike down hard on critical voices among Tamils and the CG Up-country Tamils may have been concerned that news of dissent would find its way to pro-Tiger students on campus. Even so, not even in private off-campus conversations with CG Up-country Tamils did I hear any direct, unsolicited criticism of LTTE operations, but rather a quiet approval. I am left with the impression that their stance on the conflict is being informed by a sense of Tamil solidarity, albeit a fragile one. I believe that for many, the suspicion harboured towards the Sri Lankan state machinery exceeds their misgivings with the LTTE. The Up-country Tamils know well what it is like to be discriminated against and they can empathize with the Tamils of the east and north. The majority population’s continued questioning over nearly 200 years, of Up-

96 country Tamils’ loyalties, has left its marks. Through arrests and detentions of innocent civilians, the authorities have alienated a segment of its own population. Still, a unity among Up-country and Sri Lanka Tamils has failed to appear because of the strict regional segregation but also because the LTTE and the Tamil elites in Jaffna have been as arrogant and as dismissive of the Up-country Tamils grievances as have the state. There is moreover, a social and cultural segregation, enforced through notions of caste and class.

Tamil Disunity In the campus-setting, otherwise regionally dispersed groups of Tamils are brought together and as I briefly mentioned in Chapter 4, the encounters may lead to tension. The four male Jaffna Tamils in the CG students’ parallel batch, for instance, interacted little with other Tamil students. One of the CG Up-country Tamils explained that the Jaffna Tamils see themselves as the “original Tamils”. He told me, moreover, that they are angry because Up- country Tamil politicians cooperate with the government. I later observed that the four Jaffna Tamils had a different view on ragging and opposed the sometimes aggressive rituals. In fact, I frequently saw them chatting amiably with the junior students during the ragging period when others treated them harshly. Some of the CG students were angered by this and complained that the new juniors would think Jaffna Tamils to be better people than themselves. The other Sri Lanka Tamils (from the east or west coast), however, seemed to get along fine with the Up-country Tamils. The Sri Lanka Tamils in the CG were, as far as I know, never excluded in any way, but rather treated as intimate friends.

It seems to me that the case of disunity among the Tamil students has little or nothing to do with the ethnic conflict or political discord, but that it builds on differences of caste and cultural identity.. E. Valentine Daniel notes that “the contempt shown toward these hill- country Tamils by the Jaffna Tamils and the incorrigible distrust that the former have for the latter is too well known among both groups to even require mention” (1996a:18). He notes that the two groups ridicule each others’ spoken dialects of Tamil, pointing out that a language alone is not sufficient “to sustain an imagined community that linguistic nationalism needs” (ibid: 18). The reader will recall from the previous chapter how a religious and cultural hegemony is kept in place by Jaffna Tamil80 teachers in estate schools. Returning to campus, I find it reasonable to believe that the halting relations I observed between Jaffna Tamil and Up-country Tamil students must be understood in light of the ongoing “battle” over

80 Daniel’s use of the term Jaffna Tamil differs from mine in that it includes all Sri Lanka Tamils.

97 the rights to define Tamil identity and culture. The non-Jaffna Sri Lanka Tamils are involved in this battle too, and have had their own run-ins with the Jaffna elites81. This is perhaps why it is easier for the university students from these areas to align with the Up-country Tamils than with Jaffna Tamils. Cultural and linguistic differences within the CG, rather than being source of ridicule or self-assertion, are seen as intriguing and as adding to a valued cultural diversity. It may seem contradictory that the CG Up-country Tamils find it important to distance themselves from the Sri Lanka Tamils in the eyes and minds of the Sinhalese, while their relations with the non-Jaffna Sri Lanka Tamil students prosper. Had there been more Sri Lanka Tamil students in the CG, this might have been a real issue, but with the Up-country Tamil dominance it is not experienced as much of a predicament. Still, the act of balancing considerations possibly goes some way in explaining the Up-country Tamil students’ unwillingness to make any critical statements on the ethnic conflict – it serving them best to stay low. Staying low, as we shall soon see, seems to be the prevailing strategy with regard to Tamil participation in student politics, too. But while they may be less visible in the following discussion of student power structures, we shall not lose sight of them altogether.

Campus Politics and the Students’ Union Political activity among the Peradeniya undergraduates was welcomed and encouraged by the administration from the university’s inception. The first Vice-Chancellor, Sir Ivor Jennings, fought hard to prevent incumbent prime ministers from attempting to crush political opposition by exercising control over the universities. His foresight was admirable, as attested to by a 1953 memorandum to Prime Minister Kotelawala in which Jennings wrote that “political control of a University is most undesirable. . . . It must be remembered that if political control were introduced by this Government it would in due course be exercised by the Governments’ successors” (quoted in Jayawardane 1992: 33). He argued in the same memorandum that it was essential to prepare students for post-university life and the political and professional leadership which they were expected to provide then. It was therefore necessary to allow for a forum which enabled students to freely discuss political matters. Since the beginning there has been a body of student representatives, the Peradeniya Students’ Union (PSU)82, whose task it was to voice students’ concerns with regard to academic, social and cultural life on campus (Peiris 1995). Breaking with Jennings’ vision, have been recurrent

81 This is well illustrated by the fragmentation of the LTTE in 2004 and the desertion of Colonel Karuna and his faction. The renegade commander is said to have broken loose in protest over the lack of influence held by eastern Tamils in the LTTE and he harnesses nearly all his support in Tamil areas on the east coast. 82 The actual name has changed a number of times.

98 attempts by either politicians or university administration to dictate students’ political opinions, to reduce the PSU’s influence, or to reduce the influence of a certain segment of the students through changes in the rules guiding the PSU’s composition. It may be argued that successive Vice-Chancellors misused their powers in dealing with the aggressive elements of the student body, but it should be remembered that the task has been, and still is, highly challenging. Peiris, quotes a conversation between an unnamed Vice-Chancellor of the 70’s and the then Prime Minster:

’Madam, you should realize that the Vice-Chancellorship at Peradeniya is the most difficult job in the country’. She sniggered and asked, ‘Is it more difficult than mine? (This was a few months after the insurgency of 1971.) The reply: ‘Yes, you, at least, have people to protect you.’ (Peiris 1995:202)

We shall return to the current functioning of the PSU after a brief historical summary of students’ political activity and violent events on campus.

Campus as Sanctuary and a Strategy of Appeasement As is unfortunately the case with several Sri Lankan universities, the history of the University of Peradeniya is riddled with unrest and violence. Sometimes, the violence has been a response to local grievances, but in other cases campus violence can be seen as an extension of processes initiated elsewhere, and must therefore explained in a wider political context. Such was the case with the first skirmish involving Peradeniya-students, in 1953. Students’ participation in a leftist demonstration in Kandy ended up in an on-campus clash with the police riot squad, which led to serious injuries on both sides (Peiris 1995b:207). Of particular interest here is not only that the clash was the first of its kind at Peradeniya, but the way the university administration chose to react to it. Instead of disciplining the students who had misbehaved, the acting Vice-Chancellor Attygalle, known as a stern disciplinarian, surprisingly negotiated the release of six who had been arrested and declared that the police had had no business on campus. G. H. Peiris argues that the incident established what he calls the “sanctuary concept”, by which campus came to be considered beyond the jurisdiction of public law enforcement (ibid). For Jennings the issue was closely related to that of the political autonomy of campus and there is reason to believe that he feared that a campus open to public law enforcement would expose the radical elements of the student body to political persecution. At any rate, the sanctuary concept was largely respected by police and army and was encouraged by the university administration up until the late 1980’s. Subsequent Vice- Chancellors were, however, not as successful as Jennings, and Attygalle after him, at

99 maintaining peace. Disciplinary action against students has traditionally been met with fierce protests and demonstrations, seemingly leaving the officials just two choices: confrontation or appeasement. The former strategy would require outside intervention, as campus security has been poorly equipped and understaffed. Peiris notes that in times of serious trouble “the entire campus tends to become an area within which there is no effective ‘law enforcement’ at all, unless either the Vice-Chancellor or those above him decide to bring the police or the army into the university” (ibid:205). He, moreover, warns that “when the police are brought into the university to quell student riots, they are invariably compelled to wield the sledgehammer, resulting in disaster” (ibid:222). A strategy of appeasement, devastating in the long run, was not as immediately threatening, and therefore a legitimate alternative.

Major Moments of Unrest While the following is no exhaustive account83, it indicates some major moments of student unrest, as well as important developments in student politics at Peradeniya.

There was no independent student movement in Sri Lanka prior to the 1960’s. Student politics tended to be extensions of national party politics (Samaranayake 1992:101). There were, however, strong leftist leanings in the student body, which occasionally came to violent expression. One occasion was in 1962 when UNP politician, former prime minister and then leader of the opposition, Dudley Senanayake, was harassed after having delivered a speech as an invited guest speaker. The incident was followed by an attack of 125 or so students on two UNP-friendly lecturers, according to Peiris the first incident of “serious premeditated violence” on campus (1995b:210). In 1965 the PSU called a student strike and made a number of demands with regard to campus issues. The incident led to clashes between police and students and the attempted arson of the Vice-Chancellor’s lodge. Students dissenting with the aggressors were harassed (ibid:198). In response to the hostilities, Attygalle retired and the University disbanded the PSU for three years, but only token punishments were handed out to the students responsible (ibid: 212). The reintroduction of the PSU in 1968, along with changes in the system, opened for student organizations and these tended to be aligned with left-wing parties. The first major group to form was the Socialist Students’ Union (SSU), which aligned with the JVP and become a major player in campus politics (Samaranayake

83 For more extensive accounts, see Samaranayake (1992), Peiris (1995) and de Silva (1995) on which my own account is in large part based. The three authors were all educated and later employed scholars at Peradeniya, affording them personal with experience as well as analytical gaze.

100 1992:107). 1969 saw more violence and a rally against the Minister of Education, in protest of restrictions on the universities’ autonomy (ibid:109).

But it was in 1971, when the JVP, helped by the SSU, staged a nation-wide insurrection in attempt to overthrow the government, that student activism for the first time would be linked to political violence. (ibid:108). The insurrection is a dark chapter, not only in the history of Peradeniya, but in the history of Sri Lanka, although there are conflicting versions as to how the events unfolded during those stormy weeks. Estimates have the number of casualties varying from 1,200 to 10,000, and most of them were killed by government forces (Uppsala Universitetet, n.d.). According to Samranayake, about 158 Peradeniya students were arrested, whilst many more were active in the insurrection. Although there was little violence on campus, it remained closed for several months. Subsequent emergency regulations banned both the JVP and the government’s attitude toward the universities had soured (Samaranayake 1992:109). The Inter-University Student Federation (IUSF), a national organization linking the student unions of the various universities, was formed in 1973, and student activism was by no means dead, as was proved by a number of strikes in 1975 and 1976. Peradeniya students took, in November 1976, senior university officials hostage, in what is a typical South Asian form of protest – gherao. Police intervened, opening fire at the students, and one student was killed while others were injured. The UNP entered government, the year after, and its student wing, the Samavadi Sishya Sangamaya (SSS)84 became an important force on campus. The SSS never gained complete control at Peradeniya, however, as the SSU re- emerged, when the ban on it was lifted, and quickly gained strength (Samaranayake 1992:110; Peiris 1995:219). The SSU was favoured by oppositional, marginalized and anti- establishment groups on campus. It won, moreover, sympathy through the disciplinary action taken against its activists. The SSS-SSU rivalry grew increasingly tense and violent, leading to a number of skirmishes – a particularly bad one in 1978. Several students sustained injuries in PSU election violence in 1982 when the university was shut down once again. The SSU had done well at Peradeniya as well as on a national basis, gaining control of the IUSF. Peiris notes, however, that the mobilization of support prior to the elections was carried out through coercion and threats and that lethal weapons had been used in the fighting (Peiris 1995:220).

84 The abbreviations I use are taken from Samaranayake (1992) but note that Peiris (1995b) refers to the JVP- aligned group as SSS, (shortened from the Sinhala Samājawādi Shishya Sangamaya) and the pro-UNP group, simply as the Samawādi group, or in English, the Students’ Socialist Association.

101 When the 1983 anti-Tamil pogroms reached campus, it was temporarily closed and converted to a refugee camp. K. M. de Silva writes that Tamil students were attacked by Sinhalese in their rooms as “the Sinhalese students forgot their political affiliations and joined in ethnic solidarity” (1995:47). When the university reopened the same year there was more trouble in store, however. There were strikes as well as an attempt to occupy the administrative buildings, and the taking hostage of the Dean of the Faculty of Science. The ones responsible were protesting an inquiry which had looked into the previous year’s election violence and suggested penalties which the students were arguing to be unjust and politically discriminating. Student councils were now abolished in all universities and a police station erected on the Peradeniya campus. Yet, no students were punished for the violence directed at the Tamils (Samaranayake 1992:111; Peiris 1995:222). By now, Peradeniya was in the throes of another crisis which would not culminate until the end of the decade. In 1984 students confronted the campus police provoking gunfire, and one student was killed. In response, students in all universities went on strike, demanding the withdrawal of the police post. The university was again closed down, and when it reopened later the same year, the police post was removed, giving the demonstrators another victory (Samaranayake 1992:111). Student politics, in the wake of the PSU, grew more violent yet. Unofficial and radical “action committees,” with representatives from each batch, took control and would become instrumental in a new insurrection towards the end of the decade (ibid:111). The JVP soon controlled Peradeniya and thereafter all the universities, barring Jaffna and Batticaloa, having ruthlessly executed several of its opponents. According to de Silva (1995:61), Peradeniya was particularly useful to the JVP because of its many halls of residence which were used to plan clandestine political activities such as sabotage and political assassinations. It was in the JVP’s best interest to keep the university running and that was the task of the “action committees.” The JVP itself could switch focus from local affairs to national policy and was mounting an attack on the government (Samaranayake 1992; de Silva 1995). There was a marked increase in violence in May 1988, as the government lifted the proscription on the JVP, hoping it would embrace democratic means. The rebels attempted in stead to weaken the government. President Jayawardene, in response, confronted the JVP head on, and commanded the armed forces to employ counter-subversive measures (de Silva 1995). On campus, meanwhile, the JVP tried to disrupt the academic programs and the only examinations held in 1988 were in the science faculty, in face of overt threats against students and teachers both (de Silva 1995). The climax was reached in the latter half of 1989. In June, four men in a jeep were attacked by students believing them to be agents provocateurs. Only

102 one survived while the three others were taken off campus, tortured and killed. The attack was witnessed by a crowd of people, including university officials and the Vice-Chancellor but no one intervened, and the police was not alerted. A few days later, three men were killed at another university and on July 12 it was ordered that all the universities should close. Parallel with the closure, government forces as well as vigilante groups cracked down on students and others believed to be associated with the JVP and towards the end of the year, security forces captured and killed the JVP-leadership. Prior to this, however, some final horrid acts of violence were carried out at Peradeniya. In response to the JVP orchestrated killing of a senior university official, a group of unknown assailants entered campus at night and brutally executed more than 15 male students, decapitating them and placing their heads at the perimeter of a roundabout (de Silva 1995). When the insurrection was crushed, it again spelled the temporary dissolution of student politics (Samaranayake 1992) and in its wake followed what de Silva describes as “limping back to normality” (1995:68). The many academic disruptions had created a huge problem in the form of backlogs of students waiting to be enrolled. The universities were brought under more direct control from the central authorities, but de Silva describes the recovery of the 90’s as being “exceedingly slow” (1995:72). Today’s undergraduates at Peradeniya are too young to remember the madness of the late 80’s, and student activism may again be on the rise. Perhaps the tremors of the university’s violent past have had a sobering effect on students and staff both, but can we be sure that history will not repeat itself?

Strikes, Demonstrations and the CG's Involvement Today’s student politics at Peradeniya are much more low-key than they were during the years of crisis and the advocacy of partisan politics has been prohibited. There is, however, a general consensus among students I have been talking with, Sinhalese, Muslims and Tamils alike, that the JVP is still a dominant force. The JVP of today, though still radical, has joined the power struggle in Colombo in a legitimate manner, and was, during my time in the field, even a minor partner in the government coalition headed by President Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga and her SLFP. At Peradeniya, posters and notice boards displaying JVP propaganda and slogans attest to the party’s popularity. When I first arrived, a large picture honouring its founder, Rohana Wijeweera, adorned a prominent wall by the WUS dining hall, near the PSU office. Several students of different camps consented to me that the PSU, though officially non-partisan, give covert support to the JVP, just as the IUSF still does. The PSU office at Peradeniya is decorated with portraits of the JVP-sympathizers

103 who were executed in 1989, while a large portrait of Stalin has the prime spot. In the WUS dining hall, Engels, Marx and Stalin occupy a pillar each, reminding visitors that the university is still oriented toward the political left. De Silva reminds us that the JVP from the beginning had a “composite ideology, one part distinctly Marxian, and one part Sinhalese- nationalist [and that during the late 80’s] the nationalist strand in the JVP’s political programme emerged as by far the more prominent” (1995:60). Today, the JVP’s rhetoric is mainly Marxist, but its popularity is undeniably boosted by ethnic fears and tension.

Whenever I spoke with the Up-country Tamil students, they invariably took notice of their surroundings before speaking of the JVP, and then usually only did so in a lowered voice. Although they often denied that Sinhala nationalism caused problems for them, they were, as the other ethnic minorities, politically marginalized. These minorities were for instance not represented on the seven-man board of the PSU, and there were, to my knowledge, no rules safeguarding the minorities’ interests in the organ, which consists of one representative from each faculty. PSU representatives are no longer elected – the rules, I believe, changed in a bid to end election violence. Representatives are, in stead, chosen by acclamation in general meetings. As candidatures are discussed in batch meetings and “pockets”, consensus on candidates is likely to form on ethnic lines. I believe that minority students, wary of confrontations and conscious of the importance of maintaining good ties with the majority, may often prefer to back Sinhalese candidates. It was, moreover, said that no Tamil would want to run for office, as he, if elected, would have to work with six Sinhalese colleagues and wield no real influence. This principle of ethnic marginalization is not limited to the issue of political representation, but applies to any significant debate on campus. The real decisions are made at the batch meetings, which are divided along linguistic or ethnic lines – not at the general meetings where all students are present. I believe that what may first seem like peace and harmony on campus is in fact, much a matter of minor players trying to avoid stepping on the toes of the major ones. The CG students, and perhaps minority students in general, prefer to go along with the majority for the sake of ethnic relations. Although they sometimes may share causes, beliefs and values, they are seldom accepted as partners on equal terms.

Let me illustrate with a significant incident. About a month after my arrival at Peradeniya, the PSU arranged a general meeting on the topic of the government’s alleged attempts at privatizing Sri Lankan universities. The topic was a controversial one and had received a generous amount of media attention, but the public debate was characterized by

104 misrepresentation of facts and what seemed to be deliberate misunderstandings. The JVP on its part, saw a chance to capitalize on the issue, somewhat paradoxically as it was a government partner at the time. It staged rallies and threatened the SLFP, its senior partner in government. The issue being perfectly suited to whip up a storm of complaints among students, it is more than likely that the JVP had a finger in the pie when a protest was staged at Peradeniya in late February. The PSU announced at a general meeting that there would be demonstrations in Kandy and other urban centres in the region. There would be picketing, but also collection of donations which would go to fund further protests. I was somewhat surprised at how the CG Up-country Tamils responded to the appeal, thinking they would dislike the obvious JVP interference. The ones I talked with, however, said they were fully in support of a protest and argued that Up-country Tamils would not be able to afford private university education. Moreover, it was claimed that private universities would attract teaching personnel from state institutions because they could afford to pay higher wages. Finally, no one liked the idea that rich people would be able to “buy” degrees. A number of the CG Up- country Tamils wanted to join in the protest, and so it was that I on the following morning joined them on a fundraising trip to Hatton.

Only a hundred or so students showed up outside the Arts Theatre that morning and I noticed that some of the CG students who had seemed enthusiastic the day before, were missing. In all, I believe there were in the area of 100 students, of whom 10-12 were Up-country Tamils or Muslims (interestingly no Sri Lanka Tamils). There was at first a great deal of confusion since instructions were given in Sinhala only, but it soon transpired that the Tamils and Muslims were sent to “their own” areas, and that our destination was Hatton, a three-hour bus-ride deeper into the up-country. I was in a group of six, and it was joked that one of us, Sundaram, could speak Tamil to the Tamils and Muslims, while Siva could speak Sinhala to the Sinhalese, and that I could speak English to the rest. Language would not be an issue. Aboard the bus the students were in their customary good mood and arriving in Hatton, we had a quick meal before starting to collect money from bus passengers and shop owners. It was soon realized that the task was made more difficult by the flyers we were carrying. The flyers, printed by the PSU, explained the cause, but had only been printed in Sinhala. Many Tamil-speaking people in Hatton were provoked by this and it was soon decided that the flyers did more damage than good. A Tamil translation was jotted down on a piece of paper while I hid the originals in my backpack. The new note hardly carried the authority of a printed text, however. Indeed, the students received several complaints that they had no

105 information with which to verify their claims. Yet, we collected a fair amount of money, probably because the idea of private universities was widely unpopular among all lower class people, notwithstanding those who have children of their own with university ambitions.

It seems to me that the student politicians never regarded the protest as being ethnically inclusive, even though it clearly concerned class and not ethnicity. The fact that the flyers were printed solely in Sinhala goes a long way to show the limitations of class solidarity in the eyes and minds of the student agitators. The PSU had not made a concerted attempt at disseminating information about the protest to minority students at the general meeting. Still, the ones who showed up were readily accepted as bonus manpower and a way of reaching people in Tamil-speaking areas. For the CG students involved, the fundraising was a way of fighting for a cause in which they believed, but I am also left with the impression that it was taken as an opportunity for them to send a message, namely that class solidarity should reach across the ethnic divide. What is particularly troublesome about the incident is that it reveals the contours of an information monopoly on campus. There seems to be no truly open forum for debate, and the student politicians in power are left free to (mis-)represent the facts of a case. Dissenters, fearing possible social sanctions, may very well be afraid to voice their concerns. Even if debate is not possible, dissent can be expressed through absence, and the level of participation in the rally was conspicuously low among all ethnic groups. Just as the administrators to some degree have continued a policy of appeasement, fearing confrontations with student agitators, I believe dissenters among the students are scared silent. The result is a situation where campus politics is dominated by the most vocal segment of the students because they, to a large degree, are able to control the flow of information.

Campus Culture and the Controversy of the Rag There is a danger that one, when studying social difference, loses sight of that which unites. I argued above that the CG students’ participation in the mentioned demonstration/fundraiser was partly motivated by a wish to promote class solidarity. This is, in my opinion, a recurrent motivational factor for the CG students and other minority students, who stand to benefit from the preponderance of a more inclusive status than that of ethnicity. Class is one such status, but the least common denominator on campus – that which includes all, is the status of university student. So what does it mean to be a Peradeniyan and does it make sense to speak of it as a shared identity regardless of class or ethnicity?

106 Pride in Being a Peradeniyan While much water has passed under the bridge since Peradeniya’s heyday in the 50’s, the university still holds a special status. Granted, its reputation, and that of its undergraduates, has been marred by recent decades’ events, but the fact remains that it has produced a number of excellent scholars and notable public figures. Though competition from other universities is getting stronger, Peradeniya retains some of its prestige. Administrators cling on to the university’s celebrated past, hoping for a revival of heritage, and students arriving on campus for the first time know they are on historic grounds. Being an undergraduate at Peradeniya can still be a source of immense pride, which may seem paradoxical if we bear in mind that Peradeniya during its heyday was an elitist institution – a playground of the rich, whereas the majority of students today come from underprivileged households. Can these students celebrate alien traditions without “betraying” their own backgrounds?

For our intents and purposes it may make sense to think of the university as having been born twice85; first at its inception in 1942 when enrolment was the privilege of English-educated elites, and then a second time in 1961, when its doors were opened to the great many educated in Sinhala and Tamil secondary institutions. While its rebirth was to burst Peradeniya’s capacity and force a drop in students’ standard of living as well as in academic standards, it should also be seen as the proud moment at which it, for the first time, became a university for people of all layers of society. The new segment of students was, however, not going to leave it at that. The many lower class students radicalized the already radical undergraduate student body further and many were, as we have seen, attracted to leftist parties such as the JVP. The domain of a celebrated few was fully contested by the lower classes, which were, it seemed, coming together. The two epochs of Peradeniya appeal to different people in differing degree. The introduction of Sinhala and Tamil language streams was a heavy blow to those who wanted to see Peradeniya rise to excellence as measured by international standards, and of course many feel sorrow at the turn of events since then. Most of the traditions honoured by the broad segment of students today, have come to be, or have been imbued with new meaning, after the university’s rebirth, and have tended to further the distrust of the upper class. Being Peradeniyan, according to these traditions, means more than attending a university which was once excellent – it means being initiated in a subculture and

85 Or three times, if we consider it born first in Colombo in 1942 and then again at Peradeniya in 1952.

107 becoming part of a larger fraternity/sorority86. These collective identities tend to overlap with class and so my impression is that being Peradeniyan probably means something altogether different to an underprivileged student from a rural background, than it does to an urban and westernized fluent English-speaker of private schooling. The traditions or norms respected by the latter are intriguingly both older (dominant during the “first epoch”) and more progressive (focused on education of the individual). To her or him, it is frightening to see how certain groups of politically radicalized students manipulate the masses, constantly shifting the focus away from learning to some kind of protest. She or he, in turn, responds by keeping a distance. I am not, however, saying that these sentiments are exclusive to upper class students. On the contrary, I suspect that many lower class students may feel conflicted, finding comfort and safety in numbers but not wholeheartedly embracing the roles they are expected to play. We shall have a closer look at these roles and begin by examining the controversy of the rag.

Ragging, Raggers and Anti-Raggers While ragging87 is a phenomenon which has been attracting much attention and inspired a lively debate in Sri Lanka, there are different conceptions of what the term refers to. The “anti-ragging bill”, a piece of legislation enacted in 1998, designed to eliminate ragging through enhanced punishment of offenders, defines it as “any act which causes or is likely to cause physical or psychological injury or mental pain or fear to a student or a member of staff of an educational institution” (Prohibition of Ragging 1998). I feel, however, that this rather wide definition sheds little light on the subject. K. T. Silva offers us an alternative in defining ragging rather as “a process in which newcomers to the student population are subjected to forms of verbal and/or physical abuse as a precondition for being accepted into the student community” (Silva et al 1998:69). Ragging is, in other words, an initiation ritual and anyone refusing to take part may risk some kind of social exclusion. Silva furthermore sees ragging as “a mechanism for enforcing conformity to [a] counterculture [which is] manifested in [a] widespread conceptualization of the student community as ‘a deep horizontal comradeship’” (ibid:69, quoting Anderson (1983), original emphasis). What both of the above definitions agree upon is that ragging causes harm, either psychological of physical, to its victims. Even so, Vice-Chancellors, university staff, politicians, prominent voices of society and the anti- ragging bill, have all been largely unsuccessful at combating this “evil” of Sri Lankan

86 I am using these terms at a lack of better alternatives. I am not referring to formal societies of male/female students, such as exists in American universities and colleges, but to less formal class-centred collectivities bound together by a sense of shared belonging. 87 To rag means in British English ”to tease” or ”to play tricks on someone.”

108 university campuses. Before debating how ragging is able to maintain its grasp on the undergraduates (or how the undergraduates are able to maintain their grasp on ragging), let us have a closer look at the rituals themselves.

The Rituals While some ragging takes place in certain secondary schools and in various tertiary institutions, the practise is first and foremost linked to the universities. Peradeniya has, unfortunately, also in this regard been troubled and several ragging-related incidents there have made national headlines. In 1975 for instance, a female student, terrified of being ragged, jumped out her second story dormitory window and was paralyzed. Deeply unhappy, she later committed suicide. The latest ragging-related death at Peradeniya was as late as in 1997, and since then other students have died in other universities. First-year students arriving at Peradeniya, do so with apprehension. When they are engaged in conversation by their seniors, they speak only hesitantly and in a subdued manner, avoiding eye contact. The initial contact is experienced as particularly stressful. Fearing what the seniors, whose attention in never lacking, may come up with, they also have to cope with being in an unknown environment, with only a very limited number of friends and acquaintances to lean on. The female juniors find themselves surrounded by male seniors who are overly eager to get acquainted with them. While this is not really as much ragging as friendly questioning, the young women are shy, insecure and easily overwhelmed – some to the degree where they begin sobbing quietly. The ragging comes off to a relatively easy start, however, and the seniors will, in the beginning, help the juniors with practical adjustments. Over the following three months the ragging progresses through certain stages, leading to a climactic ritual after which the new students are accepted into the student body. While the second-year students, aptly called rag-seniors, are in charge, third- and fourth-year students also occasionally join in, though less prominently. The rituals tend to follow a structure, elevated as “tradition” or “subculture”88, but much of the every-day ragging is spontaneous or even improvised and may take many forms, often making it difficult to classify. Yet, it is common to distinguish between physical and non-physical ragging. In addition to these, I find it helpful to separate out a third category, which we can think of as ground rules. Let us deal with these first.

88 The undergraduates’ own frequent use of the word ”subculture” is significant in that it legitimates actions as morally justifiable. In contrast, Silva et al. (1998) employ the somewhat more dismissive term “counterculture”, when referring to the same movement.

109 An observant outsider entering campus during the ragging period will, on basis of the dress codes, be able to tell the juniors from the rest of the undergraduate students. For female juniors, as with the female students in general, that dress code depends on her ethnicity. Muslim female juniors, for instance, can only wear black headscarves with their frocks, Sinhalese female juniors must wear plain long dresses, and Tamil female juniors black skirts, and blouses in soft colours and with simple patterns. The Sinhalese and Tamils have their hair plaited in long pigtails, while simple slippers is the only acceptable footwear for all, regardless of ethnicity. The female juniors are, moreover, not allowed to wear jewellery. Male juniors, on their part, can only button their shirts to the penultimate level, the shirts must be plain and neatly tucked in, they cannot wear watches, their hair should be short and neat, they should always be clean-shaven, and they should wear shoes and not sandals. Accordingly, it was my impression that the senior students took a step in the opposite direction with the arrival of the newcomers. Some of them would let their hair grow longer while shaving less frequently or even grow permanent facial hair. They began, moreover, to use shirts with brighter colours, just as female seniors began to experiment more with colours and style. The symbolism is striking: the juniors have to dress in a simple manner – almost as children or uneducated people, and they have to dress uniformly, while the seniors signify their distance, age and superiority by breaking with the code and also allowing for some individuality. Facial hair on the men signifies not a lack of sophistication, but maturity in contrast to the newcomers’ clean-shaven chins. But the rag-seniors will not take it too far and thereby risk emulating the anti-raggers and blatantly contradict their own message of unity. The difference in appearance between seniors and juniors is therefore just big enough to stress their difference in status while still allowing them to stand unified against the anti-raggers.

The difference in status is also entrenched in the deference and obedience expected of the juniors. There are three rules which are imprinted on all the newcomers: 1) One should always be courteous to the rag-seniors and address them appropriately; 2) All juniors have to manage on his or her own, and no one shall extend any help to others; and 3) No one shall tell on the seniors – problems are to be discussed with them, only. While the reasons for the first and third rule are rather obvious, the second rule may seem odd. As I see it, it contradicts the stated main purpose of ragging, which is to create unity. I believe it must be understood as a means of preventing the juniors from setting up a united front against the rag-seniors, and as such is there, paradoxically to enforce hierarchy. The newcomers should never fail to do as they are told, no matter how silly, pointless or demeaning a given task may seem. Seniority

110 does even, to some extent, override the gender hierarchy, making it quite acceptable for a female senior to command about male juniors. Objections on the juniors’ behalf are likely to be met with sanctions such as verbal abuse, threats of violence, intimidating gestures or if a given junior is particularly disinclined, he or she may face some kind of social exclusion. The sanctions tend to be enforced by the male seniors, however. Juniors should always address male and female seniors as “geistoma” and “geistome”89 respectively. In fact, the juniors will not know the rag-seniors’ real names as these are kept secret. The seniors, rather, will use sibling terms or so-called “pet names” (aliases), when addressing one another. As well as working to reinforce the distance between the cohorts, this is a pre-emptive measure making it more difficult for the juniors to complain to university officials about particular students. The juniors, too, are given pet names, and these tend to be of a derogatory nature.

It should be mentioned that ragging tends to be ethnically, or at least linguistically, segregated – that is, juniors are most often ragged by seniors of their own ethnicity or language group. Up-country Tamils are ragged by other Up-country Tamils, but to a lesser extent also by Sri Lanka Tamils and Muslims. Muslims, it was often joked, can be targeted by anyone, if they are bilingual, which they often are. It was explained to me that the segregation was primarily a practical matter deriving from language barriers, but it surfaced during the field work that it was also done in the name of ethnic relations. Insults, it seems, are harder to tolerate when coming from the ethnic Other and have explosive potential when launched by male seniors at female juniors. While mild interethnic ragging is tolerated, sexually explicit ragging, which is among the most popular forms, is a no-go when aimed across the ethnic barrier.

Non-physical ragging covers a spectre from innocent games and jokes to much more serious verbal abuse, threats and sexual harassment. It is only the activities toward the innocent end of the spectre which take place in the open and it was primarily these that I was able to witness for myself. I do not know how far the CG students took the ragging, but I suspect they feared that I would disapprove of some of their behaviour and therefore hid it from me. Other students, mainly Sinhalese, who did not know me as well, were even openly suspicious, fearing I might be working for the administration and therefore was not to be trusted. A kind of activity I observed frequently, however, was the enactment of certain spontaneous games, aiming at embarrassing the juniors. These usually took place in the recreational area by the

89 The terms are not specific to campus, but are the polite way in Sinhala to address one’s seniors.

111 WUS complex. Here, juniors were, for instance, commonly instructed to sing in front of the seniors. I saw one senior male command a female junior to pick up the telephone in a phone booth and act as though she was having a conversation. Another female junior, watching this, had to pretend she was on the other side of the line, and answer the first student by speaking into her hand. On another occasion two juniors, a male and a female, had to repeat the nonsense syllable “dom” again and again, quickly, for what must have been two minutes or so. Juniors coming or going would occasionally be told to walk in a single file, stop and then each salute the seniors present before being allowed to walk on. A favourite joke was giving a large group of juniors a single piece of chewing gum or candy to share evenly. Junior students were time and again directed to sit down next to me and converse with me in English, an activity experienced as unbearably embarrassing to the many who lack experience with foreigners and confidence in their English skills. Perhaps the most embarrassing tasks, however, were tasks involving male-female contact at odds with social codes on intimacy. A male junior, for instance, was told to sit down next do a female batch mate and when he did he was ordered to move closer, which he did awkwardly, only to be told to move closer yet. Male seniors would sometimes test the juniors’ knowledge of sexual behaviour by quizzing them, and found it tremendously amusing. I saw one male junior ordered to cross out his name from the front cover of a note book, and then write a sexually derogatory name in its place. The act was highly embarrassing, but not physical ragging. It is not always easy to distinguish between the physical and non-physical, however. I once witnessed a male junior who had his shoes dirtied by a senior stepping on them. When the junior wiped the dust off, the senior picked up a box of red paint and smeared some of it on the shoes in stead.

These were some of the acts taking place in the semi-open90, ranging from the harmless to outright harassment. The examples are all taken from Tamil students, but there is no reason to believe that ragging among the Sinhalese is much different, though perhaps acted out on a larger scale91. There is, on the other hand, plenty of reason to believe that much more serious ragging takes place in sheltered arenas, and the CG students largely admitted to that. When I pushed the subject, asking for examples, I would typically be told that seniors visit the juniors in their rooms in the hostels and ask them to do “physical exercises” such as press-ups. Male juniors could also be instructed to take baths fully dressed in pools and ponds outside their

90 While the activities took place in public arenas on campus, the raggers would always be aware of who were present and adjust the ragging accordingly. 91 I did, for instance, see 10 Sinhalese juniors perform a improvised dance show on the WUS-complex stage.

112 hostels, or even to run around campus naked in the middle of the night. I was told by one CG student that some rag-seniors enjoyed running into a room occupied by juniors and violently beat on whoever was there. One student also admitted that male juniors are sometimes asked to masturbate or simulate sexual intercourse in front of each other. Other examples of severe physical ragging are provided by Asoka Jayasena (2002) who collected information through informal interviews with a random sample of students at Peradeniya. She notes that some of her male informants have been forced to walk on their elbows or on one leg for hours, to drink water from the toilet bowl, that they have been given electric shocks and hit with bicycle chains, forced to strip and masturbate, or even to simulate homosexual intercourse. The female informants reported somewhat less extreme practices, involving a variety of physical exercises, the shortening of finger nails on stones, bathing in muddy ponds, lying under a bed while someone jumps on it, but also simulation of lesbian sexuality. A fair bit of ragging directed at female students is not overtly physical but about asserting male dominance. Most typical is it that female students are talked to in an obscene manner. Jayasena mentions the “auctioning” of women and their having to worship a male student, who is acting a deity, by fanning him and praying “we are helpless; please help us” (2002:9). The rag-seniors will, however, wait until some time into the ragging period before getting too physical or violent. A female, third-year English medium student explained to me that the first month of the ragging period was dubbed “the honeymoon” because the rag-seniors befriend the juniors and earn their trust during this time. When the heavy ragging then begins it is too difficult for the juniors to take a stand against it, and they try to ride it off in stead. The peak is reached some time into the third month with the staging of the “body fit”92 ritual, in which all the juniors of a batch are gathered together and given a number of unpleasant items of food to eat. The “dishes” may vary somewhat from batch to batch93 but the scene is similar – hesitating juniors surrounded by cheering seniors. Ideally a week passes between the “body fit” and the welcome party which marks the end of the ragging period. The week is dubbed “cool week”, for reasons which will soon be obvious. The juniors are now encouraged to spend time with the rag-seniors and learn as much about them as possible. The veil of secrecy is removed and the rag-seniors gladly tell the juniors their names and of their backgrounds. The down-side for the male juniors94 is that the seniors arrive on nightly visits to their rooms in order to test them. One junior after another will be quizzed with questions such as “What is my name?”

92 “Body fit” was the name used by the students themselves, but I was not able to shed any light on its origin. 93 It was explained to me that the Sinhalese juniors had to eat rice mixed with Coca Cola and other odd tastes, while the Tamil juniors had to gobble down chilli, salt, sugar and other ingredients heavy on the palate. 94 I am not aware if the same is goes for the female students.

113 and “Where am I from?” – the questions getting more and more difficult until a faulty answer is given. As punishment the junior is sent outside to take a bath, fully clothed, in the pond or fountain outside the hostel. Not only does he have to do so fully clothed, but he has to bring all his other clothes too, bar trousers and a shirt to wear the next day, if he has lectures. I was told that with the different groups of seniors coming and going one could expect a great number of baths during the night, and one student described the conditions in a junior room “as if a tsunami had washed through it.” A Sinhalese male, third-year student, reminiscing the time he was ragged, said he had once taken 48 baths in one night alone – each bath followed by a shower as the pond water was muddy. It is tempting to ask if the raggers find gratification in such behaviour, or at any rate, how they argue in defence of such rituals.

The Ragger’s Case – Explicit and Implicit Motivation Note that speaking with undergraduates about ragging is complicated by the fact that different people attribute different meanings to the word. For instance, a student may claim to dislike ragging but still take part in the non-physical kind. If confronted, he or she is likely to say something along the lines of: “but, that is not ragging!” Several students told me that they feel non-physical ragging to be OK, but that the physical kind is not. Where should the line be drawn? The two categories are not easily separated, and we must not forget that threats and non-physical violence can be just as serious as physical abuse. Besides, that which is interpreted as harmless fun by some people can be felt to be much more dramatic by others, and victims may see things differently than the offenders. What we should note is that there is a good deal of disagreement among senior students as to what is acceptable or should even be encouraged, and what must be seen as crossing the line. Silva et al. (1998) conducted a study in 1996-1997 on Peradeniya undergraduates’ attitudes towards ragging. The study targeted third year students in the medical and arts faculties, combining quantitative and qualitative measures, and one of the conclusions is that the “data suggest that students with more limited prospects are more attracted to the counterculture represented by ragging compared to those with better prospects” (ibid:76). In other words, the non-privileged students are the most likely raggers. This comes to expression in differences between the two faculties studied, but also in differences between students of different socio-economic class, as measured by father’s occupation. On the whole, a little more than one third of the undergraduates replying were positively inclined to ragging newcomers, while close to half of the replies indicated a negative inclination. The survey may, in my opinion, have been biased, given raggers’ fear of the authorities, but it is nevertheless significant that so many undergraduates apparently

114 dislike the rituals but remain silent about it, and similar results are found by Jayasena (2002). Part of the explanation may be found in a gendered difference of attitudes, as is suggested by the study. Silva et al. write that “senior male students (especially second year students) look forward to the fresh intake of students, referred to as ‘badu nava’ (cargo of goodies), in order to identify and establish relationships with good looking girls…” (ibid:77-78) and go on to show that such relationships between male seniors and female juniors are quite common. I have no doubt in my mind that a large part of the enthusiasm and anticipation with which the male rag-seniors (the CG included) greeted the coming of the rag, derived from such a romantic incentive. The female rag-seniors, on the other hand, have less to look forward to. Relationships in which the woman is senior to the man are highly infrequent in Sri Lanka.

The CG and their batch were indeed very excited at the prospects of becoming rag-seniors and spent much time discussing among themselves how they should and would go about with the ragging. Such discussions took place in formal settings (batch meetings) as well as informal ones. When I asked them why they wanted to rag, however, they did not primarily speak of new girls, assertion of power or of any other such personal motives. The ragging, they told me, was about helping the new “freshers” to adjust to life on campus and create friendships. They explained that the seniors will help juniors with practicalities such as learning to use the library, how to live in the halls, and so on, and that the rest of the ragging, besides being good fun, creates cohesion in the junior batches. At the end of the three months, they said, there will be a strong bond between the junior and senior batches, too. They will have become brothers and sisters. The juniors, moreover, will have learned the manners suitable for a university student and will have internalized a number of rules pertaining to campus behaviour. The rules are very specific and stress the virtues of being considerate and polite towards others while being careful to maintain a neat appearance95. With this in mind it is tempting to see the ragging as a rite of passage, in which the newcomers are relieved of all social statues, bar that of junior, and then taught the skills necessary for living and learning on campus. The dress codes are necessary to undercommunicate differences inwards and allow for a sense of communitas – “a communion of equal individuals who submit together to the general authority of the ritual elders” (Turner 1969:96). In the ritual the newcomers’ statuses change – difference being converted to sameness, and in the end they are incorporated into the “family” of undergraduates. It is perhaps appropriate then to ask what makes such a rite of

95 For a list of these rules as they were related to me, see Appendix II

115 passage necessary, and I may already have partly answered the question. The strong radical, anti-establishment movement on campus has faced a very real challenge in absorbing the many new undergraduates each year in a way which would let them remain in control and able to carry on with their activities fairly unrestrained. The rag has functioned in their favour on several levels: firstly, it has served to instil the value of fighting for an egalitarian comradeship in the newcomers, by pitting lower- and upper class students against each other and playing the class card to secure political support; but ragging has also, to some degree made it possible to test and screen the newcomers, thereby discovering potential assets as well as “troublemakers”96. It is a fact that the ragging intensified a great deal along with the JVP’s stranglehold on campus during the late 1980’s and it is a fact that the JVP has vested interests in seeing class-consciousness flourish among university students. One anti-ragger was concerned that ragging had again intensified since the JVP joined the government coalition. Yet, the existence of very similar ragging rituals in India and Bangladesh, tells us that we are not looking at a phenomena which can be explained solely with regard to Sri Lankan political idiosyncrasies.

As Seen from the Pillars The anti-raggers are by no means the only students who are critical of ragging, but they are the most vocal opponents, and more importantly, they are the only ones who have not submitted themselves to the rag. When other students would never consider joining them it is because the social category not so much derives from stands on ragging as from notions of class, privilege, and command of the English language. An anti-ragger is, by definition, part of the English-speaking elites, a category with which the majority of arts students interact very little. The lack of interaction is in turn largely prescribed by convention – the anti- raggers are cut off because they “oppose equality among the students,” as an adamant ragger might argue. One anti-ragger made me aware of a number of “sacred, unwritten laws” pertaining to them. She explained that anti-raggers are socially ostracized and often excluded from campus activities such as department get-togethers. If they are not directly excluded, they may be so indirectly, as they know that their participation is likely to cause them problems. All the same, some anti-raggers do defy the norms, and participate in for instance sports or performing arts. While they may be tolerated, this depends largely on the other participants and the dynamics of the given group. Spectators may also wreak havoc. I was on

96 The latter idea of ragging as a “JVP boot camp” was suggested to me by raggers as well as anti-raggers.

116 several occasions told of an incident which had taken place just before I entered the field, and the main points of the story were confirmed by raggers as well as anti-raggers. A play had been staged at the campus amphitheatre and word was out that one of the performers was an anti-ragger. Thinking they knew who it was, some spectators had launched eggs at the actor during a performance, but according to one account, the aggressors targeted the wrong person97. Incidents like this one are not all too common, but anti-raggers face minor hostilities from raggers every day. Their movement on campus is for instance restricted to certain areas, and they risk being heckled and harassed if they stray from these. Their “turf”, the area where they are left alone to have their lunch and to hook up and relax between classes, is the colonnade under the Senate building, right next to the entrance to the Main Library. The place is mockingly called “ala kanu” (potato pillars) by the raggers – ala (potato) being a derogatory nickname for anti-raggers. The proximity to the Senate entrance makes the colonnade one of the few “safe” spots on campus, and the symbolism is striking: the elite among the students hang out at the locus of campus politics, by the library, which of course is the most potent symbol of higher learning. The location does little to soften the visibility of the anti-raggers’ difference in status or to bridge the gap between the two groupings. The common assumption among many raggers is, interestingly, that the anti-raggers keep to themselves because they feel superior and do not wish to mix with others. In a sense this is true – many anti-raggers do perhaps feel superior in that they have taken a moral stand against ragging, and they have little need to interact with people who treated them badly in the first place.

The anti-raggers do seem quite capable to take into consideration the raggers’ point of view on ragging, but the ideas that ragging help new students adjust and that it works to create an egalitarian campus society, are ideas they tend to reject wholly. With regard to the former assumption, it is argued that ragging does little to include students and to teach them about campus life. What little the raggers are taught, the anti-raggers teach their own juniors too, without making them suffer the rag98. With regard to the second assumption there are a number of objections: Firstly, the anti-raggers are well aware that ragging is segregated along ethnic lines, and this, they argue, reinforces ethnic fault lines among the undergraduates; Secondly, violence and sexual harassment, they may claim, does not create egalitarianism but is pathological behaviour brought on by a different kind of motivation, namely a

97 When I left the field, the matter was still under inquiry and no one was yet punished for the incident. 98 Raggers may again argue that this is not the case. One of the common assumptions held about anti-raggers is that they do not act according to campus manners. It is, for instance, commonly said that they cut lines.

117 psychological need to assert oneself and subdue others. Similarly, some of the anti-raggers argued that violence directed against them springs from feelings of inferiority and envy of position and privilege. Harassment becomes a means of retribution – a way for the “have- nots” to assert themselves over the “haves”. In some universities this resentment quite often surfaces in scuffles and fighting. While I was in the field, however, nearly all the arts faculty anti-raggers were females and though women may be subjected to verbal abuse, few would want to attack them physically. The anti-raggers, who are, it seems, are far more progressive than raggers with regard to gender equality, would most likely agree with Silva et al., in that ragging ”tends to reproduce rather than challenge unequal gender relations in society” (1998: 70). Ragging, in other words, reinforces hierarchy while purporting to promote egalitarianism.

The Clash of Faculties We have seen how social categories based on ethnicity, language, class, gender and caste cross-cut the undergraduate student body, and elevate some in relation to others, thereby contradicting the existence of any “deep horizontal comradeship”. We have, moreover, seen how this social stratification has really only been contested with regard to class, as illustrated by the raggers’ resentment of the anti-raggers. There is another social status with potential for mobilization, which we have not discussed yet, though it partly overlaps with that of class. We remember that Silva et al. (1998) found that attitudes toward ragging were more positive in the Faculty of Arts than in the Faculty of Medicine. Peiris (1995), too, points out that there are socio-economic differences between students in different faculties, with the Faculty of Arts having the largest proportion of students from low-income, working class backgrounds. The stigma may largely derive from the poor prospects of employment facing arts students. Accordingly, a Vice-Chancellor, quoted by Peiris, once gave a speech to the medical students in an attempt to dissuade them from joining a student demonstration. The Vice-Chancellor “referred to the arts undergraduates as ‘riff raff’ and cajoled: ‘You have nothing in common with them. When you pass out of this place you will be walking into a noble profession. They will be hanging around in street corners.’” (1995: 116) The more prestigious faculties, therefore, have more applicants and higher entry requirements, which tends to favour those who have money for private schooling, tuition classes, and living expenses while sitting for A/L examinations year after year. Moreover, students of means tend to come from urban areas where the educational opportunities are better and more courses are available. The unfairness of the situation has left many arts students harbouring feelings of envy and hostility toward students in more prestigious faculties, though primarily toward the upper class segments in

118 those. Faculty affiliation, in other words, is another social fault line. I did not fully understand this until, in April, fighting broke out between students of the arts and engineering faculties.

The incident99 I am referring to began a Saturday evening when a number of male engineering students gate crashed a social event at the WUS-complex, arranged by and for the arts students. Once there, some of them had allegedly groped a female arts student. The girl had started crying and there was a minor skirmish as some male arts students jumped in to defend her. The rough and tumble died down relatively quickly, but some students were apparently not prepared to leave it at that. Arts and engineering students do, to some degree, live in the same quarters, although most students live fairly close to their faculty. Accordingly, Akbar Hall, near the Faculty of Engineering, on the western side of the Mahaweli River, has a clear majority of engineering students and an arts student minority. On Sunday evening that minority had come under attack, forcing several of them to flee across the footbridge to the eastern side of the river. Somehow, however, students in two of the arts-dominated hostels on the eastern side had been alerted, and a crowd (estimates said 100-200) of agitated arts students soon came running across the bridge in the opposite direction. They were met by another crowd of engineering students and it came to a face-off, the two parties lined up on opposite sides of the Gampola road. They stood there for a while hurling rocks at one another in the middle of the night before, eventually, the police arrived, taking up position in the middle. The bombardment continued for some time, above the police who struggled to gain control, until the arts students decided to take their leave. More than ten students had needed medical treatment, but none had been seriously injured.

The following day saw continued tension, as arts students feared reprisals and rumours spread that engineering students in Akbar Hall were destroying the property of the ones who had fled. The arts students gathered at the lawns by Gemba, women grouping together in one area, while the men, many of them carrying large clubs, moved around restlessly, talking to one another and hoping to find out what was going on. Occasionally someone would speak and people gather around for a while, before dispersing and then gathering around another speaker. There was uncertainty and anxiety, but also machismo and eagerness to stand up for oneself. The most impatient ones were arguing that it was necessary to strike first, and not wait for an attack. In the end, however, university officials were able to calm things down by

99 While I was not present to witness the incident myself it was retold to me by a number of students whose versions did not conflict significantly.

119 reassuring the crowd that no property had been destroyed, and that the administration would take measures against anyone who created more trouble. The Vice-Chancellor, taking the incident very seriously, temporarily shut down the Faculty of Engineering, and forced all its students to leave campus.

To understand how the fighting could erupt in the first place I believe it is necessary to take two factors into account: firstly, the stigma attached to being an arts student and secondly, the asymmetric nature of romantic relationships in Sri Lankan culture. The former matter has already been dealt with, while the latter, though it has been touched upon, needs some elaboration. The asymmetric nature of love affairs becomes evident in the “need” for the man to be of higher status, considering for example age, income, class and educational achievements. At Peradeniya, the statuses of gender and faculty affiliation tend to articulate and imbue each other with meaning. As a vast majority of students at the engineering faculty are males, the study is seen as masculine, and the arts faculty, with its many female students, is seen as feminine. It is not surprising, then, that male students from the former faculty come to the latter in search of a romantic partner. Threatened male arts students, in turn, find it necessary to “protect their women.” This was neatly illustrated by how the female students, on the day following the clash, grouped together at the heart of the arts faculty, while the males were assessing the situation and discussing which measures to take.

Interestingly, the CG and some other Tamils students had taken part in the skirmish outside Akbar Hall, however, after first having called their Tamil friends there to make sure that they would not participate in any fighting. They later explained that whereas there is little or no cooperation between the Tamil and Sinhalese engineering students, there is at the arts faculty. Yet, I was baffled at how enthusiastic they seemed when relating the weekend’s events to me, and I was again baffled at how they seemed eager to fight. They too were carrying large sticks and one Up-country Tamil student showed me a switchblade knife he was carrying, assuring me that he was ready to use it. I asked the question that seemed to beg being asked: “why?” – was this, after all, their fight? It was obvious that some of the CG students had been caught up in the frenzy. They had accepted a rhetoric romanticizing the fight and they too felt the need to “defend their women.” A few of the calmer ones, however, explained that by helping the Sinhalese today, they would in turn be helped tomorrow, if the need should arrive. It was an opportunity to appease, and the Up-country Tamil students, as a minority, are continuously aware of the importance of maintaining good relations with the majority.

120 Manoeuvring as a Minority We see now how the CG students are located within, and acting in response to, a social reality which differs from that of the vast majority of students on campus. They have learned through history and experience, how their exposed position necessitates caution and a preoccupation with impression management. As a result, their participation in activities such as political strikes, ragging, and student clashes, albeit occasionally a source of enjoyment, is also bound to carry a different significance for them than what is the case for their Sinhalese counterparts. Up-country Tamil participation is always, at some level, a quid pro quo. The Up-country Tamil students are not in a position where they are able to defend themselves well should they come under attack, and so their caution ultimately derives from fear. They know well how brittle the current state of peace is, on campus, as on a national level and they know how the two are interrelated. They fear that a brutal killing by the LTTE of innocent people, could, like in 1983, trigger retaliatory action against Tamils all over Sri Lanka. Vindictiveness, once given legs to walk on, is capable of frightening atrocities, as Sri Lanka’s recent history illustrates well. An understanding of the Up-country Tamil students’ life on campus can only spring from an understanding of the fear felt by a minority which can come under attack at any time. That is not to say that fear permeates every aspect of their situation, but it is there as a backdrop to all action and inaction. The fear, however, comes not into being as the students arrive at the university. Rather, it is a companion from much earlier on in life. Hollup (1994:70) describes the lack of security felt by Estate Tamils in estates which border to Sinhalese villages in the mid-country. The estate residents related to him of the fear in which they lived – a fear of ethnic violence erupting once again, as it has so many times in the past. Many have chosen to migrate, either to safer estates in the up-country, or to the semi-arid lands of the north. With modern communication technology, news of ethnic violence, rioting and other injustices spread faster and further than before and cause shared concern. Towards the end of my field work, for instance, the reported death of an 11 year old Up-country Tamil boy employed as a domestic servant in Colombo, upset many Up-country Tamils, also at Peradeniya. The circumstances surrounding the boy’s death were highly suspicious and the matter was under investigation, although it is not likely that many Up-country Tamils expected non-biased law enforcement. To make matters worse, the parents of the boy had been prevented by the police from seeing the body of their child and were first allowed to do

121 so at the funeral (Muttiah 2005)100. Incidents such as this one tell Up-country Tamils that they do not have the same rights or are entitled to the same security as other Sri Lankans. The lesson is learned at an early age, and when Up-country Tamil students arrive on campus they know that they are not only given access to peaks to climb, but that they are also facing crevasses to cross. Along with opportunities there are dangers. When the CG students, alongside Sinhalese students, protect a “university subculture” – a highly objectified tradition perceived to be under threat, they recognize perhaps in that fight, the Up-country Tamil people’s fight against oppressive societal structures, and on one level they may not feel the two struggles to be contradictive of each other. But identification with the Sinhalese lower- class students can only be allowed to a certain point. The moment class surrenders to ethnicity as pivotal point of interaction, the Up-country Tamil students will be out in the open and at the mercy of the ones wielding the real political power among the students on campus.

It is in order to avoid being demoted to an ethnic Other that the Up-country Tamil students are pursuing a two-pronged strategy of distancing themselves from the Sri Lankan Tamils and approximating the Sinhalese. The former is achieved by communicating an Up-country Tamil identity separate from that of other Tamils on the island, the latter by downplaying difference from the Sinhalese and wholeheartedly embracing a “university subculture”. The two strategies can, however, be perceived to contradict one another. The celebration of an Up- country Tamil identity and culture can be perceived as a threat – particularly by Sinhalese from the up- and mid-country, where the Up-country Tamils have some political influence. It is not surprising therefore, that the CG students repeatedly emphasized the similarities between the Tamil and Sinhalese cultures, people, and religions, maintaining that the Muslims are the ones standing out, and that some would go so far as to deny the existence of an ethnic problem, preferring to reduce it to a linguistic one. The Sri Lanka Tamil students, and particularly the Jaffna Tamils and/or those supporting the Tamil separatist movement, by contrast, may take another approach in dealing with the Sinhalese majority, minimizing contact and withdrawing in stead to their own arenas. This is, I believe, also why they in large part reject the “university subculture”, as illustrated by non-participation in ragging. These students make no attempt at bridging the ethnic divide, and in event of a renewed civil war, they are prepared to leave campus and perhaps even take up arms themselves.

100 The funeral, moreover, arranged by the authorities, was in Colombo and not on the family’s estate as they probably had wanted.

122 Concluding Remarks During my time at Peradeniya I talked to a great many students, and, naturally, nearly all of them were curious to know what had brought me there. I would typically reply that I had come to study social life on campus, or that I wanted to know what it was like to be a student at Peradeniya. If I had the opportunity to explain further, I would most likely say something about how I am fascinated by there being so many social categories and that I wanted to better understand the interplay between these as well as how they together structure student interaction. To get the point across, I would maybe mention a few of these categories: “ethnicity, caste, class, religion…”, and point out that in my own country, such differences are much less salient among the general public. Now, typically, after a short silence, the student would look knowingly at me, as if having seen through my clever talk. - You are here to study the ethnic conflict? And, quite true, I had come into the field with the a priori idea that of all social statuses, ethnicity was the key to understanding campus social life. Upon being affronted with my own presuppositions, however, I had to adjust them. - Well… if ethnicity is important, then I have come to study ethnicity. If other things are important, then I have come to study them. Students’ opinions on the subject would vary. Of course there were those who unflinchingly claimed that there is no “ethnic problem,” only a “language problem,” and there were those who said there is no problem at all, and that everybody at Peradeniya gets along just fine. There were those who rather than to speak of Peradeniya would want to learn about my country, Norway – in their minds a semi-utopian place of peace and prosperity. Others would ask me, not accusingly but with a wish to understand, why the Norwegian diplomacy is so blatantly pro-Tamil, supportive of the Tigers and opposed to Sri Lankan peace. At any rate, these conversations forced me to challenge my own preconceived notions and taught me to open up for complexity. They sensitized me towards the workings of differentiating mechanisms other than ethnicity. The social complexity which I had spoken of, but which I had not really been ready to accept, began to reveal itself to me.

It has been a main point to convey a sense of these social complexities in the foregoing. It was my intention that the reader should recognize in the text an ever-changing socio-political terrain in which all actors have to orient themselves. In this terrain arise conflict and cooperation, hostilities and alliances. Practical restraints, however, have prevented me from

123 going into some matters as thoroughly as I would have liked. The workings of caste on campus is, for instance, a topic deserving a much more detailed examination, as are gender roles and gender relations. In narrowing my focus I have, after all, given priority to ethnicity, but I have not wanted to accept its prominence without simultaneously attempting to elucidate the sources of its power. The nature of ethnicity is, after all, still being debated, after nearly four decades of sustained anthropological attention. To do so I have found it necessary to do a fair bit of contextualizing. The context deals with history and politics, with ethnic groups, religions and nationalisms, and, as I situated myself within a group to whom the plantation experience is constitutive, with plantation society. It was important for me to recognize that campus is no island, unmoved by Sri Lankan currents of communal friction. Rather, campus is a meeting place for people of widely different backgrounds and statuses, and as such can be expected to reproduce the schisms of society at large. Such meetings do not, of course, only lead to friction and conflict and I would have liked to be able to write that the university experience is instrumental in teaching the students not to perceive diversity as a threat, but to value it. While this happens – the CG Up-country Tamils’ lives were for instance decidedly enriched as they befriended the Sri Lanka Tamils in their batch, most students do after all stick to “their own kind.”

The most prominently visible of the social fault lines on campus, is that of class, a realization which came as a surprise to me. It is a safe and tested practise among the political agitators of the Sinhala lower class to express their aggression in terms of class struggle. I hope to have made it clear, however, that such rhetoric, in many cases, merely conceals, and that only vaguely, ethnic distrust. While Sinhalese student politicians may lash out against privatization of universities or the disciplining of raggers, such events seek to mobilize only a Sinhalese segment of the population. The reservation of class solidarity for one’s ethnic kindred copies the practise of the JVP, whose two-pronged rhetoric of class and ethnicity has taken it from clandestine activities to the halls of power. The JVP grip on the universities has been firm since the 1970’s, and to understand the interplay between class and ethnicity on campus it is necessary to understand how the party actively uses both in order to reach out to its voters – primarily the lower-class, rural Sinhalese. These people tend to be poor and many feel cheated of privileges and opportunities which they, as the island’s majority, feel entitled to. The ones who have cheated them are the bourgeoisie, who control the economy, and the ethnic Other, particularly the Sri Lanka Tamils, whose success has been disproportionate to their numbers, and who now, according to nationalist rhetoric, seek to destroy the country. Class

124 consciousness and ethnic distrust are, in other words, both articulated as the unjust attacks against, and the victimisation of, a noble (Sinhalese) majority, by a privileged few. The rhetoric is polemical, characterised by a lack of nuance and an unwillingness to test other perspectives. On paper the JVP is a Maoist party and claims to represent all ethnic groups (class struggle is a more legitimate cause than ethnic majoritarianism), but it is doubtful that the party would have grown to its current size without the civil war and fear of Tamil terrorism to boost it. At the universities the debate on admission quotas in the 70’s and 80’s had a decidedly ethnic undertone, but rhetoric on ethnic solidarity is perhaps less common today. Rather, the JVP harnesses support at the campuses through the continued flourishing of class consciousness, as is expressed through ragging, the hostility towards anti-raggers, and a validation of “university subculture.”

I have argued that the CG ‘s participation in ragging and campus rituals is, in large part, attributable to the strategies they employ in implicit alliance building. By aligning themselves with the raggers, who constitute the dominant segment of the student population, they hope to find a sense of security which they are denied as an isolated minority. If the day should come that anti-Tamil riots again break out, it is their hope that their cooperation and show of solidarity with low-caste Sinhalese students will keep them from being attacked by those very same people. Theirs is a well-grounded fear. Although an outsider would likely not have guessed it today, campus has been fraught with violence. Up-country Tamils know all too well that they, in the event of renewed ethnic violence, may be held accountable for the actions of others – that they in the eyes and minds of many Sinhalese are potential terrorists. The CG Up-country Tamils, on their part, are therefore concerned with letting their Sinhalese co-students know that they, although Tamils, are a people different from the Tamils in the north and east. It is a tactic which may backfire, however, and alienate them from their Sri Lanka Tamil friends. Attempts at communicating an Up-country Tamil ethnic identity emphasise, moreover, ethnicity at the expense of class solidarity, setting them apart from the Sinhalese. However, the CG Up-country Tamils are quite clearly not Sinhalese, as is apparent for any Sinhalese student who comes in contact with them. They socialize much less with the Sinhalese than with other Tamils and they do not speak Sinhala. Their best shot at obtaining the ethnic majority’s goodwill, in other words, is not by feigning to be one of them, but by letting the Sinhalese know that Up-country Tamil students are reliable - at least the Up- country Tamil students at the Faculty of Art. This was the rationale behind joining in on the

125 attack on the engineering students. The same rationale encourages their adherence to “university subculture” and its corpus of unwritten laws.

Such motivation does not sufficiently explain the CG students’ behaviour, however. Ragging was engaged in, not only because it is a “university tradition” which they felt needs to be honoured, but because they thoroughly enjoyed the practise. The enthusiasm displayed at the many meetings where ragging was discussed, revealed that the CG students had been looking forward to it since they themselves had been put through the rag. They were particularly excited about meeting the new females, whom they as seniors would now have a culturally legitimate reason to talk to and wield some authority over. A detailed exposition on ragging will need to take into consideration psychological factors relating to the assertion of a place in a hierarchy, and herein is the paradox of ragging: a ritual which supposedly celebrates equality but which in fact produces difference. As long as females are exposed to sexual harassment and are expected to engage in romantic relationships with senior males, ragging continues to emphasise gender difference. As long as ragging remains ethnically segregated, it will continue to emphasise ethnic difference. This is a paradox which was obvious to several of the anti-raggers, but not necessarily to the raggers themselves. The male, Sinhalese raggers are blinded by their own perceived disadvantage as compared to the social elites. Moreover, I believe that minority males, such as in the CG, are so used to being low in the pecking order that the opportunity to assert some authority is intoxicating. They do, however, and I believe wholeheartedly so, defend the argument that ragging is about making equal, about including new students, and about teaching these students campus etiquette. It may well be that such reasoning are acts of rationalization, but if so, they are, I believe, largely unconscious.

It is tempting to ask why ethnicity remains a fundamental social category in Sri Lanka and at Peradeniya. To answer that question is no easy task but the background material I have provided implies that the contemporary role of ethnicity on the island differs greatly from that it had in earlier times. It was religion and caste which used to be imperative statuses as illustrated by the fact that the last kings of Kandy were South Indian Tamils, who were offered the throne due to their high caste. They, on their part, swore to protect Buddhism. Ethnicity, though it was recognized in some manner in earlier times, did not overlap neatly with religion and language groups, as today. Towards the end of the British rule, however, it was ethnicity which determined political representation within the Legislative Council, setting the stage for post-Independence partisan politics. Meanwhile, the process of ethnification was

126 encouraged by social elites, particularly among the Sinhalese. The elites consisted of politicians who spotted an untapped potential for popular support, but also of bhikkhus, who as bhikkhus still do, held great symbolic power. The sangha, by evoking the vamsas as historical evidence, was influential in redefining Sri Lanka as the island of the Sinhalese, while equating “Sinhalese” with “Buddhist.” Tamil nationalism, on the other hand, was largely reactionary. The minorities, with reason it turned out, feared discrimination within a Sinhalese-run state and the Sri Lanka Tamils recognized ethnicity as a fundamental aspect of identity in fighting for constitutional rights to some self-rule. Yet, it was only with the escalation of the conflict that the communities began to fear one another – not one’s neighbours perhaps, but the ethnic Other as a symbol of the forces seeking to destroy one’s own people. Horrific LTTE-orchestrated acts of violence inspired fear among the Sinhalese and prompted an image of “the bestial Tamil” – a being capable of slaughtering innocent people or of blowing itself to pieces for its cause: The Destruction of Sri Lanka. For many Tamils the Sinhalese enemy is embodied in the state apparatus itself, in which they have no faith and which in seeking to please the Sinhalese masses time and time again infringes on minority rights. The Sinhalese Other, in other words, is a many-headed monster, and its ways are unpredictable. The damage it inflicts is most often not caused by outright violence, though it is capable of that too, but by slow suffocation. The Peradeniya students, I believe, must too harbour these images of the Other – again, not necessarily their neighbours and co-students, but some abstract ethnic enemy. It is the fear which underlies this kind of images which given the right circumstances may be allowed to take control, thereby changing a situation of ethnic segregation to one of ethnic opposition. As long as inter-ethnic interaction is highly restricted, there is no buffer of friendly relations to prevent such a turn of events. The CG students have realized this, yet their attempts to approach the Sinhalese are not as enthusiastic as they could have been. The restricted degree of interaction between ethnic groups may partly be explained with regard to the existence of language streams, not only at the university but in nearly all educational institutions. Once enrolled at Peradeniya, the students are used to dealing primarily with one’s own. In this sense it may be true that communal disharmony is as much a language problem as an ethnic one. The building of bridges between communities seems to me to rely on the communities being able to speak each other’s languages. Only then can ethnic stereotypes be openly challenged.

Yet, the lack of open communication on campus runs deeper, as illustrated by the non- existence of an open forum for debate. We have seen how an historical precedence was set in

127 the 70’s and 80’s, as political disagreements increasingly came to be expressed through violence and force rather than words. The trend was never effectively countered by university administrators or politicians, and has continued up to this day, though largely hidden. I believe that a large segment of the student body, regardless of ethnicity and class, may be critical of the confrontational tactics of student politicians or of the violent nature of ragging, but fear being branded as disloyal if they speak up. Student agitators, who may be relatively few in number, are able to wield their power over the masses by enforcing a symbolic dominance through intimidation and implicit threats of social exclusion. They are the guardians of “university subculture”, which holds the standing challenge of upper class hegemony. Any attack on them risks being interpreted as an attack on the lower class itself. Dissenters therefore keep quiet and the largely unopposed continuation of ragging implies that there are essentially two kinds of students: the raggers and anti-raggers, or if you will: the lower class and the upper class. Sinhalese lower class students are, by virtue of their ethnicity, class status and submission to “university subculture,” included in the “horizontal comradeship” of the raggers. They may not sincerely agree with the rhetoric of the leaders, and they may not fully embrace the roles they are expected to play, but as long as they do not openly challenge either, they remain safe in the fold of the crowd. The ethnic minorities, by contrast, are in a sense “guilty” until they have proven themselves “innocent.” For them, it is not enough simply not to challenge the raggers and “university subculture.” Unless they can truly convince them of their loyalty and are able to forge a secure alliance, there is always the chance that the raggers, to paraphrase de Silva, should “forget their political affiliations and join in ethnic solidarity” (1995:47).

128 Appendix I – Map of Peradeniya University Campus

(Source: Dept of Geography, University of Peradeniya)

129 Appendix II – Campus Etiquette Taught through Ragging

Campus manners: • Always respect queues • After a meal, fold the plastic film covering the plate • Free up space and do not linger at a table when finished eating • When wanting to wash hands after a meal and others who have not eaten yet are waiting to wash, too, let them go first • Use trash cans • Always arrive at lectures at least five minutes early • If you are ten minutes late for a lecture, do not go at all • Remain seated when the lecturer arrives (rising is associated with primary and secondary school) • After a lecture, the lecturer will be the first to leave the room • If carrying a mobile phone, turn it off when in the library • Do not misplace books in the library • The library computers are only for academic purposes

Hall manners: • In the morning, brush teeth after having used the toilet • When brushing teeth, do not look in the mirror • Do not take baths between 6am and 8am (because of the crowds) • If meeting the warden, wear trousers and a shirt • If outdoors, always wear something on the upper body • If going to the main road, wear trousers (no sarong or shorts) • When receiving visitors of the opposite gender, use the visitors’ rooms or the dining hall, never your own room • When visiting people in other rooms, knock at their door first and say “excuse (room number)” • When entertaining visitors, ask them to sit and be hospitable

Room manners: • Do not brush teeth in the rooms • Do not hang so it is visible • Keep your books in order • Turn off lights when not present • Never play the radio so loudly that it can be heard in other rooms • Lock the door when out • Keep shoes and slippers outside the room

130 Appendix III –Image Descriptions

1. Large fig tree at “Polonnaruwa,” seen from the south. To the right Gemba canteen. 2. Galaha Junction. This is the main entry point to campus, on the Colombo-Kandy road. The roundabout is frequently used for political advertisements and student campaigns. 3. Buildings at the Faculty of Arts with a view of the Hantana range in the background. In the hills is visible the campus mosque. 4. The arts faculty. To the far left is the Arts Theatre, to the far right, the Main Library. 5. The same fig tree as in image 1. Part of the Senate building in the background. 6. Billboard announcing a general body (general meeting). 7. Jayathilaka Hall. 8. Jayathilaka Hall – a view into the atrium. 9. The Main Library. 10. A typical lecture room. 11. Entrance to arts building. 12. A typical hostel room as is commonly shared by three or four people. 13. The de Alwis-roundabout around which the decapitated heads of 15 or more students were placed towards the end of the 1989 insurgency. 14. Two of the fig trees at “Polonnaruwa.” 15. A flight of stairs by the Arts Theatre. 16. Part of the sports grounds. To the right is a running track and a football/rugby pitch. On the right side of the frame are the cricket grounds. 17. The WUS complex. To the left is the Students’ Union office and to the right the dining hall. In the far back is a stage. 18. Billboard honouring Rohana Wijeweera – the founder, and for more than two decades, the leader of the JVP. Wijeweera was, along with the rest of the JVP leadership, captured and executed in 1989, as the second insurgency came to an end. 19. A table of offerings at an up-country Mariyamman festival. 20. Plantation housing. On the left are typical line rooms. 21. A class room in a Tamil school in the up-country. 22. A possessed medium at a Mariyamman festival. 23. The plucking and weighing of tea leaves in the 19th century and today. (Source of old footage: www.imagesofceylon.com) 24. Hook hanging at Mariyamman festival.

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