Playing
Lions and Tigers
--
Rohini Hensman
[This is an excerpt from the collection of short
stories by the author entitled "Playing Lions and Tigers"
that is to be published in January 2004 by Earthworm Press, India.
htttp://earthwormbooks.com]
Sarath slipped into his new job like a duckling into water. Having
spent so much time first observing and then assisting his father,
there was not much he could learn from anyone else. He was based
at the main union office in Colombo, but soon started being sent
out to set up a new office in the fledgling industrial area north
of the capital. This was a different type of industry, with a
large proportion of women workers and fierce opposition to trade
unions from employers. He had only one colleague to help him,
a young woman called Ranmali who was even newer than he was. Together
they struggled to make inroads in this tough and unfamiliar territory.
All Sarath's skills were called into play soon after he started
work, when the union was rocked by an earthquake that split it
down the middle. Sarath merely saw this as a challenge, but his
father, who had nursed the union from its infancy, was shattered.
'It's not the end of the world, Thaththa,' Sarath tried to comfort
him. 'Nearly half the workers have come with us, and maybe we're
better off without those rotten Sinhala chauvinist elements. I
don't agree that there shouldn't have been a split over this issue.
After all, the whole rationale of a union is to build workers'
unity; how can we compromise with people who want to divide workers
along ethnic and linguistic lines?'
'If that was the reason why the union split, I would agree with
you,' his father replied. 'But you know as well as I do that the
workers who went along with them are not necessarily all anti-Tamil,
nor did all those who came with us do so for the right reasons.
Most of them just followed the leader they had always followed.
For them it was a matter of loyalty, not ideology.'
'Well, then, that suggests a failure of education in the old
union, doesn't it? We must make sure that our members are aware
of all these issues now, so that they can't be so easily misled
in future. And in some cases, the workers' own prejudices are
to blame. We need to tackle those, and it won't be easy.'
'That's very true.'
'But on one point I do agree with you, Thaththa,' continued Sarath.
'I think it's neither necessary nor healthy for unions to be linked
to political parties. Parties have a different agenda from the
rights and welfare of workers, and I feel that workers often get
used for a cause which is not their own. But I don't need to tell
you this - you know it already. Look at the plantations!'
His father nodded gloomily. Despite his years of devoted work,
the majority of plantation workers belonged to the CWC, which
was based on a communal rather than working-class identity. Seeing
their former left-wing champions join a coalition that so shamelessly
betrayed them could only have confirmed their suspicion that the
Sinhalese could not be trusted. What was the point of telling
them to unite with Sinhalese workers, when the hard fact remained
that Sinhalese workers had citizenship and votes while most of
them had not? Who could blame them for not wanting a unity based
on inequality? Not Sarath's father, who had pledged himself to
fight for their rights as citizens as well as workers, and found
himself stranded when his party abandoned that basic principle.
He clung to the principle, along with the rest of the breakaway
group, only at the cost of a disastrous split in the union.
If Sarath stayed on in the union despite its links with the party
- and, moreover, persuaded his father to do likewise - it was
for one reason and one reason only: to retain contact with the
trade union movement nationally. He could see no other way to
do this. It was different in the public sector. Bank unions, for
example, had an Annual General Meeting where you could meet delegates
from the North, the East, the far South, the hill-country, and
find out what was happening to fellow-workers in other parts of
the island. But he would have no such opportunity if he resigned
from the party-affiliated union.
Agnes, Paul and Shameem were unable to understand his dilemma.
But some years later, Leelawathie, a young garment worker whom
Shameem had brought home when she was sacked, could sympathise
with it. 'I know what you're saying, Sarath Aiya,' she said. 'I
was working in the same industrial area where you have an office,
but we couldn't take your help because the union people at our
factory were connected to another party. We didn't even know you
had organised so many factories! If we had been together instead
of being divided by the parties, we might have been able to unionise
much more quickly and easily. On the other hand, if we had a union
only in that industrial area, we wouldn't know what was happening
in the rest of the country. That doesn't matter to me, but I can
see why it would bother you.'
Most of the time, however, Sarath was too preoccupied with other
matters to give much thought to such problems. At the head office
in Colombo, he had to do things in a more or less traditional
way, although he did manage to introduce a few changes. But in
the new office he was free to innovate - and, indeed, forced to
do so, since the workers' fear of victimisation made it imperative
to work in a semi-clandestine manner in the early stages of organising.
Ranmali's role was crucial here. Keeping a low profile at the
office, she did her main work in the field, contacting girls in
their crowded boarding houses, finding out their grievances, assessing
which workers and which factories were ripe for unionisation.
Although in theory Ranmali was working under Sarath, in reality
it was an equal partnership, with all significant decisions being
taken jointly. This required frequent discussions over strategy
and tactics, in the course of which a more personal relationship
developed between them. Sarath learned that Ranmali was the sixth
child in a family which barely had the means to support two. 'All
my life, as long as I can remember, I felt unwanted,' she told
him. 'I didn't mind the poverty - everyone around us was poor,
and we children still managed to have fun. But the way my mother
and father looked at me with resentment - as if I had come into
the world purposely to torment them - I couldn't stand that! I
ran away as soon as I could, and got a job in a factory here by
lying about my age.' It was not long before she was dismissed,
being too fiery to accept the oppressive treatment without talking
back. 'At first I thought it was a disaster,' she said, 'but actually
it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me in
my life, because now I've got this job, and I love it!' Sarath
was full of sympathy as well as admiration, and soon found himself
missing her on days when they didn't meet.
Sometimes their discussions took place in the new office, sometimes
- if Sarath was not going there - Ranmali came to the old office
after work. But the latter was inconvenient, because she would
then have to travel back late at night. Sarath thought a better
arrangement would be for her to come home with him, and leave
for work from there in the morning. The first time he tried this
out, however, he knew it was a mistake. Without being rude to
Ranmali, Agnes was so formal in her politeness that it was clear
to Sarath there would be trouble the next day. Sure enough, they
had an argument, Agnes was angry and upset, and Sarath decided
it was not worth all this emotional upheaval to persist with his
plan. Instead, he got clearance from the old office to spend three
afternoons and evenings a week at the new one instead of just
one day, pleading an expanding workload there as his reason. On
those evenings he could be with Ranmali as late as he liked, constrained
only by the need to catch the last bus back.
Sarath's desire to spend time with Ranmali by no means indicated
a reluctance to go home. He and Agnes were renting a tiny place
close to Shameem's and Paul's bungalow, and usually they had their
evening meals together, talking about everything in the world
from the war in Vietnam to the poor little girl in the neighbourhood
who had died of leukemia. Then there were new concerns when Shameem
became pregnant, Leelawathie appeared out of nowhere, also pregnant,
and before you knew what was happening, there were two new additions
to their family, Ranjith and Sohel. He was not surprised when
Agnes raised the issue with him not long afterwards. 'You think
we should have a baby too?' he smiled. 'Well, why not? The more
the merrier! I love the little creatures!'
The pregnancy, when it occurred, was dreadful. Agnes was so ill
that Sarath more than once thought that it should be terminated.
But she would not hear of it, and persisted to the end. The delivery
was an even worse nightmare. After hours of agony, the doctor
announced that she would have to go through a Caesarian because
she lacked the strength to push the baby out. At that moment,
Sarath's predominant feeling was anger: at the doctor and nurses,
for mismanaging the delivery, and at Agnes, for putting them through
this. But later, sitting in the corridor waiting for the operation
to be completed, he admitted to himself and to Paul, who had stayed
with him throughout, that anger was only a cover for his fear
of losing Agnes. He might have arguments with her, she might accuse
him of not caring about her, he might feel she was making unreasonable
demands on him, but the assumption underlying everything, even
their fights, was that they would always be there for each other.
Life without her was unthinkable. 'I know', said Paul, squeezing
his hand affectionately, 'I know. I would feel exactly the same.
But from what the doctor said, I don't think there's much danger.
I'm sure she'll come through all right.'
Not much danger, he said. But even that one-in-a-hundred chance
that things might go wrong was too much for Sarath.The sight of
his perfectly-formed baby daughter brought him no joy until Agnes
had safely regained consciousness. And then his first words to
her were, 'No more babies, O.K.? One's enough! We're not going
through this again!'
'But look at her, Sarath,' beamed Agnes. 'She's so beautiful!
Don't you think she was worth it?'
Sarath looked at the sleeping baby, and at last his face relaxed
into a smile. 'All right,' he conceded, 'now that you're safe,
I'm willing to agree. But we don't need any more! After all, we've
got Ranjith and Sohel already, haven't we?'
'That's true,' agreed Agnes, much to Sarath's relief. Taking
her home posed the next problem. Two days before she was due to
be discharged, it was clear to Sarath that she would be in no
condition to look after herself and the baby. What should he do?
Ask Shameem and Leelawathie to help? But they already had their
hands full. They might drop in once or twice a day, but it would
not be fair to ask them to do more. Could Agnes stay with Paul
and Shameem until her strength returned? No, that would be too
much of an imposition on them, and she would never agree to it.
The problem kept him awake all night, and in the morning he went
straight to the leader of his union branch and said, 'I need to
take paternity leave, Comrade Upali.'
'What paternity leave?' asked Upali sharply. 'We don't have any
such thing, either for our members or our activists.'
'Well, we should,' persisted Sarath. 'In any case, I need it.
My wife has had a Caesarian, and there's no one at home to look
after her and the baby when the hospital discharges her tomorrow.'
'Oh, I see,' said Upali, more sympathetically. 'But we can't
do without you, Sarath. What about her mother? Or yours?'
'They're both working, and I've never heard of grand-maternity
leave! I'll tell you what: I'll work half time for three months.
You can pay me half my salary if you like, though that would make
life difficult, since Agnes doesn't get maternity benefit either.'
Upali nodded. 'I'll talk to the others this evening and see what
I can do,' he said. Before closing down the office at night, he
told Sarath that his request had been granted: he could work part-time
for three months, and would still be paid his full salary.
It was at around this time that Paul's nephew Jeeva, a little
boy of five or six, started coming down from Jaffna to spend his
holidays with them. Suddenly the old bungalow was filled with
a whole new generation, and Sarath wanted to share in the fun.
He loved all the children, but developed a specially strong bond
with Jeeva and Ranjith: Jeeva, because his courage and intelligence
marked him out ('That boy's going to become a leader one day,'
predicted Sarath) and Ranjith, because for some indefinable reason
he reminded Sarath of himself as a small boy.
Absorbed in his family, his work and his relationship with Ranmali,
Sarath was taken by surprise when the island was plunged into
a crisis due to an attempted insurrection by a group which called
itself the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna. Failed, of course: how could
anyone expect an armed insurrection to succeed in democratic Lanka?
While disapproving of the government's crack-down on them, and
supporting attempts by Paul and Agnes to defend their human rights
journalistically and legally, Sarath made no secret of his scorn
for these would-be revolutionaries, supposedly modelling themselves
on Che Guevara. 'Did they really think a revolution is just a
matter of hiding in the jungles and jumping out with swords or
guns?' he asked. 'Did they seriously think that workers would
support them? Why on earth should workers support people whom
they have never heard of, who have never done anything for them?'
'Don't be so hard on them, Sarath Aiya,' said Leelawathie, looking
surprised at his vehemence. 'They're probably simple fellows like
the boys in my village, without the kind of political knowledge
and experience that you have.'
'That's right,' agreed Paul. 'How can you blame them? They were
promised that "Sinhala Only" would solve all their problems,
and instead they find themselves plagued by poverty and unemployment,
just as they were before. Naturally they feel cheated!'
'Hang on a minute!' laughed Sarath, putting his hands up in front
of his face as if to ward off an attack. 'Don't all shoot at once!
I didn't mean to insult your village boys, Leela, nor do I disagree
with your analysis, Paul. But I still maintain there's something
very...' he groped to find the right word, '...something dirty
about the leaders of this movement.They don't understand the importance
of mass work: all right, I can understand that, put it down to
their lack of experience. But treating the plantation workers
as enemies - that I cannot forgive!'
'He's right,' said Agnes sombrely, looking around at the others.
'I noticed that too, and it made me feel slightly sick. It's a
typically fascist way of operating - scapegoating some helpless,
oppressed community. I'm willing to fight for their right to a
fair trial and so forth, but I hate to think what would happen
if they ever came to power.'
Agnes had put her finger on it. There was something deeply disturbing
about the way in which practically all political parties, whether
in power or aspiring to power, colluded in targeting these already
victimised people. And it was even more disturbing that the parties
were supported by ordinary people whose class instincts surely
should have taught them better. If this anomaly upset Sarath,
it drove his father to despair. He sank deeper and deeper into
a depression that became almost suicidal when nationalisation
of the estates was carried out. How much brutality can be hidden
behind such a fine-sounding word! Sarath was appalled and baffled.
Where did all that violence and evil come from? If he had not
witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have believed that
anyone but maniacs could attack and terrorise innocent people
like that, making them pay for losing their citizenship and franchise
by robbing them of their miserable livelihoods and wretched homes!
It made Sarath sad to see his father deserted by his normal high
spirits and optimism. It was Uncle Bala who restored him to something
like his old self, by raising funds to set up his project on a
more permanent basis, and extended its aims to providing food,
shelter and some income-generating activity to the evicted plantation
workers and their families. With his union membership so badly
depleted, Sarath's father could work with him part-time, giving
classes very similar to those that Sarath had been giving earlier
as a volunteer, even while Sarath himself - he smiled to himself
at the irony - got more deeply immersed in the union.
When the UNP came back to power with a huge majority in 1977,
Sarath was not unduly worried. The electorate had a habit of punishing
existing rulers for their failures by voting them out of power,
and he felt sure the new rulers would likewise be dismissed at
the end of their term. Paul was the first to ring the alarm bells.
Returning home shaken and bruised, he said that the newspaper
office where he worked had been ransacked and the employees terrorised
by thugs insisting that now the new government's line would reign
supreme. Paul saw this as an attack on the freedom of the press,
and decided to resign. Still Sarath was not sure the situation
was really so drastic. After all, Paul had made it clear he was
opposed to the UNP, and post-election violence against political
opponents had, unfortunately, become all too common. The next
to panic were his father and Uncle Bala. In response to a telegram
from his father, Sarath travelled up to Nawalapitiya and found
them, too, shaken and almost in tears. Plantation workers had
been attacked with unprecedented violence, and one of the rehabilitation
schemes had been completely destroyed. 'I can see a bloodbath
coming,' said Uncle Bala fearfully.
'This is taking place with consent from the highest quarters,'
added Sarath's father. 'There's nothing we can do.'
'But Thaththa, Uncle, didn't the same thing happen in '72 and
'75, when the plantations were nationalised? What's the difference?'
asked Sarath.
'It is different,' insisted Uncle Bala. 'This is more organised,
more systematic.'
'And it's not just in the plantation areas,' Sarath's father
pointed out. 'I've heard reliable reports of attacks on Tamils
in other parts of the country. This is like '58, '72 and '75 all
rolled into one - but worse. At least then there was some semblance
of the government trying to restore order. I don't see that now.'
Was it the same? Was it different? Sarath debated the question
all the way back on the train. At the union annual meeting, which
took place soon after, he discovered that Tamils were being attacked
in several parts of the country. They passed a resolution to 'intensify
the campaign of solidarity between Sinhala and Tamil brothers
and sisters,' not just ideologically, but with practical instructions
about what to do if there were attempts to attack Tamil workers.
'Next time we won't be caught off guard,' observed a senior unionist
from the Eastern Province, and Sarath nodded approvingly.
Yet that is precisely what happened: they were caught off guard.
Because nothing like this had ever hit them before. The JSS was
called the 'union' of the ruling party, but it behaved like a
lumpen army with a mission to destroy the trade union movement.
Not just Tamil workers but all workers and union organisers -
including Sarath himself - were targeted. Strikers and pickets
were brutally assaulted, workers and employees beaten up and compelled
to join the new 'union'. Iron rods, chains and bottles were used;
many of the victims had to be hospitalised. There were even occasions
when he found himself on the same side as management, who found
themselves at the receiving end of the same violence when they
tried to insist on order in the workplace.
The most ominous feature of all this was the role of the police.
Completely ignoring his pleas that the workers were merely engaged
in peaceful, legal trade union activity, at best they looked the
other way while arms and legs and heads were broken, at worst
they joined in the attacks, or - the ultimate irony - arrested
the victims while allowing the assailants to go free. It was as
if all the laws had been turned upside down: whatever had been
legal before was now viciously crushed, while activities which
would have been criminal before were now encouraged by the police,
and the perpetrators had complete impunity. Sarath had to admit
that his father and Uncle Bala and Paul were right: this was something
new, nothing quite like it had happened before. Who were these
people who had power even over employers, who couldn't be dismissed,
and who could, on the contrary, insist on the dismissal of employees
who refused to join them? How could the union cope with them?
Sarath found himself telling workers desperate to keep their jobs,
'Join them, register with them, pay subs to them if you have to.
But please keep in touch with us. We mustn't let our union die,
even if we can't function openly.'
So they kept their union alive, but each day was a struggle for
survival. Other unions confronted the same problem, and in the
face of the threat of annihilation, all of them came together
to fight this powerful enemy, which, they discovered, was nothing
less than an arm of the government. But even together, they failed
to evolve an effective strategy against the JSS. What could they
do? Train workers in physical combat so that they could fight
off the attacks? Go on strike? That would mean risking dismissal
and arrest, since the gangsters had the state on their side. A
few bravely defied the thugs, saying, 'No one's going to tell
us which union we should belong to!' and paid a heavy price for
their courage. Others, like Sarath, used a combination of non-violent
resistance and clandestinity to keep their organisations in existence.
'But how long can we carry on like this?' asked Sarath in desperation,
sitting with Shameem, Paul, Leelawathie and Agnes one evening.
'Five years? Till the next election? That's impossible! The situation
has to improve before then!'
The despondent faces around the table gave him no comfort. And
Paul's soft, almost inaudible response fell on his eardrums like
the sound of doom: 'I have a terrible feeling things are going
to get worse, not better.'
___________________________________
Rohini Hensman is a writer and researcher active
in the trade union, women's liberation and human rights movements.
Playing Lions and Tigers follows the inter-twined
lives of fourteen characters from different parts of Sri Lanka,
different ethnic and religious communities, different social backgrounds
and different generations, as they confront the dilemmas of post-independence
Sri Lanka. These can be read as connected short stories or as
a modern epic of a developing country struggling wih ethnic and
religious conflicts against a background of poverty and underdevelopment.
HOME
