The real question is whether Anura’s words carry any meaning. Can he truly build a nation, or is he just another empty vessel, surrounded by vacuous sycophants awaiting their turn to feast?
by Mathalee
Our politics is reminiscent of Slavoj Žižek’s parable of red ink. Žižek recounts an old joke from the German Democratic Republic: a worker is sent to Siberia and, knowing his letters will be censored, tells his friends, “Let’s devise a code: I will write in blue ink for truth, and if you see red ink, you’ll know it’s all lies.” A month later, a letter arrives in blue ink: “Everything here is magnificent. Shops are full, food is abundant, apartments are spacious and warm, theatres show Western films, and romance blooms with beautiful women. The only thing missing here is red ink.”
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| Anura Dissanayake addressing the crowd with conviction, a leader's stance from behind as the masses listen attentively. |
Much like that blue-ink letter, those of us who have tasted the bitterness of Sri Lankan politics revel in a peculiar joy. We believe we are key players in this grand charade; we pen our opinions on Facebook and shout into the void like heroes of a war only we perceive. Yet the true game is orchestrated by hands unseen, forces that occasionally send ripples through the water. And as we swim in these waves, we lose sight of the truth. We forget, and once forgotten, we become easy prey.
Gone are the days when books were burned to erase ideas. Today, freedom flows freely—anyone can speak, write, and dance to whatever madness they choose. The more outrageous the better, for even the spectre of censorship would bring Julie Chan to tweet about Sri Lanka’s alleged crackdown on free speech. With such boundless “freedom” comes a blissful sleep, and we—sleeping soundly—believe this slumber is the epitome of liberty. In truth, it is the shrewdest form of control. Over time, we forget who we are. Conversations degrade into petty insults; the only exchange of value is empty boasting.
The manifesto of the National People’s Power, grandiosely titled “Rich Nation, Beautiful Life,” was unveiled recently. A rich text indeed—rich in intellectual theft, its graphics brazenly plagiarised, portraits stolen, intellectual property pillaged. White foreigners and Indians grace the pages that supposedly celebrate Sri Lanka’s people. Harini, a scholar who ought to know better, silently oversees this crude, primitive act, while a chorus of other intellectuals—falsely pure—look the other way. When the thieves are already known, does it surprise us when even the “righteous” show themselves to be masqueraders?
Yet this manifesto, like all others, demands constructive debate, though one might expect some constructive dialogue. It reads like a laundry list of variables affecting foreign policy—geography, history, population, ideology, and so on—but it’s ideology that intrigues me. We weave words to cover our emptiness, but have we ever understood the meaning of any of them?
Anura himself is a subject of much conversation, a figure both revered and ridiculed. His life, paraded before society as a lesson in hypocrisy, has not escaped the watchful eyes of Sinhalese cultural warriors. “If he’s to lead this country, we have the right to know everything about him,” one proclaimed in a WhatsApp group, triggering nods of approval from men who, overnight, seem to have become paragons of familial virtue. How amusing it is, this sudden purity of soul. But, let’s be honest, the personal lives of politicians are cesspits, and nothing resembling sainthood will emerge from the JVP office in Pelawatte.
The real question is whether Anura’s words carry any meaning. Can he truly build a nation, or is he just another empty vessel, surrounded by vacuous sycophants awaiting their turn to feast? Are his followers genuine agents of change, or are they the privileged few who fled to the West and now return to play at revolution? The real issues are buried under the weight of rhetoric and empty promises.
What, pray tell, is the political ideology of the National People’s Power? After all these years, has Anura articulated anything remotely resembling an ideology? His so-called intellectual followers certainly haven’t. Anura may have studied, but does he even enjoy reading? Without a clear ideology, political movements are like soap bubbles—beautiful for a moment but destined to burst in spectacularly dangerous ways. And when they do, the collateral damage will be immeasurable.
So, I ask, in the grand “Rich Nation, Beautiful Life” manifesto, where is the ideology? What do these hollow words mean, if anything at all? I eagerly await a response, though I suspect none will come.
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