[On Sri Lanka Part II: Where Cattle Graze Rubble]

18/06/09 Anuradhpura Hotel Room – 21:35

I think, finally, it has sunk in, in this precious moment of quietude. I need to get an early night but my mind won’t rest easy. It hasn’t escaped me that Anuradhapura is the farthest North I have ever been in Sri Lanka. As a child I would travel up here with my family to see the ancient ruins and monuments of myth. Tomorrow though, we all will be going further, much further. We had gotten clearance and in the morning a ‘Major Kumara’, who has been assigned to be our military escort, will arrive to take us to Vavuniya. Heidi, whom I cling to for escapism in these times of impending reality, is alerted to my nervousness. ’Don’t worry’ she says, ‘it’ll be adventure’. I smile, Heidi has a way of capturing the absurdity of the situation. It’ll be adventure alright. I just hope I don’t leave the lens cap on.

Major Kumara

As restless night begat an overcast morning, I sat at the hotel doorway deep in thought. Brigadier Udaya Nanayakkara had informed me that a ‘Major Kumara’ would be accompanying us on our journey. To keep us from straying from the beaten path, for safety as well as inconvinience I’d expect. When he finally called he spoke in Sinhalese, I spoke back in English. It was a habit of mine that I had grown accustomed from living in London all my life. I couldn’t speak a word of Sinhalese but could understand it just fine. This threw off the Major, ‘I’m…outside in the… the…hotel.’ He said in broken patois. I went out to meet him. He was a tall, bulky man with a centre-parting that he kept adjusting gingerly. He had a scar on his left cheek, from a bullet wound we later found out, and shrapnel in his knee that induced a noticeable limp. He was disgruntled from his long trip from Colombo so he gave me a brisk handshake and proceeded into my hotel room for a quick shower. We waited. Half an hour later and we made a move. It was apparent from the outset that we were on his time not ours.

You see, Major Kumara was supposed to be have the weekend off. He was called on short notice just for us amateurs. I got to know this only because of the fact that he would speak freely to Chandana our driver believing that I, feigning ignorance of my mother tongue, didn’t understand a word of what he had said. I did, and it was obvious he didn’t want to be there. We were all convinced that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity however, and even if it meant being a pain in the ass for Major Kumara we were going to make the most of it.

The road to Vavuniya goes through a major checkpoint at Medavachchiya. This was near the old de-facto border crossing between the LTTE held territory and the South. We saw streams of people being herded through long checkpoints. Bags were checked and people frisked. Working men and women, I gathered, mostly going Southward. It seemed like a massive operation, a border checkpoint between two zones, one civilian the other military. This was the gateway to the North and once on the other side there was no looking back. This was the dark side of the island that had been shrouded under the flag of the LTTE. Few foreigners had been past this point and it dawned on me that whatever we’d see from now on in, not many have had the chance to see before us. This was it, I remember thinking, this was our one and only shot to get it right. I wasn’t going to miss a single second so I switched my camera on and pressed record. I had no intention of switching off until Chalai. I looked down at my viewfinder. Blank. The lens cap was on. I smiled and made sure the others didn’t see. I took the lens cap off and threw it out the window. Amateur hour, I thought, was most definitely over.

The Road To Vavuniya

As we headed north it felt like the road was crumbling away beneath us. We all would sit silently as we watched the country pass by out the window. It seemed as if the beauty of the country, its colour and life was being drained from it the further north we went. The lush greens of the paddies and rice fields gradually faded into mud brown patch works of waterless prairies. The trees became gaunt, the land featureless and flat. There appeared either side of us abandoned cattle, their faces sunken and bodies withered. They had wandered down from wherever we were headed and soon the skeletal cattle gave way to the gutted ruins of farms, homes and schools.

We stopped at one such village. Most buildings there were simply the single wall ruins of shops, market stalls and houses. These were poor homes, for poor people. Bullet riddled cars and lorries, doors ajar exactly how they were left when abandoned. Lives had been lived here. It was a surreal moment for me and for the others. Looking over the carnage it was hard to imagine what had preceded us. We came across a primary school which we entered. We walked among piles of books on the floor, filing cabinets smashed and tables and chairs thrown across the place. I picked up a damp book with the words ‘Year 9’ written on the cover. I opened it. There were children’s names written down one side and columns down the other with ticks or crosses in boxes. It was a roll call register. I walked over to the black board where the last class to be held I saw was mathematics. I took my finger and smudged a number ‘4’ on the chalk board and immediately felt bad for doing so. It felt like sacrilege. I was in a ghost town surrounded by ghostly possessions. I instinctively brushed the chalk from my finger tip and headed back to the van. It would prepare me for what would come.

Menik Farm

Our first stop would be Menik Farm. An IDP camp that housed most of the people displaced from the recent fighting. The single most contentious issue in this war has been the amount of civilian casualties and the fate of the surviving homeless. I made sure I had my facts and figures written in my notebook on arrival. There are over 400, 000 displaced people in Sri Lanka. Just under 300,000 of them held in Vavuniya. Thats a bigger population that Bradford crowded together into a smaller area than most townships in England. Around 140,000 people were already in IDP camps before the massive influx of the North Eastern Tamil civilians in May. The night before I had carefully recorded all this information, the idea was that I would be prepared for the big day, professional so to speak. Like a proper journalist. I would be reporting from an IDP camp in Sri Lanka, it would be a baptism of fire so I had better be ready. It was almost immediately that I realized how ridiculous I was being. No amount of preparation would ready me for this.

19/06/09 – Menik Farm 8:30 am

The sand is red, dry and unkind. We are waiting for the Major to allow us to get out. Looking through the tinted windows we see this place is devoid of emotion. Look at the faces. I think about the lives here. What were they? Doctors? Teachers? What kind of identity do they have now? What  is it to be an IDP? What camera could possibly hope to capture this kind of reality? Jesus, where’s my notebook…

We were asked what we wanted to see and I said I wanted to see how these people lived. I wanted to see if conditions were good enough and ask them how they felt. We were given the seasoned tour – IDP’s were running their own shops, buying and selling basic amenities to each other. There was a bank, a post office and schools for children aged 6-18. There was even a ‘cultural centre’ where some sort of play was being held, people were applauding and getting involved. There was a vocational training centre for young men who wanted to learn carpentry and engineering could do so under the watchful eye of a soldier. There was even a computer centre where there were about 10 computers for about 16 students. If there was an internet connection I wasn’t sure. But they seemed pretty happy with it. ‘I would never have had the opportunity to work on a computer if I hadn’t come here.’ One student said to me. I don’t know if it was my own skepticism but all this seemed to me to be slightly cosmetic. There did seem to be genuine push to provide a certain standard of living to these people. But for what purpose? Was it to simply distract these people from their situation or to provide them with an education that they could employ after they got out. We asked a group of young men to speak to us. They looked at us and our cameras, then they looked over at Major Kumara. They declined. Some would push others in front, as if children who were camera shy. But there was something about the way they declined, it wasn’t as innocent as camera shyness – it was fear. A fear of what? There seemed to be a climate of wariness wherever we went as if stray words would harm as much as stray bullets.

Those who did speak, spoke openly of the opportunities they had and about how much they were enjoying working and living here, at times though it seemed they were speaking to the Major, not to me or the camera. But this enthusiasm exposed a greater disparity. In the carpentry mill I asked a young man sanding wood what he was making. ‘I’m just training. Not making anything.’ He said. At the computer centre I asked a teenager if he intended to further his computer skills at university. He laughed, ‘I can’t go to university, I’m here.’ I stopped myself from asking him what the point was then. Speaking to Heidi later, she suggested that these places might have been built for the benefit of the government not the people. Implying that they had provided shiny new things like computers and sewing machines to serve no other purpose than to distract international observers from the destitution that surrounded them. The novelty of these vocational training courses was hard to ignore. Why provide buildings of concrete for people who live in temporary tin-housing?

Water was an obvious issue here. There was running water but we saw up to 50 people surrounding a single pump. At another well, there was simply a long line of buckets and a single woman filling them as a small child carried each full one away. The logistical task of housing, feeding and medically treating over 300,000 people is enormous and our escorts made it clear that they believed they were doing the best they could under the circumstances. When asked they made a point that they might not be able to access water quickly, but they at least had access to water. No-one would die of thirst here, they ensured. However providing medical treatment, they said, was the biggest concern.

Major Kumara led me into a medical facility. We asked the patients to step aside for me and I went in with the camera. It was dark, and cramped. There were people with all kinds of ailments sitting and standing around two tables where doctors were doing their best to administer aid. There was no privacy here, people would be telling the doctor of their dysentery amid a crowd of people waiting for their turn. I walked in, my eyes fixed on my viewfinder. The faces looked into the lens, sad faces. This is good I thought. There was an old man with his jaw bandaged up. I zoomed in. ‘Excuse me! Hello?’ came a call from behind me. It was a doctor. ‘Can I help you?’ Major Kumara told him I wasn’t press, I was just a student. He looked at me. ‘I don’t care who you are, don’t you have the decency to introduce yourself when you come in here? This is a hospital.’ Major Kumara spoke to him in Sinhala, I interrupted, ‘I’m sorry I was under the impression…’ He shook his head and carried on examining a small child his wound. It was then that my hand wavered for the first time. I felt guilty and lowered my camera. I looked around and looked at the people I had been filming. The old man, the sad faces. They weren’t looking at my lens they were looking at the doctor, clutching their arms and heads in wretchedness. God, what was I doing? I left with my head low, and my camera switched off.

Heidi and Phil had wandered off before then and we met back up as I left the medical unit. They asked if I had gotten anything good. I said yeah, really good stuff. Heidi noticed me distracted, ‘What’s up?’ She asked, ‘Nothing’ I replied, ‘what else do we need?’ I usually relied on her memory as mine was never any good. She mentioned to me that I wanted to see a house but she had reservations about doing so. She didn’t think it proper. Major Kumara led us to a small home near the entrance to the camp. It had a thatched roof and corrugated walls. He informed the occupants that we wanted to film inside, the old man ushered his children and wife out of the way. I reluctantly stepped in, Heidi stayed outside. The words of the doctor were ringing in my ear. ‘Have you no decency’ he had said. I walked past the old man into his house, filmed his children, filmed his home. ‘Have you no decency’ again I heard the words in my mind. I filmed the old mans kettle, his breeze-block stove. ‘Have you no decency’. There was one room, separated by a shelf of powdered milk and food wrapped in newspaper. I filmed his linen and I filmed his babies cot. ‘Have you no decency.’ I filmed his bed and I filmed his chamber pot. ‘Have you no decency’. Every shot was an intrusion, and every second of film felt like theft. I heard the clicks of Phil’s camera go behind me as I went about filming the rest of this man’s meagre possessions. This was a dwelling not a home, but this was a man and not an animal. As we left I made sure to shake the old man by the hand and said thank you in a way that he would understand beyond language. I said it with my eyes to his, so he’d know how grateful I was that he’d let me into his home. He said ‘thank you.’ There was also fear here too, but this fear was of us.

I tried to do a piece to camera from outside the old man’s house but the words couldn’t come. I tried to play the journalist but I was failing at the first hurdle. How could you remain impartial to all of this? How do you remain detached? It belies decency, the doctor was right. Would it have made a difference if I had asked permission to film his patients? Would it have been better for us to have asked the old man if we could enter his home and film his family instead of simply telling him that we were? No. This is no business of mine unless I had a degree in medicine or law, I remember thinking, unless I could serve a greater need.

A Genuine Purpose

19/06/09 Menik Farm – 9:52 am

These people are in desperate need, but they are not animals to be poked and stared at. Nor are they objects of empty sympathy for the eyes and lenses of the world media searching for a ‘human angle’.  That notion, has become absolutely redundant for me now.

Allow me to be brutally honest. When I came here, I saw simply an opportunity. For myself and for this documentary. The first thing they teach you in journalism school is the ability to detach yourself from the story. A journalist is an observer, a witness driven by a higher purpose. I also had a camera and I knew what ‘good footage’ meant back home. Emotion was what sold. Poverty and destitution was currency in a field like mine. This is the truth. Images that made an impact; barbed wire fences and malnourished children, the so-called ‘human angle’. I had approached this camp in the same vein as any other journalist would. It was a story to be gotten, something that would help me as a means to my own end. I felt I had good intentions.  I thought whatever I would film and see would someday find itself in front of people who could perhaps make a difference to the lives here. But here is the harsher truth: when coming to a place like this, looking into the eyes of these people and questioning them, sticking a camera in their faces – in pursuit of this ‘human angle’ you lose a bit of your own humanity.

Despite this inner uncertainty I filmed anyway. I knew no other way. Yes, there were barbed wire fences, yes there were a lot of children in desperately dirty clothes and litter strewn everywhere. Yes indeed, there was abject poverty. Opportunity was ripe for potent pictures. But I had been taught a lesson by now and had a responsibility. I could have crouched behind barbed wire and made the children look like cattle. Or grabbed a shot of a crying baby and made it looks as if it were hungry. I know what power images like that are worth back home. But it would have been dishonest and would not have served any purpose except provide spectacle for gawking masses back home. I refused to take part in any of that.

Undeniably, there had been progress in terms of sanitation and health care here. But just as legitimate were the concerns about how long these people would stay in these camps. Functioning villages they might have been but the invalidity of artificial constructs as a means to foster a community were stark. Heidi, Phil and I were under no illusions either. We knew that what we had seen had been the most developed part of the camp. The tourist section. It was fraction of a much bigger picture and whatever success stories here were mere pin-pricks of light surrounded by darkness. We only saw about a thousand people in this village, what of the rest of the 300,000?

We were hurried out of the camp by Major Kumara who was eager to move us along. That irked us slightly as we wanted to explore further and perhaps talk to more people. He informed me that Brigadier Prasanna De Silva had been in touch and that he was waiting for us up in Chalai. Frustrated, we got back in our van and left un-satisfied but knowing we had what we wanted. I immediately wanted to see what Phil had captured on his SLR. He had taken lots of pictures of the children. I remembered noticing the children who were around us the whole time. To draw smiles from them, Phil would take a picture and show them their goofy expressions. They posed and made faces and followed us around wherever we went. Just like they would anywhere else in the world, I remember thinking at the time. I had watched as they all gathered around Phil’s knees, tugging and nagging him to take more pictures. They had held Heidi’s hand as she was trying to steady a shot for my interviews. We had laughed as they arranged themselves in a row as Phil would take their final picture. There was joy here in this camp but only among the children who knew nothing of human rights and liberty. All they knew was that the tall Englishman had a new toy and it fascinated them. That was the only honest thing I had captured from Menik Farm. I had almost lost any semblance of journalistic integrity, but by then I didn’t feel journalistic integrity was worth all that much. I had my humility and that was enough.

It would be a four hour journey to Chalai, along the way the patch-work prairies gave way to more rubble and devastation. The dark side was getting darker, the roads more deteriorated. I looked around to the others who were watching the world fly by, silently in thought. I felt a vibration in my pocket. It was the Brigadier. He was in Chalai and was indeed waiting for us to arrive. ‘How were the camps?’ He asked. ‘It was quite an experience.’ I said. ‘Mmm, I’m sure. But believe me Guy,’ He said, ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’

He was right.

Next: [On Sri Lanka Part III: The Heart Of Darkness]

[On Sri Lanka Part I: Our Anandian Machang]

Colombo – 12/06/2009 – 7:30 am – Omega Inn Cafe

I glare up at the timid fan limply rotating above me with contempt. I’m sat by the window, sweating, the morning sun already beating the back of my neck into lazy submission. Dusty buses careen past outside blowing clouds of filth into my face. The fan limps on, mocking. There’s a futility to it all. I’m waiting for breakfast to arrive – string-hoppers and dhal – 250 rupees from the cafe under my hotel. I’m in a bad mood and things don’t feel like they are going to come good any time soon.

Little did I know that the man I was about to meet would give me and my crew unprecedented access to the final battleground in Sri Lanka’s Civil War.

Post-War Hangover

We arrived a week after the President had publicly declared an end to the 30 year war. The conflict had reached its bitter conclusion between the separatist LTTE and the Sri Lankan Army. Prabhakaran – the LTTE leader was dead, his cadres decimated. There had been jubilant crowds in the streets, an army parade at the beach and for a week the city celebrated. It felt like the day after a long awaited monsoon, Sri Lankan flags were scattered about the roads like puddles of relief from the week before. For the first time in a long time the country was whole again and they had their fearless leader President Rajapakse and his brother Defence Secretary Gothabaya Rajapakse to thank. They had crushed the LTTE and liberated an island drenched with blood. Terrorism had been defeated militarily for the first time in history. And now, finally, the nation had a chance to rebuild, refocus and reform. This was the story as told from the inside.

But, crucially, the cost of this ‘peace’ had amassed international attention. In the final days of the conflict the death toll was estimated from between 10,000 to 25,000. 300,000 civilians were displaced and were being held in IDP camps, civil liberties and human rights had come under the spotlight amidst disturbing reports of abductions and disappearances. I came to capture the moment. But after a week in the country the overriding question became not whether the defeat of terrorism could be justified given the costs, it was why no-one seemed to care now that it was over. Those questions had no place in post-war Sri Lanka. The nation was in no mood to return to the harsh realities of the means, what was important is that there was an end. The war was at an end. Sri Lanka had spent the last 30 years looking back and had been shackled to the violence of its past. Both economically, socially and politically, the country and its government had always acted within the brackets of a state of emergency. The threat of terrorism and instability had retarded the potential development of the country for a generation, so, came the answer to my questions – why not look forward for a change?

And who was I to come pointing fingers? Me, some young upstart from the diaspora. Couldn’t speak a word of Sinhala, was born, educated and lived a life separate and foreign, far from the constant threat of violence so ingrained in the livelihoods of these ‘real’ Sri Lankans.  Hell, I wasn’t even a’ real’ journalist, in fact I hadn’t even graduated yet and here I was playing intrepid reporter with a moleskin in one hand and a borrowed DV camcorder in the other. Who, then, was I to question whether it was all worth it?

Paradise, they said, had been found – no-one wanted to talk about how they got there.

Loaded Words

It’s a strange paradigm shift. When the media focussed its lenses at Sri Lanka it was perturbed by the lack of access granted to their journalists. No foreign media was allowed to cover this war. A war without witness it was called. The state of press freedom of the country’s own independent media lent an increasingly disturbing angle to the situation. There had been reports of the kidnapping and killing of journalists – most notably the assassination of Lasantha Wickremetunge, editor of The Sunday Leader a paper who had openly criticised the government during wartime – a crime of sedition and treachery in the eyes of the propaganda savvy government.

Over in London, this was the story that made waves. Journalists themselves became the story and the point of contention was why the government had not allowed access to the front lines. The BBC and Channel 4 news teams had been accused of ‘bringing the country into disrepute’ and back came allegations of war crimes and excessive force by the army. If the government propaganda machine had been working full tilt on winning the hearts and minds of its own people, and indeed having succeeded in gaining their enthusiastic support for the war, they were desperately losing the media battle abroad – particularly in the U.K.  Even, they said, Rwanda had let in journalists at the height of the conflict. Why not here? What had they to hide?  In London we heard words like genocide and ethnic cleansing. The deplorable state of the IDP camps were criticized by Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International. Sri Lanka had become one of ‘those’ stories and we had arrived in the wake of that storm.

Machang Level

We were three. My producer and camera-woman Heidi Lindvall who would organize my life for these three weeks together with my photographer friend Philip Panchenko who had flown over mid-way through a meandering sojourn through South East Asia. It soon became evident that a beautiful blonde haired, blue eyed Scandinavian and a six-foot tall white guy with a winning smile went a long way in balancing out the curious appearance as a brown man with wires sticking out of his bag. Security checkpoints were unavoidable travelling through the city. Some, we heard, were fitted with playback equipment to check the content of DV tapes by the road. We had better be careful. Even if I did use Heidi and Phil as my very own human shields, one slip up and we’d be busted. We were all intensely aware that we were supremely under qualified to be there.

A week in and we were getting nowhere fast. There were only two weeks left to get something of substance from this trip, at least something to justify the ticket prices. In desperation we had talked to a young blogger for advice. Indi.ca – the nom de-web of the founder of Sri Lanka’s most popular blog aggregation site ‘Kottu’ – was one such sage. He was amused at our whining about how no-one got back to our e-mails and messages. ‘Dude,’ Indi told me, ‘This is Sri Lanka. You have to do it on a machang level‘.

What pray tell, was ‘machang level’?

Machang Level as it turns out is a mode of communication whereby one utilizes networks of influence in order to get what one wants. The rule is simple; in Sri Lanka unless you already have influence, whatever you want done won’t be done in a hurry. The trick then is to get someone who has influence to ask what you want for you – preferably someone who is on first name basis with whoever it is that can give you what you want – Machang Level. ‘Machang’ in Sinhala means ‘buddy’.

I was instructed to figure out the quickest ‘path to influence’ to get what I want from whoever I want via my degrees of separation.  The goal was to get someone from the government to speak to us and maybe, maybe even give us permission to film in the country. It was a tall order, apparently the only one who had that kind of authority was the Ministry of Defence. And the man who had to sign for permission was none other than the Secretary of Defence Gothabaya Rajapakse – the brother of the President himself.

The Anandian

That night in my hotel room I ploughed my mind for anyone who could be of any use. I called uncles and aunts who might know someone, somewhere who might work for the government – but to no avail. I was searching for anything that would help, any thread. Then I remembered something. A few weeks back I was sent an e-mail that said that a high percentage of those in the government and the army were alma-maters and all went to the same high-school – Ananda College. I wonder if I knew anyone who went to school with these Anandian war heroes? That kind of thing greases many a wheel here in Sri Lanka. I only had one uncle who was an Anandian – Uncle Dave – the rest were all staunch Royalists (Royal College). I had to find me an Anandian of influence through Uncle Dave. I called him. No luck, the only other Anandian he had kept in touch with was a guy named Anil who ran the hotel we were staying in. Anil was a long shot, a weak one but it was our only shot. I met him down in the lobby of our hotel dressed in Hawaiian shorts ready to go to the beach. By that point we had all but given up and had planned to reach the beaches and the tourist sites for pretty pictures and some sun. Anil told me he knew an ‘army guy’ who he was good friends with and that we might be able to speak to him if he was in town. Fair enough, I thought, and off we went to get some sun.

Colombo – 12/06/2009 – 8:20 am – Omega Inn Cafe

My breakfast arrived an hour late. They’re playing a Kanye West music video on the TV. It plugs me back into a life less humid. They forgot my knife and fork again. Nevermind, do like the natives – eat with my hands – tastier that way anyway.

“Mr Guy!” Comes a call – its the smiley lady from the reception desk. I look up from my dhal. “The Brigadier is here” Brigadier? What Brigadier? Wait. The army guy’s a Brigadier?

It was two days later and Anil had come good on his word. As I had just began my long awaited breakfast I was summoned to the 2nd floor to meet the mysterious ‘army guy’. It turns out this ‘army guy’ was Brigadier Prasanna De Silva. He was the Brigade commander of the 55th Division of the Sri Lankan Army (SLA). He was the one that had lead the march from the Elephant pass in the north to Chalai, he was the one that was on the front line when the human shields, the Tamil civilians had spilled from the LTTE lines to the armies side, he was the one that had helped push the LTTE into the tiny strip of land of Mullaitivu. And he’s the guy I was sitting in front of in a darkened room on the 2nd floor of the hotel. It was odd, he was tense, more nervous than I was. He was curt with the others, told them not to set up anything and that he would give us some advice but that was it. He asked me what it was I wanted, I told him I intended to address the conceptions of the armies excessiveness regarding civilians casualties. I wanted, I told him, to address the concerns the diaspora had of the conflict. The diaspora, I said, who were so cut off from what was really happening here. That peaked an interest. He said that most people are quite open to youngsters like me coming from over there wanting to change opinion. He gave me his card and said he’d see what he could do. We didn’t even get him on camera. I was dissapointed, but not for long.

Colombo Swimming Club

Brigadier Prasanna called me a few days after that and gave me a number to call. He had looked into it. He told me what I had already known; that to film, we needed a permit and a permit could only be sought from the highest offices. The number he gave me was for one of those offices however, the mobile number of Brigadier Udaya Nanayakkara. Military Spokesperson and Media Director of the SLA. So we were granted an audience with the man who could answer every question I had. Perfect. I called straight away to set up an interview. He asked me to meet him at his swimming club. Strange, I thought, must be Prasanna’s influence that has him willing to meet me on his day off.

The next day we caught a tri-shaw to the Colombo Swimming Club expecting to meet the man  in his civvies, when we arrived however, we were quickly ushered through a side entrance at the gate. Our passports were taken and we were given three media passes and taken to a lobby. We sat with a large picture of The President and his brother centred above a huge Sri Lankan flag. This was no ’swimming club’, I thought, what we had entered as it turned out was the Media Headquarters of the Sri Lankan government – the ‘Colombo Swimming Club’ though it existed, was but a clever front.

Brigadier Udaya Nanayakkara was a tall, well spoken man. He had a way of talking into my chest and not my eyes, something that only made me more aware of the stain on my un-ironed shirt. I told him about my intentions and what I hoped for the documentary. What struck me foremost was that he was a good listener, so I made sure I had something to say. I said my piece and sat back hoping he’d acquiesce to an interview. What he said next perhaps details the effectiveness of Machang Level communication. ‘Are you related to Prasanna?’ He asked. ‘No sir, he is a friend of a friend of my uncle.’ I replied. He smiled, the door was unlocked. ‘Yes, Good. Write that in the letter to the M.O.D asking for clearance. Write all that stuff about the diaspora. Do you want to visit a camp?’ My eyes lit up. ‘And IDP camp?’ I ventured. ‘Yes. And talk to some I.D.P’ers?’ He was looking at my eyes by this point. ‘Um. That would be unbelievable.’ It was, I didn’t believe him. ‘How long do you need to get what you want?’ I looked at Heidi, she looked back just as stunned. ‘How about  a week?’ I figured I’d go for gold. He gave me an apologetic look that said silly boy, ‘That’s a bit too long. I’ll give you three days to get everything over this weekend.’ My hand gripped my chair for I was afraid that my excitement would propel me across the table and kiss Udaya on the forehead. ‘Oh good.’ I squeaked. He cautioned that I still had to e-mail the M.O.D for clearance and if they said no then that would be it, that was the business of a higher authority than his. Having the backing of Prasanna De Silva, however might swing it our way, so he again suggested I write about my relationship to him, however weak it was. He gave me the e-mail for the M.O.D and told me to address it to Defence Secretary Gothabaya Rajapakse.

The Letter To The President’s Brother

Colombo 16/06/09  16:30PM – Hotel Room

I am to write a letter to the Presidents brother. ‘A masterpiece in ass-kissing brilliance’ is Phil’s estimation. But I intend to write the truth. Though it has become evident that there are multiple levels of truth in Sri Lanka. Our own reality looking in from the diaspora, that of the people of Sri Lanka who have been bombarded by government propaganda and the reality of the ground in the North. Gothabaya will have his own reality too. Therefore the aim of this letter will have to match his reality or we will no doubt receive a rejection reply in no time. I wish Prasanna was my uncle, would be so much easier…

I didn’t lie. I said that I wanted to re-balance the perceptions of the western media upon the war in Sri Lanka. That wasn’t a lie. I simply wanted to offer a fuller picture. In any case I pressed ’send’ knowing full well that the chances of a student journo being granted permission to go anywhere near an IDP camp was slim to none.

In any case you had to marvel at the power of Machang Level communication. So far, my ‘path to influence’ had gone like this; I called my Uncle who gave me Anil who gave me Brigadier De Silva who gave me Brigadier Udaya Nanayakkarra who gave me the M.O.D which gives me the brother of the President of Sri Lanka. And all done because my Uncle knew the guy who ran our hotel. Sweet. If nothing else I could say I wrote Gothabaya.

I informed both Brigadiers that I had sent the request and the next day Heidi, Phil and I set off to climb Sigiriya Rock, an ancient fortress atop a mountain in the Hill-country region of Sri Lanka. It was a four hour ride through winding narrow roads to get there but none of us cared. We were getting out of Colombo and on the other side were beautiful green fields of tea and rainforest hills. The climb up Sigiriya rock took two hours, past ancient murals and stone carvings. I caught solace at the top of the mount looking out on nothing but serenity.

I felt my pocket – A vibration. My phone, I felt, was ringing – it was Brigadier Prasanna De Silva. He spoke, excited and congratulated me on reaching the top of the rock. ‘Yeah thanks’ I said, ‘I’ve done it before.’ He paused and then told me the news. I had gotten clearance and I was allocated the 19th to the 21st of June to visit Vavuniya. I could go to an IDP camp and talk to a few people there and if I would like come up to Chalai and visit him there. ‘If I would like to come to Chalai?’ Chalai was near Mullaitivu, the final battleground of the LTTE resistance. Chalai was where the last bullet was fired and the last soldier fell. It’s where Prabharkaran was killed and where the 30 years of bloody war had ended. I knew full well no-one bar soldiers had been up there. We would be the first civilians to have travelled that far north and the first foreigners to feel the sands of Chalai beach under our feet.

His final words were ‘You know some Minister had requested a visit here earlier in the week. He was refused entry. But you got in! Hah! Well done buddy!’

I suddenly felt a very real sense of vertigo.

“

Next: [The Dark Side Of Paradise Part II: Where Cattle Graze Rubble

[On Peace Journalism: Smashing The Mirror]

The camera spins off-kilter. It points up and jaggedly zooms out as we see the bigger picture. A mass of dust, a cloud of debris surging on devouring a building, a lamp post and a car, ceaselessly moving toward us. The camera now jolts, crouching behind a car zooming out still further as the dust cloud bears down all around us. It is September 11th and for most reporters on that day ‘zooming out and getting the big picture’ extended only as far as the day itself. September 11th was the biggest picture, and every day after it was the story.

Two years shy of a decade on and journalists find themselves purveying over events since. The subsequent wars and the incalculable ruptures in global security have prompted us to begin to pull at threads, to ask difficult questions of our own responsibilities as ‘witnesses of histories’. Couldn’t we have done something during the wake of 9/11 to perhaps temper all the madness? Did we choose, in the end, to comply with the inevitability of a darker narrative?  The disturbing truth can be found in the questions that were asked and those that were not: ‘Who?’ Muslim Terrorists; ‘How?’ Hijacked Planes; ‘Where?’ Afghanistan. With the nature of footage satisfying the news value the immediate facts were all that were reported. The pursuit of truth may be a lofty term to describe the nature of journalism, but as we’ve seen since, if the pursuit of truth is the aggregation of detachment, of statistic and uninvolved newsmen asking, ‘how high are the flames?’ by the time the fallout or ‘the story’ had bled into Iraq and 7/7 it was hopelessly too late to ask ‘Why?’.

It was the framing of the line of questioning following 9/11 that proved too narrow. A claim made by Jake Lynch and Annabel McGoldrick, the current evangelists of the so-called Peace Journalism model and whose book ‘Peace Journalism’ consists of practical guidelines that seek to provide a genuine alternative to ‘war reporting’. Ethically informed reporting tuned toward gaining an understanding of the context of the conflict, the book argues, might have helped in avoiding unnecessary wars. The charge then is that this lack of context might have fuelled the lead up to the Iraq war when it could have helped prevent it. Lynch and McGoldrick recognises the catalytic nature of media upon conflict. They suggest that traditional war reporting presents a frame that is focused on the immediate, is invariably elite orientated and supports a dichotomy of good versus evil. Logically then, according to the model presented by Lynch and McGoldrick, journalism could be used to perhaps help settle disputes and foster peace by in turn framing a conflict in terms of non-partisanship, multi-party orientation and an avoidance of demonizing language.

This is a sizable estimation of the influence media has upon foreign policy but it is an idea that should not be dismissed as an over-estimation. Lynch himself concedes that news cannot itself tell people what to think, though it can be most effective in directing attention. In other words, the news media can tell people what to think about. Lynch borrows the phrase ‘cultural conditioning’ for this and maintains that Peace Journalism raises ‘unexpected questions’ by cutting across many narratives whereas ‘War Journalism only reiterates what we already think of as answers.’ Tim Weaver however, in a 1997 Crosslines article, warned of a number of dangers with journalists using their profession as a means for, what he sees as, political activism:

‘If this is accepted, then it means that facts may be set aside if they do not confirm the greater truth. But truth is a matter of perception until the facts are marshalled to support it. Ignoring or bypassing facts distorts the truth.’

Those disapproving of Peace Journalism argue that the higher cause should be the essence of the reporting itself – that is to report. Anything interfering with the old-fashioned sense of professionalism would undermine the reporter’s independence and thus their credibility as a trusted source of information.  The confusion lies, I believe, partly in the name. Lynch again himself concedes that ‘Peace Journalism’ was termed as to court controversy. The practical aim of the model is simply ensure that non-violent responses to conflict will be ‘given a fair hearing’ and not, as Weaver suggests, to ‘advocate peace’. The point therefore would be not to adopt a variety of potential peaceful initiatives but to explore them as viable solutions. This would then help the public to assess for themselves whether the idea of having only two possibilities – violence or inaction – as being the two only options.

There are a number of examples held up by Lynch and other academics as examples of conflicts that may have been avoided if a greater depth in public perception would have been present at the time. Iraq and the case of the non-existent WMD is one such case. This is an instance where official assumptions went unchecked. The presentation of Bush versus Saddam is cited as wholly indicative of war journalism and its dichotomy. The actual lead up to war became the story and therefore that was what was being reported. But why was the transition from Colin Powell’s initial UN presentation and an inevitable war with Iraq so sudden? Robert Fisk writing for the Independent (a paper Lynch sees as having many of the hallmarks of peace journalism if not in name) in 2002 wrote: ‘We are being set up for war against Saddam…but we will not – repeat this one a hundred times – we will not mention oil.’

NATO’s war on Yugoslavia in 1999 presents an intriguing case. Lynch regards this as a prime example of propaganda reporting. A war in which ‘military action was the last resort, where the Serbs were to blame, and that Milosevic brought the bombing upon himself by refusing to sign the Rambouillet Accord. The Rambouillet Accord was a peace plan devised by the international community that would have Kosovo win autonomy within Serbia. But as John Pilger, a lone dissenter among a largely approving press pointed out, the accord would also allow NATO forces unfettered access to the entire territory of Yugoslavia. This was a point of contention for both the Serbs as well as the Kosovo Liberation Army, neither of whom signed the deal. But those questions were never asked; Milosevic was the villain and was framed as such. So instead of focusing on why the peace accord wasn’t signed, the breakdown was presented as Milosevic ‘digging in his heels’ and leaving NATO no other alternative but to use military force.

The very concept of peace journalism, will invite criticism from the journalistic community if for nothing else other than the contention it holds for the existing structures of conflict reporting. Weaver’s argument that reporter’s compromise their journalistic integrity seems to holds some credence initially, but peace journalism as a practical approach goes beyond the individualistic notion of reporting. It suggests rather that the issue is the whole news organisation and that what is needed is a ‘…deliberate creative strategy to restore discourses and perspectives that are routinely marginalised’.

News coverage of conflict is grounded in the idea of using conflict itself as a news value. As a result the presentation of war has become a sensationalised device in order to boost ratings or circulation. As the world becomes smaller, engaging and exotic images are harder to come by. In his tongue-in-cheek short documentary Adam Curtis describes the effect this has on viewers as ‘Oh Dear-ism’, a term that suggests that compassion fatigue has us de-sensitised to images of violence around the world. From a journalistic standpoint then, this perhaps has us paint an ever-increasingly sensationalistic picture of the world in order for us to hold public attention. We have shifted toward focusing on how we direct attention rather than what we are directing that attention toward. Peace journalism could perhaps refocus this shift back onto the question of why. If that happens, perhaps we will then be able to present the world as a mirror of society rather than a dramatic melodrama of heroes and villains, losers and victors. For even the greatest of dramatists knew the value of presenting reality as a mirror rather than a cinema screen:

“When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimetre and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror, for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.”

Harold Pinter – on Receiving his Nobel Prize in 2005

[Inauguration Day: Putting Away Childish Things]

The images of shelled homes and decimated lives have been sidelined for the moment. The news channels don’t re-run the horror of Gaza anymore. The sorrow and silence has suddenly been filled with cheers and chants. We’re distracted by all the history that’s happening. I switch on the television and I see faces painted with tears not of anger but of joy, an ocean of people segregated like a latticed stream of heads and hats, banners and plaques printed in bold:  ‘O-bama O-Baby O-Yeah’.

He Speaks.

My eyes are drawn toward the grey hairs of his head. The promise of hope wears heavy on his brow now, noticeably. What a difference a year makes. I’m reminded of how often promise and poise falter and the sandcastles of aspiration dissolve under greater waves of urgency. My eyes draw back to his words as he draws to a close his over-hyped speech of this sun kissed inauguration.

The 44th President Of The United States promised nothing today. His oratory didn’t soar as expected, instead they were grounded in realism and perhaps a sense that once this moment has passed, this is no time to feel good about anything.

Remember Gaza? Remember Congo? Remember Sri Lanka? Remember my Mortgage? Remember my Healthcare? Remember that this is Only A Day.

As I sat in my cream couch watching CNN cover the address, I glanced out the window at the dreary London sky, its going to rain I thought. I looked back at the TV. I wondered about those speckled grey hairs of his. I wondered whether when eventually it becomes his turn to secede his office, whether his whole head will be the shade of the foreboding clouds outside.

I wished it to rain on those beaming, ecstatic people in the crowd. Enjoying their moment in the sun. Let it rain, I thought. Let it remind them that this is just a time. Let is sink in though, this moment. Let the wave of history pass through you, acknowledge it, enjoy it. Believe this is happening, because for a brief second on a sunny D.C afternoon, history has offered us something to cheer for. But by tomorrow, today will be yesterday and when Barack turns old and grey, there will have been a lot more history for us to have gotten through. If we are to be still cheering by that time, there a lot of promises to be kept this time.

“The Time Has Come To Put Away Childish Things…”

The following is the full text of U.S. President Barack Obama’s inauguration address on Tuesday. Obama, a Democrat, was sworn in on the steps of the Capitol as the 44th U.S. president around noon EST (1700 GMT), taking over from President George W. Bush, a Republican.

“My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land – a nagging fear that America’s decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America – they will be met. On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted – for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame.

Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things – some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.

Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions – that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America. For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act – not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology’s wonders to raise health care’s quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. And all this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions – who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans.

Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them – that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works – whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. And those of us who manage the public’s dollars will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control – and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous.

The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart – not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake.

And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort – even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus – and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West – know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world’s resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us today, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment – a moment that will define a generation – it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends – hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism – these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility – a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence – the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed – why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America’s birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

Let it be told to the future world…that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive…that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet.

America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children’s children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God’s grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.”

[On Rupert Murdoch: Media Ownership And The Informed Opinion]

Why on earth would anyone want to be a journalist? Many a doe-eyed new entrant approaches media institutions, the gilded fourth estate, with eager awe and anticipation. The Andrew Marrs’ and Anna Politkovskayas’ of the future amble on toward a career of substance, of worthy truths and holding power to account. Few of them notice the branded signs adorned above the shiny glass double doors when they enter  – News Corporation it reads, TimeWarner, another – but instead they draw a collective sigh of relief and draw strength from the fact that at least they didn’t sell out. Forward to a career where you speak your mind and have people listen.

Onward to a life of real journalism.

Of course, people do listen. The elemental burden of an informed opinion constitutes the basis of the democratic process. The power behind the media lies in this very fact; Media has the singular ability to captivate and direct our attention in which ever way it chooses. This lends itself conveniently to the grander schemes of the political, corporate and power hungry elite. Get in with that lot and they would have a direct influence over our opinions and choices. Our desires, our dreams, our aspirations and our votes – all up for grabs. Mass media therefore, in all its forms and outlets, becomes the all purpose megaphone which enables those who wish to make us follow suit, shut up and cough up and do so smiling. The ones who sit at the top of tree, the ones who hold the megaphones, are more than mere ‘owners’ in industry. They become amongst the most influential people in the world.

Orson Welles in Citizen Kane barked at his editor once: “People will think what I tell them to think!” The demagogic story of Kane was a thinly disguised nod to real-life media magnate William Randolph Hearst, a man whose ear was coveted most notably by John F. Kennedy amongst others. In 2008, high into the campaign season, Barack Obama sat knee to knee with a certain Rupert Murdoch – the Hearst of the present day – explaining why it’d be in both their interests if he won. He’d sell more papers. This side of the Atlantic also, Rupert Murdoch has been described as the 24th member of Blair’s cabinet by Alistair Campbell on more than one occasion:

“His presence was always felt. No big decision could ever be made inside No.10 without taking account of the likely reaction of three men, Gordon Brown, John Prescott and Rupert Murdoch. On all the really big decisions, anybody else could safely be ignored.”

News Corporation, Murdoch conglomerate owns the most widely read UK news publications in The Sun, News Of The World, The Times and has around 37% daily and 39% of Sunday newspaper sales. Both these figures are above the 20% share circulation set by the government. This is a man whose media empire is above and beyond restrain, and in today’s state of economic flux Murdoch continues to amass an empire that even Kane would be in awe of. His reputation as a ruthless tycoon makes for interesting debate among those who hold the media and its proprietors as complicit in the workings and sanctity of a democratic society. Murdoch himself denies crossing any of these fishy moral quandaries. Using the powers at his behest, the many arms of his media empire to impart far-right agendas? Surely not.

In 2002 UK rules on foreign ownership in media were relaxed. By that time Murdoch had firmly become a broad New Labour supporter prompting suggestions that the proposed bill had a ‘Murdoch Clause’ where they were perhaps doing him a favour in lieu of his backing. More recently Andrew Grice in a 2007 article for The Independent disclosed some of the details of conversations between Murdoch and Tony Blair in the run up to the Iraq War. Blair had phoned Murdoch on the 11th, 13th and the 19th of March 2003, a day before the British and U.S led war on Iraq began. Grice goes on to mention another date of a call between the two on the 25th April 2004. This would place the call shortly after Blair had been pressured to acquiesce to to a referendum on the E.U constitution. A bill that in Murdoch’s words, when attending a business conference a few days later, would “…deter investment in Europe which would over-regulate every business and everybody.” The subsequent U-turn in government policy has always been a source of controversy. He denies any influence and has made sure the people who are supposed to be finding out if this is so, don’t. Yet Murdoch’s links to close quarters of political power seem to be in direct conflict with the notion of free press.

Professor Noam Chomsky credits political commentator and newsman Walter Lippman with the term ‘manufactured consent’. He explains it thus:

“By manufacturing consent, you can overcome the fact that formally a lot of people have the right to vote. We can make it irrelevant because we can manufacture consent and make sure that their choices and attitudes will be structured in such a way that they will always do what we tell them even if they have a formal way to participate.”

Chomsky, in his analysis of media and those who are complicit, journalists are merely willing puppets via which the elite agenda is filtered through unto the public. This is not some loony indoctrination method deployed by Murdoch’s minions once the eager few pass through those double doors fresh faced and hungry. Many established journalists maintain that they got where they are because they preserve a sense of objectivity and due professionalism. But lets look at the reasons behind why they are the ones in these positions. There is no reason why the likes of Murdoch would allow critical analysis upon themselves. Why would he? But this is not done through subjective censorship. It is because  their career may not have gone as well had they not been correctly socialized in the first place. So that as Chomsky puts it; “…there are some thoughts you just don’t have, because if you did have them, you wouldn’t be there.” Those doe-eyed new entrants had been gotten long before they passed through these shiny double doors.

If Murdoch and Berlusconi et al. came out tomorrow and conceded that yes they indeed do have a say, as proprietor of businesses, over how the business is run. What could we say? They are selling a product, why would they want to sell anything but their own idealisms? The problem is, media is ours too and we, also, are the product. Our opinion is our value. The denials peddled out by these moguls, about how much influence they hold over editorial content, are borne out of our own prerequisite notions of what the media stands for. It is the nature of our faith in the institution itself that wants to make sure that what we are being told is not being manipulated. It is in the benefit of democracy and in the benefit of our piece of mind. The men with the megaphones have a lot of admirers wanting to inform us about our choices. We could, perhaps, choose not to listen.

[On Occupied Palestine: A Prelude]

Relevant Truth began with a murmur. A tremble and a crack, seeking root in a corner of my brain one day in June 2006. I had come back from seeing the world and its ways and woes. And felt dizzy with the smell of sulphur. I had gone to Israel and had crossed a line in the sand and in doing so crossed a marker in my mind. I have never blogged about Palestine or Israel here, I only mention it briefly in Why This Exists. But those who know me, know more.

In a previous incarnation in the blogosphere my first ever net writ was about that day and that moment. So before I set about writing a post about the recent events in Gaza, I look back, copy and paste in reflection.

Here it be. Excuse the immaturity, the words are unkempt. I was 22 and was careless. I had a camera, a pen  and an inquisitive eye.

The rest is history

————————————————————————————————————————

03 July 2006

I came back from the promised land last Friday night. Slept tight. Now I’m waking up to my experiences on the soil at the centre of the world.

Before now I have abstained from being Pro-Palestine, Pro-Israeli
or any of that ish. Simply ‘cos I believe asking to pick a side in a
conflict so complex and changeable as the Palestine-Israel  for
a 22 year old kid whose never seen or set foot in a war zone is near enough impossible. Moreover, any attempt in trying to convince myself in being Pro- ? would render me a misinformed hypocrite.

Last week Friday I went in search of Bethlehem.
Instead I found a border. That’s right, there’s a border between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. Think about THAT the next time you sing Silent Night.

A border. A concrete wall.

Its an ugly fucker too, a 15 foot concrete slab stretchin for miles.

Israelis call it the Separation Wall. I call it Berlin Wall The Sequel.

Now, let me get this straight off the bat; Israel was fucking cool. The Jewish really know how to build a country. The place is heaven. I never ONCE saw a homeless guy, not ONCE! No bums, no crazy people.The people were friendly. The beaches, the hotels, the malls, the food – sublime. Just the general vibe of the place was just that it was a cool, hot place to live.

I envied these tannned, hip, Sabra’s and Sabra-ettes. Speedos and Bikinis ago-go if you know what I’m saying.

But then…I got a peak at the real cost of living.

Friday I went to Bethlehem. You drive through the border and you aint in another country (Palestine in terms of geography is pretty dang patchy. Dont know where it begins and ends) but what you do enter when you get past that border is …another mentality.

As I passed in Palestine I spied graffiti on sum random wall, it go:

Thou Shalt Not Steal

They were being preached their own preachins.

Thou Shalt Not Steal

I thought that was cool.

Remember that old Superman movie when there was Superman and Supermans twin who was Bad Superman that was Christopher Reeve but with stubble and a sorta sardonic look?

That’s Palestine.

It’s the abortive brother sharing a border. It’s Danny DeVito standing next to Arnold Schwarzenegger in that movie Twins. The crap that no-one else wanted.

That’s Palestine.

No roads, no people, no malls, no condominiums, no Japanese cars, no beaches, no speedos no bikinis. Its like going from everything you ever wanted, or could need at an arms reach to nothing…

In Israel, Israeli’s don’t dream. Why dream when you could wake up instead?

Hell Here, read another graffiti wall.

Hypocrisy, said another one.

We drove around this sad state of affairs till we was ushered into a ‘lil Palestinian familia owned shop. I saw a Palestinian scarf. I bought it.

Just cos Sean back home would dig that I bought a real Palestinian scarf from a real Palestinian in Palestine whereas loads of people back home bought fake scarves from Carnaby Street, London and rocked ‘em while ordering a bigger Big Mac and fries from Mc’Ds.

What happened next was hard to explain.

We were heading back to Jerusalem toward the border coppas again. I was holdin my scarf in my hands and my video camera in the other. I saw the Wall again in the distance.

You know one of those moments in your life where you become bigga then yourself? You get a glimpse of the bigger picture. You feel the groove of the moment and wanna seize it no matter what the cost?

We were in the van and the arab driver told me to hide the scarf from sight at the checkpoint before we got there. The check point was still a distance away.

I saw graffiti again: this time
it was ON the Wall on the Palestinian side.

It say to me:

To Exist Is To Resist

Viva Palestina Libre

It was more than graffiti it was a mural, painted by some ballsy
Palestinian revolutionary at midnight whilst the border coppas were
havin a snooze. It was a wake up call to anyone who saw it whilst headin back to the speedos and bikinis of Israeili paradise.

I looked down at my scarf and my camera.

Fuck it, I thought. Fuck this and fuck that. Fuck all of it.
I told the driver to stop.

He had an arabic fit.

I grabbed my brother, stuffed the scarf into my bag, and leaped out of
the van. I ran to the graffitti wall. I sensed my dads eyes burnin on
me as if ‘is this kid outta his mind?’ Stopping for a photo op just before
the Israeili checkpoint with their bigass guns and shit?

But hey…I thought fuck it.
I got my brother and walked right up to that fuck off Wall.

I confronted that fuck off wall.
And I said ‘Wall, Fuck off.’

I took that scarf outaa my bag, yes i did.
The border cops a few feet away from me, my brother with the camera whizzin away recording my every action. I wrapped the Palestinian scarf around my neck, I got up on that ledge.

Placed my hand on that Wall.

I felt a murmur in me.

There my brother was, filming me, scarved in what the Western World sees as
terrorist regalia, a chequered flag around my neck, touching a wall that means something so big it could bring about World War Three.
People have died for and in spite of that wall.

And there I was, playin Viva La Revolution like a dumbass for all of ten seconds before I realised I cold be shot right now.

Snap back to reality.

I begain hearing the squeals of arabic fittage from the driver demandin my ass back to the van.

I took that scarf off and joined them.
Sitting at the back of that van, sweatin and breathin.

Kanye West’s Jesus Walks was in my head:
‘God show me the way cos the devil tryna bring me dowwwwwn…’

I refused to pick a side because I didn’t have the wiki knowledge to know everything I need to know about this conflict. Yeah I read. A lot. I probably know more than you about whats goin down around Jerusalem and why. But I refused to choose, cos I didnt feel responsible enough to reach a conclusion about something so important I guess.

I thought that was a mature thing to do.
Sit on the fence. Ruffle no feathers.

Now its different.
I felt the murmur.

Today Israel contains the stretch of land from the Egyptian border of Sinai and Eilat to Haifa in the North.

The sticking point: Jerusalem and the West Bank, according to international consensus, is occupied by Israel.

Occupied.
As in Nazi’s in Poland.
As in British Empire in India.
As in Hitler standing under the Eiffel Tower in Paris.
Occupied.

Viva Palestina Libre!
Indeed.

————————————————————————————————————————

Reflection

They say you are born with the innate sense of right and wrong. I disagree. Perception can be twisted and controlled, bent toward a particularity. We are the good guys because Hollywood says we are. They, the bad guys because Wolf Blitzer and Jon Snow say it’s so. But sometimes the cogs of the clock turn anti. It’s only when you remove yourself from the comfort of receivership that you really get your head around why it’s so important to actively seek out the real story, the tell tales of truth and reality. When Gaza is bombed, we go on marches and we spit in policemen’s faces. We burn effigies and blog bullshit. But then we order another Starbucks and recline in the security of knowing that We Are The Good Guys. It took me a while to figure out Israel and why it does what it does: Same reason. They believe they’re the good guys too.

In 2006 the murmur in me felt that it was black and white. But since, everything seems to be greying into a shade of frustration from both sides. But dead children are dead children be they Jewish or Muslim. This week cities across the world including my own stood up and protested against what they believe to be wrong, it will prove to be an exercise in futility if Israel refuses to divorce itself from its pulpit of self-righteousness. Equally so, if the Palestinian youth take up arms instead of sticks and stones to hurl toward innocent Israeli citizens. The difference between right and wrong ultimately lies upon the not so lofty concept of an informed judgment.

I visited Palestine too young to realise it. No doubt in another few years I will look back on this, my last blog post of 2008 and see not a conclusion made but a continuing and progressing understanding of the relevancy of the line crossed that June day in 2006.

Viva Palestina Libre. Perhaps.

Viva Libre.

Indeed.

[Next in 2009 - On Occupied Palestine: Gaza]

[On South Africa: In The Shadow Of Mandela]

Living up to the Legend

The narratives of nations are often told through the biographies of great men. The annals of history channeling the trials of men who dared to draw lines in the sand, those who chose not to merely sit but to stand, and in doing, drew straying eyes to relevant truths. Those who dared to dream, standing firm against indignity. Those who wished it so, and in doing so changed the game through will and testament.

Tomes are written about such men. And in legend writ their legacy. But there are chapters being written, in the here and now, which will deem whether the singular promise of a unified South Africa will ever make it to reality. Today South Africans live under a government that is in political turmoil, divided down ever increasing  ethnic lines. The ruling African National Congress (ANC) have seen many senior members leave after publicly announcing that they want nothing to do with controversial leader Jacob Zuma or the party that he has tarnished with his premiership. Tomorrow these dissatisfied few will formally announce the formation of a new party; Congress Of The People or COPE. What this means is that for the first time since its first democratically held elections in 1994, there will be a viable challenge to the ANC and the dominant-party system that it holds reign. This, the unwritten inheritance of Mandela’s South Africa, is to be tested.

The Heirs to his Legacy – Key Players:

An almost Shakspearean history lies behind these three faces. The complex narrative of the political and personal give an indicator as to how South Africa has descended into the mire of madness. Where next the country is headed could equally be mined from the actions these three men dare to take from here.

Jacob Zuma (left) is a populist who has rallied support within leftist constituencies and has maintained support from the youth league and among Zulus, the tribe form which he originates. He was dismissed from his post as Deputy-President in 2005 after allegations of corruption. In the same year a 31 year old daughter of a former ANC member came forward and accused Zuma of rape. During the course of the hearings Zuma confessed to consensual sex with the girl having known that she was HIV positive at the time. He attempted to fend off criticism by claiming he had a shower afterward to ‘reduce the risk of infection’. He spoke these ludicrous words while he was the head of the National AIDS Council in South Africa. In the end both charges were dropped however, and Zuma retained his strong support within the ANC and remained popular among South Africa’s young and less well off. His past as an aggressive ANC activist during the apartheid era has stuck even during the darkest of times. He has been the target of lampooning for his comments during his trial and was hit with harsh criticism from all sides but in the fallout following his acquittal, his stock would rise in contrast to his critics.

Thabo Mbeki (centre) has had his critics also. He is at the ideological middle ground in policies and has from the very beginning of his tenure been dogged by his aloof presidential style; an apparent tendency to be an elitist in the party of the people will always be a problem.  He is seen as the diametric opposite of Zuma in personality and policy and they are now seen by many as sworn enemies. His political critics aim squarely at his acquiescence to big business at the expense of the poor and the unions as another contrast between him and the socialist leaning Zuma. After Zuma’s acquittal Mbeki got hit the hardest publicly. His decision to ‘go after’ Zuma with corruption charges painted the picture of political maneuvering with Mbeki ruthlessly snuffing out threats to his power by wiping out Zuma politically. It had almost worked but he had failed and now he was not to be trusted even by those nearest to him. Power had deserted him and at the 52nd ANC national convention leadership elections he was beaten by his nemesis and resigned shortly after.

Mosiuoa Lekota (right) and Mbeki seem to have more in common than not. Both were former inmates of Robben Island with Nelson Mandela, and both were at the heart of the resistance movement with Mandela during the 1980’s.  Lekota had from the start outlined himself as a ‘conviction’ politician. He made his name popular with the media by calling out corruption and immorality even within his own party. This made him a threat to Mbeki early on. During the tentative years of the ANC’s first administration, they soon became fierce rivals and as Mbeki became heir apparent to Mandela’s leadership, Lekota became more and more sidelined. By 1999 he was marginalized into obscurity and the ‘left’, after he so vehemently criticized Mbeki’s allies, saw him as somewhat of a martyr. It was not until the furor over Zuma’s corruption and rape allegations where Lekota once again returned to stake his moral claim on decency, that the left quickly turned on him too.

Roots in Division

Many this time last year saw events in South Africa as a watershed moment in its history, the election results saw incumbent and President Thabo Mbeki lose to a man who only two years before had been sacked after being embroiled in corruption and rape charges. Jacob Zuma and his political allies were swept into power of the ANC party in December 2007. Many across the world looked at South Africa then and asked; how on earth did they go from Nelson Mandela to a man like Jacob Zuma? The consternation within his own party was such that almost immediately high ranking members followed Mosiuoa Lekota’s resignation and left themselves. The reasons for the split stem from three main factors:

• Tribal allegiances
• Economic left and right policies
• Democratic succession

The defeat of Mbeki by Zuma in 2007 made clear the stark differences between the two sides emerging within the ANC. Such was the nature of the allegations against him that pro-Zuma and anti-Zuma factions emerged as a result. These divides could be easily be judged to be tribal, Zuma has a large base among Zulus and Mbeki by default has the Xhosa tribes support. But it is important to look beyond narrow tags and see this apparent divide as systematic of broader social concerns within South Africa as a whole. During Mbeki’s premiership he was responsible in driving a development policy using conventional, conservative strategies that resulted in unprecedented economic growth. But after advocating commitments to open markets and privatization, whilst continuing GDP growth, unemployment actually dramatically increased between 1996 and 2006. This unemployment negated any capacity to develop the state and in turn has resulted in the crime rate at an all time high. South Africans know there is something wrong when they win to bid the World Cup 2010 while the poor get poorer and the rich get richer. Pro-Zuma factions have used this and used it well, they have allied with the trade unions and have championed re-distribution of wealth, by default this puts the ANC back to the left and COPE to the centre.

Perhaps it is too early to analyse the party before it is officially exists. But the very fact that there is a choice at all is welcomed by many. Without a Mandela as the figurehead of the ANC, the ANC is not the searing beacon of justice and hope it once was, and now with Zuma as its leader, some would say it ensures the necessity for an alternative. Mosiuoa Lekota, who has been at once within and without the ANC on many occasions, is now planning a democratic coup to recapture South Africa, accusing the ANC of ‘eliminating democracy from within’. During those years on Robben Island Lekota acquired the nickname ‘Terror’ for his prowess on the football field. Whether Terror Lekota will emerge from Mandela’s shadow and assume the weighted reigns of the leadership of South Africa, and do what Mbeki couldn’t, makes for an intriguing next chapter.

Unfinished Chapters

South African politics has been going through a self-perception crisis since Mandela departed in 1999. Come the next election early next year, they will try and place the first decade without Mandela in its historic context both economically and socially. The catastrophe of its handling of the AIDS epidemic looms large, poverty and crime adds to the sense of frustration. Any democratic gains seem modest next to these deplorable failures. Looking forward it will have to take stock and account for these failures and speak to the disconnected and disenfranchised and learn to heal once again. Internationally too, whether it is the ANC or COPE, when ethnic tensions spill over into neighboring nations (Rwanda and DRC) especially with their dealings with Mugabe, it is essential that South Africa set their stall out on the global debate once and for all.

This July Mandela turned 90. Perhaps the ultimate irony is that we, from the outside looking in, hold him to such a standard that we demand his countrymen to  posess that same aura of affirmation. The Mbekis and the Zumas will never do for us. We hold them to a mirror of a living legend. We dare to dream of more Mandelas but there are none. And there hasn’t been for a while.

Instead dare to act. As he dared to act on the day he took those first steps to freedom, a clenched fist shading his eyes from the glare of a new dawn, believing that one day his Africa would heal and finally begin to testify to his promise.

[The Hub: Advocacy In The Digital Age]

The camera follows three men laying down the limp body of a man. His feet are bare with dirty soles, he wears orange shorts and a crumpled shirt. His arms stricken and lifeless. The three men place him on a white cloth, a machete tied to each of their belts. In the distance we see a young boy, skinny, curly hair following the men, staring at the body.

We focus in on the young boy.

The man was his father, murdered in front of him by the men with the machetes. As we focus further on the boy, we see him trying to interpret what he is seeing. Too scared to say anything, too confused to cry. He shuffles his feet and looks to the camera.

We stare back.

The power of the digital camera in the arena of advocacy is that it empowers the witness with the tools to transform what they have just seen into a powerful method for promoting change to seek justice. Today I got wind of a new online portal called The Hub that allows individuals, organizations, groups to upload their videos from around the world for global attention. It is an ambitious project set up by Witness.org to present a forum to help fight human rights violations through community led advocacy using uploaded video as key force. The idea being that anyone anywhere can use video as a launching pad for activism, so that instantly a witness can upload their video to educate and perhaps inform a movement in combating violations. Ten minutes browsing through its library I have seen child soldiers in DR Congo, Burmese protesters under fire, Palestinian farmers getting shot by Israeli settlers,  Chinese soldiers firing at Tibetan pilgrims in the Himalayas and even police brutality in L.A.

Still in its beta stage, The Hub intends to expand its user capabilities but there is potential right now for this to make a huge impact:

The Hub is organized into three Main Sections:

SEE IT: This is the source. Users can browse uploaded videos from other users as well as collaborating agencies working together with Witness for content. You may view content by key word search or categories such as “highest rated”, “most viewed”, “most recent”, “by issue”, or “by region”. An invaluable resource for material that will only be readily available on the web due to reasons obvious.

SHARE IT: Any visitor to The Hub can upload human rights related footage onto the website whether through camera, laptop or mobile phone. There are manuals to guide the user through the stages of uploading and reviewing.

TAKE ACTION: Community is at the core of what The Hub represents. It is a network of people and groups who are urged to create profiles and with every uploaded video are encouraged to provide a synopsis about the context of the content. They are invited to create or join groups, start petitions, organize events and share links with members who share similar concerns on particular issues. This is to make sure videos are not only seen but are used to a higher potential; to actually change things.

For the 60th Anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Witness.org through this new enterprise asks the question:

“What Image Opened Your Eyes To Human Rights?”

In an introductory video people from around the world in many languages describe an image, fleeting footage, a vision that seared its meaning into their memory – one of whom speaks of the young boy with curly hair trying to come to terms with his fathers murder. All these people work to promote human rights in some fashion and were moved to do so by an image or video of reality.

There are many reasons why this blog exists. There are many reasons why I chose to pursue a career in current affairs journalism and documentary filmmaking. In regular filmmaking you get the chance to construct a vision in pursuit of the beautiful image or to spin a great story. To use every trick in the book to elicit a tear from every dry eye watching on. But when you take your eye away from the viewfinder and look around, you see another way. When you do that you get to see reality in all its incendiary ugliness carving out the world around you. Its fascination. Its authenticity and truth. I myself hope to spend my entire life bearing witness and capturing images to inspire others to simply give a fuck. Hearing all these people recount the moment they became aware and sought to advocate, is inspiration enough for me. To pin point in my mind what led me to want to advocate is difficult.

But if there was one image recently, that re-affirmed my belief that images have the power to delve into the soul of the witness and move them to speak for the speechless, it would be this one here:

Spend half an hour on The Hub and know better.

CLICK HERE

[On Mumbai: Part II - Azam Amir Qasab And The Pakistan Connection]

“I only wish I had a gun rather than a camera” Sebastian D’Souza the man who took the photo that has dominated the world’s media, has transposed the fear and anger of a nation onto one fresh-faced young man. Azam Amir Qasab is the lone gunman involved in the Mumbai attacks to be captured alive. His arrest and subsequent disclosure of how the most strategic and successful terrorist plot in India’s violent history was carried out has implications of the highest magnitude, perhaps even that of 9/11.

Qasab’s Testimony

According to unverified claims by police, it is now apparent that Qasab interrogation has yielded information that has led the government of India to charge elements within Pakistan with the responsibility of planning and orchestrating the attack. The organization that the police claim that Qasab is thought to be affiliated with is a familiar name within the region but of which little is known beyond the immediate hemisphere of British and American commitments to the war on terror. The group named call themselves Lashkar-e-taiba. Having had its roots in Afghanistan pre-9/11, its parent organization Jamaat-ud-Dawa and its founder Hafiz Muhammad Saeed, decided to move its base to Pakistan. They are one of the most active terrorist organizations within South Asia and are known to run several terrorist training camps inside the disputed region of Kashmir. 21 year old Azam Amir Qasab is thought to have been trained at one of these camps.

According to The Times of India, when found he played dead for several minutes until found out, upon capture he appeared to break down after seeing the dead body of his colleague. He pleaded for mercy begging hospital staff to save his life and that he wanted to live. He is understood to have later revealed the extent of strategic planning that stretched back a year having been trained by Lashkar-e-taiba in Kashmir for three months before being handed the mission. They were asked to ’cause maximum casualties’ and to kill to his ‘last breath’. It is his boyish face that has dominated the front pages, his youthful, decidedly westernized appearance forgiving his murderous actions. He and his accomplice Abu Ismail Dera Ismail Khan, 25, headed for the CST Railway station soon after arriving having conducted a reconnaissance mission a month before.

An account of the journey based on testimony. Click for larger view.

Did The Terrorists Win?

The testimony itself raises a number of important questions. Questions that have brought down several prominent state officials including top security official and Home Minister Shivraj Patil. The unpopularity of the government has pushed support the way of the opposing BJP party, and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, despite doing his best to appear determinately steady, has suffered by the perception of his office being unable to protect Indians from those who wish to harm them. This notion has ramifications beyond the immediate ludicrous media debate about whether hotel security was adequate. These assault teams were heavily armed and were quite obviously under no orders to undertake sneak attacks. No bombs were planted so the mission was in short a suicide attack from beginning to end, all guns blazing. No amount of checks at entrances and hotel security personnel would have been able to constitute any credible resistance to the amount of bullets being sprayed about so barbarously. What should be in contention is the apparent amount of consideration that had been put into how to maximize the global value and international impact of what these extremists were trying to achieve. In so commanding the eyes of the world’s media upon the spectacle over four days, the organizers of the attacks declared the first victory.

This attack is more important than the initial shocking manner in which it was carried out. We must look beyond that at the grander ramifications. If indeed Lashkar-e-taiba were the ultimate perpetrators, it is worth looking at the political motives of Hafiz Muhammad Saeed’s organization and ask what they would gain from staging such an attack at this particular time. Timing is the key to the apparent reasoning.

Prime Minister Singh and former President Musharraf

Prime Minster Singh and President George Bush

The last five years has seen an unprecedented improvement in the relations between India and Pakistan. In Kashmir, trade routes have re-opened and commuter services between the two sides are running as normal for the first time in years. This has had a major impact in relation to troop numbers in Kashmir. Both Pakistani and Indian troop levels have eased mirroring a return to civil relations between the two countries but in the face of the United States involvement in Afghanistan this is not all that surprising.

As the U.S’s involvement in Afghanistan drudges on, they face an open front at the border with Pakistan in an area called the North West frontier province. In direct consequence it would be in the U.S interest to broker a detente in Kashmir at least for the time being as to urge a re-committal on behalf of Pakistan for a military redeployment of troops from Kashmir to the North West frontier to shore up security in the region. Now with President-elect Obama having also shown urgency in pursuing an ease in relations, a severe jolt to the diplomatic landscape could be far reaching. Obama has long touted a military re-calibration toward the conflict in Afghanistan away from the debacle of Iraq and in doing so probably hoped to gain as much support, militarily or otherwise, from the surrounding countries as possible. This attack has now thrown those plans into disarray.

Map of Kashmiri region with the Afghanistan border on the left.

Beyond Kashmir

Since establishing a base in Pakistan, Lashkar-e-taiba have used violence in the past in order to challenge the legitimacy of India’s sovereignty over Kashmir. A regression into old tensions between the two countries would be of great significance to Lashkar-e-taiba’s cause. As Prime Minister Singh’s pledge to strengthen his anti-terrorism sector will no doubt result in a rise in troop numbers in Kashmir, it would also provoke a response from Pakistan in terms of their own troop levels. But in an interview with Siddharth Varadarajan, the organization’s founder Hafiz Muhammad Saeed elaborated on what exactly the ultimate goal of Lashkar-e-taiba is:

“…the restoration of Islamic rule over all parts of South Asia, Russia and even China.” It also “…seeks to bring about a union of all Muslim majority regions in countries that surround Pakistan.”

They have also declared Hindus and Jews to be the enemies of Islam and India and Israel the enemies of Pakistan. Lashkar-e-taiba has long been suspected of aiding the Taliban against the U.S backed Northern Alliance in 2002. Now it is widely known that the remnants of the former Taliban regime has sought and received refuge in Quetta under the discretion of Lashkar-e-taiba and indeed, Pakistan’s powerful secret service: the Inter-Services Intelligence or ISI. The ISI have tolerated various terrorist organizations because of their usefulness against India. Whether or not funding and strategic help was ever given to these groups via the ISI is also an area that should be scrutinized by any intelligence gathering from India’s perspective as this is an issue that is gathering a disconcerting level of interest. The motive for this attack might well be grounded in a regional conflict but the complexity of the political and geographical context of the region itself makes this a global event.

It seems to this writer, that India has two options. To be comsumed by the reactionary responses that those who are wronged understandably feel or to handle the procedure with bi-lateral co-operation. India is a proud country, and one who reveled in the positioning of would-be superpower. To be maimed on such a global stage will hurt and shame them. The knee-jerk response to this would be to act without seeing beyond the immediate, and there in lies the danger.

When America was attacked on 9/11 it led to war on two fronts, an economic downward spiral and inevitably lead to the capitulation of its national unity and international isolation.  If India were to lash out at Pakistan it would pit two nuclear armed nations against each other. In the end, this is exactly why men like Asam Amir Qasab were sent to die. The ultimate goal; to destablize a globally significant region with a bloody history and plunge it back into the darkness witnessed a few days ago just when it seemed they were beginning to peak over the precipice of normalcy. The challenge will be for India to maintain a level head and instead of falling into the worn tracks of reactionary politics, reach for unity and co-operation with Pakistan against a common threat. If anything is true today it is that this threat has become global. So now, for the sake of us all, this time: no new war.

[On Mumbai: Part I - Amidst Chaos A New Era Emerges]

As the bloody aftermath unfolds and the echoes of grenades and gunfire can be heard behind western journalists reporting from the streets, the world watches as the death rattle of Wednesday’s assault heralds a new era for urban terrorism in India. As I write armed militants are still, two days after the initial attack, holding out against India’s special forces. Slowly, as the chaotic fog of misinformation dissipates, the question of what happened begins to transform into why it happened and who in fact is behind all the chaos. Such was the global attention that initial suggestions pointed inevitably toward the pre-eminent global threat – Al Qaeda. Three days on however and it becomes less and less clear who it was that was behind such a sophisticated and coordinated attack. As the media focus wasin full swing and the 24 hour rolling news channels across the world were looping pictures of hotels ablaze and panic stricken faces, a group calling itself Deccan Mujaheddin claimed responsibility. However, who this group are and if they even exist at all is under dispute. They may very well be a front for a larger more established militant organization. The truth is no-one will know until the shock subsides and the assessment begins in the wake of what many are calling India’s 9/11.

As it seems is the tragic staple of terrorism the world over, the perpetrators were said to be young and carried out their mission with fervor. They came hidden on board a merchant ship and disembarked at the dockyards of India’s financial hub. As they fanned out across the district, they left a wake of merciless bloodshed, indiscriminately opening fire on crowds as they went. The crowd itself were of a particular type  and that, it seems is a message that rings louder than any other factor in this mess. India is a nation in transition, of a growing economic and political standing on the world stage. That abounding growth has had a fundamental impact on India’s entrenched segregated classes. An affluent and wealthy crowd are native to Mumbai, it is a look-at-me city of silver spoons and the well-to-do elite. The result of Wednesday’s attack is that for the first time in India’s history terrorism has hit the class of the touchable.

The attacks spanned across part of Mumbai in six separate locations:

TAJ MAHAL HOTEL

The Taj is at the heart of Mumbai’s financial district and a popular destination attracting affluent foreign travelers and business people. Gunmen stormed in as residents sat down to dinner targeting in particular American and British tourists.

At least one gunmen is still suspected to be hiding out in the hotel and about a 100 special forces are on the hunt after confirming 30 bodies found so far. Fire broke out on a number of floors and it remains to be seen when operations will end.

OBEROI-TRIDENT HOTEL

This hotel is located in Naraim Point a place popular with business people as it is near the Bombay Stock Exchange. Security forces took control of it after gunmen rounded up patrons and tourists. The hostages were brought to safety but in the end 24 of the 100 hostages were found murdered.

CHHTRAPATI SHIVAJI TERMINUS

Armed with rifles and grenades gunmen killed 10 and maimed 30 in an unrelenting attack at this, one of the busiest railway stations in the country. It was crowded with passengers who were in close proximity of each other, the ones who escaped with their lives intact were lucky they made it at all.

CAFE LEOPOLD

Witnesses who were present at the attack at the popular cafe described the attackers as ‘young boys’. The restaurant cafe is somewhat of a Mumbai institution. It is famous for being a the favoured hangout of Australian author Gregory David Roberts who authored Shantaram which is also set in Mumbai.

NARIMAN HOTEL

Another indicator toward the intentions of the assault, this residential complex housed a Jewish outreach centre called Chabad Lubavitch. It attracted many of Mumbai’s Jewish quarter and after one of the longer stand-offs between the gunmen and special forces, it was only until Friday that the area was secured. The attack resulted in the confirmed deaths of 6 people including a rabbi and his wife.

CAMA & ALBLESS HOSPITALS

These were hospitals that cared for women and children and there is a suggestion that this attack was carried out by the same group that attacked the nearby railway station. Indiscriminate drive-by shootings were also reported around the same area.

The strategic and specific nature of this attack as a whole shows that the one constant in all the targeted locations is that they were places that attracted western foreign nationals thus maximizing its global profile. It might be pertinent to point out that large scale attacks on Indian cities are not without precedent. Most incidents have stemmed along the lines of ethnic tensions between the Hindu majority and Muslim minority. As recently as 2002 the western state of Gujarat saw the revenge killings of Muslims after an arson attack on a train left 59 dead, all of them Hindu. India also of course shares a border with Pakistan and the continuing dispute over Kashmir means that relations between the two ethnic groups on a national and civil level will always appear fragile.

But in the context of terrorist attacks within India, November 2008 is an important exception. The difference is that planted bombs on trains and market stalls kill the working class and the poor of India, not the elite classes and wealthy westerners. Wheras previously the target was a message of an eye-for-an-eye reflecting ethno-religous tensions, the motive and intentions behind these atatcks could well have been international. This time, the front pages of The Times of London and New York has had the Mumbai attacks on the front page for the past three days. This time, the message is louder and it calls to the likes of us watching worldwide. India’s response to these attacks as a nation and as an international burgeoning superpower will be no less as impactful.

Next:

[On Mumbai: Part II - The Pakistan Connection]