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Nēthrā
Journal of the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, 2 Kynsey Terrace, Colombo 8, Sri Lanka
Email: iceSG)icescolombo.org Website: www.icescolombo.org
Nethra will appear three times a year. Subscription rates
26C:
Sri Lanka: Rs. 400 per year
SAARC countries: USS20 per year
Other Countries: US$25 per year
All rates are inclusive of mailing costs (By air in the case of foreign readers)
Material appearing in this journal may not be reproduced in any other publication without the written permission of the Editor, Nethra.
2006 International Centre for Ethnic Studies (Colombo)
ISSN 1391-2380
Printed by:
Unie Arts (Pvt) Ltd.,
No.48B. Bloemendhal Road, Colombo 3.

Nethľa
Editor
Ameena Hussein
international Centre for Ethnic Studies, Colombo

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Contents
Contradictions in Race and Identities
Aneesa Wajili
Past Perfect for Insourcing
Ranjan
Déjà Vu Avenue
Kiwao Nomura
Or Relax
Kiwao Nomura
eating a $5 plate of string hoppers, I think of my father
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
I never saw pictures of the '83 riots on TV
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
a love poem for Sakia Gunn
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
Image
Said El Haji
Âm Công and the Customs of Bird-Burial
Van Cam Hai
01.
11
17
20
33
34
36
27
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Drama "r" Mad People
Senaka Abeyratne
The Rainfly
Anne Ranasinghe
Agt Geography
Mariah Lookman
v
S1
59
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Contributors
Ranjan works as a healer and trainer in achieving high-level energy and optimal performance. His healing ability has been tested at Harvard Medical School and his patients have included Britain's Duchess of York. He is also a political theorist, a published author and has been featured on television in Australia, Britain, Sri Lanka and the United States. His two passions: one is the foundations of health and justice in society, both intellectual and practical; the other is music.
Aneesa Wajli is a student at the University of Toronto completing a degree in International Development Studies. She is writing a thesis exploring the identities of Muslim women in Sri Lanka and has experience working in the field of gender and development.
Kiwao Nomura is a graduate of Waseda University Center for International Education, he has published ten books of poetry, most notably Under the Sun without Character, which received the Rekitei Prize; Distribution of the Wind, which won the Takami Jun Prize; and New Inspiration, which earned the Gendaishi-Hanatsubaki Prize. Known for his critical work, his performances, and his translations, Mr. Nomura is among the most creative Japanese poets working today. e
Said el Haji is a fiction writer, novelist, editor, and columnist. He debuted in 2000 with The Days of Shaytaan, a novel depicting the void between emigrant parents and their westernized children, and has since written many short stories, including "Little Hamid," which won the El Hizjra Literary Prize. His most recent work, "Nobody has a Program for the Concert of Life, appeared in a collection of short stories from leading Dutch writers
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha is the daughter of a Sri Lankan father and an Irish-Ukrianian mother; she is a writer, spoken word artist and teacher currently based in Toronto. The author of Consensual Genocide (TSAR, forthcoming 2006), she is a frequent contributor to Bitch and Colorlines magazines and has had work anthologized in Colonize This!, With a Rough Tongue: Femmes Write Porn, without a Net, Dangerous Families, Geeks, Misfits and Outlaws, and A Girl's Guide to taking Over the World. She teaches writing to LGBT youth at Supporting Our Youth Toronto, for which she won the City of Toronto Community Service to Youth Award in 2004.

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Van Cam Hai is a fiction and nonfiction writer. He made his Vietnamese publishing debut in 1995 with a collection of poems titled (in English) Man Who Tends the Waves. His work has appeared in several American publications, including Tinfish and The Literary Review, Vietnam Inside-Out: Dialogues (2001), and the anthology Three Vietnamese Poets (2001). He has also written several works of prose, such as Following on the Trail of Pinion to the Mild-Zone (2003) and Tibet-Bloom Drop in the Sunshine (2004). He works for VietNam Television and has thrice received the Gold Prize for his work on documentary films.
Senaka Abeyratne's first novel, "Fragments of a Fugue" (published by Excalibur Press/London), was short-listed for the Gratiaen prize in 1993. Since then, he has been concentrating on writing plays, of which 10 have been staged in Sri Lanka and 2 in India.
Anne Ranasinghe was born in Germany, became a childhood refugee from Nazism in Britain, and migrated in youth to Sri Lanka with her Sri Lankan husband. She has long been one of the most distinguished of Sri Lankan poets and short-story writers in English.
Mariah Lookman is an artist who lives and works in Colombo, Sri Lanka. She is also visiting lecturer at the National College of Arts, Lahore, Pakistan.

It is another year. The second anniversary of my career as an editor. As I look with satisfaction and some pride at my little stack of six Nethras, as Ibeam with pleasure at the little congratulatory notes I have been sent, I realize that things can always be better.
In our part of the world we have just commemorated the first anniversary of the devastating Asian Tsunami. Just this morning I had Farook the sea shell seller from Nilavelismilingly, as it is his habit, recount his tragedy of being stuck in yet another refugee camp, first from the ethnic conflict, then from the Tsunami. Just when he got back on his feet from one catastrophe, another puts him in a position worse off.
In Sri Lanka we have a new president who celebrates our 4" of February Independence Day with a show of military might. Do we have nothing else to be proud of, I wonder. Is this what independence is all about? A whole host of military fighting planes, tanks and soldiers marching marching. Is this the vision of peace? And on its back we have a new resolve to talk peace amidst the rumblings of war. And yet...

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It is precisely this not yet attitude that Aneesa Wajli captures in her piece that examines the contradictions in the areas of race and identity. She explores the notion that multiple identities are part of most people and yet that race affects the legitimacy of any given identity. She sympathetically highlights her experiences in both Sri Lanka and Canada that emphasizes her belonging and alienation in both countries. Ranjan gives us a tongue in cheek rejoinder to the decision by Britain to outsource the grading of 'A' Level papers to marking centers in Asia, which will include the English Language paper. Kiwao Nomura, Said El Haji, and Van Cam Hai, who were with me in the International Writing Program, contribute, poems, a short story and opinion piece that once again illustrates the high standard of literature and diversity that we had with us in Iowa. Senaka Abeyratne gives us an excerpt from his yet to be produced play 'Mad People' and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha gives us lush full bodied poems that talk about love, the ethnic conflict and the Asian link she has with her father. Finally we have Anne Ranasinghe's beautifully written piece on finality, impermanence and the cycle of life in The Rainfly.
I have realized that this issue will span the celebration of many New Years - the Christian, Muslim, Chinese and Sinhala/Tamil.
And so I wish you Happy New Year, Eid Mubarak, Gung Hay Fat Choy, Subha Aluth Avurudak and Puthandu Vazthukal!
Ameena Hussein
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Contradictions in Race and Identities
Aneesa Wajli
It is late morning in Colombo. I am seated in the back of a red three-wheeler on Galle Road. The man driving the vehicle is in his late forties, wearing a plaid blue sarong and grey T-shirt. His beard, skull cap and sign reading Allah-ul-akber' (Allah is great) on the front of his windshield assert his Muslim identity. The following conversation takes place.
Driver: Takes a look at me seated in the backseat through the
rearview mirror: Madam, you're from...?
Me: Canada. Patiently awaiting the question or comment
that almost always follows this response.
Driver: Laughs. But you look Indian
Me: Smiling. Yes - my family came from India a long time
agO. Driver: So parents from India Me: No, I was born in Canada and my parents are from East
Africa. My great-great grandparents were from India. The
Driver gives me a curious look through the mirror. I
smile back in recognition of the confusion I have caused
him. And you're from...? Driver: Laughing. Sri Lanka
There a few moments of silence in our conversation along with a standstill in the traffic. Agreen three-wheeler pulls up beside us. The driver of the vehicle next to us also has a beard and colourful Arabic script on his windshield. The two drivers casually acknowledge
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each other with a nod and face forward again waiting for the light to change.
Me: As-Salam-alaikum (peace be upon you).
Driver: Looking at me in the mirror. Waalaikum as-Salam (and upon you be peace). Pause. Hesitation. Madam, you are Muslim?
Me: Yes.
He takes another good look at me through the rearview mirror as if to confirm the contradiction in his head. The image he sees is that of a young woman with loose, flowing long hair. I am wearing a jean skirt that just covers my knees and a bright, green shirt. He asks, Why no...? and makes a swift, circular motion around his head with his left hand.
Introduction
At times I am able to find great pleasure in the confusion I so often cause people due to my multiple, and some would argue, contradictory, identities. Undoubtedly, I am not a person that is easily placed into a box and labeled, be it in Sri Lanka, Canada or elsewhere. When in Sri Lanka, I was often assumed to be Sri Lankan, or at the least, to be a person with Sri Lankan roots because of my brown skin. In and out of Sri Lanka, my typical Indian features' are frequently noted as obvious testaments to an Indian heritage and culture. Others, after observing my accent and other cultural traits, recognize Something puzzling about me and simply ask, “Where are you from?' In addition to the reoccurring confusion regarding my nationality and culture, my Islamic identity tends to cause a similar bewilderment. It is always a surprise when I explain that I am Muslim and even after it has been explained, many assume that I do not practice my religion.

I spent one year in Sri Lanka between 2004 and 2005 completing an internship in international development. Living and working with a young, White, Canadian woman, also completing the same internship, many of the perspectives I hold towards my experiences are shaped through a comparison with hers. While both of us are of the same or similar gender, economic class, age, sexual orientation and levels of physical andmental health, time and again, race affected Our encounters to a great extent, Such that Our interactions with others would often unfold quite differently. This article draws mostly from my personal, subjective experiences in Sri Lanka and Canada, while keeping in mind other encounters living and traveling abroad, in an exploration of race and identity.
Despite the fact that the concept of race has no scientific basis, it holds great Social relevance. In Anti-Racism Education: Theory and Practice, George J. Sefa Dei, Director of the Centre for Integrative Anti-Racism Studies at the University of Toronto, explains that, "The brutal facts of economic history and the harsh realities of contemporary society clearly demonstrate thereis, and has always been, an ideological meaning to race.” The notion of race has roots in the context of European imperialist domination where it was used to establish a hierarchical classification of people. Robert Miles, author of Racism. After Race Relations, has observed that, in addition to skin color, other qualities, such as cultural qualities, have also been employed in the construction of racial divisions. While there are many existing definitions, I choose to define racism as a system of oppression, based on beliefs of racial superiority that are embedded in organizations and institutions. Racist practices - whether intentional or unintentional - are shaped by power relations and can be seen in everyday social interactions between people and within the larger international, political and economic order. I have chosen to focus particularly on racism in this article in an attempt to pay adequate attention to something that has played a salient role in determining my encounters and interactions.
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The purpose of this paper is to demonstrate and confirm the complex relationship between race and identity. The first section acknowledges that each individual has multiple identities and that dichotomies between identities, including those that are racially based, are often false. The second part explores how race affects the legitimacy of any given identity. It is my hope that this paper will contribute to a process of societal transformation by first acknowledging the existence of racism and then exploring it in order to develop a deeper understanding of the dynamics. It is only with a thorough understanding of the matter that practical possibilities for change can be suggested.
Who Am I?
It is important that my subject position is clear to both readers and myself. In addition to race, other elements of difference - such as, gender, class, age, sexual orientation, physical and mental health, religion and geographical location - also play a role in shaping individual experiences of privilege and discrimination. Thus, this section begins with an exploration of my various identities in a reward/ punishment framework and then moves on to point to the perceived dichotomies existing between my identities.
In beginning to trace the hierarchies I participatein, I will first explore the ways in which I am privileged. I feel advantaged in various ways, specifically with regards to my upper class status, heterosexual orientation, physical and mental health, and geographical location. For example, my economic class provides me with access to higher levels of education compared with others in lower classes. Similarly, my geographical location in Canada will tend to offer me a greater quantity and quality of resources and services, such as health care. Geographical location is not something often emphasized. However, Sherene Razack, a professor at the University of Toronto and
4

contributor to the book Anti-Racist Feminism: Critical Race and Gender Studies, argues for a place-based feminism. I feel that geographical location is important to take into consideration since my affiliation with Canada places me in a position where I am likely to have more power than others of the same race located in South Asia.
While I feel advantaged in the terms described above, I feel disadvantaged in other terms, namely, race, gender, age and religion. For instance, on numerous occasions, I have been ignored due to judgments based on the intersection of my race, gender and age. In other words, being a young woman of South Asian origin sometimes means that I am brushed aside and not taken seriously. In the same way, judgments based on the inferiority of one religion compared to another, or the inferiority of one religious interpretation compared to another, result in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, threatened and at a disadvantage in Society.
Considering the ways in which I am advantaged and disadvantaged, it is clear that I am both an oppressor and victim at the same time. According to P. Collins in Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge Consciousness and the Politics of Empowerment, most individuals receive both penalty and privilege' and are therefore not simply plain victims or oppressors. Evidently, the dichotomy between both victim and oppressor, and White and the "Other', are false and my identities are a case in point; I am not a privileged, White, Northerner and noram I a marginalized, non-White, Southerner. Dualism tends to oversimplify the complexity inherent in the multiple, layered and shifting identities of each individual. Notably, Razack also points to the existence of a false “binary representation of Native/non-Native'. With this common tendency to oversimplify, those who obviously do not fit the expectations attached to the binary worldview are faced with the threat of being outcasts.
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Searching for Legitimacy
It is a summer, Saturday afternoon and I have arrived outside the small, family-run dry cleaning store, just a short drive from my home in Toronto. As I walk in, the door chimes above my head ring alive. The young woman at the front desk looks up and smiles at me. She is wearing a pink tank top. I hand her my clothing items (a pair of black dress pants, a striped collared shirt and a shawl) and she tells me that I can pick them up anytime after 5pm on Monday. While she is ringing up the cash register, a casual conversation begins.
Store Clerk. Where are you from?
Me: This question is commonly asked of me when I meet new people. For a moment I consider betraying myself by simply answering 'India'. The woman notices the pause. I finally decide to answer. Well...I was born here.
Store Clerk: Yeah, but what are you? Are you Indian?
Me: I have Indian background. Pause. What's your
background? Store Clerk: No hesitation. I'm Pakistani.
Achieving authenticity in the proclamation of a national identity has always been a particularly frustrating endeavor for me since nationality is regularly associated with race and culture. While claiming an Indian identity and culture would likely provide me a higher level of authenticity due to my race, it is not something I feel comfortable doing because of the relative strength of my Canadian culture. Yet, to claim a Canadian identity is rarely enough to satisfy the expectations of others, both in Canada and elsewhere, because of my race. This section investigates how, when worldviews are binary in nature, race affects the legitimacy of any given identity I claim.

While I feel Canadian first and foremost in terms of culture, there are strong ties in the forms of music, languages and cultural practices that make my family and I Indian-Tanzanian-Muslim-Canadians' and distinguish us from Aboriginal Canadians and Canadian families who have migrated from other regions and with different religions. Yet I usually claim a one-word identity, Canadian', because I find that the more I reveal my multi-faceted identity, the less legitimacy I have. I believe that this partially occurs since people often perceive my identities to be in opposition. For example, Western and Eastern values are perceived in a binary-like fashion making it such that, to claima Canadian identity and behave inaculturally Canadian manner is to betray my obvious South Asian heritage and Muslim identity. Although I may not articulate my identities, frequently people sense them, interpret them to be in contradiction and strip me of my authenticity.
In Canada, it is difficult to assert a sole Canadian identity since the remembered colonial history of Canada puts European presence before the presence of others, including Aboriginals. This false remembering impacts Societal relations with the intrinsic suggestion that only people of European descent can be 'true' Canadians. Despite the fact that Canada is a society of relatively recent immigrants, except for Aboriginals, a first generation, White PolishCanadian will rarely be asked the question, “Where are you from?" In Canada today, a person of Color is not considered as Canadian as a White Canadian.
Similar to my difficulties in claiming a nationality in Canada, I was often perceived as confused and illegitimate in Sri Lanka upon proclamation of a Canadian identity. During my time in Sri Lanka, there were those whom I met who frowned upon me and shook their heads in disgust at my lack of culture'. Since I do not speak any other language fluently except English and usually behave in a culturally Western manner, I am repeatedly seen as having lost
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my culture' and succumb to Westernization. Frequently, direct comments would be made at the seeming contradiction between my race and nationality. Yet on other occasions, I sensed that my claimed Canadian identity was discarded without any comments or questions and, seen as an insider because of my race, I would be expected to behave in a manner that respected the cultural norms associated with being a South Asian woman. For example, I was expected to return home at an earlier hour than my visiting ChineseCanadian girlfriend. As a Brown woman, I was expected to be more sheltered and less independent than any other White, female foreigner. My experiences in Sri Lanka, supported by my experiences elsewhere, bring me to the conclusion that people of Color based outside the West tend to discard my Canadian identity. You Should knoW beffer becoUSe
you ore Indion.
YOU Should nOf COne bOCK But you don't look so late at night. Conodion.
9our fatfier assouvedyou to come Aere alone
She doesn't even speak her mother tonguel She must learn the Culture.
In summary, my encounters have demonstrated that describing several identities is generally ineffective in attaining authenticity. Yet the employment of one, sole identity can also be de-legitimizing, depending on the perceived contradictions between that identity and the individual's race (and culture). In the end, due to these trends, I am usually de-legitimized and left without a working identity.
After analyzing my past interactions in Sri Lanka more closely, I have come to believe that much of what I experienced was shaped by people's feelings of contempt towards the dominance of the West;
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really an expression of resistance to current neocolonialism and/or to the disregard the West has shown in the past. I feel that often, the initial perception of me as an insider was built on the assumption that I would feel a sense of pride in being seen as apolitical supporter of South Asian values versus Western values. Considering the historical context and continuing racism, it is understandable that I am seen as confused and inauthentic when I claima Canadian identity, since to claim this nationality and not possess the associated White power is interpreted by many of the racially oppressed to be a denial of the existence of racism.
Conclusion
This article began with a wish to better understand my encounters with racism in the search for a working identity. My experiences have attested to the existence of numerous identities in each individual and the significance of race in determining the legitimacy of a claim to any one identity. In particular, authenticity is threatened when an opposition is perceived between identities. This perceived opposition is, at least partially, based on a dualistic view that has roots in White domination and colonialism. The seeming contradiction that is sensed lies in a conscious or unconscious awareness of the varying levels of power attached to each identity. Being both privileged and disadvantaged at the same time, means that I am not a real' oppressor and nor am I a 'real' victim. This leaves me without an identity at all, in a society that awards power based on the legitimacy of identity.
In concluding this paper, I would like to again acknowledge the Subjectivity of my perspective. My perception of racism, and more specifically, the relevance of and the relationship between, race and identity, has been formed through the interplay of my various
identifications and resulting experiences. Forexample, perhaps being geographically located in the West has encouraged me to see things
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from a certain point of view. Specifically, why is it that I do not feel comfortable claiming a sole Indian identity? I believe that this is due to my socialization in Canada and the lack of respect for Indian culture, and other non-mainstream cultures. In any case, my discomfort in claiming an Indian nationality certainly minimizes prospects for solidarity between myself and other Brown people in resisting racism.
Although I identify myself with Canada, I would argue that I have been only superficially embraced as a Canadian. I employ the term 'superficially since people of Color have been welcomed into Canada without the sharing of power that White Canadians have. In addition, the definition of what it means to be Canadian remains a White definition. While I believe that people of Color, like myself, should assert a Canadian identity, I feel strongly that the term “Canadian' should not be seen as being in conflict with non-Western racial, national, ethnic and religious identifications. The definition of what it means to be Canadian must change and this will only occur when expressions of resistance bring about, what George J. Sefa Dei describes as, “social change beyond the boundaries of race, nations and communities.'
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Past Perfect for Insourcing
Ranjan
Goodness gracious, how audacious, it is me-not-agreeing-withyou. Using tools of socio-ology showing you are being but terribly naive, Master Jon Sahib. You telling us to imagining money going India way, in all this outsourcing malarkey. The tremendousness of your naiveté is but boggling the mind, no? Aiyo, why you are thinking this "outsourcing” reversing money flow from coffeeplucker days? My Chennai friend talking me saying "What all this outsourcing hullabaloo? Then we plucked tea (or coffee) and got paying peanuts. Now we plucking keyboards and getting paying peanuts. Who is making monkey out of whom?”
Irefer, of course, to the remarks of the present Minister of Finance of India, who said on the BBC World Service on the 8 October 2004 that for every one US dollar outsourced to India, ten US dollars were insourced back to the States. (Justinto different pockets!) The myth is that money is flowing East. The fact is that money is flowing out of the pockets of the Western worker into the bank accounts of the Western owner. I don't imagine the figures and facts are any different for Britain. The worker of India continues to be paida fraction of what their Western counterpart earns. So who is making a monkey out of whom? How infinitely sophisticated to take someone for aride and make them believe that in so doing you are doing them afavour.
The 8th May 2005 issue of India's The Week carried an article by Mr. Jon Stock in praise of outsourcing (Full Marks to Outsourcing) as a way of money flowing East, lauding the standards of those working in call centres and approving Britain's decision to outsource GCE 'A' level exam. Papers to Asia, including English Language. Here's my rejoinderl
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There is only one reason that Western countries are outsourcing to Asia. It is decimating their labour costs (and their workforce'?) and having acorrespondingly beneficial effection their "bottomline'; saving them money and increasing their profits. The reason why they can do this is because they have converted parts of their former empire into land reservations from which only the “warders', its ruling elite, can ever escape. The invention of the passport and visa controls effectively paddocked the vast majority of humans into these reservations from which only a tiny fraction of humankind can ever hope to get exits permits. "Nationalism' obscures this fact by allowing these exit permits from the land reservations to be camouflaged as entry permits into the Western “empire'.
A young friend studying at Colombo University was refused a permit to exit Sri Lanka (and enter the United States) on the grounds that at the age of 24 he was "too young” to visit the States. The mind boggles In spite of being able to show that he had thousands of US dollars in the bank and offering to give it to the US as bond for his return. What percentage of the Asian population can afford to do that? And still he was refused, and charged a month's wages for the privilege of being turned down. The British, at least, have the grace not to charge the Visafee if the application is unsuccessful.
“Democratic' Aristocrats and their “Sovereign' Servants
What the post-War"emperors” of the West have done is to create a global economy organised into an international class structure, where the Westerner is economically advantaged by birth and the Asian is economically disadvantaged by birth. This world order could be described as a "democratic' aristocracy served by 'sovereign' servants (residing in "sovereign' land reservations). The justification for paying an Asian a fraction of the wages Trade Unions negotiated for those within the immigration stockades erected by the Western emperors in the wake of the Second World War, is that the cost of living is much lower in those countries. This is supposed to legitimise paying an Asian passport holder a fraction of what his Western
2

counterpart would get paid for doing exactly the same job. The same logic is deafeningly absent whenitcomes to purchasing air tickets and paying for hotel rooms outside of the "Third World", the term De Gaulle coined for the bottom of the pyramid of the world economy.
The result is that for many a "Third Worlder', next best career move is to trade in a “Third World' passport for a First World one. An Asian friend of mine with a job in a West Asian country has done just that. He heldaresponsible job, being highly qualified. Currently he is on a few years leave of absence, acquiring an American passport. He has been guaranteed he will get his old job back when he returns, but at several times more money. Like the Queen of England being classified as an "honorary man” so she could be treated like a human being on a State visit to Saudi Arabia, a tiny, tiny fraction of the population of the “Third World” are allowed “honorary First World” status. This keeps them in line as the Ruling Elite of their home State, obeying the rules laid down by the West.
Irefer to these countries as the Bantu lands of the vast apartheid that is the post-Colonial world: Bantu India, Bantu Pakistan, Bantu Sri Lanka. Not to mention Bantu China. And it is of course colonial conditioning that prevents us from seeing it as such. If you take the economies and demographics of India and Britain and Swap races, canyou see the logic of granting a "brown' population of Britain's size and power a seat on the Security Council while denying a “white' population of India's size and power? It was India not Britain that bailed out the US economy by switching Air India's aircraft orders from the European Airbus to the US's Boeing, this saving their Seattle plant from closure. But such are the blinkers of the past, India has to go cap in hand, while Britain continues to lord it around at the UN. Past perfect for the West.
So rather than worrying about the ability of Indians to mark History and English language papers, and can they distinguish past perfect from pluperfect, I think what we should be worrying about is why our
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Governments are so supine as to go along with the inter-national apartheid of the Western invention called a passport, and its concomitant visa system, and collude with the myth of outsourcing bringing money East, without drawing more cogent attention to the insourcing that carries ten times the amountback West. As recently as 1912 one could travel almost anywhere in the world without a passport. It was with the collapse of the class system in the West between the World Wars that the necessity arose for a disenfranchised, indentured labour force. Enter the "Third World'.
Towards a Level Playing Field
Is outsourcing a "good thing”. Yes, of course it is, if the Asians so employed provide at least as good a service as Western locals. But not at the current rates of pay. If Asians are indeed more accurate and polite than the "disinterested ioks of Birmingham' Jon Stock talks about, then it is up to our Governments to ensure that they get commensurate pay. Equal but only after taking into account the extra costs of sending the data to and from any of the Bantu lands. Yes, Asian labour costs will have to be lower than the West's to take that into account. But does it have to be this much cheaper?
A few years ago I was in Beijing and bought a pair of Calvin Klein cargo pants for US$10 in the Silk Road Market. On the flight from Londonen route to Florence, British Airways lost my baggage. When they still had not found it three days later, Icomplained so vociferously, they told me I could go out and buy some clean clothes. As luck would have it the first shop I came to when I ventured out was a Calvin Klein. I found the identical pair of cargo pants and British Airways was charged US$100 for it. The tag on the inside said "Made in China'. I think a tenfold profit for the middleman, at the expense of sweatshop labour, is obscene.
This is the reality of outsourcing and the surreptitious insourcing that isits underbelly. What is happening here is not that money is reversing
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flow from the West back to Asia. It is that the elitist minority that retains control of resources (an e-mail flying around the internet recently claimed that 447 millionaires own 90% of the world's resources) is moving away from paying the wages required to be able to live a halfway decent life, as negotiated by the Trade Unions of the West. They don't need to, when they can access exploitative rates of pay with the connivance of Asian governments. What is happening is that the Western worker is losing, and what he is losing, the Western elite, what Arundathi Roy has characterised as the "Western Emperors', are gaining. Not the Asian. And these multinational conglomerates have the gall to have us believe that it is the Asian worker who is gaining In point of fact, in this new world order, what the Indian Finance Minister is agreed on is that even more money is flowing into the coffers of the world's richestminority, and because the majority of them are in the West, it is flowing to the West. Not to the East, not to Asia. The relevant question here is why is he doing nothing effective about it?
At least part of the answer is nationalism. The blinkers itputs on our eyes pushes below our perception threshold the fact that there is only one defence against this exploitation. The "Third World” has to realise that national division is less than irrelevant. They actually enable and empower the West's Multi-nationals, the current incarnation of the old Colonial "East India Company', to have a free hand in exploiting the post-Colonial world in pristine Colonial style. (Not very stylish) The only option is to present a united front to multi-national companies. Just like the Trade Unions of old (in the West) to the minority controllers of resources. If we are so fogbound we can't present a united front that cuts across the silly theoretical partitions we have dubbed “national boundaries', then all I can say of the multi-nationals is good for them, if we are so foolish we let them get away with it Colonialism is Dead. Long Live Colonialism. Oras our froggie brothers would put it: Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
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How very clever of them to have us think they are doing us a favour, while they laugh all the way to the bank. Now we know who is monkeying about with whom, what are we going to do about it? How do we get a level playing field for"throughsourcing', both outsourcing and insourcing? How do we work towards equity - that is to say, justice - for all strata of Oursingle world's single economy?
16

Déjà Vu Avenue
Kiwao Nomura
Déjà vu, as if running along the palm of the hand, from the depths of the dim sky, like a leaf of paper, toward the
upper right,
a stretch of road appears, sometimes lit, sometimes not, twisting like a shimmering snake, reaching far below our eyes, where, for example, our ancestors
sleep, still standing, the road passing close to their loins
there goes orgasm-man, there goes nerve-ant,
then, other roads crossing that road, déjà Vu, surface like threads of uneven lengths, at moments resembling the fading scaron girl's shin, all equally lit by the same sun shining, now to the right, now to the left
there goes nerve-ant, there go rust and moss,
thus, as if the whole Scene, somewhere on the earth's surface,
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Page 15
déjà Vu, the avenue cloaked by innumerable crossroads, is reflected by the mirror of the sky's face
there go rust and moss, and there again orgasm-man,
of course,
looking a little closer the avenue lightly twists at points, such that its flankorback, let's call it, is momentarily revealed,
déjà Vu, following which, for the avenue as a living being, it's clear that the breath and pulse are accelerating
there goes orgasm-man, there goes cunning shade,
along the edges, especially at the branching points of the side roads, cluster innumerable deserted houses like water drops, and bushes growing wild, or the dried corpses, probably of dogs, upon reflection, these are traces of an abundant village, but
why, why only the road, unwounded and alive, déjà vu, snakes its way further along the surface of the sky, embracing enigma
there goes cunning shade, there goes nerve-ant again,
oh, why and for whom does this streaming road appear?
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when I was about to ask that, at the same moment, a line of apparitions,
possibly microbial creatures, carrying human remains while feeding on them, furiously rose and descended on the road deep inside the sky, which we watched,
déjà vu,
helplessly
there goes nerve-ant, there gorust and moss,
up through that tube, down through that tube
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Page 16
Or Relax
Kiwao Nomura
So, it's Good Morning
I open the window and see the camels It's almost impossible (but
I see the camels (I see the camels (the camels rooted in fact beside the white high-rise apartment (in the dry shapeless vacant lot and it seems as if
the dry sea cucumber were its
Let's add them up Seven in all (three sitting (four standing
To lead a life I need an ordinary view outside the window If there is a vacant lot (there are grasses and a cloud like the belly of a deadeel that's enough
So I've thought (but
I stop thinking SO and we put lunch on the table: cold pasta mixed with tomatoes (and (blood sausages
Then we open the calm heat of the afternoon (we open (and still see the camels The white high-rise apartment shines more (and more it seems as if the dried sea cucumber were the
20

of the shadowless vacant lot (where the white still stands
Let's add them up Eight in all (four sitting (four standing
The camels don't exist if we don't see them (so to say But (when we don't see the camels they might withdraw into (themselves (or into their more and more
I don't know (I don't know
Good Evening The lights are lit in the supermarket beyond the vacant lot
People are moving quickly (the beach or some event somewhere
I am Japanese (a beer please
Let's add them up
Five in all (all five sitting (like a sea cucumber upon another Sea
cucumber
I don't know
We close the window
and make love
So (it must be so (we will increase or decrease but won't disappear (will never disappear
Our bodies and camels' bodies (between them something seems to have been exchanged
seems to have been dreamed of (have been consumed (been
laughedoff
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Page 17
And then again Good Morning
the white high-rise apartment still (dozing off like the cliff of our opaque future
LLCaa LLLLLL LLLLCLLLLHHL LL CCmmCLL LLLL LLLaLalHl aLLLL LLLLLL LLGLL LLa LLLLLLL 'Yʼ:41T1;ILIq:hi)

Anywhere
By Mariah Lookman
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Page 18
at willpattu
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bordering arabian sea
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south and south
25
 

Image
Said El Haji
On an unarbitrary day the god said to his angels: "I Want to place a viceroy on carth."
The angels voiced doubts: "Wilt thou place therein one who will do evil therein and shed blood, while we celebratic thy praise and hallow thee?”
The god answered: "I know what ye know not."
All angels submit themselves to thc will of their majesty, except one: the rebel, the lone wolf, the individualist-the revolutionary Iblis,
That same unarbitrary day the god claps his hands together for the execution of his masterplan - a voyage of discovery into eternity: a true, incw life-form which he will create. For look: the earth has been arranged.
First of all he collects clay. Not the mud or the muck that is found at so many shores of earthly rivers and ditchcs, but exceptionally fruitful clay, in which a myriad of extraordinarily viable microorganisms tecm, full to bursting with a mino acids and carbonates, living as lava. He kneads the hunk to a form. Here a head. There an arm. Again an arm. Here a leg. There one again... And just claying. And just modeling. And just this. And just that. It's Wonderful, being creative. The heart sings, ululates and dances, because it is in its clement. Can there be any greater plcasure?
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But waitaminute! What kind of afifth-rategolemisthis? Patchwork! Odious amateurism. It doesn't fit. Nothing is right. It lacks all cohesion. Eyes, ears, nose, hands, feet, joints...
Again, again from the beginning. And again he begins diligently to knead. To form. To create. Naturally not in his image, because an artist who takes himself very seriously detests to create something that already exists. Lifted up by the high flight of his spirit and hounded on by his creation's fury, he forgets everything around him. Here: five fingers. For sake of symmetry: there again five fingers. Toes, ankles, knees, elbows, wrists, tendons. Just knead. Just form. Claying, creating, recreating... An endless process. But the creator knows: the indivisible soul that is called life lies in the sum of innumerable parts that make up life. Team work, that's what it is. Besides: to take distance from an artwork falls ever heavy. To love is to release...
Finally a small piece of clay remains. An undeniably magnificent piece of clay it is. Elastic yet strong. A shame to throw it away, of course. Who knows if it might still come in handy? Hmmm, you know what? This we'll paste in the middle. Beneath the belly. Between the legs. Like that. Yes, just like that. See: it fits. Nice, very nice like that. Beautiful. That's it. Heehee! Wait till the angels see what I've created now. Haha
Then he bends to the lifeless mouth. Stretches it wide. Blows into it, so that the chest bulges up like a balloon, and calls: “Creature of clay, get up! And walk'
Nothing. Nothing happens. The clay creature won't move.
He begins to press on the chest, rhythmically and firmly, as though to squeeze out the air he blew in a minute ago. He blows into the mouth again. Stronger this time. The chest bulges up even more than before. He calls: “Creature of clay, get up and walk!” Nothing. Nothing happens. The clay creature won't move.
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So he begins again to blow. And calls once again: “Creature of clay, get up, and walk'
But the clay creature remains inanimate. Does not come to life, let alone get up and walk.
Scratching his head, the god gets up. Keeps his distance. Paces
up and down. Thinks. How can it be? What's missing? What's to say? What imagine?. It must work. It can't be otherwise. Out of the way! Make room!
He bends again over the lifeless body. Impatient now he blows the chest till it becomes an enormous mountain. He climbs on it and then begins to smack it. To hammer it. He actually jumps up and down as though on a trampoline, to pound the chest to its original Statec.
Soaked with sweat, out of breath from the exhausting effort, the god calls for the last time, sighing: “Creature of clay, for god's sake, man, get up and walk for once'
Suddenly the clay creature starts to sneeze and wheeze. Opens his eyes. Sits up straight. Looks around him, dazzled. He seems to ask himself: What is this? Where an I? Where have I come from? Why am I here? But he gets up and starts to walk. Truly a miracle!
To this miracle, the result of his zealous clay making, the god now gives the name Adam. For it is spirited by inspiration. And Adam is, the artist realizes, an indisputable masterpiece. Yes, an indisputable masterpiece. An irreplaceable gem. The crown of all creation! It's good. Very good. Tremendous. Phenomenal! It is an indisputable masterpiece. That's what it is, an indisputable
In Dutch, adem, or "breath,” sounds almost the same as "Adam', so the wordplay is lost in English.
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Page 21
masterpiece. Have I already said that it's an indisputable masterpiece? It can't be said enough, my friends. So let it be said one more time: It's just an irrefutable masterpiece. Hallelujah, what a masterpiece! Glorial Euphoria! Now let there be drinking. Now let there be dancing. Now is the time to organize a banquet that the most renowned eaters among us will remember for eternity. The heart cries with joy to invisible birds, high in the trees. Hahahahaaaaaaaaaa. Give me a clap on the shoulder, I deserve it. Give me a compliment. A plume. A feather in my cap. Come on then, I'm Waiting...
Rules of good taste and decency forbid making a mention of it, but Adam keeps playing with that queer appendage between his legs. He can’t leave it alone. Is it a neurosis? How dare you, idiot! Is it a leftover? Go wash your mouth, dumbo! An artist creates only what's necessary. Everything has its function, its use. Nothing is superfluous, otherwise it wasn't created, ass!
The god understands that Adam needs company. It's not good that the man is alone, he thinks. "I will make him a partner who suits him. Life has to be fulfilled with love, it has to pound with love, so that it flares up in new and miraculous life.'
But an artist, as it's said, doesn't copy. An artwork must be authentic, otherwise there's no art to it. Therefore he breaks a rib from Adam's body-generally an extremely painful business for he who undergoes it, as the god knows. But at the moment Adam is completely worn out with boredom, you see? And sure enough, my friends, he doesn't feel a thing. -
But now must thou close thine eyes a moment, for thine own good. Thou may not see how I give flesh to this beautifully shaped rib and finally make it into the female form of Adam. Yet take thy confidence: this artist is also a gifted surgeon. Is there any other way? To remove a rib from the somnolent Adam without even a
30

microscopic dose of narcotic, and to succeed all the while in not disturbing the man in his sleep of the just, as if it's nothing... that, my friends, demands a certain talent. You won't accomplish that with any old hocus pocus or abracadabra or open sesame. That requires an especially creative spirit, which has been given to no
a.
Well then, this new creature gets the name Eve, the mother of everything that lives. And Eve is rounded in all her forms. Supple, graceful and seductive in her movements. Much more beautiful and enticing than her hulking, hairy partner Adam. It's not impossible that Adam thinks the same. But a man who says what he really thinks of his life's companion, his spouse, his better halfthat man I haven't created. This is the man, that is the Woman, so istheone, so is the other, and nothingelse. Hast thou complaints? Then send an e-mail to the head office with the subject “I am anag and my bitch is very good at it too.”
Adam is not a nag, Adam is grateful. He says: "This is now bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.'
The god, overjoyed, taps himself proudly on the chest. The experiment, so he sees, has a great chance of success. It's good. Very good. Tremendous. Phenomenal. Go on, let it be said. Go ahead. Again it's an indisputable masterpiece, is it not? I’m on track. I'm going like a madman. Who wants to stop me? Give me five
The god gathers his angels, gets his just reward. He says: “Did I not say that I surely know what is in the heavens and the earth and I know what you reveal and what you hide?”
He summons the angels to submit themselves to Adam. After all, Adam knows the names of things, well-schooled as he is, while the angels lack the knowledge of things. Have respect for Vocabulary and grammar. Upon language life is based
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The angels fall to their knees, dripping with awe, and say: "Glory be to Thee! We have no knowledge but that which Thou hast taught us; surely Thou art the Knowing, the Wise.”
All angels submit themselves, except Iblis. He refuses. Ishe proud? No, angels are not made of matter and so they are without desires; they are in a continuous state of nirvana. Is he envious? Once again, angels are not made of matter and so they are without desires; they are in a continuous state of nirvana. Is he sceptical? Precisely. Iblis is not at all impressed with what the god calls his "indisputable masterpiece'. Does the obstinate angel recognize a lack, which he, the creator, refuses to perceive? Don't nag Stop asking those questions Guessing is for the godless
The god asks Iblis: “What hindered you so that you did not make obeisance when I commanded you?" -
Iblis answers: "I am better than he. Thou hast created me of fire, while him Thou didst create of clay.”
The heart of the god is aggrieved and fills with rage. Fills with concern. With fear. With sorrow. Iblis, the rebel, the critic, revolts against him, the god, the creator. It's Outrageous. It cannot be. It is forbidden. It is blasphemy. Yet it is inevitable. The god says: “Then get forth from this state, for it does not befit you to behave proudly therein. Go forth, therefore, for surely you are of the abject ones.'
Iblissays: "Give me respite until the day when the abject are raised
92
up.
How impertinent Iblis is not in a position to make requests. Nevertheless the god says: "Your delay is granted.” And he swears:
“Whoever of those creatures follows you, I will surely fill hell with all of them, every one.”
Iblis, despised and rejected, goes his way.
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eating a $5 plate of string hoppers, I think of my father
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
snoozing in front of Seinfeld on the beige on beige recliner
his belly folds after years of american chop Suey, hamburgers and Michelob Nothing
he really wanted to eat was ever on the shelves of Iandolli's or the Big D I think of that man who cried three times in my life once when appamma died once when our dog died & once when I sent him a 99-cent package of tamarind candy & he called me long distance after Ma went to bed weeping from tasting tamarind for the first time in thirty years
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Page 23
I neversaw pictures of the '83 riots on TV
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
This is now it starts: It's the day after Christmas I'm at my girlfriend's house on her futon full up with dirty socks empty coffee cups everything (she's a lot messier than me but she has cable) I am clicking channels I am full until I see them
my people
for the first time
I am used to no one being able to find my country on any map We are like the Congo or Sudan or any piece of land in North America
genocide that happens
and you say where ? pass the salt
I never saw pictures of the '83 riots on TV til now and
it's like it's real like it actually happened to the world not just to
C
no longer just a crazy story in me and amma's heads
20 years of civil war never dented the headlines but the day after Christmas the surviving children of Batti, Colombo of '83 and '56,
fill the malls
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lined up outside
shoe and computer stores security guards watching over consumer products our relatives ruined their eyesight for then this wave hits my television
and I am transfixed
half a world away
and a block
from the dosa mahal
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a love poem for Sakia Gunn
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha
Queer children run away to be ourselves We will not cut off our cock or cunt We will walk by the water find a girlfriend a boyfriend so fine We are giggles and nitrous nail tips family
We want to fuck and we want to walk the piers at night and
We will sneak out stay out til 3 be on the train at 4 to find a place where we can suck in that breath we need all the way down
And when some asshole cups his crotch at us we will tell him fuckyou man but do you have a sister? We will hunch our back
we will talk loud
we will pray
that one more time
we will make it home
When I was 16I gave blow jobs behind the high school I fingerfucked at the dead end of the block I would do anything to feel my breasts buzzing When I was 18 I rode the N train home at 5 AM smelling like Night Queen in a bra under a bomberjacket
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I acted crazy Istared at the ad in front of me I yelled my
head off Living was risky anyway so I did what I needed to do I was horny for the revolution but I didn't have it
Sakia looking at your face on the memorial website
I know I could've fallen in love with you easy You could've met my eyes just once wearing rainbow rings that were brave, not cheesy We could've been taking that late train back to Newark falling sticky stars all over each other in the vinyl seat my tittie poking out pussy humming
stupid fearless
Sakia
you were just trying to get home
We are all trying toget there
with you to that place where we can suck our breath all the way down
where they do not end us
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Page 25
Âm Công and the Customs of Bird-Burial
Van Cam Hai
I did not know as I entered the butter tea shop beside the gate of Jorkang pagoda that I would meet there a secretive man whose profession would shock the outside world. This man's job was to honor the age-old Tibetan custom of Dieu Tang, the sacred funerary ritual in which a corpse is sliced to pieces and thrown to the mouths of vultures.
There was no music in the tea shop in Lhasa. All feeling seemed to relax into the purple fabric lining of the chairs; customers leisurely drank their tea. The world here was as plain as the low tables, and the lives of the people were bowls of butter tea. They drank tea as though they daily drained their lives.
I thought of using the restroom as I waited for the tea to steep, but the idea of the wettoilet sheltered only by a sheet of fabric in the cold street made me pause. The door frames in Tibet are draped with fine cloth rather than wood as it shades the rooms from cold winds and can be decorated ornately. At last I asked an old man for directions. Passing by the many small rooms of the tea shop, my frostbitten footsteps pitched against the stone floor.
On the walls of the tea shop the light from the lively colors of a "Thanka'painting made me shiver. The painting showed a man swinging a sword through a dead body. The face of the headsman was strangely still and focused on the motion of slicing, while the face of the corpse was smiling. Behind the headsman was a flock of birds with long beaks filled with fresh blood. The movement of the Sword Swooping down as it sliced feet stopped me in my tracks. I
38
 

realized that behind me the old man was looking at me and at the painting.
-It's me!- he whispered. Though his voice showed his age it still shone with an odd joy-The man swinging the sword is me!
-You made a painting of an executioner? You are fond of that practice?
-No, I am not an executioner. I am the only Âm Công leftin Lhasa.
-Âm Công! Are you an Âm Công?- I cried out in the dim roomReally?
Without answering, the old man stepped forward and touched the painting wistfully. From the corners of his eyes, tears seemed brimming. In front of me is an Âm Công, I thought-aman who conducts the most imposing and frightening funeral in the eyes of the world.
On the way to Tibet, I had many thoughts of what might occur on the trip, but I had never dreamt of meeting an Âm Công, a legend that I had assumed was imaginary. I trembled returning to the table and ordered two full bowls of tea. The old man stepped toward the table to my invitation. His eyes glinted sharply, and for an instant I felt he was stepping toward my body as toward a corpse. I looked silently at his ten fingers, made lumpy from holding the tea bowl. Those two hands and the bloodstream that coursed through them had once been skilled at slicing bodies.
-In the painting, do I seem alive?- asked the old man.
-Alive, yes, very alive
– Dieu Tang was a long-standing custom in Tibet. Foreigners like
you may find it barbaric, but for Tibetans it was a high art.
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-Yes, the art of freedom- I answered, hoping not to miss this opportunity-Could you tell me about it?
-I'll tell you; I'll also show you.
The oldman stood up, stepped quickly to an apartment building next door, and returned to the table. Outside, the sun shone but my body felt like a block of ice rolling from the Himalayas down to the tea shop. In his hands was a sharp Sword with a curved blade. Though not as shocking as the three-edged 'Vajra hachet used in many Buddhist rituals, the oldman clutched the lancettightly, and his assassin pose was terrifying.
-I am notas oldas I seem- His withered arm swung the lancetin aray - of light. Not daring to look at him, the customers left their chairs in succession-Speaking openly, even if I were blind I could slice the flesh on your body into perfect pieces.
He seemed as peaceful as a child-perhaps as he had been in Mon Ngung, where he was born some ninety years ago. After his birth, Rigpaba's parents were pleased when an astrologer foretold that he would become a Lama doctor of the Mon Ba Tribe. Born in Mon Ngung, the Mon Ba Tribe live scattered in different districts-Mac Thoat, Lam Chi, ThoNain South Tibet. Rigpaba's parents, like others in MonNgung, were poor and earned their living by farming, breeding, and hunting. Anyone in their situation would have been thrilled for such an opportunity.
At the age of six, Rigpaba was sent to the abbey. The day a curl of his hair was returned to his parents as certification that he had been accepted to be taught to become a Lama, his parents and friends were forbidden to see him for twenty-six years. Overcoming many trials, Rigpaba finished the first five levels of teaching. First, he was a hermit serving in the abbey, then he became a "sadi” receiving the holy orders of thirty-six articles of law, thena“ti kheo” receiving 150 articles of law, then a "gheshe'-a doctor of Buddhology, a master in Buddha
40

law, Abhidharma, Brahman bible, and "nothingness philosophy.” Stepping through the threshold of Theravada and Mahayana, Rigpaba was taught the sacrament of the secret discipline of Mat Tong, when finally he became an outstanding Gyupa, one who is taught through the transmission of the mind. At that time Rigpaba became a Lamaan official hermit. In addition to the dogmas and his practicing of experimental mind transmission, Rigpaba had to study methods of curing diseases and of guiding the dead to the other world. Though he never returned to his hometown, Lama Rigpaba had visited remote mountains and little-known places to search for natural medicine unknown to most people. The early morning when in his role as a monkhe firsthelpedthe Âm Côngteamcarry acorpsetothemountain altered his religious life forever.
The tiger's growland the nameless flowers on Yarlung Tsangpo abyss are falling downendlessly in the brightly-lit stab of Rigpaba's memory. The first time I remember being conscious of sorrow was a lonely evening when I was left alone with a colony of ants. Being the youngest child, I liked to play with the ants when asked to keep an eye on the house. Black ants, red ants, brown ants relentlessly moved heaven and earth to carry food to their burrow. They were a fragile strand of life linking rice to nest. The strand would be broken if even one was killed, and the ants would become momentarily confused before gathering to bring the corpse home. I became conscious of death from those solitary days spent with the ants, though I did not yet understand completely how humans dealt with their dead. I wondered how ants handled their corpses in those dark holes. Did they eat the corpse orbury it as human might? If they buried it, was it high on a mountain Ordeepin Somedankplace?
My grandmother died during a cold winter in 1981. Never have I seen my mother cry so much. She cried not only out of love but out of sympathy because my grandmother had given birth to two daughters and no sons; my grandfatherhad never forgiven herfor this. She cried
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because my grandmother died in a flood, and she could not carry her corpse across the river to be buried in the mountain, but had to bury her in a sandbank at the end of the village. In Vietnam, my childhood was made up of days running errands and standing at the root of the banyan tree to see off the deaths of the village across Nhat Le River. Those families who lived on the riverbank had to carry the coffin around the village in parting, and then to the landing. When my grandfather died, his coffin was brought to each hamlet before being taken across the river to the mountain.
Nhat Le River becomes a stage when funerals are performed. People tieboats together into a raft to carry the coffin, the tombstone, and the relatives. Even if the waves are rough, the raft is first rowed some rounds near shore so that the first son can give thanks to the villagers standing there.
There are rivers in Tibet, but there is no wood to make boats, and no one dares to use only cowhide in those deep abysses. The only way to dispose of the corpse is to bury it on the spot. However, because of the hardness of the land, otherforms of burial came into being, the most popular being bird-burial, cremation, and water-burial. The burial rites differed among tribes. While the Mon Ba and Lac Batribes used all three burial customs, the Dang tribe banned water-burial because they believed sinking a corpse in water would bring disasters to the family of the deceased.
In the Tibetan language, the human body is "tu'-something we leave behind. Ahuman is only a traveler who dwells in the body for a short time. Tibetans do not care to enrich their lives with material objects. For them, a plain house, a little tsampa powder, and Some goat dung to light a fire in the cold winter are enough. On thousand-meter high passes houses appear drifting on Snow. It seems they want to separate themselves from this world. Because the body is just amaterial sack to house the soul, death means nothing. And, on this cold plateau, where the blue sky and glaring light are everywhere, nothing could be more beautiful than burying the dead in the world of light. This notion
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inspired the customs of Dieu Tang. What a sublime idea: the body, rather than being discarded, is instead enshrouded by light
In order to send a corpse to the world of light, birds must bring it high into the sky. The stomachs of these birds become a living coffin flying in immense space. In order to lay the corpse in those small coffins, it must be sliced into tiny pieces. Such work is only for those with thick skin.
The Âm Côn gin Tibet lived and worked in isolation; they were of a world apart. They spoke only to the world of death. From their bodies, dark airemanated and gathered. They were not like the Vietnamese Âm Công whosejobis simply to carry the coffin when attending a funeral.
The Âm Công would wait three nights and three days, until the body had died completely and the soul had left through the teachings of Bardo Thodol, a holy book written by a Buddhist monk in the 8" century. Roughly translated it means The Book About Dead People, as there is no verb in the Tibetan language that means “to die.” After those three days, the Âm Công team wouldbundlẻ the corpse into a piece of cloth and carry it to a distant place where no one dared to approach.
When the corpse was fastened to fourpoles, the Âm Công began to make their autopsy. Each stab was exact. The slices were made in extreme precision again and again until the corpse was just a skeleton. As the pieces offlesh flew off the lancet, the flock of vultures welcomed it, not allowing a drop of blood to fall. The largest of the flock enjoyed the heart, and others in turn ate to the last piece of meat. When the flesh was gone, the skeleton too was ground for the Vultures to bring to the sky.
The Âm Công were not only concerned with the funeral; they had to slice carefully because during their grisly performance they also studied
the causes of death.
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In the Western world, autopsy is a relatively recent phenomenon due to the strict laws of the church. Yet it has been an everyday affair in Tibet for thousands of years, though it originally developed more as an offshoot than as a principle aim of the method of Dieu Tang.
After following this team for more than a year, Rigpababecame an experienced slicer. His Swipes were as fast as a flash of lighting, more precise thana ruler, more Sophisticated than an average Âm Công. Through his work the causes of death were quickly revealed. Then one day he suddenly took leave of the monk's robe to become an Am Công.
-One early morning, I followed the team to slice a corpse as usualRigpaba explained, and his eyes seemed to see the past through a flickeringray- I didn't know why I felt mournful at the first stab. Then, at the time I brought down the lancet, a cry shot out from the body. He advised me to slice him peacefully, not to tremble, not to grieve. The more finely Isliced, the faster he could go to the heavens! My god. It turned out that he was not dead yet! The stab must have awakened him. The whole team plunged forward to detach him from the poles but his body refused to move. He hurriedly uttered word after word to me. He knew it was time to die, and he asked me to slice his corpse devotedly, to slice until he became only nothingness!
Rigpaba had collapsed on to the table for he knew that the man near death was an anonymous monk. Those words were no more than an instruction in dogma, a test to verify Rigpaba's strength of spirit. Twentysix years had come to nothing for him! Twenty-six years of religious training had crumbled under the word of death.
After that frightening morning, more than 500 corpses were sent to the blue sky by the executioner Rigpaba. He became as skilled as a dancer on the corpse. His refined Swing became a play that fascinated anyone who witnessed it. Even Vultures were not fastenough to snatch all the pieces of flesh flying from the corpse like cherry blossoms dropping in a spring wind.

米 米 米
Rigpaba sits silently. The cup of butter tea is empty. His eyes throw pierces hoveringovermy body. Here is heart and life, here is meditation, here are pains persecuting me and Rigpaba. Not only Rigpaba, but now I too am a slicer, ayoung Âm Công investigating the body of Rigpaba, dropping sharp cuts. Infront of me, Rigpaba is now acorpse and perhaps from now on everyone will become a corpse to me, their bodies opening up the windows to their spirits.
I am no longer frightened of the lancet in Rigpaba's hands. It is lying there. The marks of sunshine remain on the unpolished table. I know now why Rigpaba discarded Buddhist prayer-books-not because he loved the job of executioner, but because for him, the action of slicing a corpse became a method of Buddhist Zen, his own personal practice.
For Tibetans, all behavior must correspond to the circulating rhythm of the universe. Even the most trivial actions are checkedcarefully by the consciousness of mixing themselves with their surroundings. A situation might not seem positive at first, but in a larger context it becomes so. When raising a cup of tea, it is not right to empty the cup in one gulp. Tibetans drink tea in mouthfuls gradually and add more hot water before taking another sip. So, too, Tibetans will be offended if their guest does not drinkaglass of wine slowly in three sips. Tsampa wine, which Tibetans call"thuong' is made from Tsampa powder which can be found almost anywhere; people of all ages drink it. To drinka bowl of wine, the guest should take one sip and wait to take the second until the host adds more wine. The thirdsip should be drunk in the same way. Three sips of wine, and you have won the heart of your host.
One day, a young, married woman went to askBuddhahow to practice Zen. Buddha did not teach her anything difficult. He looked ather two hands which were hardened from pulling water upfrom the well, and answered:
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-You should concentrate on pulling water. Each movement must be made in clear thought. If you can do that, you will surely find your mind peaceful, delicate, and lucid. That is Zen.- The young woman awakened. She came back home, acted on Buddha's advice, and found peace.
Rigpaba does not pull water up from the well as the young woman did. Rigpaba uses the sword as a method of discovering the Nothingness in his spirit. As he said, slicing acorpse means uncovering death. Life is hidden in the body, even the skeleton is given to the stomachs of vultures and disappears in the blue sky. All will be restful and completed naturally by the stab Theckchod. Theckchod is one of the two practices in the Buddhist book Nyingma dogma. It is the definitive action of cutting the ties of reason and sentiment, of breaking the barrier that prevents humans from approaching the freedom that by nature exists in the mind.
When Rigpababrandishes the sword, he cuts the ties that hinderbody, language, and mind from accepting the Buddhist teachings. He embraces those things born from the mind and the heart unhindered, like clouds in the sky. When we have understood these phenomena, that is the essence of Nothingness. We can enter into meditation, deep into religious contemplation. The teachings of the Buddhist priest Garab Porje were brought to life through Rigpaba's slicing of the corpse.
-Since 1950 and the Chinese occupation of Tibet, I haven't been allowed to use the sword. Flocks of vultures here are no longerhealthy. In the sky, there is no longer the deep, hollow note of the transformation of humans' flesh-Rigpaba lowered his eyes and Sipped a mouthful of tea, drinking in quick Stabs.
I spoke then.-On a snowy night in the Netherlands watching a film about the Dalai Lama living in exile, I could not have expected to be one day downtown, in Octagonal Street which was once filled with blood andgunsmoke. The footsteps of Buddhist priests squelched in the blood of Tibetans who died in this street. Nowadays, there is no
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longer the sound of gunshots in Tibet. However, in front of Potala citadel, at the foot of the peaceful Tibetan monument, there is always a Chinese soldier on watch with an AKgun in his hands.
- They prohibited bird-burial. The Âm Công team separated. All of them died. I am the last one here, longing for it- Rigpaba seemed intensely regretful.
- And are you no longerpracticing Zen meditation?-Iasked cryptically, sharing in his sorrow.
- No, I still do!- Rigpaba's eyes suddenly flashed.- How did you know Dieu Tang is a method of practicing Zen? A secret of my life. Who told you?
-Thekchod!-I answered mysteriously.
-Thekchod? Rigpaba again drew the sword. The afternoon in Lhasa was transparent. The butter tea shop was empty. I could hear breath emanating from the whole body of the withered Rigpaba.
-You are worthy of being shown something.- Rigpaba stood and walkedback to his apartment, which bordered the tea shop. I followed. Many candles were lit. In the room danced hundreds of Thanka paintings. I was excited by the innumerable dances of the whirling Sword which were painted sometimes with peaceful colors and sometimes with frightening, violentones.
I had spent a long time immersed in the colors of Picasso's cubist paintings in the cellar of the LaHaye museum. I had also spent time passionately deep in space in Van Gogh’s paintings in the Amsterdam museum, and had wandered in the World of many colors in the LOuvre in Paris. However, never before had my thoughts wheeled so, as if boats were being warped by waves in the apartment of Thanka paintings. Here, I could see the image of Genie Yidam Yamankata holding in his hands a human skull full of blood. The genie of death is so ferocious that Tibetans cover the image of his face with cloth. I was
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puzzled by the natural beauty of a nude Tibetan girl. And I paid respect to the painful faces of Buddha which were expressed with different colors-white, red, green, yellow. All are facing the man brandishing the bloody lancet and flying with a flock of vultures into the blue sky. That is Rigpaba. Rigpaba is still practicing Buddhist contemplation in those Thanka paintings.
In Tibetan abbeys, there are many works of art that are the product of an association of high-ranking Lamas. Under the instruction of a Lama masterother Lamas will bring their thoughts together to finish their part of the painting. The assemblage of these parts makes a beautiful work of art. While painting, all the Lamas are in the state of Samadhi-Buddhist contemplation-reciting the Buddhistscriptures. Because the colors they use manifest something outside of themselves, all the lines of the painting gathered from different painters look to be from one hand. Rigpaba, a Lama doctor, an Âm Công, a Lama artist-did he paint alone or with others? How could he make, such a formidable painting, one that seemed to hypnotize my every thought?
-I painted it by myself-Rigpaba saw through my thoughts- I did it after I gave up the sword. I painted my happier days. I have had nothing but painting for forty years.
The paintings were hypnotizing. I looked attentively and found that however new or old they appeared to be, the lines and colors all seemed essential and alive. The more I looked at them, the more lively and new the paintings appeared to be. The man whirling the sword in the new painting was even faster and more adventurous than the man in the painting of forty years ago.
-Thodgal-Myself-confidence was like a candle's light waxing in the face of Rigpaba.
"Thodgal.” While I was saying the word, I felt the sword looping around my back. I was suddenly too weak even to lift a rice bowl;
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how could I avoid his slice of precision? But no! Instead of receiving his sword, my whole body vibrated in the arms of Rigpabal
-Thodgal Tho-d-g-all- His sounds were gradually sinking into his blood-vessels.
The days of whirling the lancet, for him, had been the time of practicing Thekchod, and the days of painting were the time of practicing Thodgal. Apart of Nyingma dogma, Thodgal means direct' in an urgent move, an instant change from here to there without the intervention of time. Thodgal is the highest form of meditation, both the simplest and the most difficult; it is here sang-pa, the visible surpassing consciousness. Thodgal is the integration into the visible, the natural completeness of the tranquil base of self in Thekchod. The process from Thekchod to Thodgal is also the means of verifying Dzogchen dogma-Dai Toan Thien, or “Great Perfection” that Palmasambhava, the pioneer hermit, left for the secret Tibetan religion of Mat Giao.
-Stay here Stay here in Tibet-Rigpaba hasn't left the sword-I will teach you how to use this, how to paint Thanka, and how to drink three bowls of tea with Tsampa cake. And when I die, you will be the one who offers me stabbing so that my corpse will fly away into the sky in the stomach of a flock of vultures.”
Isilently listened to him as a little boy listening to his grandfather. - I know you can't stay. But I will offer you this sword. Take it to your homeland, not to slice corpses but to remember that wherever you are in your daily life, even in the corner of the kitchen, Thekchod and Thodgal live if you have a good heart.
I was moved. I shivered. My fingers became anemic and pale. Holding the sword meant holding the free wings of the sky, holding the frightening but holy life ofan Âm Công, holding a great Seal of the secret discipline of Mat Tong.
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Ileft the teashop. The sun was immense. People were rushing through Octagonal Street. No one knew that in Lhasa, there was an Âm Công hiding, leading aprivate religious life with miraculous Thanka paintings.
Rigpaba, the old ant! I know in the nest, ants devote everything to life, so their deaths hold little importance. In the corner of Lhasa, Rigpaba will die, and his body will not be sliced into pieces. After a life devoted to training, his rough body of ninety years will shrink to dissolve in the immortal light that Tibetans describe as "melting into the body of the rainbow.” Will anyone have the heart to pick up the hair and fingernails that Rigpabaleaves behind as holy relics in the apartment filled with Thanka paintings, or will they disappear under the sweeping of some soldier?
(Translated by Van Cam Hai and Lauren Shapiro)
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(An excerpt from the play)
Mad people
Senaka Abeyratne
ACT FOUR
Sally, seated in the living room smoking a cigarette with Georgina seated opposite her, filing her nails.)
GEORGINA:Do you think Max has left for good? SALLY:Yeah. GEORGINA:Any idea where he's staying?
SALLY:No. GEORGINA:No word from him since he left? SALLYNo.
GEORGINA:Not even a phone call?
SALLY:No.
GEORGINA:Do you miss him? SALLY: Yeah, Iloathe the son-of-a-bitch, but I miss him nonetheless. GEORGINA:That's what you call a love-hate relationship, Sweetheart. SALLY: I don't love him anymore, sister. GEORGINA:Oh yes, you do. SALLY:How do you know? GEORGINA:I can tell from your eyes. SALLY:Oh yeah? What do you see? GEORGINA:I see pain, suffering, despair. SALLY:Oh, cut the crap, will you? GEORGINA:I'm your elder sister, Sally. I know when you're
unhappy.
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SALLY:Look Georgina, I have every reason to be unhappy. My frigging husband's just walked out on me. But that doesn't means I'm suffering from clinical depression,
okay? GEORGINA:But you're pissed off with him for leavingyou, right SALLY:You're damn right, I am. GEORGINA:But can you blame him for leaving you? SALLY:Why not? GEORGINA:Sister, you tried to kill him. If I hadn't walked in, he would be a goner by
now. And don't tell me you were playacting.
SALLY: I was. GEORGINA:Now come off it, Sally. You were about to commit a crime of passion. SALLY:Are you nuts? If I had killed him, it would have been cold-blooded murder, not
a crime of passion. GEORGINA.So you admit you were about to slit his throat when I walked in? SALLY:Don't put words in my mouth, sister. I was just outlining a hypothetical scenario. If I were serious about killing him, I would have done himin. GEORGINA: You almost did, not once but twice. SALLY: butting her cigarette angrily I told you I was playacting, dammit! GEORGINA:Chill, sister. You don't have to throw a wobbly, okay? SALLY. (getting up and walking downstage) Whose side are you on, anyway - his or
mine?
GEORGINA:I don't take sides, sister. I'm a gongoozler. SALLY:Agongoozler! What's that? GEORGINA. An idle spectator, if you will. SALLY:Like hell you are. You're a frigging interloper.
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GEORGINA:feigning surprise Me, an interloper? SALLY:Yeah, you're always sticking your nose in my business. GEORGINA:You know, I'm surprised you say that. SALLY:Well, it's true. GEORGINA:I have never meddled in your affairs, sister. SALLY:Is that so? Then who brought Max into my life? GEORGINA:Are you blaming me for your screwed-up marriage? SALLY: Yeah, you encouraged me to marry me that lousy, impotent bastard, that
fuckingyo-yo.
GEORGINA: I did not. SALLY:Oh yes, you did. You were fucking his sister when you were still a guy,
weren't you?
GEORGINA:Yeah, So what? SALLY:When she died, you felt sorry for Max because he was all lonely and cut up. You couldn't handle his depression, so you palmed him off on me. GEORGINA:Nobody forced you to marry him, Sally. You married him on your own
accord.
SALLY: I married him under pressure, Georgina. GEORGINA.From whom?
SALLY: From you. GEORGINA:Honey, that's a figment of your imagination. SALLY:Is that So? GEORGINA:Yeah, you're fucking hallucinating, if you ask me.
Getting off her chair and walking up to her You're acting mighty strange these days, sister. The way you went at Max with the knife the other day; all that anger and fury; I thought you'd gone
off your rocker.
SALLY:So I'm the crazy one in the family, am I? GEORGINA:Now don't put words in my mouth, sister.
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SALLY:Look at you; you were born a man and now you're a VO.
GEORGINA:So what? SALLY:crossing over to the other side) The next thing I know, you’ll be having
babies. GEORGINA:following her Ido want to have a kid someday. Anything wrong with
that?
SALLY:You may be a woman outside, but you're still a man inside, Georgina. You can fuck till you're blue in the face, but you can't have babies. GEORGINA:Listen, stupid, I know I can’t make babies but I can adopt one. SALLY: And where's the mother's milk going to come from? GEORGINA:I've got tits, honey, and they're much bigger than yOurS. SALLY:Those are silicone tits, sister. You can't feedbabies with silicone tits.
GEORGINA:You're jealous, aren't you? SALLY:Of what? Your tits?
GEORGINA: Yeah. SALLY:(laughing Are you kidding? Men don't like false tits, darling, they like
the real thing. GEORGINA:Men are stupid, honey. They can't tell the difference between real tits and silicone tits. They want something to suck on. That's all they care about. SALLY:Is that why you became a woman? Because you think men are stupid? GEORGINA:Yeah, all the men I know have sandbags in their brains.
SALLY:But you don't mindfucking them, right? GEORGINA:Nothing wrong with that, is there? There's a big difference between
54

fucking and loving, honey. Men are good at fucking but they're no good at loving. SALLY:Some men can't do either. They're of no use to man or beast.
GEORGINA:Like Max? SALLY: Yeah, like Max. So why did you palm him off on me, Georgina? GEORGINA:I thought you could straighten him out, Sally. He had this thing for his
sister, you know.
SALLY:What thing?
GEORGINA:Akind of deep affection. SALLY:You mean, incest? GEORGINA:No, Max never touched his sister. SALLY:How do you know? GEORGINA:I was her lover, for Christ's sake. Maggie had no qualms about wearing her heart on her sleeve. She never hid anything from me. SALLY:Did she ever discuss her relationship with Max? GEORGINA:Yeah, many times. She called it platonic love. SALLY: cynically Platonic love?
GEORGINA: Yeah. SALLY:No wonder the son-of-a-bitch is impotent. Don't you see, he's got a hang-up,
an obsession.
GEORGINA:For his sister?
SALLY:Yeah. GEORGINA:Honey, Maggie's been dead for three years. SALLY:That's the whole point, Georgina. He can't make love to another Woman because he's pining for his dead sister. Now it all makes sense. GEORGINA:Come to think of it, it does. SALLY.And you wanted me to straighten him out? GEORGINA:Yeah, after all, you're beautiful and sexy, aren't you? SALLY:Me? Sexy?Youthink I'm sexy?
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GEORGINA:Yeah, you've got plenty of sex appeal, you know. SALLY: Drop dead, sister. I'm as slim as a reed. No curves, no tits, no ass.
GEORGINA:Men like bony asses, you know. SALLY:Christ From where do you get all these dumb ideas? GEORGINA:after a pause Listen, Sally, I have some news for you.
SALLY:What news?
GEORGINA:If you sitdown, I'll tell you. SALLY:Tell me what? GEORGINA:Sitdown, honey, for Pete's sake.
They both sit down, facing each other:
SALLY:All right, spit it out. GEORGINA: I saw Max with another woman at the pub. SALLY: after a pause Who is she? GEORGINA:Dunno. Neverseen her before. But guess what?
Pause. She looks just
like his sister.
SALLY:Are you serious? GEORGINA:Yeah, spitting image. To be honest, I couldn't take my eyes off her. It
was like déjà Vu.
SALLY:You're not feeding me a line, are you? GEORGINA:Honey, I swear, I saw Max and this Maggie-lookalike at the pub and - they were acting all lovey-dovey. SALLY: springing onto her feet Son-of-a-bitch GEORGINA:She was hot. You know how a sausage sizzles when it's cooking in the
pan? That's how hot she was. SALLY: walking downstage) What were they doing? GEORGINA:Like I said, they were acting all lovey-dovey. SALLY:What exactly were they doing?
56

GEORGINA:You really want to know? Are you sure you won't cut up rough? - SALLY:Gimme a break, will you? GEORGINA:Well, he was kissing her and she had her hand on his crotch.
SALLY:On his crotch?
GEORGINA:Yeah, I swear. SALLY:She was playing with him in the pub? GEORGINA:nodding) Right in front of our eyes. Max was enjoying all the attention and I'll tell you what: his crotch was swelling up like a ball of dough.
SALLY:That doesn't sound like the Max I know. GEORGINA:You can say that again, sister. Max is not a kid anymore. He's got this cocky, macho attitude all of a sudden. Yeah, it's his change of attitude that struck me. That woman's done something to him for sure. You know what? I think it all boils down to the immune system. You should see them together, Sally. They look hot. I
11ՂՇaIՈ . . .
SALLY:(butting in Shut up!
GEORGINA:What?
SALLY: shouting Isaid shut up. GEORGINA:standing up) Sister, what's the matter? SALLY:trembling with rage) Do you know what you are? You're a dumb, stupid,
crazy, fucking bitch. GEORGINA: walking towards her Honey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you or
anything.
SALLY:Do you realize what you're doing to me? GEORGINA:Don't get angry with me, darling. I'm just telling you what I saw. If Max has found another woman, you should be happy for him.
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SALLY: screeching Happy Are you nuts? We're still married, Georgina. Max is still
my frigging husband, for Christ's sake. GEORGINA:But you tried to kill him, sister. You drove him away He's gone. You've lost him. He's never going to come back to you - not after he's found his Maggie
look-alike.
SALLY: sitting down again Oh God!
GEORGINA:Sally...
SALLY:Getlost, Georgina. GEORGINA:I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, darling. SALLY:breaking down You're driving me mad, do you hear? You're driving me mad.
Fade to black.
58

The Rainfly
Anne Ranasinghe
When the downpour ceased, rainflies, attracted by the lamp on my desk, invaded my office. Like blossoms driven by an unrelenting wind they whirled and danced in a wild frenzy, using their delicate, elegant, oval-shaped wings with total abandon.
One of the flies dropped onto a sheet of white paper in front of me. Its thorax and abdomen continued to vibrate as it tried to rise, to regain height, but its body would not, could not, respond. And then, silently and simultaneously, the four transparent wings detached themselves and drifted gently onto the white surface that surrounded the insect.
The rainfly appeared surprised, then terrified. The minute head with its black pin-point eye moved frantically from side to side, while its body quivered-violently, for such a small creature - attempting again and again to take off from the whiteness on which it had landed.
But it could not. The beautiful wings lay where they had fallen-four little jewels shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the lamplight. The fly, with great difficulty, now rose onto its minuscule legs and ran towards the wings, again trying to activate its flying mechanism, and totally distraught at its inability to do so. The wings lay scattered, and the fly, seeking comfort, moved towards them, body still vibrating, its head with its two hair-fine feelers raised, ready for flight.
But without wings it could not fly. Hesitating a moment, it appeared to give up the struggle, and slowly lowered its body to reston one of
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the Wings. There it lay, periodically trying to take off, and more and more dismayed at its failure. Again the fly got onto its feet and began to criss-cross the terrain in a totally disoriented manner. The edge of the white paper presented a major hurdle: when you are used to flying you cannot guage the abyss between paper and desk.
And then a very small ant arrived from nowhere, reconnoitering, located the wings, busily examined them, and started searching for the body to which they had been attached.
The rainfly saw the ant. Its strength began to ebb, and little by little it stopped its unfocused running, the body tremors becoming more feeble and occurring at greater and greater intervals. The ant clearly created terror, and the rainfly recognized the enemy. Did it have foreknowledge of a programmed death, and intuitively fear the part the ant might play? Did it sense the meaning of death, and if not, why was it so afraid?
The rainfly, now my companion, had fulfilled its one-day destiny. One day, or eighty years-the end has to come, and perhaps it is an identical journey in time. I could save the rainfly from the ant. But I could not save it from death.

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