Original Article Published in ​The Island Online 23 June 2026

The biggest part of the challenge of a critical scholar in the humanities is having to engage critically with the very realities that define her existence as a social being.  She cannot even begin to comment on the focus of her study without creating shock waves that would hit her own self in some form.  One could argue that the scholars in the field of the humanities are part of what is being studied in one way or another.  Critical scholarship in those fields entails destabilizing the ground beneath their own feet.

An essential part of scholarly/scientific inquiry is being able to objectify what is being studied and examine it closely but at a distance, that too in a manner that scholar’s personal biases do not affect the judgement.  Any failure to comply with this requirement immediately brands the study as unscientific.  To try to understand this using an example situation, I would assume that a scientist who conducts her research in a laboratory setting and who experiments with sodium and chlorine as chemical elements have the privilege of entering the experiment without any personal and emotional ties to either of the elements, placing one element in contact with the other without having to raise questions about her own existence, and observing and recording the outcome of the experiment without having to simultaneously examine what sort of implications the outcome has had for her as a person.  The findings of the experiment may certainly advance her/him in the domain of science, but it is unlikely that the outcome of the study would result in any transformation within her as a social being.

The same privilege is not available for the (critical) scholars in the humanities.  What chemical elements are for the scientist, the different social, political, cultural, gender, ethnic, racial, and religious identities are for those in the humanities.  What the controlled, and also largely predictable, laboratory environment is for the scientist, the uncontrolled, even erratic, society is for those in the humanities.  What the scientific experiments where the composition and behaviour of the individual chemical elements are explored is for the scientist, a close examination of phenomena and topics that cut across the categories of the social, the political, the cultural, and the religious is for those in the humanities.

The relatively clear differentiation or separation that is there between the scientist’s personal space and the laboratory setting where she conducts her research is not there in the case of her counterpart in the humanities.  The latter does not have a separate laboratory setting that she can step into from her personal space, as the social space, which is her site of research, has her personal space already embedded in it.  The freedom that the scientist has to cut herself off from what shapes her existence as a social and political being, as she enters her laboratory, is not available for her counterpart in the humanities, for the simple reason that the social and the political, which define her life outside her research, is also at the core of what she engages with in her research.  Even in a setting where the latter locks herself up in a room and cuts herself off from the rest of society, the social and the political continue to define both her perspective and the object of study.  Even the scientist  who conducts groundbreaking research in her field has the option of taking her life, defined by the social, the political, the cultural and the religious, for granted, as her success is measured purely on the basis of her scholarly output; however, the scholar in the humanities, irrespective of whether she is an experienced researcher or not, would have to acknowledge the nexus between her personal life and her scholarly life, explicitly or implicitly, and her engagement with the chosen object of study will entail some sort of an engagement with her own existence.

To use an example from the field of language studies which my work is primarily in, New Varieties of English, like what is called Sri Lankan English, is a topic that I try to engage with in both my teaching and research.  Approached from a critical point of view, Sri Lankan English as a New Variety of English is more a political category than a linguistic one.  The claims that you make may be based on linguistic evidence, but the conceptualization of a separate form of English as Sri Lankan English even on the basis of objective linguistic evidence is primarily a political claim.  The creation of such a category invariably leads to questioning the identity of English as a unified language.  It also results in destabilizing and redefining the positions of English, Tamil, and Sinhala in the broader society.  As a speaker of Sinhala and English, as my first language and second language respectively, and also whose identity is defined by the complex interrelations between the two languages in the local context, I cannot even begin to comment on the idea of Sri Lankan English without engaging with my own existence and without upsetting the culture that defines that existence, at least to a certain extent.

Even when I find the case for Sri Lankan English to be convincing, I feel compelled to word the arguments carefully.  This feeling of compulsion to word the arguments carefully is certainly in recognition of the need to make academically-sound arguments; however, in addition to that, it has also to do with my position outside the social class which has traditionally been seen as having proprietary rights over the language.  In that setting, I am less of an academic with an objective mindset than of a strategist who is enmeshed in the ethnic and class relations that define the topic of Sri Lankan English.  At the same time, in a context where one’s knowledge of English is a primary determiner of success in society and what is predominantly valued is the so-called proper forms of English, I have had to ask myself if any claims, including the most convincing, academically-sound ones, in the direction of legitimizing Sri Lankan English should not be made with caution.

I have also had to reconcile between two seemingly contradictory positions involved in making a case for Sri Lankan English, especially in the context of an English Honours Degree programme, that too at a leading university in the country.  On the one hand, making a case for Sri Lankan English entails encouraging deviation from the established norm/s of the language; on the other hand, considering the language focus of the Degree programme, the need to require the students to make their arguments using a normative form of English that would be recognized internationally could not be overlooked.  At one level, this seeming contradiction could easily be dismissed as hypocrisy, but a closer and more serious reading of the situation would see in it a certain “maneuvering” and “negotiating” that the scholars in the discipline of English Studies, especially those stationed in peripheral contexts like ours, are constrained to undertake in their engagement with the topic of English in postcolonial settings.  The claims that the scholars make may be based on a careful examination of the relevant linguistic evidence, but in addition to that, there is also a certain identity politics that the scholars have no option but to engage with in the process of making those claims.

Accordingly, to make a claim in the humanities from a critical point of view is also to question in some form what defines one’s own identity, and this may not be the most comfortable undertaking for many of us in the field.  This explains, at least to a certain extent, why some scholarly engagements with history result in mere glorifications of the mainstream historical narratives; why some scholarly engagements with literature and language result in a mere celebration of the mainstream literary traditions and hegemonic languages; how some scholarly engagements with the idea of culture directly subscribe to the position that culture should always be preserved and celebrated.  Such approaches leave the status-quo largely untouched, and therefore the amount of unsettling that the scholars have to deal with is minimal.  How much value they are in a position to add to the existing scholarship, of course, is a question.

​Any act of critical scholarship in the field of the humanities entails the scholar having to challenge in some form what defines her personal existence.  This may not be the most comfortable move to make, but that is the only way the scholar could try to make a contribution of value to the field.  It is important that this dilemma that the critical scholars in the humanities have to go through is recognized for what it is. 

Original Article Published in ​The Island Online 3 December 2024

Generative Artificial Intelligence, or GenAI, has been a hot topic mainly in academic circles for the past few years, and one of the fields in which GenAI has made ripples is English Language Teaching (ELT).  While some have embraced GenAI as a resourceful tool, which could be used to improve the ELT situation, some others have expressed concern regarding the possible negative impact of GenAI in the field.  Research conferences are being organized where the intervention of GenAI in ELT is being discussed from multiple angles.  Research publications are emerging on the topic turning field into one of academic enquiry.

Key Contextual Factors

In my view, there are three contextual factors, which we need to take into consideration in understanding the connection between GenAI and ELT, especially in the Sri Lankan context.  The first factor concerns itself with the socioeconomic context in which access to GenAI needs to be understood.  GenAI is often being talked about as a tool that is freely available for whoever wants to use it; however, the limitations with regard to access to technological resources would show that GenAI is not at everyone’s fingertips.  In such a context, the claim that GenAI is a tool that is freely available itself is a classist one.

The second factor concerns itself with the general attitude towards English in the Sri Lankan context.  Much has been said about the ambivalent relationship that many maintain with the English language.  Although English does not enjoy the official language status in the Constitution, it is arguably the most powerful language in the country.  It is widely seen as the language that can get you opportunities in life.  Nevertheless, English, at the same time, is being seen as a threat, mainly for the cultural and socioeconomic baggage that it carries around with it. The class undertones of the language continue to repel large segments of learners from the language.  Such ground level realities have made English a politically and ideologically charged language, converting ELT into a tension-filled exercise.

The third factor is about the form of English that is used in the country.  We generally think of languages as homogeneous entities; however, the reality is far from that.  Variation is a core part of every language, and it is particularly the case with languages like English, which have wide international presence.  Much has been said about different forms or varieties of English being used in different parts of the world and also about them being legitimate forms of English.  Similarly, in the Sri Lankan context, we speak of Sri Lankan English.  The attitudes towards Sri Lankan English range from seeing it as a substandard, broken form of English to conceptualizing it as a fully legitimate form of English that is most suited to engaging with the realities that are Sri Lankan in nature.  Irrespective of the attitude that one may maintain towards the kind of English that is associated with Sri Lanka, the fact that what is taught and used predominantly in the local context is a form that is characteristically Sri Lankan.  It has meaning making processes that are specific to the local context.  Whether GenAI is sensitive to such context-specific characteristics of English is a question.

General Perception  

There is a widespread perception that GenAI is going to render English language teachers as experts on the language redundant, at least for two reasons.  Firstly, the learner could go directly to GenAI and get their doubts clarified.  Generally speaking, clarifying doubts about the language has so far been the duty of the English language teacher, but now that role is being taken over by GenAI.  Secondly, GenAI can be used by the learner to get their language related tasks, especially in the area of writing, done. They can get their essays, responses, reports, and even poems and short stories written by GenAI.  The sense of autonomy that GenAI as a tool affords the learner arguably raises questions regarding the relevance of the role played by the teacher.

Current Theory of Language and Language Teaching

I would argue that we share this perception because we subscribe to a certain theory of language and a certain theory of language teaching.  We tend to think of language primarily as a structured object, or in other words, as an entity composed of a collection of sounds and vocabulary items that are held together by a set of rules.  Phonology concerns itself with the rules that govern how the sounds of the language are formed.  The physiology behind the production of individual sounds and how the sounds thus produced position themselves in relation to each other become the primary focus there.  Then in morphology, we talk about the rules that govern the formation of words.  The idea is that there is a structure for each and every word in the language and that there are rules that govern that structure.  The study of the words in the language becomes a study of those structures.  In syntax, we talk about the rules that govern how words are put into bigger constructs, such as phrases, clauses, and sentences.  Again, the primary focus is on the rules and structures.  According to this conception of language, it is the structuredness of the entity that defines its identity.  That is why we see language primarily as a collection of sounds and vocabulary items that are held together by a set of rules.

When we subscribe to such a conception of language, language teaching becomes instilling those rules and structures in the mind of the learner.  This explains why language teaching is so much about teaching the grammar of the language.  From this point of view, the goal of language teaching is to produce someone who is skilled in managing the rules and structures of the language.  Error correction is a big part of this type of approach to language teaching.  Errors are violations of the rules that govern the structures of the language, and language teaching aims at minimizing such violations so that the structures can function smoothly.  This is why language teaching has become primarily about instilling the correct rules pertaining to pronunciation, word formation, and the formation of sentences and rectifying any errors made in those areas.

Interestingly, this function of language teaching is increasingly being taken over by GenAI.  The language teacher is in competition with GenAI to remain the authority on the structure of the language, and there are signs that the former may not be able to maintain their primacy for too long.

Need for Re-orientation

In my view, GenAI has brought us to a historical juncture where we have no choice but to reexamine the theory of language and language teaching that we subscribe to.  I see this as a wonderful opportunity for language to distance itself from its position as a structured entity whose structuredness is seen as what defines its identity to a position where language is understand as a particular take on reality, a position that is at the heart of the theories of language proposed by many thinkers.  This theory of language entails that different languages are different ways of thinking and talking about the world and our existence in it.  There are thinkers who have pointed out that no two languages look at the world in the exact same way.  In that sense, the different languages could be thought of primarily as voices.
​
This shift in the theory of language entails a shift in the theory of language teaching, too.  In a context where a language is seen primarily as a voice, language teaching becomes an activity that facilitates the acquisition of that voice.  When one learns a language what she acquires is the ability to think and talk about the world and existence in a novel way.  This does not mean that teaching grammar and correcting errors are no longer part of language teaching.  It means that language teaching will not be limited to those two activities.  The proposed re-orientation is a move in the direction of critical pedagogy whose end goal is to empower the learner with a voice, which would enable her to negotiate her position in the broader web of power relations that she is part of.

Original Article published in The Island Online 2 April 2024

English language teaching (ELT) has been a topic of national significance in the country for the past several decades, particularly since the introduction of the Open Economy in the late 70’s.  Improving English education has been seen as an urgent and timely need that is directly linked to the economic development of the country, in the broader context of globalization.  Despite the importance attributed to the topic, there is general consensus that English language education in Sri Lanka has largely been a failure.  The absence of competent teachers with proper training in teaching English as a second language and lack of motivation and the right attitude on the part of the students are often cited as reasons for the poor situation with regard to English language education in the country.  Read against this general picture, Selvaraj Vishvika’s recent Kuppi column “The dispossession of a voice through English in Sri Lanka” (February 6, 2024) has interesting insights to offer into some of the important dimensions of the matter at hand.

Vishvika’s central argument is that successful ELT is about enabling students to acquire a voice of their own, a voice that would empower them to express themselves effectively, and that certain established practices in the field some of which are idealized as ‘best practices’ actually prevent that goal from being achieved.  The point that Vishvika is making is extremely important.

When we speak of education, we tend to think of it as something that happens within a classroom context.  We also tend to think that what it takes to make a given teaching/learning context a successful one is located primarily within the classroom.  We do talk about external issues, such as the shortage of resources and trained teachers, as having an impact on what happens inside the classroom; nevertheless, the general assumption is that a qualified/trained teacher, a group of students with a high level of motivation, and maybe a good textbook is all that is necessary to make a learning experience successful.  This general assumption has proven itself to be flawed with regard to English language teaching/learning in Sri Lanka. 

The idea that English is one of the few subjects that could play a defining role in determining what sort of a future the student will have, is a given.  There is no choice with regard to the subject, especially at school level.  English continues to be a mandatory subject at the university, up to various points in the different degree programmes.  In the case of those programmes where English stops being a mandatory subject, the students still feel the importance of the subject, as many of the programmes have English as the medium of instruction and they also realize that the knowledge in their disciplines exists mainly in English.  They also understand that their options in the world of work will be limited without English. 

To repeat what has already been established by many scholars, English is politically and ideologically charged because of the colonial, and also post-colonial, baggage that the language still carries with it.  It is not an exaggeration to say that although three quarters of a century have elapsed since independence from British colonial rule, colonial realities are still in existence, in various forms.  And all the tensions that post-colonialism brought into the scene have only complicated the picture further.  The point is that it is in and through English that many such tensions and complications exist and find expression.  For many, English embodies the tension between fear and promise.  The widespread idea that you need to be of a particular class position or social standing in order to call English yours has been successful in alienating many people in society from English even before they could make an attempt to learn the language.  The greater the distance that one has with the social class, which claims a proprietary right over English, the greater the fear and resistance that they will show towards the language.  This attitude has resulted in generating the perception that we are being watched every time we speak in English, and that gates are waiting to be kept/closed every time we make a mistake in trying to speak the language.  On the other hand, the majority are mindful of the fact that English is the language that brings them hope, the hope for a ‘better’ life and the promise of a ‘successful’ future.

Given the nature of the tension that English represents for the majority of learners, their utterance of a few words, even a single word, in English in itself should be seen as an achievement.  It’s not just through the bronchial tubes, the trachea, the larynx, and finally the oral and nasal cavities that what constitutes that word needs to travel in order for it to be articulated as a word or statement; it also needs to travel through at least two centuries of oppression and layers and layers of cultural and social obstacles.  I would go to the extent of arguing that it is probably a greater achievement than someone who entered this world clutching English in their hand, the same way the great Mahoshadha is said to have been born clutching an invaluable gem in his hand, being able to recite a Shakespearean sonnet in full Shakespearean flair.

If, as Vishvika argues, language should be seen primarily as a means of expression and if, again as she argues, the goal of language teaching is to enable the students to find a voice of their own, then every attempt should be made to encourage them to use the language as freely as possible.  It does not take much to understand that the strict enforcement of rules and standards, especially ones that are alien to the local context in which the students grapple with the language, is counter-productive, as that could easily alienate the students from the language and chase them back into the shell that at least some of them are trying hard to come out.  Then what is the way forward?

The way forward, in my view, is to take a relaxed approach to the teaching/learning of the English language.  The necessary first step is to acknowledge that the form of the language that is closest and therefore is widely accessible not only to the students but also teachers is not some idealized/glorified form that is associated with contexts that are oceans away, but a form that is closer to the local context and that is capable of handling the realities that are characteristically local.  You may ask what the shape of that form of English would be.  Well, the current discourse on New Varieties of English in general and Sri Lankan English in particular provide a framework to conceptualize that form of English.  It is just a matter of taking the time to familiarize oneself with that discourse. 
​
Part of the beauty of what could be considered Sri Lankan English is that it eludes definition.  No one has a clear idea as to what Sri Lankan English is and where its boundaries are.  This lack of closure is productive in the sense that it permits a great deal of freedom for the users, including the students and the teachers, at both school and university levels, that is IF they manage to rid themselves of the established assumption that the sanctity of English is not to be violated.  We generally find the lack of closure to be destabilizing for the reason that we have internalized the idea that knowledge should always be definable.  Sri Lankan English is still in the making, and we need to have the courage to see it as that.  It sure is chaos, but chaos always gives us an opportunity to gain an understanding of the workings of the system that is in place and also identify alternative possibilities both within and outside the system.  It is important for the students to realize that they are actually makers of the language.  It is equally important for the teachers to realize that what they are training the students in is a dynamic body of knowledge that is in a state of flux and that they have a more active and productive role to play than merely being the enforcers of a standard that does not have much to do with the context in which they operate.  That would create a space in which the students would feel comfortable experimenting with the language, which will result in their finding a voice of their own. 

Original Article published in The Island Online 29 August 2023

Original Article published in The Island Online 6 June 2023 

​The domain of the humanities and social sciences is under attack more than ever before.  The relevance and usefulness of the degrees earned in those fields is being questioned left, right, and centre.  The question of whether it is meaningful at all to be spending, if not wasting, the limited financial resources available in the coffers to produce graduates in those fields is being raised constantly, at multiple levels.  Attempts are being made to introduce a little bit of soft skills into the curricula in order to add ‘value’ to the degree programmes in the field.  The assumption here is that either such degree programmes do not impart any skills or the skills that they impart are of no value.  We often see this widely-shared profoundly negative attitude towards the humanities and the social sciences (more towards the former than towards the latter) being projected on the practitioners (students, teachers, and researchers) in those areas.  At a top-level meeting, which was held one to two years ago with the participation of policy makers in higher education and academics and educationists representing the humanities and social sciences departments at state universities, a key figure in the higher education establishment claimed that the students who come to the humanities and social sciences faculties were ‘late-developers’.  What better (or should I say worse?) indication of the official attitude towards those of us in the humanities and the social sciences!
 
While acknowledging that many of the key factors that have resulted in downgrading the humanities and social sciences disciplines are global by nature and are very much part of the neoliberal world order, which dominates the day, I wish to ask if we, the practitioners in the said fields, have done our part to counter the attack.
 
What the humanities and the social sciences engage with is essentially and self-consciously social.  What these disciplines have to say has a direct bearing on the social dimension of human existence.  It is near impossible to discuss phenomena in economics, political science, or sociology without having to reflect upon and use examples from what happens in our lives and around us.  One cannot even begin to talk about teaching English as a second language without taking a look at her/his own experience learning English and the struggles that many people go through at different levels doing the same.  One cannot talk about successful ways of teaching foreign languages without recognizing the need to incorporate an engagement with the cultural life of those languages at some level.  No reading of an artwork—be it a novel, a movie, a painting, a sculpture, a poem, whatever—is possible without the reader at least subconsciously reflecting upon the broader context in which those artworks are set and also relating her own context or experience to what is being read.  A legal scholar cannot read a legislation without paying attention to the social implications of the legislation and the dynamics of the community at whom that legislation is directed.  The point is our own existence as social beings is right in the middle of what we engage with in such disciplines.  To steal (and do so self-consciously) a term from the hard/natural sciences, society is essentially the ‘laboratory’ in which those in the humanities and social sciences conduct their work.  There may be some areas of study within the humanities and social sciences which do not require an explicit engagement with our social existence, but I would say that such areas, if any, are limited in number.
 
Needless to say that every social intervention is political in nature.  It involves unsettling what appears to be normal about our social existence in some way.  One cannot make interventions that have a lasting impact without muddying the water which we have been made to believe is clear.  How much of muddying do we as practitioners in the field of humanities and social sciences do is a question that needs to be asked.
 
Unfortunately, we do not see much work in the humanities and social sciences which unsettles the dominant order.  What we often see is work that reinforces and reaffirms the dominant structures, systems, and lines of thought.  Lack of rigorous academic training and exposure to critical theory is clearly one of the factors which prevents some scholars in the field from being able to make interventions that are capable of muddying the water, but the fact that we sometimes do not see much muddying even on the part of the more adept scholars shows that lack of rigorous training is not the sole reason.
 
Muddying the water is no simple matter.  To use a problematic, yet in my view useful, analogy, a scholar in the said field trying to make an intervention that results in unsettling the order is like a hydrogen atom in H2O, ‘water’ in layperson’s language, trying to make an intervention which results in a re-evaluation of the oxygen atom.  Such an intervention invariably entails a re-evaluation of the hydrogen atom as well, for the reason that the two atoms are part of an organic whole.  One cannot be purely objective in its reading of the other.  Such an intervention is bound to be as unsettling for the hydrogen atom as it is for the oxygen atom.  Similarly, in a majority of contexts, a scholar in the area of the humanities and social sciences cannot make an intervention, the kind that pushes the boundaries of knowledge, without unsettling the dominant structures and value systems, which they themselves are part of, live by, and also benefit from.  For instance, the norms, values, and practices which define the idea of marriage in contexts like ours are things that a male scholar would have to deal with as a member of our society, and any intervention on his part which raises questions about gender-based inequalities embodied in such norms, values, and practices would be to question his own privilege.  Needless to say that such an intervention could result in an existential crisis for the scholar, at least temporarily.  Such interventions also entail the possibility of backlash from society.  One needs thorough training to withstand that pressure.
 
In place of interventions that unsettle the existing order, what we often see is work, which re-presents commonsensical knowledge garbed in jargon.  To give an example from an area that I am a bit familiar with, much of the work that takes place in the field of English as a Second Language (ESL) identifies lack of motivation on the part of the students and also teachers and also lack of proper training for teachers as the primary reasons for the plight of English education in the country.  This reading is not very different from a layperson’s understanding of the problem, and what we often see as research findings in the field of ESL is the same understanding, albeit dressed up in technical-sounding language.  Such readings do not unsettle the existing order.  They put the blame on the powerless.  Very limited is the work that sees the present plight of English education as a systemic or structural problem.  Reading that plight as a systemic problem requires us to re-evaluate the fundamental structures which govern our society, and such re-evaluation is unsettling is many ways.  I argue that that is what is expected of scholarship in the ESL field, but unfortunately that is not what we see as coming out of the field.
 
If what gets produced as knowledge in the humanities and social sciences is jargonized commonsense, then the claim that such fields have nothing important to say is valid.  If what a scholar in those fields has to say is not different to a layperson’s understanding of a given reality, the question whether there is any point in producing such scholars becomes valid.
 
In my view, the humanities and social sciences are in need of fundamental restructuring.  This restructuring is not the kind which calls for the incorporation of a bit of soft skills here and a bit of soft skills there so that those who come out of those fields easily fit into predefined slots in society but the kind that results in the enhancement of the critical thinking capacity of the scholars.  It is the kind of restructuring that would produce scholars who are capable of engaging in a political reading of the realities that define our existence in society and raise difficult questions about such existence, in other words, scholars who are capable of muddying the water.

Original Article published in Hantana Vision Vol. 7 Issue 2, December 2021

Outcome-Based Education, abbreviated as OBE, is a key concept in the present discourse on Quality Assurance at the university level.  This approach is based on the assumption that each and every study programme, each and every course unit, and also each and every learning/teaching activity should have a definable outcome, which can be defined ahead of the implementation of the study programme or course unit or learning/teaching activity.  It entails that the learning/teaching process should always aim at achieving/delivering that outcome.  Any failure to do so is immediately seen as a failure of the relevant study programme.  OBE is expected to give a programme a proper focus and a sense of direction.
​
There’s no question that OBE as an approach to teaching/learning works very well in a number of disciplines.  Many of the disciplines that come under the category of hard sciences, and also some that come under social sciences, particularly those that lead to professional degrees, could be shown as cases in point.  Defining the outcome or end-product of a degree programme in such a discipline is not only possible but also of crucial importance.  A strict focus on such outcomes is necessary to ensure that professionals armed with the kind of specialized knowledge and skills who fit the predefined slots in the world of professions are produced.

One accusation that is constantly leveled against the degree programmes in the Humanities, and also some in the Social Sciences, is that they do not have clearly defined outcomes, which they take as their goals.  The definable outcomes or end-products of degree programmes are often conceptualized in terms of predefined professions in the world of work.  The fact that the degree programmes in many of the area of the Humanities do not produce graduates who immediately fit such slots is often seen as a failure of those programmes.  Whom does the Faculty of Arts produce the way the Faculty of Medicine produces doctors and the Faculty of Engineering produces engineers?  This is a question that is widely being asked.  There are certain programmes within the Faculty of Arts that lead to professional degrees, and they are relatively off the hook; this question is raised mainly in relation to the Humanities programmes, which are not directly tied to specific professions, or the predefined slots in the world of work.  Such programmes are increasingly being pushed to rethink their focus, or, according to certain dominant perspectives, the lack thereof, and figure out ways of tying them to existing slots in the world of work.  In the process of trying to come up with definable outcomes, they are strongly encouraged to downplay theoretical knowledge, which is often branded as impractical, and incorporate components that are viewed as possessing practical relevance.

Although incorporating components of practical relevance into the degree programmes in the Humanities area at the expense of theoretical knowledge carries the appearance of a move that empowers the Humanities graduates, the reality is far from that.  This is mainly because theoretical knowledge is a big part of what defines the identity of those in the Humanities.  First and foremost, they are supposed to be thinkers.  It is primarily as thinkers that they are expected to make their contribution to society.  Thinking is about imagining possibilities, mainly alternative possibilities.  There is no question that one needs to have a realistic assessment of the practical situation, but as thinkers, she or he needs to be able to move beyond what is strictly practical in imagining such possibilities.  One cannot engage in thinking, particularly the kind of thinking that leads to imagining possibilities, unless she or he is firmly grounded in theory, particularly critical theory.  The practice of such a person is something that emerges out of her or his grounding in theory, again, particularly critical theory.

One could argue that if this is the case, the programmes in the Humanities could convert themselves into OBE by declaring that the outcome or the end-products that they aim at delivering are critical thinkers.  This argument clearly sounds logical, and it is part of how many programmes in the Humanities have incorporated OBE into their curricula.  However, one needs to be conscious of the special challenges that are involved in delivering this outcome.  Let me try to elaborate this point using critical theory as an example.  The choice of critical theory as an example for this purpose is based on the fact that critical theory cuts across the disciplinary boundaries of what falls within the Humanities and also Social Sciences, and therefore, it is something that many programmes in the area in question can relate to.  Critical theory is something that first applies to the person who is engaging with it before it applies to the individuals, communities, and realities that are external to her or him.  One cannot properly engage with critical theory without letting it run a scan on her or him.  The kind of engagement with one’s own self, which critical theory promotes, entails problematizing the values that she or he has lived by and also benefited from to varying degrees depending on their position in society; unlearning many of the things that they have accepted as truth in life; and questioning the privileges that they have enjoyed, again to varying degrees, in society.  Critical theory is not a body of knowledge that could be transmitted from the teacher to the students; there sure are things that can be formally taught, but a meaningful understanding of critical theory comes through one’s direct engagement with such theory, out of her or his manifold struggles with such theory.  A proper mastering of critical theory often entails a profound and complete internal transformation on the part of the learner.  It involves re-negotiating many taken-for-granted realities and, through that, re-inventing oneself.  Such transformation or re-negotiating often results in what, in my view, only the term ‘tremor’ aptly captures.  This ‘tremor’ that many who engage with critical theory experience within themselves often causes discomfort, even confusion, but it is liberating in the long run.

The transformation that one’s engagement with critical theory brings about is something that spans over a long period of time.  It is definitely not something that can be fully achieved within the duration of a course or a semester or an academic year.  In many cases, it goes well beyond the duration of the degree programme.  This transformation takes years to complete, that is if it does at all.  She or he herself or himself is always work-in-progress.  What needs to happen at the degree level is basically to sow the seeds and set the wheel in motion.  The speed at which the student achieves milestones in the journey depends on a multiplicity of factors, which include her or his position in the broader social realm, the nature and intensity of challenges that she or he faces in her social life, and the way she or he manages the transformation.
​
Therefore, any move in the direction of adopting and implementing OBE in the area of the Humanities needs to take into consideration the special nature of the Humanities as an academic field.  Any failure to do so could result in derailing the responsibility that the Humanities as a field has historically been entrusted.

Original article published in The Island newspaper on October 6, 2021 

At a recent meeting attended by those in decision-making positions in the area of the Humanities, and some in the area of the Social Sciences, in the Sri Lankan academia, it was said in no uncertain terms that the students in the Humanities are ‘late-developers’.  If my count was correct, that term was used on three occasions during the meeting.  Providing these ‘late-developers’ with some form of soft skills was seen as the only way to address the problem.  It was also said at the meeting that knowledge of theory without the ability to apply it in practice is useless, the implication being that the humanities, and also by association the social sciences, is all theory and no practice.

The distinction/relationship between theory and practice is something that we in the humanities and social sciences are being required to engage with.  The new forms/templates that we are being required to use in presenting new course syllabi for approval in the university makes a clear distinction between the theory component and the practical component of the courses; we are being required to indicate the exact number of hours dedicated to theory and the exact number of hours dedicated to ‘practicals’ for each course.

Distinction 

The distinction between theory and practice in the areas of the humanities and social sciences needs to be unpacked.  It is clear that the theory-practicals arrangement that is being forced on the humanities and social sciences is one that emerged in the hard sciences and has been part of those disciplines for valid and important reasons.  This may be an oversimplification, but the theory-practicals distinction makes a lot of sense in the hard sciences.  You learn the theory in the classroom setting and then you test/apply that theory in a laboratory or workshop setting.  If I may use an example from my school days, we were taught about acidity and alkalinity in the classroom and we were also taught how litmus paper could be used to gauge the acidity/alkalinity of a liquid; then we took that knowledge to the laboratory, took a piece of litmus paper, dipped it in different types of liquid, and observed what happened.  Similarly, we were introduced to convex lenses and concave lenses in the classroom; we copied down diagrams that illustrated what happens to light when it travels through those lenses; then we went to the laboratory with that knowledge, got hold of those lenses (which by the way were limited in number), and performed whatever the [limited] experiments we could perform within [the restrictions of] the [ill-equipped] laboratory.  In a subject like that, it makes sense to draw a distinction between theory and practice; it also makes perfect sense to make the argument that one without the other is pointless.

The question is whether we could maintain the same distinction between theory and practice in the humanities and social sciences as well.  Let me try to engage with this question using critical theory as an example.  The choice of critical theory for the example is based on two factors.  Firstly, critical theory cuts across the disciplinary boundaries within the humanities and social sciences, and many disciplines engage with critical theory to varying degrees for that reason.  Secondly, critical theory is increasingly being seen as the outcast within the outcast, or, in simpler terms, the pariah within the pariah.  It is often being viewed by parties not only outside but also within the humanities and social sciences as the refuge of the pessimists, the negative thinkers, and the trouble-makers. (In fact, the degree of hostility towards critical theory within the humanities and social sciences often reminds me of the degree and nature of hostility that Phillippe IV of France, and also the Vatican to a certain extent, harboured against the Knights Templars, which eventually lead to the unexpected annihilation of the Templars at the turn of the 14th Century.  Let that be the topic for another article.)

Influence of Critical Theory 

If we applied the current conceptualization of the theory-practicals arrangement to the courses in critical theory and also those subject-specific courses that are heavily influenced by critical theory we would need to teach critical theory in the lecture hall and then make the students take that theory to some context and apply it there.  It sounds like something that is doable in theory, but there is an issue there.  What a laboratory is to a scientist, what a workshop is to a production engineer, what a dissection room is to an anatomist, … society is to one in the humanities and social sciences.  The one in the humanities and social sciences differs from the rest in one important way, and that is s/he herself/himself is very much part of the society where s/he is expected to put to test the knowledge that s/he has learnt in the classroom.  There is no separate ‘mode’, like what could be called a ‘laboratory mode’ or ‘workshop mode’, which s/he needs to get into in order to carry out the practicals; s/he is always already in the social mode.  In fact, the classroom setting in which the teaching of ‘theory’ takes place is very much part of the social mode.  S/he herself/himself embodies the ‘life’, which critical theory applies to.  S/he cannot really engage with critical theory without letting it run a scan on herself/himself.  The students of critical theory often experience what, in my view, only the term ‘tremor’ aptly captures before they reach a point where they could apply such theory on a reality that is external to them.  Most of the time, this ‘tremor’ continues well beyond the duration of the course, and sometimes it takes years to complete, but it certainly starts with their engagement with theory.  This shows that a good part of the ‘practicals’ in the humanities and social sciences takes place in the classroom context itself, at the time the student ‘learns’ the theory.  In such a setting, it makes no sense to try to conceptualize the delivery of the course in terms of a theory-practicals arrangement.

One could ask what the point in learning critical theory is.  An associated question is if the time and effort of the students are not best spent acquiring skills that would give them an advantage in the world of work.  In fact, these questions are widely being asked.  Such questions are based on the rather problematic assumption that the theories that are learnt for the degree should be of the kind that can be immediately translated into practice; that it should be directly applicable to a predefined task or problem.  They are also based on a rather superficial understanding of the idea of skills.  Let me try to elaborate this point using Marxism as an example.  One could claim—and some by the way actually do claim—that there’s no point in learning Marxism in the present context as Marxism is dead and gone.  We may, and most definitely do, have different opinions about this claim, but even in a context where this claim is taken for granted, the question is whether that necessarily renders Marxism irrelevant.  It may be true that one cannot apply the theory of Marxism in the world of work the same way one applies theories related to the idea of entrepreneurship.  While the latter is increasingly seen as what is worth being learnt, the former is often dismissed as irrelevant and unproductive/counter-productive.  Even in a context where we accept the premise, for the sake of argument, that accomplishing the broader goals set by Marxism is impossible in today’s world order, there are many ways in which an understanding of Marxism would become useful.  It may not offer what the theories related to the idea of entrepreneurship have to offer, but the sensitivity that you have developed through your engagement with Marxism would propel you to do your part to ensure that the workplace becomes a space where discrimination is minimal and human dignity is upheld.  You may not have done any explicit learning of what are called ‘problem-solving skills’, but if you as a student engaged with Marxism in a thorough manner there is no doubt that you have subconsciously acquired the kinds of skills that are necessary to solve problems.  (Please note that I make a clear distinction between ‘problem-solving skills’ and the skills that are necessary to solve a problem.) You acquire those skills through a thorough and genuine engagement with Marxism or whatever the critical theory in question.  You develop those skills when you debate such theory in your head and in the classroom.  If you really think about it you will realize that the skills that are acquired that way give you an edge in the world of work.
​
A Caveat 

I have a caveat to add here, though.  If our teaching of critical theory takes the form of simply explaining the theory to the students without getting the students to engage with the theory directly, the whole purpose of critical theory is lost.  The theories that come under critical theory are available in the form of reading materials, and therefore, there is no need for us to ‘teach’ the theory to the students.  What is expected of us as teachers in the field is to get the students to actively engage with the texts.  Our role should be to guide and moderate that engagement.  To put it in the jargon that is popular today, what is expected of us is to create a truly student-centred learning environment in the classroom context, and also outside of it.  If we forget this role and resort to simply teaching ‘facts’ about the theory the space for an active engagement with the theory on the part of the students will be lost.  We cannot expect scholars with independent thinking to emerge out of learning contexts like those.  Students coming out of such contexts may have ‘problem-solving skills’ provided that they have been explicitly taught those, but they will not have the skills that one needs to solve complex problems.  Therefore, we as educators in the humanities and social sciences have a special role to play at this juncture.

Goal of Curriculum Revision 
​
The goal of curriculum revision in these fields should not be to somehow incorporate soft skills at the expense of everything else but to ensure that the curriculum creates a setting where the special set of skills that the humanities and social sciences disciplines are historically expected to develop in the students. Promoting soft skills at the expense of those specific skills will only confirm the position of the graduates in those fields as weak competitors.  We should rethink our teaching methods not to incorporate superficial changes to the way teaching is done but to ensure that our teaching methods help the students acquire the special set of skills that our disciplines have historically been called upon to develop in the students.  That is the only way to ensure that the students in the humanities and social sciences become capable individuals armed with a unique set of skills, which will give them an edge over their counterparts in the rest of the disciplines. It is also the only way to ensure that the capable young women and men who choose disciplines in the humanities and social sciences get what they sign up for and most importantly that they are not pushed down to the level of late-developers. 

Original Article published in Sinhala newspaper අනිද්දා of October 17, 2021

මානවශාස්ත්‍ර ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයට සම්බන්ධ පිරිසකගේ සහභාගීත්වයෙන් මෑතකදී පැවැත්වීමට යෙදුණු වෙබිනාවකදී මානවශාස්ත්‍ර ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයට සම්බන්ධ සිසු සිසුවියන් ‘late developers’ යනුවෙන් හැඳින්විණි.  ඒ සඳහා සිංහලෙන් භාවිතා වන පදය ‘ප්‍රමාදී වර්ධිතයා’ යන්නයි.  එය තවත් සරළ භාෂාවට පෙරළන්නේ නම් ‘වර්ධනය ප්‍රමාද වූ තැනැත්තා’ යන අර්ථය ලැබේ.  මෙම ප්‍රමාදී වර්ධනය සම්බන්ධ ගැටළුවට විසඳුම ලෙස ඉදිරිපත් කෙරුණේ එම සිසු සිසුවියන්ට යම් ප්‍රමාණයකට මෘදු කුසලතා ලබා දීමයි.  එම වෙබිනාවේදී පැවසුණු තවත් ප්‍රධාන අදහසක් වූයේ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතයකින් තොර න්‍යායික දැනුම (theory) නිරර්ථක දැනුමක් යන්නයි.  එම ප්‍රකාශයේ යටි හැඟවුම වූයේ මානවශාස්ත්‍ර, හා එමෙන්ම ඒ හා සම්බන්ධ විෂය පථයක් වන සමාජ විද්‍යා, මූලික වශයෙන් ප්‍රායෝගිකත්වයෙන් තොර න්‍යායික දැනුම් ගොඩක් පමණක් යන්න ය.

න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය

න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය අතර ඇති වෙනස මෙන්ම සබඳතාවය මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළ සිටින අපගේ අවධානය යොමු කෙරෙමින් පවතින කාරණයකි.  නව විෂයමාලා අනුමැතිය සඳහා ඉදිරිපත් කෙරෙන විට ඒ සම්බන්ධයෙන් භාවිතා කෙරෙන පත්‍රිකාවන්හි අදාළ පාඨමාලාවන්හි න්‍යායික කොටස සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය සම්බන්ධ කොටස බෙදා වෙන්කෙරෙන ආකාරය පැහැදිළිව දැක්වීම අනිවාර්ය කොට ඇත.  පාඨමාලාවට අදාළ පැය ගණන එම කොටස් දෙක අතර බෙදීයන ආකාරය පැහැදිළිව සඳහන් කිරීම අනිවාර්කොට ඇත.
මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළ න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය අතර ඇති වෙනස මෙන්ම සබඳතාවය පිළිබඳ කාරණය සාකච්ඡා කිරීම වැදගත් වේ.  එම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් වෙත බලෙන් පටවා ඇති න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය සම්බන්ධ වෙනස දෘඩ විද්‍යාවන් යනුවෙන් හැඳින්වෙන ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්ට අදාළව එම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළින් හටගෙන එම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළ සාර්ථක ආකාරයෙන් භාවිතා වන වෙනස්කමකි.  එම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්හි පන්තිකාමරය තුළ ඉගෙනගනු ලබන න්‍යායික දැනුම විද්‍යාගාරයකදී හෝ තාක්‍ෂණික වැඩපොළකදී ප්‍රායෝගික ලෙස පරීක්‍ෂණයට හෝ භාවිතයට ලක්කරනු ලැබේ.  පාසල් විෂයමාලාව තුළ වුවද ආම්ලිකතාව සහ භාෂ්මිකතාව පිළිබඳ පන්තිකාමරය තුළදී ඉගෙනගනු ලබන න්‍යායික දැනුම විද්‍යාගාරය වෙත ගෙනගොස් ලිට්මස් පත්‍ර සහ විවිධ ආකාරයේ ද්‍රාවණ භාවිතයෙන් පරීක්‍ෂණයට ලක්කෙරේ.  එමෙන්ම උත්තල කාච සහ අවතල කාච පිළිබඳ පන්තිකාමරය තුළදී උකහාගනු ලබන න්‍යායික දැනුම විද්‍යාගාරය තුළදී ආලෝක කදම්භයක් එම කාච හරහා යවා ඒ සම්බන්ධයෙන් කෙරෙන නිරීක්‍ෂණ හරහා ප්‍රායෝගික ලෙස පරීක්‍ෂාවට ලක්කෙරේ.  එවන් විෂය පථයක් තුළ න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය අතර පැහැදිළි වෙනස්කමක් පවතී.

මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්හි සුවිශේෂී ලක්‍ෂණ

විමසා බැලිය යුත්තේ මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළදීද න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය අතර ඇති වෙනස ඒ ලෙසින්ම අවබෝධ කරගත හැකිද යන්නයි.  උදාහරණයක් ලෙස විචාර න්‍යාය (critical theory) සලකා බලමු.  සරල භාෂාවෙන් කිවහොත් විචාර න්‍යාය යටතේ සාකච්ඡා කෙරෙනුයේ යමක් විචාරය කළ හැකි, විවේචනය කළ හැකි විවිධාකාරයේ න්‍යායාත්මක ප්‍රවේශයන් ය.  මේ සඳහා උදාහරණයක් ලෙස විචාර න්‍යාය තෝරා ගැනීමට හේතු දෙකක් පදනම් විය.  ඉන් පළමුවැන්න නම් මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්ට අයත් විෂය ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් බහුතරයකට පොදුවේ විචාර න්‍යාය අදාළ වීමයි.  දෙවැනි හේතුව නම් මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයෙන්ට පරිබාහිරව පමණක් නොව එම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන් තුළදීම පවා විචාර න්‍යාය හෙලාදකිනු ලැබීමේ සැලකියයුතු ප්‍රවණතාවයක් ඉස්මතු වී තිබීමයි.  එම හෙලාදැකීමට මූලික වශයෙන් පදනම්ව ඇත්තේ විචාර න්‍යාය යනු හුදු සෘණාත්මක වූත්, පසුගාමී වූත්, ප්‍රශ්න ඇතිකරන්නන් බිහිකිරීමට මූලික වන්නා වූත් ක්‍රමවේදයක් ලෙස ඇතැමුන් අතර පවතින අදහසයි.

න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය අතර ඇති වෙනස්කොට දැක්වීම විචාර න්‍යාය පිළිබඳ පාඨමාලාවන්ට හෝ විචාර න්‍යාය වෙතින් ආභාෂය ලද විෂය පාදක පාඨමාලාවන්ට අදාළව සලකා බලන්නේ නම් සිදුවිය යුතුව ඇත්තේ දේශන ශාලාව තුළදී විචාර න්‍යාය උගන්වා එම න්‍යාය දේශන ශාලාවෙන් පරිබාහිර සන්දර්භයක් වෙත ගෙනගෙස් එම සන්දර්භයට ආදේශ කිරීම සඳහා සිසු සිසුවින් යොමු කිරීම ය.  එය පහසුවෙන් කළ හැකි දෙයක් ලෙස බැලූබැල්මට හැඟී ගියද එය එතරම් සරල නැත.  විද්‍යාඥයාගේ පර්යේෂණාගාරය විද්‍යාගාරය වන්නා සේම, නිෂ්පාදන ඉංජිනේරුවාගේ පර්යේෂණාගාරය කාර්මික වැඩපොල වන්නා සේම, වෛද්‍යවරයාගේ පර්යේෂණාගාරය වෛද්‍ය විද්‍යාව සම්බන්ධ විද්‍යාගාරය වන්නා සේම, මානවශාස්ත්‍රවේදියාගේ මෙන්ම සමාජ විද්‍යාඥයාගේ පර්යේෂණාගාරය පුළුල් සමාජයයි.  මානවශාස්ත්‍රවේදියා මෙන්ම සමාජ විද්‍යාඥයා මෙහිකී අනෙකුත් පුද්ගලයන්ගෙන් වෙනස්වන්නේ ඇය හෝ ඔහු තමන් පන්තිකාමරය තුළ ඉගෙනගන්නා න්‍යායික දැනුම ප්‍රායෝගිකව අත්හදා බැලිය යුතු පර්යේෂණාගාරය වන සමාජයේම නොබිඳිය හැකි කොටසක් වන බැවිනි.  සිය පර්යේෂණ සිදුකිරීමට විද්‍යාඥයා විද්‍යාගාරයට ඇතුළු වනවිට, නැතහොත් නිෂ්පාදන ඉංජිනේරුවා කාර්මික වැඩපොල වෙත ඇතුළු වනවිට ඇයට හෝ ඔහුට තමන් වෙත ආදේශ කරගත යුතු එම ස්ථානයට සුවිශේෂී වූ මනෝභාවයන් ගණයේ මනෝභාවයන් මානවශාස්ත්‍රවේදියා හෝ සමාජ විද්‍යාඥයා සම්බන්ධයෙන් අදාළ නොවන්නේ ඇය හෝ ඔහු සෑම විටම සිය පර්යේෂණාගාරය වන සමාජයේම කොටසක් වශයෙන් ඒ තුළම ජීවත් වන බැවිනි.  සැබැවින්ම ගත් කල ඇය හෝ ඔහු විසින් න්‍යායික දැනුම හදාරනු ලබන පන්තිකාමරයම එම දැනුම ප්‍රායෝගික වශයෙන් බලපානු ලබන සමාජයේම කොටසක් වේ.  ඇයගේ හෝ ඔහුගේ ජීවිතයම එම න්‍යායික දැනුම ප්‍රායෝගික ලෙස අදාළ වන සමාජමය පැවැත්මේ පිළිබිඹුවක් වේ.  ඇයට හෝ ඔහුට එම න්‍යායන් තුළින් තමන්ගේ ජීවිතය, නැතහොත් පැවැත්ම, ප්‍රායෝගිකව යළි කියැවීමකට භාජනය කිරීමකින් තොරව අදාළ න්‍යායික දැනුම අවබෝධ කරගැනීමට පවා නොහැකි ය.

විචාර න්‍යාය නිවැරදි ආකාරයට ඉගෙනගනු ලබන තැනැත්තා එම න්‍යාය හරහා යම් අභ්‍යන්තර කම්පනයකට භාජනය වීම සිදු වේ.  එවන් අභ්‍යන්තර කම්පනයකට භාජනය නොවී ඇයට හෝ ඔහුට එම න්‍යාය තවෙකෙකු හෝ තමන්ට පරිබාහිර වෙනත් සන්දර්භයක් වෙත ආදේශ කිරීමට හැකි මට්ටමට ලඟා වීම කළ නොහැකි දෙයකි.  බොහෝ විට මෙම අභ්‍යන්තර කම්පනය පාඨමාලාව නිමවී සැලකියයුතු කාලයක් ගතවන තුරුත් සම්පූර්ණ නොවේ.  ඇතැම් විට ඒ සඳහා වසර ගණනාවක් වුවද ගතවීමට ඉඩ ඇත.  නමුත් අවධාරණය කළ යුතු කරුණ වන්නේ මෙම ක්‍රියාවලිය අදාළ න්‍යායන් සම්බන්ධයෙන් පන්තිකාමරය තුළ කෙරෙන ගනුදෙනුව සමගම ආරම්භ වන බවයි.  ඒ අනුව කිව හැක්කේ න්‍යාය සම්බන්ධයෙන් සිදුවිය යුතු ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය න්‍යායික දැනුම අවබෝධ කරගන්නා අවස්ථාවේදීම ආරම්භ වන බවයි.  එවන් වටපිටාවක් තුළ න්‍යායික දැනුම සහ ප්‍රායෝගික භාවිතය එකිනෙකින් වෙන්කොට හැඳින්වීම ඵල රහිත කටයුත්තකි.

විචාර න්‍යාය කුමකටද?

විචාර න්‍යාය ඉගෙනීමෙන් ඇති ඵලය කුමක්දැයි කෙනෙකුට ඇසිය හැක.  එමෙන්ම විචාර න්‍යාය ඉගෙනීමට වඩා පිටත වැඩලෝකයට අදාළ කුසලතා ඉගෙනීමට කාලය සහ මහන්සිය වැය කිරීම වඩා ඵලදායක නොවේදැයි යමෙකුට ඇසිය හැක.  මෙවන් ප්‍රශ්න නිරන්තරව ඇසෙමින් පවතී.  ඒවා උපාධිය සඳහා යමෙකු විසින් ඉගෙනගනු ලබන න්‍යායික දැනුම සෘජු ලෙසම, නැතහොත් ඒ ආකාරයටම වැඩ ලෝකයට අදාළවන්නා වූ දැනුමක් විය යුතු ය යන ගැටළු සහගත උපකල්පනය මත පිහිටා ඇත.  එමෙන්ම ඒවා කුසලතා යන සංකල්පය පිළිබඳ නොගැඹුරු අවබෝධයක් පෙන්නුම් කරයි.  මෙම තත්ත්වය විචාර න්‍යාය යටතේ ගැනෙන මාක්ස්වාදය උදාහරණයක් ලෙස ගෙන සලකා බලමු.  මාක්ස්වාදය අදට නොගැලපෙන න්‍යායක් නිසා එය ඉගෙනීමෙන් පලක් නැතැයි යමෙකුට තර්ක කළ හැක.  මාක්ස්වාදය අදට නොගැලපෙන්නේද නැද්ද යන කරුණ පිළිබඳ උණුසුම් මතවාද පවතී; නමුත් එය අමතක කොට මාක්ස්වාදය අදට නොගැලපෙන්නේය යන ස්ථාවරයේ සිට කල්පනා කරන පසුබිමක් තුළ පවා මාක්ස්වාදය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුම ඵල රහිත දැනුමක් යැයි කිසිවෙකුට තර්ක කළ නොහැක.  ව්‍යවසායකත්වය වැනි සංකල්පයක් හා බැඳුණු න්‍යායික දැනුම වැඩ ලෝකයට අදාළ වන ආකාරයටම මාක්ස්වාදය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුම වැඩ ලෝකයට අදාළ නොවීමට පුළුවන, එමෙන්ම මාක්ස්වාදය පදනම් කොටගත් සමාජයක් බිහිකිරීම අවම වශයෙන් බැලූබැල්මට හෝ ප්‍රායෝගික නොවන කටයුත්තක් ලෙස පෙනී යාමට පුළුවන, නමුත් මාක්ස්වාදය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුමකින් වර්තමානයේ පවතින වැඩ ලෝකයට ලබාගත හැකි දෑ බොහෝ ය.  උදාහරණයක් ලෙස මාක්ස්වාදය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුම හරහා වර්ධනය වන්නාවූ සමාජ සංවේදීභාවය සහිත පුද්ගලයා විසින් තමන්ගේ හෝ තවෙකෙකුගේ වැඩ පරිසරය නොයෙකුත් ආකාරයේ වෙනස්කොට සැලකීම් සහ කොන්කිරීම් වලින් තොර වූත් මානව ගෞරවය සුරක්‍ෂිත කරන්නා වූත් පරිසරයක් බවට පත් කිරීමට උත්සාහ දරනු ලබයි.  එමෙන්ම මාක්ස්වාදය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුම හරහා යමෙකු තුළ නිරායාසයෙන් වර්ධනය වන්නා වූ රාමුවට පිටින් සිතීමේ හැකියාව මගින් වැඩ ලෝකය තුළ නිරන්තරව පැනනගින ගැටළු සඳහා නිර්මාණශීලී වූත් සංවේදී වූත් මානව හිතවාදී වූත් පිළියම් සෙවීම සඳහා ඇයව හෝ ඔහුව යොමු කරනු ලබයි.  ඇයට හෝ ඔහුට ගැටළු විසඳීමේ ක්‍රම අමුතුවෙන් ඉගැන්වීමට අවශ්‍ය නැත.  එවැනි පුද්ගලයෙකු හට බොහෝ විට ව්‍යවසායකත්වය පිළිබඳ න්‍යායික දැනුමකින් පමණක් සමන්විත පුද්ගලයෙකු හට කළ හැකි මැදිහත්වීමට වඩා ගුණාත්මයෙන් වැඩි මැදිහත්මක් කළ හැකි වන්නේ ය.  වැඩ ලෝකය සම්බන්ධයෙන් මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා උපාධිධාරියාගේ සුවිශේෂී දායකත්වය පවතින්නේ ඒ හරහා ය.

ආත්ම විවේචනය

මෙහිදී මානවශාස්ත්‍ර ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයට අයත් ගුරුවරයෙකු වශයෙන් යම් ආත්ම විවේචනාත්මක සටහනක්, නැතහොක් පසු ලිවීමක්, එකතු කිරීමට ඇත.  විචාර න්‍යාය පිළිබඳ කෙරෙන ඉගැන්වීම් කටයුතු සාම්ප්‍රදායික කරුණු කියාදීමේ ස්වරූපයෙන් සිදුවන්නේ නම් විචාර න්‍යාය පිළිබඳ අධ්‍යාපනයෙන් අපේක්‍ෂා කරනු ලබන අරමුණු ළඟා කරගැනීම ඉතාමත් අපහසු වන්නේ ය.  අදාළ න්‍යායන් සම්බන්ධ දැනුම පොත්පත් සහ රචනා ස්වරූපයෙන් දැනටමත් පවතින බැවින් ඒවා පන්තිකාමරය තුළ ‘කියා දීම’ අවශ්‍ය නොවේ.  මෙම ඉගැන්වුම් කටයුතු වලදී ගුරුවරයාගේ කාර්යභාරය වන්නේ අදාළ න්‍යාය සම්බන්ධ පතපොත කියවා අවබෝධ කරගැනීමට සිසු සිසුවියන් යොමු කිරීමත්, පන්තිකාමරය තුළ ඒ හා සම්බන්ධයෙන් යම් සාකච්ඡාවක් ජනනය කොට එම සාකච්ඡාව නිවැරදි මාර්ගයේ පවත්වාගෙන යාමට අදාළ බුද්ධිමය පහසුකම් සපයන්නෙකු ලෙස කටයුතු කිරීමත් ය.  ජනප්‍රිය භාෂාවෙන් කිවහොත් ගුරුවරයා අතින් සිදුවිය යුත්තේ වචනයේ පරිසමාප්ති අර්ථයෙන්ම ‘ශිෂ්‍ය-පාදක’ වූ අධ්‍යයන පසුබිමක් නිර්මාණය කිරීමයි.  එම පසුබිම පන්තිකාමරය තුළ පමණක් නොව ඉන් පිටතත් නිර්මාණය කිරීමේ භාරදූර වගකීම මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයේ ගුරුවරුන්ගෙන් සිදුවිය යුතු වගකීමකි.  ඔවුන් එම අපහසු වගකීම පසෙක තබා තවත් එක් පාඩමක් කියාදෙන ස්වරූපයෙන් විචාර න්‍යාය උගන්වන්නේ නම් එවන් හුදු කරුණු කියාදීමේ ප්‍රවේශය හරහා අපේක්‍ෂිත ප්‍රතිඵල ලඟාකරගත නොහැකි වේ.  එවන් පරිසරයක් තුළින් නිදහස් චින්තනයකින් හෙබි උපාධිධාරීන් බිහිවීම අපේක්‍ෂා කළ නොහැකි ය.

මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා උපාධිධාරීන් තුළ තිබිය යුතු සුවිශේෂීම කුසලතාවය නම් නිදහස් චින්තනයේ යෙදීමට ඇති හැකියාවයි.  තොරතුරු තාක්‍ෂණය හා සම්බන්ධ කුසලතා වැනි මෘදු කුසලතා කිසිදු විටෙක එම නිදහස් චින්තන කුසලතාව වෙනුවට ලබා දිය හැකි හෝ ලබා දිය යුතු කුසලතා නොවන්නේ ය.  එක් අතකින් ඔවුන් තුළ අනිවාර්ය වශයෙන් දියුණු විය යුතු නිදහස් චින්තනයේ යෙදීමට ඇති හැකියාව වැඩිදියුණු කිරීම වෙනුවට එය මොට කරන ගණයේ ඉගැන්වුම් ක්‍රම භාවිතා කරන අතරම, අනෙක් අතින් මෘදු කුසලතා යැයි සැලකෙන කුසලතා ඔවුන් තුළ පැවතිය යුතු ප්‍රධානතම කුසලතා ලෙස සලකා ප්‍රවර්ධනය කිරීම හරහා සිදුවන්නේ මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්ගෙන් බිහිවන උපාධිධාරීන් තවතවත් තුන්වන පන්තියේ උපාධිධාරීන් ලෙස ස්ථාවර වීම පමණි.  එමගින් සිදුවන්නේ නිදහස් චින්තනයෙන් හෙබි පුද්ගලයන් වශයෙන් සමාජයට එක්වී, සුවිශේෂී සමාජ මැදිහත්වීමක් සිදු කිරීම සඳහා ඔවුන් වෙත ඓතිහාසිකව පැවරී ඇති වගකීම මෙන්ම අයිතියද අධ්‍යාපන ක්‍රමය විසින්ම අවුරා දැමීමයි,  එමෙන්ම තම ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයටම ආවේණික එම කුසලතාවය භාවිතයෙන් අන් ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්හි උපාධිධාරීන් වෙතින් අපේක්‍ෂා කළ නොහැකි ගණයේ මැදිහත්වීමක් සිදුකිරීම හරහා ඔවුන් සමග කරටකර සිටින පිරිසක් බවට පත්වීමට මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයන්හි උපාධිධාරීන්ට ඇති හැකියාව විනාශ කර දැමීමයි.
​
එසේනම් තමන්ටම සුවිශේෂී කුසලතාවන් හා දක්‍ෂතාවයන් ගොන්නක් අතැතිව මානවශාස්ත්‍ර සහ සමාජ විද්‍යා ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයට ඇතුළුවන ගාමක බලයෙන් හෙබි තරුණ තරුණියන් ප්‍රමාදී වර්ධිතයන්, නැතහොත් අඳබාලයින් බවට පත් නොකොට ඔවුන්ගේ දායකත්වය සමාජ ප්‍රගමණය වෙනුවෙන් ලබාගැනීමට අවශ්‍ය නම් කළ යුත්තේ මෘදු කුසලතා ඔවුන් මත බලෙන් පැටවීම නොව, ඔවුන්ගේ ක්‍ෂේත්‍රයටම සුවිශේෂී වූ චින්තන කුසලතා වැඩිදියුණු කිරීමට රුකුල් සැපයිය හැකි ආකාරයට ඉගෙනුම් ඉගැන්වුම් ක්‍රියාවලිය සැකසීමයි.

Original Article published in Midweek Review of The Island on September 1, 2021  

​‘Discipline’ is a buzz word today.  It is one of the most invoked words, from multiple angles and for a variety of reasons, within the Sri Lankan context at the present historical juncture.  We commonly encounter this word in statements, both formal and informal, made by politicians, activists, and also prominent military personnel.  We also see this word figuring prominently in a spectrum of contexts ranging from protest demonstrations to poya-day religious discussions.  The importance that the word has acquired in the present context warrants some engagement with it.

A quick Google search would return two meanings for the word/noun ‘discipline’.  The first is “the practice of training people to obey rules or a code of behaviour, using punishment to correct disobedience.”  The corresponding verb, which has the same form as the noun, means “train (someone) to obey rules or a code of behaviour, using punishment to correct disobedience.”  The words ‘train’, ‘rules’, and ‘punishment’ figure prominently in this definition.  According to this definition, a disciplined individual is one who has been trained to conduct herself/himself according to a set of established rules and who is conscious of the fact that any deviation from the rules could result in punishment.  A disciplined society is a society made up of such individuals.  The definition itself suggests that the ideal conduct or behaviour is one born out of one’s fear of punishment than out of her/his preference for that behaviour over the alternative options.

The second meaning that Google returns for the word discipline is “a branch of knowledge, typically one studied in higher education.”  Each of the different subject areas that are studied typically at the university level is a discipline in this sense.  If I may risk a terrible oversimplification of Foucault’s lifelong work in this area, a discipline is a historically produced body of knowledge, which is structured in a particular way and whose organization reflects the unequal power relations that are characteristic of what enabled the creation of that body of knowledge.  A discipline, in this sense, is not knowledge in some pure and objective form, nor is it the pure and objective truth; it is always a particular take on what is considered to be the truth at a particular moment in time.  In simpler terms, sociology is a discipline in the sense that it is a particular take on what it defines to be the social.  Similarly, physics is a discipline in the sense that it is a particular take on what it defines to be the physical.  This also means that a discipline could have taken a form that is different from the form that it takes had it come into existence under different historical circumstances.  And because disciplines are historically produced, the possibility of change is always already embedded within them.

The birth of the academic disciplines that we engage with today could be traced back to the Renaissance, which took place in Europe in the 15th Century.  During the Middle Ages in Europe, which preceded the Renaissance, knowledge was seen as something that was always in service of God.  All the bodies of knowledge, which in today’s terminology could be termed disciplines, reflected a God-centric universe.  This was the case with what would today have come not only under liberal arts but also under the hard sciences.  The engineering, technological, and architectural knowledge that went into the construction of magnificent structures like cathedrals in the Middle Ages could be shown as a case in point.  The Romanesque innovations, such as flying buttresses, pointed arches, and ribbed vaults, which enabled the construction of massive architectural structures, were born out of the spirit of the time that underscored the supremacy of God.

The Renaissance marks the collapse of this spirit and the birth of disciplines whose focus was a human-centric universe.  The new knowledge, which came into existence during this time, had to self-consciously distance itself from the kind of knowledge that celebrated the supremacy of God.  This move towards humanism made questioning the existing bodies of knowledge a compulsory step in the process of knowledge construction.  In this way, questioning became part of the inner life of the new disciplines; it was an integral part of the broader conceptual framework that enabled the creation of the new disciplines. To cut a long story short (and also to risk certain overgeneralizations), almost all the disciplines that we are engaging with today are more or less within the broader humanistic tradition, which the Renaissance brought about, or rather reinstated from the Greek Classical period.  By virtue of the fact that they are within the humanistic tradition, challenging existing knowledge in every step of the way is part of the very life of those disciplines.

It is the questioning of existing knowledge that is expected to happen in research.  Such questioning is expected to identify the problems and deficiencies in existing knowledge and point in the directions of possible new knowledge that addresses those problems and deficiencies.  The new knowledge that thus comes into existence is expected to be questioned again.  This is how knowledge is supposed to evolve.  This is exactly what a scientist does.  She/He raises questions about the knowledge that she/he has received, with the hope of reforming it, sometimes by filling in the gaps, sometimes by changing existing knowledge, and sometimes even by discarding existing knowledge and replacing it with new knowledge.  The research that she/he carries out in the laboratory keeps the humanistic tradition alive.

Now, when it comes to many of the disciplines in the humanities and the social sciences, the laboratory where the ‘scientist’ carries out her/his research is society.  The existing knowledge that she/he is supposed to question and challenge includes the rules, norms, and values of the very society, which she/he is part of.  Most of the time, these rules, norms, and values are what define her/his existence, and it may even be the case that she/he and her/his loved ones benefit from them and therefore hold them dear to their heart, but as a ‘scientist’ in the area of the humanities and the social sciences, she/he should be capable of looking at them from a critical point of view.  What is important here is that one cannot impose limits on the kinds of rules, norms, and values that the ‘scientist’ in the humanities and the social sciences could challenge.  Imposing such limits would be similar to saying that those in medicine can conduct research only into the anatomy of the lower part of the body and not the upper part; that those in geology can study the coastal terrain and not the hilly terrain; that those in engineering can study aerodynamics and not avionics.  Needless to say that such restrictions are counter-productive, but we have somehow come to accept such restrictions in the areas that come within social research.  Many of the disciplines that are within the humanities and the social sciences have responded to the pressure by unfortunately limiting themselves to those areas of study that are less socially sensitive or engaging with their subject matter in less socially sensitive ways.  The violence that such measures have done to the disciplines in question as well as to the possibilities of knowledge production in general is huge.

So to put it bluntly, this means that being a ‘trouble-maker’ in a socially sensitive manner is an important part of the role that one in the humanities and the social sciences has been historically called upon to play.  This does not however mean that those in the other fields are not supposed to be ‘trouble-makers’ in a socially sensitive manner.  The point is this role is specifically expected of those in the humanities and the social sciences.  In fact the success of such an individual as a scholar depends on the extent to which she/he manages to play this role.  One can be considered ‘disciplined’ primarily—and I would go to the extent of saying ‘only’—if she/he is capable of becoming a socially-sensitive trouble-maker.  Every time she/he plays the role of a socially-sensitive trouble-maker she/he is being true to the spirit of the humanistic tradition, which defines the broadest possible framework for the production of knowledge in modern times.  The inability of a programme in these fields to convert individuals into socially-sensitive trouble-makers is an indication that that programme is a failure.  One knows that the public funds expended on the programmes in the humanities and the social sciences have not gone to waste if they manage to produce socially-sensitive trouble-makers.  Any programme in these fields that produces citizens who remain silent in the face of social injustice has only wasted public funds expended on them.
​
Finally, if the first meaning of the word discipline is invoked with the express intention of censoring the role that those in the humanities and the social sciences have historically been called upon to play that says a lot about the agency that invokes that particular meaning than about anything else. 

Original Article published in Hantana Vision [June 2019; Vol. 5; Issue 1]
​
The current discourse on the idea of Quality Assurance in Sri Lanka, particularly within the higher education sector of the country, is one that uncritically endorses neoliberal market economy.  A close engagement with how the idea of quality assurance is perceived in other countries, from first-world to third-world alike, would show that we are simply, if not simple-mindedly, being part of a widespread global trend.  One of the clear goals of the initiatives carried out in the name of quality assurance is to ensure that the higher education institutes, particularly universities and other similar degree-awarding institutes, cater to the needs of market economy.  The widespread assumption seems to be that there are predefined slots out there in society, and these institutes need, as their primary, if not sole, responsibility, to produce individuals who would fit into those slots.  The numerous calls to bridge the gap between universities and the world of work, design courses and degree programmes that cater to the needs of the world of work, promote soft skills over critical thinking, and get representatives from the industry directly involved in the designing of degree programmes and evaluating of students underscore this assumption.  Within this discourse, those degree programmes that do not cater to the needs of the world of work are increasingly becoming not only marginalized but also stigmatized.  The fact that they are not directly relevant to the kinds of work that the graduates would be expected to perform is considered an inherent failure of those programmes and their corresponding disciplines.  This situation defines the current status of many of the humanities and the social sciences programmes, the former more so than the latter.

In response to this account, one could say that neoliberal market economy is a fact of the day and that the only option for the universities is to go with the tide.  One could also say that therefore the only option for the programmes in the humanities and the social sciences is to refashion themselves to make themselves competitive within the current socioeconomic order.  While this argument makes sense to a certain extent, to fully subscribe to this view is to completely neglect the special role that universities in general and the humanities in particular have historically been entrusted with.
Does this mean that universities should completely disregard the needs of the neoliberal market economy, which is the order of the day?  Not at all.  There is no question that universities, as the leading tertiary education institutes in society, need to cater to the needs of the system.  The problem is with the indiscriminate call for all degree programmes in the country to be dictated, and that too in a rather servile manner, by the needs of market economy.  This call completely disregards the role that universities have historically been assigned as centres of critical thinking.  There are many instances in world history where universities have played an active role as centres of resistance.  There is no doubt that this particular role of universities has always been frowned upon by the dominant system of the day to varying degrees, but a close engagement with the broader picture would indicate how this very role, once branded as being anti-social and anti-progressive by the centre, has contributed much towards strengthening humanist values of which the primary value is human freedom.  Albeit difficult, universities have been able to go against the current precisely because of the relative autonomy that they have enjoyed to varying degrees over the past.  The current discourse on quality assurance in the higher education sector is in a way pressurizing universities to give up their autonomous status and capitulate to the dominant order of the day.

There are many degree programmes, which could refashion themselves in order to ensure that they address the needs of neoliberal market economy, without causing much violence to the corresponding disciplines.  This is true regarding many of the professional degree programmes where the goal is to produce individuals who are trained for specific professions.  The system has predefined slots for professionals, and the responsibility of such programmes is to produce individuals who would fit into those slots.  The success of those programmes would largely depend on how smoothly those individuals would fit into the slots.  This shows how much the primary goal of such programmes is compatible with what the dominant system expects of them.  Given this compatibility, the current call from the system to ensure the quality of those programmes does not necessary entail violence to the corresponding disciplines.  This is much more than what could be said about the degree programmes in the humanities.

The majority of the degree programmes in the humanities are not professional in the sense that their primary responsibility is not to train individuals for specific professions.  There are no predefined slots out there, which the products of those programmes are designed to fit into.  The humanities is ideally about the development of the human mind and strengthening of humanist values.  Ideally speaking, the unconditional celebration of human freedom is the necessary first step towards setting up programmes with a humanities outlook.  Needless to say that this unconditional celebration of human freedom, which is at the heart of the humanities, is at loggerheads with what neoliberal market economy stands for.  There is a clear disparity between what the dominant order of the day demands and what the humanities is in a position to offer without compromising its disciplinary integrity.  In such a context, to say that the humanities programmes should somehow refashion themselves to cater to the needs of the market economy entails tremendous violence to the disciplines in question.

It is clear that many programmes in the humanities have cracked under the pressure from the system and tried to refashion themselves with a view to reaching a point where they can cater to the needs of the day in the same manner that their professional degree counterparts do.  In trying to do so, they have lost their disciplinary integrity.  At best they have become pseudo sciences, which fail to go much beyond jargonizing commonsense and christening half-truths as knowledge.  In the process, they have rendered themselves exactly what the centre criticizes them of—non-serious, even useless, academic engagements.  The widespread criticism against the humanities programmes, in this sense, is largely justified; nevertheless, that is not because the humanities as a field lacks depth and integrity but because the programmes in the humanities have drifted away from the principles and values that the field is based on.  In this sense, what the system is in the process of doing in the name of streamlining the humanities programmes and assuring their quality is to drain life out of the field and turn it into a lifeless and spirit-less arid zone.
​
Does this mean that quality assurance is not for the humanities?  The simple answer is no.  The present discourse on the idea of quality assurance is so strong and pervasive that it is not an option for the programmes in the humanities to step out of the discourse.  As problematic as the current conceptualization of quality assurance might be, it has become a fact of life, and it is clear that the humanities programmes have no option but to live with it.  That said, all the stakeholders concerned have a responsibility to ensure that the humanities is afforded the room and academic freedom to be what it has historically been expected to be.  This is extremely important for the reason that the humanities—the undiluted version of it—is what affords the space and conceptual framework for the rethinking of the system itself.

(The Original Article published in Colombo Telegraph on December 12, 2017) 

The academic departments and programmes in Sri Lankan universities with a humanities focus have constantly been criticized, over the past four decades, for their alleged failure to be productive spaces that are relevant to society.  The charges levelled against those departments and programmes are primarily based on the (mis)conception that they fail to be ‘scientific’ in their outlook.  They are often seen as spaces that produce individuals who are misfits and who fail to take part in the productive processes in society.  The academics in those departments and programmes are often seen as armchair-scholars who are out of touch with ever-so-dynamic social realities, regressive (non)thinkers who resist change, and individuals who uphold their supposedly old-fashioned and outdated modes of knowledge production to the detriment of the future of their students.  The students of such departments and programmes, in general, are viewed as a group of hapless souls for whom the humanities was the restricted choice.  The whole situation surrounding the idea of the Humanities in the Sri Lankan context is basically (mis)understood to be one that is in dire need of some sort of a messiah.

The current discourse on the humanities not only in the Sri Lankan context but also across the globe, particularly in all-important western centres of knowledge production, indicate that quite a number of institutions and individuals have offered to play the role of this much-needed messiah.  The proposals made by such institutions and individuals with the supposed intention of salvaging the humanities include calls for streamlining the disciplines with a humanities focus with the rest of the disciplines, particularly those with a “scientific outlook”.  Some of the proposed ways of accomplishing this goal include reorganizing the body of knowledge into smaller, isolatable segments that could be mastered within short periods of time; incorporating technology into the learning process irrespective of whether that necessarily enhances the learning process; redefining the research approaches and methods used in the Humanities along the lines of the scientific, if not scientistic, methods that place a high premium on the principle of objectivity; and redefining the pedagogical process so as to ensure that the products of the process conveniently fit into predefined slots in the broader socio-economic fabric.  In this context, any kind of knowledge that cannot be put to immediate practical use is increasingly being viewed as knowledge that is not worth pursuing.

The widespread obsession with the idea of science that defines the current discourse on the humanities is disturbing for a couple of reasons.  The overwhelming superiority that natural sciences enjoy in the current academic discourse worldwide has ensured that the idea of science is always understood in relation to the natural sciences.  This understanding projects science, in its current form, as the only pathway to truth.  However, Arjuna Parakrama’s work on the genealogy of the concept would show that the current understanding of ‘science’ is limited and also narrower than the meanings that the concept has had over the past, while Aleksei Losev has already established that what constitutes science at any point in time is a form of myth.  Irrespective of whether one would want to agree with such analyses and theoretical positions, there is no question that the issues that they raise are too big to be ignored.  In a context where such analyses and theoretical positions are possible in spaces that come under the humanities, the fervent call for the disciplines with a humanities focus to model themselves after the natural sciences is not only grossly misguided but also disturbingly self-limiting, as such a move invariably entails weakening the existing modes of thinking that could provide critical insights into the very idea of science. 

A closer look at the relationship between what is termed science today and global capitalism shows that ‘sciencification’ of knowledge is crucial for the maintenance of the global capitalist world order.  (This is a claim that warrants a detailed discussion of its own.)  In such a context, education is reduced to a process whose main, if not only, aim is to empower students with certain skills and tools, which they can use to get things done in the world of work.  This conception of education is disturbingly limited and limiting, as it takes the world of work as a given and ends up justifying/legitimizing the global capitalist world order.  One could argue that this is yet another theoretical claim that fails to take into consideration the blatant reality that everyone needs a job.  There is no question that everyone needs a job, but to tailor academic programmes with a humanities focus primarily, if not entirely, to suit the needs of global capitalism is to turn a blind eye to the noble responsibilities that the humanities disciplines have historically been entrusted with.

​Any attempt at rethinking the humanities programmes should recognize the fact that the sciences, both natural and social, and the humanities have had two different historical trajectories.  To model the latter after the former would be like asking a traditional Kandyan Wes dancer to perform the traditional kohomba yak kankariya wearing a tuxedo.  Not only will the whole purpose behind the Kandyan dance tradition and the Kankariya performance be lost, but also the whole exercise will end up becoming a ridiculous one. 

Original Article Published in Colombo Telegraph on July 29, 2015

Rāvanā, one of the principal characters in the Rāmāyana, emerges as a villain in the mainstream (Hindu) understandings of the text.  Given the important position that Rama (Rāvanā’s opponent) who is believed to be a manifestation of Viśnu occupies in the Hindu religious tradition, Rāvanā becomes a symbol of evil in those readings of the text.  Nevertheless, the conceptualizations of Rāvanā within the context of Sinhala Buddhist nationalism point to alternative perspectives on the character.  One such perspective that has emerged in the post-2009 Sri Lankan context shows a tendency to idealize Rāvanā as a national hero.  The present paper argues that the relationship between Rāvanā and Sinhala Buddhism that this conceptualization suggests is ridden with certain contradictions that Sinhala Buddhist nationalism fails to address successfully.

In the Rāmāyana, Rāvanā’s kingdom is called ‘Lankā,’ and this Lankā has widely been identified as present-day Sri Lanka.  Due to this reason, Sri Lanka features prominently in the existing discourse on the text.  Various places within Sri Lanka, mainly in the central and northern parts of the country, have been identified as key locations mentioned in the Rāmāyana narrative.  There have, however, been scholarly attempts to problematize this perceived relationship between Rāvanā’s Lankā and present-day Sri Lanka and argue that the former was within what comes under the present-day Indian territory;[1] nevertheless, these attempts have not been able to successfully refute the established understanding, particularly in the mainstream Hindu readings of the epic, that Rāvanā’s Lankā was Sri Lanka.[2]

This association of Rāvanā’s Lankā with present-day Sri Lanka establishes Rāvanā as a past king of Sri Lanka.  The main historical chronicles on the basis of which Sri Lanka’s history is understood/constructed do not mention a king by the name of Rāvanā, or, to say the least, these chronicles do not cover the ancient past in which Rāvanā is claimed to have ruled the country.  Nevertheless, the idea of Rāvanā as an ancient king of the country is generally perceived as a historical truth.  Certain publications on Rāvanā that have emerged over the past couple of years in Sri Lanka indicate an attempt at historicizing him.[3]  They conceptualize Rāvanā not only as a ruler of the island whose power extended beyond the limits of the island but also as a leader of a highly advanced civilization with an advanced form of technology.[4]  For this reason, Rāvanā has mainly functioned as a cultural icon and a symbol of pride for the most part of Sri Lankan history.

The post-war Sri Lankan context has seen the transformation of the concept of Rāvanā from a largely cultural icon to a political icon with specific meanings.  In a context where the war had primarily been conceptualized as a civil war between the Sinhala and Tamil ethnic communities, the conclusion of the war in 2009 that saw the defeat of the Liberation Tigers of the Tamil Eelam (LTTE) at the hands of the Sri Lankan armed forces was largely represented as a victory of the Sinhala ethnic community over the Tamil ethnic community.  The Dutugemunu-Elara analogy in terms of which the outcome of the war was commonly conceptualized contributed to solidifying the polarization of the said ethnic communities in the country.  The Sinhala-versus-Tamil division, which the conclusion of the war had resulted in highlighting quickly developed into a division between Sinhala-Buddhists and Non-Sinhala-Buddhists.  Along with this schematization, Rāvanā began to emerge as a key political icon in the Sinhala Buddhist camp.  This “Sinhala-Buddhisization” of Rāvanā is most evident in the emergence of the pro-Sinhala Buddhist organization named Rāvanā Balaya, which literally means the Rāvanā Force.  

The Sinhala-Buddhist spin that Rāvanā, like many other cultural icons and symbols, has acquired in the post-war context, however, embodies a fundamental contradiction.  The association of Rāvanā with Sinhala Buddhism is problematic for the simple reason that Rāvanā predates both Buddhism and the Sinhala ethnicity as we know them today.  Prince Vijaya who arrived in what is today known as Sri Lanka with a group of companions in the sixth century BC is widely seen as the founder of the Sinhala ethnic identity.  The Mahāvamsa, which is the main historical chronicle of Sri Lanka, associates Vijaya with the Sinhala ethnic identity in such a way that he and his companions become the first generation of the Sinhala ethnic community.[5]  Although this particular understanding of the origin of the Sinhala ethnic identity has been challenged and attempts have been made to place this point of origin centuries, if not millennia, back in time,[6] in a context where the authority of the Mahāvamsa largely remains unchallenged, especially in the eyes of the mainstream elements of the Sinhala community, the argument that Vijaya was the founder of the Sinhala identity continues to remain valid.  At the same time, Buddhism, as we know it today, begins with the Gautama Buddha who is believed to have lived in the sixth century BC.  Although, according to Theravada Buddhism, there have been twenty-seven Buddhas with their own traditions of Buddhism prior to the Gautama Buddha, the present tradition(s) of Buddhism, especially that found in Sri Lanka, is attributed solely to the Gautama Buddha.  Accordingly, the furthest that the origins of the Sinhala ethnic identity and Buddhism, as we understand them, could be traced to is the sixth century BC, which is millennia away from the time of Rāvanā.  In a context where the mainstream understandings regarding the two largely remain unchallenged, or at least, a discourse on the problematic nature of those understandings is absent, the proclaimed association between Rāvanā and Sinhala Buddhism is fundamentally contradictory.

Any attempt at giving this association an air of credibility would necessarily have to go beyond the established understandings about Buddhism and the Sinhala ethnicity.  Such an attempt would have to find a way to somehow tie them to Rāvanā’s time and Rāvanā as a historical figure.  The Buddhist discourse titled the Laṅkāvatāra sūtra [hereafter referred to as the LS] which is a key text in the Mahayana Buddhist tradition, enables one to draw a clear connection between Rāvanā and the idea of Buddhism.  The LS is believed to have been preached by the Buddha[7] to Rāvanā who is described, in the text, as the “Overlord of the Yakshas”[8] who ruled “Laṅkā on Mount Malaya.”[9]  It claims that its subject matter is “the Truth realisable by noble wisdom in one’s inmost self, which is beyond the reasoning knowledge of the philosophers as well as the state of consciousness of the Śrāvakas and Pratyekabuddhas,”[10] and it recognizes Rāvanā as one capable of understanding that Truth.[11]  The apparent confirmation found in the LS that Rāvanā was the ruler of “Lanka” and the depiction of Rāvanā as an advanced individual whose mental capacities even surpassed those of philosophers and who was deemed by the Buddha himself as capable of grasping the ultimate Truth, one would argue, create a space in which Rāvanā could easily be associated with the idea of Buddhism.

Nevertheless, this potential of the LS remains virtually unexploited by those elements of the post-war Sri Lankan society that attempt to make a case for Rāvanā as one associated with Buddhism.  Given that the LS is part of the Mahayana tradition, one could argue that this absence of attention is due to a lack of widespread awareness about the sūtra among Sri Lankan Buddhists.  While this may be true to a certain extent, it is hard to believe that the concerned elements in the community have been unaware of the text to such an extent for this excellent piece of “evidence” to have remained unnoticed.  The fact that this Mahayana discourse has been discussed by Ven. Walpola Rahula in his seminal work What the Buddha Taught (and its Sinhala version), which is widely seen as an authoritative text on Theravada Buddhism, shows that the LS has been part of the Sri Lankan discourse on Buddhism.  Also, Pabalu Wijegoonewardane’s claim that his ballet titled Maha Ravana (2008) is based on the LS indicates that the text has been known even outside of strictly scholarly circles.[12]  Therefore, one could safely conclude that this absence of attention to the LS on the part of the concerned mainstream elements of the Sri Lankan Sinhala Buddhist community is intentional.

This prevailing silence on the piece of “evidence” found in the LS could be understood in two ways.  First, the LS is a fundamental text in the Mahayana tradition, and excessive attention to such a text and any claims made on the basis of such a text entail a certain endorsement of that tradition.  Given Sri Lanka’s position as a Theravada stronghold, such an endorsement of the Mahayana tradition invariably translates into compromising the country’s unique identity in the broader Buddhist world.  Second, the idea that Buddhism had existed in Sri Lanka before it was “properly” introduced to the country complicates the established historical narrative of the Sinhala community.  This idea problematizes the importance that the mainstream historical narrative assigns to Vijaya, as the founder of the Sinhala civilization in the country, by blurring the established gap between the pre- and post-Vijaya eras of the country’s history.  Given that the distinction between the two eras is central to the mainstream conceptualization of the Sinhala ethnic identity, any claim that downplays the importance assigned to Vijaya’s arrival in the island could have serious implications for the established understanding of that ethnic identity.

At the same time, certain established understandings regarding Viśnu, whom Rāma is primarily a manifestation of, also raise certain questions about the association of Rāvanā with Sinhala Buddhism.  The Mahāvamsa points to an inextricable link between Viśnu and Sinhala Buddhism.  According to the chronicle, Prince Vijaya, having been banished and deported by his father King Sinhabahu for his misconduct, arrives in Lanka on the same day that the Gautama Buddha prepares himself to enter into the state of nirvana.  Having foreseen Lanka as the land where his dharma will be protected in the future, he requests Sakka, the king of gods, to protect Vijaya and his followers, saying “In Lanka, O lord of gods, will my religion be established, therefore carefully protect him with his followers.”[13]  The god whom Sakka entrusts this task to is Viśnu.  Since that moment, Viśnu has been seen as a protector god of Lanka, the Sinhala ethnic community, and Buddhism in the island.  His position as one of the four protector gods of the island’s (Sinhala) nation to date indicates the sense of importance that he enjoys within the Sinhala Buddhist culture.

Another factor that problematizes the association between Rāvanā and Sinhala Buddhism is the established recognition, particularly in the South Indian (re)imaginings of the Rāmāyana, that Rāvanā is a Tamil king.  Not only do the South Indian (re)imaginings of the text present Rāvanā as a Tamil king, they also depict him as a great tragic hero,[14] a depiction that contrasts with the Hindu-centric depictions of him primarily as a villain.  M. S. Purnalingam Pillai advances this South Indian approach to Rāvanā when he claims, “The ten-faced and twenty-armed Ravana was apparently a very intelligent and valiant hero, a cultured and highly civilized ruler, knew the Vedas and was an expert musician.  He took away Sita according to the Tamilian mode of warfare, had her in the Asoka woods companioned by his own niece, and would not touch her unless she consented.”[15]  This conceptualization establishes Rāvanā first and foremost as a Tamil.  The thesis, propagated by P. Sundaram Pillai, that “the Rāmāyana story [the mainstream North Indian version] was a travesty of truth, belittling Dravidian culture typified by Rāvana as well as proof of Aryan penetration and dominance in South India”[16] emphasizes the fundamentally Tamilian character of Rāvanā’s identity.  Given the predominance of this understanding of Rāvanā, any serious attempt to associate him with the Sinhala ethnic identity would necessarily have to assume a close relationship between the Sinhala and Tamil ethnic identities.  The fact that the Sinhala Buddhist nationalists in Sri Lanka do not even acknowledge this South Indian understanding of Rāvanā, in my view, points to their unwillingness to even consider the possibility of such a close relationship.

Accordingly, it is evident that the current conceptualizations of Rāvanā within the Sinhala Buddhist nationalist discourse are ridden with multiple contradictions.  Any serious attempt at building a connection between Rāvanā and Sinhala Buddhism, in my view, invites a radical reevaluation of the established understandings regarding both Buddhism and the Sinhala ethnicity.

[1] See U. P. Shah, “The Sālakaṭaṅkaṭas and Laṅkā,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 96, no. 1 (1976), 109-113; Malti Nagar and S. C. Nanda, “Ethnographic Evidence for the Location of Ravana’s Lanka,” Bulletin of the Deccan College Research Institute 45 (1986): 71-77.

[2] The resistance that the Sethusamudram Shipping Canal Project has faced from certain Hindu groups in India since the project was proposed in the late 1990’s could be seen as an affirmation of the important position that Sri Lanka occupies as Rāvanā’s kingdom in the mainstream Hindu understanding of the epic.  These groups claimed that the project was going to damage what is called ‘Rama’s bridge’ or ‘Rama setu,’ which, according to the legend, was created by Rāma’s vānara (ape) army to enable Rāma to cross the sea into Rāvanā’s kingdom in order to liberate Sita.

[3] The books published by Mirando Obeysekera, such as Ravana - King of Lanka and Ravanawatha (2013), and a series of newspaper articles published in the Mawbima newspaper (late 2012 and early 2013) could be cited as certain key attempts at historicizing Rāvanā.

[4] One of the key technological advancements that is attributed to Rāvanā is his dandumonarayantraya or flying-machine. 

[5] “But the king Sīhabāhu [Vijaya’s father, the king of the Vanga kingdom in India] since he had slain the lion (was called) Sīhala and, by reason of the ties between him and them, all those (followers of Vijaya) were also (called) Sīhala” [The Mahāvamsa, or the Great Chronicle of Ceylon, trans. Wilhelm Geiger (London: Pali Text Society, 1964), 58].

[6] Such attempts are mostly found in articles published in Sri Lankan newspapers from time to time.

[7] It is not clear who this Buddha was.  While some sources attribute the LS to the Gautama Buddha, some others associate it with an earlier Buddha.

[8] Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki, trans., The Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra: A Mahāyāna Text (London: George Routledge and Sons and the Eastern Buddhist Society, 1932), 4.

[9] Ibid., 3.

[10] Ibid., 4.

[11] Ibid.

[12] Quoting Wijegoonewardane, Thiruni Kelegama writes, “The root of the Maha Ravana ballet, Pabalu says, can be found in the Lankavatara suthra, said to be preached to Ravana by Konagama Buddha (the Third Buddha in the Maha Bhadra Kalpa Era)” (“Ravana Regained,” The Sunday Times, May 25, 2008, accessed April 10, 2015, http://www.sundaytimes.lk/080525/Plus/plus000015.html).

[13] The Mahāvamsa 55.

[14] These (re)imaginings echo the conceptualization of Rāvanā in the Kamba Ramayana, which is a Tamil version of the epic composed in the twelfth century.

[15] Quoted in K. V. Zvelebil, “Rāvana the Great in Modern Tamil Fiction,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, no. 1 (1988): 126-134 (emphasis mine).

[16] Zvelebil 128. 

The system of ontology that Arthur Schopenhauer proposes in The World as Will and Idea involves both the immanent and transcendental realms.  It, like many other systems of the kind, is based on the assumption that the immanent realm where the speaking subject is located is imperfect and that true liberation lies in the transcendental realm.  The paper recognises certain basic parallels between this system of ontology and the system proposed by Buddhism.  Based on an analysis of the two systems, the paper argues that, while the trajectories of the liberatory progress presented in the two systems run parallel to each other, what Schopenhauer recognises as the ultimate reality is in fact part of the immanent realm, and that therefore, from a Buddhist philosophical perspective, there is no significant difference between the starting and end points of the liberatory progress proposed by Schopenhauer.

Schopenhauer situates his system of ontology in relation to those proposed by Plato and Kant (Schopenhauer 219-228).  For Plato, what is found in the immanent realm is devoid of true being.  What embody true being are what he calls the eternal Ideas.  Everything located in the immanent realm are mere shadows of these eternal Ideas that are part of the transcendental realm.  While the eternal Ideas, which exist for themselves, are permanent, their worldly manifestations are in a state of constant becoming.  The eternal Ideas are not affected by what takes place in the immanent realm in any way.  What Kant refers to as the thing-in-itself is somewhat parallel to the Platonic notion of the eternal Idea in the sense that the thing-in-itself is also external to the immanent realm and remains unaffected by what takes place in the immanent realm.  The distinction between the noumenon and the phenomenon is fundamental to Kant’s scheme.  According to Kant, the thing-in-itself, which is part of the noumenal state of existence, is essentially removed from human experience as the phenomenal world does not have any access to that state of existence.  

The Schopenhauerian system of ontology could be seen as a synthesis of the Platonic and Kantian systems.  Despite the apparent similarity between the Platonic notion of Idea and the Kantian notion of the thing-in-itself, Schopenhauer claims, “Idea and thing-in-itself are not entirely the one and the same,” (Schopenhauer 226) and he seems to base this claim on the idea that the thing-in-itself, unlike the Platonic Idea, cannot be known through human experience.  He establishes a connection between the thing-in-itself and the Idea when he argues, “The Idea is for us rather the direct, and therefore adequate, objectivity of the thing-in-itself, which is, however, itself the will - the will as not yet objectified, not yet become idea” (Schopenhauer 226, emphasis in original).  What humans experience are manifestations of this Idea mediated by what Schopenhauer calls sufficient reason, which he defines as “the form into which the Idea enters when it appears in the knowledge of the subject as individual” (Schopenhauer 227).  The Schopenhauerian system, in this sense, consists of three levels of existence: the thing-in-itself, which itself is the will; the Idea, which is the direct objectivity of the thing-in-itself; and the idea (with a simple ‘i’), which is a manifestation of the Idea mediated by the principle of sufficient reason and which is an indirect, and also inadequate, objectivity of the thing-in-itself.

Schopenhauer’s claim that the thing-in-itself is nothing but the will is parallel to the fundamental Buddhist belief that desire (taņhā) is at the heart of existence.[1]  According to Buddhism, every form of existence is defined by dukkha, which can loosely be translated as ‘dissatisfactoriness,’[2] and dukkha is caused by taņhā or desire.  If dukkha (‘dissatisfactoriness’) is the true nature of all phenomena, taņhā, as the cause of dukkha, is the source of all phenomena.  Taņhā is one of the twelve links of the Buddhist notion of paṭicca-samuppāda[3] (Dependent Origination), which refers to the system that keeps one locked in the vicious cycle of samsāra.  Although taņhā is one of the twelve links of Dependent Origination, it is almost always highlighted as the central cause of dissatisfactoriness.  Rahula defines taņhā as “the ‘principal thing’ and the ‘all-pervading thing’” (29).  If taņhā or desire is the principal and all-pervading thing it has to be part of, if not itself is, what schopenhauer refers to as the thing-in-itself.  At the same time, Schopenhauer’s claim that the will is the source of all phenomena (Schopenhauer 238) highlights the comparability of the will or the thing-in-itself to taņhā or desire.

What Schopenhauer has to say about knowledge can be explained in terms of the Buddhist concept of Dependent Origination.  Schopenhauer argues, “Knowledge, now, as a rule, remains always subordinate to the service of the will, as indeed it originated for this service, and grew, so to speak, to the will, as the head to the body.”  The knowledge that Schopenhauer refers to here is the knowledge of the phenomenal world, the knowledge that pertains to the worldly manifestations of the Platonic Idea.  According to Buddhism, this kind of knowledge is called avidyā or avijjā, whose literal meaning is improper knowledge or ignorance.  This kind of knowledge is improper because it fails to capture the true nature of existence.  In the scheme of Dependent Origination, ignorance (avijjā) prompts one to take volitional actions, and that way, acquire karmic formations (saṃkhāra).  These volitional actions or karmic formations condition the consciousness (viññāna) of the person.  This consciousness determines the nature of the mental and physical phenomena (nāmarūpa), and they in turn condition the six faculties (salāyatana), which are the five physical sense-organs and the mind.  These six faculties determine the nature of sensorial and mental contact (phassa), and contact leads to sensation (védanā).  Sensation generates desire (taņhā), which in turn results in clinging (upādāna).  Clinging conditions the process of becoming (bhava).  As a result of becoming emerges birth (jāti), and birth leads to decay, death, lamentation, and pain (jarā marana sōka parideva).[4]  In this scheme, one could see how ignorance leads to desire and, given the cyclical nature of the scheme, how desire, in turn, reinforces ignorance.  This shows that ignorance and desire are mutually reinforcing.

Given the similarity between the Schopenhauerian notion of ordinary knowledge (knowledge of particular things) and the Buddhist notion of ignorance, there is a certain parallel between the Schopenhauerian claim that ordinary knowledge is always subordinate to the service of the will and the Buddhist understanding that ignorance and desire are “realities” that are locked in a scheme of mutual reinforcement.  Nevertheless, the two understandings differ significantly from each other in that the relationship is unidirectional in the former and bidirectional in the latter.  The Schopenhauerian scheme is unidirectional in the sense that it stresses how ordinary knowledge is essentially subordinate to the will and how the former is always in the service of the latter.  The discussion does not provide any insights into any possible impact of the latter on the former.  This position contrasts with the Buddhist understanding that each is both the cause and the effect of the other in some way.

Schopenhauer recognises the Platonic notion of the Idea as the ultimate reality attainable to the human being.  He views the attainment of the Idea as “possible, but yet to be regarded as only exceptional,” (230) and the one who has attained this reality as “pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge” (231, emphasis in original).  The claim that the attainment of the Platonic Idea is possible but exceptional projects the non-attainment of this goal as ordinary.  At the same time, the claim that the one who attains this ultimate reality is pure, will-less, and painless projects the the Platonic Idea as a pure, will-less, and painless state.  It also implies that the one who has not attained this ultimate reality is characterised by impurity, will, and pain.  Schopenhauer also claims that the one who attains the Platonic Idea stops tracing relations in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason and also ceases to be merely individual (230).  Schopenhauer does not describe in detail the nature of the interaction between the principle of sufficient reason and an ordinary individual; nor does he define the role that an ordinary individual plays in determining the nature of the idea or the version of the Platonic Idea that appears in the knowledge of that individual.  However, the emphasis that the definition of the principle of sufficient reason places on the individuality of the (not)knowing subject implies Schopenhauer’s assumption that ordinary knowledge is always a subjective interpretation of the Platonic Idea by the individual.  The direct access to the Platonic Idea that the individual gains in the event of attaining the ultimate reality indicates that she is free from any control of the principle of sufficient reason.  Given that the principle of sufficient reason is the very condition of individuality,[5] this freedom from the principle of sufficient reason results in a diffusion of her individuality.

The conceptualisation of the Platonic Idea as the ultimate reality attainable to the human being makes it comparable to nirvāņa in Buddhism.  Buddhism identifies nirvāņa as the ultimate reality that any being could hope to attain.[6]  Like in the case of the Platonic Idea, the attainment of nirvāņa is possible, but given that the number of individuals who are committed to pursuing this ultimate reality is minimal, it is also exceptional.  Rahula describes nirvāņa as “the cessation (Nirodha) of dukkha” (Rahula 40).  This description of nirvāņa highlights the fundamental Buddhist teaching regarding the nature of existence.  According to Buddhism, all phenomena are in a state of constant change; therefore, all forms of existence are impermanent.  At the same time, every phenomenon is devoid of its own-being; there is nothing about a phenomenon that could be identified as the essence of that phenomenon that holds it together on a permanent basis.  Ordinary beings operate under the illusion that phenomena are permanent and ‘self’ (in the sense that they possess some form of essence that establish them as identities distinguishable from each other).  Driven by this illusion, they become ‘willing’ individuals and crave for existence that has the illusion of permanence and ‘self.’  Nevertheless, due to the fundamental mismatch between their convictions and the true nature of reality, they constantly run into situations of hopelessness, and this sense of hopelessness gives rise to suffering.  This is the sense in which all forms of existence is dukkha.  From this perspective, the cessation of dukkha is the attainment of nirvāņa.

The statement ‘The cessation of dukkha is the attainment of nirvāņa’ raises the question “What does the cessation of dukkha really mean?”  If dukkha is the very condition of existence the cessation of dukkha, logically speaking, should result in an annihilation of existence.  According to the dominant meaning of this statement, anyone who attains nirvāņa should cease to exist.  However, most, if not all, of those who are known to have attained nirvāņa, including the Buddha himself, did not “cease to exist” as an immediate result of this attainment, in the dominant sense of the term.  This shows that the existence that gets annihilated at the moment of the attainment of nirvāņa is an existence of a different kind, or rather, existence understood in a different way.  What the attainment of nirvāņa signifies an annihilation of is the condition that perpetuates existence through the accumulation of karmic energy.  The annihilation of this condition does not end existence immediately, as it does not affect what the condition had already brought into existence and the karmic energy that had already been accumulated before the moment of the annihilation; nevertheless, existence as we know it is bound to come to an end, as the condition that keeps it going is not in place.  According to Buddhism, what brings about the annihilation of the condition that perpetuates existence is the realisation that everything is empty of its own-being.[7]  This realisation indicates one’s conviction that everything that is conditioned is impermanent, unsatisfactory, and not-self.  When one is convinced that everything about existence is impermanent, unsatisfactory, and not-self she realises the futility of any attempt to attach herself to any form of existence.

This understanding of nirvāņa shows that to attain nirvāņa is to realise it, know it, or to be convinced of it.  Nirvāņa, in this sense, is a form of knowledge.  It is knowing how, as well as the knowledge that certain propositions are true.[8]  It is not a gift that is granted by a superior being for the meritorious deeds that one has done in her lifetime; nor is it a superior place that one wins the right to enter into or one is allowed into.  The knowledge that nirvāņa represents indicates a shift of focus from what are perceived to be individual phenomena with fixed identities to the quality that is most fundamental to all phenomena, which is emptiness, or the absence of own-being.

The realisation that all forms of existence are empty of their own-being indicates a rejection not only of the various categories in terms of which one understands existence, but also the very notion of categorisation.  When something is empty of its own-being there is nothing about it that provides a basis for the construction of an identity for it.  Such a phenomenon is always elusive, as it cannot have a fixed identity, and any identity given to such a phenomenon is illusive.  The conviction that all forms of existence are empty of their own-being makes one realise that this truth applies not only to the phenomena that are external to her but also to her own self.[9]  She perceives the emptiness of the distinction between the self and the other and the meaninglessness of the concept of “I.”  This understanding results in a diffusion of her individuality.

The diffusion of one’s individuality that the realisation of all forms of existence as empty of their own-being brings about, however, does not mean that she immediately ceases to exist as an individual.  Rahula describes the one who has come to this realisation, and thereby has attained nirvāņa, as someone who lives fully and happily in the present.[10]  This shows that such an individual continues to exist as an individual until her life lasts.  Nevertheless, her individuality differs from that of an ordinary person in that she does not respond to the phenomena around her in the same way an ordinary person does.  The realisation that she has gained enables her to experience the world without attaching herself to it.  Her individuality is no longer self-centric.  This is the sense in which the diffusion of her individuality needs to be understood.

Based on a reading of the Schopenhauerian and Buddhist schemes of existence and liberation, especially with regard to the areas discussed above, one could come to the conclusion that the two schemes run parallel to each other.  Both are based on the assumption that everyday existence is imperfect, and therefore, unsatisfactory; both argue that true liberation could be achieved by transcending this existence; both view liberation not as movement from a less desirable place to a more desirable place, but as a transition from one form of knowledge to another form of knowledge; both recognise the diffusion of individuality as a necessary consequence of the attainment of the ultimate reality.  However, certain fundamental distinctions that exist between the two schemes show that such a conclusion is problematic.

The most fundamental distinction between the two schemes has to do with the attitude that each maintains towards the notion of the essence or thing-in-itself.  According to Schopenhauer, the particular “things” found in the world are devoid of any essence.  They are mere worldly manifestations of the Platonic Idea.  Whatever the essence that we perceive them to possess are essences that we have imposed on them using our principle of sufficient reason.  There is nothing that could be considered an essence that is located within worldly phenomena.  However, this, for Schopenhauer, does not mean that there is no such thing as essence.  For him, essence is located in the Platonic Idea.  Since the Platonic Idea is permanent and unchanging, what is called the essence or the thing-in-itself is always a constant.

Buddhism rejects the idea of the essence or thing-in-itself.  The fact that Buddhist philosophy is predicated on this rejection of the notion of the essence explains the attitude of Buddhism towards this notion.  This rejection is discussed in detail in the Buddhist teaching of no-self (anatta).  The religions and systems of belief that were dominant in India at the time Buddhism emerged believed in a permanent, everlasting, and absolute entity called the ātman, which is translated into English as the soul.  They agreed that all forms of worldly existence were impermanent but argued that the ātman, which worldly phenomena were mere manifestations of, was permanent.  Buddhism denied the existence of an ātman.[11]  The common statement (which is attributed to the Buddha himself) that after a person’s death who or what is reborn is neither the same person who died nor a different person embodies the principle of no-self.  Although one could argue that the sense of continuity suggested by this statement indicates the presence of a constant, to understand this sense of continuity as indicating the presence of a constant would be to misconceptualise the principle of no-self.  According to Buddhism, a person, or what is perceived to be the ‘self’ of that person, is a particular combination of the five aggregates: form (rūpa), sensation (védanā), perception (saññā), mental formations (saṃkhāra), and consciousness (viññāna) [Mitchell and Jacoby 36-37].  Based on the Buddhist theory of karma (volitional actions), It could be argued that what determines the nature of this configuration is karma, which exists in the form of an energy.  Given that karma itself is empty of its own-being and is subject to change, there is nothing about a being that could be identified as a constant self.[12]

According to Buddhism, not only worldly phenomena but also nirvāņa, which is the ultimate reality, is empty of its own-being.  This is partly why it cannot be thought of as a blissful place or realm that those who have ceased dukkha enter and exist in.  Nirvāņa cannot be conceptualised for the simple reason that there is nothing about nirvāņa that lends itself to any sort of conceptualisation.  In Buddhism, a person who attains this ultimate reality is often likened to a flame that goes off.  When the flame is out nobody can tell where the flame went.  The flame does not go anywhere; it just ceases to be; and so does an awakened being.  When someone achieves awakening she stops acquiring any more karma.  She continues to be in existence as long as her previously acquired karmic energy fuels her existence.  As soon as that energy is spent, which is the moment that ordinary language refers to as death, she ceases to exist, just like the flame, and there is no continuation of anything beyond that point.

Given that liberation in Buddhism could only be achieved through transcendence of all essence, Buddhism would not accept the Platonic Idea, which is imbued with essence, as an endpoint of a true liberatory process.  According to Buddhism, the Platonic Idea, just like any other reality that is perceived to possess essence is essentially a worldly phenomenon.  Therefore, despite the apparent parallels between the trajectories of the liberatory progress presented by Schopenhauer and Buddhism, what Schopenhauer recognises as the ultimate reality is in fact part of the immanent realm. Therefore, from a Buddhist philosophical perspective, there is no significant difference between the starting and end points of the liberatory progress proposed by Schopenhauer.



Bibliography

Collins, Steven. Nirvana: Concept, Imagery, Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.

Droit, Roger-Pol. The Cult of Nothingness: The Philosophers and the Buddha. Translated by David Streight and Pamela Vohnson. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2003.

Mitchell, Donald W., and Sarah H. Jacoby. Buddhism: Introducing the Buddhist Experience. 3rd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014.

Rahula, Walpola. What the Buddha Taught. 2nd ed. New York: Grove Press, 1974.

Schopenhauer, Arthur. The Word as Will and Idea. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.


Notes 

[1] Both the Oxford English Dictionary and the Merriam-Webster English Dictionary define ‘will’ as ‘desire.’  The following statement by the Buddha himself shows that the two terms refer to the same reality: “When one understands the nutriment of mental volition one understands the three forms of ‘thirst’ (taņhā).  Thus the terms ‘thirst’, ‘volition’, ‘mental volition’ and ‘karma’ all denote the same thing: they denote the desire, the will to be, to exist, to re-exist to become more and more, to grow more and more, to accumulate more and more” (Rahula 31).

[2] As both Rahula (16) and Collins (33) point out, the common translation of dukkha as ‘suffering’ is both unsatisfactory and misleading.  The translation of dukkha as ‘dissatisfactoriness,’ which is found in Mitchell and Jacoby (34) and also Collins (34), distances itself from this common and inaccurate translation of the term.  Although the idea of ‘suffering’ is part of dukkha, to reduce the entire meaning of the term to ‘suffering’ is to misconceptualise this fundamental concept.

[3] Paṭicca-samuppāda is called Conditioned Genesis (Rahula), Dependent Arising (Mitchell and Jacoby), and Dependent Origination (Collins).

[4] These twelve steps should be understood as forming a cycle where each step is the effect of the previous step and the cause of the following step.  This cyclical arrangement, on the one hand, renders the concepts of ‘beginning’ and ‘end’ invalid; on the other hand, it shows that each step has some sort of a bearing on the rest of the steps.

[5] Schopenhauer claims that, in the event of a person attaining the ultimate reality, “knowledge breaks free from the service of the will, by the subject ceasing to be merely individual, and thus becoming the pure will-less subject of knowledge, which no longer traces relations in accordance with the principle of sufficient reason” (230).  His assumption that there is a correlative relationship between the extent to which one is bound by the principle of sufficient reason and her individuality is evident here.  Considering the correlative nature of the relationship, it could be argued that each becomes the condition of the other.

[6] Buddhism talks about two types of nirvāņa: the nirvāņa attained during one’s life (nirvāņa) and the nirvāņa attained after death (parinirvāņa). [Please see Collins (39-47) for a discussion of the distinction between the two.]  Collins argues “But there has been some confusion here, both because some scholars have conflated the two, either in order to argue a particular case or inadvertently, and because of the way the two words are used” (39).  Nevertheless, the fact that the nirvāņa attained during one’s lifetime is signified by the unmarked term nirvāņa (as opposed to its marked counterpart parinirvāņa) indicates that any understanding of nirvāņa should be based on an analysis of the unmarked term.  Therefore, the paper primarily focuses on this version of nirvāņa.  This choice of focus is also based on the consideration that the Platonic Idea, which nirvāņa is being compared to, is also something attained during one’s lifetime.

[7] The fundamental Buddhist claim that everything is empty of its own-being is often used to argue that Buddhism is nihilistic.  This, on the one hand, is the inevitable reduction that any attempt to assess Buddhism in terms of the specifically western concept of nihilism leads to.  On the other hand, it indicates a misconceptualisation of both Buddhism and nihilism.  See Droit for a detailed discussion of what appears to be the basis for this claim.

[8] Collins states, “Pali words for enlightened knowledge can thus be seen to donate various forms of knowing how, as well as the knowledge that certain propositions are true” (43).  Given that Pali is the language of Buddhism, especially the Theravāda version of it, the Pali words of enlightened knowledge could be seen as adequate representations of what enlightened knowledge mean in Buddhism.

[9] Mitchell and Jacoby states, “Impermanence is not just a characteristic of the phenomena of the external world; it applies to oneself” (35).

[10] Rahula states: “He who has realized the Truth, Nirvāņa, is the happiest being in the world.  He is free from all ‘complexes’ and obsessions, the worries and troubles that torment others.  His mental health is perfect.  He does not repent the past, nor does he brood over the future.  He lives fully in the present.  Therefore he appreciates and enjoys things in the purest sense without self-projections.  He is joyful, exultant, enjoying the pure life, his faculties pleased, free from anxiety, serene and peaceful.  As he is free from selfish desire, hatred, ignorance, conceit, pride, and all such ‘defilements’, he is pure and gentle, full of universal love, compassion, kindness, sympathy, understanding and tolerance.  His service to others is of the purest, for he has no thought of self.  He gains nothing, accumulates nothing, not even anything spiritual, because he is free from the illusion of Self, and the ‘thirst’ for becoming” (43).

[11] Rahula argues, “Buddhism stands unique in the history of human thought in denying the existence of such a Soul, Self, or Ātman.  According to the teaching of the Buddha, the idea of a self is an imaginary, false belief which has no corresponding reality, and it produces harmful thoughts of ‘me’ and ‘mine’, selfish desire, craving, attachment, hatred, ill-will, conceit, pride, egoism, and other defilements, impurities and problems.  It is the source of all the troubles in the world from personal conflicts to wars between nations.  In short, this false view can be traced all the evil in the world” (51).

[12] The common question, “If there is no permanent self what is it that gets carried over to the next birth?” indicates the assumption on the part of the questioner that ‘life,’ ‘death,’ and ‘rebirth’ are independent and meaningful categories.  Such a question does not arise when these concepts are understood to be empty of their own-being. 

An analysis of the use of the cricket metaphor in Ashutosh Gowariker's film Lagaan indicates how cricket, the once proud cultural form of colonial Britain, is subverted in such a way that it becomes a tool for decolonization.  According to Appadurai, “decolonization is a dialogue with the colonial past, and not a simple dismantling of the colonial habits and modes of life.”[1]  Relating his conception of decolonization to cricket, Appadurai argues, “Nowhere are the complexities and ambiguities of this dialogue more evident than in the vicissitudes of cricket in cricket in those countries that were once part of the British Empire.”[2]  Lagaan’s treatment of cricket, which is largely reflective of the South Asian treatment of cricket over the past century, could be seen as a celebration of Appadurai’s conception of decolonization.  This treatment of cricket, which is more of an appropriation of a reality that is fundamentally colonial in character than of a rejection of the reality, provides important insights into the tension between colonialism and postcolonialism.  In my view, this appropriation problematizes the (mis)conception of a dichotomous relationship between colonialism and postcolonialism and introduces a sense of historical continuity to the broader picture of which the phases of colonialism and postcolonialism are part.  It introduces a perspective that recognizes certain possibilities for postcolonialism in colonialism and an element of colonialism in postcolonialism.

In the film, the appropriation of cricket primarily takes the form of an indigenization of the sport.  Considering the highly structured nature of the sport, Appadurai argues that cricket is “a hard cultural form that changes those who are socialized into it more readily than it is itself changed.”[3]  At the same time he also argues that cricket has successfully become indigenized in India.[4]  Trying to explain this puzzle or apparent contradiction, Appadurai cites Ashis Nandy’s article “On Tao of Cricket: In Games of Destiny and the Destiny of Games” where Nandy makes the claim that “there are mythic structures beneath the surface of the sport that make it profoundly Indian in spite of its Western historical origins.”[5]  This understanding points to a situation where cricket has transcended the temporal realm and entered a mythical realm.

Lagaan contains several scenes that point to a mythicization of cricket.  The first instance of mythicization comes in the scene where Bhuvan tries to convince his fellow villagers that cricket is doable and the match winnable, especially at a time when the villagers including Bhuvan have no clue what cricket is.  Bhuvan takes a bat that he himself has made and asks Tipu, his young companion, to bowl so that he could demonstrate to the others how to bat.  Bhuvan misses the first two balls, but he becomes successful in his third attempt.  He strikes so hard that the ball goes flying and hits the bell of the Hindu temple located at the top of a nearby hill.  The ringing of the bell caused by Bhuvan’s strike comes across as an auspicious beginning not just for Bhuvan’s project, but also for the future of cricket in the Indian subcontinent.  This scene conveys the idea that Indian cricket is not just a sport but a sport that has the blessings of the protecting gods.  The scene featuring the performance of religious rituals primarily by the senior members of the village community with the aim of invoking blessings on the village team just before they enter the ground on the first day of the match could be seen as another instance of the mythicization of cricket in the film.  This performance of religious rituals in the wake of the match points to the underlying assumption that there is an extra-temporal dimension to the sport in the Indian context and emphasizes the presence of some sort of a divine intervention in the match.  The scene that involves Bhuvan and Deva worshiping the ground by touching the ground in the way they would touch the floor of a temple further emphasizes the extra-temporal dimension that the sport has acquired in the Indian context.  This act of worshiping the ground before stepping into it transforms the cricket field into a sacred site, and this transformation also emphasizes the idea that Indian cricket is a reality of religious and spiritual importance. Finally, on the night before the final day of the match, at a time when victory appears to be a rather unrealistic goal for the village team, the villagers are seen pleading with the gods in the village temple requesting them to help them win the match.  This pleading, which takes the form of a request for a direct divine intervention in the match, conveys the implication that the village team are in an alliance with their protecting gods for the purpose of winning the match.  This projected alliance elevates not just the match in the film, but the whole of Indian cricket to the level of a spiritual activity.  The spiritualization of cricket that these instances indicate points to an important dimension of the indigenization of the sport in the Indian context.

In the context of Lagaan, the indigenization of the sport could be seen taking place within the structure of the sport itself.  In an attempt to win the angry villagers over to his side and convince them of the “doability” of the game, he draws parallels between cricket and the local sport called ‘gilli-danda’.  This conceptualization of cricket in terms of ‘gilli-danda’ indicates a radical redefinition of the structure of the sport.  This redefinition reduces the ‘otherness’ of cricket by aligning it with a reality that the local community is familiar with.  Although this alignment eases the transition of the villagers into cricket, in a context where the image of ‘gilli-danda’ continues to define cricket for them, it could be argued that what they perceive to be cricket is significantly different, even on the level of structure, from the cricket that the British rulers play. 

The rather “uncricketish” batting and bowling styles developed and adopted by certain members of the village team indicate a radical indigenization of the sport.  At one point in the match, being unable to comprehend and face the bawling style of one of the members (Goli) of the local team, Captain Russell and the batsman facing the bawler lodge a complaint with the umpire saying, “It is ridiculous. ... He may not be allowed to bawl the ball like this.  It’s improper.”  When the umpire is not sure what to say Elizabeth intervenes and argues for the local team.  She makes the point that since there are no written rules governing the bowling style in cricket, there should not be any objections to Goli’s bawling style.  Accepting Elizabeth’s argument, the umpire overrules the objection.  The umpire’s decision to overrule Russell’s objection and permit Goli to continue with his bowling style indicates an instance where cricket, which the British rulers intended to use as a weapon against the indigenous community, leaving their control and becoming indigenized.

This sort of indigenization of cricket points to an important dimension of colonial resistance, which Homi Bhabha calls mimicry.  Explaining what he means by mimicry, Bhabha writes: "It is from this area between mimicry and mockery, where the reforming, civilizing mission is threatened by the displacing gaze of its disciplinary double, that my instances of colonial imitation come.  What they all share is a discursive process by which the excess or slippage produced by the ambivalence of mimicry (almost the same, but not quite) does not merely “rupture” the discourse, but becomes transformed into an uncertainty which fixes the colonial subject as a “partial” presence.  By “partial” I mean both “incomplete” and “virtual.”  It is as if the very emergence of the “colonial” is dependent for its representation upon some strategic limitation or prohibition within the authoritative discourse itself.  The success of colonial appropriation depends on a proliferation of inappropriate objects that ensure its strategic failure, so that mimicry is at once resemblance and menace."[6]

Michael Taussig expresses a similar idea when he argues, “An impossible but necessary, indeed an everyday affair, mimesis registers both sameness and difference, of being like, and of being Other.”[7]  The cricket that the local team plays embodies the ambivalence of mimicry/mimesis that Bhabha and Taussig talk about.  The way Captain Russell reacts to Bhuvan’s acceptance of Russell’s challenge to a cricket match clearly conveys Russell’s conviction that the villagers are going to fail miserably in trying to play their sport, the sport of the colonizer.  It also shows his conviction that their mastery of the rules of the sport have already placed them in an invincible position.  These convictions show Russell’s assumption that the local team is going to play the exact same sport with the exact same rules.  Contrary to this assumption, the cricket that the local team plays turns out to be “almost the same, but not quite”; the rules that the local team is governed by turn out to be “almost the same, but not quite”.  This almost-the-same-but-not-quite approach of the local team spins the game in their favour.  Due to this approach, the kind of cricket that the British rulers were expecting of the local team is only partially present in the match.  When they begin to realize that the part that is absent has determined the result of the game their fate is already sealed.

This sort of colonial resistance, in my view, points to Foucault’s broader conception of resistance.  Describing the relationship between power and resistance, Foucault writes: "Where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequentially, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power.  Should it be said that one is always ‘inside’ power, there is no ‘escaping’ it, there is no absolute outside where it is concerned, because one is subject to the law in any case?  Or that, history being the ruse of reason, power is the ruse of history, always emerging the winner?  This would be to misunderstand the strictly relational character of power relationships.  Their existence depends on a multiplicity of points of resistance: these play the role of adversary, target, support, or handle in power relations.  These points of resistance are present everywhere in the power network.  Hence there is no single locus of great Refusal, no soul of revolt, source of all rebellions, or pure law of the revolutionary.  Instead there is a plurality of resistances, each of them a special case: resistances that are possible, necessary, improbable; others that are spontaneous, savage, solitary, concerted, rampant, or violent; still others that are quick to compromise, interested, or sacrificial; by definition, they can only exist in the strategic field of power relations."[8]  Foucault’s conceptualization of resistance recognizes resistance as an integral part of power.  According to him, the possibility for resistance is a “built-in” component of power.  From this assumption, it logically follows that any exercise of power invariably creates space for resistance.  The resistance that emerges out of this space could take any form; therefore, there is no single, (pre)defined locus of resistance.  This absence of a single, (pre)defined locus of resistance is, in my view, what accounts for the unpredictability and, in certain instances, “uncontainability” of resistance.

The events leading up to the villagers’ victory over the colonial rulers in cricket indicate both the unpredictability and “uncontainability” of resistance.  On one level, the villagers’ response takes the form of overt confrontation.  Fighting the oppressor on the cricket pitch could be seen as an example for this form of resistance.  On another level, it takes the form of submission to the oppressor, and this sense of submission could be seen in Bhuvan’s acceptance of the terms laid down by Russell for the match and the villagers’ decision to learn and master the art of the sport, which is first and foremost a colonial, therefore, oppressive reality.  The presence of such binary oppositional points of resistance in what appears to be a unified act of resistance indicates that there is no single, (pre)defined locus for the resistance in question.  This absence of a locus destabilizes and disorients the colonial rulers in such a way that their authority begins to be challenged in the least expected ways and they eventually lose control over the situation.  Elizabeth, Puran Singh, and Lakha’s reactions to Russell’s conduct could be shown as a case in point.  They initially come across as Russell’s confidantes, but they defy Russell at the height of the struggle.  These instances of resistance point to the unpredictable and uncontainable nature of resistance.

An important dimension of resistance that the cricket match appears to highlight is Gandhian  non-violent resistance.  Parel theorizes Gandhian non-violence as “an ethic that disposes one (a) to resist social and political violence by peaceful means, and (b) to take positive measures to remove the materials and moral conditions that foster violence.”[9]  The idea of achieving one’s end goals without resorting to violent measures is inherent in this understanding of the notion.  The cricket match provides an opportunity to resist the violence enacted by the colonial rulers and eventually remove the material and moral conditions that foster violence.  It enables Bhuvan, the Gandhian figure in the film, to recognize the anger and resentment beginning to grow in the minds of the villagers and channel them in a humanity-friendly manner towards achieving the end goal of economic independence.  Here, Bhuvan represents the Gandhian citizen “whose end is not only the well being of the individual but also the good of society taken as a whole ... [which] requires active, non-violent resistance to violence.”[10]  In the following description of Bhuvan by Farred, the Gandhian dimension of the battle against the oppressor becomes evident: "Bhuvan becomes the very incarnation of Indian resistance: He symbolizes a Gandhian India, the subcontinent united.  He is the heroic young villager grown impatient with the injustices of colonial rule, disaffected with the complicity of the colonized, and tired of economic hardship."[11]  Bhuvan’s ability to unite a community divided along ethnic, religious, and caste lines, the sense of selflessness with which he works for the wellbeing of his community, and his ability to break through the conventional social barriers in leading the community towards the common goal of economic and political emancipation creates a consciousness that runs parallel to the consciousness that guided India to independence from British colonialism.  This parallel, in my view, both historicizes and legitimizes the struggle that the film is woven around.

The non-violent resistance dimension of the struggle depicted in Lagaan indicates how cricket becomes a platform for the creation of a national identity for India.  An analysis of the composition of the village cricket team would show that the team is much more than a mere cricket team.  The team represents the three main identities in India that are defined along religious and ethnic lines and that emerged prominent during the time of the IFM and the post-independence era – Hindu, Muslim, and Sikh.  While the Hindu (Bhuvan) captains the team and guides the team to victory, the Muslim (Ismail) and the Sikh (Deva) render an indispensable service to the team.  The other key identity represented in the team is the Dalit identity, the identity of the untouchable.  Kachra represents this identity.  The unique bawling skill that Kachra displays makes him a unique resource and indispensable member of the team.  The film makes it clear that Bhuvan would not have been able to achieve the goal without the tremendous support that he received from Ismail, Deva, and Kachra.

Considering the conflictual, even hostile, relationships that the Muslims, Sikhs, and Dalits have been in with the majority Hindus (and also with each other to a certain extent) in India’s history,[12] especially in the postcolonial era, the placement of these characters in hierarchical, but harmonious relations with each other could be seen as making a political statement regarding the overarching Indian identity.  The film creates an idealized, almost utopian, Indian identity that is markedly different from the Indian identity found on the ground level.  Considering this disconnect, the idealized Indian identity that the film presents could be seen as the identity of an ‘imagined community’[13] in the sense that Benedict Anderson discusses the term.  Ironically, what provides the platform for the creation/imagining of this idealized Indian identity is cricket, the prerogative of the colonial rulers who used the divide-and-rule strategy[14] to keep the Indian society divided.  Focusing on how Lagaan conceptualizes the relationship between cricket and an Indian national identity, Neumann argues: "Thus, it is cricket that unites the villagers in their common pursuit, very much in accordance with the sport’s imperatives of camaraderie and loyalty.  The game literary becomes a means of re-membering the formerly dis-membered village.  Paradoxically, it is the appropriation of the essentially English game that allows for an invention of an Indian community with a distinct sense of identity."[15]  This appropriation of the essentially English, therefore, colonial, game for the invention of an identity for the colonized/postcolonial runs parallel to Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin’s concept of ‘the Empire writing back.’[16]  In keeping with this concept, what is seen in Lagaan, which reflects the superior position that India and the rest of South Asia hold in today’s cricket world,[17] could be conceptualized as ‘the Empire striking back.’

This analysis shows how Lagaan points to a case of cricket, which once appeared to be an exclusive property of the colonizer, is indigenized and used as a powerful weapon by the colonized against the colonizer with the aim of achieving economic and political independence.  The tremendous success that not only India, but also the entire South Asian region has achieved in the world of cricket, evidenced by India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka emerging world champions of cricket over the past three decades, indicates the extent to which the reality that Lagaan presents is a reflection of the postcolonial condition of South Asia.



[1] Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996): 89.
[2] Ibid., 89.
[3] Ibid., 90.
[4] Ibid., 90.
[5] Ibid., 90.
[6] Homi Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,” October 28 (1984): 125-33.
[7] Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (New York: Routledge, 1993).
[8] Michel Foucault, History of Sexuality: Volume 1: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978): 95-96.
[9] Anthony Parel, “Gandhi and the Ethic of Active Non-Violence,” Prajna Vihara 10, no. 1/2 (2009): 96.
[10] Ibid., 96.
[11] Farred, 97.
[12] See Ashutosh Varshney, Ethnic Conflict and Civic Life: Hindus and Muslims in India (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002).
[13] See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 2006).
[14] See Sumit Sarkar, Modern India, 1885-1947 (New York, St Martin’s Press, 1989).
[15] Birgit Neumann, “Re-Membering Cricket: Sport as an Instrument of Decolonization in Trobriand Cricket (1976) and Lagaan. Once Upon a Time in India (2001),” Contemporary Theatre Review 16, no. 4 (2006): 478.
[16] Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literatures, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2004).
[17] See Amit Gupta, “India and the IPL: Cricket’s Globalized Empire,” The Round Table 98, no. 104 (2009).

Brecht views alienation as being “necessary to all understanding” (71).  The important place that the idea of the alienation effect occupies in his approach to theatre appears to be stemming from his philosophical conviction that “[w]hen something seems ‘the most obvious thing in the world’ it means that any attempt to understand the world has been given up” (71).  According to this philosophical tenet, one’s psychological closeness to a given reality plays a key role in determining the success of her attempt to understand that reality.  Brecht emphasises the need for her to distance herself from the reality in question in order to get a better picture of that reality.  This emphasis is predicated on the view that one’s psychological closeness to a given reality has a negative impact on her ability to adopt an objective perspective on that reality.  Alienation is presented as the means by which she could (re)acquire this objective perspective that enables her to be critical of what she perceives.

Defining alienation, Brecht argues, “Alienating an event or character ... means first of all stripping the event of its self-evident, familiar, obvious quality and creating a sense of astonishment and curiosity about them” (as qtd. in Brooker, “Key Words” 191).  According to this understanding, alienation is primarily about defamiliarising the familiar and estranging the ‘non-strange.’[1]  Brecht’s objection to the familiar and the ‘non-strange’ is based on the grounds that the familiar and the ‘non-strange’ always convey the impression that the reality that one finds herself in is fixed and unchanging.  Brooker argues, "It becomes quite clear, from the many statements made by Brecht, that the function of the Verfremdungseffekt is to puncture the complacent acceptance of either character, motive, narrative, incident or resolution, as ‘fixed’ and ‘unchanging’, or ‘obvious’ or ‘inevitable’" (Bertolt Brecht: Dialectics, Poetry, Politics 63).

The technique of alienation problematises the sense of universality that one tends to attribute to what she is familiar with, and this problemtisation leads to pushing her to a point where she recognises the essentially context specific nature of what had earlier been viewed as universal.  This recognition empowers her to critically assess the reality, which had hitherto been taken for granted.  Brooker captures this function of alienation when he argues, “Verfremdung would ... produce a jolt of surprise and illumination, as the familiar and predictable were not only historicised and seen afresh but ‘seen through’; judged with the eyes of a suspicious, quizzically naive spectator” (“Kew Words” 191-192).  When the familiar is alienated one becomes conscious of herself being external to the reality in question and that reality as having an existence of its own that is independent of her.  This distancing enables her to objectify the reality in question and look at it from the point of view of a stranger.

Brecht’s idea of the alienation effect is fundamental to his conception of theatre as primarily a political phenomenon.  Subscribing to the Marxist understanding of reality, Brecht views theatre as part of the ideological superstructure.  He argues, “... it is precisely theatre, art and literature which have to form the ‘ideological superstructure’ of a solid, practical rearrangement of our age’s way of life” (23).  He views theatre as a force that has the ability to propel social change.  Critiquing the theatre of his time for neglecting this capacity of the art form, Brecht argues, “A theatre which makes no contact with public is a nonsense.  Our theatre is accordingly a nonsense” (3, emphasis in original).  The ‘contact’ between theatre and the public that Brecht envisions is necessarily political in nature.  Brooker recognizes the change that Brecht attempted to initiate in the field of theatre by emphasising this contact between theatre and the public as one of revolutionary nature: "Brecht was in fact contemplating no less than a form of revolutionary change; his argument being that a change in the theatre’s audience would lead to a change in the theatre’s social function and thence in its economic basis, and that this would in turn provoke a change in the entire social order" (35). 

This conceptualization indicates Brecht’s belief that theatre, which is part of the ideological superstructure, is capable of having a strong impact on the economic base of society, which, according to Marxism, is the engine of change.  Given this important place that theatre occupies in Brecht’s approach to society, the significance that he attributes to the alienation effect in his approach to theatre indicates his conviction that alienation as a method plays an important role in social change. Brecht’s argument, “True, profound, active application of alienation effects take it for granted that society considers its condition to be historic and capable of improvement” (277) emphasises this role of alienation as a method of changing society.

The depersonalisation that takes place in Brecht’s approach has much to do with his idea of alienation.  He emphasises the need to present characters in such a way that they are understood and not identified with.  Brecht argues, “Contrary to present custom they [the characters] ought to be presented quite coldly, classically and objectively.  For they are not matter for empathy; they are there to be understood.  Feelings are private and limited.  Against that the [sic] reason is fairly comprehensive and to be relied on” (15).  Implied in this statement is the idea that emotional involvement is a hindrance to true understanding.  In order for true understanding to take place a space should be created in which reason overtakes feelings.  One of the best ways to create this space is by depersonalising the characters portrayed.  This depersonalisation could be seen as “dehumanising” the character to such an extent that it appears to the spectator more as an object for scientific analysis than as a breathing human being whom the spectator would find to be relatable.  Explaining the extent to which the idea of depersonalisation defines his approach to theatre, Brecht argues, “I don’t let my feelings intrude in my dramatic work.  It’d give a false view of the world” (14).

The depersonalization that the alienation effect brings about should not be understood as a complete rejection of emotions and feelings.  In a sense, Brecht could be seen as being primarily about human emotions and feelings because his ultimate goal of improving the human condition entails a true realisation of human emotions and feelings.  The sensitivity that he shows towards humanity would not make much sense if he is depicted as someone against emotions and feelings.  His approach should be understood as being characterised by a rational attitude towards emotions and feelings.  This rational approach emphasises the need to arrive at a true understanding of human emotions and feelings by objectifying them and subjecting them to a scientific understanding.

Brecht recognises traditional Chinese theatre as a context in which this objectification of human emotions and feelings is most observable.  Commenting on the traditional Chinese actor’s acting style, Brecht writes, “The Chinese artist’s performance often strikes the Western actor as cold.  That does not mean that the Chinese theatre rejects all representation of feelings.  The performer portrays incidents of utmost passion, but without his delivery becoming heated” (93).  In this theatrical tradition, the actor does not embody the emotions and feelings that the character he gives life to comes across as expressing.  In this sense, the emotions and feelings that the character embodies are necessarily alienated from the actor.  His acting style is more about ‘informing’ the spectator about what the character is feeling at a given moment than representing it in a realistic manner.

This psychological distance that Brecht emphasises indicates a conscious awareness on the part of the actor that the character that she is depicting is essentially different from her own personality, throughout the performance.  This awareness always keeps the spectator reminded of the idea that what she sees on the stage is essentially an object to be understood and not a subject to be identified with.  Brecht argues, "The performer’s self-observation, an artful and artistic act of self-alienation, stopped the spectator from losing himself in the character completely, i.e. to the point of giving up his own identity, and lent a splendid remoteness to the events.  Yet the spectator’s empathy was not entirely rejected.  The audience identifies itself with the actor as being an observer, and accordingly develops his attitude of observing or looking on" (92-93). 

This dual personality of the character on the stage that the spectator is kept conscious of does not provide the spectator with a unified ‘other’ that she could identify herself with.  The ‘other’ that the spectator witnesses is an essentially fragmented identity, and this fragmentation is brought about by the marked psychological distance between the presenter and the presented. This fragmentary nature of the ‘other’ not only prevents her from giving up herself and becoming one with the character on the stage but also makes her contemplate on what she sees on stage.  The realm in which this contemplation takes place is reason and not emotion.  This is the context in which Brecht’s statement “Spectator and actor ought not to approach one other but to move apart” (26) needs to be understood.

Brecht’s discussion of the “The Street Scene” provides further insights into the role of alienation in his approach to theatre.  In this discussion, Brecht argues that epic theatre, which he promotes as an alternative to what he calls ‘dramatic theatre,’ is based on the principles of a street corner demonstration (121).  Describing the principles of a street corner theatre, Brecht argues, "The incident is very clearly very far from what we mean by an artistic one.  The demonstrator need not be an artist.  The capacities he needs to achieve his aim are in effect universal.  Suppose he cannot carry out some particular movement as quickly as the victim he is imitating; all he need do is to explain that he moves three times as fast, and the demonstration neither suffers in essentials nor loses its point.  On the contrary it is important that he should not be too perfect.  His demonstration would be spoilt if the bystanders’ attention were drawn to his powers of transformation.  He has to avoid presenting himself in such a way that someone calls out ‘What a lifelike portrayal of a chauffeur!’ He must not ‘cast a spell’ over anyone.  He should not transport people from normality to ‘higher realms’. He need not dispose of any special powers of suggestion" (121-122, emphasis in original). 

The principles that underlie ‘the street scene’ highlight that ‘the street scene’ is essentially a representation of a ‘real’ event.  Brecht argues that in theatre this representation should essentially be presented as a representation without trying to make what is presented look identical to the ‘real’ event.  The idea that the representation of an event should necessarily be distinct from the ‘real’ event appears to be based on the philosophical tenet that art is distinct from ‘real’ life.  Attempts to make a representation identical to a ‘real’ event would be to deny art of those characteristics that constitute art as a form of existence of its own.  Brecht appears to be of the opinion that if the representation of a ‘real’ event is identical to that event art becomes redundant.  The value of art depends on the extent to which the representation of the event comes across first and foremost as a representation. The further away the representation is from the ‘real’ event, the more it becomes a work of art.  In this sense, Brecht’s idea of alienation is crucial for ensuring the position of art as a reality that has an existence of its own.

Art’s position as a separate form of existence, which Brecht’s concept of alienation highlights, projects art as a platform from which ‘real’ life could be objectified and subject to scientific study.  Brecht’s conception of ‘realism’ shows that Brecht has been conscious of this special position art enjoys.  Presenting his conception of realism, Brecht argues, "Our conception of realism needs to be broad and political, free from aesthetic restrictions and independent of convention.  Realist means: laying bare society’s causal network / showing up the dominant viewpoint as the viewpoint of the dominators / writing from the standpoint of the class which has prepared the broadest solutions for the most pressing problems afflicting human society / emphasizing the dynamics of development / concrete and so as to encourage abstraction" (109). 

Brecht’s conception of realism is not about constructing a realistic representation of specific events but about drawing attention to the real forces that shape and define those specific events.  He appears to consider realistic depictions of the manifestations or end products of the real forces and processes in society as being of little interest as far as his ultimate goal of changing society is concerned.  Social change could only be achieved by drawing attention to the real causes of the problems at hand.  According to this approach, it could be argued that Brecht would consider as realism any form of representation that exposes the inner workings of society.  This definition of realism would even include representations that are not ‘realistic’ in the popular sense of the word.  The ‘truthful’ representation of life that Brecht refers to in his statement “It is in the interest of the people, the broad working masses, that literature should give them truthful representations of life” (107) refers to a truthful representation of the inner workings of society that define the condition of the lives of the people.

[1]Brooker argues, “The terms ‘defamiliarisation’ or ‘estrangement’, when understood as more than purely formal devices, give a more accurate sense of Brecht’s intentions.  A better term still would be ‘de-alienation’” (“Key words” 193). 


Works Cited 

Brecht, Bertolt. Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Trans. John Willett. New York: Hill and Wang, 1992. Print. 

Brooker, Peter. Bertolt Brecht: Dialectics, Poetry, Politics. London: Croom Helm, 1988. Print. 

Brooker, Peter. “Key Words in Brecht’s Theory and Practice of Theatre” in The Cambridge Companion to Brecht, ed. Peter Thomson and Glendyr Sacks. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Print.

Interview published in Ceylon Today (August 10, 2014) 

Śūnyatā, which is translated into English as ‘emptiness,’ is the crux of what Nāgārjuna presents in his famous work Mūlamadhyamakakārikā.  He devotes the first twenty-five of the total twenty-seven chapters of the text to a detailed explanation of śūnyatā.[1]  Given Nāgārjuna’s position as a scholar in the Mahāyāna Buddhist tradition, this focus of his text could be seen as a reflection of the emphasis that Mahāyāna places on the idea of emptiness.[2]  The in-depth analysis of śūnyatā that Nāgārjuna presents is undoubtedly one of the most detailed theoretical explorations found in Buddhism.

In his first chapter, titled “Examination of Conditions,” Nāgārjuna discusses the cause-effect relationship as an empty duality.  He first presents the simple assumption that a cause or condition bears that name because it leads to an effect (1.5).[3]  Having established this duality, he explores the emptiness of it.  He makes the point that a condition or cause is a condition only in relation to its effect, and, in the same way, an effect is an effect only in relation to its cause or condition.  In a context where A is established as the condition of B, the condition-ness of A makes sense only to the extent that B is understood as the effect that arises out of A.  In the same way, the effect-ness of B makes sense only to the extent that A is understood as the condition that gives rise to B.  Each, in the capacity described, is in this sense crucial for the existence of the other.  Taking his argument one step ahead, he questions the sense in which what is called the condition for a given effect could be understood as a condition, first in a context where the effect has not yet come into being and second in a context where the effect has already become an existent.  In the first scenario, the condition is not a condition because there is nothing in relation to which its identity could be established as a condition.  In the second scenario, the condition is not a condition because there is nothing about it that “conditions” the effect (any more).  In this sense, they could rightfully be called the condition and the effect only at that moment when one is conditioning the other or one is in the process of being conditioned by the other.

Nevertheless, what Nāgārjuna says about the nature of the condition and the effect problematises even this fleeting moment of identity.  According to him, the effect is not present in the condition, and he asks the question how what is not in the condition comes from that condition (1.11).  This question challenges the perceived connection between a condition and an effect.  In a context where both the condition-ness of the condition and the perceived connection between the condition and the effect are challenged, Nāgārjuna points to the logical possibility of the effect being perceived as arising out of a non-condition (1.12). 

This idea of the non-condition could be understood in two ways: (1) as a condition other than what is associated with a given effect, and (2) as a “reality” external to the notion of conditions.  The first understanding of the idea of the non-condition could be explained in the following manner:  Although B is seen as the effect that arises out of the condition A, since B is distinct from A, and B is not present within A, the claim that B is the effect that has arisen out of the condition A points to a forced connection[4] between A and B.  This recognition of the relationship between A and B more as a forced connection than as a natural one immediately problematises the condition-ness of A, thereby liberating B from its perceived relationship with A.  This liberation enables B to be viewed as an effect that arises even out of a condition other than A, which represents either any part or the whole of the realm of conditions.  The idea that B is capable of arising out of a condition that is either A or non-A dissolves the distinction between A and non-A.  According to the second understanding of the idea of the non-condition, B could arise from a reality that is external to the domain that consists of A and non-A.  The idea that B is capable of arising out of a non-condition or a “condition” that is external to the realm of conditions dissolves the distinction between conditions (the realm of conditions defined by A and non-A) and non-conditions (the “reality” external to the realm of conditions).  The problematisation of the distinction between conditions and non-conditions indicates that the very notion of (non-)conditions is empty of its own being.

Having established the condition as something that is empty of its own being, Nāgārjuna proceeds to show what this emptiness of the conditions means for the effect.  He argues that the effect, as something that has arisen from a condition, should embody the condition as its essence; however, given that the conditions themselves are devoid of any essence, the idea that the effect is an embodiment of a condition as its essence is problematic (1.14).  If the conditions are essence-less what arises out of them is bound to be essence-less.  In this sense, the effect is devoid of any essence; it is empty of its own being.  The argument that both the conditions and the effect are empty of their own being collapses the distinction between the two.  This collapse of distinction establishes that conditions and effects are nothing more than illusory constructs.

[1] David J. Kalupahana, Mūlamadhyamakakārikā of Nāgārjuna: The Philosophy of the Middle Way (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas Publishers [Pvt] Ltd., 1991), 77.  Kalupahana shows how central śūnyatā is to Nāgārjuna’s discussion when he argues, “By the time he [any reader of the text] completed reading the first twenty-five chapters, wherein the conception of ‘emptiness’ (śūnyatā) occurs in almost every other verse, he would be imbued with that concept to such an extent that it would become a dogma, a dŗșți, rather than a mere method of analysis” (Kalupahana 77, emphasis in original).
[2] Donald W. Mitchell and Sarah H. Jacoby, Buddhism: Introducing teh Buddhist Experience, 3rd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014): 156.  Mitchell and Jacoby observe, “Because in that work [Mūlamadhyamakakārikā] Nāgārjuna does not mention any Mahāyāna sūtras, nor does he even use the word Mahāyāna, some scholars have doubted that he was a Mahāyānist.  However, his views are so close to those expressed in the Perfection of Wisdom Literature that most consider him part of the Mahāyāna movement” (156, emphasis in original).
[3] He says, “These are conditions, because depending upon them these [others] arise” (1.5). As far as the format of the parenthetical reference is concerned, the number left to the period indicates the chapter and the one to the right indicates the verse.  All the parenthetical references to the Mūlamadhyamakakārikā follow this format.
[4] I use the phrase ‘forced connection’ to signify an externally constructed relationship between two components that are not necessarily related. 

The Derridean term[1] différance is a neologism that combines the meanings of both ‘to differ’ and ‘to defer.’  He bases this neologism on the French verb différer, which means ‘to differ,’ and points out how the verb conveys two related but significantly different meanings: to differ and to defer.  When the verb is taken with the meaning of ‘to differ’ it concerns itself with the idea of “distinction, inequality, or discernibility.”[2]  To say A differs from B is to construct the identity of B as an identity that is essentially ‘different’ from that of A.  In a context where B is essentially different from A, the relationship between the two identities is defined by “nonidentity,”[3] meaning that one is so distinct from and unequal to the other that the two cannot be considered part of a single identity.  The idea of ‘nonidentity’ presupposes the simultaneous existence of the identities in question, and in this sense, the meaning ‘to differ’ concerns itself with a spatial distribution of identities.  When the verb, on the other hand, is understood to mean ‘to defer,’ “it expresses the interposition of delay, the interval of a spacing and temporalizing that puts off until ‘later’ what is presently denied, the possible that is presently impossible.”[4]  In a setting where B is seen as a deferment of A, the two are seen as constituting a single identity.  There is a sense of continuity and unity between A and B.  Here, the verb concerns itself with a temporal distribution of identities.  Given the difference between the two meanings of ‘to differ’ and ‘to defer,’ différance, which is a combination of the two meanings, could be seen as the site in which nonidentity and identity come together.  This understanding is supported by Derrida’s own statement, “We provisionally give the name differance to this sameness which is not identical.”[5]

Any serious attempt to engage with the conceptualisation of différance as ‘the sameness that is not identical’ would require one to pay close attention to the nature of language.  Given the sameness/identicality of the meanings of the words ‘same’ and ‘identical,’ the argument that something is defined by a sameness that is not identical only constitutes a paradox.  According to the logic behind the semantics of the English language, in order for this statement to be an acceptable proposition, the words ‘same’ and ‘identical’ cannot have the same signified; nevertheless, since the two words share the same signified, the statement is bound to be paradoxical.  The existence of language (both language in general and the English language in particular) as we know it depends upon the extent to which arguments of this nature are perceived to be paradoxes.  This said, to argue that there is a sameness that is not identical in a context where the words ‘same’ and ‘identical’ are established as referring to the one and the same concept is, on the one hand, to problematise the perceived boundaries of (the English) language.  On the other hand, it is to recognise the possibility of there being a “reality” that (the English) language is incapable of conceptualising.

Derrida takes this problematisation of language a step further when he strategically places his neologism in relation to the French noun différence.  He creates his neologism by substituting the e that appears between r and n with a.  This substitution makes the neologism graphically different from the regular form différence.  Nonetheless, despite this graphic difference, the pronunciation of the neologism is the same as that of the regular French noun.  The alteration of the spelling of the regular French noun does not have an impact on the pronunciation of the neologism.  In Derrida’s words, “The a of differance, therefore, is not heard; it remains silent, secret, and discrete, like a tomb.  It is a tomb that … is not far from signalling the death of the king.”[6]  The arrangement is such that the distinction between différence and différance is discernible only in writing and not at all in speech.  This shows that the two terms form an identity/sameness on the level of speech and a nonidentity on the level of writing.  The sense of presence that this arrangement marks on the level of writing and the sense of absence that it marks on the level of speech problematise the apparent unity between speech and writing.  The separation, if not polarisation, of speech and writing that this problematisation brings about questions language as a unity.  It is the collapse of this sense of unity that Derrida refers to as ‘the death of the king.’

Although the distinction between speech and writing is at the heart of Derrida’s scheme, speech and writing do not emerge as polar opposites with fixed identities.  The graphic difference that exists between différence and différance does not exist in the phonetic transcriptions of the two terms.  This, according to Derrida, is due to the fact that “The difference that brings out phonemes and lets them be heard and understood … itself remains inaudible.”[7] As the pronunciation of the two terms is the same, they lend themselves to the same phonetic transcription, which finds expression in writing.  In this sense, despite the graphic distinction between the two terms in the dominant form of writing, the inaudibility of the distinction translates into an invisibility in a different form of writing.  This invisibility that finds expression in a form of writing questions the perceived permanent and fixed nature of the graphic distinction that was established earlier.  In this sense, “the graphic difference itself sinks into darkness.”[8]  In a context where the apparently established graphic distinction between différence and différance fades into nothingness in both speech and writing, différence/différance “never constitutes the fullness of a sensible term.”[9]  At the same time, this collapse of distinction between the two terms questions the validity of speech and writing as different modes of existence.

After problematising the perceived unity of language, Derrida suggests the possibility of différance being perceived as an extra-linguistic “reality.”  He argues, “Differance can refer to the whole complex of its meanings at once, for it is immediately and irreducibly multivalent. … It refers to this whole complex of meanings not only when it is supported by a language or interpretive context …, but it already does so somehow of itself.”[10]  He discusses différance as a “reality” that is able not only to exist but also to make meaning even in the absence of (a) language.  Its status as a non-concept or non-word makes it fundamentally different from concepts and words, which have their existence necessarily in language.  In this sense, différance is extra-linguistic to begin with.  The idea that it does not have to be supported by a language or interpretive context not only affirms the extra-linguistic nature of différance but also indicates the possibility of it being epistemologically prior to language.

If différance is epistemologically prior to language any serious attempt to understand the relationship between language and différance need to accept the possibility of différance being part of what makes language a possibility.  A close look at how language makes meaning would provide insights into the role that différance plays in making language a possibility.  According to Ferdinand de Saussure, the relationship between a signifier and its corresponding signified is inherently arbitrary,[11] and this makes the sign arbitrary by definition.  This arbitrariness of the sign represents both identity and ‘nonidentity.’  The sign is a site of identity as it indicates the case of a paradigmatically chosen signifier referring to a “reality” with an identity.[12]  The exclusion of the rest of the signifiers that this paradigmatic choice entails results in establishing a special kind of identity between the chosen signifier and its corresponding signified.  At the same time, the sign is a site of ‘nonidentity’ in the sense that the signifier and the signified are effectively two different realities and that there is no fixed connection between the two.  It is the interfusion of this identity and ‘nonidentity’ within a sign that makes it what it is a sign.  Given that (a) language is composed of a collection of signs, it can be argued that this interfusion is at the heart of (that) language.  In order for a sign to function, there needs to be some sort of a stable (not necessarily permanent) connection between the signifier and the signified.  In the absence of such a stable connection, language, as we know it, ceases to be.  This connection should however be characterised by arbitrariness.  If the connection is fixed to such an extent that the arbitrariness disappears, then the sign becomes a symbol.  Given that symbols are not exclusive property of language as we know it, the absence/disappearance of arbitrariness that results in the transformation of a sign to a symbol also challenges the existence of language.  This shows that différance, which is the embodiment of the interfusion of identity and ‘nonidentity,’ is what provides language with the condition of possibility. 

[1] I choose ‘term’ over ‘word’ and ‘concept’ in recognition of Derrida’s claim that “Differance is neither a word nor a concept” (130).
[2] Jacques Derrida, “Differance,” in Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs, trans. David B. Allison (Evenston: Northwestern University Press, 1973), 129.
[3] Ibid., 129.
[4] Ibid., 129 (emphasis in original).
[5] Ibid., 129 (emphasis in original).
[6] Ibid., 132 (emphasis in original).
[7] Ibid., 133.
[8] Ibid., 133.
[9] Ibid., 133.
[10] Ibid., 137.
[11] Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics (Chicago: Open Court, 1986), 68.
[12] Here, ‘identity’ is used in a loose sense of the term. 

In a majority of cases, structure-based approaches to the study of language abstract language from the context in which it is used.  This abstraction results in reducing the immensely complex reality referred to as language to the less complicated and more ‘handleable’ object of structure.  The current idealisation of structure-based approaches to the study of language is based on the assumption that an adequate, if not complete, understanding of language could be reached through an analysis of linguistic structure.  As far as those aspects of language that an analysis of linguistic structure fails to explain are concerned, the structure based approaches either brand them as trivialities that are not worthy of serious attention, thereby creating grounds on which those aspects could be legitimately ignored, or package them into an “extra-linguistic” bundle and leave them out of any serious study of language.  In my view, what make linguistics fundamentally flawed are the separation and compartmentalization of different but closely interrelated components of language and the glorification of linguistic structure.  

One could argue that the abstraction of language from its context and reduction/conversion of language to a ‘handleable’ object are necessary for any study of language.  Such arguments indicate our failure, if not lack of willingness, to even acknowledge the possibility of there being an understanding of language that is radically different from the existing understandings of language.  They also indicate our lack of sensitivity to all the political and ideological implications of such an abstraction and reduction of the immensely complex reality of language. 

The idealisation/glorification of linguistic structure that characterizes the discipline of linguistics restricts the space in which other aspects of language, especially those that have a direct bearing on the lives of the users of language (such as the role language plays in the construction of identities, the way language becomes a basis for division, and the role language plays as a site of struggle), could be adequately dealt with.  In my view, researchers in the field of linguistics need to go beyond the boundaries of traditional linguistics, which provides the basis more for a mere glorification of linguistic structure than for a realistic understanding of language, and engage with the more dynamic aspects of language that have a direct bearing on the lives of its users. 

Buddhism identifies nirvāņa as the ultimate reality that any being could hope to attain.[1]  Walpola Rahula describes nirvāņa as “the cessation (Nirodha) of dukkha” (What the Buddha Taught 40).  This description of nirvāņa highlights the fundamental Buddhist teaching regarding the nature of existence.  According to Buddhism, all phenomena are in a state of constant change; therefore, all forms of existence are impermanent.  At the same time, every phenomenon is devoid of its own-being; there is nothing about a phenomenon that could be identified as the essence of that phenomenon that holds it together on a permanent basis.  Ordinary beings operate under the illusion that phenomena are permanent and ‘self’ (in the sense that they possess some form of essence that establish them as identities distinguishable from each other).  Driven by this illusion, they become ‘willing’ individuals and crave for existence that has the illusion of permanence and ‘self.’  Nevertheless, due to the fundamental mismatch between their convictions and the true nature of reality, they constantly run into situations of hopelessness, and this sense of hopelessness gives rise to suffering.  This is the sense in which all forms of existence is dukkha.  From this perspective, the cessation of dukkha is the attainment of nirvāņa.

The statement ‘The cessation of dukkha is the attainment of nirvāņa’ raises the question “What does the cessation of dukkha really mean?”  If dukkha is the very condition of existence the cessation of dukkha, logically speaking, should result in an annihilation of existence.  According to the dominant meaning of this statement, anyone who attains nirvāņa should cease to exist.  However, most, if not all, of those who are known to have attained nirvāņa, including the Buddha himself, did not “cease to exist” as an immediate result of this attainment, in the dominant sense of the term.  This shows that the existence that gets annihilated at the moment of the attainment of nirvāņa is an existence of a different kind, or rather, existence understood in a different way.  What the attainment of nirvāņa signifies an annihilation of is the condition that perpetuates existence through the accumulation of karmic energy.  The annihilation of this condition does not end existence immediately, as it does not affect what the condition had already brought into existence and the karmic energy that had already been accumulated before the moment of the annihilation; nevertheless, existence as we know it is bound to come to an end, as the condition that keeps it going is not in place.  According to Buddhism, what brings about the annihilation of the condition that perpetuates existence is the realisation that everything is empty of its own-being.[2]  This realisation indicates one’s conviction that everything that is conditioned is impermanent, unsatisfactory, and not-self.  When one is convinced that everything about existence is impermanent, unsatisfactory, and not-self she realises the futility of any attempt to attach herself to any form of existence.

This understanding of nirvāņa shows that to attain nirvāņa is to realise it, know it, or to be convinced of it.  Nirvāņa, in this sense, is a form of knowledge.  It is knowing how, as well as the knowledge that certain propositions are true.[3]  It is not a gift that is granted by a superior being for the meritorious deeds that one has done in her lifetime; nor is it a superior place that one wins the right to enter into or one is allowed into.  The knowledge that nirvāņa represents indicates a shift of focus from what are perceived to be individual phenomena with fixed identities to the quality that is most fundamental to all phenomena, which is emptiness, or the absence of own-being.

The realisation that all forms of existence are empty of their own-being indicates a rejection not only of the various categories in terms of which one understands existence, but also the very notion of categorisation.  When something is empty of its own-being there is nothing about it that provides a basis for the construction of an identity for it.  Such a phenomenon is always elusive, as it cannot have a fixed identity, and any identity given to such a phenomenon is illusive.  The conviction that all forms of existence are empty of their own-being makes one realise that this truth applies not only to the phenomena that are external to her but also to her own self.  She perceives the emptiness of the distinction between the self and the other and the meaninglessness of the concept of “I.”  This understanding results in a diffusion of her individuality.

The diffusion of one’s individuality that the realisation of all forms of existence as empty of their own-being brings about, however, does not mean that she immediately ceases to exist as an individual.  Rahula describes the one who has come to this realisation, and thereby has attained nirvāņa, as someone who lives fully and happily in the present.[4]  This shows that such an individual continues to exist as an individual until her life lasts.  Nevertheless, her individuality differs from that of an ordinary person in that she does not respond to the phenomena around her in the same way an ordinary person does.  The realisation that she has gained enables her to experience the world without attaching herself to it.  Her individuality is no longer self-centric.  This is the sense in which the diffusion of her individuality needs to be understood. 


Notes 

[1] Buddhism talks about two types of nirvāņa: the nirvāņa attained during one’s life (nirvāņa) and the nirvāņa attained after death (parinirvāņa). [Please see Collins (39-47) for a discussion of the distinction between the two.]  Collins argues “But there has been some confusion here, both because some scholars have conflated the two, either in order to argue a particular case or inadvertently, and because of the way the two words are used” (39).  Nevertheless, the fact that the nirvāņa attained during one’s lifetime is signified by the unmarked term nirvāņa (as opposed to its marked counterpart parinirvāņa) indicates that any understanding of nirvāņa should be based on an analysis of the unmarked term.  Therefore, the paper primarily focuses on this version of nirvāņa.  This choice of focus is also based on the consideration that the Platonic Idea, which nirvāņa is being compared to, is also something attained during one’s lifetime.

[2] The fundamental Buddhist claim that everything is empty of its own-being is often used to argue that Buddhism is nihilistic.  This, on the one hand, is the inevitable reduction that any attempt to assess Buddhism in terms of the specifically western concept of nihilism leads to.  On the other hand, it indicates a misconceptualisation of both Buddhism and nihilism.

[3] Steven Collins (in Nirvana: Concept, Imagery, Narrative) states, “Pali words for enlightened knowledge can thus be seen to donate various forms of knowing how, as well as the knowledge that certain propositions are true” (43).  Given that Pali is the language of Buddhism, especially the Theravāda version of it, the Pali words of enlightened knowledge could be seen as adequate representations of what enlightened knowledge mean in Buddhism.

[4] Rahula states: “He who has realized the Truth, Nirvāņa, is the happiest being in the world.  He is free from all ‘complexes’ and obsessions, the worries and troubles that torment others.  His mental health is perfect.  He does not repent the past, nor does he brood over the future.  He lives fully in the present.  Therefore he appreciates and enjoys things in the purest sense without self-projections.  He is joyful, exultant, enjoying the pure life, his faculties pleased, free from anxiety, serene and peaceful.  As he is free from selfish desire, hatred, ignorance, conceit, pride, and all such ‘defilements’, he is pure and gentle, full of universal love, compassion, kindness, sympathy, understanding and tolerance.  His service to others is of the purest, for he has no thought of self.  He gains nothing, accumulates nothing, not even anything spiritual, because he is free from the illusion of Self, and the ‘thirst’ for becoming” (43). 

(An excerpt from: Kalugampitiya, Nandaka Maduranga. "Resistance and Reinforcement: Rethinking the Underclass Commercial Sex Worker Discourse in Sri Lanka." Sri Lanka Journal of the Humanities. 2012, Vol. 38 Issue 1, p25-41.)

          The study uses the term ‘sympathy-story’ to refer to the set story in terms of which almost every CSW discusses and justifies her involvement in commercial sex work.  This story is primarily aimed at arousing sympathy in the listener towards the CSW’s “plight.”  They vary from one another in terms of specific details; however, all stories share a common, even predictable, narrative structure/story line.  The study identifies two areas that the CSWs discuss in their sympathy-stories: (1) the factors that made them become CSWs and continue in the commercial sex work profession and (2) their attitude towards commercial sex work.  The study recognizes the sympathy-story as one of the few possible ways, if not the only way, in which the female CSW can discuss her “predicament,” especially with a person whom she considers an outsider.  It is a story not so much in the sense of a factually inaccurate account as in the sense of a conscious re-presentation of her situation with the specific aim of earning the listener’s sympathy and justifying her case.

In a context where the illegality of the practices that define the concerned underclass discourse requires CSWs to maintain the secretive nature of their practices, it would be a mistake to assume that the CSWs’ sympathy-stories are factually accurate accounts.  In this sense, exclusive reliance on the sympathy-stories would only result in a distorted understanding of the discourse of sex work.  However, the obvious uncertainty regarding the factual accuracy of these stories does not undermine their validity as “research data.”  Stories may not always present factually accurate data; nevertheless, irrespective of whether they are true or false, they provide important insights into how people perceive the world.  Given that the highly disadvantageous position that CSWs occupy in society requires them to justify their position as CSWs in some way for their survival and that the sympathy-story is the best way, if not the only way, in which they could strive to do that, the sympathy stories arguably provide important insights not only into the way the CSWs perceive the world, but also into how they practically go about the difficult task of justifying their case.  In this sense, these sympathy-stories provide ideal research data for discourse analysis studies.[1]

The CSWs cite dire poverty as the primary factor that made them join the commercial sex work profession.  The CSW projects herself as the primary, if not the only, bread-winner of her family, which is usually bigger than a nuclear family unit (one that includes not only the CSW and her children but also her parents, siblings, and other adults in the family) and characterized by the absence of a “protective” male figure.  They claim commercial sex work to be the only means of income that enables them to “feed” their families.  Irrespective of whether it is valid or not, the dominant argument that they do not have “proper” educational qualifications and “skills” to obtain “respectable” jobs enables them to justify, on sympathetic grounds, their claim that commercial sex work is the only option that is left open for her.  This aspect of the sympathy-story indicates a tendency on the part of the CSW to justify her involvement in the illegal profession of commercial sex work on humanitarian grounds.  Interestingly, she does this using the values and standards defined and upheld by the mainstream discourse, like providing for helpless family members.  She subscribes to the dominant notions of “skill” and “education” when she cites the absence of those to justify her involvement in sex work.  Her failure to acknowledge, if not her conscious decision not to acknowledge, that she possesses a different kind of “education” and a different set of “skills” that are necessary for her to operate as a CSW creates a space in which she could ignore the intense pressure from the hegemonic mainstream discourse and make her case in a convincing manner.

Ten out of the twelve CSWs cited sexual abuse by a male figure (the husband, the lover, a male family member, or an outsider) and/or willful abandonment by the husband or lover as factors that pushed them towards commercial sex work.  Their narratives implied the idea that the incident(s) of sexual abuse and abandonment “tainted” their character forever and made them “damaged goods” and denied them the opportunity to continue as “normal” women in society.  According to them, the only option that is open to women like them is commercial sex work.  This argument indicates a tendency to subscribe to the dominant social conceptions regarding the “vulnerability” and “helplessness” of women and use these dominant conceptions to justify their position as CSWs on sympathetic grounds. Two CSWs in the first category said that their involvement in commercial sex work was, among other things, their way of taking revenge from the men who “violated” them and made them “impure.”  At the same time, they challenged, and did so consciously, the patriarchal value structure, which held the idea of “sexual purity” in high regard, when they expressed their decision to continue to be “impure” and use “sexual impurity” as a weapon against the violators.  However, the fact that this decision is based on the assumption that the act of sexual abuse “violated” them and pushed them to a point where they could no longer function as “respectable” women in society indicates an acceptance of the patriarchal values of “purity,” “respectability,” and “womanhood” at a fundamental level.

Their dislike towards the profession they are involved in and their express desire to quit the “job” are essential features of the CSWs’ dominant sympathy-story.  All the CSWs involved in the present study viewed commercial sex work as a “shameful,” “disgraceful,” “evil,” “bad,” “immoral,” and “sinful” act/profession that resulted in “social deterioration.”  They claimed that they were involved in commercial sex work only because they did not have any other option and expressed their willingness and readiness to quit the profession if they got different, preferably “respectable,” jobs.  Their confession that they had not been able to be “good mothers” to their children, their emphatic claim that they would never allow their children to “fall” into the commercial sex work profession, and their express determination to raise their children in such a way that they would enter society as “good” and “respectable” citizens reaffirm the CSWs’ tendency to project their profession as a necessarily “evil” one.

Their attitude towards their profession indicates their acceptance of the mainstream social and religious values of “grace,” “goodness,” “morality,” “motherhood,” and “social correctness.”  It also indicates the extent to which the CSWs who appear to resist the dominant discourse are controlled and influenced by the hegemonic structures of that dominant discourse itself.  In the context of the sympathy-story, this acceptance of the mainstream social and religious values and affirmation of the mainstream understanding of commercial sex work could be read as a discursive strategy that the CSWs use, if not have to use, in order to project their story as one that is in line with, or, at least, not completely outside of, the dominant value system, hence a story that is worth listening to.  The acceptance of the “ground rules” or the “rules of the game” through this initial alignment of the sympathy-story with the dominant value system is a necessary prerequisite for the CSWs’ justification of their case.

Although the dominant sympathy-story accepts the mainstream social and religious values, it would be misleading to see it as passive acceptance.  This acceptance is followed by an attempt to redefine these mainstream values.  The CSWs’ argument that they render an indispensable “service” to society could be seen as a case in point.  According to their view, CSWs render an important service to those who are not in a position to gratify their sexual desires in a socially acceptable manner.  They also claim that their service benefits the whole society because the availability of this service prevents sexual exploitation and abuse of family members and other powerless individuals who are mainly women.  This claim, which projects CSWs as the saviours of the “womankind,” calls for a radical reevaluation and redefinition of the mainstream social and religious values such as “service,” “goodness,” “morality,” “motherhood,” “womanhood,” and “social correctness.”  However, the fact that the call is more for a redefinition of the existing mainstream values than for a complete rejection of those values shows that the CSWs’ resistance entails a certain reinforcement of the existing hegemonic structures at a fundamental level.

A couple of subsequent discoveries that the study made confirmed that the CSWs’ initial sympathy-stories could not be considered “accurate” representations of their life/style.  Certain “insider details” that the CSWs revealed in the second and third rounds of interviews contradicted their initial sympathy-stories.  The sense of amusement with which some CSWs described certain sex acts and certain “weird” forms of behaviour of certain clients, and certain slips-of-the-tongue that indicated that they enjoyed engaging in certain sex acts with certain types of clients clearly contradicted their initial claim that they completely disliked their profession.  At the same time, the study identified two street women who operated as CSWs while being employed in a town cleaning service, and this shows that the availability of alternative means of livelihood does not necessarily make them give up commercial sex work.  The fact that they did not return to their initial sympathy-stories in the subsequent interviews shows that they were largely “stories” that served specific discursive purposes.  In this sense, it is logical to view these “stories” as a discursive strategy that enables CSWs to discuss their “predicament” with outsiders, without revealing the insider information regarding their life/style, while elevating themselves to a position where they could expect to gain the sympathy of the listener.  They could be seen as a necessary façade that CSWs are constrained to use in order to protect themselves, at least to a certain extent, from the massive pressure from the dominant hegemonic discourse.  Any understanding that fails to recognize this discursive nature of the sympathy-stories would lead to a misunderstanding of the underclass CSW discourse.



[1] Describing what he means by discourse analysis, Foucault says, “I do not question discourses about their silently intended meanings, but about the fact and the conditions of their manifest appearance; not about the contents which they may conceal, but about the transformations which they have effected; not about the sense preserved within them like a perpetual origin, but about the field where they coexist, reside and disappear” (“Politics and the Study of Discourse” 60).  He also argues, “discourse is constituted by the difference between what one could say correctly at one period (under the rules of grammar and logic) and what is actually said.  The discursive field is, at a specific moment, the law of this difference” (“Politics and the Study of Discourse” 63). 

Emptiness means absence or nothingness.  If you take a lunchbox filled with food emptiness would be the last word that you would use to describe that box.  It is not empty as it is filled with food.  Now, after you eat the food in that lunchbox what would that box be?  Empty.  The lunchbox would be seen as a container that is empty of its content.  This is commonsense knowledge.  However, if you go beyond this commonsense knowledge and take another look at that container empty of its content you would realise that the container is empty in another sense as well.  Let’s assume that the container is plastic.  What happens to plastic over time?  It discolours.  It gets crack marks.  It eventually reaches a point where you or whoever who is in possession of the box determines that it is time to throw it away.  Is the story different from that of a box made of steel?  No.  It may not get crack marks, but it sure discolours and becomes rusty.  Now, once you throw it away, it starts disintegrating.  The time that a metal box takes to completely disintegrate may be significantly different from the time taken by a plastic box, but what matters is both disintegrate.  When they disintegrate the separated particles will become part of something such as the soil, water, or air (in the form of vapour).  After becoming part of these broader realities will they remain to be in that state till the eternity?  Not likely.  The particles that became part of the soil may soon find themselves to be part of a fertiliser, a clay pot, or a nutrient absorbed by a plant.  Those that became part of water may find themselves in a bottle sold at a supermarket, in a liquid chemical, or in a cup of water offered to a Buddha statue and then later thrown away.  Those that became part of the air may find themselves locked up in an air balloon, transformed from the status of one type of air to another type of air (for the same of the argument, from O2 to CO2), or breathed in by an alligator and then entangled in its nasal mucus.  In this manner, they continue to change without a limit.  In the context of this story of eternal flux, the lunchbox was but a mere moment.  There was nothing permanently “lunchboxy” about the lunchboxes concerned.  In this sense, the lunchboxes were empty not only of food, but also of their taken-for-granted “lunchboxy-ness.”  Had there been a permanent sense of “lunchboxy-ness” that “lunchboxy-ness” should be present in the nutrient that the plant absorbed, the glass of water offered to the Buddha, and what got entangled in the alligator’s nasal mucus.  Just as the lunchbox was empty of its own being everything that is in existence, including buildings, artworks, human beings, celestial objects, animals, are empty of their own-being.  Because they are empty of their own-being, there is nothing about them that could be possessed. 

The song “Gemak Deela” by Iraj Weeraratne is largely a critique of the current political culture of Sri Lanka.  It starts with a reference to an incident that took place in the Sri Lanka Parliament in 2004 where certain government and opposition parliamentarians clashed over the election of the Speaker of the House.  In this clash, several parliamentarians including a couple of Buddhist monks who were members of the parliament got assaulted.  This incident, which went down in Sri Lankan political history as one of its most shameful moments, renewed the ongoing discourse on the country’s political culture and democracy in general and the discipline of the people’s elected representatives in particular.  The song “Gemak Deela,” which presents the story a corrupt politician and a supporter of his, is an artist’s contribution to this discourse. 

The torture scene that comes in the middle of the song is another “non-art” component that the song uses.  The scene presents a realistic picture of one of the infamous methods that the police use in interrogations.  The scene captures an under-aged member of the underclass being subject to torture by the police for peddling drugs.  Torture is not an uncommon theme in Sinhala popular culture.  In fact, many songs that emerge out of the cultural contexts defined by the recently concluded war and the communist insurrections of 1971 and 1988/89 approach and explore torture as one of their central themes.  Those songs talk about torture using the art form of song.  Compared to them, Iraj’s song is different in that it enacts torture, as opposed to merely talking about it, by incorporating a realistic torture scene into the song.  This enactment of torture within the art form of song problematizes the perceived dichotomy between art and torture by placing each in close relation to the other and each in the context of the other.  This, in my view, draws the listener’s attention to the form of song.  It also creates a moment of “song without song.” 

The way Iraj concludes the song points to another attempt on his part to push the boundaries of the art form of song.  The song ends with an excerpt of a political speech made by Ms Chandrika Kumaratunga, the former President of Sri Lanka .  In this speech, which is possibly one of the few sensible speeches made in the current political arena in the country, President Kumaratunga describes one major reason as to why Sri Lankan politics is in the pathetic condition that it is in today.  The music playing in the background throughout the speech gives the speech a musical twist.  Again, the Sinhala popular culture includes numerous songs that discuss various aspects of national politics, but “Gemak Deela” is probably the only song that approaches the theme of politics by incorporating a political speech into the very structure of the song.  Through this component, the song problematizes another traditional dichotomy – the dichotomy between art and politics – by placing each in close relation to the other and each in the context of the other.  It also draws the listener’s attention to song as an art form.  At the same time, it creates a moment of “song without song.”  The short excerpt of the Hindu bhajan ‘Raghupathi raaghawa raajaa ram,’ which is mostly associated with Mahatma Gandhi,  that plays as part of the background music not only bestows a sense of mystical credibility on the President’s speech, but also interrupts the flow of westernized popular music in the song by introducing a touch of South Asian classical music.  This interruption caused by the sudden introduction of South Asian classical music again draws attention to the structure of the song, thereby making the listener conscious of the structure of that art form.

The linguistic dimension of the song also points to an important way in which the song tries to push the boundaries of its own form.  The journalistic account that comes in the beginning and the President’s speech represent a form of the Sinhala language that is more formal than not.  This form of the language contrasts with the largely colloquial and “uncivil” and “derogatory” (from a purist’s point of view) form of that language found in the main body of the song.  The code-mixing (Sinhala and English) that happens in the main body of the song also attributes the song an aura of indecency and degeneration.  However, the small stretch of the Hindu bhajan “Raghupati raaghava raajaa ram” that plays in the background of the President’s speech introduces a sense of language-based distantness and linguistic sacredness to the song.  The torture scene is marked by the absence of coherent language.  The beep sound that repeats itself a number of times in the scene indicates that this incoherence is caused by an artificial censoring of language.  This mix of linguistic styles generates a sense of confusion that adds to the confusion created by the mix of different forms in the context of the song.

Despite the drastic changes that Iraj introduces to the form of song, his work is recognized first and foremost as a song, a work of art.  This work of art shows that art has the ability to accommodate realities that belong in domains that are “external” to art without losing its identity as art.  This, to me, depicts art as an autonomous reality whose existence is independent of the forces that are external to art.

Khlebnikov’s poem “Incantation by Laughter” emerges in a twentieth century Russian cultural context largely influenced by the European cultural movements of futurism and cubism.  Influenced by the spirit of the day, which had largely been defined by the need to shed artificiality and search for the basics of humanity, Khlebnikov was interested in experimenting with the Russian language with the eventual goal of producing a language that was closest to human experience.  He developed what was called zaum, a transrational, universal, and transmental language created by Alexei Kruchenykh and wrote in that language.  Kruchenykh and Khlebnikov’s expectation was that zaum would cross the barrier of national languages and emerge as a proto-Esperanto.

In “Incantation by Laughter,” Khlebnikov is playing with the word ‘laugh.’  He comes up with various formations of the root word ‘laugh’ by adding different prefixes and suffixes to the root.  By doing so, he explores numerous possibilities that are embedded in language, but that had hitherto been ignored.

This poem could be seen as a case where art functions against art in an important way.  In the Hegelian hierarchy of fine arts, poetry is considered the most advanced form of art.  According to Hegel, poetry marks the furthest limit of artistic expression, and it ultimately strives to become philosophy.  This understanding projects poetry as the one medium that facilitates the transition from art in general to higher order thinking.  Given the close proximity that poetry has to philosophy, one could logically argue that poetry in a Hegelian sense is fundamentally about making meaning.

The “Incantation by Laughter” radically deviates from the Hegelian understanding of poetry in that it rejects the meaning making dimension of poetry altogether.  In this sense, this poem could be seen as an example for “poem without poem.”  The poem indicates a case where poem as an art form is used as a site of scientific experimentation on language.  Instead of using language, which is the medium of poetry, to make meaning that would eventually lead to higher order thinking, the poem dissects its own medium while drawing attention to the technical dimension of the medium.  The fact that this dissection of its medium happens necessarily within the art form of poem indicates a conscious attempt on the part of the poet to push the boundaries of poem as an art form. 

            Through his analysis of dreams, Freud examines different dimensions of the human psyche, with special reference to the psychic processes that are involved in the generation and expression of thoughts.  Repression being a recurrent theme in his discussion of dreams, he examines the connection between the repression of thoughts and the formation of dreams.  In Freud’s discussion, repression emerges as the main factor that enables certain kinds of dreams and defines the nature/intensity of the gap between the latent and manifest contents of dreams created by displacement.  The present paper first explores Freud’s conception of repression in relation to the connection between repression and dreams and then examines the role repression plays as the prime determiner of the nature of the gap between the latent thoughts that provide the basis for a dream and their actual representation/manifestation in the dream.

Freud’s discussion projects dreams as spaces in which repressed thoughts find expression.  According to Freud, repression is the psychological condition in which certain thoughts fail to reach one’s consciousness as a result of a psychological mechanism/function called ‘censorship’, which acts as a filter that allows only those thoughts that it considers agreeable to enter the consciousness.[1]  In this sense, censorship functions as a gate-keeper that polices the gap between the conscious mind and the unconscious mind of a person.  The state of sleep marks “a relaxation of this censorship”[2], as a result of which the repressed thoughts of the mind gain access to the consciousness.  Once they come to the conscious mind, “the repressed material must submit to certain alterations which mitigate its offensive features.”[3]  The four processes that Freud recognizes as condensation, displacement, pictorial rearrangement, and the formation of a connected whole (dream composition)[4] account for these alterations that the repressed latent material undergoes when it is transformed into new representations[5], which then find expression in dreams.  Of the three types of dreams[6] that Freud discusses, repression is associated with the second and third types.  In a context where Freud regards dreams as fulfilments of wishes, these two types of dreams are “disguised fulfilments of repressed wishes.”[7]  In such a context, the connection between repression and dreams goes beyond one in which the latter simply provides space for the expression of the former to one in which the latter (at least the second and third types of dreams) is a necessary consequence of the former.  This supports the claim that the main factor that enables the second and third types of dreams is repression.

Although Freud’s discussion of repression gives the idea that repression is a single psychological condition, two forms/manifestations of this psychological condition are discernible in the discussion.  These two forms/manifestations can be understood in relation to the moments at which repression occurs and results in defining the nature of the gap between the latent and manifest content of a dream.  The first form of repression occurs at a moment prior to the state of sleep, while the second occurs at a particular moment during the state of sleep.  The first moment concerns repression as an agent of alienation.  Freud’s discussion of the uncanny implies that repression entails alienation as its necessary consequence.[8]  Alienation results in the transformation of what is familiar and old-fashioned into an unfamiliar reality that is alien to the conscious mind.  This transformation points to repression as the agent of alienation.  This alienation effected by repression takes place prior to the beginning of the dream-work of a particular dream.  As a result of this repression-cum-alienation, what are expressed, especially in the case of the second and third types of dreams, are the repressed, therefore alienated, thoughts that have been relegated to the unconscious mind.  Therefore, the latent thoughts that submit themselves to certain alterations in the process of dream-work are already alienated thoughts.  In such a dream, what reaches the conscious mind of an individual in the form of the manifest content of the dream is twice removed[9] from the actual thought/experience that the dream is based on.  The second moment at which repression plays a significant role is during the state of sleep.  In this state, the relaxation of censorship enables the repressed thought stored in the unconscious mind to “make a path for itself to consciousness”[10]; however, due to the fact that censorship is not completely inactive and that it exerts some control over the thought that is trying to reach the conscious mind even in the state of sleep, what eventually reaches consciousness is not the latent thought, but a ‘compromise’ determined by the struggle between the psychical force of the latent thought that attempts to push the thought from the unconscious mind to consciousness and the counter force of the partially-active censorship that attempts to stifle the thought.[11]  In that sense, the compromise that gains access to consciousness in the state of sleep is a result of a form of repression that takes place in the state of sleep itself.  

Although repression, at least the one that takes place in the state of sleep, looks identical to the process of displacement, which is one of the four processes that characterize dream-work, there is a subtle and significant difference between the two.  Freud regards displacement as “nothing less than the essential portion of the dream-work.”[12]  He defines displacement as the process that generates the difference between the dream-thought and the dream-content.[13]  In order to create a difference between the dream-thought and the dream-content, displacement should be capable of representing the elements of the dream-thought in new and unfamiliar ways.  These new representations embody a distorted version of the latent dream-thought.[14]  In this sense, what displacement is doing to the dream-thought is similar to what repression, the one that takes place in the state of sleep, does to the dream-thought.  Therefore, displacement and repression appear to be similar, even identical, processes.  However, Freud’s discussion of the three types of dreams points to the subtle difference that exists between the two.  Although all dreams are wish-fulfilments, Freud makes a clear distinction between the first category of dreams and the other two types of dreams, and this distinction is based on the degree of intelligibility and meaningfulness of the dream-content.[15]  According to Freud’s understanding of dreams, displacement, along with the other three processes of dream-work, carries out its responsibilities in producing dreams irrespective of which of the two broad categories the product belongs to.  If displacement takes place in both intelligible and unintelligible/meaningful and meaningless dreams, displacement alone cannot account for the variation in the degrees of intelligibility and meaningfulness that different dreams embody.  Given that repression characterizes not those dreams whose meaning is clear, but those other dreams whose meaning is obscure and confused, repression can be considered the force that decides the degree of intelligibility and meaningfulness of a dream.  In this sense, this form of repression is a process that takes place within the context of dream-displacement, and that is what determines the extent to which a dream-thought gets ‘displaced’ from its original form.  The intensity of repression is directly proportional to the extent to which a dream-thought gets displaced.

Thus, both forms of repression play important roles in the construction of dreams.  While the first form of repression determines the nature of the repressed latent thought, which gets expressed in the second and third types of dreams, the second form of repression determines the nature of the gap between the latent thought and its eventual manifestation.  In this sense, the removal of repression from the equation cancels out the condition of possibility for dreams other than those in which the connection between the latent thought/dream-thought and the manifest thought/dream-content is not clear.  This fact points to repression as the force that brings variability to dreams in terms of intelligibility and meaningfulness.

[1] Freud, “On Dreams” 166. 
[2] Ibid. 166.
[3] Ibid. 166.
[4] Ibid. 161.
[5] “I shall describe the process which transforms the latent into the manifest content of dreams as the ‘dream-work’.” (Freud, “On Dreams” 148)
[6] The first group of dreams are those that “can be inserted without further difficulty into the context of our mental life. ... A second group is formed by those dreams which, though they are connected in themselves and have a clear sense, nevertheless have a bewildering effect, because we cannot see how to fit that sense into our mental life. ... The third group, finally, contains those dreams which are without either sense or intelligibility, which seem disconnected, confused and meaningless.” (Freud, “On Dreams” 148-149)
[7] Freud, “On Dreams” 165.
[8] “[F]or this uncanny in reality is nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar and old-established in the mind and which has become alienated from it only through the process of repression.” (Freud, “The Uncanny” 944)
[9] While the latent thought marks the first form of alienation, the dream-content marks the second form of alienation.
[10] Freud, “On Dreams” 166.
[11] “Our hypothesis is that in our mental apparatus there are two thought-constructing agencies, of which the second enjoys the privilege of having free access to consciousness for its products, whereas the activity of the first is in itself unconscious and can only reach consciousness by way of the second. ... What becomes conscious in such cases is a compromise between the intentions of one agency and the demands of the other.” (Freud, “On Dreams” 165-166)
[12] Freud, “From The Interpretation of Dreams” 925.
[13] “It thus seems plausible to suppose that in the dream-work a psychical force is operating which on the one hand strips the elements which have a high psychical value of their intensity, and on the other hand, by means of overdetermination, creates from elements of low psychical value new values, which afterward find their way into the dream-content.  If that is so, a transference and displacement of psychical intensities occurs in the formation of dream-formation.” (Freud, “From The Interpretation of Dreams” 925)
[14] “The consequence of the displacement is that the dream-content no longer resembles the core of the dream-thoughts and that the dream gives no more than a distortion of the dream-wish which exists in the unconscious.” (Freud, “From The Interpretation of Dreams” 925)
[15] “In the case of dreams which are intelligible and have a meaning, we have found that they are undisguised wish fulfilments; that is that in their case the dream-situation represents as fulfilled a wish which is known to consciousness, which is left over from daytime life, and which is deservedly of interest.  Analysis has taught us something entirely analogous in the case of obscure and confused dreams: once again the dream-situation represents a wish as fulfilled – a wish which invariably arises from the dream-thoughts, but one which is represented in an unrecognizable form and can only be explained when it has been traced back in analysis.  The wish in such cases is either itself a repressed one and alien to consciousness, or it is intimately connected with repressed thoughts and is based upon them.” (Freud, “On Dreams” 165)