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There are only two gods worth worshipping. Chance and electricity.
Father, forgive them, for I will never. Richard de Zoysa ‘Good Friday 1975’
Since Lanka’s 1987 peace accord with India, garbage men have been in high demand. The government forces, the eastern separatists, the southern anarchists and the northern peacekeepers are all prolific producers of corpses.
For atheists there are only moral choices. Accept that we are alone and strive to create heaven on earth. Or accept that no one’s watching and do whatever the hell you like. The latter is by far easier.
The goons work for the goon-master, who is hired by the cops on the instruction of the task force, which is funded by the ministry, that answers to the Cabinet, that lives in the house that JR built.
It’s not that complicated, my friend. Don’t try and look for the good guys ’cause there ain’t none. Everyone is proud and greedy and no one can resolve things without money changing hands or fists being raised.
For the past year, the city’s police stations have entertained wailing parents inquiring after sons and daughters who never came home. On busy days, they round the worried and the frantic into poorly ventilated corridors and make them queue all the way to the cycle bay.
‘The world will not correct itself. Revenge is your right. Do not listen to Bad Samaritans. Demand your justice. The system failed you. Karma failed you. God failed you. On earth as it is up here.’
‘The powerful get away with murder. And all the gods in the sky look away.
‘Magic isn’t evil or good. Or black or white. It is like the universe, like every missing God. Powerful and supremely indifferent.’
‘1983 was an atrocity. eight thousand homes, five thousand shops, a hundred and fifty thousand homeless, no official body count. The Sri Lankan government has neither acknowledged nor apologised for it.
‘I don’t listen to rumours. I only spread them.’
‘The more I see, the more I am convinced,’ says the creature. ‘History is people with ships and weapons wiping out those who forgot to invent them. Every civilisation begins with a genocide. It is the rule of the universe. The immutable law of the jungle, even this one made of concrete. You can see it in the movement of the stars, and in the dance of every atom. The rich will enslave the penniless. The strong will crush the weak.’
‘Burma. Israel. North Korea. Apartheid South Africa. Sri Lanka. All born in ’48.’
‘I have a superb name for God. Whoever.’
All stories are recycled and all stories are unfair. Many get luck, and many get misery. Many are born to homes with books, many grow up in the swamps of war. In the end, all becomes dust. All stories conclude with a fade to black.
There are at least five spirits wandering the space you’re in now. One may be reading over your shoulder.
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You want to ask the universe what everyone else wants to ask the universe. Why are we born, why do we die, why anything has to be. And all the universe has to say in reply is: I don’t know, arsehole, stop asking. The Afterlife is as confusing as the Before Death, the In Between is as arbitrary as the Down There. So we make up stories because we’re afraid of the dark.
‘Nothing in this country is apolitical. I wish you would grow up, Dilan.’
‘They will get away with it. Because karma is bullshit.’
‘All religion keeps the poor docile and the rich in their castles. Even American slaves knelt before a God that looked away from lynchings.’
‘The Portuguese assumed the missionary position. The Dutch took us from behind. By the time the Brits came along, we were already on our knees, with our hands behind our backs and our mouths open.’
‘I’m glad we were colonised by the British,’ you say. ‘Better than being slaughtered by the French,’ says the Priest. ‘Or enslaved by the Belgians.’ ‘Or gassed by the Germans.’ ‘Or raped by Spaniards.’
The Dead Priest sits across from you and whispers into the dark. ‘This island has always been connected. We traded spices, gems and slaves with Rome and Persia long before history books were invented. Our people too have always been tradable. Look at today. The rich send their kids to London, the poor send their wives to Saudi. European paedophiles sun on our beaches, Canadian refugees fund our terror, Israeli tanks kill our young and Japanese salt poisons our food.’
‘The Brits left us with an unpolished pearl and we have spent forty years filling this oyster with shit.’
‘Here’s the stinking truth, take a good whiff. We have fucked it up all by ourselves.’
‘Ghost, ghoul, preta, devil, yaka, demon. Did I get the hierarchy right?
Despite all speeches made to the contrary, the naked bodies of Sinhalese, Tamils, Muslims and Burghers are indistinguishable. We all look the same when held to the flame.
‘God’s gift,’ the warden said, ‘His violence... God loves violence. You understand that, don’t you?... Why else would there be so much of it? It’s in us. It comes out of us. It is what we do more naturally than we breathe. There is no moral order at all. There is only this – can my violence conquer yours?’ Dennis Lehane, Shutter Island
‘You know why the battle of good vs evil is so one-sided, Malin? Because evil is better organised, better equipped and better paid. It is not monsters or yakas or demons we should fear. Organised collectives of evil doers who think they are performing the work of the righteous. That is what should make us shudder.’
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We must all find pointless causes to live for, or why bother with breath?
Only humans can practise compassion properly. Only humans can live without being cruel.’
