Protest diaries III

A pictorial diary of some of the ongoing protests in Sri Lanka. Part III

Saturday 30th April 2022

I walk behind this gentleman at the artists protest march on 30th April — he’s elderly but walks steadily for more than two hours. Though the protests may be driven by the young, it’s very much supported by those of all ages.

The artists protest starts from independence square. Arriving there, everything feels strange to me. I am not a protestor by nature. If there’s a crowd I’ll be lurking at the back, if it’s a choice between speaking in a group and silence, I’ll choose silence. But as one banner I saw online says, things are so bad now, even the introverts are here.

At independence square people are arriving carrying placards, drums, tambourines. There is the buzz of performance. The sound of singing, a drum beat starts, a young woman dances, spinning and flowing — I realise later it’s Thaji Dias. The cameras record, people take photos, then the walk begins.

Four drummers walk just behind us and it feels as if the rhythm of the drum beat is driving us along. The march goes down the road leading towards Nelum Pokuna theatre. Drivers lean out of passing vehicles and give the thumbs up sign, a girl leans out and waves a Sri Lankan flag. The support is infectious. I understand now how crowds get carried along.

As the march crosses the road to Nelum Pokuna, a massive CTB bus stops inches from the long line of people and the driver horns. I expect the usual impatient — get out of the way or I’ll run you down horn — but instead it’s a kaputu kaak kaak horn of solidarity.

Outside Nelum Pokuna — the theatre built as a vanity project by the government— a group of mime artist silently do a pantomime. A huge blue and white puppet bobs up at the back of the march. It’s joined by a massive black crow with red satakaya around it’s neck and a knowing expression

In various places throughout the marching crowd are drummers, flute players, tambourinists, they play and play, never stopping, handing over the drum from one to another when they get tired. We pass a young girl holding a placard — an older woman is writing slogans on it, concentrating intently on the task.

At Temple Trees, the official residence of the Prime Minister, the procession stops. Chants of ‘Api aavaa duvanna, oya koheda Mahinda.’ (We have come Mahinda, where are you) A man in a donkey mask dances to the front. The drums beat faster. The placard are held up higher — and then the sound of pirith comes on loudly, played through a loudspeaker set up at Temple Trees.

The elderly man who’s been walking in front of me has a frayed pirith noola (thread) tied around his wrist. He holds the lyric sheet in his hand, the thread visible against the paper. The sound of the loudspeaker pirith becomes louder. Pirith to drown out protest.