A Letter to the People

A Letter to the People
Dear People of Sri Lanka,
I am writing this to you on my knees. Not because I am sad or begging. But because I have nothing to teach you. You already taught me everything I know.
You taught me manussakama. Not by telling me about it. You never gave me a lecture. You just let me grow up around you. You gave me food when you had barely enough for yourself. You let me sleep under your roof when the rain came. You pulled me out of trouble even when I was being stupid. You did not think about it. You just did it.
I am writing to tell you something you probably already know, but maybe you forgot because the world keeps telling you different things.
The world keeps telling you that you need to learn things. That you need to improve. That you need workshops and certificates and improvement. That your way is not enough. That you are missing something. That you should be more like them.
They are wrong.
Not because you are prefect and they are bad people. But because they are looking at the wrong level. They are looking at the top of the water. They are talking about the waves. They think the waves are the ocean.
But you are the ocean.
The thing you have — manussakama — is not something anyone can teach you. It is not something anyone can take from you. It is the ground you stand on. It is the thing that makes you give your last piece of bread to a stranger. It is the thing that makes you shoo the fly away while guarding the corpse of your greatest enemy slain by you.
Nobody put that in you. And nobody can take it out.
The foreigner comes with his lessons about respect. You listen. You nod. You honour him because he is a teacher and you know how to honour a teacher. And he thinks he is giving you something new. But you are giving him something he cannot even see. You are giving him the very thing that makes you listen to him in the first place. You are giving him your manussakama.
Do you see? Your treasure is not something that can be stolen. It is not something that can be bombed. It is not something that can be erased by workshops or shame or feeling inadequate.
The only way anyone could take it from you is if you yourself decide to throw it away. And even then, I am not sure it would leave you. I think it would just wait for you to remember.
So, this is my plea to you, my dear ones. Not a lesson. Just a plea.
Please do not feel small. Please do not feel ashamed. Please do not think you are missing something that others have.
You have the thing. The real thing. The thing that has no name in English. The thing that keeps this island breathing. The thing that has survived thousands of years of kings and colonizers and bombs and workshops.
You do not need to be proud. Pride is heavy. You can just be. Let manussakama flow. That is all you ever did. That is all you ever needed to do.
Everything else — the lessons, the certificates, the fancy words — that is extra. Put it on if you like. It might be tasty. Or leave it off. It does not matter. The cake is there. The manussakama is there.
And if what I am saying sounds like nonsense, if I am annoying you, if I am being a fool — please, slap me. I mean it. Because who am I to tell you anything? I am just someone who was lucky enough to be raised by you.
Thank you for teaching me what no school can teach. Thank you for being who you are.
With all my heart,
A grateful child