Solitude of a Mind

Would you care to notice?
be brave enough to follow?
Me, across my divide
To my lonely cavernous hide?

To sit with me and ponder
the rushing world outside
as in futility it plunders
the Earth - my beauteous, bounteous, bride?

to sit with me and wonder
whence we came, whither we go, and why?
To hear the gushing silence
the story writ, untold
a silent, nascent, cry!

To plunge deep, into my depths
The darkness, thick, blinding black.
In search of a glimmer, of light, of truth,
something my soul could track

Would you dare to seek the real me?
To come inside and see
The futility within,
near-perfect twin,
Of the futility without?

The solitude of a mind
wandering aimlessly about..
-Harin Corea.

SAITM, Doctors in arms and Education - a Lesson from my Father

First up, I need to confess a couple of things. The first is I know very little about SAITM. All I know is that it exists and in recent times has managed to ignite a national uproar in Sri Lanka, which has led to Supreme Court Battles, the GMOA (Government Medical Officers Union) leading State sector doctors on strike and - from what I can see from my FB newsfeed - most of the rest of country so angered at the striking doctors that traders are refusing to sell petrol and other goods to them.

Second, what have I got to do with this, to prompt me to blog about it (given that I'm now an Australian and live in Melbourne)? Probably nothing! But I've found myself drawn into the heated debate that's going on between my friends - many of whom are doctors in Sri Lanka and many others who are not. And the lines of the debate are drawn between those two groups who seem to be in opposition on this issue.

My Sri Lankan doctor friends post regularly and passionately on the evils of SAITM and how Sri Lankan medical education needs to be protected against it and other like threats. They posit that the threat to the quality of health care in the country is serious, immediate and dire. Most also argue against any kind of private medical education institution which charges students for their education - claiming that the profit motive would seriously compromise the quality of education in those institutions.

My non-doctor Sri Lankan friends also post regulalry and passionately and are simply angry - for many reasons apparently, but mainly

• At the doctors for going on strike and causing so much hardship to patients and families by denying them treatment
• At some of those same doctors who - while on strike at their respective state hospitals which provide free health care, continue to do private practice on a fee-levying basis.
• At being denied the opportunity to pay for and provide medical education to their children, who may not have made the highly restrictive intake into state medical colleges.
• At the disruption caused to everyday life by rioting students and daily demonstrations.

As in the case of many such divisive and acrimonious debates, there are elements of truth on both sides and neither side can - or choose to - see the opposing merits of the debate.

Now where does my father come into this? Again, nowhere in particular. One might point out that he's a doctor, who for his entire professional life practised as one and for most of his professional life was involved in medical education and the pursuit of quality and excellence in both: medical practice and education. Most of my friends in Sri Lanka, would know him or know of him in some way or another; and many of my doctor friends would have studied under him.

As many of those who knew my father would know and acknowledge - as I do - that he was a human being and his faults and weaknesses were legion, including in the practise of and teaching of medicine. However, over the many years of our shared life journeys, there was one aspect of my father's approach to his medical career and profession, which I observed (often in frustration) but soon grew to admire and respect. This was the fact that he never denied or witheld treatment from anyone at anytime! Even when other doctors were on strike

 - sometimes about causes he himself passionately agreed with - he quietly went about treating anyone and everyone.

From the time I can remember, my father never did any sort of shift work. He had and was paid a salary for a 9-5, 5 days a week job. he never did any private practice nor did he ever charge for treatment from any of his patients. I'm not stating this in any sort of particularly meritorious light - that was his choice and we his family often felt we suffered for it when we compared ourselves with the comforts and privileges that the families of his colleagues who did practise privately enjoyed. However, as I said, that was merely his choice and doesn't detract anything from the people who honourably did otherwise. 

But what I couldn't get over as a child was the volume of people he treated and saw completely outside his paid employment, at all times of the day and night, whenever they happened to show up or call! My mother - also a doctor - would often protest in exasperation as he interrupted our family dinner to drive off into the night to see someone who was ill. As a routine he would leave two hours earlier for work in the morning to stop off on his way to work at Daya Nivasa - a home for the destitute - to treat the sick people there. He would do likewise on his way home from work arriving a couple of hours or more later to greet us than he should have - often to the face the ire of his wife and kids. Whenever I happened to drop in at his office at the University to see him, there would be a line of people queueing up to see him - he would treat students, staff - both academic and non-academic, their friends and their families, on his own time at his own cost. I've known him to stop his car by the roadside to crawl into a culvert to deliver a baby of a poor woman who happened to be in labour.

One day I asked him why he did it - never saying no to people who dragged him out of bed, house and home at all hours of the day and night (My mom was convinced some were taking advantage of him and I tended to agree with her). His answer was prompt, non-premeditated and simple. He said "When I qualified as a doctor and entered the profession, I took an oath. When I take an oath, I keep it."

Just as one can't defend democracy or a religion by subverting its founding principles, one can't defend a profession by subverting its founding standards: A lesson from my father - no fee, no charge, free to good homes!

ජය වේවා!

"Hate" as a Social Disability

Hate, is a disability; a social disability. It is a disability where the sufferer is unable to engage with an individual or section/s of society with the universal human qualities of trust, compassion, love and mutual respect. Where this disability is triggered by a person’s race or colour, it becomes racism. Similarly, different triggers, would lead to different “-isms”. Sexism, Ageism, etc. Whatever the particular “-ism” may happen to be, people who hate based on social categories, suffer from a social disability, which prevents them from experiencing and enjoying the full gamut of social experiences enjoyed by normal people: Just like those who suffer from physical or intellectual disabilities cannot experience or enjoy a particular form of physical or intellectual activity normally accessible to others.

If one accepts the above premise, i.e. that those who hate, categorically, suffer from a social disability, then perhaps, we (i.e. the rest of society who don’t suffer from this particular form of disability) should engage these people more with compassion, rather than contempt or anger - for the simple reason that the latter would only serve to aggravate their condition, whilst the former is the only pathway which would have a chance of alleviating it. Just like we, nowadays, strive to make the physical world “accessible” to those with physical disability, perhaps we should consider making society, in all its myriad diversity, “accessible” to those suffering the crippling social disability of “hate”.

A couple of years ago, I used to volunteer my time a couple of days a week as a Community Transport bus driver. I would drive around the Northern suburbs of Melbourne in a Minibus equipped with a wheelchair hoist, driving frail aged people and people with “a disability” from their homes to various social and recreational destinations and back – children with “intellectual disabilities” to special schools and respite care, children and young adults with “physical disabilities” to special programs and therapy, older people to shops and social clubs, etc. I found this work tremendously rewarding in many ways.

First, as a newcomer to Melbourne, I very quickly became familiar with most of its Northern suburbs and the cross section of people and society reflected through them. At a slightly deeper level, each time I helped a lonely, elderly woman who had been waiting eagerly for my arrival, sometimes getting ready a good hour before the appointed time in her eagerness to be ready for her only social outing of the week, I would pray a silent prayer as I helped her into the bus and secured her belongings and seatbelt, that someone, somehow might be doing a similar kindness for my aged and disabled mother, thousands of miles away. Each time I stooped to lower the step of the bus to enable a disabled child to get in or out of the bus, the words “Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren….” would rustle like a breeze through my head and I would breathe a silent prayer of thanksgiving, for the privilege that I was being given, to be of use to these “least of His brethren” in however small a way. Finally, at the end of each day, I would return home and be thankful that my wife, kids and myself could all see, that we could walk, talk, and run, that we were healthy and “able” in every sense of the word. This last was the most rewarding part of what I did.

          Most of my passengers – at least those who could physically express themselves – often thanked me for my time and showed their appreciation in many different ways according to their abilities: Those who had gardens would often have a bagful of lemons, or other fruit or veggies for me to take home. Those who baked would have a baked treat of some sort, discreetly wrapped in foil and paper, "to have with your tea, when you stop for a break". One particular woman, who I transported in the afternoons, would have a chilled bottle of beer,"for when you go home and put your feet up". My particular favourite was a young man, with severe intellectual and physical disabilities, who I would transport towards the end of my shift. He walked with a lurching, rolling, gait – rather like a seaman on the slippery deck of a ship pitching in heavy seas. He would drool incessantly and could communicate only through a variety of harsh guttural grunts. He had to be restrained in his seat as he constantly bucked and rocked back and forth while the bus was in motion. I soon found that light pop music on the radio had a calming effect on him and I would tune in to “Gold FM” to keep him calm during the forty five minute drive across town to his destination. One day, much to my surprise, when the “Everly Brothers” were singing on the radio, I heard someone humming in accompaniment in a high, falsetto voice. Surprised, I turned around in my seat to find the young man, his head leaning against the window, with his eyes closed and a rapt smile on his face, singing – no words just the sound – but ever so sweetly! His usually troubled countenance, looked peaceful – angelic even – with a halo of golden curly hair forming a tousled frame around it. When I mentioned this to his mom as I dropped him off that day, she looked at me slightly puzzled, and said that he had never sung in his life and that she didn’t believe he could – maybe I was mistaken in some way. I didn’t argue with her. But he sang to me many times since that first day, and as far as I know, no one else has ever heard him sing, (I suspect, no one else quite believed me either!). I could now empathize with the little girl who claimed that the animals and birds spoke to her and when ridiculed by everyone else about it, retorted “How can you say they don’t just because they’ve never spoken to you?”

          There was yet another young woman, who had some sort of severe intellectual disability who I transported regularly. She lived alone with her mother in one of the more affluent northern suburbs. The first time I called to pick her up and rang the front doorbell, the mother opened the door a crack and rather curtly asked me “Why have they sent you? Don’t they have any one else to send?” Somewhat taken aback, I nevertheless replied politely that I wasn’t sure, but all I know is that I’ve been assigned this particular run. At this she said, again with a distinct note of affronted dignity in her voice, “Well then don’t ring the front doorbell, come around the back to the back door!” Somewhat puzzled, I complied, and the mother called out through the kitchen window, “She’s not quite ready as yet, you’ll have to wait!”, but made no move to open the back door or invite me to have a seat in the kitchen. Not thinking too much about this, I stood in the backyard, admiring her herb garden. While I waited, the mother would call out odd questions to me, such as “You look like an able bodied man, why don’t you go and find some real work?” Finally, when her daughter emerged and I took her to the vehicle, to help her get in, the mother followed me out, insisting that the daughter should travel in the back and not the front seat, and generally finding fault with nearly everything I did. She seemed to get increasingly agitated as I got into the drivers seat and prepared to drive off. She questioned me closely as to what route I planned to take, how long I would take to get there, whether I was sure I had a current driver’s license, etc., etc. It quickly dawned on me that what was distressing her so much was my colour and that she was practically beside herself at the thought that her daughter was being driven by a black man! She kept referring to the fact that the standards of the organization seemed to be dropping alarmingly of late. I have personally encountered racism in many forms in many countries around the world, but this was the first time for me in Australia. I felt genuinely sorry for the woman as she was distressed in the extreme - in her mind it was as if she were sending her disabled daughter with a known rapist or child-molester. She even debated as to whether she should come with me, but then, the thought of travelling in the same vehicle with me seemed to distress her even more! I then realized that this woman suffered a disability more severe and crippling than her daughter's. Hers was a social disability; the disability to relate to people of other races and colour as her own - the disability to trust, respect and tolerate diversity. With this realization I felt even more sorry for her situation: Alone with a disabled, young adult daughter and not able, herself, to engage with more than forty percent of people in her own country!

          That evening when dropping off the bus at the end of the day, I casually mentioned what had happened to a staff member of the organization. She was appalled and apologized profusely and said that she would see to it that I would never be put in that situation again. But I insisted that she not do anything. I explained that I volunteered to help people with disabilities and the fact that this woman had a social disability of this nature was all the more reason that I should continue to help her. And so I continued, every week, for many months. Each time, she managed in some way or another to express, her distaste and contempt for me in particular, and her dissatisfaction with the situation in general. I smiled at each thinly veiled barb and insult and behaved as if they were compliments, complimenting her in turn on anything and everything I could – her looks, hair, dress, garden, etc.

          Then one day, when I arrived to pick up her daughter, I told her that this would be the last day for me; that I was quitting. Taken aback at this, she wanted to know why. I explained that I was taking up a job where I would no longer have time to volunteer. She fell silent and somewhat thoughtful after that. The usual barrage of fault-finding and acerbic comments were distinctly lacking that day. In the afternoon, when I returned with her daughter, It was my turn to be surprised. She brusquely shoved a gift wrapped package into my hands, saying “Here, this is for you, from the two of us. Good luck in your job!” I drove off stunned and speechless. This was the first time she had ever said a kind word to me, let alone give me a gift. That particular bottle of wine and box of chocolates were some of the sweetest I’ve ever tasted!

Harin Corea

Melbourne, Australia
January 26th, 2013.

“No, I Will Not Let You Steal My Necklace!”

Several decades ago, when I was barely eighteen years old, I spent a year in upstate New York as a cultural exchange student. With me, at the time, together with many others from many different countries, was a young lady from a certain Latin American country. She was a ravishing beauty, who had happened to be the beauty queen of her country the previous year. She lived in a neighbouring town and we met often and became good friends. 

We soon fell in love and started going out together. It was a beautiful relationship: We were both young and carefree with our whole lives before us. We danced together, laughed together, swam together, camped under the stars together. We kissed, we hugged, held hands, snuggled against each other, but she always drew the line at any suggestion of  any kind of sexual relationship. “Nobody is going to touch me until I am married!” she would exclaim passionately. I soon learned to respect her for it and now, in hindsight, I would say that our relationship was even more beautiful and enjoyable because of it (although I held a very different view at the time!).

At the end of a blissful year together, inevitably, we parted and returned to our respective countries. We kept in touch sporadically, but this soon petered out. Then, one day, a few years later, out of the blue, I got a call from her. She was coming to Singapore for a photo-shoot and could possibly take a weekend off and fly over to Sri Lanka if I would like to catch up and had the time.

I met her at the airport and we drove straight down to a beach resort on the south coast of Sri Lanka where I had booked a weekend getaway. That evening, over a candlelit dinner, with the sea breeze wafting over us as we dined in the lee of the mangroves, she looked more beautiful than ever. I noted that she still wore her diamond-studded gold necklace from many years ago. That necklace had been a gift to her from her mother on her eighteenth birthday. I learned that her mother had passed away since, a couple of years ago.

After dinner, we went for a walk along the beach in the moonlight. The roar-hiss of the waves, as they broke incessantly on the beach, and the blowing sea breeze, insulated us in a warm cocoon of sound and we walked arm in arm, oblivious to all else but each other and the beauty of the scene around us.

Suddenly, two men appeared out of the darkness and grabbed us. I was being held in a choke-hold from behind and as I struggled to free myself, I felt the sharp point of a knife thrust against my throat. I ceased to struggle and saw to my horror that my lady-friend was struggling with the other man, who also had his hands at her throat. He was trying to grab her necklace and she was resisting him fiercely, telling him determinedly “No, I will NOT let you steal my necklace!” Conscious of the knife at my throat, I advised her to “Let him take it, they have knives!” I was anxious to cut our losses and get away from them as quickly as possibly, fearful of what else they might decide to do to her. But she continued to resist vigorously. Finally she called out to me, “Ask him to let go of me and I will give it to him, but I will not let him grab it from me!” I called out to her attacker, translating what she said into Sinhalese – “Let go of her, she will give you the necklace!” I told him. Somewhat bemused, he stopped grappling with her and took a step away, but still held on to her arm. I was still in the firm grip of my assailant, with the knife held firmly against my throat. Panting to catch her breath, she called out to me, “Harin, please translate for me. I want to tell this man something.”

She then proceeded to look her assailant squarely in the eye and told him earnestly, “I will give you my necklace, but I will not let you steal it from me. Do you understand? I will give it to you as a gift, rather than turn you into a thief by letting you steal it from me. You are not a thief! You were not born to become a thief, your mother didn’t raise you to become a thief and whatever your religion may happen to be, my God won’t let me allow you to become a thief!” I translated what she had said, while she calmly unclasped her necklace and offered it to him, gently, almost tenderly, “Here, take it! It is my gift to you, for you are a good man – too good to become a thief!”

I watched with amazement as the ruffian slowly backed away - as if he were mesmerized by her gaze, which continued to hold steadily on him - as she continued to offer him her necklace, stretching out her hand toward him. “Here, take it! I’m offering it as a gift. See, how beautiful it is!  But not as beautiful as the person you were born to be – the one that your mother raised you to be. It’s very precious! These are real diamonds and it is real gold! But not as precious as you are – God would never forgive me if I allowed you to become a thief!” I translated as best as I could, fumbling awkwardly for appropriate Sinhalese phrases to convey the essence of what she was saying.

The ruffian looked at her in stunned disbelief and finally told her in broken English “Nona, I ……very …sorry….you….please… keep….I sorry you touch” and with that he called out to his accomplice “Vareng, yamu, thava kaala kanni venna kaling!” (Lets get out of here before we become even more miserable) and they disappeared into the night.

We walked back to our hotel in silence. Later that night, as I lay next to her in the dark, I asked her “Would you have really parted with the necklace that your mother gave you?” She replied without hesitation “Harin, that necklace is very valuable, several thousand dollars maybe, but it is the least precious thing that my mother gave me. She gave me love, she gave me values. One of those values is the conviction that human beings and human lives – no matter how miserable and wretched they may be – are far more valuable than gold and diamonds. I would gladly give up the necklace any day rather than give up my values, for they are by far the greater gift that my mother has given me.” With that, she turned over and fell fast asleep.

I lay awake until dawn, listening to the swish-boom of the ocean waves on the rocks outside the window, pondering, while she slept the sleep of a pure conscience. She left the next day and I haven’t heard from her since. Every now and then, when I hear of someone being mugged or having their bag snatched, I hear the distant echo of a sensual Latin accent wafting over a warm ocean breeze, determinedly exclaiming, “No, I will not let you steal my necklace!, No, I will not let you become a thief!”

Harin Corea

11^th February,2012

Melbourne, Australia.

One of the Lucky Ones

On 3 February 2012 09:28,xxxxxxxxx (xxxxxx@xxxx.xx) wrote:

Dear big scary Person

I'm Edgar Xxxxxxxx Xxxxx and I don't know you yet as I've only been born
yesterday afternoon in Winchester Hospital, UK. I know my Mama well
and also my Papa and got a taste of my sisters and
also of my Yaya who is visiting...

I had a birth weight of 3.7kg, am 55cm long and was 17 days late (albeit
"experts" are still debating what my real due-date was). Tonight I'll be
sleeping in my very own bed as both Mama and I were doing very well and
hence they let us go home already.

I hope to get to know you soon!

Edgar

--------------------------------------------------------------------

3^rd February, 2012

Dear Edgar,

Welcome to this world!

I'm sorry about the rather parlous state it is in at the moment, but we haven't been very good in our global housekeeping these past few decades and the place has got rather dirty and run down compared to what it was.

Nevertheless, It is still the most hospitable place I happen to know of, within this Universe, and I'm sure you and others of your generation will be much better "globe-keepers" than the ones that came and went before you.

Might I also say that you are a very lucky person. I say this for many reasons.

The first is that you have been born into a family with a Mom and a Dad as well as two delightful, healthy siblings. That puts you immediately ahead of most of the other babies born around the world today.

The second reason is that you have been born to parents and siblings who will and are able to love you, care for you, and feed and clothe you according to - and far beyond - your needs. You will never know chronic hunger or suffer from undernourishment like most of your brethren who were born with you. You will never be too cold or too hot, for you will have the comforts of heating and air-conditioning. You will never have to think about that cup of water that you draw from the tap in your home to quench your thirst and how it got there. You will quench your thirst and toss away the balance without even being aware of the fact that day by day, many of those born with you are dying for lack of clean water or water of any sort for that matter. When the time comes for you to walk, you will have shoes to wear - that puts you ahead of more than half your brethren born today.

The third reason is that you have been born into a country free of conflict, war and foreign invasion. That puts you ahead of more than a third of your brethren. (The fact is that you have been born into a country that has done most of the invading, enslaving, destabilizing and subjugating of other countries in the world in recent history - but, no doubt, you and your generation will fix that).

The fourth reason is that your parents will make sure and be able to provide you with a good education from pre-school through to University. You will have a school to go to - many of your brethren do not. Your school will have teachers to teach you - many of the schools your brethren attend do not. You will have books to read and learn from, stationery to write on and all the benefits of the modern digital era to obtain, collate and disseminate information and knowledge. Half your brethren will not.

The fifth reason is that you will frequently go on holiday. Half your brethren will barely even know the meaning of the word.

The sixth reason is that your parents will never sell you or hire you out to sweatshops, the pornographic industry or to pedophiles. Many of your brethren, from as young as five years on will be.

The seventh reason is that you will never have to leave your family and go to far away cities to work as a domestic child-servant, where, very likely you will suffer physical, mental and sometimes sexual abuse. Many of your brethren will.

The eighth reason is that, whenever you fall ill, you will have medical care close at hand. You will have a hospital or clinic to go to, there will be doctors and nurses to attend you, they will have the appropriate diagnostic aides and equipment to examine you and they will have medicines to dispense to you. That is a privilege most of your brethren will never enjoy.

The ninth reason is that you have been born with very fortunate colour of skin. The chances are you will never be spat on, harassed, abused, or assaulted by strangers because of it. When you go for a hike in your country and stop at a country pub, you will not be refused service or made to wait until every body else is served before you are, (or patronized and discriminated against in numerous other ways) because of it (I was and many others are - frequently). When it comes to your career, you will walk through barriers, doors and ceilings which you won’t even realize exist, purely because of your fortunate colour.

I could go on and on, but the simple fact I hope you will realize one day, is, Edgar darling, you have been BORN LUCKY and PRIVILEGED!

The tenth and most important reason is that you have been born to two wonderful parents, who will always be there for you and always do their best for you - believe me, I know them! SO MAKE THE MOST OF IT!!!

Good luck and congratulations to your Mom, Dad and siblings and may your good luck follow you and grow with you always!

All my love and good wishes!

Big, Bald, Black, Scary Uncle Harin :-)

The Importance of Becoming Australian

January 26^th was Australia day. My two sons, aged 8 and 10 years became Australians on that day. Australian citizenship with all its attendant rights, privileges and responsibilities was formally conferred upon them at the city hall in a ceremony presided over by the mayor. The cultural performers from the local aboriginal community – the Wurrundjeri Nation – who were supposed to perform, failed to show up.

I watched from the audience as my two imps scampered up to the Mayor grinning like chimpanzees to receive their certificates of citizenship, an Australian flag, a poster of native australian wildlife and a handful of lollies. I watched them sing the Australian Anthem with gusto, followed by “Waltzing Matilda” and “Give me a Home Under the Gum Trees” with the accompanying actions. They were having the time of their lives.

I couldn’t help my tears which flowed freely as the import of what was happening before my eyes suddenly hit me. What right had I, to uproot these two innocent lads from their native culture and land and bring them here to Australia to become Australians? We weren’t fleeing  disaster, war, persecution or economic deprivation – the traditional imperatives for human migration. We weren’t even seeking a “better” life! The life we had in our native Sri lanka was extraordinarily privileged. The truth was that we took a socio-economic step down when we migrated here. So why did we come?

Several years ago, back in Sri Lanka, as we were preparing to emigrate, I had the answer to everybody’s question – “Why are you leaving when you already have a great life here”? My response was “I can’t deprive my children the opportunity that is available to them [to grow up in Australia and all the attendant opportunities that would give them]”. Once they grow up, if they decide they want to return to Sri Lanka, they could do so, I told myself and anyone else who was interested. I was particularly keen to give them the benefits of Australian Primary School education. I had observed their cousins going through primary school in Australia and was convinced that the Australian Primary education system, was perhaps the best in the world. (I wasn’t so impressed with the secondary education, but that is another matter).

But the real reason we came was much deeper than that. I wanted to save them from growing up in an atmosphere of uncertainty – where the course of one’s life could be suddenly wrenched and torn apart by the fickle whim of a politician, a monk or a rabble-rouser. Where social diversity was considered a social danger and being different was a basis to be despised and hated rather than included and celebrated. Where the basic luxuries of life like a decent education and a decent job depended on whom one knew rather than who one was. Where one could not get basic services from any government department unless one “spoke to someone” or “knew someone” or “oiled a few greasy palms” on the way. I wanted my sons  to have a “Fair Go” in life!

Co-incidentally, after coming here, I discovered that a “Fair Go” for everyone, is what Australians espouse, treasure and aspire to. It is the conscious and sub-conscious yardstick by which all Australians measure policy and social fabric. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you came from or why you are here – you deserve a fair go!

Now, four years on, my sons are well into Australian Primary school and thriving. They are enthusiastic participants in local sports clubs, little athletics and anything else that happens to be going on in the neighbourhood. Once they finish primary school, they will move on to one of several available secondary schools in the area – any of which will give them a “fair go” at a place in University or TAFE (vocational college) or whatever they wish to pursue in life. Whatever path, career or job they happen to pursue, will give them a “fair go” at paying their own way – buying a decent house, a functional car and starting a family.

None of this will come without some hard work and effort. But it is possible and achievable to any Australian child, except, perhaps, some native Australian children. For although the Australian system has been working hard at absorbing and integrating the migrant milieu that has been arriving on its shores for over a hundred years, it has only recently begun to address the problem of absorbing and integrating the original inhabitants of the land in to mainstream Australian life and all its privileges. They still don’t have a chance at a “fair go” like the rest of us newcomers and old timers who make up the modern face of Australia. 

A migrant nation has been forged on this land by a raft of migrants new and old and it continues to grow from within and without as more migrants continue to arrive and be absorbed into this nation. It has been forged on land occupied for centuries by others and they too, need to be welcomed and included into mainstream modern Australian life. It is not sufficient to verbally acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land we live and thrive on.  They need to be celebrated and assisted to become fully Australian with all its attendant benefits, rights and responisbilities, if the flag  of a “Fair Go” is to continue to fly high and proud over this nation.

Harin Corea

1^st February, 2012

Melbourne, Australia.

What's in a Name? - Minor Peccadilloes of an Occidental Immigrant

I admit it. I have a funny name. It is something I have learned to endure and live with from my early childhood. My parents claimed not to see anything funny about it, whenever I’ve accused them of cruelty to their offspring. But then, my father comes from a family of siblings with names like Placidus, Amyntus, Felicitus, Justus, (by then my grandparents were running out of inspiration) Quintus and Sextus. If my grandparents had had more children, no doubt the seventh would have been Septimus, the eighth, Octavia (a girl, say) and the ninth would have been a Nonymus! On top of running through the early Roman Emperors and their assigns, my grandparents also scattered, gems like “Ciprion”, “Kingston”, “Mary” (for a boy), and “Elgin” on their offspring. My mother, on the other hand, hails from a family which boasts of “Scholastica”s, “Petronella”s, and “Philomena’”s with even a Sosimus and a Frumentious! So what hope for me? I was doomed from the start!

Fortunately for me, a kind-hearted neighbour had suggested a more sensible name which was included into my given names – Harindra. This was the name which I used for many years, quite happily abbreviated to Harin. The name given by my parents was always carefully concealed behind initials. In formal situations I was E. J. H. Corea. Occasionally, my cover would be blown and school friends, cousins and others would suddenly discover that my ‘E’ stood for ‘Eusebius’! I’ll never forget (and rue) the day the certificate of a scholarship exam, which I had happened to pass, was awarded at school assembly! The Sinhala-speaking teacher who read out the name on the certificate screeched out over the P.A. system; “EE-you-she-be-us Joe-Shup Hareen-dra Corea!” and I walked up, head hanging in shame, stripped naked in nomenclature in front of nearly two thousand schoolmates who were overcome by – first - astonishment and then mirth! I wished I had never passed that wretched exam!

A casual remark by an eighth grade Social Studies teacher during a class on the Portugese occupation of Sri Lanka (five centuries ago), made my surname a problem, too, at school. Corea was an unheard of name at the time in Kandy and I was already treated with some degree of suspicion, as a result, by the sons of the Banda’s and Nayakkar’s who happened to be my classmates. But after that particular Social Studies class, I was branded forever as a Portuguese collaborator (even though the last Portugese had left our shores around four centuries before I was born)! Never mind the assorted “Perera”s, “Fernando”s and “Silva”s who fell out of any casual dust bin one happened to shake at school - it was us “Corea”s who were the Portuguese! I suspect there are still a few of my classmates who believe that I am of Portugese origin!

But I always drew solace from “Harindra” and “Harin”. I liked it and grew to love it. And then I went overseas! At first, it was in the United States. As an exchange student in senior year in an upstate New York school, nobody could pronounce “Harin”. I was alternately called “H”, “Harry”, “HARR-din”, “Ha REEEN” and other variations to the theme, which was crowned by the Physics teacher, who called me “Irene”! Finally, I settled for a friendly “Abdul” given to me by my team-mates on the soccer team (this was before 9/11).

Things became a bit precarious when it came to filling in forms, though. Every form in the US has room for “First Name, Middle Initial and Last Name” - all Americans having only three names. But I had four, and my “first name” wasn’t my real first name! Furthermore, I didn’t have a “middle” initial! I experimented awhile with Harindra J Corea and Harindra E Corea and where the form demanded the full middle name, Harindra Ej Corea. Finally a kind lady at the NY state licensing authority solved my problem permanently by declaring me to be “EJ Harindra Corea” and that’s what was printed on my driver’s license. I’ll never forget the stunned perplexity of a Wyoming County Sheriff, who happened to stop me for speeding one day. He wanted to be polite, and address me by my name, but he couldn’t figure out how to pronounce any of them! After “humming” and “hawing” for a while, he finally drawled “Way-yell EE-jaay, Ah jes’ heyappenned to scray- yep a dee- yah off the haghwaay a whahl baayeck an Ah sho’ doan wanna hav’ ta scray-yep Yee-oo orffit, son, so yee-oo betta slo daaawun!”

Later on, in the UK, my name was rarely a problem. In a country where a post-marked envelope - with your name on it - in your pocket was considered sufficient proof of your identity and address, and names like Worthington, Wilberforce and Wigginbottom were commonplace, my name/s were accepted without question.

Then came Australia, where I migrated with my family a few short years ago. At the bank, it was a Pakistani lady from Lahore, who was not fussed at all. She issued me cheque books, cards etc., declaring me to be Harindra Corea. At my sons’ Primary School, again, no problem – I was simply Harin Corea. And then I went to get my Australian driver’s license! Apparently the system demanded that my names be entered in the exact manner and sequence in which they are written in my passport.However, there is space only for two names and a last name. So the woman behind the counter entered (God Forbid!) – Eusebius Joseph Corea! I protested, cajoled and appealed, explaining passionately that I have always gone as Harindra Corea and that’s how I’ve been identified all my life, etc. etc. I even asked her to enter Joseph Harindra Corea (still the same sequence, I pointed out!) but she was adamant. If I wanted to change my name, I’ll just have to go and get a deed poll to that effect, said she. I protested that I didn’t want to change my name,that it had always been Harindra Corea since the day I was born, and it was she who was changing it! But it was to no avail. My driver’s license, which is my primary source of identification in Australia, declares me to be Eusebius J Corea! This complicates matters more than a little. The other documents I normally carry with me - credit cards, bank cards, cheque book have neither Eusebius nor the initials E or J on them. And, now, my driver’s licence, doesn’t have a trace of Harindra, Harin or even an ‘H’ on it! When I pointed this out to the dragon behind the counter at Vicroads, she just shrugged and said, she couldn’t help it - it was my name, after all.

Recently, I noticed an ad on the telly, run by the Australian Federal Police, asking people to report “suspicious” activities and behaviour. Among other things, it showed a checkout chick at the supermarket calling up to report that she had noticed a customers name on his credit card didn’t match the one on his driver’s license!

My one consolation, I suppose, is that when they eventually do come for me, they wouldn’t be able to figure out what name/s to put on the charge sheet..! Or, maybe I should take that deed poll after all, and change my name to "Ex Harindra Corea"!