A man feared and admired - still a source of inspiration

Excerpts of the E.C. Gunasekera Inaugural Memorial Oration 2000 by Attorney-at-Law Lalanath de Silva on June 29 at Navarangahala 

If I were asked to pick out one personality from my days at Royal College — I would have no hesitation in naming Mr. E. C. Gunasekera. We all called him "Kataya" (behind his back of course). So did all those who went before and after us! How and why that nickname came to be coined for him is a great mystery. 

My earliest recollections of him are dark and foreboding — a thin tall man with a cane who walked round the school using it freely on those who fell short of his expectations. A man with a fiery straight face and peering, piercing eyes a quick gait and alert ears agile and commanding. Each class he passed was filled with beaver-like, frightened and worried looking students. 

Unfortunately, most students perhaps left the college with that impression and years later moulded themselves likewise — never really having seen the man beneath the rough exterior. Others looked upon his corporal punishment gratefully, acknowledging that they were the better for it. For a few, the hatred and dark impressions never left their hearts.

But then, I asked myself, why is it that old boys of the College have gathered together to commemorate Mr. E. C. Gunasekera. Obviously, there was something special in the man and a multitude of old boys seem to recognise this fact. 

l have a deep respect for the man. He was honest, hard working, forthright, courageous, disciplined and to quote from Shakespeare's Othello, full of "the milk of human kindness". In these aspects he resembled my father and I had a great admiration for him. I had the privilege of experiencing his kindness first as a student and then as a Prefect.

My earliest recollections of Mr. Gunasekera were negative. I received two strokes on my posterior with his cane for failing to name my fellow students who had shouted "Kataya" as he passed. The whole class of 40 stood on our chairs as he went round caning each student, one by one. The student in front of me had long hair. After caning him, he was asked why he had not cut it short. With great trepidation my friend lifted the lock of hair on his left side and showed Mr. Gunasekera a deformed ear that was well hidden by the long hair. Mr. Gunasekera's embarrassment was manifest — he left the boy alone and moved on with his task. Long hair may be justified but failure to bear testimony against offenders and harbouring them was unforgivable .

My own impressions began to change when I was in the tenth grade preparing to sit my "O" levels. The school bell had corroded and fallen off its post! The substitute bell could hardly be heard around the school — certainly not in my class located near the pool. We all followed "the herd" when school closed — the underlying assumption being that someone at the head must surely have heard the bell. One such day as I scurried down the corridor with a dozen other boys dreaming of lunch at home, we were stopped in our tracks by a familiar voice. "Get back here and stand at the back of the class." Mr. Gunasekera had ventured into a class where the teacher was absent and was taking one of his improvised lessons when we had run past it!

My mind was on the punishment that would ensue — for it had then struck me that the bell had not yet been rung! Soon the bell rang and the class was dismissed. Cane in hand he approached. "Why did you run away before school was over?" he asked the first in line. The boy received two strokes for responding with silence. Two others followed suit. I was the fourth in line. When questioned, I summoned up all my courage and said, " Sir, I cannot hear the new bell in my class — I left since all the others did — I actually thought school was over — I am sorry." I closed my eyes and braced myself for the sting. It never came and instead I heard his voice. "All right," it said, "that's a good explanation .... you can go!" I did not wait to see what happened to the others. 

For the first time it dawned on me that one could actually defend one's actions with Mr. Gunasekera and that he was prepared to consider it and accept it if reasonable. He did ask me my name on that occasion and never ever forgot it during the rest of my stay in school or thereafter. I had two further experiences with him while I was a Prefect. 

The first occurred within a couple of months of my appointment as a Prefect. Our Head Prefect had decreed that the inner room attached to the Prefects' room was sacrosanct and that it was only for the "senior" Prefects. All complied for awhile, but soon a few of us led a rebellion and "nationalized" the inner room entering and - remaining within it and putting up a poster to that effect! Our Head Prefect was horrified but calmly summoned an emergency Prefects' meeting. What we did not know was that he had arranged with Mr. Gunasekera to grace the occasion half way through the meeting.

The meeting commenced and proceeded with fiery force. Suddenly there was a knock on the door — someone opened it angrily — and in the doorway was a stern looking Mr. Gunasekera.

Mr. Gunasekera's presence was unexpected and it became clear to me that it had been carefully "arranged". Something had to be done to counter this move — some show of resistance to this act was called for. Again, I took courage and rose to a point of order. "Mr. Chairman," I said, "I would like to know who is chairing this meeting, is it you or is it our Vice-Principal?" There was a deathly silence — I seemed to be guilty of heresy. The Head Prefect conferred briefly with Mr. Gunasekera and responded. "I am presiding at this meeting," he said, "but Mr. Gunasekera can intervene at any time as the Vice-Principal. "I stood my ground. The fat was in the fire and there was no turning back. Two others joined my motion. "Sir," I said, "There cannot be two chairmen at a meeting — the rules of meetings that I know don't allow this - I must know who presides at this meeting." The response of the Head Prefect was the same.

Mr. Gunasekera was growing impatient and then suddenly tapped the table with force. "Stand up, de Silva, stand up....... all of you have challenged my authority and you will withdraw what you said and apologise," he thundered. My colleague who seconded my point of order followed the prudent course and tendered amends. He was warned never to repeat the offence. I was the last in line - I reconciled myself for expulsion or suspension and said, "Sir, I refuse to apologise — I have committed no wrong." 

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Gunasekera. "Sir, the reason I raised this point of order is because I believe that it is the duty of the Head Prefect to vacate the chair in deference to you and to invite you to preside at this meeting." 

"The rules of meetings call for one presiding officer Sir, and when you are present at a Prefects' meeting it is you, and you alone who must preside."

There was a painful silence as Mr. Gunasekera contemplated my answer — he never took his eyes off me all that while. I stood frozen expecting the worst. Finally he said, "de Silva, knowing the constitutional pundit that you are, I will accept your explanation. I am presiding over this meeting from now."

I sat down in a cold sweat, relieved. The meeting continued and we were duly chided for our rebellion, but the inner room was opened to all and we ended up with tea at Mr. Gunasekera's expense! 

The final incident I wish to share with you was at the end of my tenure as a Prefect and on the eve of my leaving school. I was full of the nationalist spirit. I asked Mr. Gunasekera if I could stand for the photograph in national dress. He declined saying that the Prefects' uniform was white coat, college tie and white trousers. A rule was a rule and must be complied with. I went back to the Prefects' room and did some research. On the wall was an earlier Prefects' photograph with Philip Gunawardene or one of his sons in national dress. I was elated that I had found a precedent that I could cite in my favour. I thought that Mr. Gunasekera's commendation of my premature knowledge of the law would hold well again. I took the photograph off the wall and evidence in hand met Mr. Gunasekera in his office. "Sir," I said, "I have found a precedent for the national dress in the Prefects' photograph — Should I not have the benefit of that precedent?" He took the photograph from me and looked at it carefully with a smile. "You never give up do you?" he said. Then after thinking awhile, "de Silva, a precedent remains a precedent, it never becomes the rule," he said declining my request.

I was disappointed and disagreed with his decision. I asked for permission to appeal to the Principal Mr. L. D. H. Peiris. Mr. Gunasekera said, "Yes you may appeal to the Principal, he is my head and can overrule me." So I went to the Principal and made my request to him informing him honestly that Mr. Gunasekera had refused it. Mr. Peiris looked at me curiously and in his deep voice said, "No . . . no . . . you cannot come in national dress." I then asked the Principal if he would allow me to stand out of the photograph altogether if I could not wear the national dress. He permitted me to do so. 

In all of these experiences, Mr. Gunasekera appeared to me as a person willing to give a fair hearing and ready to be convinced on a matter with which he had disagreed. On many occasions he revealed a kind-hearted personality, full of simplicity and honesty. On many occasions I have spent time discussing controversial issues with him in his office. Every time I came out edified by the discussion and often educated as well. When I left Royal College in 1978 and joined the Law College, he had given me the confidence I needed to study the law. Although my desire was to become a professional musician, he had advised me to follow a career in law.

Given my experience with Mr. Gunasekera, I would like to use the rest of this oration to raise some current social issues with you - issues which I am sure would have been the subject of discussion with Mr. Gunasekera had we been in college now. Over the past two decades, our nation has been in a state of war. Since 1971, from the time I was an adolescent, this nation has been governed under emergency regulations most of the time. 

I have also experienced the great fear and anxiety that comes from having a parent in a public service that requires risk to life and limb. My generation and those that came after, are children of violence and war. What is our hope and what is our future? 

We were often taught in school about the greatness of the civilisation of our forefathers — the great irrigation based civilisations of Ruhuna, and Raja Rata. When we look at these civilisations and the great Veheras and tank systems built by our ancestors over two millenia ago we marvel at their achievements. However, when I look today at our society and our people, I wonder whether it was people like us who created these wonders? Were they different? History teaches us that such civilisations were built in situations where society could be organised and disciplined. Often there was a natural catalyst like scarce water resources. If that were so, were our forefathers far more disciplined and organised than we are? If not, why do we not have great achievements to show in our own time — achievements that we can claim as our own - achievements that are indigenous and not with foreign support - achievements that are "great", in the same tenor, as those of our ancient forefathers ?

In the middle of the last century Sri Lanka had a higher Gross National Product than Singapore. We were seen as a "model developing nation." Today we have been reduced to a nation at war with its own people Most of its victims are innocent civilians who crave to live a normal life with security and hope for their children. We cannot also forget the lives lost on both sides and the legion of differently-abled persons that the war produces — all of them an ensuing responsibility and added cost to society. Yet there are those who preach the gospel of ethnicity.

As a person associated with the performing arts, I have witnessed the rising tide of dramatic and other creations that seek to mirror our society and through this art raise issues of conscience. Several films have been made that have the same objective. Political and social groups have been mobilising with a call for peace. Despite these efforts the tide has not yet changed. The peace lobby has not yet gathered the force that is required to force an end to this war. 

Yet we all know that if we do not achieve peace quickly, this nation's chances of rising from the ashes will recede into darkness. It is only we as a people who can resolve to stop this violence and bloodshed and enter into an acceptable and visionary political solution.

Recently, we lost a great soldier and a great gentleman — both old Royalists — Major General Percy Fernando and Hon. C. V. Goonaratne. Royal, like other schools has sacrificed many young men in this war. Each such sacrifice brings with it a catastrophe — widows and orphaned children. The tales of this war are never ending - of dead lovers and husbands and children and fathers — of maimed men having to be rehabilitated - of women and children killed in retaliation or crossfire. How many more must die before we say "enough is enough". That thought-provoking lyric by Bob Dylan, so relevant to our times, comes to my mind. I quote-

"How many times must the canon balls fire,
Before they are forever banned?
How many years must one person have, 
Before he can hear people cry?
And how many deaths will it take still to know, 
That too many people have died?"

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