Appreciations
View(s):20 Years without Yvonne
The final photo of Yvonne, taken in June 2005 - just days before she was murdered.
YVONNE JONSSON
It’s been just over 20 years since my sister Yvonne was murdered.
Even now, writing that sentence doesn’t feel real.
She was only 19. Full of life. Full of plans. And then, in one night, everything changed.
People say time heals, but I’ve learned that’s not always true. The pain doesn’t go away, it just becomes a part of your everyday life. You learn to carry it differently. But some days, it’s still too heavy. Especially this week.
Yvonne’s memory is everywhere. In songs she loved, in the scent of her favorite perfume, in the laugh I hear in my own daughter that sounds just like hers. I still reach for her sometimes, in thought. I still feel her with me. And I still find myself imagining who she would’ve become if her life hadn’t been taken.
One of the last photos I have of her was taken just days before she died, on our last holiday in London. She’s smiling, carefree, caught in a moment she didn’t know would be one of her last. I look at it often, trying to hold onto what we had – and what we lost.
We used to leave each other notes – funny ones, kind ones, quiet reassurances when one of us was upset. I still have one of hers. And the night she died, I left one for her too. I stuck it to the side entrance door she always used to come in – mere metres from where she was intercepted – asking her to wake me when she got home. I often wonder if she ever saw it.
Over the past two decades, our family has fought hard for justice. That fight has been long, painful, and full of setbacks – done by a single signature that let the man responsible walk free. Yet, it hasn’t been all loss. Thanks to the relentless dedication of the hardworking lawyers and judges, the powerful petition led by Women’s Media, and the overwhelming support from the public, we have achieved important victories along the way. However, he remains in hiding, has yet to face justice, and peace feels as distant as ever.
If there’s anyone I wish could read this, it’s the person who signed that release – or whatever minimal gesture it took. I wonder if they’ve ever truly understood the weight of that decision – the lives it shattered, the message it sent, and the wounds it reopened.
Now, however, we must remember Yvonne – not just as a victim of a horrific crime, but as the bright, brave, funny, and kind-hearted girl we loved. A sister. A daughter. A friend.
We’ll keep telling her story. We’ll keep asking for justice. And we’ll keep holding onto her light – a glowing reminder of all she was, and all she still means to us, 20 years on.
-Caroline Jonsson
An epitome of unwavering dedication to public service
BRADMAN WEERAKOON
The departure of Bradman Weerakoon leaves a vacuum that cannot be filled. His loss is not mourned only by his family, relatives, or friends but by the entire country.
There are 1.5 million public servants in the country. Bradman was always the pinnacle and was among the most respected of them all. His demise marks the end of an era.
He was a man for all seasons. Caste, creed, race, status, and place were never in the vocabulary of Bradman Weerakoon. Whatever he was, whoever he was with, he was ready to serve. It may be the head of the state, or it may be the poorest of the poor, Bradman was always available and accessible. He was ready to hear, ready to see, and ready to redress any problem. He leaves behind a legacy of integrity, intellect, and unwavering dedication to public service.
He served nine heads of state (Prime Ministers and Presidents). Their characters, intentions, ideologies and political affiliations were far apart. But Bradman was the man they all wanted. None of them ever fell out with him. If a Head of state, a Minister, or a fellow public servant faced a difficult situation, the last resort was Bradman. He was always ready with the solution and his never-fading friendly smile.
I was at the funeral parlour on Wednesday to join other mourners. I met a retired senior official. He told me of the time he was appointed to succeed Bradman as the Secretary to the Prime Minister. He had been in primary school at the time Bradman joined the civil service in 1954. When he heard who his predecessor was, his heart stopped. He read the letter of appointment and said to himself, ‘My God.’
Then his desk telephone rang. He lifted the receiver with shivering hands. A voice came through the line: ‘Hello, this is Bradman’. He almost fainted. He was expecting thunder. But the voice was so calm and soft. It said Hello …….(addressed by his first name)! “Congratulations. When will you take over from me? I have prepared a six-page note comprehensively explaining what we have done and not done, and what’s pending. My secretary has prepared a schedule of documents. I presume that’s fine with you.”
He could not believe his ears. The next morning, he went to assume duties. Who was at the entrance, but Bradman himself. Warm hands held his hands and chaperoned him to the new office. Bradman had immediately called a meeting of the entire staff and introduced him as his successor, wished him and collected his little bag and left the office in his own car.
This episode speaks volumes of the character of the great man.
Bradman was born during the colonial period, educated in schools established by colonials. His higher education was at the University of Ceylon, and he joined the civil service introduced by colonial rule. But Bradman remained the same Kalutara boy born on October 20, 1930 till his demise on July 7, 2025. His personality was such that he could stand erect in any storm.
October 20, 1930 brought two Bradmans to Sri Lanka. One was brought by Edmund R. Weerakoon and his wife. That was Bradman Weerakoon. The other was brought on board a ship sailing from Australia. That was Don Bradman, the legendary Australian cricketer. The Weerakoon parents named their son after the legendary cricketer. They would have wished but never would have dreamt that their Bradman was going to be a legend of legends.
We were fortunate to be groomed and blessed by this legend. Whether we did a thing right or wrong, he had some advice for us to improve. He encouraged us to forget our hardships and think of the hardships of others. We would go to see him with a bagful of problems and return with an empty bag. He had a solution to any kind of problem for anybody.
Today, we live in a society where ethics, manners, and honesty are disappearing. These were the virtues Bradman Weerakoon always had and promoted. We were blessed by his presence, spirit, advice and exemplary life. We are lost today.
We bless you with a happy stay with God!
Chandrasena Maliyadde
She lived a life of love and faithful witness
HOPE R. EDWARD
Hope R. Edward is now in heaven, and we were privileged to call her our aunty. She is enjoying her well-deserved rest, surely delighting in conversations with Jesus, reunited with the saints, her father, mother, sisters, brothers, friends, and all those who journeyed ahead of her. This is what she believed – and what she lovingly taught us, as our beloved Sunday School teacher.
For all the nieces and nephews, Hope Aunty was like a second mother. And in her role as our Sunday School teacher, she made Bible stories come alive. She loved singing praises to her Lord and Saviour. She taught us how to sing and enjoy our singing time, how to pray, and do so many other things in between.
She poured herself into our lives and the lives of many others, including her siblings Lily, Daisy, Mercy, David, John, Vernon and James. She lived an extraordinary life – one of love and faithful witness. She was indeed a lovely and beautiful aunty to all of us, generously investing her time, resources and constant prayers.
By profession, she was a teacher who loved her students and gave them her very best. Whenever I happen to meet her former students or Girl Guides associates in the most unlikely places, they often ask if I’m related to Hope Edward. And when I say yes, their faces light up as they begin sharing stories of how she blessed and impacted their lives.
Hope Aunty lived up to her name. Wherever she went, she was a carrier of hope – she brought hope into hearts and homes, even into hopeless situations. Though she was a teacher by profession, I believe her deepest calling, her truest vocation, was that of a priest. In her inner being, she was a priest to the core – first to the Edward family, and then to all whom she met. As a true priest, she covered us in her prayers daily and she brought light where there was darkness, love where there was silence, and hope and joy where there was mourning.
In her old age, Hope Aunty may have forgotten or struggled to recognize the faces of people, but whenever we visited and sang with her, she remembered every hymn by heart. As the Scriptures say, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my Words will never pass away.” In the later years, it was His Word that upheld her.
Our heartfelt thanks to all who cared for Hope Aunty and surrounded her with love and affection during her twilight years. We are also deeply grateful to the church family and friends who gave her a fitting farewell and laid her to rest on July 6, 2025. Hope Aunty lived a full life, marked by God’s unwavering faithfulness as her Shepherd for 95 remarkable years.
In Hope Aunty’s life, God, His Word and her conscience always came first. She lived by the principles and values of “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” and “Love your neighbour as yourself”.
Let us live by the values that defined her – hope, faith, compassion, grace, and love. Until we meet again in heaven, dearest Hope Aunty, goodbye and a heartfelt thank you for all that you did and taught us on this earth. We love you deeply, and may your vision, mission, and legacy continue to live on in our hearts forever.
Timothy A. Edward
He never allowed himself to be trapped by middle class snobbery
AINSLIE JOSEPH
With apologies to the Bard, I come to bury my father, not to praise him. I’ve heard it said that a boy only truly becomes a man once he buries his father. I don’t know if I ever can.
My father predicted once that I will have something to say at his burial. Maybe he did too, when his father died. Maybe he too, like me, wondered whether to share those words with the world, or keep rehearsing them forever in his mind. After all, we have both been scripted the common role of playing the second son.
Please permit me to speak about the flawed father that I saw with my eyes. Dada, I would like to tell you what I thought of you, one last time. This angry young man from a small garden or “thoattam” in Kotahena, grew up in the grand old patriarchy of post-independent, post-colonial Sri Lanka. The white man had left, but not his paw prints on our social fabric, which claw us to date. The world you see when you come from the less pretty part of town, is a different one. Snubbed by the snobs, he refused to let social class dictate his social capital.
The last two days have been a living testament to this.
Many of you know him as a devout Catholic, who tried to foster interfaith interactions through his social work with the Anglican and Methodist churches. But to me, I have rarely seen someone more Buddhist, for he lacked all the material desires that plague most of us. Clothes, cars, houses and common creature comforts, did not impress him. While many fathers would be proud of their children’s material achievements and acquisitions, I daresay he wasn’t.
What do you give a man who wants nothing? In fact, when my mother found him lying on the floor that fateful morning, she assumed he was merely sleeping there, as he had done all his life. His leftist leanings come from a suppressed social class struggle. Like many of his generation who allowed themselves to be wooed by Wijeweera, he lived to see the revolution lead the people to the promised land. But this is not the Bible, Dada. God is not a communist.
To the outside world, he cleverly camouflaged his contempt for Colombo’s perennial colonial hangover. His heroes were battle-hardened trade unionists like Bala Tampoe, Cambridge educated anti-capitalists like Peter Keuneman from Kotahena and a man from Galilee who rebelled against the House of God being turned into a den of thieves. He was against wielding the Queen’s English as a social qualification to be a snob.
His singular achievement in life, in my opinion, was that he did not allow himself to be trapped by the middle class narrative of “rags to riches”. Although he hardly ever had a penny to his name, the social capital he has acquired is priceless.
I would like to bury my father with these words:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate.
(Eulogy by his son Ralston Joseph on July 5, Borella Kanatte)
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