The Activist
Dominic Jeeva
Poet and writer Dominic Jeeva reflects on growing up under Jaffna’s caste system and explains why, despite its many injustices, he still proudly calls himself a Jaffna man.
I took a three-wheeler with my friend Shaseevan to Kotahena, on the fringes of Colombo. I was going to meet one of Sri Lanka’s original activists, Dominic Jeeva. On the way we passed Hindu temples and shops selling Jaffna wares. For a moment it felt like being back in Jaffna.
We arrived at Sri Kathiresan Street, where Mr Jeeva’s small office was located, directly across from a barber shop called Saloon de Shakthi. Knowing about his anti-caste activism, I couldn’t help wondering if this location was deliberate. Mr Jeeva himself comes from the barber caste — one of the lowest rungs in Jaffna’s caste hierarchy — and he still maintains a barber shop in Jaffna.
He had rejected a formal education system that had little interest in educating someone expected to follow his father’s trade. Instead he educated himself, reading magazines and pamphlets from India. In time he began writing and speaking out for the rights of oppressed communities in Jaffna.
Books of poetry and short stories he had written or published through his press, Mallikai Pandhal — the “Jasmine Shed” — were piled high around the tiny office. A photograph of Mr Jeeva with the president hung above his desk. Trophies and certificates filled the shelves and walls. Every inch of space in the dark room was used.
I regretted that my Tamil was not strong enough to read his books, but hoped the interview would help me understand this remarkable man.
Mr Jeeva spoke about growing up with caste, about forbidden love and the limits placed on his life, and about his passion for writing. He was a natural storyteller, acting out moments from his life with sweeping gestures.
Unlike others I had interviewed on the subject of caste, I felt able to ask Mr Jeeva direct questions about what it meant to be treated differently simply because of the family he was born into. I also asked him about the widely held belief that caste discrimination was slowly disappearing.
His answers opened a window onto another world — one far removed from my own privileged Jaffna upbringing.
My final question was simple: after all these experiences, what did he feel about his hometown?
Mr Jeeva’s wrinkled face softened and he smiled.
“Naan Yaalpanathaan,” he said proudly.
“I am a Jaffna man.”
We left him as we had found him, reading quietly by the window.
Colombo
November 27, 2010
Transcript and translations
Language
Subjects discussed
This wounded me so much. I still feel it.
My father had a barbershop in Jaffna, the ‘Joseph Saloon’. From Jaffna society’s point of view, we are from one of the five lowest castes. The so-called highest caste never accepted us.
In those days, if I had studied well, I might have ended up being a clerk in Colombo. But you couldn’t go beyond that level. I was smart at school.
Once, the teacher was doing some sums on the blackboard. I thought that he’d got one sum wrong, but I was too scared to say. But I couldn’t bear it anymore, and so I told him: “Sir, this sum is wrong.” The students laughed. The teacher couldn’t take it. He called me over. He placed the chalk in my hand and asked me to do the sum. So I did.
But he couldn’t handle it. He threw the chalk at my face, “Why don’t you go and shave someone instead of hacking at our necks!”
This wounded me so much. I still feel it. I told myself I wouldn’t study. Not for these dictators.
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