The Cluster Bombs in Sri Lanka's Paradise

Ah! They have found some cluster bombs in Paradise and no one is responsible. No surprises here. Naturally the army will blame the rebel Tigers but hey, the rebel Tigers are dead so they cannot answer for themselves.
The consequences of Sri Lanka's war live on and on untended while its children are maimed and destroyed. Young limbs, young minds, what amounts to the future itself, destroyed in a moment by those with power in their hands. While the world continues to sunbathe on the island's sunlit beaches.

Years ago, as a child living in London, listening to the arguments going on around me, I used to hate the fact that I was Sri Lankan. I understood perfectly, even then, exactly what was happening in that dreadful country. Wasn't it simple? Some Tamils, discriminated against for years, wrongly, resorted to violence in order to get their voices heard.
Thereby playing into the hands of majority rule.
For in those days the majority of Sinhalese hated the Tamils people without quite knowing why.
The words to describe this, as every child of ten knew, were, Prejudice and Discrimination.
From then onwards this Discrimination and Violence stalked the streets as government after government began to push the Tamils back from the capital up towards the north of this beautiful island.
The Dog that came to represent the Tamil people, got itself a bad name with which to hang itself, and Hey Presto! majority rule had the upper hand. Or to put it another way, the right to kill as many Tamils as possible in the name of anti-terrorism. It mattered not that many of these Tamils were innocent civilians. Who cared about the details. All is fair in love and war. Isn't it? So that, as the lorryloads of white paint arrived at the capital to wash down its bloodstained, bullet marked walls, the phrase on the lips of  everyone was:
'But the Tigers are terrorists, don't you know...'
Yes, and the people who govern the country are murderers.

*

And murder, as the world knows, will out. Eventually.
So that in spite of The Great Whitewashing Programme other images are seeping and oozing out of the cesspit. Images that will not go away.
Of the dead,
The maimed,
The innocent,
The disappeared.
Children whose faces stare out from eternity pleading for recognition.
The truth remains that every single time a tourist visits the world's 'Number One Holiday Destination', every time the uninitiated say that things are fine in Sri Lanka, the abuse, rape, murder and torture in that place is being endorsed.

Two children were killed last month. What were they doing? Trying to collect scrap metal to sell. Unaware they were touching an explosive device. Thus has innocence always been destroyed by grown men.

We in the West must remember that the real cost to life cannot be counted immediately after a war ends, but several generations later. Sri Lanka and its people, one hopes, will one day understand this, too.

On June 15th Roma Tearne will be screening her film Letter From Urbino at The National Gallery, London. The trailer is here.


Trailer - Letter from Urbino

 * Image taken from the Guardian.

Letter From Urbino.3. The Trailer.

'Right,' said Conrad. 'It's up and running.'
'Really? Have you checked the spelling?'
That's your job,' he said.
So I did. Check the spelling.
And here it is..

 

Letter From Urbino. 2. In Which Robert Mountford enters the underworld of Fine Art Film and Joe Birch finds a Killer Ventilator

'Sandwiches,' Conrad says. 'That's what we need tomorrow. We won't have time to mess about.'
Right.
Just when I was planning on messing about...
'M & S,' Conrad says. 'You'll get sandwiches there.'
Right.
'And don't forget to get me the revised script.'
Right.
I walk home laden with worries.
Had I remembered to save the revised version of the script?
What if I hadn't?
What if I'd given Rob the wrong version.
Version 1 instead of 2?
What if he isn't any good?
What sort of sandwiches should I get?
On the way I meet my friend Lucinda's cat. He's strayed far from home.
'Hello Sammy,' I say. 'You and me both.'
Sammy doesn't seem interested. With an acknowledged flick of his left ear he disappears across the now deserted street.

I was on my own. With a film that may or may not come together tomorrow.

There are fifty-two sandwiches.
How many are you expecting?' Conrad asks but then Rob arrives.
We show him the skeleton film, work in progress, sort of. It's a very rough cut, we tell him, hoping he understands. But Rob has done his homework and gets it immediately; the script, the uncut visuals, the fragments of music, my hopes... Conrad and I glance at each other. So far, so good. Conrad adjusts the mic.
Rob spreads his script around him.
I hold my breath.
We begin recording.
In all we do only three takes and Rob is fantastic. Light and shade in his voice, colour in his phrasing. Later on, when we add the music and the wild track, his voice will fit perfectly with the rhythm of the sounds. But he is not to know that now as he reads from the script, his voice pouring into the silence of the studio; filling the room, rising and falling, unveiling the story, giving meaning to the images. Conrad and I look at each other. Yes! we mouth. Yes!
('What do you expect, darling,' Alison says later. 'He's a pro!')
It is an invisible triumph for the three of us, like all the other secret and memorable moments, embedded forever in the making of a film. We will never be able to watch it without remembering. That is the joy of filmmaking, I think. Why I put myself through it, again and again. Like a meal, this sharing. A pleasure not just for one person.
'Better start eating the sandwiches, then,' Conrad says.
But I know from the look on his face he's pleased.

A few days later Joe, our sound man arrives with some of the wild track.
'I've got the ventilator,' he announces. 'And the hospital trolley.'
Conrad who is knitting voice to image looks up.
'Oh yes? I hope they weren't in use at the time?'
Joe's ventilator turns out to be amazing. Just the job for our ruined hospital. Although, listening to it, I wonder about its effectiveness in real life....
'You did say you wanted a 1940s ventilator,' Joe grins.
He has recently returned from filming in Greece and we have one last question for him.
Do cicadas in Greece sound the same as Italian ones?
'I'll look it up,' Joe says, meticulous.
And off he goes stealing my bag of jelly babies...

Now comes the hard bit.
Voice.
Wild track.
Music.

All together, locked in with the images? Will we do it?
'We're going to have to,' Conrad says, sternly.
He sounds like the dentist. Pulling teeth...

Coming soon...our first trailer...