Unbowed and Unafraid

"Unabowed and Unafraid", that's the scrolling message you see across the screen when you read the Sunday Leader online, and that is the motto of the journalists serving the Sunday Leader, a paper in Sri Lanka. Many are mourning the death of it's courageous editor-in-chief, Wickrematunge, who dared to report and investigate before he was gunned down. It is not easy being an investigative journalist in Sri Lanka, a country known for the number of crimes committed against journalists and for the lack of media freedom. The gunmen did not succeed in silencing him, as critics and media freedom champions stood up against the act. Look at how his funeral procession was turned into a major street protest. But, the deaths of journalists remain an unresolved issue in Sri Lanka. To state the truth, sometimes the sword or in this case, the gun, overwhelms the power of the pen.

A link to the widely read article, which is kind of like his own premonition of his death http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jan/13/wickrematunga-final-editorial-final-editorial

And here is something written by his niece:

"My uncle died for writing the truth"

My earliest memory of him is his ruffling our hair. My sister and I would shriek, "Don't touch the hair!" He would only laugh and tousle it all the more. If I had to describe my uncle in one word, I would say "mischievous!" Uncle Lasantha loved pranks and jokesof any sort. I rarely saw him without a smile on his face. He always seemed, to me at least, to be bursting with energy.

Twenty one years ago, when I was born, he asked my parents what they had decided to name me. "Hmmm.. Raisa," he mused, "It's a nice name... Only thing, be sure she doesn't marry a Soysa." "Why?" asked my bemused parents. "Well, then she would be Raisa Soysa!" he laughed. He has been making that joke ever since.

"Raisa Soysaaaaaaaaa!!" he would yell upon seeing me, whereupon he would relate the joke to any confused bystanders. Being in a public place never seemed to affect the loudness of his voice, a trait which I seem to have inherited.

The problem with my uncle was that he made jokes so often that I was often unsure as to whether he was serious about something or not. I remember clearly one time I was in Hikkaduwa with a large group of friends, when my cellphone rang. "Here, I'm also in Hikkaduwa! What are you doing here men? And who are all those boys?" he queried.

At the time, I actually was standing with a bunch of friends, so I spun around wildly searching for him. "Where are you?" I asked. Dead silence on the other end, then "Straight ahead, look, can't you see me?" It was only then that I realised he was, as always, pulling my leg.

Another time I was making Japanese food for a certain boy, and he called yet again, "I'm outside your house. I've come to have sushi with you!" This despite the fact I knew full well he was at a dance with my parents, and I could hear the music in the background. "No no, that's the car radio," he said, and made me come downstairs to open the door for him before he finally admitted that he was joking.

Heloved to do this whenevera boy came over, claiming he was outsidethe house, then askingmock innocently, "Who's with you now?"In fact, it was in respect to boys that I realised just how good an investigative journalist he really was. All he needed was a last name, and instantlyhe would be on the phone to relatives finding out everything about him, from favourite subjects and sports, to "Is he a good looking fellow?"

Sometimes he would grab our phone and call up the boy. A typical conversation once went - "Hello, I'm Raisa's uncle, and I hear you're constantly messaging her. I want to know why!" We would shriek with laughter, while the boy on the other end would stutter nervously and wonder what he'd got himself in for!

A couple of summers I worked for the paper, and I noticed how he went out of his way to laugh and joke with everyone, from the drivers to reporters and accountants. Rushing through like a whirlwind, cellphone permanently attached, he nevertheless would stop to greet everyone and see what they were up to. More often than not he'd sneak a few bites whenever I brought my lunch with me.Before my first day at workhe informedme, with mock solemnity "You'd better know how to make a good cup of tea. It'll be an important part of your job!"

One day as I was on the way to work an unexploded bomb was found and I had to detour. After ascertaining that I was alright, he said, "All this doesn't change the fact that you're late to work!"

His random comments and jokes always made me giggle. Despite the pressures of his job and the threats often made to him, he appeared to me to be absolutely fearless. I remember my best friend calling me up the day there was news the powers-that-be wanted him arrested. "Is your uncle alright?" "Oh he's fine, he's at a cocktail party!" I replied.

Duringthe funeral service, this quote stuck out, "For those who are persecuted because of their righteousness, theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." My uncle died simply for writing the truth. It was his life's mission and I am sure, that he islaughing and joking right now, like always.

The last time I heard the "Raisa Soysa" joke was at my 21st birthday, at a surprise party organised by my parents and friends. My uncle gave a speech, during which he said, "I can safely say that Raisa is my favourite niece... in the room today." (I was also the only niece in the room!)

Well, I can now say to him without any ambiguity, "Uncle Lasantha, you are, and always will be, my favourite uncle." I willnever forgetyour playful and generous spirit. May your soul rest in peace.