Photo courtesy of Kumanan
Walter Benjamin, the German philosopher, introduced the concept of translatability, framing it not as an exploration of identity but as the translator’s ability to capture the essence of a text. His question, “Does a text render itself translatable?” opens a discourse on whether meaning can truly transcend linguistic boundaries. While Benjamin’s work focuses on literary translation, this idea extends far beyond literature – it permeates human identity, particularly for those marginalised and excluded from centres of power. In the context of Sri Lanka, minorities such as Tamils, Muslims, Malays and Burghers spend much of their lives “translating” themselves, striving to make their identities legible to the majority.
This forced self-translation often risks oversimplification or even erasure of their cultural, historical and lived experiences. Here the central question shifts from whether their identities are translatable, as Benjamin might ask, to the consequences of being compelled to translate aspects of their identity that defy simplification – consequences that manifest as ethnic tension, prolonged conflict, and systemic violence.
Identity, by its very nature, is multifaceted and deeply layered. While it has been widely analysed in academic discourse, it remains a critical lens through which to examine communities, their self-perception and collective identities. Individual agency plays a role in shaping identity, yet for marginalised ethnic groups, this agency is constrained. Generational fear rooted in years of ethnic and racial conflict leaves these groups perpetually positioned as the “other.” Compounding this is the tendency to reduce entire communities to reductive labels, often laden with misrepresentation and misunderstanding.
Consider the plight of the Tamil community in the aftermath of the 30-year war or the experiences of Muslims following the Easter Sunday attacks. Here the actions of a minority within these groups become a representation of the entire community, leading to political exclusion and social isolation. In response, these communities often feel compelled to “translate” themselves, attempting to construct new identities that distance them from the actions of a minority within their group. This isn’t to absolve those who commit harm but it highlights how media and political rhetoric frequently amplify racist narratives, creating a generalised “other.” The result is a cycle of forced self-translation that seeks, often in vain, to counteract the stereotypes that stigmatise entire communities.
In the mainstream post-war narrative, the civil war is frequently oversimplified as a conflict between the Sinhalese and Tamil ethnic groups. This reductionist perspective ignores the deeper roots of the conflict, particularly the enduring legacy of British imperialism, which strategically sowed divisions to maintain control. While the open hostilities between these groups have largely diminished, the latent tensions remain palpable. It takes little more than a spark – a metaphorical matchstick – to reignite the hostilities that simmer beneath the surface, echoing the devastation of 1983. This precarious dynamic is emblematic of an unresolved racial discord, an indelible mark on Sri Lanka’s history that cannot be erased. This history should not be buried or forgotten but that it must be openly confronted. Acknowledging the continued existence of racial prejudice and profiling is the necessary first step towards genuine reconciliation.
One of the most harmful legacies of this discord is the racial profiling that forces ethnic minorities, particularly Tamils, to conform to state imposed identities. To illustrate this dynamic in colloquial terms: “You were the reason for the 30 years of war; now repent for your sins.” This perceived need for repentance is inextricably tied to the concept of identity translation. In this context, “translation” refers to the enforced reinterpretation or simplification of one’s identity to align with the expectations of the majority. Following the actions of the LTTE and the destruction attributed to their insurgency, the Tamil minority as a whole has been subjected to broad generalisations that reduce them to a singular, vilified identity. To escape this profiling, individuals are pressured to adopt identities constructed by the state, effectively erasing vital aspects of their culture, history and lived experiences in the process.
This phenomenon can be analysed through Louis Althusser’s theory of the Ideological State Apparatus (ISA), which describes the subtle mechanisms through which the state enforces ideological conformity. In the case of Sri Lanka, the ISA operates by rewriting the narratives surrounding the Tamil minority, reinforcing stereotypes and categorising the entire community under the damaging label of “terrorists.” This homogenisation creates a binary dynamic where conformity to the state’s idealised version of a minority identity is the only acceptable option. Nonconformity, on the other hand, relegates individuals to the position of the “other,” an identity marked by exclusion and suspicion.
What exacerbates this situation is that the state’s constructed “ideal” minority identity is fundamentally flawed. It demands the erasure of critical elements of culture, language and historical memory. By doing so, it denies the richness of Tamil identity and perpetuates systemic injustice. This forced erasure does not pave the way for unity but instead deepens the fractures within society, hindering the possibility of genuine healing and reconciliation. For these reasons, addressing the root causes of racial profiling and identity translation is not just an academic exercise; it is an urgent socio-political necessity.
Within the very roots of Sri Lankan politics, one can discern the persistent undercurrent of racism; not the subtle kind but overt xenophobia directed at those outside the Sinhala majority. The origins of this racial discord are complex but the enduring legacy of British colonial endeavours stands out as a significant catalyst for much of the ethnic strife we witness today. Even in the post-colonial landscape, the political machinery continues to exploit these divisions. Politicians and political parties often appeal to the Sinhala majority by constructing nationalistic discourses designed to secure pivotal parliamentary positions.
A striking example of this is the infamous “ape jathiya” rhetoric frequently employed in political campaigns preceding presidential and parliamentary elections. The term jathiya, which translates to nation or race, ostensibly evokes a collective identity but its underlying connotation often excludes those who do not belong to the Sinhala ethnicity. This raises pressing questions: Who is encompassed within the idea of jathiya? Does it acknowledge the Tamils, Muslims, Burghers or Malays who also form the fabric of Sri Lanka? If not, where does this exclusion leave these communities? Language, in this context, becomes a potent instrument of political rhetoric, wielded to create a binary distinction between “us” and “them.” Through carefully crafted phrases that appear to stir national pride, politicians not only galvanise votes but also sow seeds of division. This tactic, although politically expedient, inflicts profound harm by entrenching xenophobic sentiments.
Furthermore, the entanglement of religion and state compounds these issues. In a nation where religion forms the bedrock of societal and political life, disentangling ethno-religious ideologies from state activities becomes nearly impossible. This fusion provides a convenient framework for justifying exclusionary political decisions and reinforcing divisions along ethno-religious lines. The influence of political rhetoric extends beyond electoral campaigns, seeping into everyday vernacular and shaping societal perceptions. Words that fuel nationalism in political speeches often permeate public discourse, creating invisible yet tangible divisions. These divisions, dormant in times of peace, erupt into sharp relief during periods of communal violence. The looming threat of such violence, combined with the fear of social ostracisation, forces ethnic minorities into a precarious position. To survive and function as accepted citizens within this fraught national framework, they feel compelled to acquiesce to a state imposed “new normal.” This acquiescence frequently involves the translation or, more accurately, the forced reinterpretation, of their ethnic identities. These identities are reshaped to align with the majority’s expectations, especially when they are deemed nonconforming to the state sponsored narrative. This coerced translation not only erases critical elements of minority cultures but also perpetuates the very divisions it seeks to obscure.
The act of forced identity translation reveals the profound consequences of systemic racism, political exploitation and entrenched ethno-religious divides. Drawing from Walter Benjamin’s concept of translatability, the issue extends beyond mere communication – it encapsulates the survival strategies of marginalised communities striving for acceptance in a hostile environment. This phenomenon underscores the interplay between political rhetoric, societal perceptions and the state’s imposition of conformity, which collectively erode the rich diversity of Sri Lankan society. Addressing these deeply rooted issues requires a commitment to dismantling the narratives that perpetuate exclusion and to fostering an inclusive national identity. The acknowledgment of historical injustices, coupled with open dialogue and structural reform, is essential for breaking the cycle of marginalisation. Only through genuine reconciliation and respect for the multiplicity of identities can Sri Lanka move towards a future where its diversity is celebrated rather than suppressed.
Safiyah Fazal