Official Has Cards, Few Answers

The instruments of his authority are recognizable all over the former British empire: a desk, a telephone, a rubber stamp, and a metal bell for summoning subordinates. As divisional secretary for Weligama, G.D.H. Thilaharathna is the lynchpin of government power here. To say he is overwhelmed is an understatement.

Since the tsunami, people have been importuning him all day long. His second-floor office has become a heaving mass of people shoving pieces of paper in front of his nose. Everybody has needs, complaints, demands. Many of the demands are impossible to fulfill.

A Buddhist monk wants to get refugees out of his temple because they have started to become a nuisance. The police chief wants to know what to do with a group of homeless people who are blocking the main Galle road in order to draw attention to their plight. The mayor complains that the government has not distributed enough food to the people.

The divisional secretary's response to these requests is invariably the same. He pulls out another sheet of paper, writes another order, wields his rubber stamp, and rings his bell furiously. Minions are dispatched in all directions. The next day, Thilaharathna's office is still full of the same people.

And then there are the foreigners. For weeks now, they have been streaming through Thilaharathna's office. There are provincial mayors from Germany, water engineers from Holland, aid workers from Canada, school teachers from Ireland. They all come proffering visiting cards, which Thilaharathna deposits in an ever-growing heap in his drawer.

"One third of them are effective," says Thilaharathna. "The other two thirds are useless."

He delves into his drawer and throws a couple of flimsy-looking business cards across the desk in disgust. "Useless, useless. We'll never see these people again."

Weligama is a stronghold of the opposition United National Party. "That's probably a reason why we haven't got any aid from the government," says Danasiri Loronsuhewa, the mayor of Weligama. "They're giving the aid to their own areas first."

Another reason may be plain old bureaucratic inefficiency. Nearly a month and a half after the tsunami, the government has yet to clarify its plans for resettling thousands of Weligama residents who lost their homes as a result of the disaster. In theory, every displaced person is meant to receive 400,000 rupees ($4,000) and a new plot of land. But when this money will arrive, and where everybody will be resettled, is still unclear

Editor's Note: Michael Dobbs, the author of this weblog, will answer questions live online from Sri Lanka Tuesday, Feb. 15, at 11 a.m. ET.

-- Michael Dobbs

By washingtonpost.com |  February 14, 2005; 11:30 AM ET  | Category:  Michael Dobbs
Previous: Surfers Survive Big Wave | Next: Replacing Fleet No Easy Task