Education doesn’t mean educated! Birthplace is not where you are born!

Rev Fr. Harry Miller’s legacy as a reminder of that prism

By B. Nimal Veerasingham-January 13, 2019, 9:16 pm 

At the time when the New Year (2019) dawned on us, the land of the rising Sun recorded the demise of a Titan in the field of education. It was none other than Fr. Henry (Harry) Miller – a Jesuit from Louisiana who was a teacher, coach, councilor, Principal and Rector, resided at St. Michael’s College (Est. 1873) Jesuit residence and called Batticaloa home from 1948 – sometimes referred by him as the only home he knew. He was barely 23, when he landed on the shores of Batticaloa along with a group of Jesuits from Louisiana, US – 8 months after Sri Lanka gaining Independence.

Three weeks earlier, there was another prominent educator from one of the oldest Institution in the country passed away. Prince Casinader for many years led Methodist Central College (Est. 1814), both as a teacher and Principal. He was a good friend of my father, being two years senior at Central College, and were office bearers with the Batticaloa District Football Association (BDFA) for many years.

My father’s association with Central College is understandable – residing barely five minutes away, and as being an all-round athlete, he led Central College at the ‘big match’, when the equally seasoned Mr. S. Andreaz (master) led St. Michael’s College. The legend is that my grandfather fell from the elevated verandah of the old Post office facing the grounds, into the deep drain beneath and need to be rushed to the hospital – all because of the excitement caused by the ‘sixer’ hit by my father that landed almost into the Post Office.

It defies comprehension why my father enrolled me and my brother with his Alumni’s archrival St. Michael’s College. Rivalry between these two institutions run so high, that during the ‘Big match’ casket filled with paddy husks, bearing the opponents colors would be ready for cremation, even before the end of 1st innings!

As laid back as he is, my father upon seeing the lights on, in Fr. Miller’s office behind the Principal’s office facing Central Road, would walk in with us, to pay the ‘facility fees’ – the fee levied from the students to keep floating St. Michael’s as a locally and privately managed Institution. Fr. Miller never failed to amuse us every time, with his illusionary tricks – most famously the separating his upper part of the thumb with the letter opener.

The population of Sri Lanka in general, understood the importance of education early on, represented by these educators. For many, it was the only way to place themselves higher in the job market and social ladder.

The education fever’s frenzy was clearly felt at our Homefront – where my parents became the expeditors - where educators were respected and adored. This brings up my recollection in battling childhoods’ playful energy of spending more time at the playground.

The extended non-levelled squared and soggy grassy patches South of the Batticaloa Weber Stadium, was our dream play area, when we were growing up. There were no fences between these small unofficial play areas, divided with cemented open drains to manage flood waters. The sound of overflowing water tank at the Public Tennis Club on one side - and the screaming kids from the merry-go-round at the Children’s park, on one side – our pick-up soccer game with the neighborhood kids has no reason to stop. All you need is two goal post markers, usually with stones or wild Palmyra seeds – our feet were more than ready to meet the soft grass filled with hardy grasshoppers. The low-lying area usually gets flooded during monsoon rains and hence the soft clay underneath the grass provided an added ‘Nike’ effect to our barefoot. The narrow-elevated road, edged at both ends by huge ‘Vakai’ trees (Albizia saman) overlooking our play field, leads to the dilapidated old colonial building, the District Education office occupied. West of that narrow road has a different story. Its dry, barren and saline laden salty residues - with hardly any grass. The overflowing salty waters from the bordering lagoon during monsoon rains, have killed almost all green on the ground. The elevated narrow road that separates, makes all the difference - between lush green and barren.

Almost a few hundred meters away to the North West from our playing abode, remained one of the last remnants of the World War II - perched on the roof of the Municipal Council buildings. It was an emergency siren - intended to alert the population of any incoming enemy air raids then. But was put to continuous good use by going off at 6.00AM & 6.00 PM daily, giving the townsfolks a sense of time planning in their daily lives – including us. The loud blare at 6.00PM means, that we should be sitting with our books in no more than 10 minutes at home. It was an unwritten decree at home. A dash through the broken parapet wall of the Education office will land us with our books in less than 10 minutes. The unsung glory of the siren effect - to transform ourselves from the smell of green grass to the coarse pages of the text books. Our parents like all parents wanted to make sure that our lives would end up with holding decent professional jobs. Talk about parents being the elevated road – preventing the saline waters by not ending up at the bottom of the status chain – but towards greener pastures, the other side of the road.

Educators of all stripes became the benefactors to ride the difference, between lushness and barren. Though Fr. Miller fell broadly under that category, he was more of an administrator than a teacher. He was certainly not tall, and not a populist, compared to his compatriots like, Fr. Weber, Herbert, Coolie, Mayer, Laurio, Reiman, Nee etc... But his calling was to do bigger things. He was entrusted in embarking on a colossal and courageous journey - running the school at the most difficult times when nationalization of schools struck in many forms in the Island – notably, being forced to run totally, in locally available private funds. No child was barred from St. Michael’s for lack of finances – instead, Fr. Miller coordinated with the school welfare society and Alumni, in variety of fund-raising campaigns from 1959 to 1970. He was heartbroken when it became clear that the balancing act cannot go on. The school was handed over to the government fully in 1970.

I believe that this act of holding the fire amidst uncertainty, and in prolonging the hopes and dreams of a city and region, later galvanized the natural fervor to stand up for the weak and fallen. Losing the portal of a superior Educational institution that was built by the sweat, sacrifice and prayers of many in the Godly, but in the service of mankind over a century, was equally traumatic than simply losing the title of ‘second to none’.

The 80s and 90s witnessed human suffering in the East mushroomed to gargantuan levels. Blood flowed freely, and wet the land that fed the country. Many militant, State groups and each of their many opponents domineered the killing fields with vengeance, hardly paying any respect to human lives. The vast majority impacted were the ordinary from the rural hinterland, not knowing where to turn to or seek answers – as opposed to the many urban folks who have fled the country altogether. Fr. Miller poured his energy in documenting atrocities in the form of details of the missing and murdered – provided legal point of contacts to pursue through the court system – engaged State officials, Police, Armed forces and Parliamentarians. As the founder of the Peace Council of Batticaloa and Council of Religions, his documentation detailing 1000s of disappearances lurked with unbridled violence, became the prod to all perpetrators irrespective of their shades – a measuring yardstick for the outside world to know what is happening in the land of honey and milk.

Spearheading such impartial venture brought criticism from all sides – expected time tested common reaction that could be traced over and over in the history books. Satisfying political connotations are not on trial here – invalidating human lives are.

Fr. Miller easily could have escaped becoming witness to this carnage by taking a sabbatical in New Orleans or anywhere outside Sri Lanka. But he didn’t – after all, this is the home and people he knew and part of. Almost seven decades of breathing the air that crisscrossed the golden paddy fields, pondering buffalos and the meandering lagoon has made him more than a native son - only to be in white skin. In recognition of his valiant efforts to defend Human Rights despite adversity and danger, the National Peace Council of Sri Lanka honored him with ‘Citizen’s Peace Award’ in November 2014.

He breathed at ease during the last decade, witnessing the return of peace rays reflecting over the Eastern landscape, meeting with many ordinary and dignitaries alike. His office was located on the 1st floor of the majestic building at the very center of the city, built at a time when use of cement was sparse – like him it was simple and minimally upkept, not to mention the peeled walls with mold and rain stains.

Many Alumni returned from their European and North American adapted homelands and made a quick stop to meet Fr. Miller and other remaining Jesuits during their ‘vacations’ to their own birthplace. It’s time to show their children what made them for who they are – between their dip at ‘Pasikudah’ and a sumptuous crab curry with their long-lost relatives. On each occasion Fr. Miller would ask them a well cradled simple question – ‘when so many Michalites are doing well in their respective fields abroad, why is that they are hardly felt in their native land, by way of expertise, investment or charity.’ All what the visitors could do is, smile – smiling is easier than answering.

Like the meeting point of a circle (of life), many alumni also come home from their adopted homes across the seas, for the permanent rest. Their wish is to ‘Rest in Peace’ or their ashes get absorbed by nature in familiar territory – closer to their ancestors. It’s a noble thought and act, to the end. But as the poet says, ‘For who is living in the Light of the God – the death of the carnal soul is a blessing.’ Fr. Henry (Harry) Miller has no qualms – his life was with and for the people he knew and loved, not by birth, but by acquaintance and adoption. He was laid to rest next to his fellow Jesuit from his same birthplace, Fr. Harold Webber, within the St. Michael’s College compound. It’s unfortunate that his other friend and fellow Jesuit from Louisiana, the basketball legend Fr.Eugune Herbert is nowhere closer. He disappeared in August 1990, and his body or traces was never found to this day - succumbed to the whirling winds of violence that engulfed the region – the same from which Fr. Miller tried to save many.