Recommended reading:
1000 words on Maldivian Art - Nazaal Shiyam's photograph of a one way sign in Malé
Photograph by Nazaal Shiyam
Malé is a maze of one way streets and dark alleys. You can drive around it for days, for weeks, your whole life, and you can still feel like you're going somewhere. Perhaps this is why the national sport of my country is driving.
Driving? Why would driving be the national sport of a nation of islanders? Of a country whose borders are filled with water and not land? Why not swimming? Fishing perhaps? Nope. It's driving. Driving motorcycles specifically. And nowhere is the fanbase stronger than good old Malé City.
The stinking heap of concrete is less than 5sqkm in area, yet is home to almost, if not more, than 200,000 people. If you were wondering, no, there isn't a beach. Well there is a rather pathetic little inlet that is rather imaginatively called the artificial beach. And there is the tail section of the harbour does have a bunch of floating platforms hovering above the trash, used condoms and diesel. Oh and perhaps that dandy little 5m stretch near Raalhugandu that's full of broken bottles and garbage? How lush! How wonderful!
Nope, not much love for swimming here. And of course any fish you catch will have been lovingly fed off of the endless supply of sewage. It's the circle of life, and the people of Male' city are full of shit.
So what do you do? You save up and buy your self a fine motor vehicle that's what! Things will surely turn up now! Just look at how shiny it is! You will be the talk of the town! Everybody will be jealous of your sweet ass ride.
Now the cogs of our destiny are really in motion! Oh yeah baby! We'll drive around the city all night!
You'll rest your head against my back. You'll whisper soft kisses into my ears, hearts in a daze from the fumes of our forbidden love. Perhaps your arms will wrap themselves around me, deftly working their way through the edges of my shirt, your warm bare palms radiating love back into my chest.
You arch back and gasp as we hit that bump. Lots of memories about that bump! We almost crashed into a patrol van that New Years; all because of that goddamn bump. That morning, after we made love between the tetrapods, we kissed and watched the sunrise set the heavens ablaze. Or maybe it was just smog from Thilafushi. Who knows. It was a long time ago. All you know is you had a good time.
We pass by the flag, and then speed up as we go through that impeccable section of road they always keep nice for the tourists because their lives are more important than ours. We pass carnival, waving at our friends going the other way.
You wonder to yourself, why are some of us going in the opposite direction? You convince yourself that you, in your infinite wisdom, are driving in the right side of the road. There are less potholes and bumps on this side of the road see.
Dense traffic, and all of a sudden, Raalhugandu! For the briefest moment, as the spray hits you in the face, you feel an odd sensation. The slightly rotten smell of the salty mist. The way the lights flickered across the dark abyss between the Seawall and the planes taking off the runway in Hulhumalé. A lightness. A heightening of the senses yet a paradoxical relaxing of your inner self. You can't quite place it, but you feel it everytime you pass by this magical place. It is as if you can feel your soul gasping for air.
Did you know you were drowning?
As you pass it, you look behind your shoulder, staring back at it longingly like a burning man stares at the asphalt as he falls toward it from the top of a skyscraper, rushing towards the ground faster than the speed of light. As long as you hit the ground before the glass, you will be fine, you tell yourself. As long as I make it to the ground, the fire will be gone, and with it, the pain.
BALAA ENNU NAGOOBALHAA! KES BE' RANGALHAH BOALAIN' DHO THI INEE!
You almost crash into another couple. You tighten your grip and laugh it off. Your laughter makes me feel that way too. You wonder where the other couple were going, and why they were so angry.
Do you think they know where they are going?
As you pass the line of shmucks waiting for petrol (You're smarter than them! You filled your tank at that special time only you know about when there aren't that many people around! Give yourself a pat on the back for this one!), you think to yourself how it's only a matter of time before Raalhugandu swings on back. It didn't matter which inventive route you took, it was inevitable. Always. Forever. All roads eventually become a one way street. You've already passed it twelve times just this night, maybe one day you'll actually get there.
Folk Tales of the Maldives by Xavier Romero-Frias - Chapter 1 - The First Coconuts
A reading of the first chapter of Folk Tales of the Maldives by Xavier Romero-Frias.
Folk Tales of the Maldives was first published by NIAS press in 2012. Xavier has informed me that despite the fact that he had made a point to send copies of this book and his previous ones to the National Library in Male' immediately after publication, a European researcher had told him that a search for his books turns up blank. Worrying news, and utterly evil by the library if it is indeed somehow trying to censor Maldivian culture from Maldivians themselves.
Available from NIAS Press:
http://www.niaspress.dk/books/folk-tales-maldives
"The Maldives are mainly known as an equatorial tourist paradise to the south of India but some will know the archipelago risks drowning owing to global warming. Far less is known about the people, who have occupied these islands for millennia but whose deep indigenous culture is today under threat from a multitude of external forces.
This volume is a collection of 80 traditional short stories and legends selected from the large corpus of stories in the local oral tradition, and translated and illustrated by the author who is the foremost authority on the language and anthropology of the Maldives. These folk tales offer keen insights both into the history, culture and beliefs of the people of the Maldives and into the world they live in. The close relationship the Maldivians have with their environment is clear, likewise the syncretic nature of their Islamic faith, the tales bustling with spirits, sorcerers and monsters as well as local people, seabirds, etc.
Would-be travellers to the Maldives will find this a unique insight into the real country behind the tourist brochures. For scholars, the folk tales and analytical material offer a wonderful literary/folklore resource as well as fresh perspectives on the effects of globalization."
And also from Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Folk-Tales-Maldives-Xavier-Romero-Frias/dp/8776941051
More research from Xavier Romero-Frias
http://independent.academia.edu/XavierRomeroFrias
For Naail. RIP.
Children of the Islands pt.I - Fishing
The sound of a koveli. A freshness in the air, crisp with the smell of Palm leaves basking in the light of dawn. A hurried breakfast, the clinking of bicycle gears and the rattling of bottles and tin cans in a bucket. We were off! I look back and smile at my sister. She grins back, beaming that she was riding her bike without her training wheels. She had thrown them into the ocean a few days ago after they had given her a cut. She didn't need them anyways.
We rode along a path dappled in the shaded light of an avenue of palms. The sand made gentle crunches beneath our tires as we swerved around the many slight dips and curves which pockmarked the unpaved earth. We got to the canteens and immediately ran to the back with our bucket to find the chef. The chef was a cheery fellow and he always greeted us with a laugh. Do you have any bait? Of Course! He'd say. He had a bit of guts and off cuts left from the garudhiya they were making for lunch. We collect some in the bucket, say our thanks and set off again, this time heading towards the harbour.
The crunching was gone, replaced with a much more uniform whirring now that we were on paved ground. They are such odd things. We need them for our tires yet they feel harsh and unweilding beneath our feet.
We reach the harbour and park our bikes near the inner edge. Here first and the outer edge later. Will the korakali be here today? Do you think we'll catch a big filolhu? My sister asks grinning. I hope so, I reply.
I remove some of the offcuts from the bucket and place them on the ground so I could slice them into little slivers. We put some on our hooks and hold our plastic bottles towards the ocean, before throwing them out into the murky depths of the bay. Almost immediately ripples appear on the dark green surface, all heading towards the sinking hooks. We grin at each other knowingly and slowly begin to pull the line in, carefully wrapping it around the bottle as we did. Tangled lines could be a nightmare!
Sure enough, the ripples began chasing the hook, and as it got shallower we could see a small school of korakali excitedly chasing the bait. The trick was to slow it down, and sharply tug it right after they'd had a bit of a nibble. My sister hooked one and then I had one too. Soon we had dozens and were running low on bait. But not to worry. A dhoni was pulling up. After they docked, I asked one of the fishermen if we could please have some bandaidhoo; which is the cut of meat right outside the stomach of a fish and below the gills. It was firm and the fact that it still had skin meant that it'd stay much more securely attached to the hook. To top it off, most fish went bonkers for the stuff. He laughed and asked if we had caught anything yet. I was 11 and my sister was 6, both of us were wearing kiddy hats like typical city kids, and must have looked quite out of place on that smelly and industrial looking harbour. I pointed to the bucket full of croaking korakali. He laughed heartily and told someone on the ship to fetch us a tuna. He then cut out the bandidhoo himself and gave it to us with his luck and blessing.
Using it,we caught a few more korakali and even a few big fani handhi. It was always a rush seeing the much larger fish zoom amongst the korakali, lunging towards the bait, their magnificent blue fins slicing through the water like neon streamers. They gave a much stronger fight too, and required a bit more patience to reel in; making the reward all the more sweeter.
We were once again almost out of bait, and we hadn't even yet gone to the outer rim of the harbour. There, standing on the jagged rocks, you could throw into a part of the shallow inner lagoon that was home to schools of ori; which dwelled between the sea grass meadows and the rocks.
Are we going back? My sister asked. Nah we'll just use the korakali! And if we ran out of that, we could always find some golhaa hiding among the rocks.
So we cut some of the little fish up and try our luck at the ori. The water on this side of the harbour was much clearer and, we could see the fish excitedly huddle around the bait, almost as if having some secret conversation. My sister hooks one almost immediately. She had a gift for catching ori. She knew exactly when to execute that all important final tug, just as the fish was turning to leave, not too quick, not too late. Grinning like a mad child she'd expertly let the fish swim off a bit to the left and then right before pulling it in again, slowly tiring the fish.
A violent tug at the line around my fingers and I almost slip off the rocks. I regain my balance, only to hear the sharp wet twang of the hook snapping off. Annoyed, I begin to wrap it back onto the bottle so I could tie another hook. The previous year, or perhaps it was earlier, my father had taught me the knot, and it is ingrained into my memory to this day to the point where recalling it comes as easy as it was riding that oversized bicycle.
Meanwhile, my sister had pulled up her fish and was holding it out triumphantly. Can you get the hook out for me? She asked. And I hop over the rocks to grab the line and take the fish to where we'd kept the bucket. The ori thrashed around madly and before I could take the hook out, one of its dorsal spines punctures my hand. A strangely deep feeling pain emanates from the wound like a slow burn. Ori apparently have mild toxins in the spines, but it wasn't the first time I'd been stung so I wasn't really worried. I shake my hand a bit and put some fresh bait on my sisters line. We manage to catch a couple more, including a few filolhu that had ventured out from among the seagrass.
The most exciting thing about that little area was the giant muda handhi that would occasionally storm through, smashing through the water at incredible speed and scaring all manner of fish back into hiding, jumping over the surface as they fled in terror. It was so large that if the tide was low, sometimes it's dark blue dorsal fin would slice the top of the water like a shark. Whenever we saw it coming we'd frantically throw our lines in its path. We knew our lines were too weak. And the fish was bigger than us so even if we did catch it, and even if the line did hold, it'd probably just result in the fish catching us. Didn't stop us from trying though.
Buckets full of fish, we pedal back to the canteen to hand our bounty over to the chef. Ahh I could fry these up for lunch he'd say. Triumphant, we returned back to the bungalow to get cleaned up and see what our parents were up to.
I loved that house. It was the complete opposite of our house in Male'. Instead of sleeping on a bunk, we slept on separate beds. Instead of cold water in a tiny bathroom, there was a hot water cylinder in a space that felt like a palace. Instead of smelly tharafaalu that moved when you stepped on it, there was a soft carpet beneath our feet. Instead of just having to deal with the propaganda filled and censored to death TVM being the only channel to watch on TV, there were several international ones to choose from, courtesy of some satellite magic; our favourite being Nickelodeon. It was a joy to watch shows like Kenan & Kel, All That and seeing happy young people smiling and making genuinely funny jokes. The animated shows like Aargh! Real Monsters were such a breath of fresh air from the endless Disney re-runs on TVM. The place was even air conditioned. And it was surrounded by lush vegetation instead of being swallowed in by the looming city around it; with a beautiful beach less than a minute away. This beach encircled the island; much better than a seawall and perimeter road full of traffic. On some mornings when the tide was low, you could walk across the glowing expanse of the lagoon right to the edge of the reef. We had never known such luxury as those few weeks of school holidays. The people were much friendlier and the air was fresher. And it was where my father lived and it was where my Mum smiled the most. She was a school teacher and a mother raising two kids mostly by her self; undoubtedly two of the hardest jobs in the world. After we'd gone back to Male', sometimes by boat, sometimes by plane, I'd cry in secret because I missed him and that happy home.
Did you have a good time? You reek of fish! Did you catch lots? Oh you got stung by an ori? Here, put some dettol and vokadine on it.
Soon we were off again on our bicycles, back to the canteen. The fish was deep fried with delicious spices, and you could even crunch down on the bones of the little korakali and eat the entire fish whole. We laughed and grinned triumphantly. Those were some of the best days of my life and I am incredibly thankful that I was lucky enough to have such experiences.
"THE PROBLEM OF THE MALDIVE PAST" - From 'The Maldive Islanders' by Xavier Romero Frias
While the coup of February 7th 2012 was going on, a group of people broke into the Maldivian National Museum with the sole purpose of demolishing what little physical evidence remained of our pre-Islamic past.
This chapter from the excellent Maldive Islanders (p. 25-27) by Xavier Romero Frias, highlights how this may be a case of history repeating itself. Maldivian Culture is in turmoil and even though it has always been more or less in a state of flux, unless we work to preserve the past so that we may analyse it, we are doomed to keep repeating the same mistakes. More than anything else, Maldivians need to stop being so ashamed of their rich and cultured past. Following is the chapter in its entirety including footnotes (minus some phonetic characters).
THE PROBLEM OF THE MALDIVE PAST
There are very few historical documents throwing light on the past of the Maldivians. Even many documents locally accepted as history are mostly myth. Archaeological evidence shows that there was a flourishing culture in the islands before the last Buddhist king decided to convert to Islam. The precise reasons why this monarch decided to abandon his ancestral Buddhist faith are not known, but edicts written on copper plates (Lōmāfānu), make it very clear that the general conversion to Islam was ordered by the king. Lōmāfānu edicts were etched on long copper plates held together by a ring of the same metal. The oldest lōmāfānu that have hitherto been found and preserved are from Male', the royal capital, and from the islands of Isdu and Dambidu in Haddummati Atoll, where there were large Buddhist monasteries. These copperplates were issued at the end of the twelfth century AD.[51]
The lōmāfānu were written in the curly Evēla[52] form of the divehi akuru[53] or old Maldive alphabet, which has strong similarities with the Tamil Grantha script of the 7th century Pallava and Pandya dynasties.[54] In certain documents, a form of old Nagari or Protobengali script is also present, which shows that there were contacts with the centers of Buddhist learning of Nalanda, Ratnagiri and Vikramaśīla. These must have taken place from the 8th century AD onwards, when Buddhist culture revived and flourished in Eastern India owing to the patronage of the Pāla kings of Bengal.[55]
The religious and cultural relationship between Maldives and Bengal was made possible by regular seaborne trade with that region of the Subcontinent[56] facilitated by favorable winds and currents. The large wooden trunks used by traders in their journeys were known in Divehi as ‘bangalufosi’ (Bengali box) and in the oral tradition of the Maldivians there are legends telling that trade with Bengal was very important in the distant past.
The Pala dynasties were rulers over the last Buddhist coastal kingdom in South Asia. In spite of some squabbles with the Cholas to the South and the Senas to the West, their reign was generally so peaceful that in 1196 it was possible for a small party of Muslim horsemen to ride directly to the Pala palace and slaughter the dynasty’s last king with impunity. The Muslim armies went on to thoroughly destroy the great centers of Buddhist learning named above. It is said that the vast seven-storied library of Nalanda University kept burning for six months and that fifteen thousand monks were burned to death trapped inside while having their midday meal. Some of the monks who escaped the massacre took refuge in Burma, Nepal and Tibet. These events took place but a few years after the conversion of the Maldives to Islam.
Even at that time, the actual Maldive archipelago was under the control of a single king (Radun) or royal family. This king must have been very secure in his power to be able to deal with the strains of the country’s mass-conversion from Buddhism to Islam. In the Dambidu lōmāfānu[57] the Radun addresses his edict to all islands between Kela (in Tiladummati Atoll), one of the northernmost islands of the group, and Addu (Atoll) in the Southern end. It is interesting to note that Maliku[58] (Minicoy) is not mentioned in those documents, even though it is known that, besides sharing the Buddhist faith, this rather isolated atoll already had both ethnic and linguistic affinities with the rest of the Maldive Islands at that time.
However few, a number of archaeological remains from the Buddhist period have survived. Thanks to the lōmāfānu it is known that the monasteries in Haddummati Atoll were of great importance within the Maldive Kingdom. In other atolls, many islands have mounds or low hills which indicate where a Buddhist Stupa was located.[59] In fact, these remains quite accurately indicate which islands were inhabited during Buddhist times.
Unfortunately, these mounds have been heavily vandalized, especially in the recent past when certain ancestral superstitious beliefs were overcome. According to those beliefs, going near old ruins or interfering in any way with them, like removing stones or earth, would bring disgrace to the intruder. As an example, in Malos (Ari Atoll), a man who had tried to break a little hemispherical coral block (probably a small Stupa) known locally as Mudu, complained that he had horrible nightmares that same night.[60]
Another cause of heavy destruction during recent years has been archaeological excavations on those sites themselves. Regrettably, these investigations were either done carelessly, or left the site unprotected after excavation. The removal of the sheltering jungle exposed the site to subsequent vandalism. Often local inhabitants plundered the place in the vain hope of finding gold or other treasures, as soon as the archaeologists and accompanying government officials left the island.[61]
Perhaps the fact that most endangers the preservation of ancient archaeological remnants in the Maldive Islands is that among Maldivians, save rare exceptions, there is a definite lack of pride in their ancient history, especially in what has come to be labeled as ‘pre-Islamic’. Hence, it is not surprising that disrespect for the ruins of Buddhist monuments is very common among islanders of all walks of life.
Much of the general disinterest in their ancient cultural heritage lies in the confusion arising from the lack of definition of Maldive cultural identity. In every Maldivian mind there is a sharp struggle between inherited customs and Muslim ideology. Since this conflict remains unresolved, there is a widespread feeling of guilt and frustration at being unable to adjust the ancestral cultural heritage to the Islamic ideological pattern.
After the country’s mass-conversion to Islam in the 12th century AD, the culture of the Maldivians and the Islamic ideals were only overlapping to a certain extent. Large areas of the Maldive cultural heritage had no compatibility with Islamic ideology (albeit these have been greatly reduced during the 1980’s and 90s as government-sponsored Arabic cultural influence grew exponentially). At the same time, all through the post-Buddhist history of the country there were large areas of Islamic cultural patterns incompatible with the ancestral ideals of Maldivians.
To illustrate the latter point, when Ibn Batuìta, the Moroccan traveler who had been appointed as supreme judge by the Maldivian queen, ordered the hands of people guilty of stealing to be cut off according to Islamic Sharia’ law, most spectators in the hall fainted.62 Although this event took place in the 13th century, average Maldivians still privately consider acts of violence, even if committed in the name of the religious law, barbaric. Paradoxically, these strengths, fruits of an inherited cultural refinement that the Maldive islanders possess as a nation, have been made to appear as their weakness by elements propounding greater arabization.
Always suspicious of any type of religious syncretism, the government has been responsible for the enforcement of religious orthodoxy in the island communities. This activity has known no respite throughout Maldive history and, as a result, it has brought about periodical repression of all type of Divehi cultural expressions deemed un-Islamic. As this has been the pattern since the 12th century, there was no small amount of perplexity in far-off islands at the paradox of a sudden official interest in preserving the remainders of “Kafir ruins” in recent times, when tourists and foreign archaeologists have begun to pay regular visits to ancient Maldive Buddhist sites.
Undoubtedly, the most conspicuous physical destruction happened at the time when the King ordered the islanders to abandon their ancestral religious practices. The converted monarch was ruthless in his resolve to erase all traces of the former religion of the Maldivians. According to the Isdu lōmāfānu , monks from monasteries of the Southern Atoll of Haddummati were brought to Male' and beheaded.[63]
All anthropomorphic and zoomorphic iconography and other important religious symbols were systematically vandalized. The Dambidu lōmāfānu tells us that Satihirutalu (the Chatravali crowning a Stupa) were broken to disfigure the numerous Stupas. It tells us also that statues of Vairocana, the transcendent Buddha of the middle world region, were destroyed; and the destruction was not limited to sculptures.
The wealth of manuscripts - probably written on screwpine leaves - that Maldivian monks in their Buddhist monasteries must have produced was either burnt or otherwise so thoroughly eliminated that it has disappeared without leaving any trace. Therefore there are no samples of paintings from the Maldive Buddhist period itself. The only actual remains of the art of those times are a few sculptures and etchings on coral stone. Most of these are preserved in a little room in the Male' Museum.
[51] The Isdu lōmāfānu was issued precisely in the year AD 1194, however, the conversion of the Maldives to Islam was in AD 1153 according to the Maldivian ‘Taìrikh’ chronicle.
[52] The ancient Divehi alphabet. ‘Evela akuru’ was a tentative name given by H.C.P. Bell to differentiate it from the more recent forms of the same script (divehi akuru) which were in use between the 12th and the 19th centuries. H.C.P. Bell, ‘The Maldive Islands. Monograph on the History, Archaeology and Epigraphy.’
[53] Wilhelm Geiger and H.C.P. Bell in their writings erroneously called this alphabet ‘Dives akuru’. The word ‘Dives’ is a misspelling. The real name of that alphabet, as quoted by Bodufenvaluge Sídí in his authoritative work, is ‘Divehi akuru’, meaning ‘Island letters’ or ‘Maldivian letters.’ Previously Christopher and Young had referred to this alphabet as ‘Divehi Hakaru’. W. Geiger, ‘Maldivian Linguistic Studies.’ H.C.P. Bell ‘Excerpta Maldiviana.’ Bodu Fenvaluge Sídí, ‘Divehi Akuru’ Vol 1. Lieut. I.A. Young & W. Christopher, ‘Memoirs on the Inhabitants of the Maldive Islands.’
[54] Some authors claim that the old Divehi script resembles the medieval Sinhalese Elu alphabet, but the fact is that the affinities with the Tamil Grantha script and with the earlier forms of Malayalam script are much greater from a graphic point of view, even though the Divehi language itself is closer to the Sinhala language.
[55] The Pala kingdom included Bengal (made up of present-day West Bengal and Bangladesh), Bihar and part of Orissa (Ganjam).
[56] Trade between Sri Lanka and Bengal also flourished during that time. When the Pala Kingdom fell, Mahayana and Vajrayana influence in Ceylon came to an end. In time, the Buddhist kingdom of Sri Lanka became practically landlocked. Nandasena Mudiyanse, ‘Mahayana Monuments in Ceylon.’
[57] A tentative transcription of this lōmāfānu was made by M. Loutfi and was subsequently published in ‘Faiytura’, the organ of the Maldivian Cultural Affairs Council.
[58] A culturally Maldivian island now part of the U.T. Lakshadweep, India. Oral tradition says that in centuries past Minicoy was devastated by a cyclone that broke most of the coconut trees. The island was then ruled by the Maldive king, so Minicoy islanders sent a delegation to MaleØ asking for financial assistance. Since the king told them that he had not enough money in his treasury, this delegation went onwards to the Malabar coast, where they found favor with the king of Cannanore who agreed to help them rebuild their island. Thereafter the Minicoy people owed allegiance to this kingdom of the SW Indian shore (Information: Magieduruge Ibrahím Dídi)
[59] Stupas were said to have been built by the Redin. V. Rasovesi: Havitta uhe haudahau, Redin taneke hedí ihau (How tall is the Caitya! A Redin place built in ancient times). Thor Heyerdahl made much speculation around that word, but I am convinced it is just a name that Maldivians used in the first centuries after conversion to refer to their Buddhist ancestors.
[60] Information by Ahumadu Salímu, Victory House, Malos, Ari Atoll.
[61] Information by the late Magieduruge Ibrahím Didi
[62] Ibn Batuìta, ‘Travels in Asia and Africa’.
[63] H.A. Maniku & G.D. Wijayawardhana, ‘Isdhoo Loamaafaanu’.
Photograph added to Dhivehin
Woman preparing coconut husk to make coir rope. Haa Dhaal Atoll Kulhudhuffushi, Maldives. (2009)
My Experience Dealing With Maldives Police Service [ We Are All Ahmed Rizwan #FindMoyameehaa ]
It has now almost been 15 days since Ahmed Rizwan (@moyameehaa) has gone missing. Instead of speculating about what might have happened to him on the limited information currently available (the only things that are clear at this point in time is that he was most likely abducted, and that there are people that don’t want him found and that there are people who don’t care). I am going to do what he would have wanted me to do; what he has inspired me to do since I came into contact with his works and writings almost a decade ago. I am going to write about what I know for sure. I am going to write about my own experiences; even the ones I’d rather forget.
My ex-girlfriend and I almost died in 2008. I remember nothing particularly memorable leading up to the incident other than a sense of despair and hopelessness about my failing relationship; which had degenerated into both partners acting out only the most mechanical and utilitarian parts of intimacy. Pick me up, drive me there, let’s eat some food, let’s ****. It was all falling apart and neither of us wanted to put in the effort of going beyond the repetitions we were already familiar with.
It was in that haze of melancholic apathy that I went to give her a lift back home from work on my bike; business as usual, a clean transaction, at least we’d be together for a little while. Besides that I felt somewhat obliged since it was already past midnight and the streets of Male’ aren’t exactly the safest place to be walking home from at such an hour.
On top of the regular dose of crushing claustrophobia, the city seemed to ooze a strange vibe. It was unnerving. I was taking the classic detour going around the outer edges of the island when I suddenly felt as if something was not right and felt a sudden urge to drive straight home. So instead of continuing that endless lover’s circuit, I turned into Majeedhee magu from near the artificial beach area.
As I idly wondered to myself if I had made the right decision, I noticed a figure standing in the middle of the road opposite the Muni Ufaa Youth Center. The heavy foliage from the trees which grew at the centre obscured the streetlights, which shrouded the whole area in a veil of darkness. I wondered if I should ark away or go onto the opposite lane, but eventually just drove ahead in a straight line, hoping the appearance of the shadowy figure had nothing to do with a sudden growing sense of dread.
As I neared him, I noticed that he was looking around wildly in all directions and had one of his hands around his crotch. Something was definitely not right. Just before I came parallel with him I felt something warm and sticky on my leg. All rationality suddenly evaporating from my consciousness, I slam the breaks and glare at the person. I do not remember what my exact words were but I angrily asked him what in the world he just did.
“Goru handanee” (I’m pissing), he slurred back with a whole bunch of expletives thrown in, before whipping his dick around at us again and splashing us some more.
What happened next is hazy in my memory. I vaguely remember gritting my teeth and starting the motions of getting off my bike. Halfway through that I thought to look left behind my shoulder towards Muni Ufaa. A crowd of people were standing there who I had not even noticed before because of the shadows, and perhaps because I was focused more on the guy who just pissed on me. As I turned back towards the right I felt a heavy thud and then a crack on the back of the left side of my skull. A chunky piece of wood flies over my head and clanks down diagonally in front of me.
One of the people in the shadows behind me had broken a heavy wooden beam across my head.
Everything from that moment seemed to happen in slow motion, or as if I was swimming through some thick liquid.
I faltered for second that seemed to last for hours. Everything was muffled and far away. Then her voice broke through the fog endlessly screaming “GO!”.
I snapped out of it and looked down at the dashboard of my bike. It was in third gear and the engine was still running.
I somehow managed to grip the throttle and accelerate as I began to slump down on the edge of losing consciousness.
The bike began to move, and the feeling of unstable forward motion combined with her screaming jolted me back awake and I miraculously had the sense to put the gear back down to the second. The sudden escape, and perhaps the fact that I hadn’t immediately crumpled into a heap, had surprised them long enough for me to pick up some speed and put some distance between us. My sole thought was getting her out of there safe.
I vaguely remember yelling something about calling the ****ing police to the people that I passed by. This made my head feel a bit clearer and as I regained a better hold on the motorbike, I kept accelerating as I neared the corner where Sonee Hardware is.
“Someone’s coming after us!” she said.
I looked back, making us go slightly off balance again, to see that someone was indeed chasing after us. Everything was happening so fast that I cannot tell for sure what he was actually holding, but I remember seeing a knife.
I had to keep going. I kept accelerating and took the corner. I looked back over my shoulder a few seconds later and the runner had stopped.
“You’re bleeding!” she said. At this point I’d like to note that she was saying quite a lot of things. I don’t remember all of the details, it was a long time ago, and the situation didn’t exactly lend well to crystal memorisation.
She pressed her hands against where the wood had struck and tried to stop the blood as much as she could. At some point I think she showed me one of her hands as I drove. I don’t remember how I felt about it but I remember a lot of red.
In this state I somehow managed to find the winding way home through the dark streets of the city. On the final corner I distinctly remember driving against the last one-way road in order to drive straight towards my home.
I remember parking the bike at an odd angle and being completely unable to move. She ran inside to get help and soon after I heard voices yelling and coming towards me. Arms lifted me up and I was carried through the front door and to the living room, where I was laid down on the tiles.
As I drifted around the edges of consciousness I saw standing around me in a semi-circle the worried and concerned looking faces of my family.
I vaguely remember foaming at the mouth as I struggled to tell them what had happened all the while worrying if I was explaining it well enough.
Now I was in a taxi. My mother, who was sitting next to me, informs me that we’re going to the hospital. She tells the taxi driver what happened and he turns on his emergency indicators and speeds most of the way there.
When we get there I’m told to sit in a wheel chair. I remember feeling blinded by the lights and an ocean of faces as we entered the main lobby and rushed towards the emergency section.
Here my memory becomes even fuzzier. Maybe it was when my brain decided it was ok to rest for a bit. I any case I do not remember much of my treatment or surgery other than my mother jokingly saying this was why she said I was stubborn (boa-haru in Dhivehi means stubborn but literally translates into hard headed) and vague memories of sitting in a wheelchair feeling shocked and numb waiting for the police to arrive.
When they did finally come, it was two officers, and one of them was holding a small notepad.
After taking my name and address and other details, he asked me to briefly describe what happened, after which he asked if I knew the people that had assaulted me.
When I said that I had no idea he closed his note book as if to signal that he was done. He didn’t ask me how many people were there. He didn’t ask me what they were wearing. There were so many things he didn’t ask I feel irritated just trying to remember what he did.
I vaguely remember my mother angrily asking them if that was it, was that the whole investigation?
They said that I could go to headquarters and give a statement if I wanted, to which I said something along the lines of that I’d give a statement but not at headquarters, and that I’d rather an officer visit me at home.
Sure, they said. Someone would get in touch. So we went back home.
After a troubled sleep, I woke up the next day wondering why I had a bandage over the back of my head. A stifling sombreness descended over me as I suddenly remembered why.
I called my friends and let them knew what happened. My uncle trimmed my hair so the bandage and where they had shaved to put the sutures in wouldn’t look so odd.
All the while I was gripped with a fear and paranoia that itched at my skin. I kept seeing the vague silhouettes of my assailants everywhere. For a while I couldn’t even stand being near Henveiru for any extended amounts of time.
No police officers came. No one to tell me what had happened. No one to tell me if they were still out there or not. No one to tell me if I should be worried. No one to tell me shit other than my friends and family.
Weeks seemed to pass, then as if out of nowhere, we get an imposing looking envelope. Within it was a summons to appear at Police HQ. I read it over and over again several times.
Surely this couldn’t be right. I’d specifically told them I didn’t want to go to HQ. It was pretty well known that HQ was monitored by certain gangs for informants and witnesses and rumours said that there were staff that provided them with info as well.
It didn’t even say what it was about; yet disobeying a summons is an offense in itself, so I decided that I had to go despite my paranoia.
I walked in and handed the summons over to the woman at the reception desk. I was told to take a chair in the reception area and wait. I wondered to myself if it would be the receptionist who would dob me in.
After an eternity under the clinical glare of the fluorescent lobby lights someone came and told me to go through one of the doors adjacent to the lobby and was told to take a seat. Even at this point I only assumed that the summons was about the assault. What else could it be about?
The man sitting across the desk from me in office wear identified himself as something that sounded like corporal (I don’t remember his exact rank) before apologising about not being able to make it to my house to conduct the interview as he “had been quite busy”.
I remember staring back at him incredulously for a few seconds; as all my suspicions and all the rumours and stories I’d heard about the police being terrible at their job crystallised in front of me into tangible experience.
He took out a thick file and placed it across from me on the desk. I do not remember if he asked me for my statement before or after this. I mostly remember being pissed off at him for handling my case as if it was some barbers appointment.
Either way, he opened the file and flipped to a series of police mug shots and began explaining how right after I had been assaulted, a police patrol had come upon the group. The group, which he revealed to be heavily drunk and intoxicated, smashed the patrol vehicle and injured some of the officers who were in it. I do not remember if he said they got backup or if it was the original set of officers, but somehow they managed to arrest most of the people that were there.
As he flipped through the images I remember being jarred at how familiar they looked yet how different they were from the shadowy paranoia infused version of them in my memory. One of them was a musician who I had taken photographs of earlier at a live show. Photographs I was quite proud of. I wondered what he was doing there.
He said that the group of people were suspected to belong to a dangerous gang that had already committed several assaults that year. I vaguely remember him saying something about them belonging to a “red list” or them being “red listed”.
So after taking my statement, and explaining to me how these known and dangerous gangsters had attacked the police themselves, he asked me if I would testify in court with my statement. It was at that point that I began to suspect that he wasn’t really concerned about my case as much as theirs.
I told him yes, I would testify, but only if I could do it anonymously and only if they could guarantee some measure of protection for me.
You’ll be right across them in the courtroom he said. It would really help the prosecution, these gangsters had attacked a police officer, he said.
I stared back at him dubiously. So you can’t do anything? I asked. Even though you just said these “dangerous gangsters” are “red-listed” and were already responsible for countless assaults?
Yes, he said with a hopeful smile. It would help the case. They attacked a police officer.
If they get convicted, how long would they be going away for? I asked.
About three months he said. They would be out after that. It would help the case. They attacked a police officer.
No way, I thought to myself. No way I was helping this person who couldn’t even be bothered visiting my house. No way was I helping an organisation that didn’t seem the least bit concerned about my safety. Three months was not a long time, and if I was going to be exposed to them during the trial, it meant I’d probably be stabbed and dead in some alleyway for snitching before those months even ended.
Besides, the officer hadn’t really asked me about my feelings at all. About why I wanted anonymity. About whether or not I felt safe walking around in the city that he was supposed to be protecting.
All of a sudden as I stared blankly at his face I felt like I empathized more with my assailants than the police. They didn’t attack me because they hated me. I wasn’t some target. They attacked me because I had stumbled into the middle of their drunken rampage and they were in the middle of a drunken rampage because society had given up on them.
A few months before the incident, I had become familiar with a group of kids who were riding their BMXs on the half pipe that used to be across from Raalhugandu. They loved riding their bikes and they had lovely personalities made even more colourful by their rather interesting vocabularies.
A lot of them also had scars. The oldest barely looked like he was 15, and they were already riddled with scars. Scars from fighting. Scars from helping defend their older brothers and themselves when they were under attack. Their lives made the significance of my assault inconsequential in comparison. They were from the poorest neighbourhoods, they had lived the most challenging lives wrought with constant danger and uncertainty, yet still there they were, cracking jokes and trying to become better at riding their bikes; bikes that would eventually get stolen by their enemies, on a half-pipe that would eventually fall into disrepair, because it was individuals that created it, and individuals can only do so much when living under the constant shadow of government apathy and negligence. Youth such as them are the unsung survivors of our constantly growing nation.
So I told the officer No; that I wouldn’t testify. Why would they need me, when they had several police as eyewitnesses to the attack on the patrol jeep? Why should I risk my wellbeing just to send people that were as much victims of the system as I was of them to jail for three months? And to help a bunch of people who only seemed to see my value as a witness to help bolster their case and not as a citizen and human being? What possible good would that do any of us?
He asked me if I was sure, and I said I was, and we went back and forth for a few minutes, and that was pretty much it. I left the station feeling betrayed, confused, and full of more questions than when I had arrived.
Slowly but surely life returned back to normal. Except that it never did. The night of my assault was the night I feared most for my life, and the days following were when I was the most paranoid, but the day I that I attended my summons at Police HQ was the day I completely lost faith in the system.
In the wake of Rizwan’s disappearance, the Police responded to accusations of inefficiency and negligence by saying that people, the media and political parties should refrain from saying things which may cause distrust in their institution and abilities.
To which I ask, how can you break a trust which has never existed in the first place?
Has there ever been a point in Maldivian history when the police have done their job properly? This question may sound preposterous, but please take a few minutes and think about it. When was there a time when the citizens could trust the police to protect them? A time when you could walk up to a random officer on the street, and they’d know you and you’d know them, not because you are a criminal, or they your enemy, but because you recognised each other’s part in the community as being one rooted in altruistic symbiosis? They working to protect you, and you working to make the community they protect better, so that the lives of people on both sides are enriched. In our criticism of the police, we must not forget that they are people too; people with lives outside of their job, people with families they work tirelessly to support, people with hobbies, people with dreams; unique individuals, just as yourselves.
If you are a police officer reading this, I hope you see this as reasons to improve, to make your profession as a police officer something both yourself and the community can be proud of. This can only be achieved by the police assessing and improving itself and understanding the importance of community policing instead of current approaches. The most important aspect of community policing is actual dialogue between the police and the citizens they are supposed to protect and serve. All we see you as right now are as traffic police and as riot police. This doesn’t mean this is what we want and neither is it all you were meant for. We want to trust you to protect and serve, so that we as citizens can continue to make our nation better, no matter what our political alliance or personal beliefs. We want to see you as our friends. Our allies.
Raising your voice about your concerns and experiences as an individual is the first step in achieving this; whether you are a member of the police, a citizen, or anyone else who is concerned about the future of our nation and the world.
We were all raised in an environment that was hostile to such expression. We were told that everything is OK and to go about our lives no matter what happened, no matter what we heard. Higher powers were taking care of us, higher powers were keeping us safe; and as long as those higher powers were happy, it would continue to be so.
Ahmed Rizwan is not the first Maldivian citizen to go missing and it is unlikely he will be the last.
Where are those higher powers now? Where were they in the past? Where were they when the batons that were meant to protect were smashing skulls against the pavement on the 8th of February 2012 and the many protests before that?
How are citizens supposed to respond to such savagery at the hands of those whose livelihood is about keeping them safe?
Hatred will only spawn more hatred. In fact hatred between citizens and the police is what those higher powers want. In ensures that the police will only serve and protect the interests of those higher powers and not carry out their intended role of serving and protecting the community. It ensures that citizens will regard police as enemies and that productive communication between both parties will never occur.
So what are we supposed to do?
We do what Ahmed Rizwan has been doing his whole life. We continue to do what the people that do not want him found and the people that do not care about his disappearance are constantly trying to eradicate with their hatred.
We will speak out. We will express ourselves. We will listen to each other. We will do what humans do best. We will communicate and we will think.
We will appreciate each other as human beings from a shared heritage; hurtling through space on this planet we call our home.
We are all Ahmed Rizwan. And if we give up on him, we might as well give up on everything and accept the apathetic utopian future that awaits us; a future born of our silence, self-loathing and material greed.
We are all Ahmed Rizwan. If we cannot find him, or find the strength to speak out for him and make light the broader social issues that his disappearance represents, surely we have lost ourselves.
We are all Ahmed Rizwan. Speak out now. He would have done the same for you.
More info on efforts:
#FindMoyameehaa
facebook.com/findmoyameehaa
www.findmoyameehaa.com
Maldivian Myths by Hasan Ahmed Manik [ Retyped PDF / MOBI / EPUB / DOCX ]
An amazing collection of stories, monsters and details of Maldivian magic presented in alphabetical order by the great Hasan Ahmed Manik.
Baa Atoll Eydhafushi, Maldives, 2013.
This is a retype of the scanned upload at:
http://www.scribd.com/doc/199569686/Maldivian-Myths-Hasan-Ahmed-Manik
I initially just wanted to read it on my kindle but straight OCR wouldn’t work, so I just typed the entire thing into a word document. I figured it would be a good way to read it too.
The document is now fully searchable and re-flow compatible. I hope it is useful for both Maldivians and foreigners alike who have a passion for Dhivehi culture. Note that it is still missing the intro chapter.
For full compatibility with mobile devices, I recommend using the MOBI or EPUB instead of PDF. I’ve also included the DOCX file too so that it will be more accessible for future uses.
Download here:
Dropbox mirror:
Note:
The foundation of this book and most of the myths are derived from the ethnographic notes of Xavier Romero-Frias; who was not given credit in the book itself at the time of publication (along with the other sources).
Xavier says that the majority of his notes were in turn collected after long conversations with Magiedhuruge Ibrahim Didi of Fua Mulaku and note that Ibrahim Didi deserves credit as a source for Hasan's book. He also says that he was friends with both of them and that the lack of acknowledgement etc were more or less a result of people at the time having no clear idea on how to handle sources and copyright etc.
![Magiedhuruge Ibrahim Didi of Fua Mulaku [Image via Xavier Romero-Frias] &nbs…](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/525ead10e4b03a9509e1cbf7/1402381809015-CGP7MBBCCPAXFF1N7XUX/10390557_4422950827724_796203748401787922_n.jpg)
Magiedhuruge Ibrahim Didi of Fua Mulaku [Image via Xavier Romero-Frias]
View more of Xaviers work at:
http://independent.academia.edu/XavierRomeroFrias
The Sustainable Fishing Practices of Dhivehi Reef Fishermen (and how the resort industry is screwing them over).
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
The sun sets as the fishermen make their last attempts at a catch. On that particular day they were after a shoal of yellow-fin tuna, a delicious and high valued fish, that they had the luck of finding.
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
Marine Research Centre researchers tag a Blue Fin Trevally or Fani Handhi as it is known in Dhivehi.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
They did not leave bait for the next day and they did not buy it.
Every morning they would head out to find a good reef and on the way there they would use trolling lines to catch that all important first fish. It would usually be one of the many predatory fish which lurk along the edges of the reef like a latti.
They usually only needed to catch one as their plan was much more elegant than simply slicing the fish into bait chunks.
Instead, they would grind it into a fine chum, which would then be placed inside a jar or similar waterproof container.
A fisherman collects the chum he has createdinto a water-tight glass jar
The men make a team and spread out to search a wider area for bait fish
Once they were satisfied that they had enough, the search would begin for a reef which housed an adequate number of muguraan or fusiliers. They would usually do this by sight, slowly driving along the edges of different reefs, instead of relying on fish-finders or other devices.
One a shoal was spotted, the Dhoni would be left to drift near the top of it and a man would sneak into the water; making sure not to make too many splashes incase it scared the fish away.
One of the men spots a shoal
He makes sure to swim silently, disturbing the water as little as possible.
He would wear a mask, snorkel and fins and in his hands he would hold the jar full of chum.
He would slowly sink down until he hovered in the liquid space above the shoal. He would then open up the jar and release into the crystal water a few pinches of the ground up flesh
A slow and steady descent; almost to the bottom of reef.
At first the muguraan would act disinterested, but a few would suddenly break formation to swim up and nip at the fresh fish.
It would perk the interest of more and more of the palm sized fish and the man would slowly lead them upwards, away from the relative safety of the ocean floor.
After a while the whole shoal would be in frenzy, with even a few other species of fish joining in to try and get at the chum.
The net descends. The fishermen make sure to catch only the bait they are targeting.
While this is happening, the dhoni would pull alongside the shoal and a team of men would descend into the water, after dropping a weighted net that usually spanned the length of the entire vessel.
They would dive deep below the elevated shoal and surface on the opposite side; neatly encircling it.
The net would then be hauled back in and the fish would be placed into one of the many sea-water filled tanks in the hull of the dhoni where they would be kept alive for the rest of the day.
If they hadn’t caught enough by this point they would simply use one of the muguraan for chum and repeat the process.
Despite the few courageous stragglers, the catch would almost always be entirely made up of different species of muguraan; exactly the kind of live bait that reef-fish find irresistible.
Close-up of Muguraan shoal
Bait hull full, they would set out to find a channel or reef where they can finally begin to catch the large reef-fish species from which they make their daily bread. They do this with handlines, using the muguraan as both live bait and an attractant; with one of the men throwing fistfuls of the live fish out over the reef.
Because of the targeted nature, and also because the net never touches the bottom of the reef, I found this method of bait procurement and fishing to be incredibly efficient while having a marvellously low impact on the environment.
The catch is stored in the hull until they reach the resort. Here you can see a variety of fish from snappers and groupers to jobfish and trevally. Juveniles and unwanted fish are usually released back.
These men work long and hard beneath the scorching tropical sun in order to support their families.
Many have sun damage in their eyes because they do not own sunglasses to protect themselves from the harsh reflections of the sun against the ocean.
Their lifestyle is worlds apart from the techno-centric denizens of the capital and the comfortable air-conditioned rooms of the resort owners that treat them so poorly. They work tirelessly to catch enough fish to earn a living while the overwhelming majority of the resorts treat them like slaves. They bought the fish at a per kilo rate that was abysmally low for the effort and work they put into catching it.
As I recall back then (in 2009) they were being paid less than a dollar per kilo of fish that would later be sold to tourists at exorbitantly inflated rates per fillet. Indeed most of the justification for the prices they sell these premium dishes tourists for comes from the freshness of the fish. No doubt they are subconsciously misled to believe that the fishermen are being paid well.
The irony of it is that it’s not hard to imagine more forward thinking people paying them extra because of the sustainability of their methods. Just imagine how difficult it has been to convince some fishermen in other countries to give up practices such as dynamite fishing and trawling for example.
We asked some of the men if they had ever requested a raise and they replied saying that many of the resorts responded by threatening to import the fish instead. The livelihood of the fishermen, to the resort owners, was expendable and inconsequential; in other words, the fishermen weren’t selling the fish to the resorts, the resorts were allowing them to sell it to them as if they were doing them some favour.
“They said that if we protest and ask for more money, they can easily import the fish we provide at even cheaper rates, what are we supposed to even do? We wouldn’t even have this money then!” said one man.
The resort owners and managers were thus insidiously aware of the power they wielded over the fishermen as they were the ones who controlled their income.
In some ways the hardest work only begins for these men at the end of the day.
A few resorts would even make the men de-gut and prepare the fish for free, which would leave them at the resort for many hours into the night of what had already been a long and exhausting day. All of the resorts made them thoroughly clean up after they were done but from memory there was only one resort which provided adequate space and hygiene facilities for this task. The happiness the men felt whenever they sold to that particular resort was obvious on their faces and the manner with which they handled themselves during the task. By comparison, when gutting fish at other resorts, where the “facilities” would consist of a tiled floor with a few taps, there would always be an unease hanging in the air; a sickly feeling of unacknowledged oppression, broken only by the cheerful wisecracks that the men would pull on each other to lift spirits and break out of their tired daze.
The rays gathered near the Dhoni in anticipation before the men had even stepped off from it.
To add insult to injury, one of the resorts even forbade them to bring in the fish via the service docks. Instead they were forced to dock their dhoni at the edge and then wade through the lagoon until they reached the beach. To get there, they had to pass through a shoal of enormous stingrays (it is common practice for resorts to regularly feed and “tame” them), which attacked the sacks full of fish with much vigour.
Disgusted, several other Research Centre employees and I went to try and speak with the manager to see if he was aware of the situation. It turned out that he, even though he was a Maldivian himself, was more than aware and was instead rather pleased with himself for coming up with the arrangement. His justification was that it kept the service docks clean of blood and insisted that it would be terrible for a tourist to have to see such mess. The sting rays, he insisted, “were not that big a deal”.
He said this with a straight face and an expression which seemed as if we should be thanking him for this great service. It didn’t help his case that the service docks, being what they were, were barely even seen by guests at all during the daytime; let alone at the late hours (often after 10PM, sometimes as late as midnight) that the fishermen came through.
With their methods they show a natural love for the environment that was not born of books and research but from the sheer experience of having to rely on nature for their sustenance. They never admitted it or acknowledged it, but I could tell that they knew that their methods were just. They could easily use much more damaging methods of fisheries and increase their haul, exploiting the reef in the manner that the resort owners are exploiting them, but for some inexplicable reason they don’t.
They care too much for these waters. They know every fish by name, they know every reef, they know every little uninhabited island that would eventually be turned into a resort and they knew what would come with that resort; the chains of oppression, disguised in the promise of opportunity and riches. More than anything else, most of the men seemed to know who they were. They were men of the sea and they did not struggle with themselves to accept that identity. Their ancestors had sailed these oceans since time immemorial. Long before the Mayflower, long before Mohammed, Jesus, or even Buddha had been born, Dhivehin had already started their love affair with the ocean. With handlines, determination and skill they would catch amounts that would make a trawler captain blush in shame. They knew how to fish and they were superb at it. They loved the ocean and the ocean loved them back.
They were also among the nicest and most humble people I have ever met.
This blatant exploitation and disrespect towards the artisans of our nation’s oldest profession by greedy businessmen is unacceptable and is one of the greatest unspoken tragedies of our island nation.
All photographs © Hani Amir.
