This beautifully written tribute is by a Tamil man on how she saved their lives during the 83 riots. The “boyfriend “in this story is Vijaya Kumaranatunge another great humanitarian.
"Malini Fonseka, undoubtedly Sri Lanka's most popular film star, the Queen of Sri Lankan cinema, died earlier today. She was 78.
There will be many an article written over the next several days extolling her impact on Sri Lankan film and culture, her roles in more than 70 movies in a career that spanned more than six decades, and perhaps even her time in politics. She will deservedly receive a state funeral, and the entire island nation will mourn. It's what we do when we lose an icon of her magnitude. Her nuanced screen performances had the grace, subtlety, beauty and power of Liv Ullmann in Bergman's best work. However, it is unlikely many, if anyone, will mention the other side of this cultural icon.
As much as I enjoyed her work on screen, to me Malini is this: An unselfish and courageous woman who thought nothing of it to literally put her life on the line to save me and my family from being slaughtered 42 years ago.
When I was 15, I remember my mum telling me we were moving to a new apartment, and our next-door neighbor was Malini Fonseka. That would have been akin to telling an American teenager in the 1950s that their new neighbor was Marilyn Monroe. In Sri Lanka, Malini packed the star wattage and screen presence of Marilyn, Judy Garland, Ava Gardner, Gloria Grahame, Ingrid Bergman, Faye Dunaway, Julia Roberts, Reese Witherspoon, Cate Blanchett, Natalie Portman, Jennifer Lawrence all rolled into one. She WAS Sri Lankan cinema, and there never was nor will there be anyone who comes close to matching her status.
To me, Malini was this compassionate, caring lady who had no airs about who she was, who treated everyone with decency and kindness. This is what I remember about this lady. When we moved in next door, she came over and introduced herself — there was no one on that island who didn't know who she was, yet she was sweet and humble. Because she didn't speak fluent English and she knew my mum had been a teacher, she asked my mum to teach her. So, once a week, my mother would take some books and go the 25 feet or so to Malini, and spend an hour or two teaching her English. Malini insisted that we speak English to her. When she saw me on our shared stairs, she'd always take the time to ask me about my day. She knew I loved movies, so she'd tell me about making films. She knew who she was, we knew who she was, but she just wanted to be Malini, our friendly next-door neighbor. And that's who she was.
Then came July 25, 1983. A few days earlier, a ragtag group of separatist rebels calling themselves the Tamil Tigers had ambushed more than a dozen soldiers in the north and killed them all. When the bodies were returned to the capital, instead of their individual towns or villages, the majority Sinhalese went on a rampage. What followed was a government-sanctioned bloodbath. The entire city of Colombo was in flames, Tamil businesses all around coughed black smoke, thugs, armed with clubs and machetes, assaulted any Tamil they could find. On the main thoroughfare in front of our lane, a young Tamil couple was dragged out of a blue car, beaten to a pulp and the car set alight. Inside our two-bedroom apartment, my mother was hiding our Tamil textbooks, quietly saying The Lord's Prayer over and over again, and contemplating an escape route that included us leaping off a high balcony onto a tin roof 10 feet away.
It wasn't a question of if the machete- and club-wielding men came down our lane, it was when. And 16-year-old me knew when they came, my family and I would die.
Sure enough, they came. They wanted to kill Tamils, and they knew we lived there.
No sooner did they enter our dead-end lane, Malini, a Sinhalese, without even a moment's hesitation, flew down the stairs, rushed toward these bloodthirsty men, confronted them head on, and told them they would not be coming any further. She stood there determined, and, the men, awed by seeing their screen idol in the flesh, and realizing she was absolutely not going to waver, turned around and left.
As my sister once wrote, Malini "used her popularity as an actress for great good in July '83 … [and] by the sheer force of her personality prevented the mob from coming down our road. No house down our tiny cul de sac was attacked."
Malini waited till they left, then came back upstairs, told us to pack some clothes and valuables, and insisted we spend the night at her place. She assured us we would be safe, then, she and her boyfriend got in her Jeep and drove to other neighborhoods to see if they could save more Tamils from being harmed. We spent that night and several more at her place. She was our guardian angel.
A year later, I came to the States, and when I returned to Sri Lanka a couple of years later, Malini had moved. I saw her at a mutual friend's wedding, and we caught up, before I returned to western Pennsylvania. Then, 25 years later, the Sri Lankan community in Pittsburgh organized a visit by Malini. I had no idea whether she'd remember me, especially since I looked nothing like that lad she knew. I walked up to her and said, "I don't know if you remember me," and before I could finish, she smiled and asked, "Ramesh, how are your mother and sister?" We talked about the old neighborhood, she regaled me with stories about being taught English by mum. At a reception later, I was able to publicly thank her for what she did for me and my family in 1983.
I was gutted when I read the news of her death. A couple of Sri Lankan friends in the east emailed me a few hours ago. Even though Malini and I didn't stay in touch — I would Google her every few months just to see if there was any news of her or any new films she was doing — I am heartbroken.
How do I even begin to express my gratitude or honor someone whose selflessness and bravery are why I am alive today, why my sister's alive today? Thank you is so inadequate a phrase to fully express how grateful I am to Malini or how much I owe her.
I always will remember her luminescent smile, her laugh, and her fondness for Captain and Tennille. And her compassion.
Malini Fonseka leaves an indelible mark on the history of my homeland and its culture. And she changed my life. Whether I was worthy of it is a discussion for another time. But I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have crossed paths with this truly remarkable, extraordinary lady.
May she rest in peace and may she attain the supreme bliss of nibbana."
"Malini Fonseka, undoubtedly Sri Lanka's most popular film star, the Queen of Sri Lankan cinema, died earlier today. She was 78.
There will be many an article written over the next several days extolling her impact on Sri Lankan film and culture, her roles in more than 70 movies in a career that spanned more than six decades, and perhaps even her time in politics. She will deservedly receive a state funeral, and the entire island nation will mourn. It's what we do when we lose an icon of her magnitude. Her nuanced screen performances had the grace, subtlety, beauty and power of Liv Ullmann in Bergman's best work. However, it is unlikely many, if anyone, will mention the other side of this cultural icon.
As much as I enjoyed her work on screen, to me Malini is this: An unselfish and courageous woman who thought nothing of it to literally put her life on the line to save me and my family from being slaughtered 42 years ago.
When I was 15, I remember my mum telling me we were moving to a new apartment, and our next-door neighbor was Malini Fonseka. That would have been akin to telling an American teenager in the 1950s that their new neighbor was Marilyn Monroe. In Sri Lanka, Malini packed the star wattage and screen presence of Marilyn, Judy Garland, Ava Gardner, Gloria Grahame, Ingrid Bergman, Faye Dunaway, Julia Roberts, Reese Witherspoon, Cate Blanchett, Natalie Portman, Jennifer Lawrence all rolled into one. She WAS Sri Lankan cinema, and there never was nor will there be anyone who comes close to matching her status.
To me, Malini was this compassionate, caring lady who had no airs about who she was, who treated everyone with decency and kindness. This is what I remember about this lady. When we moved in next door, she came over and introduced herself — there was no one on that island who didn't know who she was, yet she was sweet and humble. Because she didn't speak fluent English and she knew my mum had been a teacher, she asked my mum to teach her. So, once a week, my mother would take some books and go the 25 feet or so to Malini, and spend an hour or two teaching her English. Malini insisted that we speak English to her. When she saw me on our shared stairs, she'd always take the time to ask me about my day. She knew I loved movies, so she'd tell me about making films. She knew who she was, we knew who she was, but she just wanted to be Malini, our friendly next-door neighbor. And that's who she was.
Then came July 25, 1983. A few days earlier, a ragtag group of separatist rebels calling themselves the Tamil Tigers had ambushed more than a dozen soldiers in the north and killed them all. When the bodies were returned to the capital, instead of their individual towns or villages, the majority Sinhalese went on a rampage. What followed was a government-sanctioned bloodbath. The entire city of Colombo was in flames, Tamil businesses all around coughed black smoke, thugs, armed with clubs and machetes, assaulted any Tamil they could find. On the main thoroughfare in front of our lane, a young Tamil couple was dragged out of a blue car, beaten to a pulp and the car set alight. Inside our two-bedroom apartment, my mother was hiding our Tamil textbooks, quietly saying The Lord's Prayer over and over again, and contemplating an escape route that included us leaping off a high balcony onto a tin roof 10 feet away.
It wasn't a question of if the machete- and club-wielding men came down our lane, it was when. And 16-year-old me knew when they came, my family and I would die.
Sure enough, they came. They wanted to kill Tamils, and they knew we lived there.
No sooner did they enter our dead-end lane, Malini, a Sinhalese, without even a moment's hesitation, flew down the stairs, rushed toward these bloodthirsty men, confronted them head on, and told them they would not be coming any further. She stood there determined, and, the men, awed by seeing their screen idol in the flesh, and realizing she was absolutely not going to waver, turned around and left.
As my sister once wrote, Malini "used her popularity as an actress for great good in July '83 … [and] by the sheer force of her personality prevented the mob from coming down our road. No house down our tiny cul de sac was attacked."
Malini waited till they left, then came back upstairs, told us to pack some clothes and valuables, and insisted we spend the night at her place. She assured us we would be safe, then, she and her boyfriend got in her Jeep and drove to other neighborhoods to see if they could save more Tamils from being harmed. We spent that night and several more at her place. She was our guardian angel.
A year later, I came to the States, and when I returned to Sri Lanka a couple of years later, Malini had moved. I saw her at a mutual friend's wedding, and we caught up, before I returned to western Pennsylvania. Then, 25 years later, the Sri Lankan community in Pittsburgh organized a visit by Malini. I had no idea whether she'd remember me, especially since I looked nothing like that lad she knew. I walked up to her and said, "I don't know if you remember me," and before I could finish, she smiled and asked, "Ramesh, how are your mother and sister?" We talked about the old neighborhood, she regaled me with stories about being taught English by mum. At a reception later, I was able to publicly thank her for what she did for me and my family in 1983.
I was gutted when I read the news of her death. A couple of Sri Lankan friends in the east emailed me a few hours ago. Even though Malini and I didn't stay in touch — I would Google her every few months just to see if there was any news of her or any new films she was doing — I am heartbroken.
How do I even begin to express my gratitude or honor someone whose selflessness and bravery are why I am alive today, why my sister's alive today? Thank you is so inadequate a phrase to fully express how grateful I am to Malini or how much I owe her.
I always will remember her luminescent smile, her laugh, and her fondness for Captain and Tennille. And her compassion.
Malini Fonseka leaves an indelible mark on the history of my homeland and its culture. And she changed my life. Whether I was worthy of it is a discussion for another time. But I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have crossed paths with this truly remarkable, extraordinary lady.
May she rest in peace and may she attain the supreme bliss of nibbana."
