I first learned about sex when I was ten from a vivacious companion whose mother described the process of ‘baby-making.’With no other exposure to this topic, I promptly dismissed it as something too incredulous to believe. When I had asked my mother, a couple of years prior to this incident, how doctors identified whether a newborn baby was a boy or a girl, she blushed awkwardly and said: “They just know. That’s why they’re doctors.” This has been the story of my life, for better or for worse. I have never had the safety talk, and neither have most of my friends, to the best of my knowledge. I wouldn’t put this relatively conservative upbringing solely due to the fact that I am a Muslim. I grew up in an immensely multi-religious environment, where mutual respect for all other forms of belief is vital and is something I believe we have the right to be immensely proud of. It didn’t matter whether you were Buddhist, Hindu or Muslim, among others. What mattered most, and what was the foundation of how one was brought up, was the overarching Sri Lankan culture, into which we melded.
Sri Lanka, perhaps like most countries, is a hybrid of rigid conservatism and surprising liberalism. Discrimination between the sexes is radically lower than in most developed countries, our literacy rate is higher than 92%, and last year the Sri Lankan stock market recorded the highest levels of growth in the world. We’ve had a civil war that has ravaged the island and its people for over twenty-six years; we’ve been world champions in cricket; we have an overall personality that is as gregarious as it is colourful. If this sounds like I’m bragging, I assure you I’m not, because amidst this vibrant background, we follow some of the most hypocritical policies regarding the culture of sex.
I’m not going to go into statistics and census reports; these are facts that any online search can give you. But hard facts rarely describe lifestyles; they only provide ideas. Statistics show you the huge increase in foreign investments that have cascaded on the island after the war: a lot of these are being invested in top-notch hospitals. What statistics do not show you is that women can never walk into a pharmacy and buy condoms: disapproving looks will follow and a reluctant cashier will ring up your purchase, as though he is committing an act of villainy by going through with the transaction. Statistics do not show you that if you go to a gynecologist for a regular checkup, your mother has every right to be in the room with you, even if you are above 18 years of age. Marital status carries more weight in consultation rooms than medical needs. I’m sorry if I sound bitter, but this is the tone of a country that is trying to move forward, and yet holds itself back on the grounds of archaic values. A single woman is not allowed to have a full physical checkup on the grounds that she is not married; apparently, this guarantees she has not had anything to do with sex. Tampons, too, are frowned upon as a western convention that defies eastern values of propriety and virginity, an argument that is as difficult to sustain, as it is intolerable to hear. If one walks out of a GP’s office with pamphlets on birth control, this is considered indecent: the pamphlets have to be put into one’s handbag, and the medication must be consumed subtly. I think the problem is that people cannot decide which is worse: sex signs being seen everywhere (such as the scandal of lube, perhaps), or the embarrassing lack of sexual awareness with which we raise our children.
In Sri Lanka, sex is almost like myth: if you pretend it’s not there, it goes away. And yet, unwanted pregnancies happen too often; too often to be the “off-chance.” Under their saris, and western attire, Sri Lankan women are strong-willed and educated: they know the pros and cons of sex; they know the precautions they are supposed to take. But there is no backup system: we do not have Planned Parenthood (with or without cut funding); abortion is still illegal; one cannot idle in front of the “safe-sex” areas in pharmacies (if they even have one) without being labeled as ‘loose.’ My introduction to contraceptives was in a Biology textbook when I was 15; it was one, 40-minute class, and most of the contraceptives listed weren’t even available on the island. The next time I was exposed to such a variety of ‘appliances’ was on my RA’s door, during my freshman year of college. Needless to say, my mother pretended she saw nothing.
To be honest, I can claim no bravado in this suddenly open world of sexual license. While I am writing about the unfortunate sex situation in the country, it is inculcated in me more than I can help. I’m still getting used to forcing myself to keep a straight face when, every time I go to Health Services, they ask me quite nonchalantly if I’m pregnant, and if I’ve had morning sickness (they are just checking, apparently). The mortified look on my face doesn’t ever put them off. When, during a sex fair, a kind, middle-aged lady asked me if I knew how to use what looked like a condom vending machine, I blushed immeasurably, rooted to the spot, and quite suddenly became mute, both, due to the fascination I felt in the face of this invention, and in complete horror at her thinking I’d even need to know how to use it.
But our attitudes will change. Perhaps the complete acceptance of a young-adult population involved in sexual activities will be fully embraced as Sri Lanka develops into what is the modern notion of the ‘first world.’ And perhaps, when we are older, we will see how much the country has progressed and the consequences, good and bad, that come with that progression.
However, there is something to be said about a culture that values its customs and that does not give into mainstream Sex and the City notions, however addictive they may be. There is something to be said about a country that is open in economy, trade and society but clams up the minute sexual activity becomes a factor in the equation. I like to believe it’s because of love: the love a parent has for a child that prevents them from seeing just how much he/she has matured; the love that refuses to let them go because they do not know where the adventure may lead. Love is sometimes constricting, but it is done in one’s best interests and so, sometimes, we accept. In some sense, I am a little disappointed in my acceptance. At the same time, if I were to parade around Colombo, or a rural village, in one of those renowned “Consexual Sex is Hot” t-shirts, I wouldn’t feel Sri Lankan. Perhaps it is because it is not the right place or the right time, and, despite all one’s grievances, it wouldn’t do to hurt one’s family.
In researching for this article, I came across the following commercial by Trojan, and I didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified at how advertising could be so completely ignorant. Eventually, I decided to stop being such a stickler, and just enjoy the ad for what it was— I hope you do too. Let me just take pride in saying that: (a) Sri Lanka does not have the savages depicted, (b) it is still an island, as the ad fails to notice, (c) its men, however handsome they may be, do not look like Hispanic film stars, however good-looking they may be, and (d) women do not dress like sexualized objects of the past Orient. Nonetheless, I did have a good chuckle. We don’t have condom advertisements in Sri Lanka; I doubt they are legal.