Celebrating women’s voices: The Sister Library opens in Colombo
The Sister Library recently opened its doors at the Lakmahal Community Library in Colombo.
This initiative, led by Indigenous artist Aqui Thami, highlights the contributions of women in art, literature, and zine culture, creating a space for exploration and engagement.
The launch event featured a thought-provoking conversation between Aqui Thami and co-founder of Everystory Sri Lanka, Widya Kumarasinghe. Attendees were treated to a reading performance by Clutch Plays.
Sister Library is not your typical library; it is an evolving, generative artwork dedicated to honouring and celebrating female creativity. This initiative aims to foster an inclusive community engagement, encouraging deeper reflections on the visual and reading cultures of our time. By housing works by women writers, artists, and zine makers, Sister Library creates a nurturing environment for diverse voices and stories to flourish.
The project is part of a larger mission that will see Sister Library travelling across Sri Lanka this year, bringing along a program of workshops, performances, talks, and readings. Its first stop, the Lakmahal Community Library, will welcome the public during regular hours, inviting everyone to experience the wealth of resources and creativity it has to offer.
Rooted in the belief that art and literature can create diverse and inclusive connections, Sister Library provides a platform for women to share their stories and perspectives. It invites visitors to not only appreciate female artistic achievements but also participate in a larger conversation about the significance of women in the creative realm.
Realised in partnership with Everystory Sri Lanka, Sister Library has garnered support from the Goethe-Institut, Alliance Française de Colombo, and the Embassy of France in Sri Lanka, with funding from the Franco-German Cultural Fund.
As Sister Library opens its doors, it invites everyone to explore, celebrate, and engage with the incredible contributions of women in culture.
At What Dark Point
Every morning I see him
sitting in speckled shade
of blossom laden araliya tree
which I planted many years ago
in my garden, and it branches now
have spread in our lane.
Under my tree in a shadow of silence
he sit, and with log skeletal hands
sorts of strands from a tangle of juten fibres
and twisting, twisting makes a rope
that grows. And grows. Each day.
Every morning I pass him. He sits
in the golden – haze brightness under
my tree. Sits
on the edge of his silence twisting
his lengthening rope and
watching me.
And seeing him sit day after day,
sinister, silent, twisting his rope
to a future purpose of evilness
I sense the charred-wood smell again
Stained glass exploding in the flames
(a firework of fractured glass
against the black November sky)
the streets deserted, all doors shut
at twelve o’ clock at night, and running with animal fear
between high houses shuttered tight
the jackboot ringing hard and clear
while stalking with the lust for blood.
I can still hear
the ironed heel – its echoing thud-
and still can taste the cold-winter-taste
of charred-wood-midnight-fear
knowing
that nothing is impossible
that nothing is impossible
that anything is possible
that there is no safety
in words or houses
that boundaries are theoretical
and love is relative
to the choice before you.
I know that anything is impossible
anytime. There is no safety
in poems or music or even in
Philosophy. No safety
in houses or temples
of any faith.
And no one knows
at what dark point the time will come again
blood and knives, terror and pain
of jackboots and twisted strand of rope
And the impress of a child’s small hand
paroxysmic mark on an oven wall
scratched death mark on an oven wall
is my child’s hand.
– Anne Ranasinghe
Traditional
I was seven when
I first saw my uncle
kick his pregnant wife, hard.
In the stomach.
It was Avurudu and
festive times were upon us
Dropping him at his house
because he couldn’t drive on his own
Waiting in the car
until he made it through the door which
opened
and his wife came
outside
expressing disappointment
at his inebriation
My father swore
slipped out of the driver’s seat
and pulled him off
my screaming aunt
and punched him in the face. He went flat
out.
Bleeding from the nose.
He had been named
for a notorious Italian dictator
and much was always blamed on that.
Inside the house,
the milk heated at the auspicious hour
had boiled over signifying abundance
and was still warm
in the pot.
– Vivimarie VanderPoorten
