Dr Sarath Obeysekera

There are journeys that shape a man’s career—and then there are journeys that shape his entire philosophy of life. Mine began in the austere yet intellectually rich environment of the former Soviet Union.

As a young Sri Lankan engineer, I found myself under the guidance of remarkable academics, including my mentor, Professor Dr. Kosobkov—a Jewish Russian scholar of exceptional depth and discipline. Among his colleagues was a colourful junior lecturer, Basnyayski, another Jewish intellectual -a man who had a peculiar way of expressing himself. His frequent use of the phrase eeyop thaiyoo  math”—a strange blend of Russian slang—was both amusing and intimidating. It was not something one would find in any textbook, but rather a reflection of the raw, human side of Soviet academia.

Yet beneath that rough exterior was a man of immense kindness.

I still remember how he once drove me, a foreign student, to the Kalshdkaya natural gas storage facility near Moscow. This was no small gesture in those days. The Soviet system was rigid—foreigners were not supposed to travel freely without proper clearance. He was later reprimanded for this act of kindness. But to me, it revealed something deeper about the people I encountered there: a quiet generosity that often existed beneath a strict political system.

Years later, I heard that Basnyayski had fallen into trouble—accused of fraudulent subcontracting practices in Siberia, billing the state for workers who never existed. It was a sad reminder that even brilliant individuals can falter under pressure.

Despite such incidents, my connection with my professors remained strong. Dr. Kosobkov stayed in touch with me long after I left. These were not just teachers—they were mentors who invested in their students with sincerity.

One of my professors, a quiet genius, had even contributed to the design of the drive system of the Lunokhod program—the Soviet Union’s pioneering robotic vehicles sent to the moon. To be taught by such individuals was an honour that shaped my technical foundation for life.

Before the era of Perestroika, I returned to Moscow briefly while working in the Norwegian sector of the North Sea oil industry. During that visit, I delivered a lecture to Russian students on modern Western technologies. It was my way of giving back to a system that had given me so much.

But the world outside was changing.

Western management—particularly American—viewed my actions with suspicion. In the tense atmosphere of the Cold War, even an academic exchange could be misinterpreted. I was quietly branded as a spy.” It was both ironic and painful. I had no political motive—only a desire to share knowledge.

Soon after, I distanced myself from Russia and never returned.

My professional journey, however, continued across Europe and Scandinavia, particularly in the demanding oil and gas sectors of the North Sea. Years of practical experience, combined with the rigorous theoretical training I received in the Soviet Union, allowed me to grow into leadership roles. Eventually, I returned to Sri Lanka and took on responsibilities that included running a shipbuilding company and managing teams of highly qualified chartered engineers.

And yet, the greatest irony awaited me at home.

Despite decades of international experience, I was unable to obtain membership in the Institution of Engineers Sri Lanka without sitting for their basic Part I and II examinations. It mattered little that I had worked on complex engineering projects across continents or led organizations at the highest level. The system required formal compliance, not lived expertise.

I never obtained that membership.

It remains, to this day, a quiet disappointment.

But life has its own way of balancing recognition and purpose. While institutions may withhold titles, experience itself becomes the ultimate credential. I had the privilege of learning from some of the finest minds in the Soviet Union, working on world-class projects in Europe, and contributing to Sri Lanka’s industrial landscape.

No examination can measure that journey.

This is not a story of regret—but of reflection.

A reminder that knowledge, once gained, cannot be taken away… even if recognition sometimes is.

Regards

Dr Sarath Obeysekera