Looking Back in Anger and Grief

Looking Back in Anger and Grief
… at July 1983

Years and years ago, when I was a young undergraduate of 25 years or so, getting ready to sit for my final year examination at Kelaniya University, a set of calamitous events occurred… Calamitous in a way for myself alone, but in a way, that was to have repercussions for whole of Lanka. For one horrific day, in July 1983, a bomb went off in Jaffna that left thirteen soldiers dead … with almost no body parts at all left that were identifiable in any real sense, but only mangled flesh mixed with scraps of iron, etc. that were secretly brought to Colombo as thirteen body bags filled with God knew whose body parts, and cremated with equal secrecy and even more urgency (so as to preclude riots, it was said) … according to the rumour mills set in motion within the space of a few hours … And believe me, riots did occur here, especially in the Kiribathgoda-Kelaniya area AND at our Kelaniya Campus here … with such unbelievable ferocity, and such mindless malevolence, on a scale of violence, that I in my then still short life had never experienced before.

People whom I thought I knew well, suddenly seemed to have changed overnight into monsters of depravity and ill-begotted bigots of possibly the worst kind. In vain I tried to tell some of my batch-mates, instructors etc. that it was simply not fair that the crimes of some ‘loony terrorist (or group of terrorists)’ up somewhere in the North should not be expiated by the blood and tears of Tamils here … (or those suspected to have ‘some Tamil blood’ – and who among us in fact can claim to be one hundred percent free of that dread ‘Tamil blood’, etc. – even if they were to take very expensive (and possibly unfeasible DNA tests – which in any case, were simply not available anywhere else in the wide world over). The world seemed to have suddenly gone mad, though mind you, it was really only a small percentage who were the actual inciters of that terrifying mob-violence, though a good deal more seemed to go along with it, either out of sheer stupidity, gullibility or whatever! And some, I suspect, simply out of fear, fear of what those self-styled ‘saviours of the Sinhalese’ would do to them, if they too did not join in … among whom perhaps, a few who quite knowingly had a some drops of that hated Tamil blood, but whose names and fluency in speaking Sinhala passed muster here… It was a case of ‘Join in with us, or you will be regarded as a traitor!” you see… But for those whose command of Sinhala slipped away with fright or those who were ‘known’ to be Tamil, no such luck held. And not only, ‘Tamil proper’ perhaps, but some of those who still chose to go as Burgher, rather than either Sinhala or Tamil, or even Muslim, simply for the very good reason that they could not speak proper Sinhala – especially when stressed. And a few who were killed, raped or maimed, might in fact have been ‘perfectly good Sinhalese’ who were simply handicapped by a tendency to stammer.

But for me, it was particularly painful, for I knew for certain that the daughter of a first cousin of my mother’s who had managed to fall in love with a Tamil at the University and then married him, was too then a third year student – having entered our university at the same time as myself. Though Moira and I did not meet often at the University here, she being in the Arts stream, and I in Science, I did happen to like (and respect) her quite a lot – as I think, did she, me. And her sister Tara having been with my sister’s classmate at Visakha in later years, as well as being a fairly close friend of my sister’s later on while there, made all the difference. In a way, Tara’s religious difficulties were a source of amusement to all of us in a way, and which was how our relationship came to light, because it seemed that while Tara’s mother was a practising Buddhist, as far as her close kin on her father’s side went, some chose to be Hindu while others were devout Christians – with her father apparently that not much bothered. And in a way, they were not the only Tamil/Burgher kin we had … though as far as I knew, none graced the campus here, then.

More important, before coming to campus, I had chosen to follow some accountancy classes at a place called Oxonia, which at that time seemed to be mostly Tamil owned, as well as having Tamil lecturers, clerks, etc. as the majority half of their staff. In fact, I think, there was a relatively high percentage of Tamils among the students too there, qualifying in accountancy being particularly a craze among Tamils still then – which was why I suppose, Tamils liked to boast of their numerical skills, irrespective of whatever other actual occupation or course of study they chose to follow. In a way, not only did I gain quite a lot from my ‘stay’ in Oxonia, but in fact, quite enjoyed the process – except for the really hard part of it all, namely totting up accounts! But thanks for Mr. Nallathuan for instance (who had this really awful habit of coming up behind you unexpectedly, and shouting in your ear, “Miss, what is a Debit?”), I did manage to grasp the fundamental principles underlying good accounting and account-keeping, as well as more exoteric applications such as in the field of Auditing and Law – particularly Commercial Law … I was always treated well there, as was my mother when she sometimes came to fetch me when classes ended later than six in the evening. And surely those guys in the ‘office’ were perfectly well aware that I then spoke not one word of Tamil, or even understood it, nor could decipher a single letter of the Tamil alphabet! Yet, they treated me well, with uniform courtesy and even kindness.

But most of all what pained me in those awful first hours of the Black July riots, was why ‘everybody’ had to behave either like craven cowards or perfect beasts. With horror, I listened to the tales of a doctor being burnt alive in Kribathgoda, a poor young Tamil man being first beaten-up and then tied to a lamppost and held captive without so much as a drop of water .. till he died. When I asked, why no one did anything about it, I met with responses ranging from “What can we do, Darling? If we try to remonstrate, we also might get killed…”, “It is good that the Tamils be thought a little lesson”, “All the Tamils must be killed and dumped in the sea!”

Yet, what was it that the Buddha is supposed to have said in the Wasala Sutraya - my favourite of them all, though I never could manage to remember the entire text of even that in Paali! “One is not noble by the mere fact of one’s birth. Nor is one ignoble by the mere fact birth. One can be deemed noble (or good) only his/her actions. One can be deemed ignoble (or evil) only his/her actions.”

Yet, some of those self-proclaimed saviours of Buddhism and the Sinhala Cause, were acting quite opposite to our Buddha’s advice. They were advocating violent treatment and disposal of Tamils, for that crime done in far-off Jaffna. It was frighteningly far too much like Hitler’s treatment of the Jews in Nazi Germany in the 1930-s. It was not for nothing perhaps, that the “Diary of Anne Frank” left such a lasting indelible impression on my mind from the time I first read it as a young girl of twelve or thirteen while on a visit to one of my aunts. I had also managed to read (and re-read, often and often) books like the “Rise and Fall of the Third Reich”, “Ivanhoe” by Walter Scott, and “The Lord of the Rings” by Tolkien … which in a way had impressed on my young mind somewhat in a way that was not quite on par with the ‘campus tradition’ here. There was a code of honour even among thieves, I believed, and that laws of honour and chivalry were not something to be easily set aside, save by those who were truly evil. And somewhere or the other, I had got hold of the notion that the promptings one’s heart and conscience is not to be easily set – even in the face of man-made law … or still less, man-made edict!

True, some obscure terrorist group had killed quite a lot of our soldiers (and 13 was quite a lot them I believe) in far-off Jaffna … but in a way, up till then, even the only assassination I had heard by the Liberation Tigers or whatever of Eeelam then was only that unfortunate SLFP mayor of Jaffna, Mr. Alfred Duriyappa. And even in the election of 1977, some of the MPs returned from the North and almost all from the East, were from the so-called ‘National Parties’. As for soldiers being killed – even by a bunch of lunatic goons or terrorists as I thought of them then, it was part of the occupational hazards of being a soldier. And soldiers, I believed, drew far higher amount by way of salaries, emoluments, etc. than those in other jobs, holding similar academic qualifications – unless they happened to be running their own business for instance. And I for one could not see, how the crimes of one set of persons, should make it right that another kindred group (perhaps – but who seemingly had no hand in that crime by that first group) be made to pay for that sin! Something, that made, ‘the logic defy the sense’! What some people (as I learnt only very much later).

So, I did the unthinkable, and tried to sort of effect a way of thinking in a reverse direction.

And as I passed near a door to a classroom in the Science Bock, close to the gate, a young man whom I had on occasion met with and talked (and argued) with in the library hailed me. I was just the person he wanted to see, he said. Though I had my reservations about Socialism, Tamilism and all the other various causes here, he said, had I not often told that in my eyes, all human beings are equal and should be treated so, before the eye of Man, not only God? (Even if I was not quite sure what exactly my religion was, any more than what my political stance should be!) There were some frightened Tamils there inside the classroom. He had a car, and could drive fast, very fast – but could not possibly take them all in it at once. Anybody left behind, would be at the mercy of those armed lunatics – and some were even children, not just women. This classroom had an exit at the back too, and he possessed both keys. He could lock them in from both sides (and the doors were strong), but for how long the air inside would hold he could not be sure, say for a couple hours maybe, most six. And if he failed to fetch help in time, all might die of suffocation … The roads were still passable, but would the nearest police-station oblige for help. He just did not know, for the telephone lines were cut. So, could I keep one key, and stay close at hand, listening to any possible cry of distress (say a tap), ready to let them out, and take a chance with the mobs, though surely if so, only a few would survive – but at least a few. But if I could stand guard, that is hover close at hand (though for obvious reasons not too close), and if he manages to come back with help in time, they might all be saved. I might have looked frightened, for I was well aware that I was putting my life on line or even risking more, but he held my hand, and said, “Please! Shakthie will flow from me to you – that will help you to face whatever problem or viscitiude that may ensue. Please help us. Please help me to save my people!” So, I obliged.

He did come back with help on time, though I had to dissemble a bit with some of my esteemed ‘colleagues’. I didn’t have to really do anything then, for he let out the people trapped inside from the backside … and I went home quietly with my father, much later. But I did not know what to do with that wretched key. It was in a way, campus property, and very likely they had a spare key. Still, I felt that I somehow had to make an effort to return it. Besides was it safe for our family to keep it at home. In a way, my father did not know. He had told me vaguely, that some ‘campus people’ had advised him to tell me that I should not trouble with things that were not my concern, and I in turn had somewhat sharply retorted that I never meddled with things that were not my concern. But somewhat foolishly perhaps, a day or two later, I took my lunch wrapper (which I usually just took back home inside my ‘lunchbox’ for Ammie to dispose of) and threw it into a dustbin … and along with it, the ‘key’. Perhaps some of those bloody ‘nationalists’ kept a watch, and in any case that wretched key make a ‘plonk’ as it fell inside the metal dustbin. I saw someone going in and looking in the dustbin… He rummaged inside, and trumphently held out the key to me? “How did this key get in here?” I knew cold fear then. But what could I do. “How do I know?” I said with as much calm as I could muster. “It was not there before.” He repeated. “How did it get in here now, just after you threw in the remains of your lunch there inside – something which in a way, you usually never do…” “I don’t know. Perhaps you did not look right, that first time. Anyway, I never looked. I don’t have to rummage inside dustbins. We have enough food at home.” “Perhaps you might have to rummage in dustbins sometime in the future, to find something to eat… You need being taught a lesson.” I said nothing.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have back-talked like that. Even if I was very angry. For I had helped some of my classmates quite a lot – not by money exactly, because my parents did not believe in our having a lot of pocket money to throw about or flaunt to others (even if they put by money in our name at the bank) … but with books, and assistance in kind, mine and my father’s. I had freely given of my time, not only in explaining some subtle point which somebody or other found it difficult to grasp. (Though mind you, not everybody was interested in arguing out over more subtle points relating to math or philosophy or even as to lighter shades of humour with reference to something like ‘private ownership’ or ‘how much is enough for being enough?’) I have also at times assisted people in filling forms, finding out as to who was eligible to receive bursaries, Mahapola Scholarships etc. And when by chance, some wise guy in my batch discovered that I had some proficiency in English,, and indeed liked to waste time over reading storybooks written in English, I was at times roped in to help with some ‘pariwarthana’ work … sometimes even not quite with my full assent, when it was manifestedly clear that it was political propaganda that I was being asked to translate! Though when one boy in my batch who showed an equal interest with mine, to discuss the ramifications inherent in the internal ‘politics’, strife and beliefs in that little Italian village of Don Camelio’s… my private beliefs and opinions regarding the then political, economical implications of JR’s Dharmishta Government, the Open Economy and many others … including my profound conviction that “Absolute Power Leads to Absolute Corruption!” He was the one who seemed most to share my conviction, a proof by any method than the teacher’s, is also right, provided that it is correct and not overtly long (say running for about 200 pages, or even 20 – such as one or two given out by some of our esteemed tutors – long, tedious and infinitely dull!) Maybe owing to that reason, my batchmate to whom I still believe that I owe a good deal), was the one most given to ask to borrow books off me (mostly my father’s actually) that dealt with Math or Physics – but not belonging that cram-book category “Schaum’s Outline Series” much beloved both by my classmates in general and by some of our more tedious and dull lecturers. He also once persuaded me to loan my beloved “Lord of the Rings” for the duration of the Holidays, though I somewhat doubtfully told him that its language to say the least, bordered on both the difficult and the archaic! I liked him a lot, though I secretly suspected that my friend just might be more partial to the JVP, than me …simply giving Comrade Rohana Wijeyweera my first preference vote on the theory that old JR (though possibly less ruinous to the country than his then main rival Hector Kobbekaduwa of the SLFP). As for my query, as to just on the off-chance, “supposing that clot [i.e. Wijeyweera] were to win overall by some mischance? And his system of governance was to prove even worse than Mrs. Bandaranayake’s last government [My opinion then, mind you]?” he had a simple and profoundly elegant answer (to my mind at least): “We wait the five years or whatever it takes … and then kick out those fellows too!” An opinion with which I have over the years felt faith in: “Don’t be a party follower, still less a camp follower … At each election, evaluate everybody, not simply going by any (possibly empty) promises given, but by their past record as well … not simply by the party, but the individuals concerned who happen to be the ones actually running for office at the present … and take the course of action, which you feel is of least demerit to not only to yourself alone, but to the entire country as well. Even if it simply boils down to choosing the best out of a bad lot! Or even worse, simply making do with the least bad out of a really awful lot!”

My Tamil friend with the Burgher sounding name (actually German-like) though was more of an idealist and crank. We had endless arguments (mostly silently as regards to others – for this was a game we liked to play, having found out that when close at hand, we could literally ‘think at each other’) … not only over philosophy and political philosophy, but I think, over as to what construed good poetry. And to this day, I maintain, that Ezra Pound is a profoundly difficult poet to understand … certainly not by silly girls like yours truly! He also took a dim view of my stated belief that there was not much point in my marrying anybody who wanted children out of me, for the very good reason that in my infinite wisdom (and profound lack of judgement), had on my thirteenth birthday, asked a boon from the Kataragama God that no man may be able to foist his children on me – as an extreme measure seeking protection from the ‘loving attentions’ of an extremely arrogant and utterly odious cousin with whom it was my misfortune (and that of my sister’s) to be under the same roof as him, owing to the fact that all three of us happened to be boarded at my maternal grandparents at that time, owing to various family contingencies… But though we argued a lot, we agreed upon some fundamental issues, which was why I suppose that he picked on me as his ‘accomplice’ in that blessed rescue operation of his. And that, and the fact that we could tele-communicate over a short distance at least, which left my other ‘campus friends’ somewhat baffled and suspicious … but unable to tell what we were doing, gazing a little at each other, except for that one brief instant of his hand taking mine. And as per instructions, he managed to pass the key to me undetected by the others, and I managed to throw off those bloodhounds’ scent both regarding as to the direction as to which he took … and that I had the key in my bag, in spite of some effort by them to search it. And for some men, I suppose, being thwarted in their will, is like a slap across their ruddy cheeks! Which was why, I suppose that some of those beasts got together, and first made a monstrous charge on me, that was not only trumped up, but wholly impossible… and then heaped one calumny over another on me… though I am dammed sure, that none of them here, was not one bit JVP in the real sense… Though some of my baiters, I knew, projected themselves as leftist Kultarrs, while others apparently believed that held some clout with the UNP (perhaps because it was the party in power then – the Ruling Party, so as to speak! And many of them had at one time or the other, within that last term or so, professed to ‘love’ me … a ‘love’ that I believe, I could easily have done without … even before those awful moments … seeing as to they also demanded heavy payment in ‘dowry’ (even if by extorting what little immovable property my parents possessed)… The only person during that time to make an acceptable proposal to me, being some blood idiots who helped with my math in the library, while giving me a taste of poetry that really appealed to me! (Only thing, I did not then realise, that those bloody ‘fast’ idiots also had some links with the police, though apparently they had not simply been ‘making up’ to me in order to make it easier for themselves to keep me under surveillance!)

And while circumstances also dealt against me a loaded hand, apparently my Tamil friend with the Burgher name (Roach or Roch) had turned up at a police-station later, and tried to explain on my behalf. But unfortunately for both myself and him, his name too had been on two ‘wanted lists’ for people deemed to be having suspected terrorist links or dangerous subversive leanings (though this time in a very different context) or whatever, and had been detained for sometime and held incommunicado or whatever… While I had seemingly obtained the somewhat dubious distinction of being branded both as a ‘police informer’ (courtesy my campus ‘friends’), AND as being a suspected JVP terrorist of the highest order plus being the girlfriend, confidante or whatever of a somewhat woolly-headed and wholly impractical revolutionary leader – who at heart, I am still convinced, cared more for the comforts of hearth and home than planning messy revolutions that go dreadfully wrong … especially if it meant swotting out in the jungle in pretty awful conditions!

But those other bloodhounds at ‘our campus’, were simply out for my blood. Or rather, baying for it, in fact. They little understood, that “There was a door to which they had no key… A veil through which they could not see… Because for me, there was no ‘Thou or me’, but only just ‘Thou and me!’”

Yes, I had to pay. I had to pay for what I did. But I still feel that I had acted right then – ‘before God’, if not Man. And no true Buddhist, I believed, would advocate that sins of fathers be visited on their sons, or distant kinsmen. And that according to what the Buddha taught, ones evil deeds shall surely give rise to disastrous consequences – as it proved in the event. For in that single space of 48 hours or so, when Tamils were driven out of home, looted of their possessions, murdered or raped or both, Prabhakaran received a massive boost – by way of ammunition, funds, cadres and even willing cannon-fodder AND a volunteer corps of suicide-bombers who having literally lost everything, was solely out for revenge –even if they acted a bit like those self-same mobsters who had deprived them of their honour and loved ones so long ago in that Black July of 1983.

But I on my part was made to pay – a price which I did not envisaged even in my wildest dreams of fear and apprehension on that first night after my bit in that ‘rescue operation’. In a way, because fate (and perhaps some human-being or beings) took a hand, and made me forget in a way most of those painfulest experiences .. helped me to survive with both my sanity and own sense of worth and honour intact … and still make something of myself, even though I daresay that the love and the care of someone who seem to have watched over me from afar (as far as he could, seeing as to that he was a police officer supposed to be doing his official duties, impartially without concern for his private feelings,) but that is not the issue. For some of those who were literally baying for Tamil blood then, are also now some of the biggest apologists for ‘Peace’ and giving-into Prabhakaran at whatever cost to our country or honour. (Though how Prabhakaran can stomach such help-kaarayas, I can’t but help wonder.) And yet they had not really changed colours. Even very recently, I had come under attack, for my supposed inability to speak Sinhala properly when under stress … and even more so for my ‘Tamil blood’ even if only a few wee drops, and my Tamil relations (quite a few!!!), and most of all for still being a ‘Tamil lover’.

Yet, in spite of everything, I know in my secret heart, I still might end up doing the same thing, even if given ‘a second chance’ or faced with similar circumstances all over again. And this brings me to the crux of my problem. Yesterday or the day before, I chanced to see a picture in one of the English papers, that filled me with much sadness. A picture of a girl child – a survivor of the latest massacare at Welikanda (by the LTTE) – who had lost her father then, being consoled by her aunt – who did not look that much old, herself! Two young girls, one a child, the other not much more, looking helpless and forlorn, at things beyond their control. Was it for this that I risked all? To be made to pay a price that went beyond even giving up my very life… To be violated and shorn of my dignity, not once, not twice even – but many times – even at the hands of a man who truly loved me – though even as he did so, I could see and feel the pain in his heart … And in a way, my policeman friend and his relatives did for me in trying to persuade me to tell the whereabouts of Rohana Wijeweera – something on which that I possibly could not have enlightened them, even if I wanted to, was nothing in comparison to what those other bastards (even if born in ‘lawful wedlock’) did to me!

Was it for this that I was unable to marry a person who appealed to me (and have children by him – even if it was really a ‘them’)? That I have endured (and still continue to endure) taunts by some of my esteemed colleagues (and ‘bosses’), among others? Do we want to be like as in Rwanda, go on killing each other, till half the populace is gone? I appeal to you, those among you who still can think for themselves and feel for others, and not only in terms of greed and satisfying one’s lust for power and other things ... Who will think of in terms of what it swill be like for their children, if they survive till tomorrow? You be the judge.

Priyanthi Wickramasuriya.
09 Jun 2006