Years later in 2007 I met a man at a birthday party who impressed me very much. Upali Sirimalwatta had been living in Vienna for 31 years and was working at the United Nations. After the tsunami hit he went on sabbatical for six months in order to establish an aid organization for his home country Sri Lanka. Since then he has returned again and again. He told me about the island in the Indian Ocean and about its fascinatingly beautiful natural landscape that contrasts so strikingly to the still very difficult political and economic situation in the country.
This small, thin man with warm eyes had a very special kind of energy and spoke to me with such an enthusiasm of his project in Sri Lanka that I definitely wanted to see him again. We made arrangements for additional meetings where he showed me pictures and told me about his work there. Now in retirement he was spending the majority of the year in Sri Lanka. He told me that it was not just the terrible tsunami, but also the civil war raging from 1983 to 2009 in the northern part of the country between the Tamil separatists and the Singhalese majority, who dominate the remainder of the country, a war with extremely serious consequences even today. Hundreds and thousands had lost their homes, and there were innumerable victims of torture and abuse, he told me.
In areas that are less developed for tourism grinding poverty is prevalent even today. There is very little infrastructure, and healthcare provision is rudimentary. Mothers and children bear the main brunt of the situation. The few outpatient clinics and hospitals had very few beds, if any at all, and they primarily took in only children. In Sri Lanka mothers would never allow themselves to be separated from their children if they had not reached a certain age. The precarious situation in the hospitals meant that they preferred to stay at home with their sick children so that they would not have to leave them alone in the hospitals. This is part of the reason that child mortality was so incredibly high in a number of regions.
I had absolutely no idea how desperate the situation was and how catastrophic the hygienic conditions really were until he showed me a number of pictures and videos taken during his most recent visit. The photographs and video clips showed a small decrepit building with crumbling plaster, and out in front a long line of people. The elderly, mothers with children, the sick. The interior images showed a large room with prominent mould stains everywhere. In between there were a couple of rusty metal beds that had once been painted white long ago. In an adjacent shed a couple of women were working on the ground next to an open fire. Above the burning wood was a steaming pot with an unidentified kind of food. This was the hospital kitchen, Upali informed me.
Hospital? I asked him where the medical equipment and the treatment rooms were. Or at least rooms that were worthy of those descriptions. He thumbed through the photographs and put some on the table in front of me. And antediluvian blood pressure measuring device, some bandages, a stethoscope, and oxygen tank, a couple of dark glass jars with dried roots or herbs. The worst was the delivery room. No European woman would want to give birth to her child there.
The hospital had an enormous catchment area. Most of the people who came here were rice farmers and manual labourers who worked on the large tea and rubber plantations. I tried to listen to what Upali was saying, but my eyes were drawn again and again to the photographs. I wondered how people living in such an environment were supposed to recover their health. When he told me that due to the limited amount of space new mothers were shown the door or separated from their babies even after high risk births, I made up my mind. I wanted to become active in Sri Lanka. Because the situation faced by the infants, toddlers and their mothers touched me I wanted to provide the appropriate funding so that a hospital ward could be set up especially for them. In Bulathsinghala in the Kalutara district, just adjacent to the old building that I had seen in Upali’s photographs.
Because it‘s important not to offer help “from on high” by quickly sending an injection of funding from abroad that could disappear somewhere down the dark channels of corrupt bureaucracy, I asked Upali for help. He had connections and knew how the local authorities worked, what the local population needed and how to involve them. The aim was to respectfully share, not to patronize. In the end we decided to build a new hospital building with 25 inpatient beds, a building that could provide outpatient healthcare to up to 50,000 people a year. Upali would be on-site in Bulathsinghala, coordinating the construction work with an architect and report back to me on a regular basis. It was my wish that every cent would be used to benefit the local population and that the entire project could have a positive long-term effect on the area. The brick making machine purchased at the time for the project is still in operation. Many locals have found a job there, initially on the construction sites, and later in the hospital. In the meantime, a new housing development has even grown up around the hospital area.
After about a year of construction the building was ready. On 9 October 2011 I boarded the plane from Vienna to Colombo at around 11 PM to travel 7,450 km, with one stopover in Dubai, my longest trip to date. I was excited, and also a bit unsure of what I could expect there. What would the climate be like? With mosquitoes really as terrible as everyone said? How would I handle the packed itinerary and all of the meetings? Could I handle the strong sun, meeting so many strange people from a strange culture? I still have the utmost respect when meeting people who had suffered a fate that we fortunately could no longer imagine ever since Europe has been at peace.
In addition to the ceremonial inauguration of the Natascha Kampusch Children’s Ward in Bulathsinghala, we were also planning to travel to northern Sri Lanka, to the area where the civil war had been fought. Together with a group of young people from the Austrian youth organization “Jugend Eine Welt – Don Bosco Aktion Österreich” I first wanted to visit a facility for victims of abuse in Uswetakeiyawa. The Bosco Sevana home housed around 80 boys between the ages of 11 and 19 who had been sexually abused “in the name of love”. They had worked as so-called “beach boys”, selling their bodies to paedophile sex tourists.
After another stopover north of Colombo at the Don Bosco Technical Centre, a school and training centre for orphans and underprivileged children, we were to head north to the formerly autonomous Tamil region. A home in Vavuniya provided refuge and professional medical care to girls, some who were former child soldiers and some who were war orphans, aged 10 to 24 years. Over half of them were war invalids, injured by grenade shrapnel and mines, making them dependent on regular medical care. Much more serious, however, were their psychological injuries. The traumatic experience of war, violence and abuse had impacted them for their entire lives. They were forced to watch as their parents and relatives were killed and/or lost their homes, and some of them were forced to fight in the guerrilla war on the side of the Tamil separatists. Fear, apathy and depression had become a constant companion for many of these children and adolescents. Many of them had been kidnapped or left behind when their families fled in panic, or remained as the only survivors after an attack. Not all of them viewed the end of the civil war as liberation. A feeling of renewed loss was mixed in with their happiness. Chiefly, it was a loss of their family and their close environment, then the loss of their rebel units or the violent military leader who decided whether they lived or died. Now they were faced with nothing.
I knew that meeting these women and girls would be an experience that would absolutely push me to my limits in many respects. I did not know what would be like to be confronted with what they had experienced. There were parallels, although the circumstances were completely different. There were wounds that could be seen, and wounds that festered beneath the surface. It was like confronting a nightmare. Up to 7,000 children and adolescents are said to have been deployed as fighters and coerced into killing during the civil war in Sri Lanka that lasted over 20 years. A lost generation.
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First of all I had to grapple with other concerns. Everybody had told me that when the door to the ice co
ld arrivals hall of the Bandaranaike International Airport opened, it would be like crashing into a wall of hot air and unbelievable humidity, as if somebody were throwing a bucket of water on you. I was surprised that I found the climate rather pleasant, a kind of gentle indoor swimming pool feel on my skin. So I was able to cross off number one on my list of concerns. Number two, mosquitoes and possibly malaria, was crossed off in the minibus that was already waiting for us. The mosquitoes were not so terrible that time of year, said the driver grinning broadly.
Colombo itself was an enormous teaming mass. Everywhere there were swarms of noisy people, and traffic on the streets proceeded but slowly and rather recklessly forward. Two-lane strips of asphalt were used to accommodate four lanes of traffic; three wheeled tuk tuks and mopeds weaved their way between colourfully painted and overloaded trucks. In the midst of all this were women with parasols and men wearing chequered sarongs. Now and again I was able to catch a glimpse of old, grand colonial buildings between the tall modern structures, as well as small canals full of garbage, along which the city’s poor were housed in barracks.
It felt like an eternity until we left the city behind us, driving a ways along the coastline to the south. The wounds that the ocean had ripped open in December 2004 were still far from healed. All along the old coastal road you could still see – over seven years later – traces of devastation. Gaping holes where palm trees once stood in dense clusters. The skeletons of wrecked boats that now served as a photographic backdrop for tourists on the beaches. Mountains of debris where stray dogs were looking for something to eat. People who lived in partially collapsed ruins, many of them without work. After the catastrophe the government had decreed that the fisherman were no longer allowed to build their huts on the beach. For safety reasons, so they said. Funded by donations and land allocations, they were able to acquire small pieces of property in the interior of the country. But very few fishermen decided to become farmers. Moreover, the available slivers of beach have long been acquired in the meantime. By rich investors from abroad who now build spa oases for stressed out tourists.
The wounds inflicted on the population back then have also yet to heal. Many lost family members, and innumerable children have grown up without parents. There is hardly a family along the strip of coastline between Colombo and the former colonial centre of Galle in the South that has been spared. After spending the night in a hotel in Bentota we continued on to Uswetakeiyawa, to the Don Bosco home where padres were trying to give beach boys and other uprooted young men a new home and either an education or vocational training. Officially the institution was called a rehabilitation centre for former child prostitutes and children in high risk situations. After a number of welcoming speeches and a tour of the home, we went to the beach with a number of the boys. They showed us how they played cricket, using driftwood as bats, and talked me into playing football with them. I certainly was a not the most skilful football player in the world, but we all had fun and were served “coconut cocktails” afterwards: coconuts they collected themselves from the palm trees in the courtyard with a hole drilled in them and a straw.
The next day we drove to see Upali who welcomed us with refreshments on the patio of his house in the shade of mango and papaya trees. Even on the way to his house I was completely enchanted by the scenery. Everything was green; I had never seen such vegetation before in my life. Tea and rubber plantations, rice paddies with water buffalo and white herons continually taking flight. It may sound strange, but this landscape was so perfect that it was difficult to square it with what had happened to the people in that country.
One look at the clock told us that it was high time to be on our way again. Out on the patio we once again went through every detail. Upali had prepared me for the fact that the opening of the Children’s Hospital would be such an enormous event. Local politicians would be on hand, even the minister of health. It was to be broadcast live on television, and the entire location was decorated with colourful tiny flags. There was even a parade with music, folkloric dancing with men in traditional costumes, wearing white sarongs and red hats with pom-poms and silver decorations.
My tension mounted on our way to the event; however, I felt more happy than overwhelmed. After a number of welcoming ceremonies the entire retinue proceeded to the square in front of the hospital. They had placed a lectern with a microphone in front of several rows of chairs that were by far not enough. There were 300 to 400 people there, as the minister proudly informed me.
During his speech I sat in the place of honour, but I had difficulty concentrating. Again and again I felt somebody touching my arm or my head timidly, followed by an apology and a question as to whether the colour of my hair was real, “So light…” I certainly stood out.
Then it was my turn. I was certainly a little bit nervous, as I was to speak in English. In conclusion I said, “During my captivity I said to myself, if I managed to escape one day, I will try to make this world a better place. I needed time to find my place in freedom. But now I feel that I’m strong enough to help others. I wish you all every success and the best of health.”
Afterwards we proceeded to the ceremonial opening. The minister was a bit childish and insisted on cutting the blue ribbon in front of the entrance first. Somebody handed us a tray with two pairs of scissors, one pink, one light blue. Because the minister was in such a hurry, we got in each other’s way a bit, so that in the end he ended up with the pink pair of scissors. Afterwards we were both supposed to light a kind of small paper tree with a candle. My tree did not want to catch a light, something that obviously amused him. In any case, we had a good laugh later on in the bus. I placed the last brick in the wall, then the tour of the building began. The thought that the rooms would be full of life in the next several days, that here doctors and nurses would be able to successfully treat a large number of mothers and children here made me very happy. During my abduction I often imagined to myself what it would be like if I were to break a bone or to contract sepsis. It is horrific to know that you would not receive any help.
Back in Vienna, I was asked by a journalist whether I suffered from a kind of “do-gooder syndrome”. I found it strange, because after all we are also familiar with the concept of “decency”. Ethics tell us that we need to do what is necessary. And if I have the means, i.e. see it as correct and an important duty to make an attempt to help. The hospital cost € 50,000, roughly equivalent to one euro per person who can be treated in the hospital in one year. This is a tiny amount of money; back in Vienna, even a small cup of coffee in a café costs more.
For me the greatest gift is that the hospital was accepted by the local population from the date it was opened. Sometimes I receive letters and photographs sent to me by children who have their picture taken in front of the commemorative plaque and the picture of the “donor”. It is moving, but also a bit uncomfortable. After all I primarily paid forward the donations that other people had given me so many years before.
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Early next day we set off, as the trip up north was to take over six hours. There was no highway yet and traffic on the small, in some cases unpaved roads was hellish. We arrived in Vavuniya completely exhausted.
The sisters running the home received us very warmly. We enjoyed a meal together at a long wooden table. The food was served on large banana leaves, and we ate it with our fingers. The younger children at the table had a good laugh at me, because I kept dribbling pieces of rice, and after a short time my dress already had a few stains. But fortunately it had a colourful flowered pattern so that the stains were not all that prominent. After our meal I was surrounded by young girls who insisted on braiding my hair, putting makeup on me and dancing with me. It was so wonderful to see how free and relaxed they were, so in the moment and so natural with me.
For the first time in my trip I had come to a place where my past played absolutely no part. Because simply nobody had heard about it. I was one of
several young people in a group expressing interest and a desire to get involved. Everybody approached the others with an open mind, because nobody knew anything about the other person’s past. It wasn’t until I began talking with the sisters and the older girls that I began to slowly reveal snippets of my story. The mother superior asked a number of follow-up questions, because she could not understand the meaning of my kidnapping. How anybody could come up with the idea of imprisoning somebody else for so many years just like that. The children that she was working with had had clear responsibilities from the point of view of their kidnappers. The rebels used them to spread fear and horror, to subjugate entire villages, saying that if they did not cooperate they had the ways and means to achieve their goal. But without the backdrop of war and terror, so to speak without being faced with a “dire situation”, throwing somebody on her way to school into a car and locking her up was something that she just could not comprehend. It wasn’t until I told her, “Sometimes I thought he simply wanted to have a slave,” that she was silent for a long time, taking my hands in hers nodding. That one sentence was enough for her. She did not need to know more.
I found Nitiya’s story particularly moving. She has come to the home at the age of 18 two years before my visit. It wasn’t until a year later that she began to talk. Until then she had neither spoken nor laughed once; she had even refused to put down her weapon. She had been kidnapped at the age of four, her entire family had been killed, her village burned down. The children who were unable to flee were abducted. She was forced to address the rebel leader of her unit as “God” and “Father”. Anyone refusing to do so was abused and raped. In her first several years she was to collect the dead bodies, then later she was told to kill people herself. Each of them had worn an explosive belt on their bodies in order to detonate themselves if they came in contact with the enemy so as to take a couple of other people with them when they died. After she fled she wandered around the conflict area for months until the international Red Cross brought her to the Don Bosco sisters.
10 Years of Freedom Page 15