The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  Meg had her nose in a book, the end of a candy cane sticking out of one corner of her mouth. Mom, who’s Mackenzie King?

  Canada’s longest-serving prime minister. A so-called Liberal. Grace turned to see Kumi in the doorway. She had a satisfied smirk on her face.

  Canada should remain a country for the white man, Meg read. That’s what he said!

  Rain thrown sideways drummed a beat on the windows. It gushed out of the gutters, sogging the last of the Christmas snow. Grace wondered if the weather was to blame.

  That was a long time ago, she said, taking the book from Meg and closing it.

  World War Two. Not so long ago at all, Kumi said, laying an editorial cartoon on the table.

  The twins leaned forward and Grace couldn’t help doing the same. In the drawing, a grinning, androgynous character labelled Jap was wrapped in a kimono, hair in a high bun, with exaggerated slits for eyes, holding a bloody dagger over a bleeding figure named Canada. The caricature was at once comical and insidious.

  This is who they accused us of being, Kumi said. Just like that, our country turned on us.

  Kumi brought her thumb to her index finger and rubbed them together, concentrating. For a moment, Grace and the twins watched her, until Meg said, Like this, and snapped her fingers.

  Never mind, Kumi said impatiently. The point is…the point is…

  But how could anyone believe something so dumb? Brianne asked, gesturing to the cartoon. No one would fall for this now.

  What about this business with the…the…Kumi searched Grace’s face and said: You know what I mean. The letter in the paper…and it was Christmas Eve…

  It’s not the same thing, Grace said.

  Kumi shook her head and rubbed her palms in wide circles over the tabletop. The twins waited patiently. When Kumi lost her train of thought, it was best to let her find her own way back.

  Grace refused to help. Her mother had been harping on about that letter since it was published. She’d laid the newspaper on Grace’s lap and demanded: And what do you have to say to this?

  Well, of course they’re going to claim they’re innocent, Grace had replied, folding the paper and setting it aside. And I’m sure some of them legitimately are, but I make my decisions on a case-by-case basis, after considering all the evidence, not by blindly trusting something someone writes in their own defence.

  It was the first acknowledgement Kumi had made of her new job. And of course it would be negative. Grace hated that she still needed her mother’s approval.

  Now Kumi mouthed something to herself, practising before she said it out loud: Don’t trust the government, girls. That is the lesson.

  That’s not the lesson! Grace said, appalled to see her daughters nodding like robots. Without good government, there is anarchy.

  Kumi gave Grace one of her shrewd looks, the kind that seemed to see right through and shame her.

  Everyone is doing their best, Grace said.

  Everyone is doing their best, Kumi echoed. Their best was a barn on Hastings Street. She flipped through the books. Where is that letter?

  What letter? Meg asked.

  They agreed to the internment, Kumi said. They agreed to it as a show of good faith. All they asked was that families be kept together. She opened and closed binders, brushing away the girls’ attempts to help.

  What letter, Gran? Brianne asked.

  The letter! The letter! Dear honourable sir. So polite, our people. Everything is always a request.

  Is this it? Meg asked, pulling away the rings of a binder and extracting a plastic sleeve.

  No, no. Kumi was blindly pushing and pulling books, scattering papers and sending pens rolling across the table. She put her hand on her head and appeared to waver. Grace, alert, hustled to her side.

  Enough! Grace commanded, pulling back a chair. Sit down, Mom.

  Kumi closed her eyes.

  Deep breath, Grace said. And another.

  Kumi’s shoulders rose and fell under Grace’s restraining palms. They inhaled and exhaled in unison, and Grace felt her own pulse slow.

  It’s scary, Brianne said. The government just deciding one day to take everything away.

  I wouldn’t let it happen, Meg said, and three binder rings snapped together.

  Brianne said, As if you’d be able to stop it, idiot.

  Meg gazed out the dark window, meditative, and Grace saw the devastation in her face – the injustice reaching forward three generations to latch on. How personal it felt, a nation’s betrayal.

  I wish you wouldn’t expose the girls to this ugliness, Grace told her mother.

  We’re not babies! Meg said.

  And you’re not victims either, Grace said, crossing her arms over her chest. Nothing bad has happened to you.

  It was a mistake to keep quiet all these years, Kumi said. I see that now. Over her shoulder, she held Grace’s eyes. People who forget the wrongs that were done to them perpetuate those same wrongs on others.

  The Japanese were here before the war, Grace told her mother. Our family were citizens. King was wrong to call them traitors. It’s totally different.

  Meg watched them. Different from what? she asked.

  Nothing is different, Kumi said, turning to the twins. Not…distrust…of the…fear…fear…emotions are man…man…twisted up. She wound her fingers round and round, over each other, and mutely opened and closed her mouth.

  Nothing has changed, Brianne prompted.

  We shouldn’t trust the government, added Meg, grinning at Grace.

  Kumi’s eyes flashed. Repatriated! My brothers and I were born here. What was Japan to us? May as well have been Timbuktu.

  No Japs from the Rockies to the seas. A political slogan and a rallying cry. These words had no power over Grace or her girls, but when she thought of her grandparents, she cringed. And this was exactly what they would never have wanted: pity.

  Swallow it down, little Gracie, Aiko used to say when the kids at school teased her and Grace came home crying. Never betray yourself by showing them your sorrow.

  On the odd occasions Aiko had spoken of the internment, it had been matter-of-factly, in the same tone she used to describe dental surgery. He removed two wisdom teeth. We were in Slocan for three years. These were trials to be overcome rather than life-scarring traumas.

  She mentioned this now, and added: Your great-grandmother didn’t see herself as a victim and there’s no reason you girls should either.

  That generation was humiliated by what was done to them, Kumi said. Shame held their tongues.

  What was she like? Brianne asked. Our great-grandmother?

  My Obaachan was a proud woman, Grace said quickly, before Kumi could reply.

  It was her grandmother who had raised her. While her parents were at work, Aiko packed lunches and took temperatures, helped her prepare for spelling bees. Once, on their way to the park, a kid had yelled out: DIRTY FOB! Grace could still see the boy, her age or perhaps a bit younger, pulling his finger out of his nose and pointing it at them. Grace had stopped, embarrassed. She had never heard the word before but understood it to be offensive. She had a strong sense, even then, of right and wrong, a scrupulous penchant for fairness.

  I wanted to go to him, to yell or even hit him, Grace told the girls. He wasn’t much bigger than me. But Obaachan just turned it into a joke. We came on a boat, she said. This is true. But we are not very fresh.

  Kumi chuckled. That was my mother’s favourite line.

  She maintained a sense of dignity, Grace said, throwing her shoulders back and standing a little straighter. Obaachan knew there was nothing to be gained from being the injured party.

  Witness

  September 2008

  Mahindan stood in the cool of his garage, hanging his tools. Voice of Tiger Radio was playing an upbeat pop song and he had the sound on low. The garage was the tidiest it had ever been, equipment arranged on shelves, spare tires sorted by size. Even the floor had been swept and power-washed.
<
br />   He rubbed a rag over his hands but only out of habit; they had been grease free for weeks. It was only eleven, but he decided there wasn’t any point in staying open. Might as well go home and be closer to the bomb shelter.

  He was pulling the iron gate across when he heard the cacophony. Schoolchildren with their backpacks, lunch pails, and white uniforms spilled down the lane, girls in pinafores and boys in short pants. Sellian ran toward him.

  What has happened? Mahindan asked, hands on hips.

  Teacher sent us home, Sellian said with a shrug. Something is happening at the United Nations.

  At the mention of the United Nations, Mahindan’s panic whooshed in.

  Sellian smacked his forehead with an exaggerated motion, a mannerism he had recently picked up from his grandmother. Ah! he said. Forgot my tiffin.

  Doesn’t matter, Mahindan said, fastening the padlock with shaking hands. Go to Appa’s bicycle. Quickly!

  He sat Sellian on the handlebars and kicked off. Sellian gripped the bar behind him and leaned his body out. The wind flicked through his hair as they sailed down the hill. Faster, Appa! Faster! he yelled, gleeful, as a pair of green doves in their path took flight.

  Mahindan turned onto the main highway, quiet these days, only a scattering of bicycles and motorcycles and bullock carts spread out comfortably across the dual carriageway. Long gone were the days of congestion and traffic. There was plenty of room to overtake, and vehicles could change lanes without honking their intention.

  They passed the Eelam Bank, where a mob crowded the teller’s window. Mahindan pedalled faster. He had known this day would come. Why hadn’t he acted? He thought of the cash he’d been hoarding, running through all the secret hiding places (bottom of the rice sack, between the pages of a romance novel, behind a photograph of his parents…) to calm his nerves. Veering around a pothole, he reminded himself that the important papers were safe in the almirah, the suitcase was packed and waiting under the bed.

  His legs burned as he pumped hard, the pedals making quick revolutions. They passed the yellow water tower, standing watch over the city, then the bombed-out shell of an apartment building, the senior school where Rama had once taught, its west side gouged by an air strike. Kilinochchi, the proud Tiger capital. The Sri Lankan Army had set their sights on it.

  Winded and sweating, the back of his shirt soaked, Mahindan turned off the main road onto a palmyra-shaded street. The United Nations compound consisted of several single-storey buildings surrounded by a whitewashed wall and a ten-foot-high iron fence.

  The commotion was audible even before the throng around the gate came within view. Women in saris. Men in short sleeves. Hands raised in protest, voices beseeching. Mahindan sailed to a stop and stuck his hands in Sellian’s armpits to help him down, then pulled the hem of his shirt up and across his sweaty face.

  What is happening, Appa?

  Mahindan lifted him up on one hip and pushed his way through the desperate crowd. People reached around and over one another, everyone trying to squeeze their hands through the bars, waving and begging, hoping to be seen. The sun glinted off watch faces. The crowd pleaded: stay.

  He found a spot against the compound wall and from there he saw aid workers – white men and women in caps and sunglasses – packing boxes into trucks. All these days, all these days…He cursed himself for dallying. Sellian, his thumb in his mouth, buried his face into Mahindan’s neck.

  An Old Brahmin stood near them, bare-chested, with a green sarong knotted under his belly. He had a long white beard and was missing several teeth. We are begging you, he cried. Stay and witness our suffering.

  Cupping a hand around Mahindan’s ear, Sellian leaned in and said: I’m scared, Appa.

  Nothing to be scared of, Mahindan murmured back. We are all here together.

  Most of the aid workers returned inside, but one faced the protesters. He removed his cap and rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead.

  The Old Brahmin called to him: Wait…we are not asking for anything else. Only wait and watch what happens. If you go, who will see?

  Sellian pressed one ear into his father’s shoulder. Mahindan covered the other with his hand. The aid worker raised his phone and panned it across the crowd. Mahindan imagined the scene he was recording – a crowd of people shouting in a foreign language, brown arms reaching through the gates. Holding tight to Sellian, Mahindan kept his own gaze steady, focused on the camera.

  If you leave, we will all die, the Old Brahmin said. He raised both hands to his temple and flicked them down. The knife is at our throat. If you go, no one will see what happens.

  Other voices chorused: Stay! Stay!

  Would the white man later watch what he had recorded? Would he show it to a higher authority? An official in Europe or America? Would it make any difference?

  Mahindan could feel Sellian’s heart knocking against his chest. He pictured their important papers, identification cards, and vaccination records concealed in the folds of Chithra’s wedding sari. He reminded himself of the changes of clothes – the exact shirts and trousers he had packed – the saucepans, the bandages, the new bars of soap. The tent poles, the sleeping mats.

  Sellian poked his father’s shoulder with a pointy finger. It’s Ruksala Auntie!

  Ruksala emerged from the main United Nations building with a group of local workers, dark-skinned men and women. They stood in an awkward jobless clump, watching the lorries being packed. When Mahindan and Sellian yelled her name, she came to speak to them through the bars.

  Won’t allow us to help, she said, and folded her arms across her chest.

  They’re leaving? Mahindan asked.

  Government sent a fax, she said. Very official. Please be advised that we can no longer guarantee the safety of international workers.

  The United Nations had their own bunker, and so far the MiGs and Kfir jets had given the entire compound a wide berth. It was the only safe place left in the city.

  The Old Brahmin struggled his way out of the crowd, weeping. A young woman stepped into his vacated spot. She held her phone up to the gate. Fifteenth September, 2008, she said. This is the day the United Nations abandons Kilinochchi.

  The aid worker was still panning his phone across the crowd at the gate and for a few moments they were like mirror images.

  How can you do this? the young woman with the camera phone yelled. How?

  They don’t speak Tamil, Mahindan told her.

  They understand, Ruksala said. She twisted her mouth to one side. They know what will happen.

  And still they will leave us? Mahindan said.

  They will go to Colombo and do what they can from there, Ruksala said.

  A spark of hope: she could take Sellian!

  But Ruksala shook her head. You think the Tigers will let any of us through the checkpoints?

  A truck door slammed and Ruksala went to say her goodbyes. The gates opened and the crowd shuffled aside, keeping a respectful distance as the vehicles crawled through. Voices fell silent, everyone resigned to their fate.

  With Sellian on the handlebars, Mahindan followed the convoy back through the town, keeping them in sight even as he fell behind. The small parade of vehicles was conspicuous with their yellow licence plates and the blue-and-white United Nations flags that fluttered over the windows. All along the main road, people stopped to watch.

  They left the town centre and the road turned dusty orange, lined by low scrub and grass, the sparse landscape dotted with thin trees, their palms wild, hairy tufts. There was no one else here, just the lone cow in the shade flicking flies with its tail. The United Nations trucks slowed to a crawl, allowing Mahindan and Sellian to catch up.

  The man with the camera phone sat in the passenger seat of the last vehicle, hanging out his open window. Mahindan pedalled up alongside until he was close enough to see the tears in his eyes. He said something Mahindan did not understand and Mahindan tried to think of some parting words for this man and his camera. Bu
t if there was no point in begging them to wait, what else was there to say?

  They approached the wooden signpost that marked the entrance to the city. Kilinochchi’s name was written in three languages: Tamil, Sinhala, and English.

  Goodbye, Sellian shouted at the camera, one of the few English expressions he knew. Goodbye! Goodbye!

  Mahindan braked at the sign and, standing there with one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal, he watched the convoy round the bend out of sight, the last blue-and-white flag flapping. Sellian was still calling: Goodbye!

  —

  The next day, they began their journey along the same route, the whole town with them, down Kilinochchi’s main thoroughfare. Tractors, buses, three-wheelers, and motorcycles all laden with people and goods. The elderly sat in wagons with children in their laps while adults walked alongside, parcels balanced on their heads. Chickens complained from inside cages, beaks poking through the wire, feathers ruffling. People pushed bicycles, bundles of clothing, cooking pots, and burlap rice sacks tied down to the seats.

  At their backs were the sounds of hammers and industry, the Tigers building a bund wall in a futile bid to hold the city. How long before the army descended? Weeks? Days?

  Mahindan and his family were travelling light. Along with Ruksala and her son Prem, there were Chithra’s parents – old but mercifully still mobile. The adults pedalled their bicycles with the children on the handlebars. A wooden cart was hitched to each cycle and packed with bottled water, lentils, fruits, vegetables, tea, and biscuits. They moved slowly, part of a mass exodus, the last stragglers finally abandoning the town, Tiger cadres, weapons slung over their backs, flanking them on either side. There was no choice now. By staying till the end, they had thrown in their lot with the LTTE and could only go where the Tigers chose to frog-march them.

  The air raids the night before had been particularly vicious, but Mahindan had not gone to the bunker. He had fed Sellian two spoonfuls of gripe water to put him to sleep then spent his last night in Kilinochchi in his own home, going through his cassette tapes and CDS, paging through old photo albums.