The concept of heroism is interrogated again in the story “The Left-Behind,” which calls into question the belief that every soldier who dies in war must necessarily be a hero by virtue of his or her death. The story revolves around a woman named Shamala, who is meeting with a man named Rohan at a mahagony tree in a park that is their favorite rendezvous point, while her young son Arjun plays nearby. At first the narrative leads us to believe that this is an illicit tryst between a married woman and her lover. Gradually we realize that Shamala is actually having an imaginary conversation with her dead husband—Rohan was a soldier who had been killed in action. Shamala is attempting to come to terms with his death and the plight in which she finds herself as a young widow and single mother by revisiting a place that is closely associated in her mind with her husband. In her imaginary discussion with Rohan, Shamala progresses from feelings of grief and guilt to anger and confusion—she does not know what to tell her son about his father because all those around Arjun have told him “what a brave soldier his father is. … He knows how great you are. They all tell him that you are leading the troops against the Tigers. Fighting fiercely, just like… like in the films, the TV” (56). During the running dialogue Shamala is having in her head with her dead husband, she is attempting to work out how to be honest with her son about Rohan’s life and death and counter all the platitudes that Arjun has heard about Rohan’s bravery. She wants to give Arjun a truthful account of his father’s actions so that he will not learn to glorify war.
Shamala also tries to work out the anger she feels about the atrocities that Rohan must have committed, albeit under orders, as a soldier. She strongly suspects, for example, that the bangle she is wearing—a gift from Rohan—is one that he had taken from a Tamil woman whom he had perhaps even raped and killed in the aftermath of a battle. She does not know how to convey these possibilities to her son. “How can I tell him that his father killed people, burnt their houses, raped their women, and what else? … Everyday it’s the same, ten of them, five of ours, what does it matter?” (59) In a move similar to that made by the speaker in Suresh Canagarajah’s poem “Dirge for Corporal Premaratne” discussed in the previous chapter, Shamala tries to be fair to Rohan and imagines that he is telling her, “That is only one side of the story, Shamala. You know that. Why do you want to see only one side of it?” (59). After all, the woman whose bangle Rohan has appropriated might have had a husband who, if the roles were reversed, would rape and kill Shamala. Yet she wants to “take in the whole picture, to understand it in its entirety. The logic was only too familiar, so familiar that she was afraid that she too would start thinking like that. It was difficult to think outside the realm of war” (57-58). Shamala refuses to condone any brutalities merely because they are done in the name of war. On the other hand, there is a sense of conflict in that Shamala cannot bear to part with the bangle that Rohan gave her despite its dubious origins. “I just hate the way you got it” (58) she says. It is an indictment of those whose consciences are active, but not active enough to hand back what are ill-gotten gains.
In this story, Fernandopulle is pointing out that seeking refuge for loss in the rhetoric of heroism and sacrifice too often only leads to a continuation of the same violence and horror that is responsible for that loss in the first place. Fernandopulle suggests that war and brutality must be recognized for what they are. It is important to shatter the delusion that it is a glorious thing to die in battle because only then will the next generation avoid being duped in their turn. 2 Thus, as Shamala and Arjun leave the park at the end of the story, she begins the difficult task of telling her son the truth about his father: “we must learn to see him as he is” (61). By using an imaginary conversation between Shamala and her dead soldier husband, Fernandopulle presents a critique of both military atrocities against civilians and the veneration of the military through concepts of heroism and sacrifice. Those who are so inclined could dismiss Shamala’s meditations as the outcome of a grief-stricken woman’s mental and emotional disturbance, but the critique is also made more powerful because it comes from the Sinhalese widow of a soldier.
Fernandopulle, like Wijeratne and Arasanayagam in their poetry, also focuses on the way in which people make an attempt to carry on with their lives even in the midst of war. On the one hand, this way of living seems admirable and courageous. On the other hand, it also means that trying to survive in such a climate—even attempting to live comfortably despite the travails and tribulations that other people have to endure—can lead to selfishness. “Calm” revolves around Kanthi, a young Sinhalese woman pregnant with her first child, who has been persuaded by her husband Vimal—a farmer in a border village—to help harbor his friend Sarath, a deserter from the army, in their home. The topic of army desertions is one that did not get much attention in the media, and apart from this story, is mentioned only in Elmo Jayawardene’s novella Sam’s Story, 3 and Nihal de Silva’s novel The Road to Elephant Pass. Many of the soldiers in the Sri Lankan army are recruited from the rural poor, who are lured by the money and benefits that are offered to them. These enticements are not enough, however, to prevent thousands of soldiers from deserting the army. According to one brigadier, “It is difficult to keep track of the exact number of deserters because it is like a revolving door” (qtd. in Subramanian 70-71).
In Fernandopulle’s story, Kanthi has to pretend to the rest of the village that Sarath is her visiting brother. She dreads the prospect of being punished for harboring a deserter. Thus, unbeknownst to her husband, she betrays Sarath to the authorities. Even though Vimal had assured her that Sarath would be severely punished if he were to be caught, Kanthi convinces herself otherwise—her first concern is her own little family and she cannot afford to dwell on what might happen to Sarath. Fernandopulle highlights the way in which it is possible to want a war to continue as long as it does not affect oneself or one’s near and dear ones. Thus, we see Vimal seeing the conflict as an utter necessity—he has a “demented fervour” about the war because it is against a group of people who, he believes, threaten his way of life—but he still does not want his friend involved in it and does everything he can to protect his friend from having to go back to it: “He believed that the war had to go on. If the only way to avoid being killed was to kill, then there is little else to believe in. But Sarath should not go to war, Sarath was his friend” (20). Kanthi cannot help but be confused: if the war is necessary, if the army needs to decimate the terrorists who otherwise would attack and kill border villagers like herself and her husband, then why should Sarath not go back and serve in the army? “She had always thought of the war as something that men did willingly. Because it was easy. It is so easy to kill. But then why would they want to take back those who didn’t want to fight? How can you force a man to fight for his country?” (19). By the end of the story, Kanthi begins to realize that Vimal too—in his heart of hearts—had wished for Sarath to be gone so that their family would be safe. Sarath is expendable—he has helped them with the paddy fields and now he will fight on their behalf against the enemy. This is why she is certain that even if Vimal guesses that she has betrayed his friend, “he would understand, he would forgive, and someday he would even be grateful” to her (22).
The theme of selfishness also comes into play in the story “Their Baby,” in which Fernandopulle offers a trenchant critique of the Sri Lankan middle class as they attempt to live their lives in relative luxury and comfort as if no war were being fought at all. A childless middle- class couple has adopted a baby from an orphanage, only to discover that the child—whose eyes have some “unimaginable agony in them” (81)—has violent nightmares and emotional problems. They even begin to wonder whether she is possessed by some evil spirit. They are finally told by the nun who arranged the adoption that the child’s parents and entire village had been massacred by the terrorists:
“They were killed. … They were farming people in some village in Polonnaruwa or something, one of those border villages
that was attacked by the Tigers, I don’t know the name. The whole village, I think, was killed. The Probation Officers told me that some soldiers had found the child lying asleep on some of the dead bodies, maybe her mother or father.” (86)
They realize with horror that even though they have attempted to live their lives as if they had nothing to do with the conflict going on in the country, they are involved after all. The tragic consequence of violence is in their house and the trauma of war is now, literally, their baby.
He thought of the many times these massacres had happened, and the many times he had quickly turned over the pages or changed the channel. It was all so far away from him, his wife, his neighbourhood. … His face burned as he thought of the girl, of the village, on all those villages, all those people. They were all there now, in his house. Their screams, their endless mourning suddenly seemed to overcome the tranquility of his neighbourhood. (87-88)
Fernandopulle suggests that it is only if the trauma of war affects the middle class that they will even deign to notice what is happening and remember the names of places where atrocities take place and of the people who are the victims.
The importance of propaganda for both the warring sides is emphasized in “Abuse.” The story—which is written in a very matter-of-fact way, rather like a press release—begins in a flurry of publicity and excitement as the body of a child conscripted into the LTTE is brought to Colombo. During the press conference, the body of the “small, dead terrorist” (11) is the focus of everyone’s attention; the body is “exhibited” (12), consumed by interested parties, and the practice of recruiting children into the ranks of the LTTE is roundly condemned:
A government spokesperson… describe[d] the dead individual as a member of the so-called Baby Brigade of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam. The spokesperson reiterated the Government’s concern over the use of children in the ongoing war, and accused the Tigers of violating a pledge made to the United Nations Special Commission on Children. (12)
Once the press conference ends, however, the body of the child is left in the morgue. It holds no further interest for anyone now that the necessary publicity has been obtained from it. The dead boy has been deprived of his humanity twice—once by the militants who either convinced or forced him to join their ranks and again by the government officials who have objectified him as an exhibit. Through this very short story, Fernandopulle is able to indicate how both sides of the conflict only consider the strategic value of individuals. He suggests that the government and the militants only use human rights discourse to their own advantage, unlike activists such as the University Teachers for Human Rights (UTHR). The UTHR has consistently kept track of human rights violations by all parties involved in the conflict, so much so that—as we have seen in the previous chapter—one of its members, Dr. Rajani Thiranagama, was killed by the LTTE while other members of the UTHR have had to continue their activist work in hiding. 4
Outside influences are also highlighted in “Dear Vichy,” which deals with the prevalence of international mediation, observation, and intervention that was part and parcel of Sri Lanka’s long-running conflict. Written in the form of a letter from the narrator—a British observer who apparently belongs to a non-governmental organization—to a friend back home, the short story highlights various issues: the sense of detachment of the sociologist collecting data and writing reports which influence the outside world; the ambiguity of language—does one call a group engaged in violent activities “freedom fighters” or “terrorists”? It is, according to the narrator, all “bloody diplomatic jargon” (111). We are also given a glimpse into the sheer horror of daily life in a refugee camp as the narrator describes her encounter with an educated woman who has been reduced to sleeping with a corrupt official in the camp in order to obtain a packet of milk powder for her child. The narrator’s comments reveal that she is a bigot; however, she gives us a necessary glimpse into what is happening in the country. In the letter she tells her friend, “You would never imagine the place is at war,” because of the easy way in which the middle- and upper-middle classes continue with their “art exhibitions, Shakespeare drama festivals and discos” (109). She draws attention to the gap between the rich and the poor. She mentions casually how “terrorists rained mortars” on the little historic church that was turned into a refugee camp with the result that thirty-eight people died in the very place in which they sought sanctuary (112). The lack of media attention means that the situation in Sri Lanka is rarely proclaimed a humanitarian disaster. The narrator feels her helplessness in making a positive difference but is also comforted by the thought that she will be able to leave all this chaos and return home for Christmas. Interestingly enough, this particular story, set in Mannar, is the only one in Fernandopulle’s entire collection that is located in a war-torn area of the country and is therefore similar to the work of other Tamil writers, such as A. Santhan’s short story “The Cuckoo’s House”—about a Tamil man who has lost his home and property due to bombings and only lets out his feelings of grief, loss, and trauma when a cuckoo’s nest is destroyed—or Balayogini Jeyakrishnan’s poem “October 1987”—about a young girl emerging from a bunker in the aftermath of crossfire between the Indian Peace-Keeping Force (IPKF) and the LTTE. Unlike the above-mentioned works by Santhan and Jeyakrishnan, however, the narrator of “Dear Vichy” is a foreigner, not a Sri Lankan whose life has been directly and completely affected by the conflict. This narrative perspective enables Fernandopulle to juxtapose the narrator’s flippant detachment and opportunity for escaping the war situation with the desperation and tragedy of the nameless female refugee, making the contrast between the two sharper and more poignant.
Through the sharp little missiles that are his short stories, Fernandopulle targets all those who were involved directly or indirectly, wittingly or unwittingly, in the continuation of the ethnic conflict. His focus, unlike that of Sivanandan or Selvadurai, is not on the past and the historical events that led up to the conflict, but on the military struggle itself and on those who have experienced the various facets of the conflict. Not only does Fernandopulle seem to suggest that Sri Lankans from all walks of life have contributed to the conflict, but also that they can help contribute to reconciliation by acting conscientiously and with awareness. Through the role-playing, the putting-on of various personae that he does in the stories, Fernandopulle is able to instigate the kind of contrapuntal reading—“juxtaposing experiences with each other, in letting them play off each other” ( Culture and Imperialism 32)—advocated by Edward Said.
Empathy in Jean Arasanayagam’s Short Fiction
Fenandopulle’s creative imagining of the varying experiences of Sri Lankans across the ethnic divide is paralleled in the prose work of Jean Arasanayagam. It is not only in her poems that Arasanayagam acts as a witness to the suffering that has resulted from the ethnic conflict and concentrates on how people cope in the midst of violence. In her various collections of short stories, particularly All Is Burning, In the Garden Secretly, and The Dividing Line, she imaginatively explores situations ranging from the plight of people living in border villages who get caught in the crossfire between the government forces and the militants (for example, in “I Am an Innocent Man” and “The Sack”) or are forced to leave their homes in fear of attacks and reprisals (“Exodus”) to parents whose sons have lost their lives in the conflict (“The Bridge”) and people having to endure the daily inconveniences and intimidations at security checkpoints (“Search My Mind”). She shows how violence has become a way of life for children growing up in the midst of conflict because it is what they have always known. In the short story “Exodus,” for example, the protagonist Mohan’s two-year-old daughter has already learned how to cope with war: “The little girl Rhema had got used to bombers that flew over the Peninsula. She would run instinctively along the boundary of the parapet wall of their garden and lie flat on her stomach. Fear was not a feeling she understood. The act of preservation had begun
early” (131). As Meenakshi Mukherjee says in “A Blighted Garden,” her review of In the Garden Secretly, “These stories do not glorify heroism or martyrdom; they focus on the doubts and indecisions of the common people trying hard to get on with their lives, keep their average dreams and small aspirations alive” (n.p.).
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