Another wave of riots erupted in 1977 after the general elections, in which the TULF won a majority of the minority Tamil vote. The TULF was advocating openly for a separate Tamil state, and Prime Minister Junius Jayewardene blamed the TULF for a number of attacks on soldiers and security forces by so-called separatist militants.
The government’s response was swift and deliberate: supporters of separatist political parties were arrested, and thousands — a majority of whom were Indian Tamil plantation workers — were forced from their homes, many of which were then looted and destroyed. It is estimated that as many as seventy-five thousand Tamils were made homeless in the aftermath of the riots.
But on May 31, 1981, when I was fifteen years old, the civil war became devastatingly real for me.
The Jaffna Public Library had been built in 1933 to retain Tamil literature and culture. At the time, it was one of the largest libraries in Asia, housing ninety-seven thousand books and precious ancient manuscripts containing irreplaceable artifacts of Tamil cultural and historical heritage.
For me — for every Tamil — the Jaffna Library was a cultural landmark of immense importance. Originally just two storeys, it had been enlarged over the years until it became one of the finest and most respected libraries in all of Asia. Researchers from around the world made use of its rich archival holdings, many of its manuscripts dating back thousands of years.
The first time I saw it, as a child, I thought it was immense, even triumphant. Surrounded by beautiful and exotic gardens, it rose up to the sky like an enormous white palace. At night, in the moonlight, it shone like a beacon in the darkness. A statue of Saraswathi, a Hindu goddess of education, stood at the front of the library, welcoming visitors. Seeing Saraswathi always made me smile; as a Tamil, I felt so proud.
The library was less than twenty minutes walking distance from St. John’s College. The bell in our residence rang, as usual, at 5:45 a.m. I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and rolled over, holding my pillow over my head, wondering how long I could sleep before our warden bounded in with his usual “Wake up, boys!”
But that day, when our warden rushed in, he was breathing hard and his face was twisted in panic. Immediately, we knew something was wrong.
“Boys! Listen to me!”
We became scared; the warden looked terrified.
“Our Jaffna Library is on fire!”
We responded with an eerie silence. What? What do you mean? How can it be on fire? It didn’t make sense.
“Please!” He clapped his hands, spurring us into action. “We need all of you to help put out the fire!”
Many of us did not even bother throwing on our clothes. We jumped up and ran out in our nightclothes and bare feet as fast as we could to the library down the street.
When I arrived at the scene, the sky was a sickly yellow, thick with smoke. The smell was acrid and intense.
It is true, I thought to myself. In the distance, dark smoke clotted like small clouds. The force of the heat was so intense, it was as if it was threatening us not to get any closer. People scurried like ants on an anthill in all directions. Bucket brigades were forming, as chains of people passed buckets of sloshing water and attempted to put out the fire. Others fought to get inside the building to save books. It was hopeless. Most of the building was already in flames. There was absolutely nothing we could do.
My friends and I looked at each other, our hands on our heads, swearing “Aiyoo Kadavulai!” Oh God! The fire seemed like a huge, angry beast, ravenous and insatiable, consuming itself. The flames licked up the walls, crackled, and spat like exploding stars; the smoke was searing and choking. Policemen kept anyone from approaching the fire. Rumours spread quickly that they were actually there to prevent people from trying to put out the fire. By the time the fire had burned itself out, virtually nothing of the Jaffna Library remained. It had burned literally to the ground. Everything was lost.
I felt like part of me had been taken away, a part of us, the Tamil people. It was as if my entire biography — my history and the history of all Tamils — had been destroyed, wiped from the face of the Earth as if we did not exist.
Saraswathi stood as protector among a pile of ruins.
The national newspapers were not permitted to print anything about the burning of the Jaffna Library. As far as the majority Sinhalese were concerned, nothing had happened.
We later learned that the burning of the library had been an act of retaliation by the government for the deaths of two Sinhalese policemen killed at a TULF rally the day before. Supposedly, police and security forces, with the eager assistance of mobs of outraged Sinhalese, had set the fire. The office of a local newspaper had also been destroyed, as had the offices of the TULF and the home of Jaffna’s Tamil minister of parliament.
As it did for many Tamils, especially Tamils my age, the burning of the Jaffna Library struck me deep in my core. It seemed so senseless — so cruel and vindictive and unnecessary.
I kept thinking to myself, Why?
CHAPTER 11
On July 23, 1983, fifteen Sri Lankan soldiers were killed in a nighttime ambush by members of the LTTE near Jaffna. A bomb exploded near a Jeep, and when the convoy came to a halt, Tamil Tigers opened fire on the soldiers with automatic rifles and grenades.
The majority Sinhalese naturally considered the attack a brutal and unprovoked act of terrorism. To the Tamil Tigers, it was a justified response to numerous government-sanctioned pogroms against an oppressed minority. More specifically, the Tigers claimed that their attack was retaliation for the alleged abduction and rape of Tamil schoolgirls.
Civil war had begun.
In what became known as Black July, a violent week of anti-Tamil riots erupted around the country. They would render 150,000 people homeless and as many as 2,500 dead. Thousands of shops and homes were destroyed, and hundreds of millions of dollars of damage was done to the economy. Many Tamils fled to the North, the Tamil-majority region.
I was still asking myself why. Only now, it didn’t matter. It was too late for whys.
It was difficult at the time to find out what was going on. Tamil printing companies and newspapers had been either burned or shut down. The upper-year students at St. John’s College had built pocket FM radios from kits, so my classmates and I bought radios from them to listen to the news and dramas without fear of being caught by the warden and prefects.
Our teachers, of course, were in a panic. Should they continue classes? Should they shut down the school and send the boys home? It was very confusing for the students because none of the teachers wanted to talk about it.
Later, I learned that government officials had provided the voter lists to the mobs, which is how they were able to identify Tamil-owned properties to destroy and Tamil people to kill during the riots.
When we heard the news about Black July on the radio, my classmates and I were devastated and afraid. The parents of my friend Nishan were living in the Anderson Flats neighbourhood of Colombo, which had been attacked by a mob of thugs bent on revenge. They were able to escape safely because their block was occupied mainly by Sinhalese actors and government officials.
Rumours spread like wildfire, and because the country’s news media were controlled by the majority Sinhalese, the Tamils were blamed for the rioting and the violence. The Sinhalese were portrayed as merely protecting themselves, and nothing was reported of police and security forces encouraging mobs to attack Tamil civilians.
It took many months before things started to get back to normal. But it wasn’t like before. It couldn’t be. You would see people here and there in the city, but more and more people stayed home whenever they could and avoided places like markets or train stations.
Large numbers of soldiers moved into Jaffna.
At my school, enrolment jumped, with Tamil students from Colombo hoping to escape the worst of the violence. Curfews had been imposed in Jaffna and often classes were cancelled. Most of the students from the boarding school stayed at the
hostel. It was safer than living outside of school.
Ever since the riots, the government had banned local live broadcasts of all television and radio programs, so we only heard bits and pieces from India BBC News and my Colombo friends. We were miserable because we were worried about home and our parents and siblings. By the time school got back to normal, we were overloaded with work. When we didn’t have classes, we would head to the study room.
The Sinhalese hatred of Tamils only worsened after the Tamil Tigers declared war on the Sri Lankan government on July 23, 1983, beginning a bloody and senseless conflict that lasted almost three decades. The war was filled with intense suicide bombing campaigns by Tamil Tigers. The Sri Lankan Army retaliated by attacking Tamil Tigers, as well as by displacing or killing many innocent Tamil civilians. War crimes were suspected on both sides before the Tamil Tigers were finally defeated in 2009. Every Sri Lankan, both Tamils and Sinhalese, lived in fear for a very long time. Many do still.
Hatred is a hard enemy to defeat.
CHAPTER 12
Once a month during the school term, the students were allowed to return home for a weekend visit.
One Friday in March of 1984, I was anxious to go home and see my family. I was looking forward to having home-cooked meals and hanging out with my cousins. After class, I went to see my warden for permission to leave. He had a private room, which was part of the dormitory. I knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“This is Logathasan, sir! I would like to go home for the weekend.”
I needed him to sign my exeats card.
I heard him stomp across the floor. The door swung open. “You must come back by Sunday night!” he said by way of greeting.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
I handed him my exeats card. He took a pen from his front pocket and wrote the date and time and then initialled my card. He handed it back without a word.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
He nodded noncommittally and shut the door. I took the card and ran back to the main part of the dormitory. I changed out of my uniform, packed my bag, and then headed to the Jaffna railway station, less than a mile from St. John’s College.
After a twenty-minute walk, I arrived at the station and went up to the counter to buy a ticket to Chavakachcheri. I waited impatiently at the platform. After what seemed an eternity, but was at most a few minutes, the train pulled into the station and I hopped aboard. The car was empty except for a group of soldiers at the front. It was too late for me to move to another car; I didn’t want to attract suspicion, so I walked in the opposite direction and sat down next to a window and thought only of how much I was looking forward to being home.
At that time, tensions between Tamils and Sinhalese were ratcheting up. Only a few days earlier, the military had killed nine Tamil civilians in what became known as the Chunnakam market massacre. Two months earlier, twenty Tamil civilians had been killed in another military attack. The military presence was very high in Jaffna. Trains and buses were a favourite target for rebels, according to the government, and it was common for soldiers or security forces to be posted inside trains, searching for Tamil rebels and sympathizers.
Not long after the train left the station, the group of soldiers walked down the aisle in my direction. I pretended to look intently out the window. When they reached my seat, they stopped. One soldier looked at me and said something. He was not smiling, but his voice did not sound angry either. The other soldiers around him began to laugh, however, and I half-smiled, pretending to play along. He must be teasing me, I thought to myself, as I did not speak Sinhala.
He said something else and sat down next to me. As he did, his hand brushed the top of my shorts. He was very dark and had spooky, dead eyes. When he opened his mouth, I saw his yellow teeth. He must have been about thirty.
Instinctively I crossed my legs and turned my head away to stare fixedly out the window at the landscape whizzing by. Empty pastures as far as the eye could see, rocks, withered trees under a hot sky.
The gesture angered him. He turned aggressive. I felt the soldier’s powerful hand wedge my legs open. I stiffened, tried to wriggle away. I was terrified of making him angrier. I would not look at him. He pushed his hand inside my shorts. I felt his hand on me. Squeezing tenderly, stroking, attempting to induce an erection.
I was biting the inside of my mouth so hard I could taste blood. I was praying it would stay limp; maybe the soldier would tire of me and lose interest. The harder I tried to banish from my mind the reality of what was happening, the harder it was to ignore it.
At one point I tried to push away his hand, but he rebuked me sharply and squeezed hard. He rubbed his hand over me, up and down.
I whimpered. I did not know what to do. If I struggled, I was sure the other soldiers would join to help him. I released my hand from his arm, pulling my arms close to my chest, withdrawing, thinking, Better this than being beaten up or killed.
When I ejaculated, the other soldiers jeered and hooted. The soldier looked at me, disgusted. He reached into his bag and withdrew a soiled sarong and tossed it into my lap.
I stared at the dirty sarong in my lap.
“A present!” he barked in a mocking tone. Then he uttered something in Sinhala which I didn’t understand. The other soldiers burst out laughing. He stood up and walked away. The other soldiers fell in line and trooped obediently behind like trained dogs.
I stared out the window of the train at a landscape I had known since I was a child, as familiar as the back of my hand. But now it appeared alien, foreign, monstrous.
Then I saw the sign: CHAVAKACHCHERI.
I was near home.
I walked along the train tracks for a while, not thinking. The sun was about to disappear when I arrived home and saw my mother standing at the entrance to our house.
She was beaming. “Rajan! Ennada, indaiku vittai vantuvidai!” Rajan, you are home today.
I walked into my home feeling like a convict being led to the gallows.
“I have made your favourite meal!” my mother said.
I shook my head. “I am not hungry.”
She asked me what was wrong.
I smiled. “Nothing, Amma. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.”
CHAPTER 13
After I was molested on the train, I found my emotions swinging from one extreme to another. I was confused and I hated everything around me. My whole life had been turned upside down and I didn’t know what to do or whom to tell. I doubted my ability to defend myself. What would I do if soldiers came near me again? I was desperately lonely and I isolated myself from everyone.
Fighting between the Tamil rebels and the army continued to escalate, and due to the curfews that had been imposed in Tamil zones by the government, boarding schools were often shut down without notice. Even when school was open, negotiating checkpoints along the roads to and from school became increasingly difficult.
I started skipping school and staying with my aunt. I didn’t tell my parents. Instead of attending classes, I hung out with my childhood friends from Chavakachcheri Hindu College in my village. My cousins were disappeared. Some of them joined the rebels and others were captured and/or killed by soldiers. After a few weeks, I stopped going to school altogether. What was the point?
It turned out not to matter, in any case. My father had stopped making payments to my boarding school. Had I gone back to school, the principal probably would have asked me to leave anyway.
After Black July in 1983, my father’s business had begun to fall apart. The civil war had made commerce extremely difficult. The army and civilians often clashed in street riots, and fewer and fewer customers could be found shopping the market areas. Curfews were frequent, which dampened trade further. Often, my father was forced to keep the shop closed for days or weeks at a time because of violence on the streets.
At one point he was forced to pawn jewellery from the store to keep the business afloat. Before long
, he had virtually no inventory left. Everything was owned by the pawn shops. He must have borrowed quite a bit of money as well, as we found out that he had begun selling off large parcels of land to settle his debts. But because of the war, land values had plummeted, and what he received was a fraction of the value before the war.
But he never talked about his business at home, so as far as I knew, everything was fine. I am not sure if he discussed any details with my mother, but it seems unlikely. I did notice that he was more irritable than usual. He and my mother would have words, and I would hear arguments between him and my aunt, too. I think my father had been very generous with my aunt — it must have been one of the reasons she agreed to live with him as a mistress — so when money became tight, it created terrible friction. My mother never complained, of course, and made do as best she could.
My father was drinking a lot. At first it might have been casual, his effort to “keep up appearances” with his clients and business acquaintances. But the more he lost, the more he drank — and the more my mother struggled to maintain a calm and devoted demeanour. It became common for us to see him drinking at breakfast. His arguments with my mother became increasingly angrier; a few times he even hit her. He lost all interest in the family and seemed lost in bitter and angry self-pity.
One time he did not come home from work for days. I searched for him everywhere. Finally I found him, drunk, sleeping on the kitchen floor of my auntie’s (my grandmother’s sister) house in Jaffna. When I attempted to rouse him, he resisted violently and we fell into an argument. He swung out with his arm and caught me, hard, on the chin. It staggered me, nearly knocking me over. I was angry and hurt and nearly blind with tears. Looking at my father — this “important man” — drunk and dirty, slumped on the floor in a stupor, I had never felt so humiliated in my life. Wanting to hurt him as much as he had hurt me, I reached for a box of pesticide sitting on a shelf.
The Sadness of Geography Page 6