I swallowed the pesticide in front of my father.
Immediately, I felt the hot burn in my throat. I began choking and gasping for breath. It felt like my throat was being scraped by a rasp. I felt my stomach turn inside out, convulsing. Light-headed, I sank to the floor, clutching at my throat and chest.
Despite the pain, I found some satisfaction in the fact that he saw me crumple to the ground. There! I thought miserably. This is what you have done to me. I hope you are happy now!
I tried to speak. After a few moments, I realized I could not move. My arms and legs were frozen. I could hear Auntie’s daughters screaming for help. I have a vague memory of my father and a neighbour lifting me from the ground, like a sack of potatoes, but I do not remember anything after that. When I woke up at the hospital, my throat was raw and painful and it hurt horribly to even swallow. I began to cry.
My mother was standing next to me, holding my hand and weeping. I remember noticing that she hadn’t combed her hair. She looked drawn and very sad. When I saw my father, I turned my head away and ignored him. I was still furious with him. I didn’t know how long I had been asleep at the hospital, but I was released the next day. They asked me to sign a few forms. I don’t remember why or what they were for, but I signed. I didn’t care.
Anger quickly turned to shame. I realized that because of my impulsiveness I could have died. Did I really think suicide was a solution? I was ashamed that I was not able — that I had not tried — to do more for my mother. I felt guilty about what she had been forced to endure. I should have been more supportive of my mother and helped my brothers and sisters. It was selfish of me to think only of myself, as my father seemed to be doing. No, I decided, stiffening my resolve. I will not surrender. I would never be so foolish again.
Nothing changed, however. In fact, the situation at home continued to deteriorate. Our village now resembled a ghost town. People were afraid to be outside or to socialize. The threat of the soldiers returning was constant, and so were the endless rumours: the schools were occupied by soldiers, who had converted them to military camps. The hospitals were being used by military personnel. Tamil boys and men were captured on the spot and transported to military camps for torture. I heard that some of torture included iron rods coated in chili powder being inserted into the prisoners’ rectums and victims being hung upside down as their captors drilled holes into their bodies.
Curfews were established in Chavakachcheri, and the roadblocks and checkpoints along the highways meant that transport slowed to a crawl. Shelves at the shops and market stalls were bare; day by day it became harder to find food. Children would wander the village or town — even the fields — searching for anything that could be eaten or traded for food.
We lived just one day at a time. And each day was harder than the day before. In order to support his drinking, my father began selling off our furniture, the sewing machine, fridge, stove, light fixtures — basically, whatever he could find. Then he pawned all of my mother’s jewellery, and then even her saris.
Our family had suddenly toppled from one of the most respected in town to absolute outcasts, even pariahs. The people who used to respect us turned their backs on us. The vendors and small-store owners who used to depend on our patronage shut their doors on us. We couldn’t borrow anything anymore. Ironically, cash and gold had become worthless. Who could afford either? Bartering for food and drink became the main economy during the war.
In January 1984, a few months after I was chased through the rice paddies by the military helicopter and a couple of months before I was molested on the train, Lathy disappeared.
We had not been that close to begin with, and he was often away from home for long periods of time — staying with aunts, for instance, so he could be closer to school — but one day I realized it had been quite some time since I had seen him. In Tamil culture, it is normal for the eldest son to take over if the father is absent or incapacitated. Lathy, however, was nowhere to be found.
“Where is Lathy?” I asked my mother one afternoon.
“Away,” she said.
That was curious. “Where?”
“France,” she said. I waited for her to elaborate, but she said no more.
France, I thought. What is he doing in France when he is supposed to be here, helping take care of us?
I am the second son of the family. By default, therefore, I was now responsible for taking care of my mother, brother, and sisters. Not to mention a bitter and destitute alcoholic father who was drinking himself to death. I was very angry. Who did Lathy think he was? It was so unfair. What gave him the right to run off to France while I was stuck here? I had no idea how I could take care of a family. I was only seventeen. I was hardly capable of taking care of myself.
I had a friend, Kuddy, in the village. His family lived in a hut built from clay and coconut leaves. It was tiny, with not much more than a small firepit for cooking and a meagre space for eating. At night the same space was cleared for sleeping. Whenever the weather cooperated, Kuddy slept outside on the veranda with his dog. They were very poor, not like us. That is, not like we had been.
I found myself hanging out with Kuddy more and more. Often, I would ingratiate myself in order to sleep over. Kuddy’s mother never objected. In the morning she would prepare string hoppers (handmade noodles) and sambal. Kindly, she would serve me first. She would often set aside extra food for when I visited, knowing that we did not have much. They gave me vegetables from their garden to take home. Occasionally, late at night, Kuddy and I would sneak into the neighbours’ gardens and steal bananas and cassava. I knew stealing was wrong, but I couldn’t help it; I had no choice but to feed my family and keep them alive.
My father was angry a lot at this time, and often his anger was directed at my mother. He yelled at her often, over the smallest things, but she never spoke back in anger. It was not her way. She would lower her head meekly, obediently, her eyes downcast. It made me furious. I felt so helpless!
For all his past faults, my father had been a generous provider. And not just for us: he had been incredibly generous to his large extended family, too. It was for this reason that I resented so deeply how the family turned its back on us now. The money was all gone. We had nothing. And they would not help. It was like he was dead to them.
I was angry all the time. Looking back on it now, I suppose it is possible that my father had abused his position over the years. He had humiliated my mother by bringing his sister-in-law into her house to share his bed. Who knows what else he had done?
Our situation was so dire at one point that my father began to tear down our house in order to sell the parts at the market for scrap. Glass doors, tiles from the roof, even locks.
I was having an increasingly difficult time dealing with the memories of being molested by the soldier on the train. I had no one I could talk to about it. The shame was eating me alive. Unlike Lathy, who had run away, I realized I could not run away from the memories that were haunting me. I was angry and depressed, and it occurred to me that joining the LTTE — the most popular rebel group — might sate my intense need for revenge. Joining the rebels could be empowering. I relished the idea of taking revenge on the bastard who had molested me, of taking my revenge on the Sinhalese majority who had ruined my family and were trying to destroy my people. Perhaps, I thought, there were more victims like me who were afraid to speak out. What if they molested or raped my sisters, too? I was determined to do something about it.
I had a childhood friend from Chavakachcheri Hindu College elementary school who was a member of LTTE, and one day I asked him to help me sign up.
He refused. “No, joining LTTE is not that simple. I don’t want to get involved.”
I was stunned and, frankly, heartbroken. “No,” I pleaded, “you must introduce me. It is very important. You don’t understand.” I wanted to confess to him about the soldier who had molested me, but I couldn’t. Anyway, I persisted for days, and about a week later he
relented.
“Someone will come to you in a few days,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
“That is all you need to know.”
A week went by and no one tried to contact me. I was very disappointed. I wondered what the LTTE had heard about my father and if they had decided I was an unacceptable risk because of him. Although my father never talked about politics, his friends were policemen, judges, and prominent businesspeople. He was a member of the Lions Club and knew a lot of Sinhalese officials. I guessed the LTTE knew about his background.
After sunset, I would often bike to hang out with my friends. One evening — it would have been in June 1984 — I went to the Thiyaku stores nearby and waited for my friends.
A young man of about twenty approached me. “Are you Logathasan?” he asked.
“Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“LTTE meeting today. Follow me.”
I got on my bike and followed him. He led me to a hut surrounded by trees and bushes in a rundown section of town. “Inside,” he said.
I left the bike by a tree and went inside the hut. It was dark. The only light came from a small kerosene lamp in the middle of the room. About twenty boys, mostly my age or a bit younger, were sitting on one side, and a man and his two bodyguards were sitting on the opposite side.
The man, who I assumed was the leader, was around thirty years old, stocky and muscular. He was wearing a dark short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was holding a pistol in his right hand. A tiny capsule tied to a thread was hanging around his neck; later I learned that it was cyanide.
The two guards standing next to him were holding AK-47 assault rifles. They didn’t look much older than me, but they seemed older. I guess it was the guns. They seemed very proud.
Everyone was quiet.
“Vanakkam!” the leader announced at last. Greetings!
It was a recruiting event. He spoke about our country, what was happening to Tamil people, and what we must all do to protect the Tamils from extinction by the government. He talked about the LTTE’s accomplishments. At the end of the meeting, the leader demonstrated how to use his pistol and asked us to try handling it ourselves.
I was enchanted. I had never held a gun before, and I have to admit it was very empowering. The leader showed me how to load the bullets and change the magazine. Then he showed me how to point and shoot. I felt like James Bond. The gun was agreeably heavy with a pleasant heft. I could feel its power and strength and suddenly, I felt powerful and strong, too. The soldier from the train station entered my mind, and I thought about how satisfying it would be to put the end of the pistol to his forehead and pull the trigger.
I went home that night happier than I had been in years.
A few days later, I was approached on the street by another young man, whom I recognized from temple. His name was Ravi. I had come to know him fairly well and he was always very pleasant, but he hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who would join the rebels. Plus, he had been born with a disability. I thought it odd that the LTTE would recruit people with disabilities as guerillas. Perhaps as long as one could pull a trigger, that was sufficient.
Ravi sensed my confusion. “The LTTE is not just about fighting with guns,” he said. “We must also fight with words. In fact, words can be even more effective than bullets in our fight.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “When do I get a gun? I want to kill the soldiers.”
He shook his head at my naïveté and smiled. “It has been decided that your talents are better suited to tasks other than fighting with guns.”
My disappointment must have been obvious, because he nodded knowingly. “Everyone wants to fight with guns,” Ravi admitted. “It’s natural. We want to train you in the propaganda area.”
“What about in the combat-training area?”
“No. It has been decided.” He was becoming annoyed with me. “Besides, your father would never permit it. Your family is still very well known. It would be too risky for you — and for us.”
My elation dissipated at the mention of my father. Dreams of avenging the soldier’s attack on me vanished. I was furious at my father but cooled down after a time.
“I want to help in any way I can.”
Ravi smiled and clapped me on the back. “Good man. We’ll get started right away. And welcome to the cause!”
After that, we met often, usually three or four times a week, and almost always late at night. We mainly talked about the plans for the next day or two. In my case, that meant plans for distributing notices, taking up collections, or coming up with ideas for donations. It was fun being part of a group dedicated to such a worthwhile cause — but I was also aware that part of the appeal was doing something I knew my father would disapprove of.
The meetings lasted a long time, and often I would not return home until two or three in the morning. My father was always irate when I got home late, and he would yell at me. But I kept going. I didn’t care what he thought. He had no idea I was meeting with the rebels. He must have thought I was out with my friends, chasing girls or something. I liked that I had this secret from him. It made me feel independent.
One night, a young man showed up at my house saying that Ravi had sent him to me because he needed a place to sleep that night. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and a sarong. He carried a large bag on his shoulder. I said he could stay with me in my brother Lathy’s room. He didn’t talk much. Not at all, in fact. He was constantly listening to a pocket radio that he kept at low volume.
Eventually I fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, my father burst into the room. He was enraged. He picked up the boy’s bag and threw it outside. “Leave my house now!” he roared. The bag landed in the yard and its contents tumbled out: guns and hand grenades.
I yelled at my father. “What are you doing? He is my friend!”
The rebel rushed outside and gathered up the weapons, shoved them back into the bag, and ran off down the street. I ran after him, but he disappeared down a side street and I lost him.
Back at the house, my father was volcanic with anger. He screamed at me. “What are you doing with rebels? Do you want to be killed? Do you want your brother killed? Do you know what will happen to your mother and sisters if the police find out you are associating with rebels?” I thought he would kill me.
My mother had no idea what was going on but intervened anyway. My father was yelling, I was yelling, and my mother was in between, screaming for us to both stop yelling. Somehow, she calmed him down. Frankly, I did not care about his anger or what it would be like for him or the family. And what did he care about my mother? I was angry, too. I stormed back to my room and pretended to go to sleep.
Later, I snuck out and went to Ravi’s house and told him what had happened. I stayed there that night.
My father hated the LTTE, but I loved belonging to a rebel group. It felt good. It wasn’t the revenge I wanted, but it was all I had. Plus, most people supported the LTTE, especially after the Black July riots.
During my time with the LTTE, I was mostly tasked with distributing pamphlets and affixing posters to walls in public places like supermarkets, schools, and train stations. Occasionally, I solicited donations from the public. We would drive a tractor-trailer to collect coconuts and sell them to make money. People gave us food and drinks during these times.
Sometimes I wished I was playing a more active role with the rebels, as distributing leaflets and asking for small donations seemed a bit removed from the real action — too administrative. Still, I enjoyed the camaraderie. Sometimes, from the donations, I would bring rice, coconuts, sugar, and tea to my family.
And it wasn’t like I was doing nothing. I had taken a stand. I was fighting for Tamil freedom and independence. It made me feel more secure to know that if the army conducted a surprise roundup, I could escape and hide out with my rebel friends.
It didn’t last.
; One night, during the curfew, I was told to stick notices on the walls around town. I was riding a motorbike with another recruit on the Kandy–Jaffna Highway. We usually slapped up posters at night; it was safer, as we didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing us and betraying our activities. We rode through the silent, unlit neighbourhood. The street lights were turned off during curfews.
All of a sudden, we were caught in twin spears of bright light. I cursed. Soldiers!
I glanced behind us. A string of military trucks was parked along the shoulder of the highway, waiting in the dark for anyone violating the curfew. Immediately, I heard soldiers shouting and trucks roaring to life.
“They’ve spotted us!” my companion shouted to me. “Faster! Step on it!”
We unloaded on the throttle and raced off as fast as the motorcycle could manage. But there was no way we could outrun a military vehicle on our little motorcycle. The engine started sparking. I cursed again. “Probably overheated!” I yelled over my shoulder. I was nearing a junction, so I made a turn. “Hold on!”
We raced and bounced hard over the train tracks running parallel to the Kandy–Jaffna Highway and climbed a steep hill. The engine was on fire now. Just as we crested the hill, I swerved off the road and steered the bike into a high stand of brush. We flew off the bike and hit the ground with a dull, lung-clearing thump. The bike skidded, then wobbled drunkenly into the bush.
My companion started to moan, and I covered his mouth with my hand. “Quiet!” I hissed. We could hear the military trucks close behind us on the hill. We scrambled and crawled deeper into the bushes. We held our breath.
We heard sudden sharp squeaking sounds: brakes. Voices.
They know we are here, I thought. This is it. We will be tortured or killed.
I could see the truck on the side of the road. It was equipped with rotating headlights, bright beams of light sweeping back and forth. An armoured car with a mounted machine gun had pulled up behind the truck. I watched the gun turning left and right, then aiming directly at us. I had stopped breathing. What are they waiting for? What happens when they find us? They will kill us.
The Sadness of Geography Page 7