It seemed as if we waited an hour, but it could not have been more than ten minutes. Suddenly, we heard someone bark an order. The searchlights were turned off and the soldiers boarded the trucks and drove off toward Chavakachcheri town.
We waited until we could no longer hear the engines, and even then we emerged only reluctantly from the bush.
“I think we are okay,” I said.
“They must have been worried it was an ambush,” my companion said. “That is why they didn’t look for us.”
It took us a few minutes to find the motorbike in the dark. It was badly damaged and would not start. We would have to walk it back. We left it in my uncle’s yard and went home.
After about six months, the monotony of distributing pamphlets and repeating Marxist slogans had quelled my youthful revolutionary fervour. It had become unbearably boring and dreary, and I couldn’t see that I was making any difference whatsoever.
More distressing was that a dangerous and damaging power struggle had erupted between the LTTE and rival guerilla groups, in particular the People’s Liberation Organization of Tamil Eelam, which was cannibalizing the independence movement from within. As an increasing number of innocent civilians were either displaced from their homes or killed by this internecine warfare, I began to lose faith. What was the point of fighting the majority Sinhalese if Tamil civilians had as much to fear from the forces of liberation? It just didn’t make much sense to me. I was extremely committed to independence, but it was hard — impossible — to maintain a focus on the big picture when rebels spent more time fighting one another than the Sinhalese majority.
I was still tormented by memories: the soldiers sweeping through our village and chasing me by helicopter, and the soldier molesting me on the train home. Over time, though, my intense thirst for revenge, my desire to kill Sri Lankan soldiers and to make them pay for what they had done to me, had abated. How many soldiers would I have to kill to expunge the memory of what happened? One? Ten? A hundred? It seemed pointless.
There is no antidote to grief but time. Killing, in any case, was not the answer.
But what was?
CHAPTER 14
I couldn’t stand watching my father’s downfall. With him no longer providing for the family and Lathy not there to support us, this burden had fallen into my lap. More and more I felt the need to escape — from the war, from my memories, from the sight of my family and of my country falling apart.
Jeya, a school friend from St. John’s College, told me that the German government was helping Tamils escape the civil war by providing food and shelter to refugees, even providing them with expedited citizenship and opportunities to make a fresh start. I asked him how he knew this.
“My uncle has helped a lot of Tamils emigrate to Germany,” he said. “He will help you.”
At the time I didn’t even know where Germany was or anything else about it.
“Germany is a very rich country,” Jeya told me. “Everyone has a job. They treat Tamils very well there. Not like here. You will be treated very well. Once I get my passport, I am planning to go there, too.”
A fresh start sounded like redemption. I would go to Germany and find a good job and send money back to my family. All would be well. No more war. No more destruction. No one hating us because we were Tamil. They would welcome us! We could live in peace. I imagined a grand welcoming party at the airport and never being afraid again.
I asked Jeya how much it would cost.
He shrugged. “Twenty thousand Sri Lankan rupees.”
Twenty thousand rupees! I was staggered. It might as well have been twenty million. I did not, however, hesitate. I would find the money. “Tell your uncle I will go to Germany.”
I decided to say nothing of my decision to my family — especially not to my mother, since I was convinced she would never let me leave. She had lost one son to another country already, and I was sure she would not countenance losing another. However, I was faced with another problem: I had used all of my savings during the war to buy food and items my family needed to survive. Where could I find the money to go to Germany?
My friend Prabhu and I had grown up together, going to the same primary school in Sangkaththaanai. His mother was a teacher, and she knew me very well. Prabhu and I went to see his mother. He told her I had a favour to ask.
I told her what I had decided. She listened attentively and respectfully; she asked me a lot of questions. Do I have my passport? Who is helping me go to Germany? Where would I live in Germany? What she did not ask me was what my parents thought of my idea. She must have assumed that they either knew and approved, or she had decided fleeing Sri Lanka was the only viable option. She worried about Prabhu, too.
Finally, she agreed to lend me the twenty thousand rupees ($740 U.S.). I was bursting with joy. I promised her that I would pay her back as soon as I found work in Germany.
When I met up with Jeya and told him I had the money, he explained that the cost included airfare to Germany and a bonded passport. This meant that a guarantor would bond my passport so that I could travel to all countries with a valid visa. He took my money and my passport and sent them to his uncle, who lived in Colombo. He gave me his uncle’s phone number and instructed me to pick up the ticket and passport in Colombo the following week.
I was thrilled that I would be leaving my old life behind and would have a chance to begin a new and better life in Germany. Just to be on the safe side, I reminded Jeya to keep my plan confidential and not tell anyone — most importantly my family. I was also concerned that if news of my plan leaked, the LTTE might prevent me from leaving the country. I had not yet formally broken off ties with the group, and I was worried they might interpret my flight to Germany as an act of betrayal or disloyalty.
A few months earlier, I had gone to the fish market, next to the main bus station, to buy food for my family. As I neared, people were screaming and running away from the bus station. I couldn’t see any military trucks or soldiers. But I did see a man lying in a pool of blood, wearing a sign around his neck. It read “Traitor.” The owner of a nearby tea shop told me that two men carrying AK-47s had shot the man in front of a crowd of people at the bus stop. Apparently, he had given information about LTTE to government officials. They had made it clear they would do the same to anyone who betrayed them.
I started spending more time at Prabhu’s house. I don’t think my mother at first suspected my imminent escape to Germany. But I think the more time I spent away from home, the more she wondered. We had never talked about my membership in the LTTE; I know she disapproved, but I think some part of her understood.
I stayed with Prabhu for a couple of days before my departure. We spent a good deal of our time huddled over maps of Sri Lanka, figuring out the best routes to Colombo and talking about the trip and about Germany and about what the future would be like. In many ways it was the longest week of my life, but before I knew it, the day of my departure had arrived.
During all this time, my travel plan had been a secret mission between Prabhu and me. But I could not keep my plan a secret forever. The night before my departure, I slept at home. Early the next morning, I found my mother washing dishes by the well. She looked very tired. I was overwhelmed by such a staggering wave of guilt that my legs buckled. She looked up from the dishes, saw me, and smiled.
I gave her a hug, and she looked at me sharply. “What is it?”
My throat was as dry as dust. “Amma,” I announced, “I am leaving.” At first, I was not sure she had heard me. She betrayed no emotion. “Amma, I am going to Colombo today. From there I am going Germany. I will find work. I will send money for you.”
Her hands flew to her face and she began wailing in a voice that sounded deeply frightened. She was hitting her head with her hands, yelling, “It is too dangerous. The Sinhalese will kill you. You are only eighteen years old. Please don’t go.”
“I have to, Amma. It is the only way I can help the family.”
&nbs
p; She refused to listen. “No!” she said. “If you go, I will kill myself.”
It is rather common in Tamil culture for one to threaten to kill oneself to trigger sympathy. It almost worked.
“Amma,” I pleaded at last, “I have no choice. We have nothing. I must go to Germany and find a good job and send money home. One day we will all be together. You will see. I promise.”
I assured her that I would be okay and that I would write to her when I reached Germany. Finally, she seemed to sense that my stubbornness was genuine and that nothing would change my mind.
I would like to say that I regretted my decision to leave, but the truth is that I was restless and anxious to go. My mother, however, was inconsolable.
I had about a thousand rupees in travel money. Before I left, my mother insisted on stitching a hidden pocket in my underwear to keep my money safe. She wept as she sewed. After I had changed, I packed a small bag with a second pair of trousers, a sweater, and a pair of slippers. She made me tea, and we sat on the kitchen floor in awkward silence as I gulped it down. Then I picked up my bag and started to walk toward the front gate.
“Wait!” she called. She ran inside the house and brought back a picture. It was the Lord Shiva and Parvati, the sacred Hindu god and goddess. “Keep it wherever you go,” she said. “They will protect you.”
I still have that picture. I have kept it with me to this very day.
“Will you not say goodbye to your father?” she asked.
I shook my head and resumed walking. She followed me for a few steps, but I did not stop or turn around. I suddenly thought about what my father might do after I was gone. Will he beat her? Will he mistreat my sisters and brother? Who will take care of them?
I hesitated. The guilt was almost overwhelming as I opened the gate, but I kept walking. Home was already a memory.
Massive bombing campaigns by the Sri Lankan security forces and the LTTE had destroyed most of the roads and railway tracks in the Northern Province. As a result, the closest functioning train station was in Kilinochchi, a town about forty miles to the south. The once-per-week train bound for Colombo was scheduled to depart from the station at noon.
It was about seven when I left our family house. There was no chance of catching a bus or train from Chavakachcheri to Kilinochchi, and walking the distance would take me about eleven hours. My only hope was hitching rides from passing cars, which — with a great deal of luck — would take about an hour. I was determined to get there before noon.
There were no cars, so I ran along the side of the road until a van came along. I frantically gestured at them to stop, and thankfully, they did. It was a relief — and so much faster — to sit instead of having to run! However, the ride was very short.
At the Kandy–Jaffna Highway, I got a ride from a Thaddi van (a grocery truck) to Kodikamam. Then I ran all the way to Mirusuvil. Just outside Mirusuvil, I waved to a motorcycle.
The rider stopped and asked, “Where are you going?”
“To Kilinochchi railway station,” I replied.
“I am going to Palai,” he said. “Hop on.”
I jumped on the back of the motorcycle and we tore off down the road.
We soon arrived at Palai and, unfortunately, I had to start jogging again. Not long after, however, I spotted a minibus on its way to Paranthan. I waved it to a stop and hopped on.
Along the way, we had to divert around massive holes that pockmarked the roads — craters from exploded bombs. Military vehicles, many belching smoke and littered with bullet holes, were flipped upside down or had been run off the road. Dozens of trees had been amputated of limbs by bullets and mortar fire, and many had been felled and laid across the road as barriers to tanks and trucks.
Finally, I reached the train station in Kilinochchi. It had taken about four hours. Not bad! Men and women with bags and groceries were boarding the train, the Yal Devi (Queen of Jaffna). I hadn’t a minute to spare. I approached the ticket counter with my fare.
The clerk looked at me. “Train is full,” he announced. “Come back next week.”
I was stunned; I had barely escaped my hometown and already I had hit a huge hurdle. I walked to the platform and saw that the train was not at all full. Why had the clerk told me it was?
I am not going back to my village, I told myself. But if I missed this train, where was I going to stay for a week? What would happen to my passport and my flight ticket?
I will sit on the roof of the train without a ticket if I have to!
I returned to the ticket counter. “I must get a ticket for the train,” I said as I slid an extra ten rupees across the counter with my ticket fare. I was issued a ticket immediately.
Greatly relieved, but not happy about having to dip into my travel money already, I boarded the train. Immediately I was seized with fear. My heart began pounding and I had difficulty breathing. I could feel the soldier behind me, his hot, dank breath on my neck, and I could hear him laughing with his fellow soldiers about what he had done to me. The memory was so vivid I was nearly sick.
The train was not crowded. After a moment my panic eased and I managed to make my way down the aisle to a seat near an older couple. No one will bother me if I sit near them, I thought. Looking back, I am not sure exactly why I thought that; I doubt they would have been any help at all if there had been a problem.
A few minutes later, the train lurched forward and started down the track out of the station. It took about an hour and a half to reach Vavuniya railway station. There were many military checkpoints along the way. Soldiers with submachine guns would get on the train and randomly ask for identification. They ordered some men to get out of the train for questioning. I never saw those men get back on the train.
A couple of seats away, I noticed a girl who, I thought, looked like she might be from Colombo. She had boarded the train in Kilinochchi, so I assumed she was Tamil. She wasn’t wearing any pottu — a red dot would have meant that she was married and black dot that she was single — likely to hide her identity as a Tamil. She approached me and introduced herself. Her name was Devi. She asked where I was headed.
I was shocked at how forward she was. But happy. Usually, local girls were quiet and shy. Out of respect, they generally wouldn’t even talk to their elders or relatives in public. “Colombo,” I said.
“I studied in Colombo,” she said, smiling. “That’s where I’ve lived most of my life.” She turned and walked back to her seat.
About an hour later she came by again. Devi turned out to be an accomplished talker. I was both confused and excited by her forwardness. She was a bit older than I was, and she said she was travelling with her father, her mother, and a younger brother. She asked me about the nature of my trip.
I briefed her on my plans.
She smiled. She, too, was travelling to Europe. “I am going to France to live with my uncle,” she said. After the Black July riots, large numbers of Tamils were leaving Sri Lanka and moving to other countries. “I plan to study in France,” she said. “There is a better future there.”
We chatted for a while, then she went back and sat with her family.
As the train approached the city, the landscape transformed. The green empty fields that stretched to the horizon were replaced by cars, concrete highways and roads, tall buildings that created their own sawtoothed horizon, stores and shops crowded together, and houses stacked close like a dense forest.
Colombo was the first real city I had ever seen up close, and compared to our tiny village, it was enormous. I could hardly believe my eyes. The city was much more modern than our village, which was mostly farmland with little huts made of clay and coconut leaves; there were only a handful of houses with cement walls and tiled roofs in Sangkaththaanai.
It was dusk by the time the train pulled into the station. The city was busy, with people scurrying everywhere like an army of ants. I was tired and hungry but enormously relieved that I had made it to Colombo with only a minimum amount of trouble.
The next step was to get my passport and ticket. Then I would be on my way to Germany.
The minute I left the station, I began looking for accommodations for the night. Tensions between Tamils and Sinhalese were at an all-time high in 1985, and the majority of the population in Colombo was Sinhalese. It was not safe for Tamils. It was common for Tamils to be attacked in Colombo, especially by gangs or thieves. And since I did not speak Sinhala, I decided to avoid cheap hotels or hostels where I might be discovered. I figured I would be safest in a mosque. At that time, Muslims — a small percentage of the population — were neutral and tended to be left alone by both Hindu Tamils and Buddhist Sinhalese.
After walking for thirty minutes or so, I found a mosque. I knocked on the door. A young man peeked through a little window, then opened the door. I told him that I was from the North and asked if I could sleep inside for the night. We spoke in Tamil, of course. He graciously invited me to spend the night but insisted that I leave the premises before sunrise. If the Sinhalese discovered that a Tamil was staying there, he insisted, the mosque would be burned down in retribution. He offered me tea and showed me a corner in the mosque where I could sleep. I was hungry. All I had that day were a Necto soda and peanuts on the train. But I was too grateful to have found a safe place to sleep to care about being hungry.
I thanked him and settled down on the cement floor for the night, using my bag as a pillow. It was very quiet, and before long I fell fast asleep. Still, I woke up occasionally and checked my secret pocket to make sure my money was safe. I thought about my mother and about my sisters and brother. I wondered if my siblings were waiting for me to come home or if my mother had explained to them what I had done.
Mostly, however, I thought about Germany. My new home. How proud my mother and my family would be when I had earned enough money to bring them to Germany, too.
The Sadness of Geography Page 8