“I work at the bank,” she said. “I am respected there.” She volunteered to sponsor my bond.
I was elated.
She told me that sponsors are allowed to sponsor only two people during their lifetime. She had used one already, and she said she had been saving the other for Jeya. “But I think he will stay,” she said. “I want you to have it.”
I thanked her profusely and offered her one thousand rupees (thirty-seven U.S. dollars), but she refused.
She explained to me that it would take about a week for the passport to be bonded. “Go to the passport office and check back then.”
I thanked her again for her kindness and gave her my passport. I trusted her. I still trusted Jeya, too. He had been a very good friend to me, and I didn’t believe he had any idea that his uncle was untrustworthy. Still, after the trouble I’d had retrieving my passport, I had a sudden moment of doubt after handing it over. Once again I was stateless.
“I would offer for you to stay here,” she said apologetically, “but it is too dangerous.” Living alone as a woman was not ideal, but it was safer than having a rebel-aged male in the house.
I did not relish the idea of spending another week sleeping on the beach, and she seemed to intuit my disappointment. “I know a family that will take you in,” she said. “It is not far away. In Mattakkuliya. The woman is Muslim. She is very kind, and I will talk to her. Don’t worry. You will be safe. Here is her address. Go to her later tonight.”
I was so grateful to Nalini, and any doubts I had about being able to trust her disappeared.
The Muslim family had a tiny house inside an alley so narrow that it could only be reached by foot. There were no streetlights, so at night people walked with kerosene lamps. Before the riots, Tamils had lived there, too. But since then, they had all fled. Only Muslims lived there now.
When I knocked on the door, a woman answered and greeted me.
I told her my name. “Nalini sent me.”
She brightened. “Vanakkam!” she said. “Please, come in.”
She said I was welcome to stay in a storage area at the back. “It isn’t much,” she said, “but it will keep the rain off.”
The woman was in her early thirties and quite short — less than five feet tall. She wore a half-sari that also covered her head. I thanked her profusely. “It’s a palace compared to where I’ve been sleeping,” I said. I told her my story.
She nodded and said she understood. I was very welcome to share her home, she said, but she had a few house rules. First, I must leave the house before sunrise. Second, I could come back after sunset but not before. “Too dangerous!” she said.
It was my turn to say that I understood.
She had a son and a daughter, she told me, aged ten and twelve. “They will not bother you.”
I smiled and told her about my brothers and sisters.
Every morning during my time in Mattakkuliya, I was awakened early — usually by one of the children, who seemed both very shy of me and familiar. They gave me tea and fresh-baked bread for breakfast. Before the sun was up, I would start wandering the city. It was odd how quickly I learned how to amuse myself in a big city by doing absolutely nothing. I walked, looked in store windows, sat in parks and people-watched, hung out at the beach — basically lived a life of leisure. Usually I skipped eating during the day. It was cheaper that way, and I thought that any interaction with the Sinhalese, even with the street vendors, could be dangerous.
Shortly after sunset each day, I would find my way back to the house in Mattakkuliya. I looked forward to eating evening meals with the family; it wasn’t something I was used to. The mother prepared the meals, and we all sat down together on the floor to eat. The prawn curry cooked in coconut milk and served with warm rice was delicious. I talked to them about my family, about life at boarding school. I also talked a lot about my plan to move to Germany. “I am going to be free,” I told them. “I will have a good job, and I can pay to have my mother and siblings move to Germany, too. It will be a good life.”
We also talked about the riots and about the hatred between Tamils and Sinhalese. The mother explained that the Qur’an forbids hatred. “We must take care of one another,” she said. She sighed. “It does not always work out that way, however.”
I agreed. I had never read the Qur’an and had no idea what it said, but I believed it to be true because she did. After all, she was sheltering a Tamil in her home.
I realized that I had seen no trace of her husband anywhere and that he was never mentioned. As I was living off her kindness and hospitality, I thought it disrespectful to inquire after him. Perhaps he had died. I don’t know. At that time in Sri Lanka, Muslims were for the most part tolerated; over time that would change.
Her son and daughter often wandered into the storage area, and we would play together. They reminded me of my younger brother and sisters.
When the day I’d been waiting for finally arrived, I walked to the passport office, which was about two hours away. I showed the clerk my identity card and told him I had arrived to pick up my passport. He looked at my card and frowned. I think he realized from my name that I was Tamil. He opened a binder, looked at me, and said, “Next week”
I placed one hundred rupees ($3.70 U.S.) on the counter. “Can you check again?”
He closed the binder with the rupees inside. “Come back tomorrow.”
The next day, I showed up at the same time. When I passed my identity card across the counter, the clerk passed me back my passport. I opened it quickly to make sure it had been bonded for all countries. I almost laughed aloud when I realized it had been officially processed two days ago. The clerk had told me to come back later just to get a bribe. But I didn’t care at that point. I had my passport! I was truly on my way to Germany!
I was so excited I practically ran to the travel agency to book my flight to East Berlin the following day.
That night, I returned to Mattakkuliya for the last time.
The next day, I awoke, showered, and dressed. My Muslim mother very kindly had washed and ironed my clothes. I was packed and ready to go, and I said my goodbyes. It was very hard. She had taken me in, a complete stranger. I had stayed with this family for only ten days, but it had felt much longer.
As I was on my way out, she asked me to wait for her by the end of the alley. She couldn’t risk having anyone see her and her children with me.
I didn’t understand, but she smiled and I did as I was told. I watched her and her two children walk away. A few minutes later, she returned with her children. She waved for me to come. She had arranged for a rickshaw to take me to the airport!
“I will travel with you,” she said. “I speak Sinhala. It will be safer that way. Less conspicuous. Come.”
I said goodbye to the daughter, and the mother, her son, and I climbed into the rickshaw. I could not sit still and I kept turning my head left and right looking everywhere as we travelled to the airport. The rickshaw driver looked back at me a few times with what seemed to be a troubled look on his face. But I worried in vain, and we arrived safely at the airport. I tried to pay the woman for her kindness, but she refused. So I decided to gift my watch to her son. “A memento,” I said, touching my hand to my chest, “for my Colombo family.” Mother and son smiled at me.
With mixed emotions, I watched them drive away. The Muslim mother adored her children. She had photos of them everywhere in their tiny home. Before I left their home, I asked if I could keep one photograph of her children. I have lost touch with them, but the memories are still intact.
I was eager to begin my new life in Germany. But as I approached the airport doors, my mind was filled with the larger sadness of leaving my family and my homeland, possibly forever.
Colombo’s Bandaranaike International Airport was crowded with travellers, and the military presence was immediately obvious. Everywhere I looked, I saw soldiers with submachine guns, many with dogs by theirs sides. My heart began pounding.
/> There had been a rumour that the LTTE was planning an attack on the airport in retaliation for the brutal attacks on Tamils in the Black July riots. About a week earlier, the LTTE had bombed the northern railway line, Yal Devi, at Murikandy, killing thirty-four people, including twenty-two soldiers, and completely destroying the tracks. Tensions were very high.
I wore the same shirt (shown in the passport) when I left Sri Lanka.
I had put on the same shirt I was wearing in my passport photo, just in case, and I walked directly to the check-in counter and handed the clerk my passport and ticket. After inspecting my passport, he issued me a boarding pass. I had no luggage to check in, so I went straight to security. Despite my nervousness, I sailed through with surprising ease. Ironically, the government was actually encouraging Tamils to emigrate — the fewer Tamils the better, I suppose — so the military, in particular, was not disposed to create any barriers for Tamils leaving the country.
I will never forget buckling myself into my seat and waiting anxiously for the plane to finally lift off. It was my first time on an airplane, and I found the experience both terrifying and magical.
It was quite some time before I felt relaxed enough to loosen my death grip on the armrests. At last, I smiled. I had done it. I was free. I was headed to Germany! I started giggling. Then, just as quickly, it hit me: I was headed to Germany. I had no idea what I was doing. I knew not one word of German. I knew not a soul. I was on my own. My mouth turned very dry. What am I doing?
I had never been more scared in my life.
CHAPTER 16
When I was a little boy, I would watch the jets flying high in the sky and would run in the fields pretending that I was one. At Sangkaththaanai, not many planes flew over; I would wait for days just to see one.
And here I was on my first plane! How I wished I could tell my friend Prabhu what it was like.
My first stop would be a short layover in Moscow, and then I would transfer to a larger plane for a flight to East Berlin, Germany. At the time, most commercial flights between Colombo and Europe were operated by the Russian airline Aeroflot. I was so new to the experience of flying that I didn’t know what a layover was, or the difference between a direct flight and a commuter flight. More importantly, I had no idea that East Berlin and West Berlin were completely separate places. It would be a rather rude introduction to Cold War politics.
A few hours into the flight, I noticed the other passengers were staring at me. When I looked back at them, they looked away or at their magazines. What are they looking at? I wondered. When I looked up and down the aisle, I realized I was the only person of colour on the entire plane. Everyone else was white. This was another first for me. I had never seen so many white people in one place.
When the plane landed at Berlin Schönefeld Airport in East Berlin, I looked through the window and was puzzled. There was some kind of white powder blanketing the ground. That must be snow! I thought. And we seemed to be a long way from the terminal.
We were told that due to heavy snowfall, the aircraft had landed far away from the terminal and we would have to walk outside to a bus waiting to ferry us to the terminal. A staircase on wheels was rolled up to the side of the plane and the door was swung open. Passengers — most of them wrapped up tight in big jackets with fur collars — began climbing down the stairs.
I didn’t have a jacket. All I had was a light sweater. I stepped out into the freezing cold air and jumped back into the plane like a startled terrier. Passengers behind me started laughing. Hunching up my shoulders against the stabbing cold, I followed the passengers ahead of me and climbed onto a bus.
Completely unfamiliar with airport procedures and protocol, I zombie-walked behind the crowd headed to immigration, where my passport was stamped. Again, I fell into line behind the flow of the crowd and found myself boarding a train, not at all sure where it was headed. When the train stopped at the next station, two policemen boarded. They were wearing blue uniforms and hats. Each had a baton at their waist and a gun on the other hip. One officer was holding the leash of a dog. The only person of colour on the train, I must have stood out like a sore thumb, because they headed straight toward me.
“Reisepass!” one barked at me in German.
I saw passengers handing over their passports, so I did the same. The officers studied it intently, occasionally looking up and staring at me and then looking back at the passport.
“Kommen Sie mit uns! Oben! Jetzt!”
I had no idea what he wanted, but I noticed other passengers on the train were looking at me with startled expressions.
“I do not speak —” I tried to explain in Tamil.
“Oben! Jetzt!” The officer looked angry and impatient with my confusion. The dog tugged on its leash, snarling.
I stood up and attempted to convey through hand gestures that I was anxious to comply. The policeman jerked his head to the side, indicating I was being ordered to exit the train. I stepped into the aisle, so terrified I was shaking, and with one policeman in front and one behind, I got off the train. On the platform I was directed to follow them through the station to a van that was parked at the curb.
“Innerhalb!”
I kept repeating “Germany! Germany!” at them but to no avail.
They hoisted me into the van by the shoulders and slammed the door shut. I heard the clinking of a lock. Hard benches ran the length of the van on either side and I sat down. I was alone. It was very cold inside the van and I could not stop shivering. My shaking was so intense my joints ached.
About a half-hour later, we arrived at an underground police station. One officer got out of the van and signalled for me to get out. Another officer took my bag and indicated that I was to follow them. Once again, I walked between the two officers. I was moving freely — I wasn’t handcuffed — but they had kept my passport.
I was led inside the building and down a nondescript corridor with cement walls and doors — doors with iron bars — on either side. I was too scared to ask the officers what was happening, but even as an inexperienced traveller, I knew this was not normal. One of the officers unlocked a door, put me inside, and locked the door behind me.
My passport was not returned.
The cell had a sink, a toilet, and a cement bench cantilevered from the wall. The bench had a dual purpose; it could be used as a seat or a bed. The cell was no more than five feet wide and ten feet deep. There were no windows. Dim light filtered through a small glass brick in the wall, the only source of light in the cell.
I sat down. I had no idea if things had taken a turn for the better or the worse. I had been told that Germany was one of the best countries in the world. Therefore, nothing bad should happen to me here. It had to be better than living in war-stricken Sri Lanka. My initial ideas of Germany had been incorrect — no one had welcomed me with open arms at the airport. If the policemen hadn’t arrested me, where would I have gone?
A few minutes later, another officer entered the cell.
“Stehen Sie auf! Ziehen Sie sich aus!”
Once again I pantomimed that I did not understand. He made gestures of stripping.
Hesitantly, I stood up and began undressing. A female officer then entered the room. Mortified, I did the best I could to hide my nakedness. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“Gesicht zur Wand richten. Heben Sie Ihre beiden Arme hoch!” She indicated that I should face the wall and raise my arms.
The woman officer then kicked my ankles to force my legs apart, pinned me to the wall with her left arm, and inserted her right index and middle fingers into my rectum. I screamed in pain and struggled, but she pressed me harder into the wall even as I felt her fingers digging deeper and rutting about inside me. The pain was intense but the humiliation was blinding. All I could think about was the soldier on the train who had molested me.
I left my home for a better life and this is what happens?
She completed her exam and released me. I heard her snap off
the gloves.
“Ziehen Sie Ihre Kleider wieder an.”
I gathered from her gestures that I could put my clothes back on. The officers exited the cell, shutting the door and locking it.
Hours later, I was ordered out of my cell, and an officer took my fingerprints. I had not had anything to eat or drink for hours. I had no idea where my bag and passport were. Beginning a new life was not going to be nearly as easy as I had thought. I was ordered to follow yet another set of officers to another van. I climbed in without asking why. They climbed into the front of the van and we drove away.
In the van were two men: one looked Iranian and the other African. We did not speak or make eye contact. We kept our eyes on the ground. The van drove through a checkpoint, where we had our passports stamped with the mark of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik.
Welcome to West Berlin.
Of course, back then I did not know what West Berlin was.
The van turned into a small compound, which was heavily guarded by policemen. At the checkpoint, the driver showed the guard some papers, and then we got permission to enter the facility. Later, I realized that it was a refugee camp controlled by West Germany and the Allies who were in control of West Berlin: the United States, Britain, and France.
Tall iron gates stood at the front of the camp and high walls surrounded it. There was a guard by the front gate, and he and our driver exchanged words before the gate was buzzed open.
The driver drove the van inside the compound. Then a guard came out from the building and spoke to the officer in the van who eventually gave him my passport.
I saw the guard pass my passport to a processing officer of the camp. The processing officer looked briefly at me then turned away. “Kommen Sie mit mir.”
The refugee centre was small, crowded, and completely enclosed. There were about one hundred detainees at the time. The centre was divided into separate sections or zones, each with about twenty bunk beds stacked in rows, one after another. As we walked through the centre, I noticed many of the men standing around were watching me with passive or hostile faces. The officer pointed at a bed. Then he left.
The Sadness of Geography Page 10