areas and no one has any idea of the scale of the damage, as the government won’t let any independent reporters go to the ‘war’ zone. There are rumours in Colombo often saying things which have no basis in reality, but some reliable reports say that there are over 200.000 people around the ‘war’ zone being displaced to the escalating fight, and that makeshift hospitals are crowded with children for whom there are no medicines or facilities.”++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Read Part 02
(March 01, London, Sri Lanka Guardian) “Are we all kind to each other? What are we doing to each other and why are we letting these mindless politicians and religious fanatics destroy our young ones; the politicians’ children will never go to the battlefront, why do we allow our children to die for them to enjoy luxury of life? Isn’t it enough for us to see other parts of the world which have been destroyed in no time like Bosnia, Rwanda or Russia who, like us, are trying to be superior to each other because of ones race, colour, religion or language? We breath the same air, drink the same water, walk on the same grass, look at the same blue sky but we behave like savages to please the politicians and religious fanatics”. She would like to ask sixteen million Sri Lankan people if she had the chance.
“ How can I help Geeta?” She is thinking, while she is in the tube train to go back home. She will send money to help Geeta. “Giving money won’t solve any problems, but to do campaign work with others who have the same problems as her may create some awareness about the increasingly dangerous situation in Colombo”. She thinks of her Sinhala friend Thilaka Ratwatte who had lost her brother during the 90’s when the United National Party was in government and was arresting anyone who was against them.
Massive graveyards had been found in the Sinhala area, allegedly those graves contained Sinhalese youth who were against the government. Thilaka’s brother was a journalist and wrote about the human rights violations in Sri Lanka, and one morning the plain clothes government officials came to take him for ‘questioning’ – then he ‘disappeared’ from the face of the earth without trace. Thilaka was frantically trying to find out about her brother’s whereabouts with no success, as the government was denying any knowledge of seeing or having contact with Thilaka’s brother. That was the end of a Sinhalese progressive man who campaigned for human rights in Sri Lanka.
When Devika reaches home the house is in a zombie mood as the cat is still with the vet with internal injuries due to the car accident. Little Ravi is in tears and crawling onto the settee, moaning. Segar in philosophical, saying that ‘every life has a meaning and it ends one day, Josie cat had a happy life and she gave so much pleasure to all of us in the house.’ Cat gave pleasure to people in the house? Devika wonders. The Cat brought half-dead mice and birds to show off her love for the boys! Ravi won’t stop weeping.
Devika wants to dial Thilaka to find out how to help Geeta. Devika phones Thilika while stroking her little son who is weeping. Thilika is angry with Sri Lankan politicians as usual. “ I am sorry Devika about your friend, I hear that there were about a thousand soldiers being killed and the government is going mad with bombing on innocent civilians in the Tamil Areas. Who is going to stop this carnage, savagery, barbarism?” Thilaka’s questions are like Devika’s but none knows the answer. Thilaka gives her some contacts in Columbo for Devika to get in touch with.
A few days go by and the cat is still with the vet, under observation after having an intravenous infusion as she has lost so much blood due to the car accident. Ravi is coming to terms with the tragic situation, just as any human learns to live in hope for the best. Devika is busy trying to meet with people who can help her to secure the release of Geeta’s son.
“There are over seven hundred Tamil youths who have been arrested in Colombo” one said. The ‘war’ in Mullaitivu is still in progress, costing enormous damage to the Tamil people in Paranthan, Kilinochy and of course in Mullaitivu areas and no one has any idea of the scale of the damage, as the government won’t let any independent reporters go to the ‘war’ zone. There are rumours in Colombo often saying things which have no basis in reality, but some reliable reports say that there are over 200.000 people around the ‘war’ zone being displaced to the escalating fight, and that makeshift hospitals are crowded with children for whom there are no medicines or facilities.
A friend of Devika’s asks her to come to an event which is organised to commemorate the 1983 July riots in Colombo against the Tamils by the United National Party government officials backed Sinhala racist mobs, when millions of rupees worth of Tamil’s property was damaged and many Tamils were burned alive in front of horrified foreign tourists in Colombo and thousands of Tamils went through untold sufferings. Tamil political prisoners were killed inside high security prisons.
This evening’s commemorative event in London is on a grand scale, portraying the past with graphic posters, reports, and discussions, debates. Devika is here alone, not many people say hello to each other; although they are all Sri Lankan Tamils there is no obvious brotherhood (or sisterhood) unless one belongs to a certain Tamil area in Sri Lanka. The children in the hall are wearing their best dresses, and the women are wearing or Kanchipuram or Kashmere silk sarees, which are the dream of poor Tamils back home. Children are collecting money for ‘refugee children’ in Sri Lanka, women are preparing delicious food for men engaged in the action of self promotion, men with expensive suits and nicely trimmed moustaches (some are dyed to cover the greying) who are on the platform chanting the glory to the Tamils and explaining why we continue the war.
Suddenly Devika feels the surrealism of the picture.
She remembers what Geeta has written. Politics is a business for some people. The attacks and the carnage, the suffering of mothers like Geeta, to fight for the rights of Tamils, girls like Savitri, who has chosen (?) to be a suicide bomb, her young body blasted along with her ‘enemies’ (?) and her mother couldn’t even bury her ‘body’ – all these issues have no meaning in this absurd setting. None of the rich women at this event would match to Geeta, or Savitri, or Premalatha, or the Tamil refugee Luxmy in the council house.
Devika walks out of the meeting with a question in her mind: ‘Is it our situation that has given to some people the opportunity to organise social events, to get to wear expensive outfits, eat delicious meals and gather and meet their kith and kin, and friends to maintain a heritage that can survive here in London? Do they really want peace and justice in Sri Lanka – of course Devika knows none of these people will ever go back home from their comfortable lives in the West. So it is easy for them to talk about the ‘war’ as if they are watching an Indian commercial film, with very little feeling.
She goes home disappointed.
On the way home she can hear the celebration activities around the old oak tree which is ‘saved’ by the people who fought for their rights. The tree is decorated with yellow ribbons by children from all over the street; parents are having a party to celebrate their children’s victory.
“Are we the Tamils in London really, really campaigning for security for all the children in Sri Lanka? She asks herself the question as usual.
There was a call from Colombo, Segar says. She phones a friend to find out the recent news. Geeta is waiting there, expecting Devika’s call. Geeta can’t speak, her voice is cracking, “my son…..my son…..” she won’t complete the sentence. Her friend comes on the line.
“Sorry Devika….they found Geeta’s son’s body…” there are pauses at both ends.
Devika’s throat is blocked with a lump of some sort and she has no words to comfort her friend.
“By the way….” her friend continues, “ your sister said your niece Premalatha was one of the fighters who died in the ‘war’ with the Sri Lankan armies in Mullaitivu”.
Devika puts the phone down. Tears falling like a river on her cheek.
Ravi starts to scream suddenly as he sees Segar was coming with his head down and a sad face from the vet.
“My cat….my poor cat” Ravi is crying. Devika cuddles her son tenderly. Segar does not have to say anything in words.
They all sit together, crying, “The poor little Josie cat is dead isn’t it?” Ravi asks Segar.
“ The vet tried very hard”, Segar said.
There is a long pause between all of them, then she tells the children “your cousin Premalatha is dead too in Sri Lanka.” She can’t tell them the details of the carnage. The children look at their mother, trying to remember their cousin whom they met when they were little.
“ Do you remember a girl who has a red doll from me?” She asks them.
Premalatha like any other Sri Lankan Tamil or Sinhala young woman could have been a good mother, or a teacher, or a writer or an actress, or a dancer but her life has been destroyed by the political violence in Sri Lanka.
All those young who died this week could have been able and wonderful citizens of our future, but what a waste, what a waste!
They are silent. The children may not remember anything about Sri Lanka, just like the children in the hall who were trying to commemorate the deaths back home. She cries for the children and the mothers of Sri Lanka, her children cry with her without and real understanding of what is going on in Sri Lanka.
End.
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