Photo credits: http://dmatxi.com/05/behind-every-love-story-and-broken-heart.html |
Of you,
Carefree were we with time on our hands,
Deep into the night.
Photo credits: http://dmatxi.com/05/behind-every-love-story-and-broken-heart.html |
Of you,
Carefree were we with time on our hands,
Deep into the night.
We all know that during those thirty years of conflict, many men lost their lives. Many others were disabled and bedridden. This led to many households where the breadwinner was the mother. And so they went through a lot of abuse and harassment just so their children would not go to bed starving. When there were enough and more teachers and nurses, the women were forced to do what were previously known as jobs for men.
Then there were women who lost their children and families. Even though the years have passed, they still hope to see their families again. They look for familiar faces in the crowd and keep praying and looking at least one listening ear. Their plight, stories and victories are archived at Herstories in hopes that history will stop being the tale of men.
Written for The Nation Fine for the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women falls on November 25
Also see at-https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=720430937968397&set=a.227989033879259.69054.100000044923625&type=1&theater
(Continued from where we left off last time)
“Safe….safe,” he hissed as her words stung him again, tenderly but painfully ripping at his ears as the wind howled around him. He looked up and pawed the air. “You made a promise and you broke it when you left me. And I’m supposed to feel good? To still be in debt to you?”
A faint ripple of mirth had finally breathed past his cracked lips.
Soulless sighs washed over him from the entrance of the cave as he saw a slender arm reaching forward. His eyes had gone into a blur, into a shimmy, and he crossed the veil between this world and the next. Or
so he thought. But the shape grew brighter as the hand kept reaching. A slender hand with bruises, a young had but callused from a rough lifestyle,
The same hand that had caressed him unconditionally and gently, sweeping away his misery.
“Why now of all nights? What do you want?”
“Your faith left you,” the pained voice replied, “and so I came back. Besides, you keep on crying about everything. You were stronger as a child than you are as a man.”
Gritting his teeth as best he could, he reached out at the wall as the other hand grabbed him firmly and shifted gently inside. “Really?” came his sarcastic growl as he watched her body stepping lightly into his hellish home.
Moving back, he saw his handiwork.
Still bleeding terribly from her half-stitched, half-torn vulva, she knelt before him.
The hair was now immensely long, matted, flowing down to her buttocks in a hellish cascade with dried blood, mud and oily grime. Pale cheeks, pale but spectacularly beautiful, bore tear stains from crying for years with no hope. Her skin didn’t sag, but it looked deathly, salty white.
Standing painfully, not raising her head, she replied, “Yes my son, that’s pretty much it. You’re still trapped in your memories. There’s a world out there that hates our very being. I never told that wretched place about you but I would expect more knowledge from my child.”
She groped around the cave, looking for a place to lie down. Kicking off her sandals she leaned against the right wall.
“Your child,” he replied tersely, cupping the shifting face in his huge hands, “is still living in the stone shell you made for him years ago. If only you were still here. You had to leave me for all the men in Malayadesha, didn’t you? Or where was it truly you went? And I just want to know why.”
The voice that replied him was a serpentine hiss, but no ordinary snake could sound like she did. It had never failed to rasp at his soul, a steely, jagged, rusted blade that could flay a writhing beast as painfully as possible. He had been among the demons of the night, but what was this? This, this was like facing the mightiest Naga King himself, a dreadful monster with many heads who could kill a thousand men and not even break a sweat.
Even the reptilian eyes, the smooth and slender nude belly and limbs, all screamed, “Snake” at him.
She laughed like she could hear his thoughts.
Silvery but chilling him to the bone. “You have lived so long in the dark pit of your memories.”
“Memories of when you left. But tell me,” he circled her as she spread her legs out vulgarly-making a gush of excitement throb through his organ as she did, “are you really there? Or just my memories here to torment me?”
(Six months of drama are finally over, thank the gods. But I’ve just walked into exams, so this small bunch of posts will be a filler for something bigger and cooler.
This is a small story in a series that will be posted here. Don’t know how often, but still. As for that demon mask….I don’t know what possessed me to put it there)
(A rakshasa is a demonic humanoid from Indo-Sri Lankan mythology. It is either malevolent or benevolent, but is almost always depicted as a dark-skinned, fearsome-looking beast with a taste for human flesh. But what if the demon we all feared, was a human with merely the desire to be loved for what he is?)
The memory kept on playing itself a million times over in his mind as he felt the hardened, puckered scar tissues on his left cheek. The crinkled marks stretched down to his mouth, and pulled the slightest bit of skin towards the orifice full of big, powerful teeth. Images kept flashing again, cutting deeply through even his most jovial dreams.
Dreams of a mother.
A mother who was wild, pale and naked, cradling her offspring in her lap. That same cave, over twenty years ago was where she had fled.
That same cave where she wailed and wept into the inky night as her belly grew with him.
That very cave where the only ones who watched her scream with deathly agony were a small family of bats hanging from the left wall of the cave roof, wings obscuring their tiny faces.
He had been right here from the very start.
Warm milk flooded his tiny mouth as she cried again, the moon’s stray beams highlighting the monster she bore in her arms.
Raw, red eyes always half-closed.
No chin, but heavy brow ridges and nose.
Hair matted with blood.
Thickened gray patches of scarred and ridged skin; a strange, inhuman disease no doubt.
A terrifying child who could never be part of the world around him, given to her as a blessing by some infernal god.
But she still wept as only a mother could as the stench between her legs filled the cave. She kissed her bestial son a hundred times, whispering Buddhist prayers into his ear. And as she felt her vulva, caked with blood and membrane, she also heard his tiny heart beating with hers, a drum in that dark and distant night.
“Nothing will happen to you,” she promised him over and over, stroking the rough skin on his torso. “I promise, as long as you are here, I will forever keep you away from evil men.” The moon was at its peak.
Here was the glorious white eye in the sky telling her that it was them month of Vesak, a holy month. But even on the most sacred nights, she knew, some fiends from hell could cast their wretched spells on the weak and unknowing.
(Next part continues later)
(This post is dedicated to the memory of those who suffered during Black July and the torturous events that followed) Yesterday marked 30 years since the blackest day in our nations history – we call it Black July. This marked the true beginning in many ways, of an ethnic conflict that leaves our earth soaked in blood, our families ravaged and worst of all – our children hopeless.
I am one of those children. When I was born – like thousands of others – I would grow up never knowing what peace was. Bombs exploding, people dying, anger and pain were all a part of my day to day life. And I grew up in urban Colombo which was in many ways a hundred times better than anywhere else. I was desensitized to violence, in many ways I still am. Images of Siriya, Iraq etc. that cause the world to avert their eyes – cause the children of Sri Lanka to shrug and carry on. We’ve seen worse. We’ve survived worse. And sometimes – that’s something no one understands, we survived against all odds, so can you blame us for building an arsenal of weapons, like apathy? How else would we have survived?
But if there is one thing I wish that someone would take away from this post is this – we are survivors. Our parents stayed and fought. Others did the same in ways they knew best. Sometimes from here, sometimes from away – and we survived. And now we need to heal and flourish. But to heal we must forgive, and this I say to the children of Sri Lanka scattered across the globe, their souls rooted in this island. The children of my generation, you were even luckier than I was. You grew up away from the fear and the pain and the de-sensitizing. And you were blessed for that. But when you call us apathetic, I disagree. It’s not that we don’t care – it’s just we see the bigger picture, we’re painting it. We know that we are an imperfect nation, and the pain may never go away. But we are trying, so please try with us. Try to see the good, and celebrate that too.
Sri Lankan’s we all need to learn to be. Before we are Sinhala, Tamil, Muslim, Burgher. Before we are Hindu, Christian, Buddhist, or even atheist. The first lesson we need to learn is how to be Sri Lanka – that’s how we move forward together.
To quote me from earlier this year in ‘Being Sri Lankan’ – “To me – I have never imagined myself as any less Sri Lankan because I was from a minority That was not how I was raised, and that was not how the people around me saw themselves. But what scares me is that as a nation we spend so much time drawing lines around our communities, that we forget the things that bind us together”
Shortly after graduating from college in a great move by the universe I was invited to be a part of Ekamuthu Orray Makkal Unity Mission Trust (for those confused by the first three words; Ekamuthu’ is Sinhalese for ‘Unity’ and ‘Oray Makkal’ is Tamil for ‘One People’)
The Unity Mission Trust has been in existence since May 2009 and is a non-profit Trust that is dedicated to fostering unity, integration, healing and reconciliation between the teenagers and young adults in the Wanni area and their peers from all over Sri Lanka.
This October from the 17th to the 20th I joined the crew that piled into 3 buses, 2 vans – as head of the Media and Publicity Team. 500 student leaders aged 15-20, and 40 teachers from 70 schools all the way from Jaffna to Matara gathered at Killinochchi Central College (KCC) for Unity Camp 6. The Camp works on the basis of separating the students from their friends and placing them in groups with others, some of whom don’t even speak the same language. Together they compete in drama, dance, music, art, sports, and speech, overcoming whatever racial barriers that might have separated them before. I am not going to launch into the details of the program etc – you can find out everything you need to know about what the kids did here. What I am going to do is try to articulate the feelings that stir the depths of your soul when you realize that 4 days can change lives, bring people together, that there is hope.
Being a part of the team that undertakes projects of such a scale is another experience in itself. Logistics for nearly 600 people to sleep, eat, and carry out the camp itself in Killinochchi took up much of the teams free time for months. This is an entirely volunteer run organization – not one of us who stayed up, sometimes past midnight organizing, packing, planning, doing files, raising funds – are paid. It’s done for a greater reason upon which no value can be placed. Then comes the day when at 5am we pile into buses and drive to Killinochchi with stops along the way to pick up people, stretch our legs and finally you arrive. No resting – 500 students need to be registered and the hall prepared for the opening ceremony, buses and lorries need to be unloaded, and students need to be prevented from switching groups. The opening ceremony runs with a showcase of talents and then comes the tough part – the students are placed in their groups and the organizing committee does some switching around to ensure they are mixed up as throughly as possible. There are tears and resisting, but we are firm. After the rules are reviewed and the students briefed, dinner is served. The committee has no time to rest – after ensuring dinner is handled, the girls round up the female students and chaperone them to Killinochchi Maha Vidayalaya where their sleeping quarters are. In the meantime the boys check to ensure the dorms and sleeping arrangements at KCC are sorted, and once the students are settled the team sits down for a meeting. Those not staying at either of the schools with the students head off to the army camps, which have been generously offered by the Sri Lankan Army to us. This is usually close upon midnight.
The next day begins at 8.30am after breakfast when everyone gathers back at KCC with a Music Session to get everyone in the mood, headed by our Musical Director Rukshan Perera. Over the next few days team members run non-stop working tirelessly to ensure the smooth running of the numerous activities, challenges and mountains of work that comes with such a project. But through it all the most amazing experience is watching the students slowly form bonds with one another. They turn from the nervous, uncomfortable faced girls and boys that sit – near-silent, awkwardly smiling with one another, to hugging and crying on the fourth day when they are leaving. One has to see this with their own eyes to realize that four days can break barriers, that the youth has a lack of inhibition when it comes to embracing new opportunities and really are the hope of our nation.
The talent that comes from them blows you away. They sing, dance, act, create, speak, excel athletically, – all with just a few hours at most to prepare. Trophies are awarded to the most outstanding group leaders, campers, and based on a points system – a winning group emerges. But nothing touches your heart like the very end of camp. Students who speak about their experiences at the open forum begin to cry, overcome by emotion. They hug their new found friends and have to be nearly forced to board the buses. You realize that human connections are beyond language, race, religion, soci-economic backgrounds, gender, and any of these limitations we place upon ourselves.
You watch the candle ceremony and can’t hold back your tears when you see a sea of light shining back. This light is carried by remarkable young men and women who sing our national anthem with pride and then chant in one voice “Sri Lanka” repeatedly.
You realize that the future of our country has hope, the dream of one people is tangibly close to a reality.
You realize that you are a part of a much bigger picture – but what you can do in your small capacity can make real change. Sometimes we need to step out of our little bubbles and start releasing the potential we harbor.
We can do so much more than just talk, and more than can – we need to. The change we leave behind is the real legacy we leave. Not how popular you were, how much money you made, how big your CV and accomplishments were – but by how many lives you touched and transformed.
A blog to share our work on the conflict and war of thirty years in Sri Lanka
A blog to share our work on the conflict and war of thirty years in Sri Lanka
A blog to share our work on the conflict and war of thirty years in Sri Lanka
A blog to share our work on the conflict and war of thirty years in Sri Lanka
A blog to share our work on the conflict and war of thirty years in Sri Lanka
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