The north I loved and lived !
An answer to those who want to shed darkness over a healing nation.
a note to say NO to racial divisions !
In July 2018 I saw a poster on face book which said “Dear
friends, we are deeply sorry!”
I saw many of my friends posting or sharing their view on
this poster. An elderly who didn’t agree to this statement on 83 riots, said “
it is easier for your generation to say so because you did not bare scars or
memories of it”. He argues, that it is hard to let go of those painful memories.
What I have learnt during my years of service in post war areas in
north, is that, even though apologizing and forgiving does not erase the pains
or thoughts, it will surely decrease the intensity of hurt and the mind
would find it easy to reconcile with present. and it will definitely dissolve the silence.
This
is not about the past but the present and the future of a nation which was shattered time to time with ethnic, religious hatred towards one another.
I my self is not a
perfectionist. I also feel agitated and angry, People do get hurt with my actions
and words. But I always realize it and find my faults within. I act on them to
fix my mishaps. In this way it would be ideal for us to find peace with the
past and accept our mistakes.
I remember traveling to north on dusty – un carpeted, bumpy
roads with check points every few kilometers. Yellow tapes tagged along the
side of the roads signaling us that there are live mine bombs which are yet to
be explored.
At the beginning of
my carrier in north end of the country, My first appointment was to obstetrics
and gynecology wards . Mothers and grandmothers of all ages were seen by us, a
few doctors and majority were Sinhalese. We did not speak or understood a word
in tamil. Young mothers, who were teens, under aged, came there to deliver
their babies. None of them spoke Sinhala and the new doctors couldn’t speak their
language which was tamil. The distance the barrier it created was huge.
It surely did not
look pretty, as we were so alienated in the other end of the same country we
lived for 25 years. We had to learn tamil, the language spoken in this area
super fast. We chose the right path to collide these two worlds and the communication gap which was
lengthening for 3 decades.
"Mukkunga amma, Pulla Puranda Neram Epaddi than...
Vairapatha Mukkanga." These words helped us to give the help they needed
during child birth in labor, and create a friendly environment.
“Words “ yes , words were the ultimate solution to end most
of the confusions between us.
These youngsters have only seen the brutal war and the armed
struggle in North. Us, who were born and bred in Colombo, have felt it from all
that we went through, we were raised in a war torn society, and we adhered to
these aspects and views of our society but we had no memories of the Black July
in 83,which holds the key components to this country's 30 years of war, some of
us were not even born back then.
In Medical wards I met many of those who were struggling to
gain the life they’ve withheld for so long. Snoozed due to terrorism and
weapons. Most of the minds were flocked with memories of war. Scars scattered throughout
the body and mind. Those who were mentally wounded and beaten by the past.
Those who gave up weapons and embraced life. Those who gave up life with the
weapons they held, all wounded in the same manner. They’ve lost their lands
homes and livelihood. Some found shelter in camps like manikfarm, and some
never walked again.
“Why didn’t they kill us ?” the disabled, paraplegic or quadriplegic,
ex-combatants questions us, while staring at the ceiling with their wide opened
eyes. They were placed on water mattresses due to spinal cord injuries, they could
barely move their head. Soldiers who fought in the government forces had the
same sad ending. Most of them were my age, the children born in the Darkness of
the black July and yet we held on to the side which was visible to us, and them
likewise. None of us had any memories of the 83 pogrom and riots.
Ex combatants, and military soldiers ended up in the same fate
, starring at the ceiling with their limbs paralyzed. Some were in my age and
had no clear vision about what will happen to them. Some had their loved ones
with them, wives who sat in a bench next to their beds and wept.
“year ago, all I was worried was eelam…now It’s the fear of
losing my wife and kids, fear of thoughts of betrayal cause I no longer can do
anything with these limbs which has gone numb. What if my wife finds a better
man, that’s the worst kind of thoughts I have right now doctor, I’m actually
getting angry at her because of these thoughts.” An excombatant tells me and
asks me to write about their lives and how they switched rapidly during months.
While living and working in north I've collected all these
post war memories of grievances, heart throbs, mind battles of wanni and along
with the smiles ,laughter and their sturggles to survive and I compiled them in
200 pages naming my book Anith kona meaning “the Other end”.
For some of my patients I was "Chinna Pulle" (the little
kid), some called me, Tangchachchi (sister) or Doctor amma ( goddess ), but none of that bothered me, as all these
forms were wrapped with love. the Hospital in the heart of Wanni, was their
sanctuary to take a break from their life at the camps and the doctors were
gods.
We saw the divergence which was deep enough to sink a whole
country and destroy all life forms from it. So we wanted to end it, the
30-years of distance! the split ! the conflict ! we wanted to put a stop to it
at least from our generation and some of us, worked for it.
It wasn't easy as we thought cause there were people who
were well prepared to find faults or light up the burning hearts with flames of
hatred.
There were many times and situations which were hard to
tolerate. There were times we were asked to leave. We just had no choice but to be patient and
tolerate it for the sake of the society and humanity. The wanni was finally
free from bombs guns and tears of war and we could not let the diversity play
its tune of hatred once again. We knew what was going to happen if we react to
the unwelcoming hatred the political movements wanted to share.
“Ruthless Sinhala doctors,
go home !” the poster on the quaters door shook us an
shattered our soles into million pieces. But the north end
sisterhood-brotherhood wrapped us with their wings of love, and we decided to
bear it and stay. Amidst the try outs of
racial bigotry we decided to bear all that with the love, kindness and
understanding which we felt through our colleagues. Elderly nurses and junior
staff who treated us like their own children,told us that they will die for us
if something or some one came to harm us. The minor workers who would bring a
parcel of Dosai, uppama or idli for the doctor working the
night shift were our relatives in north. That’s the kind of north we lived in
soon after war. The terrorism tried to change their minds but our true nature
of kindness, compassion and love brought us together.
“Sinhalese ! we were fooled about you all , you are kind!” they
would say to our face while our hand held the wrist to check the pulse.
Years went by, tv shows, documentaries, news paper articles
of the Black July riots appeared time to time, but none of us knew nothing
about it as we were new borns in 83. We
knew nothing about the flames or the political propaganda which led to it and
all of us, in our 25- 30's became victims of it for 3 decades.
Once in a while I meet old grannies with sunken eyes and
wrinkled skin. I can still remember their hands with tremors due to age and
tattoos on the skin which portrayed thousand stories. Some of them spoke to me in
sinhala my native language and told me stories of their lives in south before
Black July, 83.
“Sinhala doctors in north !” a grandpa said in surprise when
I told him I wasn’t from north but spoke tamil cause im working here. “I had 2
wishes in my life, first was the war to end. And it did ! second was to have
Sinhalese doctors here” a tamil who was in his 80’s had lived most of his life
in south, made my day ! simply because of the love and warmth he shared.
The July 1983, remains a conundrum in my mind, as I was just
10 months old, but I’ve felt the flames and breath taking fumes of it and
suffered its consequences for the next 3 decades of my life. I remember the
tears, of these elders. The time they’ve lost. The loved ones they never saw. I
remember the fears I’ve been through for the past 30 years before 2009. The
bombs, the deaths and the paranoia in our minds.
I remember the Check points at each and every junctions. The
blasts the bombs and many more. We are the generation who grew up amidst all
this. I remember the bomb which took the lives of many students of Gothami
balika school. One day ago, we were there passing by for the same purpose as
the gothami balika school children, traveling to the Sugathadasa stadium for
our sports meet. We never had a sports meet in the glorious sugathadasa sports
meet after that. Always chose the much smaller NCC grounds next to school
simply because of the security reasons.
I do not like those decades, the past, but I love the “present”
in which we aren’t destroyed or shattered into pieces by some bomb in seconds.
I love the present in which our children could go to school without being
dragged to hold a weapon! (yes I have met those child soldiers of LTTE) I love
the present which is some -what bearable.
I always wanted to say that "I'm sorry for the tears
and fears and the conflicts inflicted by our older generations, I will make
sure that I will not be the one who would tear this country again nor I would
let anyone do that" and I thought I would remind it through my write-ups
time to time because we are a society who forgets these matters easily.
I love this present, where we can work at our maximum
capacity to build a better country.
I know these apologies will not end all conflicts and make
this a super extravagant country but I think we can bring a peaceful soothing
to end the hatred of the burning north. We can at least make the effort to let
our brothers and sisters know that we feel their pain and vice versa. Yes they
had to go through a lot as well as the south.
Mothers of all races feared that their kids will never come
home and yet, some didn’t. I have held hands of mothers from medawachchiya to
mullativu, Sinhala and tamil mothers who never saw their sons. Not even a death
certificate but gone missing somewhere in deep mullativu jungle. They both
shared the same grief, the sadness and ended in depression. The pills the words
the care of family membered couldn’t bring any piece to their dying souls. The
vanished sons, one a military soldier, the other a terrorist did not matter to
their hearts to ponder on their loss. Incomparable to any victory !
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