October: I'll Try To Know

“Do they know?”

The question is asked in a sitting room in Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka. My dad nods his head. Inwardly, Kieran and me shake ours. We don’t know about the conflict that shook our family’s homeland. This month, I’ve tried to redress some of that ignorance and discover what happened in the country and how the Tamil population, in particular, were affected.

 Week 1

I’m away on school residential. In all honesty, I don’t want to go. It will take me away from Harriet and Kit. I haven’t spent a night away from home since he was born. I go out of a sense of duty. My form group are going and it’s the opportunity to build bonds; to show them that I’m not just a suit with a learning objective, but a jeans and jumper stand-up kind of guy.

The coach trip gives me an opportunity to read. At home, reading is a challenge. Most of the books I read are for Kit. I now know Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes off by heart. I do, however, set aside fifteen minutes every morning to read for me. I used to get up fifteen minutes earlier to allow time for this; now, I just wake up normal time and read as normal, meaning I have to dash out the door, butter knife in hand, toast in mouth, hoping they’ll be a red light to get my spread on. Having hours to read on this journey though is a novelty that I take advantage of.

The book I take away with me is A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam. Before I bought it, I read a review of it in the paper, where I discovered it centred on a journey from Colombo to Jaffna – this is the same journey I made with dad and Kieran four years ago. Clearly, this piqued my interest. On top of that, the book has been nominated for the Man Booker Prize, an award that divides opinion, but is a sign of quality.

Its story centres on Krishan, a boomerang who has returned home. Born in Colombo, he moved to Delhi seeking freedom in university life; inspired by his activist girlfriend, he moves to Jaffna, helping rebuild a community lost to war; missing home, he returns to Colombo where he resides with his mother and grandmother (his father was killed in a bomb attack years before). At the start, Krishan takes a phone call. The call is from Rani’s daughter. Rani is dead. She fell down a well. Krishan is taken aback. Rani was the carer to his grandmother; she lived in their house just a few months prior. It doesn’t seem right that the woman who aided his relative back to health is now dead. He is given news of the funeral, which sets in motion the rest of the novel.

Essentially, the main plot is Odysseus’ journey: our narrator returns home. The north isn’t Krishan’s literal home, but it is his spiritual one (being a Tamil, the north is his ancestral home). In taking the train, he ruminates on his life and his country’s. In all honesty, Kristian’s life is of less interest to me. His reminiscing on his relationship with ex-girlfriend, Anjum, didn’t absorb me. What I found engrossing was the empathy he felt for his nation. He speaks of obsessing over the news as the war reaches its conclusion, aware and ashamed at his privileged position of being a spectator at a blood sport. He also considers life from Rani’s point of view: he knew she was bereaved (both of her sons were killed in the conflict: one as a civilian caught in a shell; the other as a reluctant soldier), but over the course of the book he appreciates the toll of such suffering.

A Passage North is written in long, elegant sentences, consciously or unconsciously mirroring the serpentine journey of the train. It’s a philosophical novel that contemplates the effects of conflict; to draw a comparison it is more Hamlet than Romeo and Juliet in its examination of death. It is a soliloquy that examines the soul; it isn't quick-draw dialogue and high-octane drama.

Week 2

A few years ago I bought my dad Dheepan on DVD. I read about it in The Guardian. I’m pretty sure the article was about it winning the Palme d’Or at Cannes. I don’t watch all films venerated by French film critics, in fact I don’t watch any – but this one took my interest. The picture was about a Tamil refugee adjusting to life in France. Given my dad was Tamil, I thought he would find it interesting.

My dad being my dad it went unopened. This might seem ungrateful, but that is a charge that could never be levelled against my dad. He simply wasn’t materialistic. He never wanted for anything. He had a house, a family, a camera, a car in the drive – that was enough. At Christmas we would ask him, “What would you like?” He would reply, “I don’t mind. Anything would be fine.” At birthdays he would be exactly the same. We would buy him a present, of course, but he would often forget about it. His days were spent at work; his evenings in front of the computer editing pictures for competition (he was  a member of a photography club). The millennial concerns of 'what's our next boxset' was not for him. The DVD remained in its cellophane wrap.

On the Sunday I peel away the cellophane and put the disc in the drive. Dheepan is the titular. At least, he’s had to become the titular. The film is set at the dying embers of war. Fire actually opens the movie. The dead are being incinerated. The Tamil Tigers have been vanquished by the Sri Lankan army; their bodies burning in a heap. We then cut to a refugee camp where a surviving Tiger is looking for a way out. His best way out is to take on an alias and a fake family, consequently he's matched with a woman and young girl. The triumvirate become a make-shift unit, giving them a passport out of the country.

Arriving in France, Dheepan’s status is diminished. As a Tiger, he was feared; now, he fears. Reduced to selling glow-in-the-dark Micky Mouse ears, the soldier has become his wares: a laughing stock. Through a lucky connection though, he finds his way into gainful employment. However, his jobs as a caretaker on a rough estate means conflict is never far away. The picture reminded me of Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino where dormant violence re-surfaces. Its director Jacques Audlard also uses flashback effectively to illustrate how an immigrant can be forever in limbo with their body roaming a new world, but their memory, their mind being elsewhere.

Week 3 and 4

I read This Divided Island by Samanth Subramnanian, a journalistic account of the Sri Lankan War. I’m not surprised this was nominated for the prestigious Samuel Johnson award for non-fiction; it is intensely readable. I love history, but the dry presentation of it doesn’t appeal. The best historians are great storytellers, able to weave history into compelling narrative, replete with fascinating characters and fleshed out motivations. 

The tale of Sri Lanka is ancient and modern. It is a fight over birth-right, who came first: the Tamil or the Sinhalese? In a land where archeology is regulated, both sides are afraid of what may be uncovered. It is a post-colonial problem too: what happens when an Empire leaves? When Ceylon became Sri Lanka, there was a feeling that minority Tamils had had it too good. Despite being a minority, their schooling in English meant they secured top civil service jobs. With the colonialist gone, a new broom came in – the Sinhalese government – and with it sweeping reforms. Sinhalese became the language of governance, university admission turned against Tamils, soon the minority were depicted as dogs.

In time, the dog would chew through its muzzle and bite back. In 1983, a group of Tamil Tigers attacked a group of government soldiers, what ensued from there become known as Black July, a dark month in the country's calendar. The vengeance meted out on innocent Tamils was bloody and brutal. Shops were torched, homes plundered, civilians killed. The number massacred has been debated, but it could be in the region of 3000. When you kill non-combatants, you militarise the undecided. The Tigers membership grew as a result and war was waged; the fissure continues to be felt today.

Prabhakaran was the leader of the Tamil Tigers. His father was an administrative officer who felt his power dimmish under a Sinhalese government – his son was made aware of this.  Also, Prabhakaran fell under the sway of a tutor, whom championed Tamil nationalism. Tamil eelam was the desired objective, an independent state for the Tamil people. At eighteen he set fire to a State bus; it wasn’t long before the Tigers were established, the group responsible for the ’83 ambush. The book looks at Prabhakaran and the people who orbited around him. There’s interviews with Tigers who remained loyal to him until the end; who left when his barbarism turned on his own people; who opposed him and his claim for sovereignty. As an agent of chaos, he was undeniably successful. His ruthlessness created an atmosphere of fear where families were forced to yield their children to the cause.

Ultimately though you have to marry idealism with realism, know that independence is as much about political stratagem as it is military fervour. Prabhakaran had the hot hands but not the cool mind to deliver paradise. Just over ten years ago the war ended, and for all the blood spilt freedom never flourished: lives were lost, little was won.

I found reading about this struggle so illuminating that I decided to ring my Aunt Sakthy in America to find out more. She left Jaffna in 1987 so didn’t witness the height of conflict, but was very much there for its genesis. I asked her what her memories were. She told me how her now-husband fled university residence to escape the Tamil purges of '83. He turned up at the family door in mortal panic, pleading for safety. She told me about family members who fled Jaffna for the safety of an aunt's home; there they stayed in a makeshift hut for six months until it was safe to return. She told me that the post office, which doubled as our family home, was once a crime scene. A package had been handed to her with pre-paid postage. The deliveries had been collected; the gentleman would have to wait until morning before it reached the train: ‘Would that be ok?” “Yes, it would be fine, thank you?” Later, Sakthy received a call, telling her to be mindful of suspect parcels. A bomb masquerading as a letter had ripped through a carriage that day. The penny dropped: a bomb was on the sorting shelf. Grandpa thought it wise it go into the garden so moved it outside. As you would a house spider. A week later, someone came to blow it up. War was everywhere: on the tracks, in the streets, in homes. 

Grandpa at work.

I’m so sorry my family were affected by it and bear its scars.

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On Thursday I did what I thought my Sri Lankan family would approve of and invited family around for a meal. Cooking is a big part of Sri Lankan culture. When we went my auntie brought us food and sat and watched as we enjoyed it. A morsel didn’t pass her lips; the pleasure came from seeing our pleasure. We didn’t need to ask for more, our empty plates spoke for us. I came back from that trip feeling fat and satisfied.

I work the hob like a restaurant, every burner is lit as I get closer to opening hours. There’s a prawn dish marinated from the night before, coated in split lentils, peppercorns, cumin, chilli and curry leaves. A chicken curry bubbles in the coconut milk. Mum’s dahl, the best lentil dish this side of the M25, simmers in the pot. A big pan of rice sits alongside. In the microwave, last night's cabbage and leak is reawakaned. Stainless steel cups purchased in Jaffna, gifted by family in Colombo, line the table. My little boy eats poppadums with mango chutney. Dinner is served. 

I sit back and watch my family eat like my aunt did for us. Selfishly, unlike her, I join in. I eat with my English family, but think of my Tamil ones. Tonight they'll eat in cities and countries they never envisaged, displaced by conflict and opportunity. I raise my cup to them. I can’t ever truly know, but this month I’ve tried to. In the future, I'll try too.