October: Sri Lanka, The Fatherland

 

“Do they know?”

My dad nods, “They know.”

The thing is I don’t know. Not really.

 

*                                                              *                                                        *


The know in question is the conflict in Sri Lanka. At the time the question was asked, we’re in Sri Lanka. Tourists, I guess. It is 2017 and I’m there for the first time with Kieran and dad. A relative is asking the question. The question feels accusatory, done to shame and uncover ignorance. I feel as though my dad is being criticised on how he raised us within a Western framework, far removed from Sri Lankan history and customs. I was wrong to think the question was meant this way. It was a plea for understanding.


In Sri Lanka with dad.


My dad came to England as a young man. He was supposed to get his qualification and head home. Evidently, he didn’t get the memo. He didn’t finish his course and stayed to marry my mum. As a card-carrying Hindu and antecedent to arrange marriage, it should have come as a shock to Rajasingham Theivamanoharan to find himself in a suit pledging his future to an English woman dressed in white. But the heart has its own mind, so it’s just as likely he stood there thinking, this is where I’m meant to be.

Whatever was going through his head that day, his decision impacted his identity. He had taken the road not taken. Just as in that Robert Frost poem, way leads to way: there was no going back. His marriage to an English wife contributed to a very English life. He worked fixing fruit machines in the most English of environments: the pub. He became interested in football: the most English of pastimes. He had two boys that had English friends. Essentially, he was every inch the integrated immigrant.

Wedding day

Some parts of his Sri Lankan identity remained. The surname for a start. The kind of surname that could tell a Welsh town to hold its glass, a real name was coming through. He also ate rice and curry every day. Every day except Saturday. Saturday was pizza night. And pizza night for my dad meant deep crust. We all had thin crust. We were too young for deep crust; we weren't deep crust ready. Also, pizza night was the only night my dad didn’t eat with his hands. Perversely for pizza, he ate with cutlery. It is common in Sri Lanka to eat with your hands: not because they’re averse to washing up, but because you get a better blend of flavours that way. (It must taste better knowing you don’t have to wash-up so much after though – am I right?) On top of that, our dad maintained his faith. Even though he didn’t get married in a temple, it remained his holy place. He would pray each day and would often invoke the Indian Guru, Sai Baba.


Sai Baba


What did this all mean for my brother and me? It meant that we had a skin colour and surname that marked us out as different. We were never victims of prejudice though, owing to our assimilation in English culture. We sounded English, ate English and acted English. Although we were mixed race, the English side of our character won out: not through choice, but circumstance. We saw Sri Lankan relatives irregularly, which meant we didn’t learn the language. We had the colour and the name, the branding of a Sri Lankan, but our product was made in England.

“Do they know?”

No, is the honest answer. I know the war was between Sinhalese and Tamils. I know my dad was a Tamil because as children he would mock-arrogantly boast how he was a tough guy. “I’m a Tamil Tiger,” he would say. When we were younger, we just thought he enjoyed alliteration; we were unaware of the military associations. I know that many of my dad’s family fled Jaffna for Columbo. I know from reading about Channel 4’s documentary Killing Fields that despicable acts of barbarism occurred in the name of a cause. (I should have watched it but shamefully something else was on the other side.)

I don’t know, but I would like to learn. I want to know more about Sri Lanka, the land that made the man we loved. I want to know about his country, but in particular the small Tamil region that he came from. I want to know, so if asked the question again, I can nod and say, “I’ve tried to.”

Over the next month I’ll be reading, watching films and cooking to connect with my ancestry. I’ll be focusing less on the Ryan, more on the Theivamanoharan. Come back at the end of the month and see what I’ve discovered.

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