Mörquendi

In response to my earlier post Amenti Relief said:

'FYI re your question on whether the fishermen even want to go back to the sea - we are working with a small group of fishermen in Weligama and I have asked them this question directly. The unequivocal answer is YES. For them the sea is everything, their mother, their livelihood and their way of life. So we have to get them back on the water and fast. '

I completely agree. On my way back from Hambantota, passing Weligama bay I saw a series of lights out at see. I guessed they were fishermen. It was good to see them back out there fishing. But I wonder how many of them don't have boats anymore. An initial estimate said 80%.

But what will happen to these fishermen if they are resettled away from the sea? The Government says more fisheries harbors will be built and fishermen will be given facilities to secure their boats near the beach. But not all the fishermen live in the towns where these harbors will be located. What happens to them? What happens to all the fishermen who used to park their boats in front of their houses on all the tiny beaches that dot the coast all around the island? The Government's approach to the whole thing has been quite fishy.

Change is needed.

But excatly how much change can these people cope with?

(This post is in no way meant to challenge what Amenti Relief said. I just used their comment as a starting point for the discussion)

Yesterday the Government here began the 'rebuilding' process. I stood on a hilltop outside Hambantota in the blazing hot sun for over 4 hours waiting for 'her majesty' the President to show up.

The Usual Gang of Idiots (mostly Hambantota chapter) were already there, Mahinda (I kinda think he's ok though), Wimal W, and Sajith P. After waiting about and hour for the Queen to show up Mahinda went ahead with the 'mul gal thebeema' (laying the first stone, supposed to be done at an auspicious time). Now of course the usual gang of media idiots were also there (being an active member I couldn't stay in Colombo, could I?). When the PM does the stone laying with Wimal W and Sajith P the state media isn't really interested. Rupavahini has brought their OutBroadcasting Van all the way over there and the have about a zillion cameras moving around and there are another gazillion cameraman's assistants running around holding onto miles of cables because all the moving cameramen need to be patched into the live edit as well. So they're fucking things up for the other media people who wantr to just put the damn thing on the tripod and fix the shot and wait for things to happen.

But no, they have been given orders to make the Prez look good and my god were they trying hard. But when the actual ceremony was taking place they didn't even care. Why? BEcause their star wasn't there and without the star it's a no-show so they don't even bother to disrupt their normal broadcasts for the real thing. Welcome to the Sri Lankan Rupavahini Corporation, also known as the Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunge Reality TV Channel. Watch her shove her foot up her mouth over and over again right here!

So after frying the media and the poor poor people from Hambantota (who have flocked there to see if she's going to give them new houses) for a few hours her helo shows up and she gets down. And then the Rupavahini boys get into action. They begin their live broadcast and she realises it's been bad form to not show up for the stone laying (since that was after all the most important part of the ceremony) so she walks down to where they laid the stone earlier and pretends that she did. Now the Rupavahini boys love this and begin screaming about how the Prez has laid the first stone and everything's going to be song and dance. I wanted to puke.

She did that just for the cameras. And the Cameras loved it.

After that things got boring. And uncomfortable, as we had to stand in the sun for longer and listen to bloody politicians spew bullshit again and again and again. She did make one big foot-in-mouth-statement and thankfully no one laughed. It wasn't a laughing matter anyway. She said that people should leave aside their political differences because there wasn't going to be another election for 5 years. What? What about the Presidential elections coming up next year (2006). Did she make a genuine mistake or did she (for the first time) publicly aknowledge her plan to scrap the executive presidency and stay in power for a few more years as the PM? (Since she can't legally be Prez after next year). He he. So she couldn't keep it to herself. Had to let the bloody cat out of the bag.

And right in the middle of telling everyone how they should forget their political differences she took time off to take few pot shots at the LTTE. How lovely. We should all work together, but those bastards in the north are screwing things up, we should forget our political differences, they're saying they can manage wihtout our help. So on and so forth, though she didn't actually use that language. You get the drift.

It's a really ambitious plan what they're trying to do for Hambantota, but is it going to work? I really don't know. Will the fishermen accept housing a few kilometers from the coast? Can anyone in their right mind ask fishermen to leave their boats on the beach for the night and not be around to look after them? Will the fishermen be given boats (because most of them are gone)? Do the fishermen even want to go back to sea? Who's going to answer these qustions? Forget that. Who's going to ask them? And if the government hasn't asked these questions from theselves and from the displaced people, how effective is any resettlement plan going to be?

Meanwhile we'll stay tuned to the Chadrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunge Reality TV Show.

When we went for the press conference today we were quite early and I thought I'd get a good position for our tripod. Any TV person who's ever been to a press conference will know what I'm talking about. When we got to the Ceylon Continental I found that the best spot in the house, right in front of the podium had been reserved by putting a big gumtape X on the spot. I was wondering who would have taken the place and who would have the balls to do something like that. It turned out it was the CNN crew. Not only had they been given preferential treatment by the US embassy here in terms of where to stick their tripod, but they had also been allowed to fly all over the place with Wolfowitz. I was later told that the CNN crew was also allowed to accompany Powell and all the US dignitaries who had visited the island in the past few weeks.

So only their pet channel gets to cover their visit? I guess all the local-savage-media isn't worth even talking about. The whole things is just a big PR act for the American Government as it seems. They want to be seen visiting the affected areas and they want it shown in CNN. They don't give a damn if the local media here sees them or not. After all, we don't really broadcast to a global audience do we? Actually I think they'd wish us away if they could. We do tend to ask annoying questions :)

This is for all those Sri Lankans (and others too) who've been yelling at me calling me an unappreciative bastard for bitching about all the help the American military is giving us.

Ok, I'll be honest. I don't like any foreign military presence on Sri Lankan soil. But these are desperate times and if they're going to help then I guess we have to appreciate the fact that they're willing to help. As long as the don't have a history of imperial tendancies they're ok.

At the moment there are militaries of about 12 other nations working in Sri Lanka (do I count the LTTE among them? giggle giggle. I don't know) and a lot of them are doing real humanitarian work. The Canadian Army Medics are running Med Camps in several locations in the East. The Austrian Army is helping out with water supply and sanitation in the South. The Danish Army is helping out with water purification and supply in the East. I have seen these people at work with my own eyes. And they don't feel the need to spend a lot of time setting up camp or anything. They just help out. Their help is greatly appreciated.

But seriously, I want to know what the Americans chilling out at the Holiday Inn in Colombo are doing to help. I want to know why they had to set up camp in Boossa. I want to know why much of their work is 'aerial reconnaissance' of the Southern coast. They're in my country. I want to know why.

As the earlier SMSs on CSF may have clued you I went for the Press Conference this afternoon at the Ceylon Continental Hotel in Colombo where Dep. Sec. of Defence Paul Wolfowitz spoke to the press.

He sounds like Don Corleone. Not Marlon Brando, Don Corleone. Like he's capable of a great deal of evil. I guess I've watched the Godfather too much. So anyway, he came and went. He spoke oh so much about how the American military would like to go home but how they have to stay on because there's work to be done.

Now what is this work that they are doing?

At the press conference the Office of Public Affairs of the Embassy of the USA in Sri Lanka handed out a press release about the activities of the Marines.

They removed not 300, not 301, but 305 whole cubic yards of debris!!! Oh my god it took them how long to do that? That must have been sooo difficult. I bet the poor boys had to carry the stuff with their hands!

But that's not all the did. They also did some School Projects...at least that's what they're called in the press release. There's a list of schools in which the marines have worked. The names are on the release but I don't know how accurate they are. Quite a few of them sound wrong to me. But I'll write them down as is.

Sri Sudarma School
Abayadana School
Gintota Maha School
Madampagana Central College (I think this is Madampagama)
Salputhua Central College
Wickramasinghe School
Sudarma Vidyalaya School (If this is the same one as above I do not know)
Uswatumi Hasala Muslim Girls School (Can't for the life of me figure this one out)

What did they do in all these schools? Demolition and debris removal. So they knocked down some schools. Ok, perhaps some of these buildings were so badly damaged that they needed to be torn down at some point. But is that work essential? Or is it just that the American military is damn good at demolition? Like one Marine said a few weeks ago 'Man this place is even worse tha Fallujah'. Seriously.

So they tore down some school buildings. Fat lot of work that is. And mind you, the Government has not even properly begun an assessment of structures which need to be torn down. So maybe these school buildings could have stood. But I guess a guy who's vocabulary consists solely of 'burn mothef***er burn' and 'cool' and the generic (pointing at himself) 'me marine' has a better knowledge of what buildings need to be torn down. I guess the selection process goes like 'dude I don't like this building'...'ok so let's tear it down'...'hehe'...'hehe'...BANG BANG BANG!!!

So when they weren't setting up base camp in Boossa and moving 305! cubic yards of debris they were busy breaking down school buildings.

Now be greatful that I was able to gather this information from the press release, for much of it is in the following format: MLR-2(NMBC-7 DET, 15TH MEU DET (A) 9TH ESB) 33RD RESCUE SQUADRON 15TH MEU DET (A) CH-46 C -130 SQUADRON. I'm a bloody journalist. Not a Marine. Please put it in a language I can understand (Yes Lastnode I know I sound like an old fart armchair journo who wants everything deleivered to his feet. Sad.)

This has to be one of the stupidest press releases I've ever read.

And I thought the Americans invented PR.

I've been writing on CSF for the past few weeks and have been using this, my blog, as a stashing site for documents that are just too big to put up on CSF. So I thought before I'd start writing on this damn thing again I should clean it up.

Ok so it looks like a mess. That's because I'm working on the template and I have no clue about how to go about it. I'm sooo not tech savvy. And what do i do about it? I borrow a book from cousin. HTML for Dummies. Not kidding. And it's open on my table and I'm screwing around with a template (again, borrowed).

So please go have a look at CSF or TsunamiHelp and come back tomorrow or something. Thank you :)

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Where the Galle Road begins
Or
Nightclubs in Colombo and what I don't know about them.

Colombo has quite a few nightclubs. But between being dragged in by well-meaning friends only to be kicked out by not-so-well-meaning bouncers within a very short time span and being broke, I've never actually had a chance (or felt the need) to get to know these establishments very well. (And the times I fell asleep don’t count.) So if you want to know how to bust a lot of cash in one night - don't ask me.

Anyway this article is not about that. I just wanted to squeeze it in because it's a pet hate. Though It is remotely connected to what this article is about - but we'll get to that later.

Moving on to what I really thought I should write about, just walking distance away from most of these establishments that I dislike, is my favourite place in Colombo. Where the Galle Road Begins. The Galle Face Green. The GFG. A big BIG lawn by the beach.

I can't say much about the place in terms of a 'traditional ' introduction. I don't know how long it's been there. I don't know who first came up with the brilliant idea. I don't know why it's called what it's called. As far as I am concerned it's always been there and it's always been called that and anyone who even for a moment thinks about changing the way things are has it coming. As for location, well, anyone in Colombo can tell you how to get there. And you can't miss it.

It's the first 'place' I fell in love with. Every Sunday afternoon was eagerly looked forward to by all the children in our family. 8+ kids in a '86 Mazda Familia. My Grandfather drove the car and we drove him up the wall. The journey there was always a blur. I never could remember which road we took. Probably because once we got there nothing else mattered.

My first memories of a still-continuing struggle against the adult world are from the GFG. Down by the water all I wanted was to be like my older cousins. Old enough to have the freedom to walk down to the beach and wade-knee deep without an adult having a heart attack. To walk into the waves to retrieve a rubber ball that had been thrown in - well - by mistake. Sand wriggling into my wet shoes giving me shoe cuts that I did not care about.

But the GFG always had something for everyone. My cousin who was always a bit of a sci-head loved the kites. He is now studying to be an aeronautical engineer. I have no doubt that afternoons at the GFG had an impact on that. On the good days when the winds really pick up, flying kites on the GFG is an exhilarating experience. And the old men who have been making the multicoloured kites which they leave tied onto a wedge driven into the ground until a boy comes along with his life savings have probably been there forever. I was always fascinated by the yaka -kite. Nowhere else have I seen kites that actually flap with the wind. And they flap their wings so vigorously in a strong wind that I always wondered how the wings managed to stay attached to rest of the kite. The naya-kites had long tails that fluttered in the wind. Sometimes stretching for fifteen or twenty meters. I would always take the kite home and try to duplicate the ingenuity of the kite-people. And as each successive home-made version failed to get off the ground my respect for the makers of the real thing would grow. Maybe my cousin will be able to help me build aeronautically sound kites when he gets out of engineering college.

My sister loved the pony rides. I hated it. The ponies looked malnourished and in no condition to carry any weight whatsoever. But they were made to gallop around the Green with children of all sizes on their backs. For me this was always my least favourite thing about the GFG. But the pony-people still bring their ponies there. And lots of children look forward to the brief ride round the Green. I could never understand the parents who stood by smiling happily as their child rode an animal that looked like it was about to fall down dead from exhaustion. As a child I was also worried that the ponies would eat all of the grass. It never occurred to me that even a heard of cows would not have been able to make that massive expanse of grass vanish. Now the ponies look a little better cared-for. But my old prejudices still hold. If I ever have children I'll make sure that they know enough never to ask me for a pony ride. (And I still secretly worry about the grass.)

Food. Lots of it. And different kinds too. That's what the GFG had to offer the gluttons in the family. I especially like the Isso-vadai, a solitary grilled prawn on a Vadai with some hot-chilli sauce sprinkled liberally on top. But before I could stand the chilli in an Isso-vadai it was always numerous ice cream vans parked down the esplanade, which were revered. Always a lesson to be learnt, like when you lick the ice cream as it melts in the afternoon heat and runs down to your elbow and discover that sand, sweat and strawberry are a very interesting combination. I was never really into what the Gram vendors had to offer because the heavy Gram would fill me up and I wouldn't have space to eat anything else. Unthinkable!. The roasted-peanuts were great projectiles until some spoilsport adult reminded us of all the poor children who were dying of starvation in Somalia and asked us not to waste food. Arguments to the tune of 'Peanuts are not really food' were not entertained. But on every outing to the GFG all the Isso-vadais and ice cream were merely opening acts for a much anticipated feature performance. (Fanfare!!) Nana's fast food. Like the kite-men, Nana's fast food stall has also been at the GFG forever. It is an institution. Naans, Parathas and Rotis. Samosas, vegetable Rotis and Vadai . Prawns, Fish and Chicken (Curried, Fried and Tandoori!). Cooked (right in front of your eyes) in a deep wok, served (while you sit by the esplanade) on small disposable paper plates. Several eating houses named Nana’s have opened up in various locations all over Colombo, but the Nana’s on the GFG remains the definitive one.

Lovers. Lots of them. And different kinds too. Young couples holding hands for the first time watching the sun sink into the Indian Ocean. Couples in secret extra-martial affairs attempting to hide themselves from a nosey world and the hot sun under colourful umbrellas. Couples probably celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary, reminiscing about the time on the GFG that they held hands for the first time watching the sun sink into the Indian Ocean. As a teenager I would always try to talk whoever I was seeing at that point to walk down the esplanade holding hands and watching the sun go down. But they would almost always want to watch the latest movie at the Liberty cinema or do some else which I would find equally uninteresting. (Don't get me wrong. I love the movies, being in the trade myself. It's just that I don't think two people can or should call watching a movie spending 'quality time'. Movies should be individual experiences. Enjoyed by individuals.). Appalled that not everyone feels the same way I do about the GFG I would try my best to share my feelings towards the place, only to be disappointed again and again. After each painful break-up I've always spent a significant amount of time on the GFG contemplating life.

After my grandfather's funeral I spent a whole day down by the beach there. Thinking of the Mazda Familia and those anything-but-lazy Sunday afternoons. And the sea told me that everything was going to be alright. 'Life goes on' it said, carelessly lapping at the sand, unaffected by my loss. Even though I grew up in the city I am still unable to think of (or measure) space in terms of cubic feet because of time spent at the GFG. Sitting on the edge of the esplanade with my legs dangling above the sand, facing the sea, I understood things that I cannot even begin to explain. The dawning of the realisation that all feelings of personal space are false (My room. My desk. My office. My cubicle!) and that I am but an infinitesimally minute part of an infinite space. It reminds me that I am not the centre of this universe. It reminds me that I'm not as important as I like to think I am.

But there was a time when I drifted away from the place. A brief period when the maintenance of the GFG was ignored. Without care it did not take too long for the Green to become brown. (Maybe the ponies had something to do with it!) I didn't visit the place for a few years at least. I passed by it a couple of times. I guess I should have felt sad, but I didn't because I always knew it was going to come back with a bang. It did not take long for the people of Colombo to start demanding that the GFG be restored. And after much debate, money was allocated for the project.

By this time I was a young adult. The GFG took on a whole new meaning as we began to spend entire nights there. Till recently you could freely consume alcohol on the GFG. And after 8 or 9 p.m. it became the domain of groups of young people on the path to intoxication. And we shared the GFG with families who would refuse to leave and surprisingly there were hardly any (almost none) problems of drunken misbehaviour. I've always believed that this is due to the size of the GFG and the fact that people rarely find they have a problem sharing such a large space. And to people like me, who have major issues with being a part of 'regular' Colombo nightlife, the GFG offered a refuge where we had all the space we could ever want. (This is where that little blurb in the beginning ties into the larger story.). No dress code. No nasty bouncers. No ridiculously expensive alcohol. No pressure to 'perform' on the dance floor. Dirty shorts. T-shirts. Rubber slippers. A bottle of Mendis Vodka from the wine store which was about fifty meters down Galle road. A boombox was an additional luxury and meant that the music was what we liked and only as loud as we wanted it to be. Meeting friends after years we’d catch up everything we’d missed. All the girls (current and ex), switching jobs, getting promotions and – since last year – getting married. We would sit on the grass, stare out into to the vast expanse of the Indian Ocean which seemed to begin at our very feet and count the number of ships out at sea either preparing to come ashore at the Colombo Harbour or getting ready to leave Sri Lankan waters. We would admire the lights of the Galle Face Hotel and think about the gloriously extravagant colonial past of our capital city. In our mind’s eye we’d see white-clad gentlemen riding around the Green on their Australian thoroughbreds. Ladies strolling down the esplanade. Silk umbrellas. Skirts threatening to defy gravity as they are assaulted by the strong breeze. And then passing out on the soft grass. Waking up before the sun in the morning to the sound of many crows and a handful of seabirds. All competing to get the best morsels of food left behind by the masses from the night before.

Covered by tall high-rise buildings on the east the sun always took it's own sweet time to hit the Green. By that time it would be mid morning and we would be gone. Being dropped home with head-splitting hangovers and pleasant memories.

Since mid-2002 the Police have been very very strict about the no-drinking-on-the-Green rule. I guess it's the city's way of promoting the GFG as more of a family place. Even after dark. So now we just have to park our cars by the Green and consume our poison within the confines of the vehicle. But we still get to sleep on the grass. (Grin!). They can't ever stop that.

Even if I ever grow up I'll continue to regularly visit my favourite place in Colombo. I'll bring my children here. I'll teach them to walk on the soft grass, not on cold concrete. I'll let them get lost in the crowd and come back crying. I'll let them understand for themselves the magic of the Green. Down by the beach I'll teach them about the sea. Not to ridicule it because it's just a lot of water or fear it because it can kill you. But to pay attention to its lessons, respect its mood swings and love its majesty.

I'll pack my grandchildren into a small car and drive them down to the Green every Sunday afternoon. I won't think of the possibility that the Green might not be there by then. It seems inevitable that a growing metropolitan Colombo will swallow at least some part of the Green (like it's now swallowing up the Beira Lake). I hope I don't live to see that happen. I hope it continues to inspire generations of awestruck children and introspective youth to go forth and do wondrous things.

My remedy for an injured soul and a torn heart. My solution-provider for the questions of life. My teacher of humility. My place of sanctity. My atheist shrine. My favourite place in Colombo. The Galle Face Green.

Sanjaya 'Lostboy' Kamal

5th June 2003

This was written when I used to be called the Lostboy. It's a name I no longer use.

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Report from Koralalwella: December 3, 2005

Today, January 3, fishermen from Koralawella cast their nets in the sea for the first time since the tsunami waves swept away their lives and livelihoods. After one week of confusion and grief, the people who live along the beach in Moratuwa, in Moratumulla, Koralawella, Egoda Uyana are sorting to the debris, repairing their homes and their boats, trying to pick up the pieces of their lives.

These small settlements along the coastline, sandwiched between the sea and the southern railway line, have traditionally been the home of small fishermen and other women and men engaged in working in the urban informal sector.

Today, they are housed in schools, temples and churches in Moratuwa: at various schools including Moratu Vidyalaya, at the temples Gunawardhanaramaya and Sambodhi Vihaya in Koralawella, at the Sunana Upananda temple at Egoda Uyana.

During the past week, the Divisional Secretary for the area was himself killed in the tsunami, while he was at his home in Matara. Thus, for the first few days, the local government and state infrastructure just could not respond to the crisis at hand. Now, they are at work, a temporary DS has been appointed and is being helped by a retired public servant who has offered his support. The displaced persons are being relocated in camps within their own Grama Sevaka Division since this would facilitate their access to whatever public funds are available to them but also enable children to resume school as soon as the schools re-open.

548 families from Moratumulla and Koralawella who have the support of Urban Council member Milton de Mel have already begun to return to their homes, with the assistance of many volunteers. 78 of them have re-built their homes out of the driftwood they recovered on the beach and others are following suit. In one clean-up operation on Sunday they made a collection of all the kitchen utensils they recovered from the debris and shared them out among the different teams who have taken over the task of cooking for themselves. Their present and most urgent need is for a regular supply of sufficient dry rations to provide cooked meals for their own needs. Water is not required. Their water supply is assured since pipe-borne water can be brought in from areas of Moratuwa that have not been affected by the tsunami. Other volunteers have cleaned the wells in the vicinity of the refugee centers so their water supply needs are also more or less fulfilled.

This area has so far had 29 deaths reported. The Divisional Secretariat has handed out Rs. 15,000 to the bereaved families. But the dry rations and other goods and services promised by the state are yet to materialize. The structures are working too slowly, and once the private relief efforts dry up, as they will within the coming week, then these people need to be assured of their basic food items in order for them to begin to put together their lives again. They spend their days on the beach, near where their homes used to be, sorting out the debris, clearing up the flotsam and jetsam, returning to the camps to sleep. All they need is a helping hand; they are ready and willing to start their lives over, one more time.

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I studied in Chennai, India for one year, with a bunch of insane Indians. They called me Islandboy.

I earned myself this name on Mamallapuram beach. It was late one night and we were all drunk. We were on our first weekend holiday out of Chennai. I had just discovered Mamallapuram. It was a sliver of a moon and we could barely make out the foam of the waves. The sea was black, angry and looked evil. At about 1 a.m. i stood up, took my t-shirt off and swam out into the sea for about a hundred meters. One of my friends who was on the beach panicked and started yelling. When I saw her come towards the waves I was worried that she would wade in so I swam back. When I got to the shore she was really mad at me. But then another friend of ours held her back, and said 'leave him alone, he's an islandboy, the sea's not going to hurt him'.

I smiled…and the name stayed.

To all my friends from India, even the ones from the coastal towns, my fascination with the ocean, my jumping around the flat on Fridays yelling 'I want to go to Mahabs', 'I'm going to die if I don't go to the beach today' and variations along those themes were beyond their comprehension. I couldn’t understand how the people from Bangalore and Delhi and other landlocked cities could survive without the beach. I would never be able to live so far from the sea.

The beach was always home to me. Whenever I travel all I have to do is go down to the nearest beach and I don't miss home anymore. I take off my shoes, roll up my pants and let the waves curl themselves around my feet. I feel plugged in. Connected. Secure. Even one time in Sydney, at Bondi Beach, the temperature was two below zero. But I had to take my shoes off and dip my toes into the ice cold water. Just to plug in, refuel.

In Colombo there's a place called the Galle Face Green. The GFG. A lawn by the beach right in the middle of the city. It's the first 'place' I fell in love with. When I was a kid I remember my grandfather taking us down there on Sunday afternoons. 8[+] kids in a '86 Mazda Familia. My Grandfather drove the car and we drove him up the wall. The journey there was always a blur. I never could remember which road we took. Probably because once we got there nothing else mattered.

My first memories of a still-continuing struggle against the adult world are from the GFG. Down by the water all I wanted was to be like my older cousins. Old enough to have the freedom to walk down to the beach and wade-knee deep without an adult having a heart attack. To walk into the waves to retrieve a rubber ball that had been thrown in - well - by mistake. Sand wriggling into my wet shoes giving me shoe cuts that I did not care about.

After my grandfather's funeral I spent a whole day down by the beach there. Thinking of the Mazda Familia and those anything-but-lazy Sunday afternoons. And the sea told me that everything was going to be alright. 'Life goes on' it said, carelessly lapping at the sand, unaffected by my loss.

My love affair with the sea continued to Unawatuna, and later to Kalladi Beach, Pasikudah, Kalkudah and Arugam Bay.

I can’t remember the first time I went to Unawatuna. I was so small. I can remember one time when I was about sixteen when I sat on the beach holding hands with my best friend and we promised each other that we’d be friends forever. That promise has never been broken. When I was old enough to remember faces I knew much of the faces on the beach. The guys running the restaurants. The guys running the cabanas. I felt like I was one of the beach people. I knew many of them by name.

It was in Unawatuna that I got stung by a jellyfish. We were skinny dipping after midnight. I guess I swam out too close to the reef. The pain was intense. But I survived. Looking back at that the whole episode is funny. I thought it was going to kill me.

My love for the sea did almost kill me once. After the ceasefire had opened up the whole East Coast we did a trip down the East Coast Road from Batticaloa to Kalmunai. On the way we passed this amazingly beautiful stretch of beach and I stopped the vehicle and hopped out and ran down to the sea. I was about twenty meters from the road. I heard my friends standing on the road shouting at me. I turned around and saw something that I had missed in my rush to get to the waves. A bright red board with a skull-and-crossbones symbol with a single word beneath it. Landmine. I froze. The beach was mined. But because of the sand I was able to retrace my steps back to the van. The terror was unimaginable. I had nightmares for days.

When the East Coast opened up one of the biggest thing about it for me was being able to go to Arugam Bay. The flower-child hippie capital of Sri Lanka in those years, inaccessible for over a decade because of the war. I had heard so many stories about the place from my mother and uncles. On my first trip to Arugam Bay I promised myself I’d learn to surf. Never got around to it. Just lazed around on the beach, went swimming and did nothing for 4 whole days.

August last year I was chasing Indian trawlers off the coast of Pesalai in Mannar. They were coming in from Rameshwaram and fishing in Sri Lankan waters. The fishermen wanted the story broken. I wanted a big story to break. So there we were, me and my crew, on a motor boat rigged with two engines for double the speed, racing through the seas in the Palk Straight, chasing trawlers with Rameshwaram registration. After a few minutes we couldn’t see land and I was exhilarated. We did catch them. I got my story and the fishermen got the exposure they wanted. But that is another tale. On our way back to shore I asked how deep the sea was. We were about 5 miles from shore. They told me it was about a hundred feet deep. I took off my t-shirt and jumped in right off the moving boat. I dove to see if they were kidding about the depth. At about twenty feet when my ears began to hurt I swam back up. I’ll never forget that. Surrounded by nothing but the sea on all sides. No shore in sight.

My last visit to Unawatuna was on the weekend before Christmas weekend. I got there on Saturday afternoon. I was there for a friend’s wedding. I met someone there that night. Though I still don't know what I felt that night it was quite special. Spent perhaps the most amazing four hours of my life. On Sunday I spent the whole morning in the bay with my cousins. The beach was crowded because this was the peak of the season. But I felt I owned it. It was all mine. It was there because I willed it into being.

The island is of me. I am of the Island.

I learnt to swim in the sea. Not in a swimming pool. And even thought I grew up in Colombo I’m still unable to think of (or measure) space in terms of cubic feet because of what the sea has taught me. Sitting on the edge of the esplanade at the GFG, with my legs dangling above the sand, facing the sea, I understood things that I cannot even begin to explain. The dawning of the realisation that all feelings of personal space are false (My room. My desk. My office. My cubicle!) and that I am but an infinitesimally minute part of an infinite space. It reminds me that I am not the centre of this universe. It reminds me that I'm not as important as I like to think I am.

I promised myself several things whenever I was on the GFG.

I promised myself I’d take my children there. That I'd teach them to walk on the soft grass, not on cold concrete. I'd let them get lost in the crowd and come back crying. I'd let them understand for themselves the magic of the Green, and of the sea. Down by the beach I'd teach them about the sea. Not to ridicule it because it's just a lot of water or fear it because it can kill you. But to pay attention to its lessons, respect its mood swings and love its majesty. I could see myself being one of those parents on the GFG. Another island person, passing on the magic of our unspoken, uncelebrated heritage of the ocean.

On the night of Friday the 24th I hung out on the GFG with my friends. Timmy was also there. He was going back to Unawatuna the next morning. He was going to be in Unawatuna for Christmas weekend. He was bugging me and asking me to join him. But I was too drunk to make up my mind. If I had been sober I would’ve gone with him. He left the next morning. When I woke up on Christmas day with a heavy hangover I cursed myself for not having gone down to Unawatuna with Timmy. I did think about going down and meeting up with him there. But my hangover got the better of me and I slept most of the day.

I was sleeping at home when the waves struck Unawatuna. That morning in Wellawatta I saw some of the fury of the sea I so loved. I saw the water rise ten feet in less than a minute. I cannot even imagine the fury witnessed by those beaches directly in its path. Unawatuna, Arugam Bay, Pasikudah, Kalkudah, Nilaveli and many many more.

Today it’s Boxing Day +11. I’ve just handed in my letter of resignation. I’m taking a job in Kabul. Sent an email to them and said I’d love to take their offer. I’m going to a landlocked city. Far far away from the beach. The offer had been on the table for some time. I didn’t think I would be able to live for any significant period of time without being plugged into the sea. But now things are different.


I am the Islandboy no more…

Maybe I will come back to the island someday. Maybe I can learn to forgive.

Parts of this are taken from an earlier article written by me about the GFG. It's available here

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Subha's Story

I’m 16. Besides, I’m a girl, I’m just a girl. And in the wake of the Tsunami tragedy that has swept across Asia recently, killing thousands, displacing millions, and ruining many, I have been wishing, for the first time since I was about 10 running around in shorts with short hair, that I wasn’t a girl. That instead, I was a boy. Many times I’ve argued with my brothers, or my male friends, many times I have felt distressed and useless. Many, many times I’ve defended myself when people have said things like ‘If your going to volunteer in any of the affected areas machang, don’t take the girls. They’ll only become a pain’. Many times have I wondered in frustration what on earth they are talking about. Yet, after long hours of endless arguing and fighting, I am learning to keep quiet. Let them talk. They’ll see.

Since the 26th, the day on which the Tsunami occurred in all it’s hideous glory, the tiny country has been wrapped in chaos and utter pandemonium. The death toll rises daily, having started considerably small from about 2000, and is currently tipping the scale of credibility at about 30,000. The enormity of the disaster is simply that : unbelievable. Of course, I haven’t been directly affected. All week long, I’ve been hearing horror stories about those who survived, and those who didn’t survive. About those who survived, and those who didn’t. And in the middle of the gargantuan loss of lives, property, homes and land, millions are displaced, homeless, suffering from diseases, injuries and mental trauma that can’t be treated soon enough. Numbers that only make one’s mouth hang open in shock are mourning the loss of loved ones, the loss of home, a place to live, of everything they own, of a dignified lifestyle. They suffer in camps; women have their periods, children are dying from disease, thousands of corpses decompose in local morgues, and authorities struggle to feed and clothe everyone while trying to provide them with the needed medical facilities. Sri Lanka has changed geographically, the land having caved in from the South and the East. We’re no longer a pearl, or a pear, or a tear drop. We’re a drowning blob in the Indian Ocean, gasping for our share of air, and fighting to rise from the ashes. While all hell has broken lose in the Southern and Eastern coastal areas, I continue to live my pathetic, sheltered life in Colombo, with all my party clothes and my mobile phone. Or so one would think. I however would like to think, things have changed for me.

The only way to fight the depression was to dive into some work. Since I’m on school holidays, it means I’m at home, doing next to nothing, or out with my friends, doing next to nothing important. This happened, and threw me out to sea. Not literally, thankfully, but the feeling was quite the same. My whole life, my entire 16 years of existence started to feel superficial, shallow and insignificant. I wallowed in misery, watching the morbid footage on news, and reading ghastly stories on the papers. It’s all anyone could talk about. It’s all I could think about. The magnitude of the disaster was truly overwhelming. Maybe it’s in my blood, maybe it’s the Interactor in me, whatever it was, was screaming at me to do something. To get in there, get involved, and help. This was when I was told I couldn’t visit Galle with my brother and mother the very next day. That I couldn’t volunteer in Batticaloa, or go down to the South to help those stationed in camps. Although I understood the dire situation, and the barbaric living conditions that one would have to deal with were they to visit any of the areas affected right away, I was stunned that the lamest of all excuses seemed the most used. I am a girl.

Since last Sunday, I have been trying to make myself feel better. I have been on a mission to sacrifice whatever time I spend doing nothing, at the various places and organizations collecting donations in Colombo. I have packed, carried, lifted, sealed, sorted and loaded dry rations, clothes, books, shoes, medicine, soap and linen by the amazing tons. Their collected in ceiling scraping mountains. And that feeling is somewhat relieving. The feeling that there are thousands of people in the city alone that are willing to give so generously, but most of all, that somewhere, somehow, I am being useful. It has been my only source of consolation. I have bumped into, and worked with many people that I’ve never met, but also with many of my friends and other youngsters from in and around the city. Everyone is friendly, efficient, and enthusiastic. They never tire. It’s really refreshing.

Two days ago however, I took a larger step. One might say a small leap, after having hopped around for 5 days. Together with some of my friends, I got involved in a damage assessment project being carried out by the Ministry of Defense. The ministry’s claim was that the main issue was the lack of system and organization. Unknown to us Colombo people, a lot was going on in the wake of the disaster. Women were being gang raped, trucks carrying donations were being hijacked, conmen and thieves were stealing food stuff and clothes from the camps by the truck loads, and the donations were being misdirected heavily. Things would go from bad to worse, if nothing was done. What they need, they said, is a system that works around the entire country. We were to carry out the experiment. If successful, it would be the prototype for a planning system everywhere. The three key words were: order, organization, and control. 10 of us were sent with Special Task Force officials escorting us, making us feel rather important, into the Mattakkuliya and Modera areas in northern Colombo which were ruined by the tsunami. We were to assess the damage.

Five days after the calamity, the situation was slowly calming down. Three large churches, St. Mary’s, St. James and De Mazenod were the main providers of shelter and aid to these people in need. The local schools, community centers and church halls were housing the displaced people who had no homes to return to, providing a temporary refuge to those who needed time and resources to return to their ruined homes and start cleaning up. Because these people live mainly in poor slum communities between the sea and the Kelani river, they were caught by surprise when both bodies of water began rising to surround the pockets of habitation and crash in on their homes. The waters swept away many of the wooden structures and whatever was inside them; those fortunate enough to own cement structures suffered the loss of money and property. Everyone lost everything. Cupboards, beds, mattresses, cooking utensils, electrical appliances, and even livelihoods due to the loss of boats and implements. ‘Nothing is left’, they cried to us. They survived with only their clothes on their backs. Even in this small area, six bodies were found, and one remains missing.

We visited over seven camps, and saw over 3000 displaced people. The small St. Mary’s Community Center was the worst off. It had 76 people living in it. Many had rashes on their feet due to standing in contaminated water; conjunctivitis had spread like wild fire amongst everyone, both young and old alike. There had been no doctor to visit them since they were brought there, last Sunday. A small 4 year old boy, who had slipped and fallen during one of his 4 year old antics, had very neatly split his forehead open. The mother, young Dilani Priyangika is the randomly appointed ‘in–charge’ of the refugees there. Unable to give the wound the stitches it needed, she had dressed it with whatever medical aid they were given on the first day. When we visited, the wound had obviously been infected, and forced his left eye almost completely shut with swelling. Dilani, however, has bigger worries. As the person in charge, she sees it as her duty to make sure everyone is fed and kept alive. She says no aid comes their way, and whenever it does, conmen and robbers come and steal it for themselves, sometimes donning the guise of a refugee, when really, they are not. Although they have clean water for drinking, and have toilet facilities in the building, she says they are not attended to, due to there being much larger damage in other areas. Most importantly, they have no access to a doctor, nor do they have organized, educated personnel to run this place the way it should be run.

On the contrary, the church run camps are equipped and efficient. They have credible records of all their residents, and are fully prepared to feed and clothe anyone who does not have a home.

What was heartbreaking though, were the affected areas itself. Small patches of slums have been entirely damaged if not washed away. RFK Watta had witnessed the only deaths in the area. Kadirana, Pichchamal Watta, Summitpura, and Gemunupura had been underwater till as recently as Friday. I looked around at the angry yet sad people who returned to the sites of their homes during the daytime, and at what remained of their homes. Occasionally one could see a plank or two, or a ceiling sheet, all that was left toshow us that a home had once stood there. I thought to myself ‘how unbelievable the damage must be on the coast… in Galle, in Batticaloa. How simply colossal.’

The people complained of their loss, but also of neglect. They told us that we were the first people to visit their destroyed homes. There had been no government officials, not even from the Grama Sevaka’s office, or from the Municipality, looking into the damage and the disaster caused last Sunday. They felt they had been left to fend for themselves. Although the churches have been making sure that the communities get the required food and clothing, the municipality has broached only one of the above mentioned areas to help clean up the dense mud and filth that lay in places that were once homes to families. The unhygienic situation caused by the mud that has come in with the water from the river, as well as all the garbage that came in with the river water has made it impossible for most to bring their children back to their homes. One father says all he wants is for his family to be under the same roof again. One mother says all she wants is someone to help rebuild her humble home. Many children said all they want is a clean home to go back to. These areas have gotten no media coverage, nor have they gotten the attention of the local government authorities in whose hands their fates lie.

And now, right now, I feel I have helped. Those people needed someone to listen patiently to their lamenting, someone to yell at and take their anger out on, someone to visit their homes and tell them that they had every right to feel the way they did, to carry those children, and play their first game with them since the water engulfed their homes and dragged away their school books, someone to gather the information and hand it over to the Ministry with the promise that action will be taken soon, someone to instill some hope, hope that was thought lost a long time ago. At our briefing at the Ministry, when a STF officer handed out some gruesome and graphic photos of the bodies and the damage in Galle, he took them away the moment they touched my hands. He thought me too sensitive and unfit to see those pictures. ‘You’re a girl’ he told me, like I didn’t already know that all too well. Well this girl is helping. She is doing what she can.

Subha

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Timmy's Story

It was the 26th morning I think at about 9am.

I was in Unawatuna with a friend (Michael), when the waves hit. The building was only 20 meters from the sea. The rooms facing the sea were completely washed away. Our room was not facing the sea and so lost only its door. Our room was the only room left standing. I still don’t know why I am alive when a lot of others died. Its not fair. I hate everything about this. Everything!

We were sleeping and suddenly I woke up for no reason. Not knowing why, I looked out the room window and saw the wave coming through the window. I woke Michael up just as the wave broke in and the water level rapidly began to rise (15 feet). As the room door broke, the water washed in a foreigner and his daughter (6 years old I think)

The little girl kept asking her father “what shall we do? What shall we do?” The father and Michael wanted to leave the room but I said “no we are going to stay in, and not go out”, the only thing that stopped me from panicking was the little girl on my shoulder. I said the only thing we can do is pray, and I convinced everyone in the room to stay, even as the water kept rising till we were 7 inches from the ceiling. We floated up and held on to the ceiling fixture and breathed the air trapped between the water and the roof. And the then the water started to go down at some point; I still don’t know how long we hung on to the fans.

My first instinct was to run out and look to see if anyone needed help, and I did find many (at least 4 people, and about 3 dogs that I put on top of the roofs!) That’s when I cut my feet on the corral.

I helped a fat Sri Lankan lady, who was crying "oh my god, oh my god. Why did this happen?” I couldn't move her, so I just pulled her out and placed her as high as I could on some construction planks lying nearby. I also found a little girl who was stuck. She ran off after I released her and that was a relief. I don’t know who she was but she just ran inland.

Then I helped some other Sri Lankan people... My feet were bleeding badly from the coral cuts by now.

At one point, the whole bay had emptied and the naked seabed looked like hell on earth, with the rubble from the land that sea had dragged back scattered all over it.

After all this I ran back to the main road with Michael, there were dead bodies all over, people running all over; it was as if the whole world has gone crazy. I got to the main road (700m away) and went in to a hotel; some people gave us some tea and bandaged my wounds. Michael was in shock, and I did not know what to do or say to help him. A foreign tourist (nurse I think) bound up my foot.

Then this family that we had met the night before came to my mind, and I told Michael that I was going back to find them. It was hard for us to go back as we were both injured, and besides we were the only ones heading back towards the beach with everybody else heading in the opposite direction.

I did something very unfair I think, by asking Michael to come along; it was very hard for him and kind of mean of me to ask him to! But I am so thankful he did.

We made it to this hotel called the Rock House, which was on top of the hill, and it seemed like all the world had turned up there! I saw my friends – the Lambert family - from afar and I felt so much joy and peace in my heart. I just said thank you God!

Michael and I decided that we were going to stay with them till this ended.

At some point someone shouted that there was another wave coming our way, so everyone ran up the hill again. It was crazy as no one knew what was going on or what to do. We ended up at the temple on the top of the hill, where we found shade among the trees. Just then the 2nd wave hit, it came a bit closer to the hotel, but this time no one was hurt! We were all safe, but confused about what to do! After some time we all went back to the hotel only to find that the water had not come there, so we stayed there for some time.

But the problem was there was no water or food or anything there, no one had been prepared for something like this. So I told Michael that we needed to go back to the road and get some stuff from one of the shops there. He said “NO!”, but as usual I did not listen and just got a bag and any cash I could find and set off. Michael gave in and we ran to the road. Both of us were injured and my feet were hurting like hell, but I knew this had to be done. We got to the road only to find out that all the shops were closed, so we hunted down the owner and got it opened from the back so that we could get our hands on some water, food, candles and whatever else that was available.

Getting back to the hotel was not made easier by the rumors of another wave on its way, but we pushed on. Michael was having a difficult time with his injuries I knew, but I just keep pushing him on and on.

We got to the hotel and still no wave had come our way. I soon realized that the food and water we had brought back was not enough for all of us. So I decided to head back to the beach where I found some cool boxes that had got washed away from the hotels, with cool drinks still in them. I filled a bag with these and returned to the hotel.

That night we found out that all the roads were closed and that we would be stuck here for another 3-4 days at least. Michael and I had gotten so close to the Lambert’s that we felt like we were a part of their family. They were so worried about us and did their very best to take care of us. They wanted us to sit down and rest, but we could not as there was so much to be done.

I had found some strength in me that even I was unaware of until that moment. It was as if I was a new person. Shan, the doctor who dressed my wounds, asked me not to move around, but that was the one thing I could not do! I said to her, “If you stop to rest, then so will I”. She had 3 kids to take care of but she was untiring in her efforts to help others.

The hotel provided daal and rice that night for everyone, but I don’t think any of us ate anything. I tried sleeping but even that did not help! Nightmare after nightmare ensured that I got no rest.

I got thinking about the hotel owners…they were not that well off, but there they were taking care of 200 people for free. How were they doing this? Then there was Shan, who had a big family of 3 kids but could not be with them as she was desperately needed by so many others. At one point I said to her, “Shan, you are a heroine!” But she just turned to me and said, “The real heroes are my kids, they have been so good and helpful!

Just out side the room where we were sleeping, was an old English man – Stewart. His wounds were so severe that I half expected him to die any moment. He could not even lie down as his back throbbed and his ribs were broken. He was incredibly brave though and kept up a constant stream of funny jokes and kept the rest of us laughing. The Lambert’s were like a team of angels, who went around trying to do what ever they could to help! I think they took such good care of Stewart that he made it through; I made it through some things also thanks to them. That night we slept with only the light of the moon and one or two candles to keep us company.

More people had come in through the night and most of them were wounded. Everyone who was able got involved and began to care for them. Here, nobody was being selfish; it was like one big family, like it’s supposed to be. Everyone rose above the usual social barriers and came together and did what needed to be done.

Again we heard “The waves are coming!” We all ran up the hill, to the side of the temple then came back down again when we realized that there wasn’t going to be another tsunami. This happened several times and soon we all smartened up, resolving to verify our facts before taking any action. We also decided to make our retreat in a more orderly fashion, making sure that everyone was moved and no one was left behind by chance.

We realized there were no provisions for the night, so Michael and I collected money from everyone who had it, and went to buy food and water. We got a team of about 7 strong men together. Most of them abandoned us near the road however, when they heard the rumors of another wave. Only Michael, I and one other brave man resolved to push on. At one point, they both wanted to turn back. I wouldn’t hear of it, and when they tried to head back I just kept going on and so forced them to follow me. I realize now that it was not right for me to push these people like this, but I really felt that we needed these supplies.

We got to the road and got the same shop opened. This time, however, they were not going to give us all we asked for. They had begun to ration things. I told the shop owner that there was like 250-300 people at Rock House (The name of the hotel), but he would not believe me. So we just took what we could get and returned to the hotel. Our bags were full of all the water and food that we could find. Their weight made walking increasingly difficult. Another alert had been sounded and everyone on the beach was moving inland. The 3 of us were the only ones running in the opposite direction.

This time even I began to feel frightened. The others wanted to take another path, one that was supposedly safe but way longer. I knew I would not be able to make that walk as my feet were killing me. If we cut through the beach though, it would be infinitely easier and more importantly would take ten minutes at the most. So against the wishes of the other two, I began to head that way. I thought they had decided to opt out as they didn’t follow me. Once they realized that there would be no turning me from that path however, they relented and decided to come with me; only on one condition though - we would run all the way. That turned out to be the one thing I could not do. I did try my best to run, but my feet hurt so badly. On our way, just in front of the beach, I saw a broken-down shop with 3 crates of drinks in front. I knew the water we were carrying would not be enough by far and so I got in to the shop and called the boys back. Each of us hoisted a crate of drinks.

Now our loads had doubled (or even tripled) and my feet were starting to feel like jelly. The other two men ran fast, but I was so far behind that I soon I had lost sight of them. Thankfully Michel came back and asked me if I was ok. I told him I felt fine and encouraged him to keep going. I also asked him to drop of his stuff and come back to help with mine, if he could manage it.

I stopped a man who was running away from the beach and he helped me put the case of drinks on top of my head. It was only once I had it there that I remembered the 3 day old hairline fracture I had at the base of my skull. Now my head began to hurt like hell. I got the case down and sat on fallen pillar from where I could see the beach clearly. I looked around me and I saw something crazy. I saw a man's face in the sand and thought it was a dead body buried under the sand, but it turned out to be the face alone. It had been ripped off and was lying on the sand.

I was only 5 meters away from the beach and the whole place was deserted. The sea looked mad and angry and I said to it, “If you are going to take me you will have to take this crate of drinks with me, coz there’s no way I’m going back without it.” I got to my feet again and started to walk back with the drinks, I was making very slow progress, but I was getting there. I was within 20 meters of the hotel when Michael came back to help me, like he said he would.


I got to the hotel and there more people had turned up. The boys kept saying “good job”, but the smiles of the Lambert family made it all worth while, they were they best! They helped me to the room and after I had drunk a little water, I rested for half an hour.

By this time they had begun to bring in the dead. I hauled a lot of bodies out and we all grieved for them, but my eyes remained dry. I am normally a person who cries a lot, but this time my eyes would not release my tears. I wanted so much to cry but I could not.

The bodies were not recognizable, so the grief we felt was disconnected and generalized. At some point a man from the beach walked in with a dead baby and he gave it to its mother... that killed me. I tried not to cry, not to let them see me cry. But in my heart I did. I asked my self how can a God that says he loves us this much, hurt us this much? I didn’t want to fall apart; I wanted to keep it together so that I could do whatever needed to be done. There were things I was willing to do that others were not, like move dead bodies... someone had to do it and I was able to, so I did it.

I thought I was holding back the tears for others but now I think I was doing it for me. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to feel...

I felt guilty too. Because I knew that once I got back to Colombo that I would be ok. All these foreign tourists would also go home and be ok, but the local Sri Lankans were another matter all together. They had lost everything - their families, their belongings and their livelihood... the fishermen for instance. I can't imagine what it must be like for them. So I spent more time with them than I did with the foreigners...

So many bodies, rotting. The stench will never leave me. I can still smell it here now. All the perfumes we put on, wouldn’t make the stench go away. I told the boys that we needed to take photos of the dead but also look for tattoos or birth marks that would help families identify them, The bodies were so badly decomposed, and the smell made me want to vomit and vomit all over again, but I could not.

We found this foreign woman whose body was in a pretty bad state. When I tried to lift her, her hands came off, and there were maggots all over. The worst part was the smell… I don’t have the words to describe it. We wrapped her up in a big sheet and left her there. We must have covered around 10 other bodies on both sides of the road. There were many more but I could not do more. So we went back to the hotel and took care of the bodies there. The stench was becoming unbearable and if we did not bury the corpses soon no one would be able to remain there. There were about 7 bodies in the hotel - one man, 5 ladies including a pregnant mother and a little baby of about 5-6 months old. Two other bodies were claimed by a local man, who said they were his wife and child (6 months)

So that left us with 5 bodies from the hotel. It was so hard to wrap up the pregnant woman as her stomach was starting to open up and any quick movement would mean she would just come apart, especially since by this time her weight had doubled. I was so surprised to see many women coming in to help us deal with the bodies as well.

After that was done we set out to dig graves. By this time more people had started to come into the hotel but only very few of them were trying to help. I was a bit upset about that. We began trying to gather the tools we would need to dig graves. We did not find much but what ever we could use, we used. It was hard work, digging those graves, especially because the sand was still muddy and hard. There were 10 of us there and we were doing our very best. 6 foreigners and 3 locals were helping, and soon we were all feeling incredibly tired. But more foreigners turned up to help and they started to make a path to the graves. After we got to about 6 feet, we stopped as we just could not dig any more. We were going to bury them all in one big grave, to help us cut down on the amount of digging we had to do.

Now all we had to do is bring the bodies to the grave, so we went back to the hotel and loaded them up. The grave was about 500 meters away from the hotel so we had a good walk. The roads were still full of rubble and that managed to further aggravate our injuries.

We would take one body at a time and lower it into the grave. By then, a bulldozer had made an appearance and was clearing all the debris off the road.

I had worn clothes that belonged to the Lambert women throughout the period. I had this pair of wrap around pants on, I still have no idea what they are called but they kept slipping off. Once as we were carrying a body to the grave my pants fell off! God! I did not know what to do, I told other 3 men to stop and I put the stretcher on my shoulder and pulled up my pants. That was probably the most embarrassing moment for me. But it made a lot of people around me smile, so it was worth it!

By the time we came to the last body, the bulldozer had cleared most of the road and the going was much easier. The only problem was that as the bulldozer moved the rubble more bodies were found underneath.

By this time I was so tired that I decided to return to the hotel and rest. As soon as I got close to the hotel, Naima one of the Lambert Family girls, came out and helped me back to the room. She also got a something to drink and I fell asleep on the chair out side. The Lamberts being the angels they are, tried to get me to eat and drink but I was not up to any of that. By this time my body had started to fall apart. I had a high fever, vomiting, and pains all over my body. I still tried to help by playing with the kids around me, but I knew I could not do much now. We went to sleep that night with the all the little candles we could find lit up around us.

The next morning a lot of people had managed to find ways to get out from here, but more from the surrounding beaches had started to turn up.



There were a few people (mostly British) who were acting like the leaders of the camp, and were getting things organized. Tim the Doctor was one of them, as was Jake and Shan. There were about 4 others, whose names I can’t quite recall now. They were the heroes to me, as they did all they could voluntarily. I am so thankful for all they did for all of us.

Jake came over to me and told me that we needed more water. And despite Shan telling me I should not go, I decided to try anyway. This time I got the Lambert family to come along as I felt they needed to deal with their fears. I wanted to see the room that I had been in as well ! We all went to the beach and looked around; it was hard for the Lamberts. I could see that Michael was ok and moving around in a much more energetic way. We got to the beach and then to the hotel room that I had been in and looked around. I felt like I was looking at my grave but that I had just barely escaped it. Michael kept telling me that I am a hard person to kill, and I see that what he says is true. All my friends and family tell me that too, and I believe that, I feel like even God knows I won’t die that easy! I have been close to death so many times in my life; the closest I got was being in a coma for some months. And now this.

We wandered through the rubble and I got to this room that had 3 crates of water and that was like finding gold. I called out to the others and we got them back to the hotel. By this time I was beginning to feel close to burning up and so very weak. I could not do much but when they tried to send me off I said I would not leave without the Lambert family and Michael. The truth is that I wanted to stay and help, and so hoped that I would get well soon.

We were all in a bus by 5.30 pm and it took us 8 hours to get back to Colombo. They told me that Michael and the Lambert family had a place to stay at the BMICH, but when they got there nothing was waiting for them. There were so many people sleeping all over the ground. I called my aunt from there and asked her if they could stay at her place and that’s what we did. The next morning the Lambert family went to Negombo, looking for their stuff which was untouched, thankfully. They came back and said their goodbyes, setting off to the airport immediately after. They are now safely back in the UK!

They call me their spiritual son. It’s crazy what something like this can do to the human spirit, it’s one of the strongest bonds I have seen. All these separations we have created are cast aside at times like this…the truth is we are just one big family, of one kind- “The human kind”. We all feel the same pain and the same sadness, we all have the same needs and we all need a little bit of LOVE.

I’ve told you all this so that you will also give to someone in need a little bit of that human love that there is in you.

As for me I am safe in a room in Colombo. Still have Gastritis and some body pains, but I hate to stay in bed as I know of so many people out there who don’t have anything. I plan on going back there as soon as I get better. Till then I beg of you:

“DO WHATEVER YOU CAN”

Whatever it is, just do it!

Thank you!

Timothy Senaviratne (SriLanka) tim_sri@hotmail.com

Back to ChiensSansFrontiers

for anyone looking for me here very sorry i just don't have the time to post here anymore. I will begin again when I have the time. It might not be for a few weeks more. Till then I will be posting on SEA-EAT and CSF.

Thank you. Morquendi will be with you again soon.