Happy 27 year anniversary

July 25, 1983 – it was a hot, humid day in Colombo, Sri Lanka – I was three years old.

My family and I just shared the 27 year anniversary of the start of the civil war in Sri Lanka. There had been occasional skirmishes between the Tamils and the Sinhalese in the past, but July 25, 1983 marked the beginning of a long and terrible war that would tear this beautiful, little island apart.

So why do the Tamils and Sinhalese have problems? During the British occupation, the Tamils (the minority) were put in charge of key government posts and therefore effectively controlled the Sinhalese (the majority). After the British left, the majority (Sinhalese) took over and proceeded to discriminate and prejudice against the Tamils. I’m no expert on the matter – but that, I believe, is the gist of it.

This isn’t a story about the politics of the issue in Sri Lanka – violence on behalf of anything is essentially wrong. I’ve met amazing Sinhalese and Tamil people – in fact I owe my life to a Sinhalese family (more on that later).

This is a story about a family…my family. Like many other Tamils we faced Armageddon on July 25.

1983 - The radio crackled with reports of violent mobs attacking Tamils at random. Houses were being burnt, Tamil businesses were looted, and Tamil people were massacred on the streets. We had just finished lunch and were crowded around the radio trying to imagine the horrors away. My father paced up and down the veranda…”everyone get dressed and wear your shoes, in case we need to leave in a hurry”. My grandma scoffed – you see, we lived in a privileged part of town and figured that the police and other security forces would protect the rich. Imagine violence breaking out in Jane and Finch, what do you think the families on Bridlepath would be doing?

No one paid heed to my father, I was sent to bed for my afternoon nap and the rest lazed around enjoying the fan. My father was dressed and ready with his Adidas runners snug to his feet. Fearing the worst, he decided to go pick my sister up from school – he didn’t want to wait until the end of the school day as the violence might get worse.

After roaring the Ford 500 to life, he navigated out of our luscious enclave and onto the noisy streets of Mount Lavinia (a neighbourhood in Colombo). Racing past burning cars and angry mobs, my dad rushed to the school, threw my sister into the car and proceeded back home. It had gotten markedly worse…the scene was one out of a horror movie. There were bodies hanging from street lamps, chopped and bleeding – some still alive, suffering a slow death. Stores had windows smashed out with fires everywhere. People were being pulled out of cars and either chopped up with machetes or set ablaze with petrol and a match. My sister sat in the car sweating, she was 13 years old.

Up ahead, traffic had slowed to a stand still. My father honked his horn – what was going on? He gulped as he realized the reason for the jam. All cars were being stopped by the mob to determine whether the occupants were Tamil or Sinhalese. If Tamil, petrol was thrown into the car and the occupants were set on fire. The screams of anarchy filled the street.

A sweaty 20-something year old sticks his head into the Ford – “are you Tamil or Sinhalese” he asks in Sinhalese. “How dare you fucking ask me that question? Don’t we look Sinhalese?” my father answers in perfect Sinhalese. “Sorry – sir, please go on”. My father’s zest for education and learning had saved his and my sister’s life. He was fluent in both languages.

They both rushed home and told the others what they had seen. We were all hoping and praying that the army or police would step in to help quell this chaos. Too much life had already been lost. Could this disaster find its way to Mount Lavinia? What were we to do?

Our fears were answered when the servant girl came running down the lane, yelling “they’re coming! They’re coming!”. She locked the front gates and ran into the house. This was a man’s worst nightmare…my father was the only man in the house; the others were: my grandma (old), my mom, my great-aunt, my cousin (16ish), my sister (13), our servant girl, and I (3 yrs old). What would you do? You’re trapped in a house with a rabid mob coming down the only street that was the way out. There is no 911. What do you do?

My father barked out orders…he told my cousin, my sister, and I to jump our garden wall and run to the Sinhalese neighbours – we were to hide in their basement. My grandma ran to the safe and retrieved a revolver. This was the service pistol that had been presented to my grandfather who was a colonel in the Sri Lankan army. She handed the gun and 6 bullets to my father. “God bless you my son” she whispered as she ran out into the compound to find a place to hide. My father looked down at the foreign object…he had never held a gun before.

The mob was nearing our front gates, we could now hear their blood curdling calls for death. Everything happened so fast – my cousin hopped to the top of the wall, reached down and threw me over. He did the same for the servant girl too. My sister was last, he tried with all his might, but couldn’t lift her over the top. She scrambled to climb the wall and kept losing her grip. Panic struck, and she ran back into the garden to find my grandmother. My cousin, the servant girl, and I ran to the neighbours, where we were ushered down to the basement. It was hot, everyone was sweating. I gladly accepted their offer for a drink.

My sister and grandma frantically looked for a hiding spot, finally settling on the servant’s bathroom quarters. It was a small outhouse, with a wooden door. Not exactly Fort Knox, but at the time it would have to do.

The mob was now tearing our front gates apart. These weren’t white picket fence type gates from Home Depot, they were well-built, iron wrought and towered over a normal person. The mob broke through effortlessly. As they approached the house, my mother, father, and great aunt stood in the front. My dad had seen his share of Westerns and based on John Wayne, he somehow figured to load the 6 bullets into the chambers of the revolver. He looked to his side and locked eyes with my mother. Was this how it was going to end?

He then turned his head and connected his eyes to death…about 50 versions of death. They were young men armed with molkotov cocktails, chains, knives, pitchforks, and machetes. “Come out from in front of the house” they yelled, ready to shred my family to pieces.

“You lot should be in school. Why are you doing this? We are all the same people!” My father was trying to talk them down into a lesson on history. He was a professor at heart, a very non-violent man. For about 15 minutes he went back and forth with the mob, explaining to them that Buddha was a Hindu as well and so there was no need for this. They began to approach menacingly.

His arm raised and he fired a shot into the air. The noise startled him and the mob. “There are 5 bullets left in this gun, I might die here today, but not before I take 5 of you with me. Who wants to be first?” This slowed their approach – they had now begun to circle the house. Thugs were running around the back of the house, setting the place on fire. They left my mom, dad, and great-aunt for now. My father turned around to see our family home on fire…he ran into it without thinking. Grab the bedsheets, douse them in water, grab shoes, run back outside. My mother and great aunt stepped into the shoes and they all covered themselves with the drenched bedsheets and ran into the burning house. My father knew that the room least likely to burn was the bathroom. It was built with ceramic tiles and so wouldn’t burn as easily as the rest of the rooms. The outer shell of a space shuttle and some high-end car brakes are made up of ceramics. This is because ceramic can withstand high temperatures.

Knock knock “open the door!”, yelled a thug. My sister and grandma cowered in the dark toilet. It was quiet for a second and then a spear was launched through the wooden door – my sister screamed. The group pulled the door apart, and my grandma and sister stepped into the sunlight. They were ready for the worst. My grandma turned to the leader of the mob “son, why are you doing this? I could be your grandma”…her last attempt to plead for their lives. It could have been a few seconds, but felt like eternity for my sister. “Let them go, make sure they get to the police station safely” ordered the leader. A miracle. These young men, who seconds ago, were ready to use their machetes on a 60 year old and a 13 year old, suddenly remembered that they were human. They escorted my sister and grandma to the nearest police station.

The universe works in funny ways. A government aide was driving down the main road of our neighbourhood and noticed that the area was under attack by the mobs as well. He stopped and ran to the nearest phone booth (he was Sinhalese and not in immediate danger). The gentleman picked up on the other end…a member of parliament and one of my father’s best friends – also Sinhalese. “Sir, I think your friend’s house might be in trouble” The aide new my father and was sure that the mob had made their way to our house. Stanley, my father’s friend, hung up and rung the police department in the area. He instructed the Chief to send a jeep to see if we were alright. The jeep was sent out and came back saying that the house was ablaze and they didn’t see anyone. The Jegatheeswaran family is presumed to be dead.

The officers were half right – the house was ablaze and the mobs had long disbursed. But three people still remained on the property: my father, mother, and great aunt. They were still trapped in the bathroom. The temperature was so high that the paint on the bathroom door was bubbling – to keep from fainting my father told the ladies to drink water. They turned the taps on but nothing came out, water pipes had burst amidst the violence. The only water left was that of the toilet. My mother refused to drink it, until she saw my dad dunk his cupped hand into the bowl and drink the water.

My sister and grandma were now in the police station, a scene of chaos, pain, and tears. The officers were unresponsive to the pleas of the people – they were not getting involved. My grandma elbowed her way to the front and yelled that she was the wife of the former colonel in the Sri Lankan army – this perked some interest but not enough for them to mobilize. Stanley (my father’s MP friend) called the police station and while he was on the phone, my grandma overhead “Jegatheeswaran” - she yelled that that was her son-in-law. She connected with Stanley, who was able to send out another jeep with my grandma and sister to find us (my cousin, the servant girl and myself). They drove off back into our neighbourhood and began yelling our names. Our Sinhalese hosts heard them calling and were able to escort us to my grandma and sister. A part of our family was reunited – safely. We drove back to the station.

All was suddenly quiet at the main family residence. The cackling of the fire had subdued and my parents and great-aunt huddled in the bathroom. They heard some movement outside, and someone faintly calling their names. My father picked up a piece of broken glass from the floor and used it to look outside via a reflection rather than sticking his head out the window. He was wary that it could be some lone thug looking for final revenge. The reflection showed three men in uniform…one of them was his brother-in-law, my cousin's father. My uncle was a major in the army and had raced to Mount Lavinia when he heard that there were riots – he knew that his son was spending the day with us.

The trio gingerly opened the burnt door and stepped into the house. Their family home looked like a movie set from Hollywood. Steaming furniture and soot covered everything. Burnt carcasses of furniture replaced what had once been a beautiful room. The fridge had melted – the fridge! They walked into the sunlight and were met by my uncle who was in shock. He felt as though he were staring at three ghosts.

The army jeep grabbed the rest of the gang from the police station and we drove to the protection of the army. A refugee camp had been set up in airplane hangars. We walked in and sat amongst the crowd. I fell asleep on top of my father and somehow managed to pee on him during my sleep (don’t ask me why). Beside us, sat a beggar and her two children. She was feeding her kids some stale bread that they had found. I looked at them with big, hungry eyes – she broke a piece and handed me some. To this day I remember the kindness of someone with so little.

My sister looked up at my mother and asked “are we going to be poor for the rest of our lives now?” A valid question from a 13 year old. We had just lost our entire life – the only thing that was left was some money in the bank and the clothes on our backs. Family photos, furniture, cars, gold, jewewllry, books, memories – all burned in a single afternoon.

My uncle couldn’t stay with us as he had to mobilize troops. His son (my cousin) ran around the base looking for a familiar face. He found a friend of his father’s and begged them to drive us out of the refugee camp – we planned to go to Stanley’s house. If you remember, Stanley was a member of parliament and my father’s friend.

We spent the next few days recovering from the shock. My mother remembers taking a shower for the first time after the ordeal, she was surprised to see that the water going into the drain was black. She looked at the shower head to see if the water coming through was clean. We later found out that they were covered in soot from head to toe, the only thing visible were their eyes and nostrils. Its funny how little you feel and notice when you’re fighting for your life!

Yet another miracle from the universe. An ocean away, my father’s best friends sat in their living rooms in Germany aghast at the activites in Sri Lanka. They then heard that Colombo was burning – oh my God – this is where our dear Jegi lives – thought the Germans. My father’s short name was Jegi.

All the Germans contacted each other and then phoned the German embassy in Sri Lanka. One of them had some pull with the German government and so the ambassador was very attentive to her demands. “Put them on a plane and send them to Germany – give them German citizenship if you need to”. This is why my father thinks the world of the Germans – I do too.

We were sent for by the German embassy who at once offered my father a German passport. He refused. I will go back to Germany, but I will go back as a Sri Lankan. We were on a KLM flight the next day. Upon arrival, we were greeted at the airport by a group of my father’s friends. They didn’t know each other – but knew that they all had a connection with ‘Jegi’. All of them had arranged to buy a few pairs of the essentials for us – toothbrushes, clothes, even photos that they had of us! My parents moved to a small German town, where my dad took up a post as Professor of Engineering.

So began the next day of the rest of our lives…

We were all able to make it from this experience because of the acts of kindness, courage, and morality shown by so many people. Undoubtedly, there was a little divinity involved.

It is easy to forget, 27 years later, what my parents have gone through to afford me the luxuries that I have. I thank them and only hope that if faced with adversity, I rise to the challenge as my father and mother did.