5  Hunted By The Indian Army

Soosai, the veteran commander of the Sea Tigers, was in charge of Vadamarachchi at the time of the outbreak of hostilities. He was a frequent visitor to our house and assumed responsibility for our security in Vadamarachchi. It was Soosai who regularly informed Bala of the military developments in the Peninsula and every move of the encroaching Indians towards Vadamarachchi. They frequently discussed the military strength of the LTTE in Vadamarachchi sector and the mode of resistance to confront the Indian army. In view of the manpower and firepower limitations of the LTTE in the area, Bala believed it would be futile for our cadres to openly confront the advancing Indian columns in conventional warfare and risk incurring heavy losses. Given the brutal history of the Indian army’s military advances into Valigamam and Chavakachcheri, a conventional mode of LTTE resistance, in our assessment, would have been met by a barrage of indiscriminate artillery fire on Vadamarachchi from Pallaly and Valvettiturai army camps to soften up LTTE defences before a major assault on the sector. Such an eventuality would certainly have led to intolerable civilian casualties. Confronted with such a military onslaught and heavy civilian casualties, the LTTE would have, at the end of the day, been compelled to withdraw from the district. We felt it was unnecessary to expose the people to such devastation when an alternative and sustainable military strategy could be adopted by the LTTE. Furthermore, to subject the people to such destruction of life and property following so soon after ‘Operation Liberation’ by the Sri Lankan forces - the military campaign which triggered the Indian intervention we felt, would be an intolerable agony for them. After deep reflection, Soosai accepted the rational of Bala’s view and the area was spared the violence of artillery shelling. He and his cadres went on to sustain the resistance to the occupation as an underground urban guerrilla force throughout the duration of the Indian army presence in Vadamarachchi.

A section of the Indian army had been camped at the Sri Lankan army base on the edge of Valvetitturai since their arrival in the Jaffna Peninsula. But apart from a minor attempt by a scouting patrol of jawans at the outbreak of hostilities, there had been no major advance from that base to move into and occupy Valvettiturai. A guerrilla attack on the scouting jawans had sent them scurrying back to their post. Instead, when it did finally came, the army started its military advance into Vadamarachchi from a different direction: along the main Jaffna - Valvettiturai road.

With the Indian army literally knocking on the door, we decided it prudent to decamp and move to safer territory. Confronted with this life threatening scenario I looked at the possessions and luggage I was packing and realised that the objective circumstances I faced were incompatible with the burden of property. I could do nothing to change the situation I was in so I had to choose the next best option. It was time to relinquish my things. I turned my attention to dispossessing myself of unnecessary property or rather, to choose the most essential items. A quick scan of the packed Hiace van and it was obvious the boxes of books would have to be the first to go. We had a wide collection of expensive textbooks and fiction that had been sent from London to India and we brought them to Jaffna with us. We were reluctant to part with this collection of knowledge which we had built over the years, but there was little room for sentimentality. They were the easiest items to dispose off, and the most convenient for people to store. But when we distributed the books, we had to ensure they went to educated families as boxes of English books in a household without a background of education would have exposed the residents to considerable danger from the suspicious Indians searching for clues to our whereabouts. Kitchen utensils were clumsy items, which we had to leave behind and I had no difficulty in disposing of them. Clothes were sorted in terms of priority. I allowed myself the small pleasure of choosing a few items of clothing I particularly liked. But most were chosen for their suitability in the circumstances. I packed our clothes into two bags, one for Bala and one for myself. There was no electricity supply in the area so torches and batteries were vital to our existence. I was prepared to carry the kerosene lamp we used in the home also. I tucked a few candles into the corner of the bag along with boxes of matches just in case they were required in emergency situations. Eventually, they did come in handy. The remaining stuff was shoved into suitcases and distributed to various houses. As a result of this ‘clean up’, four fifths of my life ‘savings’ were gone. I had one final attachment to let go of, my photograph album. My family album framing my childhood school photos, wedding photos etc and all that historically sentimental stuff, were covered in layers of plastic and a cadre took them to a plot of land. There, under the cover of darkness, he unceremoniously buried the photos to get rid of any trace of their hunted owner. I hoped that they would survive. Needless to say, they did not. When I returned to Vadamarachchi two years later the photos were exhumed from their damp grave and found to be in an advanced stage of decomposition. Fungus had penetrated the plastic and was disfiguring loved faces, memorable scenes and precious moments. I felt as if I had lost my past.

We thought that the safest arrangement for us would be to move away from the main roads and coastal areas into the heartland of Vadamarachchi. The peculiar network of narrow lanes which weave their way throughout Vadamarachchi gave us a geographical advantage and was a major factor taken into consideration in deciding where to relocate. This all sounded very logical and comfortable to Bala as not only did his family and friends live in this part of Vadamarachchi, but as a boy, he had spent many years happily playing in the area and had a first hand knowledge of the terrain. His old friends, houses, shops, schools he attended, the network of lanes, the smell of the area evoked a nostalgia in Bala as the danger we were in sent him catapulting back to his boyhood years.

Soon after we moved out of Valvettiturai, the Indian troops crept in, setting up sentry posts and check points at strategic locations and consolidated their positions. Then, stage by stage they expanded their presence until the occupation was complete and the jawans were controlling the town and main roads.

Moving into Karaveddy

Intervening in this crucial phase of our life was Sukla, a senior and experienced LTTE cadre, in charge of the political section in the Karaveddy sector, in the very heart of Vadamarachchi. This battle experienced local cadre with his detailed knowledge of the geography and people became a determining actor in our lives. Sukla found a house for us about four miles from Valvettiturai and he assumed responsibility for our security. This unusually modern house in Kaladdi, Karaveddy, was more than adequate for the accommodation of Pottu Amman and the other wounded cadres, who were also compelled by the encroaching presence of the Indian troops, to find a safe house. From here, Pottu Amman could, for the time being, continue to travel to the Manthikai hospital for the care of his wound. We were in fact a group made up of fluctuating numbers, as people came and went, united by the common danger we were in and our urgency for shelter and safety.

The Indian military penetration into the Vadamarachchi landmass was steady and systematic. The Indians had little or no idea of the geographical terrain and the extraordinary and unique web- like complexity of the lane network in the village areas is confusing to a newcomer. While this proved to be a disadvantage to the occupying troops, it gave the LTTE guerrillas a tactical advantage and also provided the villagers with ways to avoid the Indian troops. For the interlopers, time was required to learn to navigate their way around these long-trodden pathways. The confounded Indians therefore, confined their routine patrols to the main roads in their early days of their occupation. And this suited us perfectly. In the first instance, the injured cadres, in particular Pottu Amman, were given more time to recover. Secondly, Bala and I had space to study the situation and unfolding developments without having to be overly concerned with the whereabouts of the Indian army.

The former EROS leader, Bala Kumar, also a Vadamarachchi man, came to visit Bala at our new camp during this time. Bala Kumar was well known to Bala from the Indian days and he was sympathetic to the politics of the LTTE. Since his organisation was not in conflict with the Indian ‘peacekeepers’, he was conveniently located to convey messages from the Indian military leadership to the LTTE. Furthermore, as a patriot his sentiments were more with the LTTE than with the hostile Indians and he brought with him vital information on the thinking and movements of the Indian forces. One of his most interesting messages from the Indian commanders in Vadamarachchi was a proposal for a meeting between Bala and the Indian military high command. Bala, somewhat sceptical about the sincerity of such a meeting, yet nevertheless concerned that there might be an opening to end the war, conveyed this message to Mr. Pirabakaran. The ever-cautious Pirabakaran quite astutely viewed this offer as a ploy to capture Bala and advised him not to meet the Indian commanders. Mr. Pirabakaran was correct in his judgement. The Indians, using this deception, detained a senior LTTE cadre in Batticaloa. Fortunately, we did not take the bait. The capture of Bala would have constituted a major propaganda victory for the Indian campaign and we had no intention of feeding it. Their propaganda machine was fully mobilised. Colombo controlled the airwaves and collaborated with the Indians, constantly dishing out to the Tamil public, stories of fabulous military successes and exaggerated figures of captured, killed or surrendered LTTE cadres. The ‘news’ reporting was an effective method of disinformation as an integral part of the war, aimed at demoralising both the Tamil public and the LTTE cadres. In this context we were determined not to provide a scoop to the Indian propaganda machine by allowing either Bala or Pottu Amman to be caught or killed. Neither Bala nor I intended to be taken alive by the Indian army.

The Indian army intensified its military occupation and tightened its grip over Vadamarachchi by stepping up its presence and establishing camps at strategic towns. Point Pedro, Nelliady, Polygandy, Udupitty, and Tunnalai were just a few towns where the main Indian military establishments functioned. Udupitty became one of many notorious detention and torture centres. Heavily armed jawans manned sentry posts at main street junctions and were dotted throughout the entire area. Hostile and jumpy troops at the many checkpoints all added to the high profile, threatening presence of the Indian ‘peacekeepers’. With this steadily intensifying military saturation of Vadamarachchi, the security afforded to us by the geographical terrain became a less important factor in our survival. The Indian troops grew in confidence and boldness and began to extend their presence, stretching out into the depths of villages. To address their lack of first hand knowledge of the area they were obviously studying their maps. Singling out a geographical area, the jawans patrolled the lanes branching just off the main roads explored the new territory, learned the direction of paths and inched deeper into mainland Vadamarachchi every day. Confident of their new knowledge of a specific area the troops would swoop, cordon off an area, and conduct search and destroy operations. This was a dangerous development in the mode of Indian military operations and, according to our observation of troop movements, it became imperative for us to formulate contingency plans and set about finding alternative places to camp in emergency situations.

The people in the area constantly brought us new information on the troops’ movements. Small children, running as fast as their skinny little legs could carry them, would often fly into our house to warn us of the unusual presence of jawans in the area, how many there were, how long they would be hanging around and in which direction they eventually departed. Other LTTE cadres living underground in Vadamarachchi and protected by their families and friends, often visited us and brought their store of intelligence reports. Based on the information gathered, we could follow the movement of the troops. But while there was always a spontaneous flow of information to us, there was also, equally, information going in the opposite direction to the Indians. In small, close-knit communities there is not much that remains hidden for very long, so we had no doubt that the open secret of our whereabouts had become known beyond the immediate perimeters. Our continual presence in Vadamarachchi was a talking point within the community and the Tamil regiments of the Indian troops could easily pick up innocent conversation from civilians.

Another serious development was the information from Bala Kumar that the Indians had come to know of Bala’s and my presence in the Karaveddy area and that orders had been issued for our arrest. The hunt was on. Such news effected a mental shift in us. Our chances of being captured were no longer random. The Indians had made us a specific target. But most of the troops had never seen Bala and had no idea of his identity. The easiest identifiable link to Balasingham was his white wife. Initially the troops raided houses where the occupant’s name was Balasingham and a few innocent people were taken in for identification and subsequently released. They also adopted a strategy of directly enquiring from the public the whereabouts of a white woman in the area. Indeed, as the search intensified, we heard news of troops on house to house searches inquiring from the inhabitants, “Have you seen a white woman in the area?” Obviously my colour posed a danger to anyone who moved with us and as time went on and the hunt heated up, I started to resent, even hate, my white skin. But that is a different story. For the moment, the intensified cordon and search operations in the area and more frequent helicopter flights over our house were enough to warn us that the Indian army was moving closer to our camp. Our suspicions were more than justified when our camp came under fire from a helicopter.

From the onset of hostilities, the Indian air traffic over Vadamarachchi was intense. Helicopters were deployed by the Indian military for everything from the transporting of military materials to aerial attacks. They came and went through most of the day and less frequently at night. So, their incessant humming became part of the environment. That we should be alert when the distant humming of helicopters became a chugging, was also part of our life. Helicopters always gave away their distance and intentions by the degree of noise we could hear from them. But on this particular day, in the late afternoon, when the low flying helicopter flew into our area and slowly shifted its trajectory from a straight path over our house to a circular one around it, we immediately knew trouble was at hand. With this aggressive posture, the people, familiar with the potential danger of helicopters, braced themselves in anticipation of what was to come. Our cadres stopped what they were doing and ran helter-skelter to safety behind the most solid structures. The injured LTTE cadres were relatively safe in a small concrete walled room. Bala and I, outside in the garden when the helicopter came chugging along, ran for cover when we saw it slowly turning in the direction of our house. We took cover behind the solid concrete leg of the water tank tower in the compound. With our backs against the concrete pillar, we moved in a circular tandem with the airborne killing machine, keeping out of its sights. Automatic gunfire from the helicopter ripped through the air, spraying our residential area. Satisfied that they had either inflicted the casualties they aimed for, or terrorised us sufficiently, the big whirly bird set course for its base.

Relocating Houses

Amazingly none of our cadres or the people in our surrounding area were injured during this attack. Apart from the breaking of some tiles on the roof of our house and splintering of a few banana trees, most of the deadly rounds had buried themselves in the surrounding vegetable gardens. But we were all angry, cursing the Indian troops for this brazen, irresponsible assault on a residential area. This airborne raid confirmed our suspicions that it wouldn’t be too long before the Indians moved deeper into our area on a search and destroy mission. We had no choice but to move on to safer territory. A consensus emerged that a smaller group stood a far better chance of not being captured than the large group. It would also be easier to find safe houses. We decided to go in different directions. The injured cadres had made their arrangements in a safe house out of the area where the Indian army was not concentrating their search. Sukla had, during his daytime recce of the area, found another house for us to stay in. So we packed our few belongings and moved out. We trudged through the narrow lanes skirted by high wall fences to a house in Karaveddy; a sizeable brick house in a large compound with a big well at the back, and a cluster of coconut trees shading the place.

When we arrived at our safe house, we found an elderly lady shuffling around in her property. The house was empty and dark, except for a few immediate possessions of the lady. The house was dark not because of too much shade or because it was poorly built, but the consequence of an astrological configuration. The lady who owned the house was a practising Hindu and a believer in astrology. Before building it the family consulted the astrologer for advice on its layout. On his advice, the plans for the house were drawn, incorporating the auspicious direction of the kitchen and other rooms. As a result of these astrological calculations, rooms were plunged into eternal darkness while others were unbearably sunny and hot.

And it was not long after we had each found a room and ‘settled’ into the new safe house, the gracious elderly lady narrated her story; a story not untypical of so many elderly people in Vadamarachchi at that time. The slight stoop in her gait, her slightly ruffled, more grey than black, thinning bun and the loose draping of her cotton sari indicated that this lady was well advanced in years. The simplicity and light colour of the sari and the absence of ‘thali’ - the insignia of marriage - around her neck, were further cultural indications that it was not necessary for us to inquire from her about her husband. She carried the image of not only age but widowhood also. She was a Vellala woman, from the highest caste in the Jaffna social structure. And, with the confidence of her years, she narrated her family history, revealing all the sociological criteria of the typical Jaffna Vellala community. Traditional property owners, she and her husband invested much of their wealth in the education of their children. Indeed, one of the distinctive features of the Jaffna Tamils is their passion for education, and they pursue it with interest and determination. The Hindu goddess of education, ‘Sarasvati’ is highly venerated and festivals in honour and worship of her are enthusiastically participated in and practised, particularly by the women, in Jaffna society. Furthermore, Jaffna society is unique, in my experience, for its conception of enjoyment and pleasure in learning and the pursuit of knowledge. That human beings should aspire to learn is taken for granted as an expected human value. For the Jaffna Tamils, education is the key to social mobility, material prosperity and high social status. It is also considered crucial to a cultured life and decent social behaviour and responsibility. More than likely, as a young mother, this proud woman would have channelled her son’s interests into a favourite profession of the aspiring Tamil community - medicine. As a dominant mother figure, passionately interested to secure a prosperous future for her son she would have expended a great deal of time and energy in encouraging and providing the space for him to spend many hours in private study. She would have woken him up early in the morning, prepared him a tea or coffee or milk if he wanted it, and encouraged him to make the best use of the cool, fresh morning before he went to school, for extra study. After school, tuition sessions in the evening would have boosted his academic endeavours. And these routines and obligations she would have exercised with all her children, in one degree or another. And she was successful: her son qualified as a doctor at the Jaffna University and, taking the best road to promotion available to the Tamil community in Sri Lanka, he had gone abroad. In fact, all her children had gone to foreign lands. But the flip side to her success story was the loneliness and isolation she was now subjected to. This dignified elderly lady embodied the tragedy of many parents who had trodden the same path. And now, at this very old age, when the light of life is slowly fading away, she missed the joy, the emotional warmth, care and security of her children, grandchildren, maybe even her great grand children. Confined to an enclosed existence of her ancestral land and the house, she was condemned to a life of loneliness and misery. A hint of resentment and sadness could be discerned as she lamented the fact that she rarely saw a letter from foreign countries. But the plight of this stoic, independent, grand old lady, and many others like her, was a product of the times. The state oppression and persecution of the Tamil community prevented her from realising her aspirations for the steady social and economic progress of her children in her own homeland. Thus, she relinquished the comfort of the extended family in old age by opting to send her children into what she believed was a better future abroad. Furthermore, emotionally attached to her ancient, hereditary land and property, and with the familiarity and security of her culture, she would prefer to remain behind. And so when we went into the house we found this little lady, with a mat to sleep on and a bed sheet to keep her warm at night, attending to a few minor tasks in the darkness of the kitchen. But she did as the society expected of a woman of her years, and treated us with grandmotherly kindness.

While Pottu Amman went to a safe house in a different area, Nadesan, a senior cadre from Valvettiturai remained with us. He was compelled to leave his wife and children for safer ground after the Indian troops stepped up search operations in his village. Nadesan spent many hours hiding between boards in the walls of his house while the Indian troops searched the place looking for him. Tamilenthi, a close confidante of Mr. Pirabakaran and a senior LTTE cadre in charge of finance for the entire organisation, had also joined us. His only piece of luggage was a leather bag full of cash and jewellery, the LTTE’s finance, which he kept close to him at all times. Tamilenthi would come and go from our group, but realised it was too dangerous to stay in Vadamarachchi and he eventually left us and headed for the jungles of Vanni. Unfortunately, on his way, he was caught in an army roundup and imprisoned in Kankesanthurai jail for the duration of the Jaffna occupation. This iron willed man was severely tortured by the Indians. Nevertheless, Tamilenthi’s resolve endured and they were unsuccessful in their attempts to break him. Not a word of information passed his lips. He was released when the Indians withdrew from Jaffna and he quickly recovered the finance from its hidden place and handed it over to Mr. Pirabakaran. He remains an LTTE stalwart and continues to manage the finances of the organisation. But it was Tamilenthi who, seeing the danger we were in, sent an urgent message to Mr. Pirabakaran in the jungles of Vanni to make immediate arrangements for us to be taken out of the area. The difficult communication network delayed a response and were we compelled to undergo many more dangers before we eventually received a reply.

While I fully appreciated the value of the people’s support to one’s morale in our situation, I hadn’t understood the full dimensions of underground life. And so, when Sukla informed me that we would have to move again, and probably within a few days, I learned that another crucial aspect of underground survival was to balance the time between staying put and keeping on the move. For obvious reasons, staying in one place for too long has its risks. But too frequent a transfer of places can also lead one into the clutches of the very forces one is trying to avoid. We had calculated that only two or three days were required for our presence in an area to become well known. One of the reasons for this was my colour. Whereas most of the cadres moved around Vadamarachchi during the day in civvies, and Bala too, managed to disguise himself effectively with a farmers towel around his head, shaven face and a scruffy appearance, I could not. All that was required was for the people to see me walking to the outside toilet and our presence was revealed and we would have to consider moving on again. Once known to the people, the information travels like wild fire, and we therefore became vulnerable to army roundups. But so far we had been relatively successful in keeping just one step ahead of the Indians. Subsequently our next move was to from Karaveddy to Navindal, a village a few miles away, and, till then, free from Indian penetration.

Our Navindal house reunited us with Pottu Amman. When we met him again he was obviously uncomfortable and he requested me to dress his oozing armpit wound. The hot sticky weather had quickly turned his wet dressings into a breeding ground of infection. Pottu Amman had also developed a secondary complication from his abdominal wound and he was experiencing episodes of pain. Without access to diagnostic equipment we had no idea of the cause of the problem or how to deal with it. I gave him a mild injection but with little success. He moaned throughout the night, which added to the danger of our situation. Apart from barking dogs, which became our major source of information on the movement of Indian troops, Vadamarachchi was dead quiet during the night, so his moans were like echoes in a canyon and could be easily picked up by troops if they happened to be in the area. Pottu Amman’s wounds made him easily identifiable and vulnerable, and he was unable to walk long distances: he had to be carried from one place to the next, in a huge wicker chair on the shoulders of our cadres. For me to keep my whereabouts secret it was necessary to either travel under cover of darkness or hide my colour with a bed-sheet wrapped around me as a sick person does. We decided to move under the cover of darkness to our next location in Nelliady.

Supporters of the LTTE had offered us a small house on their land in Nelliady to stay in. It was a small traditional residence whose character had been fashioned by time. It must have been about one hundred years old. Its endurance can be attributed to the local raw materials used in its construction. Stones had been cemented together with ‘chonampu’, the locally ground limestone, one of Jaffna’s main natural resources. Using this same material, the walls had been plastered and smoothed making a strong and enduring structure. As was typical of old houses it had two small rooms with tiny windows and a small cooking area. The stove was just local clay moulded into pot supports. The house was situated in the corner of a plot of land shaded by a gracious old margosa tree, probably as old as the house itself. In the backyard, within walking distance of the cooking area, was a sizeable well with plenty of cool, clean, fresh water.

We enjoyed the support of the people in this area and we felt we would be safe and able to remain in the house for a few days before we moved on again. Sukla was in the process of arranging our next camp and he needed time to confirm the arrangement. Our cadres were carrying out reconnaissance work and there we were no indications of troop movement in the area. But, as we learned from this experience, there was no place for complacency or over confidence. If one was to survive, one had to remain constantly alert and vigilant at all times.

A Raid on Our House

Again, it was late afternoon when the incident took place. I was gathering some firewood from the surrounding land. Unexpectedly, some small children came running to the house agitated and short of breath, struggling to convey to us that a patrol of Indian soldiers were stealthily making their way along the lane in the direction of our house. No sooner had the children finished giving us their information when some other local people in the area came rushing with the news that they too had spotted an army patrol, but from a different direction. Pottu Amman heard this and sat up, alerted. His years of experience in outwitting and fighting his way out of round ups of his jungle bases by the Sri Lankan army in Batticaloa, had taught him when to be concerned about the information he was receiving on the movements of troops. Another report came of troops moving in from a different direction. A picture quickly unfolded of a major round-up of our house by Indian troops. It appeared they were moving in strength, from different directions, encircling our camp and systematically closing off escape routes. The situation was grave and tense. My mind quickly sorted priorities and anticipating that we would have to move out, and move quickly, I immediately brought Bala’s insulin bag within reach, as the most important item I needed to carry if we were to make a getaway. At that moment, Sukla came speeding back on a bicycle to inform us that contingents of Indian troops were just a few hundred yards away and moving in quickly. I grabbed the medicine bag, we slipped into our rubber flip-flops and Bala and I rushed out of the house. Pottu Amman struggled to his feet, and leaning on a cadre assisting him, limped out of the house holding his stomach as he went. Kandiah, one of the local cadres with us, edged forward, scouting the area for an escape route, beckoning us to follow him when it was safe. To our good fortune, a contingent of troops made a serious error. They were slow in taking up their positions and had not yet completed the encirclement, allowing us just enough time for us to cross that vital lane. We could see the troops further along the lane going from house to house, conducting a search operation. We banked on their concentration on their job, and one by one, we crossed the lane and broke out of the closing trap. The local people, having understood the situation we were in, silently pointed us in directions away from the Indian troops.

As we slipped out from the location and escaped, we could hear a volley of gunfire in the direction of the house we had just vacated. Later, we gathered the full story of the aborted round up from the local people. Contingents of jawans, guided by an EPRLF informant, swooped on the place and took up positions in a tight circle around the house with their firearms ready. The nervous troopers then shouted, demanding that we come out, one by one with our hands raised. There was absolute silence and nothing moved in the house. Having lost their patience, the ‘peacekeepers’ opened fire with their automatic weapons on the empty house. They soon realised their error. We had outsmarted the raiding Indian patrols.

The troops exacted their retribution on the owner of the house, Mr. Markundu. An Assistant Government Agent at that time, Mr. Markundu was taken into custody where he was brutally beaten. After a few days of ill treatment in custody he was released with a warning of dire consequences if he was ever caught providing assistance or accommodating LTTE cadres again. This was a serious concern for Mr. Markundu. He had a teenage daughter and his son Vijayan was an LTTE cadre. Given the notorious record of rapes by Indian troops during their military campaign in Jaffna, he was extremely worried that any future punishment might be metered out on her. But this generous and courageous man was never compromised. Since the army maintained a continuous surveillance of the place, we never considered returning to his house again.

It was obvious from this critical situation we had escaped from, that Pottu Amman’s injuries constrained his mobility. Cordon and search operations became daily events as the troops stepped up their hunt for LTTE cadres in Vadamarachchi. It was imperative for Pottu Amman to leave the area so he could receive proper medical care and rest if he was to survive. Finally, arrangements were made to send him by sea to Tamil Nadu, India for medical treatment, and he left our group. The other injured cadres had their own contacts and sources and had moved out for care with them. We continued our struggle for survival.

The Indians kept up their search for us and we kept on the move. As the political leader in the area, the Indians were also hunting Sukla, so his regular ventures out to set up new safe houses involved considerable risk on his part. It was his knowledge of the area, which allowed him to avoid capture, for the time being. He could not, for example, move openly in the heart of the Nelliady town. Since the jawans had absolutely no idea of what their enemy looked like they utilised the devious strategy of stationing masked informants in populated areas, to identify LTTE cadres and helpers. If a suspected LTTE cadre was spotted the informant was expected to indicate to the troops by nodding his head in the direction of the suspect. The identified suspect is then arrested and taken into custody. The Tamil people call these despised informants ‘thalaiyardis’ or, literally in English, a ‘a person who nods his head’. Fortunately for our cadres we were always tipped off if the army had stationed a ‘thalaiyardi’ in the market or at sentry points and they avoided the area altogether.

Sukla also made arrangements with his female relatives and friends to provide food for us. Vadamarachchi is famous for its cooking of very hot curry dishes and we were generously provided with a variety of these. I have no idea how many loyal and caring anonymous women spent time and risked their lives to carefully prepare tasty dishes of food for us. Kandiah was given the task of collecting the food and he would find his way safely through the lanes to the houses where the food had been prepared and bring it back to all of us. In other ways too, the people were generous in their support and assistance. For example, afternoon teatime is a special time of the day when Tamil women often cook sweets or a savoury dish to eat with tea. If the people knew of our presence in the area it was not unusual for a little boy or girl to come running up to me, carefully carrying a woven box containing either freshly cooked sweets or a savoury dish sent by his or her mother. When women cooked for temple festivals they invariably sent me a silver platter upon which there would be neatly placed bananas and a small bowl of sweet rice called ‘pukai’ or a specially cooked sweet called ‘morthagam’ which was one of my favourites. I had never met these ladies but they were emotionally generous to think of me and share their family food with us. Such small acts of kindness were instrumental in making me feel I was part of them and I belonged.

Sukla’s and our cadres’ constant intermingling with the population kept us well informed of the army’s campaign in Vadamarachchi. Cordon and search operations had become routine military procedures throughout the area. The more searches they conducted, the more we learned about their modus operandi. We observed that they executed the cordon off operations using either of two strategies. Contingents of troops would suddenly swoop (usually early in the morning) from different directions, seal off an area and proceed to conduct their search. But more typically, small patrols of troops would advance from different directions - perhaps even different camps - casually move in and take up positions, isolate an area, prevent the people from coming and going, and then undertake house to house, building to building searches. Obviously the Indian military hierarchy viewed these operations as central to a successful counter insurgency strategy. But in reality, these sustained searches were their points of greatest weakness. This form of military harassment became an unpopular exercise and permanently cost the Indians the hearts and minds of the Tamil people. It was during these operations, troops forcefully intruded and violated the privacy of people’s homes, and some of the worst excesses by the Indians took place. The Indian commanders and troopers, most of whom were inducted into the Tamil homeland from the conflict zones of Northern India, were alien to the life, language and culture of this peace loving community, proud of its values and traditions. Faced with an invisible enemy that constantly dissolves and disappears in the sea of civilians, the alien army began to view all the Tamils as potential Tigers or Tiger supporters. The ignorant jawans had no idea of the nature and history of the Tamil freedom movement. Furthermore, and most importantly, the ‘peacekeepers’ had lost the purpose and meaning of their mandated mission in Tamil areas. Without any guidance from a disciplined command structure, the Indian troopers wandered aimlessly in the villages, inhumanely persecuting the civilians under the guise of Tiger hunting. Once inside the households the Indian jawans transformed into merciless brutes violating the basic norms of human decency. Rape, theft, thuggery, assault of innocent people became a regular procedure of the so-called search operations. To identify one suspect, entire villages were uprooted and thousands of people were marched off to public grounds on massive identification parades. Several elderly persons have told me that the Indian jawans marched them out of their houses and forced them to kneel along the roads for hours in the hot sun. Irrespective of age, all civilians underwent experiences of utter humiliation. Those who were arrested on suspicion were held incommunicado in various detention centres. Torture under interrogation was a routine practice. Women were vulnerable and defenceless when confronted by armed jawans, and despite their pleas for mercy, many were molested and violently gang raped. Indeed a sixty-year old lady friend of ours secretly confided to me her humiliation when three young, armed jawans barged into her house, forcefully separated her from her sick and disabled elderly husband, dragged her into a room and gang raped her. This reserved and dignified elderly lady choked back tears as she unburdened herself of her painful experience to me. The privacy of people’s lives was further violated as wardrobes, and cupboards were ransacked and precious jewellery and money and whatever took their fancy, became part of the troops’ booty. The theft of domestic animals from people’s estates to supplement their army diet, was a routine part of troop operations. This unruly, undisciplined behaviour coupled with indiscriminate brutality and sexual violence by the jawans throughout the North and east, terrorised and deeply humiliated the national pride of the Tamil people, and at the same time, fostered a deep hatred and seething resentment towards the Indian occupation army.

As the days turned to weeks, the escalation of military operations was paralleled by an intensification of the people’s fear. Nevertheless, in times of crisis, people often rise up to the occasion and confront the challenge of the situation in unexpected and remarkable ways. Examples of courage and sacrifice surfaced from unexpected quarters and in general, despite the military oppression, the people’s will remained unbroken. So, despite the pervasive atmosphere of fear in the area, there were always courageous and sympathetic souls who allowed us to use their houses as safe places. Furthermore, with our knowledge of where the Indians were operating and our familiarity with the mode of execution of their cordon and search strategy, we constantly tried to avoid staying in areas where we were likely to run into trouble. But once the Indians had completed their systematic search of Vadamarachchi they injected into their counter insurgency campaign a strategy of random cordon and search operations. This introduced a new complication in our struggle to survive in Vadamarachchi. Any area could be identified and singled out for searches. Now we had to live on the edge, expecting roundups of our house at any time of the day or night. And so it was to be.

Property in Jaffna

We went to a safe house in Karanavai East. The family structure at this particular place was widely representative of the Jaffna social structure. The family relations within this safe house exhibited all the elements of a matrilineal family system in practice. In Jaffna social formation, where matrilineal system of inheriting property predominates, women and their descendants living in two or three houses next to one another within the perimeters of one piece of land is a common construction of family relations. Here, we had two average sized houses on a sizeable piece of land. The modern house belonged to the younger women and her three children and the older designed house belonged to the woman’s elderly mother. While I didn’t like to pry into their personal life, we could be almost certain that the houses were owned by the women of this family because it is to women houses are dowered at the time of marriage. Undoubtedly, either one of the houses and all the land would be devolved to the only daughter in the family. And so the traditional ancient laws of property succeeding to women as written in the Thesawalamai would be perpetuated. Just as typical as the family relations on this land was the organisation of a small, self-sustaining household economy. First and foremost were the coconut trees - probably planted by the elderly lady when she was a young woman- providing the family with a plentiful supply of coconuts, which are needed as an essential ingredient in all Tamil cooking. From this tree, the thrifty ladies would dry the stems of the coconut tree leaves and secure for the family a constant supply of firewood. The remaining part of the leaf is either left for a few days to dry in the hot sun and then plaited and used for roofs on small sheds or for fences around the house or are sold for a small income. Taking the procedure one step further, the green part of the leaf is stripped off to expose a tough long needle which, when tied into a bundle, is suitable as a hand broom for sweeping the compound. The most resourceful are the palmyrah trees, that descriptive natural symbol of Jaffna: a tall, straight tree that grows wild in Jaffna. Every part of this extraordinary plant, from the leaves to its roots, serves a purpose to the people. Its leaves are used for roofing, fencing and cattle fodder. Its fruit is succulent and sweet. The stalk of the flower is used to produce the local alcohol called ‘toddy’. The bark is used for firewood. Its tough strong trunk has formed the central pillar of Tamil houses for centuries, and the roots are dried and eaten in various forms. These resourceful magnificent trees form the backbone of the rural economy. The resources from these trees kept the ladies of the house busy all day. In the compound of the house a small area of land had been cleared and onions and green chillies - vital ingredients for cooking - were growing. Aubergine plants were waiting to flower and the fruit from the plant would become a regular curry for the family. The excess production of aubergines would be sold in the market to provide the family with small cash income. Clumps of banana trees, surrounding the well, were flourishing on water feeding into them through mini irrigation canals specially dug to drain away dirty water from around the well. Bananas are eaten either after meals or with a particular preparation of flour food called ‘pittu’ for breakfast or the evening meal. Extra bunches of bananas would also go for sale at the local market. The flower of the banana tree is specially prepared and cooked for a tasty vegetable dish. Once the bunch of bananas has been harvested, the banana plant is cut down to ground level and fed to the cows and the new banana tree sprouting from the root is left to grow. Chickens would have provided the eggs, and meat for curries also. Goats gave milk and fertiliser and so did the cow.

But despite these movable and immovable assets, the family was short on one very vital resource, cash. And that was why the father of the children was not at home and his wife assumed the head of the household. The father of these three children -a small boy, and another one of about fourteen years and a teenage girl around thirteen years old - would need money in the future for several reasons. Their first concern would be for the higher education of their children. If the children were successful in achieving the entry marks to the Jaffna University or any other in Sri Lanka then the future education of the children would not necessarily be a problem. But since the Tamils had to achieve higher marks than their Sinhala counter parts to gain university places, the competition was stiff. Of the thousands competing for university places only a few students gained admission. If the son were clever but not brilliant enough to score the very high examination marks to secure a university place, the parents would immediately aspire to send their son out of the country for a foreign education. The son, in turn, if successful in achieving his professional qualification, would then earn and save for the education of his brother and, equally as important, his sister’s dowry. And the daughter’s dowry would be the second major parental concern. The young girl might aspire for a professional career but for Jaffna parents, arranging and securing a successful and prosperous marriage for their daughter was the greatest obligation they had to perform for her. For that to become a reality the family would need money, and plenty of it. Although the daughter would be guaranteed her hereditary property, it could be insufficient to meet the rampant dowry demands in Jaffna. Cash would be required to build or augment the daughter’s dowry. So if these parental obligations and high social aspirations were to be fulfilled it had been necessary for the father of the family to leave the country in search of employment. For a variety of social reasons widowhood, separation, disappearance or husbands abroad woman-headed families have become a common family structure amongst the Tamil community throughout the North and east. The elderly lady had been widowed for many years. So here we had a social situation where two resilient and strong women were managing the family and their estates in these extremely adverse circumstances.

Our small group went to stay in the elderly lady’s house. Regardless of their heavy responsibilities, these two ladies were extremely hospitable and were kind enough to cook and share their food with us. The children, in particular the older boy, would come and visit us regularly. But, despite the warmth of the social environment, this house became bad luck for us. On several occasions we were subjected to army round ups. On one occasion we were tipped off that there were indications of an army round up of that area in the early morning. It was late at night when this information came to us, but we had to move. Our group, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, walked over the banks of rice fields as we crossed from one place to another. We trudged through the twists and turns in the lanes and balanced precariously on cycle bars as cadres pushed us to our next destination. But, as time went on and the tension mounted, of more concern to Bala and myself than death, was our determination not to be parted. The fear of one of us getting separated from the other or caught or killed was so compelling we were driven together like nothing ever before. Subsequently, our overriding concern during extreme crisis was to stay very close and to lookout for each other. Any suggestions that separating would enhance our chances of survival were rebuffed outright and never raised again. It was suggested to me that I could be safe in a Catholic convent in Karaveddy where I could camouflage as a nun. I flatly refused.

I often became Bala’s eye at night, directing him through the lanes and across paddy fields. Bala, with poor night vision, would frequently place his arm on my shoulder and I led him through the lanes. Similarly, as the only woman in the group, the intimacy formed through marriage was invaluable, as Bala worked with me in maintaining my dignity and privacy. For me, it was the small things that mattered. He always made sure toilet facilities were made available to me first and whenever I needed them. It was not unusual to hear Bala shouting at someone to get out of the toilet because ‘Auntie’ was waiting. Likewise when I bathed. Most of the houses in Jaffna, particularly the older ones, don’t have indoor bathrooms. People wash at the wells in the back of the house. Drawing water and dousing oneself with buckets of cool fresh water while the gentle wind blows across the body, is a particularly pleasurable commutation with nature, which only those who have experienced it would understand. Young men gather together at the well in their sarongs or underpants and leisurely wash and really don’t bother who sees them. Women are constrained by a sarong wrapped around them and tied in the front at the chest, and washing is usually less of an event than it is for the men. But I was not used to this mode of washing and I never did get used to it. I was more familiar with stripping down and washing with buckets of water in the privacy of a bathroom. So more often than not I waited till night to bathe, and Bala would chase everybody away and clear the area so I could wash privately. He would then slowly draw the buckets of cool water from the well and spill them over me; and we pondered our circumstances and life during those moments. But there was also a survival element involved in this process. It was these washing times when we were at our most vulnerable and he was required to keep an eye out if there was a round up by the army. Indeed one of the main fears I had was that there would be an army round up when I was standing stark naked and washing or in the toilet. For this reason our bathroom necessities were, more often than not, undertaken in haste rather than at leisure.

A Gentle Woman

By now we had adapted our survival underground tactics to meet the army’s different operational moves and to deal with the pervasive fear amongst the population. We shifted our safe houses either at night or, to create some confusion in our movements, we would sometimes make a shift before sunrise. We didn’t altogether rule out daylight travel but reserved it for emergency or extraordinary circumstances. Fear of the Indian army’s punitive action closed many of the people’s doors to our needs and we found ourselves in the unsatisfactory situation of unwisely returning to old haunts. Regular sightings of Indian army patrols wherever we went, placed us on twenty-four hour alert. In other words we could expect the army to pop up at any place at any time, although routine night patrols had not yet been introduced as a part of their strategy. So when we arrived at Radhi’s house one of our supporters in Navindil in the late night, drenched to the skin after travelling from Karaveddy in a monsoon shower, I felt her hospitality to us as one of the most warm and memorable moments in my life.

Radhi was expecting us when we arrived at her house. We were greeted by a warm smell of ‘pittu’ cooking on the stove. She herself was sitting on the floor with a candle flickering for light, preparing more of this flour dish for us. Her three young children surrounded her; each had been allocated a cooking task. Some of our cadres were also helping her in various ways. She immediately came forward to meet us, and even though we were dripping wet, she gently ushered us into the room she had specially prepared for us. When I entered the room I was taken aback by the overwhelming atmosphere of social warmth. The room was simple and spotlessly clean, two beds had been arranged, one on each side of the room and beside each stood small bed tables: similar to a simple lodge room. But Radhi had added a touch of herself by placing small flasks of hot water with sugar and tea and a small jar of milk powder on the bed table. It all added up to a ‘you are welcome’ atmosphere.

Radhi took me outside to a huge ‘thoddi’, a concrete bath like structure, built and used by the farmers for storing water for irrigation and quite often washing. It was full to the brim with water. She brought me a towel and a new cake of soap, handed me a bowl to scoop water with and I stood in the warm monsoon rain and had a wash. Bathing at the well while the warm rain pelts down is not an uncommon sight in Jaffna, particularly amongst the young people. Although this practice embodies a contradiction, it is one of those experiences, which makes Jaffna life special. Having cleaned myself up, Radhi served us a meal: hot, fluffy ‘pittu’ with an omelette made with plenty of minutely chopped onions and green chillies, followed by a ripe sweet ‘cathaly’ banana. Since we had just arrived at this house and it was unlikely that anybody knew of our presence and the army was not yet on night patrols, I felt I could sleep peacefully. It was the consciousness of a feeling of peace as I was about to shut my eyes that made me realise I had been living under extreme mental stress.

This concrete house, although not very big, was in stark contrast to Radhi’s economic circumstances. A slim woman in her late 20s, Radhi’s life, since the time of her marriage, was a history of deception, disappointment and financial crisis. Since her eldest son was around the age of eight or nine we can guess Radhi married in her early twenties. Her husband was a businessman who did most of his dealings in South India. His visits home became less frequent until, inevitably, he didn’t come back. Radhi’s husband had established a ‘second’ wife in South India. He actually abandoned Radhi and her three small children. With no real skills with which she could earn an income, Radhi’s life became a constant struggle to feed and clothe her children. Interestingly, despite all her hardships Radhi was committed to the education of her children and refused to allow her poverty to stand in the way of their education opportunities. In typical Tamil thinking, and more particularly in her situation, Radhi saw the redemption of her family through the education of her children. She stretched herself and her resources to make this possible. Apart from the interruptions to their lives caused by the wars, Radhi, with single-minded determination, ensured the children continued with their studies. During our stay Radhi told her story of how she struggled to protect her children from the aerial and artillery bombardment during ‘Operation Liberation’ by the Sri Lankan army. Since there was no bunker at her house in Valvettiturai, she and her terrified children huddled together under the flimsy protection of the beds. Her life story was pathetic and I wondered where she drew her resources of mental and emotional strength to cope with her tragedy. The socio-economic conditions of abandoned women in Jaffna are quite different phenomena to those of abandoned women in the West. Unless the extended family is prepared to financially support these women, their plight becomes dire. The assistance of a state welfare system is not available to them. Radhi searched for any menial work, which would provide her with enough rupees for the day to feed her children.

One night, Soosai, the LTTE’s Vadamarachchi commander came to see us. Soosai had himself narrowly escaped round up operations. The quick thinking of his protectors hid him behind a rolled up sleeping mat with clothes piled on top off it, which, to his good luck, the Indians over looked. Perhaps the ‘hiding’ place was so obvious they couldn’t believe anybody would be there and didn’t touch it. Incredulous stories of narrow escapes and original, undetectable hiding places were rife during this time. Some cadres spent long hours tucked in the rooftops of houses while the Indians in the rooms below them carried out their search. Others are known to have buried themselves in haystacks and tobacco leaves. In desperation, cadres had plunged into septic tanks for refuge. So it was wise of Soosai to confine his movements to the cover of darkness. He informed us that instructions had been given by the LTTE leadership to send us away to India by boat when the weather and sea conditions were satisfactory. But, he added, we would have to manage for some more time.

Our few days at Radhi’s house passed without any difficulties or complications. But to push our luck and stay any longer would have invited unnecessary danger for all of us. We moved on.

Toddy Tappers

There were many downsides in our experience of being fugitives from the Indians. But there were upsides also. I had the opportunity to meet a cross section of people in a variety of social situations from the Jaffna social structure. And so when we went to stay in an ancient village in Tunnalai, in the heart of Vadamarachchi, I was fortunate to meet and enjoy the hospitality and generosity of the people from the toddy tapping community. This particular extended family were ardent supporters of the LTTE. They lived in what could be called a family hamlet. One of their houses was a small cement structure with two rooms opening onto a veranda, which ran the full width of the house. The kitchen was a neat, separate, single room mud hut. It was here that the women in the family gathered and cooked over the single- pot wood fire. Two huge mango trees formed a cool canopy over the house. Just outside the compound was a jungle of palmyrah trees with dense thorny bushes as undergrowth. The owner of the house generously moved his family to his relative’s house out the back so that we could temporarily occupy his place. The relative’s house was a thatched roof mud cottage. A palmyrah leaf fence separated the two houses. The big open well was in the compound of this house.

This particular community of people belongs to the toddy tapping caste in the Jaffna social structure, which harvests a natural alcohol called ‘toddy’ from the stalks of both coconut and palymyrah flower. This cloudy brew is popular with the Jaffna men and is widely consumed, particularly at lunchtime and late evening, soon after the ‘toddy’ has been freshly gathered. There is a constant demand for the alcoholic brew. Some men are regular consumers of the brew and have bottles of the fresh toddy delivered like milk to their houses every day. But more commonly, men can be seen around lunchtime heading in one direction, pushing their bikes to the local shabbily built toddy shop somewhere on the edge of town or in a hastily built shed on an unused piece of land. So when one travels in Jaffna and sees dozens of bikes parked outside what would appear to be a shack, and it is near midday, one can safely assume that is the toddy shop.

These families however, were not only involved in harvesting and selling toddy, but other small cottage industries centred on the resources of the versatile palmyrah tree. To put it more clearly, this family was hard working and enterprising. Their income was sufficient to maintain their financial independence and dignity. But they were far from wealthy. Ironically, this skilled, hardworking and proud people were designated at the bottom of the social organisation of the Jaffna community. Throughout my years in both India and Sri Lanka I was never able to reconcile my abhorrence of the casteism. A social system, which condemns human beings to a specific social status by birth, it is both primitive and oppressive. Though this system is embedded in the economic and cultural life of the Jaffna society, casteism is the antithesis to modern thought which postulates dignity and respect for human labour. Indeed, in my observation of the Jaffna society I found the designation of particular communities as ‘high’ and ‘low’ to be based on spurious criteria. Could there be any justification to demean a community of hard working, self sustaining, resourceful and socially productive people as ‘low’. But I was to learn a great deal more about the inconsistencies in Jaffna society during my stay with this family. I was quite amused and smiled to myself when I discovered that the so-called ‘high’ caste Vellala men crept into this neighbouring toddy house every evening. They spent hours sipping toddy from a bowl-shaped container made of palymyrah leaves, eating snacks of fried fish, fried prawns etc made from the ‘polluted’ hands of these ‘low’ caste women. It was comforting to know how quickly these socially constructed categories and practices of ‘high’ and ‘low’ disappear under the influence of a good drink. Even more interesting was the fascinating political analysis of the current situation. It was a first hand sociological study of public opinion: of the people’s thinking and sentiments. Debates, discussions and heated arguments were thrashed out. The Indian ‘peace keepers’ and their atrocities were the main topic of discussion and criticism. But from the drunken ramblings of the toddy consumers we could discern a general public sympathy for the LTTE cadres or, in more popular terms, ‘the boys’. The LTTE leadership also did not escape the astute criticism of the inebriated consumers. Nevertheless, totally oblivious to our presence, the uninhibited dialogues of the toddy tappers’ patrons kept us interested and amused during our otherwise idle evenings. Somewhat seduced by the pleasantness of the environment we were shaken back into the reality of our circumstances when some cadres came running to warn us of an approaching Indian army patrol. We immediately packed our backs ready to move out. In the meantime, when we were all set to vacate, the house owner rushed in and told us not to be hasty and agitated: the jawans were looking for a place to drink toddy. So, while the house owner and his family coolly and confidently satisfied the Indian patrol with the toddy at the back of the house, we waited, on the alert, in the front, and relaxed only when the drunken troops staggered into the darkness.

While living amongst these people I encountered a small, yet highly embarrassing problem. There were no toilets in this or any surrounding houses. For most people in the community this is not even an issue. The bushes in the palmyrah jungles serve the purpose well and for that reason are never cleared. It was not a problem for Bala either; he just had to return to his childhood to remember how to manage. For me, it was a particular problem accentuated by my colour. The green foliage was inadequate camouflage for white buttocks, which would certainly have been objects of curiosity if noticed by passers by. So once again, the intimacy between Bala and myself came into play. The only option for us was to get up very early in the morning before daybreak and beat the ‘queue’ to the bushes. Normally women rise early and perform their ablutions and clear the area before the men’s session gets underway. By the time the men make their visits to an unused bush, scores of scavenging crows are waiting in the branches for their breakfast. So Bala and I got up at 4 a.m., while everybody else who would also normally be up at that time, politely pretended to be a sleep. I prepared him a cup of tea to help make him ‘regular’ and therefore not have to take bathroom trips to the bushes during the daylight. I’m sure Balasingham found squatting in the bushes would have evoked much humour and curiosity amongst the village people. Bala wasn’t keen on such a scenario either. After tea I would go to the well and slowly draw a bucket of water. Then, once ready with the water for washing, Bala would take the lantern in one hand and a six-foot stick in the other. He would go ahead of me, winding his way along a narrow dirt track, and banging this pendulous stick on the undergrowth in front of him, while I followed closely behind with the bucket of water. I enquired from him the rational of tapping the ground with the stick. He explained that the area was infested with cobras and the tapping of the stick on the ground would deter them and they would slither off out of our way. I thought this was good thinking. I had no wish for an outraged snake to sink its poisonous fangs into my bare buttocks. Some yards from our house we found a ‘squatting’ place and Bala went off and I went the other way, but in close enough proximity to catch a few rays of light from the lantern. It was not a very satisfactory arrangement at all. I think the only thing I learned from this exercise was just how inhibited I was. Nevertheless, we did what we had to do, and using the same track and the same tapping procedure and passing some women heading off to where we had been, we returned to the house.

Experience had taught me that one of my first tasks on arrival at a safe house was to reconnoitre the area for hiding places and escape routes. There didn’t appear to be many places to hide in this area. And so when I saw some sunken graves with gapping holes separating the earth from the tombstone I thought that at least one of us could fit in there. I had no doubt the troops would not have come near the small, dilapidated cemetery. Thank God I never had to avail myself of this most hideous of hiding places.

While we were relatively undisturbed by army intrusion during our stay with these people I am sad to say it did not turn out that way for the family after our departure. But that again is to pre-empt the story. We did however visit this family after our return to Jaffna in 1990 to thank them for their hospitality.

Critical Days

The Indian military campaign against the LTTE cadres in Vadamarachchi was having limited success in terms of inflicting casualties on the LTTE. A few cadres were killed when caught in round up operations; some were captured and taken into custody. But essentially the troops were unable to root out the network of cadres from their well-protected hideouts. The disarming operations became a major counter insurgency campaign against the guerrilla fighters who, in classical Maoist jargon, were like fishes in the sea. Much of the credit for the LTTE’s success in eluding the determined Indians can be attributed to the loyalty and courage of the Vadamarachchi people. We have to salute the countless patriotic citizens who laid their lives on the line by providing the fugitive LTTE fighters with sanctuary in their homes and who spontaneously came forward with information on troop movements. Many lives were saved by such selfless acts of courage and participation in the struggle. Also civilians who were captured and suffered in detention camps as a consequence of their assistance to ‘our boys’ showed remarkable fortitude in coping up with the humiliations and torture they were subjected to. For the Indians, the only ‘success’ they could credit themselves with was the terrorisation of the innocent public. And this terror campaign by the Indian troops of the population reached its zenith when the troops extended their campaign into the night.

Since the outset of the Indo-LTTE war, a twelve-hour daily curfew from 6p.m virtually shut down the Vadamarachchi area. Apart from LTTE cadres and people like us moving from one place to the next, the area was enveloped by the silence of a graveyard at night. The night curfew facilitated the Indian military in singling out our cadres. Anybody violating the curfew, the Indians automatically assumed, must be an LTTE cadre. So, in a major development in its drive against the LTTE, the Indian military personnel intensified their campaign in the darkness. This added to the people’s torment. Fearing the intrusion of Indian troops into their houses in sweeping search operations, the people could no longer sleep peacefully at night. Growing in shrewdness, the Indian army introduced night patrols. Nobody could be sure where the troops were or when they would appear. But a solution to the problem of tracking the movement of troops at night surfaced from an unexpected source.

Our cadres maintained sentries in their hide-outs as far as was possible. But there was nothing like the assistance in night security provided by that primordial friend of man’s, the dog. Interestingly and unexpectedly it was the large population of domestic and stray dogs in Vadamarachchi, which proved to be the most efficient sentries throughout the area at night. We had observed that the village dogs rarely demonstrated any decisive response to our cadres as they moved around under the cover of darkness. But the presence of large numbers of Indian troops stomping in their heavy boots triggered of a raucous chorus of barking, that ‘dogged’ the troops as they patrolled the area. From the level of noise from the barking dogs we could easily gauge the proximity of troops to our camp. And to be certain, there was many a night we were grateful to those faithful creatures, as we lay awake tracking the troop movements through the fluctuating sound of dogs barking.

But patrolling did not exhaust the military options of the Indians in their night campaign against the LTTE cadres. Obviously hungry for a higher body count, the Indians expanded their night campaign by deploying troops to lie in ambush in ditches on the side of roads and lanes and under bridges, in a desperate bid to capture our cadres. This tactic of course made it increasingly dangerous for anybody to move around at night. Initially the element of surprise in the army strategy had its results. Until it became common knowledge that the Indian troops had set up ambushes at night, many unsuspecting civilians, compelled by circumstances to risk the lanes during the dark hours, were captured and beaten up and taken into custody as LTTE suspects by the IPKF troops. But it was these intensified night operations which brought the Indians their biggest catch and pushed us into a final life and death struggle.

By the time the Indians’ hunt for us had reached its closing chapter, the people of Vadamarachchi had been sufficiently terrorised by the Indian troops to be cautious and apprehensive of repercussions to them should the troops come to know we were in a particular area. Inevitably, the people were frightened of our presence in their vicinity. The depth of the people’s fear was poignantly revealed to us when we were compelled to take emergency refuge in a house in a small village. That one should be the source of disturbing the people’s peace and generate the painful emotion of fear in people pricked my conscience. But I was to face this uncomfortable situation when an entire village population, fearing brutal military reprisal, immediately vacated the area when they came to know we were staying in their village. Furthermore, this sudden emptying of a village of its people, we felt, might have alerted the army and we stayed awake all night in anticipation of a round up of our camp. Apart from the expectation that the army would soon be on top of us, we had no wish to perpetuate the people’s inconvenience and we found it impossible to remain in this house. But this experience drove home to me the potential danger to people caused by my ‘whiteness’. Any of the other cadres could have easily moved around Vadamarachchi totally unnoticed. But my colour exposed the entire group to danger. I started to consider painting myself with a light coating of mud or dressing in such away that only minimal amounts of my colour would be exposed. Perhaps, I thought, with a sheet worn in a semi Muslim style and my protruding feet covered with socks, nobody would identify me. Sick people often kept warm in this way, so there was nothing particularly odd about it. In the end I made a pitiful attempt to hide myself by draping a coloured bed-sheet around me and we left the village at around 4.am. Several hours later the village was subjected to a massive cordon and search operation.

And the hunt for us became relentless. We were constantly on the move, sometimes spending only a few hours in one place. Nevertheless, despite the pressure we were under Bala felt compelled to write a critique of the Indo-Sri Lanka Accord for the public. As soon as we arrived at the safe house Bala would pull out his pen and paper and, struggling under the light of a dimly lit lantern, set out in Tamil a comprehensive critique of the Accord. After completion of the work, the hand written Tamil text was sent to a typist for typing. So while waiting for the script to be collected from the typist we made a stopover at the Karanavai house where a mother and her three children had previously accommodated us. When Sukla, our chief bodyguard, left our safe house around 8p.m to collect the text of the critique of the Accord from the typist, we had no idea that this trusted and reliable chap would never return to the house again.

Close Encounter

We had been informed that the troops had intensified their military operations in the area and that they were patrolling the lanes and streets throughout the night as well as the daytime. The situation had become extremely dangerous. Nevertheless, Sukla felt certain that the danger during the day outweighed the risks of moving around at night. Moreover, he felt he knew the terrain well and he could avoid capture. He decided to go to the typist’s house to collect the critique of the Accord. So, we expected him to attend to this task and return to base very quickly. In this increasingly perilous and tense situation he disappeared into the dark with advice from us not to take unnecessary risks and to be alert. None of us was happy that he was putting himself in such jeopardy. He was after all the most knowledgeable person in our group on the geography of the area and the whereabouts of safe houses. Unfortunately our uneasiness with his night venture proved to be justified. As the night grew deeper, uncharacteristically, Sukla had not returned. Fears for his safety mounted. Our concern turned to anxiety as time went on and still there was no sight of him. Fraught with the uncertainty of Sukla’s plight, Ananth, one of the cadres with us, plunged into the dark in a bid to try to establish what had become of him. Ananth’s failure to return upped the anxiety. A sense of foreboding loomed large over us. Circumstances had caught up with us. The only reassuring factor in the unfolding saga was the absence of gunfire shots and this encouraged us to believe they were still alive. But their disappearance sparked of a multitude of conjectures and speculations centring on their plight and how we should respond. Were they simply delayed; perhaps they would soon return. Should somebody else go out and look for them? If they had been caught would the army push on and round up our area on a hunch that more LTTE cadres might be undercover somewhere nearby. And then the most crucial issue for us: where to go if we do leave the house? Only Sukla knew where our next move would be. All these ideas were bandied about amongst us, the darkness of the house reflecting our mood. Suddenly, like a bolt from the sky, Ananth exploded into the house. The poor young fellow was in a state of panic. Motioning to us to quickly pack our bags and get ready to move, pieces of the story and Sukla’s situation stumbled out of his mouth. The Indian troops were everywhere, he began, and Sukla had been ambushed and was tied up and being held captive not far from the house. Civilians too had been caught, he said. He himself had walked into the same ambush and was arrested. He had met Sukla at the point where the troops were holding the people they had captured. They were tied up and sitting as a group. Together they plotted for him to escape and to make a dash to warn us of the danger. By sheer good fortune the Indian troops were less alert. He had slowly worked loose the ropes he was tied up with. The moment the guards had looked away from their prisoners, he seized the opportunity and boldly jumped up and fled from captivity to our house to warn us of the perils surrounding us. He was certain the Indians were following him.

Our first impulse was to move from the house. I picked up Bala’s bag of insulin; we slipped into our rubber flip-flops and rushed out into the night. Our group split in two and went in opposite directions, thinking that at least some of us might survive. We stumbled along in the dark, not knowing where we were or where we intended to go. After walking a short distance and the fresh air cleared our thinking it was obvious that by roaming blindly and aimlessly in the dark we had created the worst possible scenario. To continue walking along the lanes would have led us into the hands of the Indian troops we were trying to avoid. Our first priority was to get off the lanes. With that suggestion we immediately climbed through a fence and into a vegetable garden a few feet off the lane. Sitting together amongst chilli plants we began to reflect on our situation. We knew the troops were everywhere; we had nowhere to go and Sukla had been caught. We sat quietly, weighing up possible options, when a distant murmur came to my ears. I hushed everyone indicating to keep quiet and freeze. I could hear a distant noise of people talking. As the talking came closer I indicated to everybody to lie down flat on the ground. We fell flat and pretended we couldn’t be spotted under the chilli plants. The talking in Hindi language grew louder, and louder; the sound of heavy boots became a trudging. None of us wanted to breathe. The stars continued to shine over our petrified bodies. And the patrol of troops, just a few feet away, passed us by and they faded into the distance. Lady luck was with us. The troops were incompetent. They didn’t scan the roadsides. We sat up and took a deep breath, and counted our blessings. Bala and the others immediately took off their light coloured shirts so they wouldn’t stand out like a beacon in the dark; and we waited. A few minutes passed by when again we heard the sound of talking, and the noise of the troops. The same patrol had turned back and was heading in our direction; and they passed us as they had before. A shot rang out in the distance. I have no idea whom that the unlucky soul was.

It was obvious we couldn’t stay where we were. With the break of dawn we would have been sitting targets for the troops. A dim light across the field offered a glimmer of hope. One of our cadres thought the farm looked familiar. But to get there we had to cross the open field. Our options, of course, were next to none and we decided to try for it. We lumbered across the ploughed land, stumbling on clods of earth, keeping as low as we could. A few yards seemed like a mile. Fortunately we knew the farm and we knew the people there and so we stayed for the night.

When the daylight came we moved back to Radhi’s house. But not for long; the hunt was in full swing again. Around six in the evening, panic stricken people shouting that feared word “Army, Army,” ran through the village warning everyone. We were totally ignorant that the round up of her house was part of the concerted sweep of our old haunts. The hunters were systematically checking out the known hideouts of their prey.

Kingsley jumped on a bicycle, Bala perched on the bar and they took off. I clambered onto the next one. We were going wherever the cadres took us. But at that moment I had no fear of the troops behind us; what concerned me more was to keep up with Bala on the bike in front of me as we wound our way at top speed through the lanes away from the jawans.

In the meantime a simultaneous, co-ordinated raid of our safe houses was well underway in Vadamarachchi. Contingents of troops swarmed into Radhi’s house after we had gone. Nevertheless, with all her maternal energy galvanised behind the single, overriding purpose of protecting her children, coupled with the years of experience of coping in a difficult world in uniquely adverse circumstances, Radhi drew on her resources of courage and quick thinking. She successfully wangled her way out of a potentially brutal reprisal. She was ‘let off’ with a severe warning and thankfully no harm came to her and her children. The toddy tappers in Tunnalai were not so fortunate in their confrontation with the jawans. In an extensive round up of their area hostile troops swooped down on their houses looking for evidence to support the information they had concerning the refuge the family had given to us. Anticipating that their teenage son would be the most obvious target for Indian reprisals, the parents immediately acted to protect him and sent him off into hiding before the troops arrived at their house. He fled the area and escaped capture. But it was impossible for the entire family to escape to safety. Being responsible and caring for the women in the family, the father remained in his house to promote their safety and to confront the unpredictable Indian troops. Subsequently, when they rounded up his house he took the brunt of the troops’ revenge. Unable to find any substantial evidence that we had actually stayed there, the troops turned their anger and annoyance onto the owner of the property, brutally beating him on the spot and marching him off to the nearby camp where he was subjected to torture. This innocent man was held in detention and released six months later. The women headed family’s house with three children was also pounced on. I was never able to discover or discern what reprisal they were subjected to. The empty Kaladai house, where we had lived with the injured cadres in the early days, became an Indian army camp. And so it went on throughout Vadamarachchi. All our safe houses were either occupied or searched, except one.

Confronting Death

Kingsley, our bodyguard from Karaveddy, took us back to the doctor’s house, just in front of his parent’s home. When we arrived there late at night, the area was quiet. We were not very comfortable about returning to a place that everybody knew we had often frequented. But we had no choice. There was nowhere else to go. But our discomfort turned to outright alarm when, about an hour after arriving there, the sound of barking dogs could be heard from the distant dark. Alerted, we wondered where the army was heading. But as the barking grew louder and seemed to be coming towards us, we suspected the army was on the move to round up our house. We scrambled out of the back and down the lane about thirty yards from the house, to an empty shed used as a store house next door to a cadjan cottage belonging to the Kingsley family. Because we hadn’t eaten all day hunger pains gnawed at Bala’s stomach. He drooled at the prospect of eating the delicious chicken curry and string hoppers (a traditional Tamil food made of rice flour) we could smell wafting from Kingsley’s mother’s stove. But the situation in Kingsley’s household rapidly changed as the Indian troops suddenly entered the neighbouring doctor’s house. All the families in the area were waiting in trepidation in anticipation of a midnight search operation. We saw Kingsley’s mother digging a hole behind the house. Bala’s face dropped when he noticed the old lady was burying the delicious curry and string hoppers specially prepared for him. Excessive quantities of freshly cooked food in the middle of the night in a small family would be difficult to explain to suspicious troops and so the food was dumped to ward off any unnecessary questions. The situation we faced now was more dangerous than the pain of hunger. We were surrounded by Indian troops and there seemed to be no escape this time.

Kingsley came running to warn us that a large group of troops was moving down the lane towards his parent’s home. Obviously we were no longer in a situation to determine our own destiny; circumstances had gone beyond our control. We had, it seemed, come to a face to face confrontation with India or rather death itself. Had we attempted to vacate our refuge, the troops would surely have seen us and shot us dead. We were lying on an old bed in this vacant shed, resigned to our fate. “Don’t worry. A few bullets into the body may be momentarily painful and that will be it”, Bala whispered to me. I was not frightened by this prospect. While the troops searched his parent’s house, Kingsley hid himself in the shed with us expecting that his days were also over. We stayed put and kept quiet. Perhaps, just perhaps, they might not see us. That was our only faint hope. Whether it was purely resignation or an unconscious acceptance of impending death or just the fact that we were to die together I would be unable to say, but there was no panic or fear from any of us as we resigned to the unfolding events. The people in the surrounding homes braced themselves for what was to come to them. We could hear the troops jabbering in Hindi as they searched Kingsley’s house and we waited for them to move to our building next. And then they were there. Torch lights flashed through the window and lit up our place and we held our breath. As the creeping sound of army boots approached our hiding place, I felt death was approaching. “They’re coming,” Bala whispered and put his arm over me as I pulled a bed-sheet up over my head not wanting to see the hail of bullets I was expecting. But, at the very moment when troops were about to enter the door, a voice intervened; it was Kingsley’s brother-in-law. This quick thinking, courageous man stepped forward and distracted the troops by suggesting to them there was no point in searching that vacant shed. Nobody could possibly be inside that shed, this saviour suggested to the army and intimated a different direction to them. Giving this man the benefit of the doubt, the troops turned away from the shed were in. The night became dark again and they trudged off in another direction to houses further down the lane and away from us. Kingsley’s brother-in-law had saved our lives. No sooner had the troops moved further on in the area to continue their search, than Kingsley’s family came rushing into the shed. As the troops proceeded along their path in one direction, Kingsley’s brother-in- law shuffled us out the opposite way. Everyone was in a flurry trying to find a place for us to hide in case the troops should return. But where to hide us? We couldn’t go to the doctor’s house; the army was encamped there. The only realistic possibility of escaping the troop round up, everybody concurred, was to take cover in the paddy field a few yards across the lane. As soon as the suggestion was made Kingsley moved off ahead of us to a coconut plantation where his grandfather was waiting. Much courage was required for this tall old man - an easy target silhouetted against the silvery night amongst the palmyrah trees to watch out for the army and lead us to the bank of the lane. Troops were patrolling the circle of lanes surrounding the paddy field we were heading for. Had they seen this lone figure in the dark they would certainly have had no compunction in shooting him dead. We hesitated wondering if a patrol would intercept us or spot us when we crossed. We were conscious that our lives hinged on us traversing this lane. With the instinct to survive propelling us forward, we stepped out, one by one, and crossed over, up onto the thorny scrubby undergrowth on the banks of the field and into obscurity amidst the stems of newly sprouted rice.

As we stumbled deeper into the paddy field Bala lost his footing, slipping into the ankle deep, larvae infested stagnant water, black mud squelching over his feet. Sitting on the embankment, recovering from this sudden loss of gravity, he jumped up in alarm when a water snake slipped round his legs and slithered off. While we battled the snakes and mosquitoes on one side we ducked for cover at an unexpected flash of a light. One after the other, torches lit up the people’s homes as the troops occupied their premises and proceeded to search for us. This routine was acted out for hours in the thickness of the night while we sat on an embankment of the field and watched in irony, the conduct of a search for us. We couldn’t do anything but wait. Bala pointed out a grey old building at the far end of the paddy field and said, “This is the famous Vigneswara College in Karaveddy”.

The fading of the dark and shades of daylight on the horizon nudged us away from the present into thinking of our next move. Daylight and rice fields would be no protection when helicopters reconnoitred the area. Kingsley decided to return to his home for an assessment of the situation. According to his experience, the troops would have returned to their camp after completing their search operations. But intermittent mumbling sounds from different directions obliged me to disagree. Troops, I believed, were still in the area.

Daylight compelled Bala and I to take cover under thorny bushes on the edge of the rice field while waiting for Kingsley to return. It was with quiet relief that we saw him coming towards us sometime later. He confirmed our suspicions that the troops had occupied the doctor’s house throughout the night waiting to nab us if we had returned there. We speculated that they vacated the house expecting to lure us back there and then to swiftly round up the building again and capture us. But there was no sign of troops in the area at the moment, according to his assessment. He considered it safe to leave the rice field to return to his house and think about where to go to next.

Tired and hungry we hoped we could snatch a short snooze and something to eat before we dealt with the serious issue of our next step in the struggle to survive. We temporarily mentally turned off the immediate urgency and dozed on the bed in the vacant shed again. Kingsley’s sister brought us the most delicious cup of piping hot sweet black tea I have ever tasted in my life. The odd snore from Bala indicated that he was spilling over from dozing into sleeping. I too was also about to abandon my concern for our safety and succumb to the temptation to sleep when that dreaded word floated through the air again. ‘Army’. I pulled myself away from the doze I was in and got up and peered through the window. To my utter dismay people were running from one direction to the other. It was obvious something serious was happening. While I woke Bala and told him the army was in the area, Kingsley came running and hurried us to move out because the troops were just near the doctor’s house. The area was being rounded up again.

On the Run

A villager quickly volunteered his bike to Kingsley and Bala climbed on ready to move out, when Chandran, another LTTE cadre and friend of Kinglsey’ from the area, raced up from out of nowhere, and told me to get on. We could see khaki moving down the lane at a distance. In an expression of concern one of the flustered village ladies rushed over and in a bid to hide my colour and identity, quickly wrapped a dark sheet around my head. Kingsley’s remarkably composed sister, anticipating a path out of the encirclement we were caught up in, seized the initiative and hastily proceeded ahead of us to the main road. The people in the village were in a panic, obviously disturbed by the heavy concentration of troops in the area. Kingsleys’s sister peered down the main road and identified a woman she knew. Unhesitatingly responding to the request of her friend and intuitively comprehending a crisis was at hand, this woman surveyed the road, and, ensuring that it was free from Indian troops, indicated to us to advance. She in turn waved to another woman, and when the area was all clear, she beckoned us to come. And so this spontaneous relay of initiative by these courageous women saved us from capture as they directed us out of the crucial first circle of an extensive and sweeping three ringed army round up of the area. We traversed the network of troops and, rather fortuitously, drew our escapade to a halt at a Hindu temple in Kilavi Thoddam, Karaveddy.

As we sat on the cool, spotlessly clean cement floor of the temple ‘maddam’ we felt we had come to the end of the road. All our safe houses had been raided by the troops and Kingsley was not overly familiar with this area of Vadamarachchi. On a hunch both Kingsley and Chandran rode off to talk to a family whom they considered to be generally supportive people. They hoped that this family would allow us to stay with them for the moment until we collected our thoughts and worked out a solution for the dire straits we were in. They left us with instructions to wait at the temple for their return. Soon after they had disappeared into the maze of lanes, the curious local people slowly came out of their houses and started to gather at the temple. Before too long a crowd was standing and looking at us. A potentially dangerous situation was rapidly emerging. The Indians were encamped at a major military establishment just a few miles down the road. If an army vehicle had passed the temple or a foot patrol strolled along, the crowd would have certainly attracted their attention and brought the army to the scene. But, at this moment, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, exposed, as we were, I turned to Bala and commented that our lives were totally in the hands of the people. Had there been an informant or anybody opposed to us, it would have taken them no more than a few minutes to inform the military authorities of our presence at the temple. No sooner had I commented this view to Bala, when a middle aged gentleman, acting on a sudden flash of insight, realised the danger posed to us by the growing crowd, stepped forward and quietly and politely asked the crowd to disperse. The people also, as if sudden awareness had dawned, immediately grasped the situation and they rapidly disappeared clearly not wishing to put us in danger. Subsequently, many peering eyes could be seen from behind the windows and over the fences.

We were offered a place to stay for a day at the house of the grandmother of one of our cadres. This old lady was warm and kind hearted. Characteristically of her age and culture, she responded with great humanity and empathy when she heard that we had been subjected to a hunt by the Indians and had not eaten for two days and were dead tired. She showed us to the well and allowed us to leisurely wash off the mud and dirt from the previous night in the paddy field while she, manifesting her long years of cooking experience, took the time to prepare one of her tastiest meals for us. Having relished this deliciously cooked meal, we slept undisturbed, till late evening. Around nightfall a friend of Bala’s rushed into the house to inform us that he thought the army had information about our whereabouts. He thought we should immediately move from where we were staying. And we trudged the lanes to wherever we could find a place (we had considered sleeping in the paddy fields again if we couldn’t find a house to stay in). The people informed us that an army patrol had passed the area just a few minutes ahead of us. In fact we could see their boot marks in the sand. Since it was almost dark and we knew the troops had started their night rounds, we ducked into a dilapidated house and there we waited. Kandiah, who had rejoined us, suddenly disappeared into the darkness. We waited in trepidation for him to return and, as it became late, we speculated that he too must have been caught by the patrolling troops. If that were so, we thought, there was every prospect of us being rounded up in the night. We were prepared to accept this stroke of bad luck when Kandiah came quietly through the door. In his hand he was carrying a large cane shopping basket, full of food. Kandiah had gone to a friend’s place and organised a meal for us. And again I was to be taken aback by the generosity and concern of the people.

We took my fluorescent torch and stood it in the middle of the floor so we could see what was in the basket. As I carefully took out the dishes of food it became obvious that a thoughtful and caring woman had been involved in the preparation of the meal. And then, from the bottom of a basket I pulled out what I thought was a stone. I took it out and held it in the palm of my hand and looked at it, puzzled. To my great surprise I saw it was a small piece of charcoal. I couldn’t understand why this obviously neat and caring woman had included a small piece of charcoal with the food. Charcoal (or ‘kari’ in Tamil), according to the local belief system, I was told, is a protective agent that has the power to ward off evil spirits that accompany food parcels if they are taken out of the house in the night. It was not the superstitious belief that interested me, but the care and concern of the person who thought we must be protected from evil. It was reassuring to know there was a woman somewhere in that village in the darkness, who was concerned for our plight on that particular fateful night.

It was widely known in the area that we were being hunted like animals and in extreme difficulty. Anybody who took us into their house was exposing himself or herself to exceptional danger. Nevertheless, the potential of the human spirit is sometimes unfathomable and manifests in magnanimous and magnificent ways at unforeseen times. So we were both deeply grateful and concerned when we were taken into the home of a retired police officer and his two daughters in their early twenties. We were grateful that these people offered us a place to stay, and concerned for the safety of the two daughters if the army came to know of our whereabouts. I was determined that my presence in the house would not expose these girls to danger and I subsequently stayed inside our room during the day and washed and so forth only at night. Although there was no more danger than usual at this house, Bala and I both knew that we were feeling the strain of the circumstances. We could not sleep peacefully. Our frequent visits to pass urine in the night was a reliable indicator of the tension and strain we were under. By the barking of dogs we knew the army was patrolling the lanes surrounding our house as we tried to sleep.

Two uneventful days passed under the watchful care of these generous and caring young women. It would be risky for everyone if we were to stay at the house any longer. But this family remained unconcerned about the danger to them and reassured us that we were welcome to stay as long as was necessary. Fortunately our queries about our next abode were put to rest when Soosai came to see us. He had been well informed of the mounting crisis we were coping with and now that the weather and sea conditions had improved, arrangements were underway for us to leave Vadamarachchi. This news from Soosai brought a smile to our faces and he reassured us he would be back with the final arrangements the next day. In the meantime, the news broadcast the death of the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, Mr. M.G. Ramachandran on 23rd December 1987. A day of national mourning and cease-fire was announced. As a token of respect to the Chief Minister the IPKF troops would be confined to barracks. It seemed a quirk of fate that this grand old man who over our years in Tamil Nadu had been instrumental in the growth and development of the organisation and had sponsored medical care for Bala in Chennai, should now, even in death, play such a vital role in giving us life.

Soosai told us to prepare for the final leg of our saga. On the afternoon of 24th December, two cadres on bikes came and collected us for the long ride from one corner of Vadamarachchi to a waiting boat at Thikkam, on the North coast. I was at a loss for words to express my gratitude and appreciation to these exceptional young women and their father when it came time to say good bye. They knew that we deeply wished that no harm should come their way after we had gone; and it never did. The laws of righteousness had prevailed. The Indians never came to know of our sanctuary in these good people’s home. With big smiles all around we wished each other well and off we cycled. Free from the presence of the patrolling troops for a day, the people gathered and chatted at the front gates of their houses and, as I passed them by balancing precariously on the bar of the cycle hearty waves bid me farewell.

The Final Challenge

Miraculously, we had survived a sustained and concerted manhunt by a ruthless and powerful force. Surely there couldn’t be any circumstances more perilous and life threatening than those that we had confronted and triumphed over. The worst was behind us, I thought. The forthcoming sea journey across the Palk Strait to Tamil Nadu, although not a luxury cruise, would be a minor episode in comparison with the events of the past few months. Once we were at sea and on our way to India we would be just a few hours away from safety, I anticipated. But oh how wrong I was. Our struggle to survive on land had now been taken to the sea and our journey was to manifest its own set of problems and hazards. The coming journey was to be as perilous as those that we had confronted and overcome.

On the coast at Thikkam we were reunited with some of our old friends who were also on the run, waiting to embark on the sea journey with us. Soosai was there too, attending to the final arrangements before we set off. Anxious to mentally prepare myself before we cast off into the sea, I enquired from Soosai just how many hours he thought it would take for us to reach the shores of Tamil Nadu. “Four hours,” he promptly replied. “Four hours. Well its far longer than the one hour or so it took for us to come to Jaffna from India, but I’ll manage this last hurdle,” I quietly thought to myself. But when we moved down to the white sands in the final moments before our departure a feeling of dread engulfed me. Even though there had been a slight break in the monsoon rains, the cold winds had whipped up the sea and the crossing was going to be both challenging and daunting. As I stood looking out over the turbulent waters into the distance ahead of me, I pushed to the back of my mind any scepticism or fears I had about plunging into the journey. Having managed and survived the perils of the past months, I convinced myself that the sea was just another obstacle to overcome. But my confidence received a jolt when I saw the boat that was to take us across this wild ocean plain. It was just a small fibreglass dingy, with two eight horsepower engines attached to the stern. How, I wondered in amazement, is this going to stand up to the enormous challenge posed by this untamed sea? I had no choice but to trust Soosai’s experience and skill. I felt sure he would not send us out on a trail to destruction. After all, so many of our cadres had used the same boat and survived the crossing. Many fishermen had also faced the gigantic might of these natural forces in boats like this. I had to reassure myself that should we triumph in this battle with nature and succeed in getting to India, where we could at least disappear amongst the teeming millions and stood a chance of surviving. But behind us, on the Jaffna land mass, there was certain death. A small chance was better than none and so, underplaying the dangers that lay ahead, I put our bags in the boat and prepared to set off.

The dark was quickly settling on the horizon we were heading towards and the odd black cloud hovering in the sky added to the generally grey atmosphere. A sense of urgency started to set in as time went on and we hadn’t departed. Our cadres wanted to be away from the scene before the troops ventured out for the night. So we clambered into the boat and found somewhere to sit on the boat floor. Soon afterwards, Soosai and dozens of cadres pushed us through the breaking waves, out into the whims of the great ocean. The engines were started and we seemed to be on our way. But as we moved away from the coast, I was suddenly overcome by a deep sense of guilt and emotion. The constant waves of crisis we had been subjected to brought me into relationships with remarkable people who had demonstrated the best in humanity. Many people drew from deep inside themselves to make the sacrifices and to take the risks they did for us and I felt a deep bond with them. So when I saw the coastline fading from view I truly felt I was abandoning our trusted friends to an uncertain future. For many years I had waited to join the people in their struggle and I had, even in those few months in Jaffna, shared some of the oppression and trauma of the society and I was sad to have to leave them to their plight. Of course there was a sense of relief also that the pressure of the hunt had been lifted. But my sense of relief proved to be premature and totally misplaced.

Having successfully traversed the breaking coastal waves, we tried to come to terms with the rolling, deep, grey ocean surrounding us. But just a few miles out and our attention shifted to an urgent problem. It became apparent that one of our motors was not functioning smoothly. It coughed and spluttered, and then it would be okay for a short distance, then spluttered again. Our ‘otti’ (boat drivers) were concerned as to whether the motor would make the distance to India, and there was some murmuring that we might have to return to shore. In their experience, it would be foolish and dangerous to continue a journey with only one motor functioning reliably. It was an accepted practice of the boat drivers not to venture out into the deep ocean without two motors, the logic being that if one engine broke down mid way, there was always the second one to rely on. Being just a few miles out it was too soon in the journey to risk the long distance ahead with only one motor functioning. We could easily be stranded in the middle of the ocean if it failed. The idea was frightening. They tinkered with the motor and it chugged a few yards, but they were not at all satisfied. Now we were confronted with a huge dilemma and we looked at each other wondering what they would decide to do. We were stuck -literally - between the devil and the deep blue sea. Ahead of us were unknown dangers and behind us were the known perils. We dreaded the idea of having to turn back. Through communication with our cadres on shore we had been informed that the Indian troops were in the area. Without knowing exactly where they were, it would be extremely dangerous to land and wait around while attempts were made to repair or replace the engine. We ran the risk of falling straight into their hands. But in reality there was no choice: we would have to go back to the shore. Our hearts sank as the boat slowly turned and headed for land again. We knew we were all in danger again and had not yet escaped the hunt by the Indians. The ‘otti’ communicated the engine problem to our cadres waiting under cover on shore. They in turn further briefed our ‘otti’ on troop movements. A few kilometres out at sea the motors were shut down and we wondered what was to happen next.

The night had settled and our boat was adrift in that choppy coastal sea. Then, to our astonishment, one of the ‘otti’s slipped into the rough water. I presumed he planned to swim ashore, reconnoitre the beach for troop movements and seek assistance to repair the motor, but to my utter astonishment this courageous young man did just the opposite. Riding and treading the waves he struggled to unfasten the non-functioning outboard motor, took the full weight of the engine on his shoulder and side-stroked his way to the beach. He planned to find a replacement motor from one of the many fishermen in the village, and, to avoid us having to make a dangerous landing on the beach, swim back with it and fit it to the boat. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how this young man was going to pull off such a feat. It was dark, the winter water must have been cold for him and the Indian army was somewhere nearby on the beach. Nevertheless, totally disregarding the danger to himself, he relentlessly carried on executing the plan. And while he struggled with the swell in the water, we waited in the sea for him to return. Up and down like a journey through rolling hills our small boat moved with the mood of the sea. I heaved my stomach into the water. But it was only when vehicle lights moving along the coastal road grew brighter and more distinct, did we realise that the tidal currents were dragging the sea as well as our boat inexorably towards the coast and possibly into the hands of the Indian troops. For fear of alerting the convoys of troops travelling along the coastal road, we couldn’t start the remaining motor and move out deeper into the sea. Nor could we control the tidal currents. Time dragged on as we waited in desperation for the outcome of the race between the tide pulling us towards the Indian army on one side, and the return of our boat driver with a new motor, on the other. We seemed to be doomed as we drifted within hundreds of yards of the shore. We all remained quiet to avoid attracting any attention in our direction. Then, through the darkness a light flashed on and off. It was the signal from the ’otti’ on shore indicating he had a new motor and was about to return to the boat. Our hopes lifted and a short time later we saw a head bobbing up and down amidst the waves. In all my experiences with the Tamil freedom struggle, the vision of this young man struggling through the water towards our boat with the new motor on his shoulder demonstrated one of the finest examples of the human spirit for courage, sacrifice and determination. It was extraordinary to witness this young man pitted against the power of the sea, and to see him emerge triumphant. With two engines firing smoothly we headed off. News from the shore told us the troops had descended on the beach at Thikkam just a few minutes after our departure. We had beaten them again. Apparently the troops had been tipped off that a white woman had been seen during the day making her way to the coastal area.

We headed out into the sea knowing that we couldn’t turn back again. It was now a do or die situation. “Just a few more hours,” I kept telling my self, “hang on girl, just a few more hours”. But no sooner had we solved the problem of the motor and were well out into the sea when another, equally dangerous problem confronted us. Our ‘otti’ travelled without maps or surveillance equipment. They depended for their direction on the position of the stars and their years of experience had taught them the difference between Sri Lankan and Indian ships. So when we all saw this dark menacing image growing on the horizon we realised were heading straight towards an Indian warship. For God’s sake, it was just an unbelievable coincidence for the Indian Navy to be taking up the hunt in the sea from where the troops had left off on the land. We made a slight change of course and that took us out of reach of the ship’s radar surveillance. And, as this dark, faceless sea monster melted into the night, we knew we had eluded its dangerous reaches. But there was no time to relish our small victory. Having avoided one ship we now saw a Sri Lankan Navy patrol boat. Its presence created panic as we came closer to it. Fortune was with us as the patrol crew failed to spot us in the dark and passed us by. With a feeling that the worst was over, we pushed on into the Palk Strait waters.

As distance gathered behind us, darkness engulfed us and the cold stole our warmth. Seas whipped up by cold winds, heaved and rolled, pushing us in and out of deep troughs. Bulging black clouds hung in the sky, growing heavier all the time. Black night stretched forever, beyond what the eye could see. Not one ray of light lit up any hope for us. Surely we had passed four hours in this eternity. “How far have we got to go”, I asked impatiently, “Not far Auntie”, our ‘otti’ lied. But the tumultuous sea was only one of our battles. Despair was to strike again when one motor spluttered, succumbing to the exhaustion of its task. Would the one remaining eight horsepower engine triumph over what appeared to be a task of Sisyphean proportions. Surely, after all we had survived in Vadamarachchi, we were not destined to die in the lonely darkness, in the middle of an ocean. Only the ‘otti’ read the stars and knew which direction we were in and how far we had to go before we reached land again. Great waves swelled up before us and broke over our boat, collecting in pools beneath us. We grabbed anything that was available and frantically scooped out the rising water to relieve the boat of extra weight. This daunting and desperate situation turned into an utter nightmare when we saw one engine suddenly slip off the stern and into the water and our boat came to a halt. Was it the functioning engine or was it the one that had broken down that had gone over the edge? We all held our breath and waited while our ‘otti’ started the surviving motor. It was obvious which one had taken a dive. Relieved, we set off again in our challenge with the sea. By this time we had been battling with the ocean and the weather for several hours and exposure became our next deadly foe.

None of us was specifically prepared for this lengthy sea journey. We all wore our thin cotton clothes and rubber flip-flops on our feet; suitable for the heat in Jaffna but totally inappropriate for the environment and weather we were exposed to. And as the night cold paralleled the deepening ocean we realised how foolish we had been. The sea was merciless and persistent, swelling up before our eyes and threatening to swallow us at any moment. By this time we had been at sea for many hours. Breaking waves battered our little dinghy and the seawater drenched us to the skin. The gusty wind blowing over our wet clothes made the cold unbearable. Sitting at the side of the boat, I bore the brunt of the breaking waves and wind. Indeed, I was so cold, my teeth chattered uncontrollably and I became petrified at my position unable to even let go the side of the boat. But my grasp also symbolised my hanging on to life. In that position I knew I was alive and I feared if I let go I would lose what ever I had remaining in the way of warmth and strength. The consciousness of my inability to control my chattering teeth also told me I was still alive. Bala was cold and shivering. Wet and nauseous, we thought the journey would never end. Time became eternity. We had been on the ocean for more than four hours, surely our journey was nearly over. “Half an hour. Half an hour”, the ‘otti’ kept lying to me. All I could think of was getting off this angry sea and out of the freezing cold. One of the ‘otti’ urged me on by pointing out the first glimmer of light on the horizon. In that distance ahead were the lights from the coastal villages of Tamil Nadu revealing themselves to us like a god to the non-believers. Looking deceptively close, we thought it would be only a matter of minutes before we got off the sea and back to warmth. But ‘thambi’ didn’t tell me that those lights were still hours away. Our inexperience in sea travel and poor judgement of distance at sea totally misled us and as time went on we realised it would be hours and more freezing cold before we would rendezvous with that alluring beacon in the night. Nevertheless, that glow of potential warmth had the life sustaining effect of rekindling hope in us.

As we approached the coast we were aware that we would have to be on guard and watch for Indian naval and coast guard boats. But the threat posed by these patrols paled in comparison with the promise of this radiant warmth in front of us. I was freezing and could barely move my head to look around for patrol boats. It was imperative for us also to time our arrival just before daylight. Any time after that we could easily be spotted by patrolling boats and taken into custody.

The two ‘otti’ were familiar enough with these waters to be able to cautiously navigate us in directions they knew the coast guard and customs patrols were least likely to be in the early morning. Fortunately, we did not see any boats on this side of the sea. Nevertheless, not prepared to leave things to chance, we all rallied and were on the lookout for any possible threat that could cruelly intercede to obstruct our final stretch of the journey. A few drops of rain sent alarm bells ringing. The black clouds were now a real threat and we all hoped the rain would hold off for our final dash for dry land. We rode the breaking waves to shallow coastal water. Stiffened by cold, we pulled ourselves out of the boat and stepped into the ankle deep mud that we couldn’t see beneath the water. And the heavens opened and the rain poured down. Drenched to the skin and bogged down in sticky mud we trudged away from our little saviour. But while we survived, the courageous little boat did not. A huge wave reared up behind us, tossing the dingy into the swell and turning it upside down. It was an unceremonious end to our unforgettable ten-hour sea saga, and the beginning of a new stage in our underground fugitive existence.

Underground In India

In what amounted to be a major paradox, we finally sought and found refuge in India. Furthermore, while the Indian army prosecuted the war against the LTTE in the Tamil homeland, many LTTE cadres continued to live in Tamil Nadu. Nevertheless, their presence in Tamil Nadu was in stark contrast to the years when the LTTE enjoyed the patronage of Tamil Nadu politicians and the support of the popular masses. Now they lived under constant surveillance by police and intelligence agencies and the threat of arrest and detention hung over their heads. All our cadres were cautious and alert expecting the authorities to pounce on them and arrest them and keep them in custody, which they did, in a statewide roundup of LTTE cadres in August 1988. But in our view, the war with the Indian state was one matter; our regard for the people of Tamil Nadu and India remained unaffected by the events in the homeland.

On our arrival in Vetharniyam we were taken to supporters’ houses where the people protected us from the local police and customs officers. But since Vetharniyam was a relatively small town, these people’s houses were well known to the local authorities and the risk of us being detected was extremely high. So we were advised to move. In view of Bala being a known figure in Tamil Nadu and my colour making us an easily identifiable couple, we opted to leave the state for an underground life in Bangalore in Karanatika state where Bala was not well known. So, following a brief period at a safe house in Tiruchi we moved to Bangalore where we rented a house in Jayanagar.

Soon after we established ourselves in Bangalore, more underground LTTE cadres in Tamil Nadu decided to shift to Bangalore and join us. In the initial days in Bangalore I made a determined effort to avoid drawing the attention of the state authorities to us. I confined most of my activities to the house. But as time went on this situation became unbearable: I was a virtual prisoner in the house and it stretched my patience and tolerance to the limit. Bala and I decided to throw caution to the wind and started to move around the city, going shopping and to parks etc. We followed events in both Tamil Eelam and India carefully, always hoping that perhaps there would be a cease-fire and an end to the war and we could return to Jaffna. But it wasn’t to be. With no prospect of an end to the war in the near future, Mr. Pirabakaran sent a message to Bala urging us to leave India for London where we could inform the Tamil diaspora of the political and military events and developments in the LTTE war with India. And so with the decision made for us to leave India, we were wondering how to leave the country without being intercepted by the various Indian intelligence agencies. The only path for us to leave the country was through the Chennai international airport. With a view of working out arrangements to leave India without being arrested at the departure terminal, we returned to Chennai in the middle of the night and stayed with a friend.

Kittu was under house arrest in Chennai. Several police officers stood guard over his residence twenty-four hours of the day. But we had to meet our old friend and the man in charge of politics in Tamil Nadu before we left for London. Kittu was living upstairs in a two story house. While he lived upstairs the police guards ‘lived’ on the ground floor. Kittu was informed of our wish to see him. As a man of innovative ideas, Kittu devised a devious scheme to distract the attention of the police officers on guard. He hired a couple of popular Tamil films and arranged a special video film show on that particular night as entertainment for the policemen. While all the police personnel, including the one at the gate, remained glued with hypnotic delight to a Tamil film, we climbed through the barbed wire fence and slipped into the top floor through the stairs behind the house. We achieved our objective of meeting Kittu without being snared by the Tamil Nadu police. We also met an old Indian friend, a senior Intelligence Bureau officer well known to Bala during friendly days with India. Bala liked and respected this cultured gentleman. On his suggestions we confined our movements in Chennai in those crucial last days to certain areas and to a minimum to avoid being tracked down by the Tamil Nadu ‘Q’ Branch officers. We informed him of our plan to leave India and he conveniently arranged to be at the ticket checking in desk and at the immigration point. Both our visiting visas had expired many years earlier. We arrived at the ticket counter as unobtrusively as possible and at the exact check in time. We were booked in under a different name and were rather disconcerted when the ticket clerk handed back our tickets with a “Have a good journey, Mr. Balasingham”. Having checked in, all that remained was the immigration point. We handed our passports to a rather conscientious immigration officer, who scrutinised our passports and looked sternly at us and then, to our relief, looked at a figure standing in the background. With a nod from this man the officer promptly closed our passports and briskly handed them to us as he waved us through. The determining figure in the shadows was our good friend, the Tamil I.B officer. A short time later we were in the air, bound for London. Our lives had completed a full circle.