there was a lovely tree in the yard at the back of our house. a lovely sinewy and tall mango tree.             
one day in the morning we were woken to the sound of a thousand parrots in uproar.
they were hawing the tree down. we watched the whatever you call it uproot the tree. the roots we’re pulled out.

the parrots displaced.

we wondered about why they cut the tree down. the parrots found another home.

this morning we woke up to the sound of a humming drill. a shed with an asbestos cover
stood in its place.

my old school had a bicycle shed like that.

When Weerasena (1) was interdicted
And the sun was on fire
Above the textile factory
Shouting slogans
Screaming hoarsely
Brother Nadesan(2)
At the flaming pickets
I was a Tamil

When Weere(3) got the job back
Riding on the shoulders
“Long live brother Nade(4)….!”
The victorious king
In the victory parade
I was a Tamil

When Siripala(1) was shot
By the squad breaking the strike
Took him in my own hands
And flew to the hospital
I was a Tamil

Both hands punctured
With saline tubes
“Nade, you are my saviour”
Sira(4), you embraced me sobbing
I was a Tamil.

When Kusum(1) was pregnant
And dying on a hospital bed
They never demanded
Sinhalese blood
But just “O” negative
Only I happened to have
I was a Tamil.

“Son, you belong to uncle Nade”
the newborn
Was put in my hands
With tears flowing
Yet, I was a Tamil.

Weere, I hear your slogan
Suppressing the shouting
At the picket line
“Slay the Tamils! …

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I hear the crack of a whip, you tell me it’s the sound of peace.

I don’t believe you.

Speak for yourself. Not for me.

I heard them coming. They have no choice.

I saw them cry. They have no choice.

Shame on you. They have no choice.

A picture speaks a thousand words, silence another-

Silence. We have given up. Silenced. We have accepted defeat.

If I only knew
you were all right
or even just okay
or less than all right
but alive
I could survive
in this -
this place
where there are shops
clinics
even makeshift toilets
and tampons distributed
by companies with
corporate responsibility

If only I could imagine we
found each other
down a de-mined
stretch of parched
road
on a thirsty day
I could swim endlessly in
this river of pity and
not drown in the monsoon shit

If I saw you
I would recognise you
I’m sure, I’d know that skin
those bones
if only I knew you were
alive somewhere
then I could wait forever
to be out of
here:
where kindness
is injected in small doses
and love is
a warm cup
of nestomalt
offered by bewildered hands.

But I don’t
and my love for you
is a bullet lodged
deep in the belly
and sometimes
when I sleep
I dream we are
making love
and waking up
is barbed wire
slicing the lips….

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Do not question
the numbers
when speaking of
your dead sons
in the field of war.
accept quietly
your death dues.
Hush! Don’t worry!
just in case
you trouble
Our Army Officers.

Gentlemen of the Black Robes,
you who were called traitors,
we know your Glory!
Hush! Shut your ears!
No Legal Action against
The Power Holders now
just in case
you distress
Their Leader.

A billion ends with nine zeros!
war is indeed costly
on what, pray, was it all spent?
Hush! No questions please!
Just in case
you embarrass
Our Rulers.

The liberated are free
in detention camps,
should another
Liberator descend to
free them.
Hush, Make no noise!
just is case
Our Sensitive Parliament
collapses
At such Heavy Questions.

Do not inquire
about the corpses
appearing here and there
of course, once in a way
Disappearances do Happen!
Hush! Don’t worry!
just in case
The Power and Glory
of our King
that rises by the day
Shatters.

Hungry? Just a little patience!
don’t you know?
this is …

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“These are Elephants, Those are Tamils”1
-words from a friend.

Baby Elephants- dearly beloved elders were killed before their tender eyes
Baby Elephants-arms, legs, teeth shriveled with the pain of the bullet
Baby Elephants- loose wrinkled skin hangs off starving, haunted frames
Baby Elephants-left over remnants of humanity scraped up from
The scorching earth of Vanni

Yes, they are Tamil.

Baby Elephants-no newspapers flare up for them in bold headlines
Baby Elephants-no person steps into the streets to demand their well-being
Baby Elephants-no believers in Ahimsa to speak for them, the intellectuals are mute
Baby Elephants-no one to beat their chest wailing “aney” “apoi”2 at their fate

Yes, they are Tamil.

you know
that your mothers
lie dead.
breasts heavy with
the swollen pain
of hardened milk.

you know
that your fathers
lie dead
who stomped the earth
trumpeting …

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Through Bearing Witness, Groundviews seeks to engender critical citizen journalism on two vital issues confronting polity and society in post-war Sri Lanka.

The ground conditions in Menik Farm, worsened by recent flooding, are a non-issue for most mainstream print and broadcast media in Sri Lanka. Yet, as this recent report from the UN’s IRIN news service notes,

• Close to 300,000 people now languish in 30 government camps in Vavuniya, Mannar, Jaffna and Trincomalee districts.
• Many of the camps – which were hastily erected in the final days of the war after thousands fled south from former LTTE-controlled areas – suffer from severe overcrowding.
• More than three months since the conflict ended, Zone two of Menik Farm continues to hold close to 55,000 – …
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Bodies in the river and a riot in town
Stones thrown, belts flying, youth going down

Vans on the prowl and cops on the loose
Gangsters, mobsters, drugs and booze

Kids committing suicide, but still no justice
Only transfers, denials and all the usual practice

Drains overflowing, thousands behind wire
Journalists, diplomats, and NGO’s under fire

Baby elephants taken away, MP’s going strong
Fancy cars, foreign trips, their kith and kin can do no wrong

To protest is foolish, you’ll only be struck down and shoved out of the way
Banners, flags, posters and cut-outs are the order of the day

So I’ll stop for now, watch the cricket and have some fun
Coz after all, it’s just another day in our island in the sun!

Stop this struggle
He pleads
Of his comrades
A revolutionary leader
Broken in pain
In State Custody

They set me on the wrong path
He blames,
pointing to his friends
A young rebel in a
Lonely rehabilitation camp
Dreaming of a quick release.

He frets about the cruelty
of his Organization
on Rupavahini.1
Thinking
some good may come of it
An old retired warrior
Now surrendered into
Military Custody.

Praising the military loudly
He serves
sambhar2 into Sinhala plates.
A Tamil waiter
in Colombo
fearing his own
Sudden Disappearance.

The Sad Truths he brought
from a forbidden war zone
are untrue
He recants
to the Rupavahini amidst
a circle of
Military Weapons.
A doctor
who treated
thousands of wounded.

Her daughter was a traitor
Disowns a Sinhala mother
of her daughter who died
of a Sinhala bullet
for a Tamil homeland.
an elderly agitated voice
amongst those celebrating an
Ultimate victory.

I see
the desolation of
an Abandoned
Cause
beneath these
Renunciations.
and read
through
the distance
eyes
heavy with
guilt.

Yet..

If only these
spoken words
had …

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An infant in Menik Camp.

Many thousands of the IDP children have lost both their parents comes news from the Sri Lankan ‘welfare camps’.

Bright red pottu
Every morning
Never missed.
The point of your finger
Right here between our eyebrows
For both of us.

Amma puts hers first
Then she puts mine.
Remember me insisting
Me first, me first!

That day Dad give me a biggest hug, squeezed so tight,
Lifted me so high, laughing so loud.
At midnight he went out of the bunker.
Amma must have known he wasn’t coming back
But still she smiled at me.

The day she went out of the bunker
Her pottu was still shining between her eyebrows.
Then her pottu went right into her head
And red blood came all down her calm, …

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The government wishes
all Tamils good rest,
sweet sleep and recovery
at Manik Farm. We have
cleared the brush and
carpenters are busy
making coffins. Parasites

will be snuffed out,
no ifs or buts. Between
asylum writs, and bribes
paid to guards to keep
family together, and
diarrhoea, we will
make the camp fit

our Tamil village
concept, nothing too
overpopulated, but
with banking facilities
to store Thalis and
other gold, just right
for the new Tamil

and his diminished
circumstances
nothwithstanding
in ancestral
Sinhala lands.

What beauty in camps?

I sit in my favourite chair
listening to Beethoven’s last sonata,
slient breezes
in time.
to the music.
My world creates a sonata

The other shatters all possibility of one.

Guarded, malnourished;
the beauty of rescue: possible?
loudspeakers are silent.
Waiting for a pass, a nod,
family member to utter their name,
to go back home
to farm, toil, feed the earth
feel the breeze of their own
sonatas.

Beethoven calms me.
My children, near.
one dressed. Pretty.
Ready for her first ‘mixed’ party.
The smaller cuddles her father,
night air brings comfort.
Smells of food. Dinnertime.
Civilized.
Red wine.

Nourishment.
No death here.
just beauty
and dignity.

Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here.

You claimed to liberate
hostages, to conduct
the largest rescue
operation in history.

In other countries
people robbed
of freedoms,
rescued,

are treated
by doctors, then
sent home
to be greeted

usually by feisty
and jubilant
crowds. They are
welcomed as heroes.

Here, 100 Tamils
share one latrine,
women don´t eat
so they will not

defecate until night
covers them
squatting in bush by
the perimeter fence

conquering fear
of snakes. Here boys
and girls are picked
up by goon squads

who roam camps
demanding bribes
for teenagers they
choose to leave alone

for now.

Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here.

The island belongs
to centipede, rat,
butterfly,
lots of species
each with
their own habitats,
and supervising
all arable
and fallow land
the president king.

Minorities
may enjoy
clean living
in freshly cleared
forest patches,
welfare villages
with amenities
such as latrines
and tents,
gated communities.

June 28, 2009

Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here.

The heartbeat of my country
Crashes as wave against rock
Bursts into spray and song,
It roars down monsoon-swollen rivers,
Drips one reluctant drop at a time
From the leaves of a bo tree.

My country’s heartbeat
Resonates as drumbeat and dance step,
Rolls off the udekki, the geta bera and thammatama,
Turns somersaults along the Street of Pageantry and Veneration.

The heartbeat of my country
Resides in every clod of earth turned at ploughing,
It rides the unwavering voice of the farmer coaxing his buffalo,
And dances in the harvest song,
Traces the contour of tank bund,
Rises with the rural dust of drought-heavy days,
Slows with nightfall and awakes at first light.

The heartbeat of my country
Has been captured in verse and prose,
Etched on rock and manuscript,
Carved on collective memory
Residenced in lives and livelihoods.

My country’s …

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There will be lamentations
and sadness, there are already,
and recriminations. Why
did we allow the unthinkable
to fall down on those
hapless families
in tents and bunkers?

Why did we agree
only to informal
meetings
in the basement
of U.N. headquarters
before proposing
an emergency session

of the Human Rights
Council for next week?
After months of
slaughter, next week?
How long do we need
to assemble diplomats
of 47 countries

who live in greater
Geneva, some just
a walk away
from the roundtable?
I imagine the table
round like the large
hearts of hapless

bystander diplomats
before the rain
of terror, bombs
and mortar, metallic
lassos thrown
about Tamils
squared

in 2.5 kilometers
between lagoon
and sea, 50,000
civilians left
in that spit of Vanni,
numbers reduced by
tens …

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219 Tamils
were rounded
up in Gampaha
town during
dusk to dawn raids.

They had no
proper id cards
and did not
offer adequate
reason

to be living
in the vicinity.
Their Sri
Lankan
citizenship,

rights to move
about the
multi-ethnic,
multicultural
country do

not hold up
to scrutiny
under Prevention
of Terrorism Act
which allows

for exceptions
to such liberal
silliness
as equality
under law.

For more information, click here.

Refugees are sometimes
active
have agency
they Leave, Flee, Sneak
Flow over boundary lines
unchecked
like rivers
they Escape, Hide
Cross territories
they Flood places
like unnatural disasters
are associated with
Asylum and Sanctuary
they are A Problem
An Issue

Sometimes they have a voice
if only passive
they become
Internally displaced
(slightly more dignified)
ordered out forced out asked to quit
resettled
relocated

They come in all shapes
sizes colours
types
Afghan, Kosovo, Vietnamese. Kashmiri
Palestinian Sri Lankan
Tamil Muslim Sinhalese
environmental
political
etc etc etc etc

If they are lucky they
metamorphose into
Returnees
If they are really lucky
they find their relatives
If they get really very lucky
they become famous.

For more information, click here.

Mr K died today
Not unusual, all things perish
But he was very young
And had just got two tiny teeth
And was a little fighter
He tried hard to live
In difficult times.

Mr K died quietly today
And I don’t have a right to
Cry, besides
I am a tad too old
for that.

Death stalks me
heroic, wearing a shiny cloak of war
but death, nonetheless
In the jungles booming with mortar fire
In IDP camps
In accident wards full of
Young men hoping the pain would end
Death immortalized in
the news
the moving image
broadcasts and
telecasts and podcasts

So what right do I have
To mourn a tiny chipmunk
parted from its mother
Caught in the crossfire
During an ambush by birds
And the chipmunks’ retaliation
In their quest for food.

I fed him and kept him warm
Swaddled him and held him
Formed an attachment
So I …

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[Editors note: These poems respond to Indran Amirthanayagam's poems here, here and here. They are both part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews.]

1

i am not a writer

i am not a writer
nor am i under siege,
i do not frequent
the commons, nor the
poetic corner.

2

i, savage

why do i write
when i had promised myself
aching silence
after kethesh’s fall
and maheswary’s stunted end?
why talk suddenly
of the siege now,
when i have stood at
death’s door,
refused its dare
and now can finally
slumber,
in a snow stirring fantasy
surrounding turkey’s trouble
with its torture
chambers, lulled by the
bewitching tones of
orhan’s magic?

why the artist
and the writer and colombo’s array
of poets, rushing to versify,
riding on
guilt ridden stirrings …

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