The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  What he needed was someone who understood refugee law inside out and could intuit the political machinations buried between the lines. So what was she doing here?

  What do they know?

  When they asked about the documents, Mahindan said he knew nothing. The clock on the wall ticked. The ceiling vent exhaled an ambient hum. Mahindan sifted through the photographs they had spread out in front of him – four full-colour eight-by-tens with glossy white borders. He kept his eyes trained on the table, focusing on the margins between the photos. He saw the flecks of dust, the smudged fingerprints of all the people who had gathered here before them.

  He faced Charlika and Priya and said, I don’t know anything about this.

  They had come without Mr. Gigovaz. Maybe he had more important things to do and had sent them to take care of the small details. Or maybe they thought Mahindan would speak more freely without him in the room.

  Listen, Priya said. This business about identity is serious. Border Services is looking for any excuse to deport you.

  Deport me? Mahindan repeated when Charlika translated.

  Priya waved her hands. Any of you. All of you. They just need one excuse, she said, holding up her index finger. If any of these documents they’ve found can bring your identity, or anyone else’s, into question, you have to let us know.

  Mahindan had known deportation was a possibility, but he’d been led to believe – or had he allowed himself to believe? – it was a risk so remote it was safe to ignore. He cast around for assurance and his identification papers came back to him. School certificates, driving licence, birth certificates – the neat bundle he had handed over at the dock. He breathed a little easier, knowing there was no reason for anyone to doubt who he was.

  Mahindan, Charlika said. Your lawyers are on your side. Whatever you tell them, they have to keep secret. It is the law.

  Priya picked up one photograph and held it under his nose. He could not avert his eyes.

  Do you know this woman? Charlika asked.

  The woman pictured on the identity card was elderly, with a dimpled face – a grandmother, someone’s Ammachi. In the photograph, she wore a dramatic red pottu, like a third eye, in the middle of her forehead. Ramanan Mahadevi. He had not known her name.

  Sri Lanka came back to him: shell-shocked cows on the side of the road, their ribs prominent under emaciated flanks; clouds of dust that puffed up underfoot; the bodies they passed without looking.

  Sweat trickled down Mahindan’s temple. The sun, unrepentant, roasted his head. Sellian hung heavy on his back, heels digging into Mahindan’s waist, thin arms clasped tight around his neck. A slow procession of vehicles and livestock and people, all of them limping east on the A35.

  People pushed barrows, children and the elderly seated inside, surrounded by clothes and cooking pots and burlap sacks of rice. A toothless man, his palms lifted in prayer at the centre of his forehead. Why has God done this to us?

  Outside the meeting room, two guards with loud voices walked by. Their words floated in and Mahindan caught two of them. Weak, yes. Priya and Charlika watched him, waiting patiently for an answer, expectation etched in the rise of their brows.

  Priya put another photo in front of him: the driving licence that should have belonged to Kumuran’s wife. What had that silly woman been thinking?

  Charlika said: Just tell us the truth.

  Mahindan stared at a spot in the middle of the room until everything receded into a blur. A sapling pushed out through the latticed window of an abandoned building, its bushy leaves impervious to the crumbling plaster, the facade pockmarked by bullet holes. The war still raging and nature already reclaiming her landscape.

  We knew when the bombs were coming, Mahindan said. He raised a hand and brought it down from overhead, doing a pitch-perfect imitation of the high whine of incoming artillery. Both Priya and Charlika winced. When we heard the noise, he said, everyone took cover. There were ditches along the side of the road and we jumped in. Or just stayed in a doorway. Sometimes there was nowhere to go and people waited under trees like animals.

  He remembered the couple on the road, two men with their arms around each other. A bicycle on its side, handlebars mangled. Their duffle bag had been blasted open, all its contents entrailing out in a tangle, a wild dog nosing around. Close your eyes, Mahindan told Sellian, then shooed the dog away with a stick. It was better to come upon a place where the bombs had already fallen. Death had taken its due and moved on.

  All the time, we were passing bodies, Mahindan told Charlika and Priya. I tried not to get close, to just go around. But there was one woman, old, under a tree.

  She lay fetal in the shade, ending life in the same position she had begun it. The blast had blown up her sari, exposing her bare legs, brown skin wrinkled and puckered, the knobs of her dusty knees, a change purse tucked into the waistband of her underskirt. Her eyes were still open. A better man would have closed them.

  It was indecent, Mahindan said in Tamil, and when Priya looked away, he could see she had understood.

  Mahindan collected the photographs into a pile and turned them all face down. I do not know these people, he said. That is the truth.

  A guard took him back to his cell. It was late morning and the hallway was a line of open doors. Mahindan, walking a little ahead of the guard, caught glimpses of men inside their cells dealing cards, speaking quietly, or lying on their bunks and staring blindly at the ceiling. They had been in this country nearly four months. As time went on, more men were growing lethargic, giving in to despair.

  The night terrors – which had died down on the boat as they sailed farther away from Sri Lanka – had recently revived, so commonplace again they no longer sent the guards sprinting. Men screamed in their sleep, reliving old horrors. Names were shouted, or just the word No, indecipherable lamentations. It was a terrifying alarm to wake up to, and every time it happened in their wing, he sat up straight in the darkness, blood pounding in his ears.

  Mahindan heard the tap-tap of the guard’s shoes, the squeak of his own rubber soles against the linoleum. They passed under a flickering fluorescent tube and he rubbed his eyes. He was still thinking of the A35, of coconut fronds that hung exhausted in arid fields, bus tires puffing up dust in their wake. How his mouth was always dry, teeth mossy, tongue gritty. What he had not told them: dogs were not the only scavengers.

  In their cell, Prasad sat on his bed, a running shoe between his knees. He had the tongue pressed in and was threading the lace, pulling it through the holes like a woman darning a shirt. He paused, lace held in the air, when Mahindan came in.

  There are some documents, Mahindan said in Tamil. The lawyers are asking questions.

  Documents? Ranga asked, his voice rising. He was at the sink with his back to them, facing the mirror and rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

  It was nearly the lunch hour, but Ranga no longer woke up to take breakfast with them. Increasingly, he spent more of his time sleeping, lingering in bed in the mornings and always the first one back to their cell at night. Hope was a dangerous thing to lose.

  Mahindan turned toward Prasad and said, Identity cards, driving licences, and things like this. They were found on the boat.

  The guard loitered in the doorway, waiting to escort Prasad to the lawyers.

  One minute, please, Prasad told him in English.

  I don’t know about any documents, Prasad said, returning to his shoe and working the lace through quickly.

  That’s what I told them, Mahindan said.

  Savitri and the others, those fools! Still, Mahindan would not worry. It was in everyone’s interests to keep quiet. A few meaningless pieces of paper – what harm could they bring?

  There was a metal shelf, attached to the wall, where they stored their small collection of borrowed possessions. Mahindan moved to the shelf and picked up the portable CD player. Ranga was in the periphery of his vision, still drying his hair. Anyone could see the guilty sag of his posture. Pra
sad yanked on the two ends of a lace and crossed them over each other.

  Ranga folded the towel in half, slowly, addressing it as he spoke. They want to speak to me also?

  Just tell the truth, Mahindan said. You don’t know anything, do you?

  Ranga hung the towel over the rack, lining up the two bottom edges. No, he said. I don’t know anything.

  Prasad was bent over, making bows with the lace and wrapping them around each other. Mahindan set the CD player down and picked up an exercise book. He flipped it open and saw his own writing. His letters were improving, less shaky, more sure. He repeated the alphabet silently to himself, practising. A-B-C-D-E.

  The springs under the mattress creaked when Prasad stood. He brushed the seat of his trousers and thanked the guard for something Mahindan could not fully interpret. English, the dull, tone-deaf quality of its consonants and vowels, was growing more familiar even if he still couldn’t understand much.

  Prasad left with the guard, pulling the door shut behind them.

  Ranga said, Mahindan –

  What is after R? Mahindan asked without turning around.

  What do they know?

  This bloody alphabet, Mahindan said, putting the exercise book down and picking up the CD player again. I can never recite the full thing. P then Q then R then…what?

  I don’t know.

  Mahindan stared Ranga down, saw the long scar on his cheek. That’s right. You don’t know. I don’t know either. Neither of us knows.

  Thali

  There was something suspicions about the way the woman answered the questions. Grace watched her steadily, waiting for her composure to crack. But the woman just sat there and gave straightforward responses as if being asked about the weather and not her connections to a terrorist organization. Her only tell was the unconscious way she kept touching her neck.

  We have reason to believe Savitri Kumuran is a Tamil Tiger, Singh said. As a member of a known terrorist organization, she doesn’t have the right to claim asylum.

  This is a detention review, not an admissibility hearing, Grace reminded Singh.

  One day, Grace knew, she would have to make decisions on asylum and deportation. But this was not that day. Today, she had to decide if it was safe to set this woman free.

  I ask that my client’s mental health be taken into account, Gigovaz said. I refer to Exhibit B-3, the psychiatrist’s report. Mrs. Kumuran has been diagnosed with PTSD and depression, and it is her doctor’s opinion that the strain of living in a prison is causing irreparable harm to her mental health. With a small child, and family in Toronto who have agreed to put up a bond, surely there is no reason to continue detention.

  This was a recycled argument, raised at every hearing: my client’s mental health. So common a refrain, Grace’s instinct was to dismiss it. Of course detention was depressing, but that had no bearing on the question at hand: Was it safe to let this woman loose on the public?

  The thing to focus on was what the RCMP had found on the ship: identity documents supposedly belonging to no one, which someone, nonetheless, had attempted to destroy. Here it was, then – proof to back up Fred’s suspicions. He’d told her half the migrants were LTTE. She considered the woman and remembered his warning: These people are not who they say they are.

  Singh said: The migrant has gone on record listing her profession as a teacher in Kilinochchi, a known Tiger stronghold.

  Grace recognized Kilinochchi, the name of the Tigers’ de facto capital. In a day filled with exclusionary evidence and suspicious affidavits, it was a relief to grasp on to this nugget of knowledge.

  Teachers were instrumental in training future recruits, Singh continued. On that basis alone, we ask that she remain in detention until her admissibility hearing.

  Gigovaz spoke up: And where, may I ask, is the proof of this claim?

  Singh said: It is well-documented that the Tigers recruited child soldiers, and your client has admitted she taught children aged eleven and older.

  Grace thought Singh was reaching. If this woman was a danger, it wouldn’t be because she’d taught kids to read. Grace was learning that sometimes lawyers threw spurious arguments at each other for the sake of being adversarial, rather than making a real case. It was up to her, as the adjudicator, to rise above the petty sparring, to keep her focus on the migrants, vigilant for any hint that betrayed their true motives.

  Grace interjected to address the woman directly. What do you know about these documents from the ship?

  The migrant kept her poker face when she said she knew nothing, but Grace had scrutinized the image files and spotted a photo on a driver’s licence that bore a resemblance to this woman.

  And what about your children? Grace asked, remembering that one of the identification cards pictured a young boy.

  I had three sons, madam, the woman said through the interpreter. Two died in Sri Lanka. The smallest one is here, with me. She touched her neck and said, He is six.

  And your husband? Grace prodded.

  He is also dead. She flicked her hand in a dismissive way.

  Singh raised her eyebrows and Grace wondered what kind of mother would send her children into battle.

  Gigovaz spoke up. Mrs. Kumuran, tell us how your family died.

  The woman spoke robotically, and when he repeated her response in English, the blond interpreter channelled her stilted tone.

  We ran in the jungle. Bombs were always falling. My husband was hit. We had to leave him. No choice.

  Grace thought of the way Steve slept with his mouth slightly open and decided fiercely: I would never leave him behind.

  And your children? Gigovaz asked.

  My elder sons died of dysentery in the prison camp. I heard about the boat. I had one son left. And I thought we would die if we stayed. So when the agent came and offered us two places, we took our chance.

  Grace decided this was a lie. Her sons must have been killed fighting with the Tigers. Her self-possession was too complete, her answers too perfect. She didn’t fidget or avert her gaze. A chilling thought came to her: This woman has been trained.

  Singh pounced. You said you heard about the ship while you were in the refugee camp. What did you hear exactly?

  Just that there was a boat and a man was arranging passage.

  A long journey. Were you not worried?

  Better to die in the ocean than in that godforsaken camp.

  A young reporter gasped. Grace remembered the documents. Had the five mystery people died mid-voyage? There were so many unknowns, and yet the responsibility for making a decision, one that would affect the entire country’s safety, lay solely on her shoulders.

  And how much did you pay this smuggler? Singh asked.

  I had twenty thousand rupees which I gave her and also my jewellery, the woman said. Fleetingly, her fingers grazed her neck.

  Her. Was the agent a man or a woman? These people couldn’t even keep their stories straight.

  What did you give him exactly? Singh asked

  And as the woman itemized the pendants and earrings, Grace wondered: What kind of a refugee is laden down with gold? No medicine for her children and yet she had sapphires.

  Singh said: But you kept your necklace.

  Savitri said: Yes, I kept that only.

  Grace saw the way Singh’s lips pressed together, the barely perceptible tremor of excitement in her hands when she folded them on the desk. Singh had set a trap and the woman had walked straight into it.

  The necklace has been confiscated, Singh said. We have now confirmed it is a Tamil tah-li, an item of jewellery only given to LTTE wives.

  The reporters perked up. The migrant put her hands on top of her head and stared at the table in shock, appalled that the secret was out. She pressed them over her face. Finally, a crack. The jig was up, and Grace felt vindicated, relieved.

  The woman’s lawyers were on high alert, scrawling back and forth on a legal pad between them.

  Gigovaz said, It’s been near
ly five months. Why is this the first time we’re hearing about this supposedly incriminating evidence?

  Singh said, The Minister has been as forthcoming as necessary, but we aren’t required to disclose every scrap of evidence we have.

  This is a rather significant scrap, wouldn’t you say?

  Grace privately felt Gigovaz had a point. On the other hand, Singh must have had a strategic reason for only bringing this information forward now. Fred’s caution returned to her. One toe across the threshold and these criminals are impossible to turf.

  Poise broken, the migrant’s expression now was hopeless. Grace tried to imagine her biting off the end of a grenade. There were women in the LTTE. Grace had seen the photos, young girls with apple-round cheeks and bowl-cut hair, in fatigues with M-16s slung across their backs.

  The migrant had her hair tied in a scrunchy. There were bags under her eyes. She looked like a schoolteacher.

  Gigovaz was still talking, reading from the legal pad, even as his colleague continued to scribble on it at top speed. In Tamil culture, this necklace is the equivalent of a wedding ring, he said. All wives receive one.

  These are particular tah-lis, only given to wives of LTTE fighters, Singh said. This woman is a risk to the nation’s security.

  Grace had had enough of the back and forth, the lawyers running the show. This was her courtroom. She would take back control.

  She asked, Why are you here, Mr. Gigovaz?

  Excuse me?

  Most of the migrants I see have been assigned duty counsel, Grace said. And yet here you are, from a top-tier firm. So I’m just wondering who’s paying you.

  As part of my firm’s commitment to public service, we have taken five cases partially pro bono.

  I see. And who pays the rest?

  The Tamil Alliance, a not-for-profit community group, has hired us, Gigovaz said.

  And two lawyers, Grace said.

  Gigovaz always arrived with a young woman in tow. She took notes but said nothing. Grace had never given her much thought, just assumed she was some kind of secretary. Now the girl spoke up: I’m an articling student.