The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  Chithra, Mahindan repeated, more softly. My wife was pregnant at the time. He appealed to the judge and said: With our son. The cadre would have set fire to our house, allowed my wife to burn inside. The things they did to us…you cannot imagine. Sinhalese army, Tamil Tigers…we were nothing to them.

  He held the judge’s eye and for a long moment there was silence. This was the judge who had set Hema and her daughters free. He held on to this nugget, this proof of her goodness.

  Singh made a noise as if she was about to speak and Mr. Gigovaz cut her off: As a civilian making a living in a Tiger-controlled area, my client had no choice but to do work for the LTTE.

  Mahindan said, When the bus came to me, I did not know nothing about a bombing. Only later, when it was done, only then I knew it was the bus I had repaired.

  How often did you work for the LTTE? Singh asked.

  Mahindan answered in Tamil: From time to time, changing transmissions, repairing engines, this kind of thing. No bombs, he added in English. No bombs.

  Mr. Gigovaz said: My client has testified that he turned down offers to join the LTTE. And although Border Services has tried to suggest otherwise, there is no proof he ever trained or fought with them.

  Fixing the brakes on a vehicle that is about to be used in a terrorist attack is as good as strapping on the explosives, Singh said. And by his own admission, your client continued to work with the LTTE even after he knew what they were capable of. She ignored Mr. Gigovaz and spoke directly to the judge: The migrant aided and abetted a terror attack. In repairing an LTTE-owned bus, he was party to a war crime.

  Mahindan put his head in his hands and moaned.

  Why are you here?

  There was a voice mail on Grace’s BlackBerry. Keying in her password, she listened as she strode down the corridor, frowning when she heard her mother’s voice.

  Our house is on the market, Kumi launched in without any preamble. Guess the price. Just guess! Grace, I need you to…

  Grace fumed silently. Kumi must think she had nothing better to do all day than respond to her mother’s every whim. It wasn’t enough that she had the twins tangled up in her mission – the family history project, they all called it – Kumi wanted to rope Grace in too. As if Grace didn’t have evidence to parse and horror stories to sit through. Life-and-death decisions to make.

  Grace was returning from a detention review. A widower with a small child in foster care. But he had also taken part in a suicide bombing. And he’d got jumpy when Singh brought up the agent. Did it mean something? I’m not a mind reader, Grace thought. And yet this job was all about being one, trying to guess at true motivations, to separate the deserving refugees from the ones who planned to use Canada as ground zero for a proxy war. She had denied the man’s detention release. There might already be grounds for deportation, but that was a decision for the admissibility hearing.

  Back in the summer, when she was still new to the job, she had told herself she just needed to learn the ropes, that she’d be ready to adjudicate admissibility hearings when the time came. But the calendar had caught up to her and she was still flailing.

  So far, they were hearing only women’s cases and she was deeming them admissible, setting her doubts aside and allowing the migrants to move on to the Refugee Board hearings. But in the new year, they would begin conducting the men’s cases too. Already she found the prospect nerve-racking.

  Grace replayed the voice mail. We need to trace the ownership back, Kumi said. Let the imposters claim the house is theirs. I still have the original deed.

  As if Grace was a real estate agent! Her mother had no idea. None. Grace had worked herself into a temper as she stalked back to her office, silently seething. Mitchell Hurst was charging down the hallway on a collision course. He had a funny way of walking, as if led by his forehead. A ram charging, horns out.

  At her door, Grace pulled the keys from her pocket and kept her head bent. She and Mitchell had fallen into a pattern of lukewarm pleasantries, acknowledging the other only when it could not be avoided. But today, Grace didn’t think she could manage even that. We need to trace the ownership. We.

  Ms. Nakamura. Mitchell came to a halt in front of her door.

  Everyone else was Jill or Obi or Yee. She was the only one he addressed so officiously, as if he were the headmaster at a boarding school and she were a sixth-form girl. Be nice, she told herself.

  Good afternoon, Mitchell.

  I thought you might like to know I released Savitri Kumuran today.

  I’m sorry? She slid her key in and unlocked the door.

  He put his palm flat against her door and said, Mrs. Kumuran. She of the controversial necklace.

  Oh. Right. I remember. Up close, she saw the tremor in his hands. He was agitated, full of nervous energy.

  The expert sent his report, Mitchell said. He shoved the folder he was holding at her. Turns out his findings were inconclusive.

  Oh. Okay. Grace took a step back. She wasn’t sure why he was telling her all of this.

  Inconclusive, he said. Imagine that.

  Well, it sounds like it was an easy decision, then, she said. Trust Mitchell to have the good fortune of simple choices.

  Mitchell’s foot was tapping a mile a minute. Of course, anyone who knows anything about Tamil culture –

  Mitchell, Grace said. Have I done something to offend you?

  Offend me?

  A door at the end of the hall opened and a group dispersed out. A couple of them glanced over and waved before going the other way.

  Whatever I did to you, Grace said, it was unintentional.

  Me? Mitchell said. He half groaned. Look around. He gestured to the copy room with the folder in his hand. You know what Obi used to do? He worked with stateless people in Madagascar. Yee was at the United Nations for five years. Jill has a master’s in Refugee Studies. And then there are the others, adjudicators like you, he said, jabbing a finger so close it nearly poked her. Why are you here?

  What the hell did Mitchell think, that this was how she got her jollies? By being subjected to war porn, an unstoppable reel that replayed in her mind when she closed her eyes every night? Even car horns made her jump these days.

  What’s gotten into you? Steve had asked one morning, when a sudden banging on the door made her yelp.

  Who is breaking down our door? she’d said, chagrined. It sounds like a police raid.

  Grace, they’re only knocking.

  And here was Mitchell Hurst, the little swot, accusing her of being here for – what? For fun?

  I’m doing the same job as you, she said, keeping her voice level as she closed the door to seal them both in her office. Working the same hours, agonizing over the same decisions, losing the same amount of sleep over these cases. Regardless of our…pedigree, we’re all here for the same reasons. So what exactly is your problem?

  She moved behind her desk to put space between them. When Mitchell paced, he reminded her of Kumi. He clutched one hand in a fist at his mouth. Haven’t you noticed there’s a pattern to Singh’s arguments? he said. It doesn’t matter who the claimant is, the case against them is the same. He made air quotes with his fingers and said: Inadmissible on grounds of criminality. The Minister is of the opinion this person is a flight risk.

  So?

  Every claimant is supposed to be assessed individually, and yet it’s clear Border Services has a standard evidence package. They’re applying one set of vague arguments across the board against everyone. This isn’t the way the system is supposed to work.

  Can you blame them? Grace said. There are 503 people to process.

  You know how many asylum seekers we get at the border every year? Last year, it was fourteen thousand. So why is it the ones who arrive at the airport are evaluated on their own merits and these so-called boat people are treated as a generic mass? Why the double standard?

  I –

  Didn’t know. Of course not. He stopped to fix her with a taunting stare. Don’t sup
pose it came up much at Transport.

  Grace, heat rising to her face, would have lost her temper if the phone hadn’t rung. A familiar number flashed on the call display. I should really introduce them, Grace thought, pressing the button to mute the strident ringing and banish her mother to voice mail.

  If you’re going to stand there and abuse me, Mitchell, I’ll have to ask you to leave.

  Sorry, he said, addressing his apology to the floor. I shouldn’t have…It’s not personal.

  Grace felt momentarily vindicated.

  But then he said: I can’t blame you for being ig – for not knowing the ins and outs of the system. I wouldn’t either, if I’d just arrived a few months ago.

  He was only stating facts, but Grace was stung. She told herself to rise above it.

  Well, I appreciate you saying that.

  And another thing, Mitchell said, worked up again, as if the awkward apology hadn’t just happened. Why is Border Services calling claimant testimony into question? The jurisprudence directs us to presume honesty.

  But that’s preposterous! Grace said. How are we supposed to take claimants at their word? We don’t know who these people are. They could be anyone, saying anything!

  MacDonald v. Canada, he said. That’s the precedent. Which of course you don’t know because your entire career has been spent elsewhere!

  She leaned forward across her desk, ready to snatch the bait, but he held up a hand and lowered his voice.

  Every government does this, hands out adjudicator positions as if they’re rewards. Vancouver, Montreal, Toronto…half the openings are filled by fundraisers, communications directors, whoever. Listen, I’m just calling it like I see it. There are those of us who have spent our careers in this field and those of us who are well-meaning, perhaps, but neophytes just the same.

  Okay, that’s true, she said. And it’s not like I haven’t noticed.

  Right. Well, then can you see it from my point of view? Without any background experience or understanding of case law…well, what are decisions based on without that foundation? What the Minister tells you, perhaps.

  I haven’t seen or spoken to Minister Blair in months, Grace said. And I resent the insinuation. Whatever you think of me, Mitchell, I do take this job seriously and I am making careful, considered decisions.

  And what’s Blair basing his decisions on, his public statements? Mitchell had resumed pacing. What’s his experience with human rights and global conflict? With refugees? He’s not even the immigration minister!

  He is the public safety minister. Grace gestured to the newspaper in her recycling bin. The godfather was making headlines again.

  Mitchell gave a short, sarcastic laugh. That mobster wasn’t a refugee. He bought a million-dollar house a month before he got here. You want to stay up all night worrying about something? Worry about the millionaires who buy their way in. What are their ulterior motives?

  The fool

  July 2008

  When Sampa came to collect his tractor, Mahindan told him: Brakes were worse than I thought.

  The tractor was bright red, with two large driving wheels in the back, steering and seat in the centre. Sampa circled, hands clasped behind him, inspecting the undercarriage.

  Had to replace the routers and pads both, Mahindan said.

  It’s a good machine, no? Sampa said, now out of view on the other side of the vehicle. Solid construction.

  A long-time customer, Sampa was proud of this tractor that he’d won six years ago through a Red Cross lottery.

  Plus repair the transmission, Mahindan said. Oil and filter change.

  He held out the paper where he had meticulously marked prices beside each repair. But Sampa had already climbed into the driving seat and was gripping the steering wheel.

  To think how I used to slave with the bullocks, he said. All those years, nearly breaking my back.

  Mahindan threw his fingers out from his forehead and said, Very difficult problem with the transmission. Took whole of yesterday and day before. Two days gone!

  He was still holding out the bill, and when Sampa finally leaned down to read it, Mahindan braced for an argument.

  But the thing is fine now? Sampa removed a roll of rupees from his pocket. I can use it?

  Mahindan bobbed his head from side to side. Yes, can use.

  Sampa drove away and Mahindan was left clutching the fraudulent invoice. He crumpled it up. The whole job had taken less than an hour.

  Seven years he had run his business. Everyone knew his prices were set, that he wouldn’t haggle or cheat. And until a few months ago, he had done neither.

  There was only one vehicle left in the shop, a hobbled three-wheeler that belonged to another long-time customer, Kamal Joseph. Mahindan didn’t know what to do with the thing now. All it needed was a little air in the front tire. But Joseph and his family were gone.

  One day, Joseph’s wife was seen taking her towels down from the laundry line. Next day, the girls were missing from school and the house was locked up. Mahindan pictured the family after dark, wheeling their cycles down the road, headlamps turned off, past the closed-up shops and silent houses. More and more people were doing this now, secreting through the jungle to avoid checkpoints, quietly defecting out of LTTE-controlled territory.

  He and Ruksala had argued about it again the day before. Have to leave before it is too late, Mahindan had said. Soon, there will be no choice.

  They were in the bunker, seated side by side on the padded concrete bench, the world outside falling to pieces with muffled thumps and thuds. At one time, this shelter would have been packed, but nowadays it was like this: an old woman snored in the corner, cotton wool stuffed in her ears; a trio of schoolgirls sat cross-legged on the floor doing their sums; five-year-old Sellian and his cousin brother Prem watched two amputees play checkers. Every few moments, Sellian tapped his man on the shoulder to suggest a better move.

  How long before they send all the bomber jets at once? Mahindan whispered. You heard they took Mannar. The tanks will come for us next.

  They won’t flatten the city while the Americans are here, Ruksala said.

  Ruksala worked at the United Nations compound, coordinating the distribution of supplies brought in by the World Food Program. As long as the foreigners had a presence in Kilinochchi, she thought they would be all right. Mahindan didn’t like to point out that it hadn’t helped Rama.

  Instead, he insisted: Must go to the Sinhalese side before they come to us.

  And then what? she muttered, glancing at the boys.

  There were stories of Tamils who changed their names and passed themselves off as Sinhalese. But those were people who spoke the language, who didn’t mind being Buddhist.

  We’ll be caught to the police, Ruksala said. They’ll say we are LTTE. Who knows what they’ll do to the children.

  Stay here long enough and we will be LTTE, Mahindan said. You heard they took Chelva and his nephew. The boy is not even eleven.

  The Tigers had stepped up their recruitment. One fighter per family was no longer enough. Ruksala made a noncommittal noise and watched a gecko scurrying across the wall disappear through a crack. Mahindan knew she was thinking of Rama. It had been a year since they’d had word and even longer since they’d seen him. Every evening after work, Ruksala waited in a plastic chair on her veranda, watching the lane, hoping for Rama to saunter out of the horizon with that duck-footed gait. If they left, it would have to be by stealth, like the Josephs. They’d never see Rama again.

  A crash shook the bunker. Everyone glanced up instinctively, to the light bulb quivering in the aftershock. Sellian and Prem clasped hands.

  One of the checker players covered his head with his good arm. Day and night cooped up in a bomb shelter, he cried. For how long can we live like this?

  Mahindan pondered the question now, as he locked the garage and wheeled out his bicycle. If Chithra were alive, she would say: What did I tell you? Should have left six years ago. He thou
ght of his parents, how they must have agonized over this same decision when he was a child, in the late seventies and early eighties, as tensions between the Sinhalese and Tamils peaked and grumbles about property values escalated to rocks lobbed through windows. How long could they stay in Colombo, in the Sinhalese south? And how to move and start again in the unknown Tamil north?

  We were brothers once, his Appa used to say. Tamil, Sinhalese, Burgher, Muslim, what is the difference? At one time, no one thought to ask.

  Whatever Ruksala thought, Mahindan knew their situation was dire. The army was inching northward and converging from the west. Last month, they had taken the last Tiger stronghold in Mannar District. Two weeks ago, word had come: Mallavi had fallen. Already, the refugees from Pachilaipalli had abandoned their mud huts and fled. Everyone knew Kilinochchi would be next. And if they dithered too long, there would be only one direction to run: east, until the army chased them into the sea.

  Mahindan cycled down lanes lined by deserted houses. Squawking crows picked through mouldering piles of refuse. Monkeys hung down from the trees, their bearded black faces mocking. Three puppies tumbled over each other, full of exuberance, thrilled to be alive. Mahindan felt the hot rubber of his slippers, dust settling between his bare toes.

  He took the scenic route, purposely spinning out time. For months now, even as he wavered over the decision, he’d been making arrangements to leave. Taking money out of the bank, pocketing extra from unsuspecting customers. Today, he would sell Chithra’s jewellery. He had it rolled up in a cloth and stashed in the bag on his back. It was crucial to get a good price. Once they left Kilinochchi, they would be strangers in a foreign land, with only the rupees to speak for them.

  First offer is the worst offer, Mahindan told himself. No harm in asking for more. But repeating Chithra’s maxims felt like donning another fighter’s armour before battle.

  What would she think if she’d seen him with Sampa and his tractor? Would she be proud or disgusted? He felt sullied by what he’d done, and annoyed with the idiot for being so gullible.