by Rohini Mohan
‘Oh. Are your previous answers in relation to an AK-47 or an AK-2?’
‘There is no difference between the two. The only difference is we can fold the butt in AK-47, not in AK-2.’
‘Where did you use the AK-2?’
‘During the basic training.’
‘What training did you receive as a commando?’
‘It was very intensive, more than physical training. I was taught how to be patient in the field. They gave instructions on heavy weapons, it was more detailed. More crawling, training on rifle positioning. In basic, we ran for six kilometres, in the intensive, we ran for ten.’
‘Why were you chosen for this extra training?’
‘I was so good in the basic training, so I was selected.’ Sarva instantly worried that he sounded proud about being picked. He was sure the interviewer would wonder how he could simultaneously have felt proud to be in the Tigers and yearned to go back to his family.
‘Did you volunteer for this extra training?’
‘I was compelled to go with them. They told us that we had to continue.’
‘You were sent to Colombo to work as an operative after a further three months of intelligence training. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ That was the condition under which he had been released to go home to his mother. The leaders in the intelligence unit had asked him to wait at home for an assignment.
‘What were your instructions in Colombo?’
‘Initially, I was told that if I was given a parcel, I had to pass it to someone. Activities like that.’
‘Were you part of a particular cell or subsection of the LTTE at this point?’
‘No. When I went to Colombo, after three days, I went to Malaysia. I didn’t work in Colombo for the LTTE.’
‘How did you feel about the LTTE after living among them and training with them for all this time?’
‘I feel the LTTE safeguards the culture of the Tamils. The Tamil community does not chastise the LTTE. Only, say, 20 per cent of the people do not recognise it. But in some cases, I disagree with the Tigers.’
‘What about the LTTE do you not agree with?’
‘I don’t think they should make people join them by force. I disagree with them on that.’
‘When you left Sri Lanka, were you still working as a member of the LTTE?’
‘I left the LTTE when I went to Malaysia in January 2004. My mother sent me to Malaysia for fear of my life. I stayed with my brother there.’
‘Why? Why did you leave the LTTE?’
‘I wanted to live in peace, happily with my family.’
‘But by leaving the LTTE, you had to leave your family. This confuses me.’
‘While I was with the LTTE, they would not let me see my family. I was not allowed to visit for two years while I was with them in the Vanni.’ Sarva thought of that day when Amma had come to see him at the Tiger base, her distraught face on seeing him in uniform. In the documents with the interviewer, there were three letters from her addressed to politicians and Tiger leaders, begging for her son’s release.
‘Have you actively taken part in an LTTE mission?’
‘No.’
‘Have you killed on behalf of the LTTE?’
‘No.’
‘Have you assisted anyone else in any way to kill on behalf of the LTTE?’
‘No.’
The interviewer said that he knew of LTTE trainees who worked abroad, making contacts, collecting money and so on for the LTTE. ‘Did you ever behave in this manner on behalf of the LTTE?’
‘No. After I left the Vanni, I had nothing to do with the LTTE.’
‘When did you leave the LTTE?’
Sarva realised that he was being asked the same question in different ways to check for contradictions. ‘January 2004. After that I went straight to Malaysia.’
‘Date you returned to Sri Lanka?’
‘I don’t remember the month. It was 2005.’
‘You were in Malaysia all of this time?’
‘My brother had a house there. I was staying with him.’
The interviewer asked if Sarva was willing to take a short break. When he left the room, Sarva breathed deeply. He felt weak, his hands limp. He had not ever been closer to the truth than in this room.
After the break, they talked about his detention. There was something from this period, too, that Sarva had told no one.
‘You were tortured during incarceration, right?’ the interviewer asked, adding that there was no need for Sarva to repeat all the details in the witness statement. He only wanted to know specific methods of torture used. ‘For example, you were placed in a chair and hit from underneath. What were you hit with?’
‘They hit me with something like a thick rope. I was blindfolded, so I could not see …’ Sarva was feeling suddenly feverish, he wanted to say it before he lost his courage. ‘Sir, I asked for a male officer to interview me here. If female, I would not be able to tell everything I want to tell you …’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was … sexually abused …’ His hands were cold, he felt so ashamed. ‘Sexually … tortured.’
The granite face of the interviewer softened. ‘Do you want to tell me how you were sexually abused?’
‘I was blindfolded and tied to a desk and … they took off my clothes. I was made to kneel down and everyone came and … I don’t want to describe.’ He began to sob.
The interviewer gave Sarva a glass of water. He took notes and said he didn’t need to know more. ‘You told these men that you did not receive training from the LTTE. Is that correct?’
Sarva struggled with the lump in his throat. ‘Someone had already given them information about me. Initially, I did not tell them I had been to the Vanni or received any LTTE training. After they beat me, I told them that I was given forced training. I had to.’
‘Did you sign any confession?’
‘They tortured me to sign a few pages. Some had writing, and some were blank. I didn’t sign them.’
‘Were you asked to be an informer for the government?’
Sarva said he wasn’t.
For the next few minutes, they clarified a few confusing statements in the documents. The interviewer pointed out that the seaman’s book stated that Sarva was six feet ten inches tall. ‘You are not that tall, can you explain?’ Sarva was five feet nine inches; he was not sure why they had given him a giant’s height.
When the interviewer asked about family in Sri Lanka, Sarva spoke about the TID’s continued harassment of his aunt and mother in Colombo and Nuwara Eliya. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his nose leaked. Just a week earlier, his mother had been shoved by plainclothesmen as they entered the house. She had fainted and had to be taken to the hospital.
The interviewer wanted to know about the petition against the New Magazine prison authorities. Sarva explained that the Sinhalese prisoners were used to ‘kill’ the Tamils. ‘Our clothes were taken off and we were beaten.’ The attack had been reported in the newspaper with photos. There was also a medical report of the injuries he had sustained.
He was asked if he had any lingering medical conditions.
‘A lot,’ Sarva replied. Because of the beating on his feet, he had trouble walking. He also suffered from insomnia and post-traumatic stress, for which he took sleeping pills. He was receiving physiotherapy and medication from the government-appointed doctors for immigrants.
‘We will finish now, okay?’ the interviewer said. ‘Do you want to add anything?’
Sarva folded his hands. ‘Please, I can’t go back … If I go back I will be killed. I want to live in peace with my family.’
‘Why do you wish to remain in the UK?’
‘Because … because it is a free country. I expect my life to be protected here.’
They shook hands and Sarva walked out of the office. The sun was finally out, and the snow had ceased. More people were out on the street.
Walking back to the Cardiff train statio
n, Sarva wished he had elaborated on his jail time. He should have better explained the institutional discrimination, the volatile environment he was running from. After the interviewer had brought up the torture, Sarva had lost his composure. He had uttered the words to an absolute stranger. It had sucked away every bit of his energy. He hoped he would never have to talk about it again. The answers about the LTTE had been messy, but Sarva knew he could not have done better. Little was redeemable in that part of his life, but if Giri Anna was right, it would not matter.
By the time he boarded the train back to Swansea, a weight was off his shoulders. He allowed himself to feel a flicker of optimism. He took his shoes off and stretched his aching legs under the seat in front of him. From his window, he saw stripes of snow between the tracks, like the back of a zebra. Slums passed, then the retirement communities, and the undulating acres of grey farmland, waiting for summer before they burst into colour.
The coffee cart came by, and he spent three whole pounds—more than half a day’s stipend—on a cappuccino and chocolate-chip muffin. When the coffee man left with an effervescent ‘Enjoy!’ Sarva felt a rush of belonging.
30.
April 2013
‘HELLO, AMMA. I got the letter from the Border Agency,’ Sarva had said on 30 March. ‘It is thin.’ A thick envelope meant a rejection letter along with all the documents he had given the agency. A thin one would contain a simple letter of acceptance and instructions about how to collect his visa.
Indra had prayed out loud. ‘Open it now!’
He had fallen silent on the phone. Then he read: he had been approved for asylum; he would live in the UK with a refugee visa for five years, after which he could be considered for permanent residence. He was free.
Kaalum odale, kaiyyum odale, Indra told all the activists and relatives when she called them to share the unbelievable news—she had lost the use of her limbs when she heard. Some of those she called did not pick up the phone; she laughed that they must have expected another Sarva crisis, another appeal for help for the fifth year in a row.
A round of promised temple visits and much relieved crying later, Indra readied herself for the next challenge: finding Sarva a suitable bride. She had to ride the wave of good fortune. She had to engineer a match before her son turned into a lovelorn teenager again, in some stubborn relationship with a girl who was all wrong.
Sarva had collected his visa and been efficient about immediately securing a full-time warehousing job in an Indian-run factory that manufactured plastic lids. He would soon leave the Swansea asylum house and move to Luton, near the factory. He was ecstatic but also heartbroken: Malar was gone, he would have to say goodbye to darling Niru, leave behind his friends who were still checking their mail every day for an interview letter. Sarva was restive when it came to living among people who couldn’t fathom the warped world he came from.
But Indra didn’t allow him to mope about the break-up. ‘These are normal setbacks, kanna,’ she consoled. ‘You have to learn to take them in your stride.’ She believed a marriage would help him heal, induct him into life as it should be.
On the evening of the Tamil and Sinhala traditional New Year in mid-April, Indra tried to call Sarva. She was in Colombo and had seen an astrologer that morning about a potential match. To speak to her son about it, Indra needed to use Viber—a new free Internet phone application Sarva had introduced her to—but found that her data pack had run out. She yelled out to Rani that she was stepping out of the house for a phone refill and would buy some spinach if she saw a fresh bunch. She walked to the stationery store just around the corner from the apartment.
The shop was one of the oldest in the area, and behind the counter were the owner’s teenage son and daughter. There were no other customers, and the daughter was chatting in whispers with her girlfriend. Another boy, slightly older than the rest, seemed to have dropped in from the adjacent grocery store to pass the time. When Indra walked in, she found them all laughing about something on the small television on the counter. She asked the owner’s son for a 1,000-rupee Internet coupon.
As the son rummaged in a box, the older boy teasingly asked the girls in Sinhala what they were talking about.
‘Not about you,’ the owner’s daughter replied in Sinhala, giggling with her friend.
‘I know, I know,’ he laughed, and then added, ‘You girls don’t have school? Anh, I forgot! Happy aluth avurudhu!’
The daughter wished him a happy New Year back, but her friend was quiet.
‘What, your friend won’t wish me?’ he teased, half in English and half in Sinhala.
‘Maybe she doesn’t celebrate it,’ the daughter said and the girls giggled again.
‘Why? What are you?’ the boy asked. Looking at the owner’s son, he repeated the question. ‘What is she? Muslim?’ He looked at the friend again. ‘Why won’t you wish me?’
Surprised at the turn in the conversation, the friend slung her handbag on her shoulder and got ready to leave.
‘Okay, don’t answer,’ the older boy said. ‘Show me your ID card, then we will get to know everything about you.’ He looked for approval from the owner’s son, but the boy was uneasy. The girl got up and shook her head at the owner’s daughter, as if to say she would see her later.
The Sinhalese boy continued his discomfiting flirtation. ‘What are you hiding? Show me your ID, show it!’
Indra took her coupon from the owner’s son, paid for it, and left the shop.
ON THE NIGHT of New Year’s Eve, Tamizh kept on whining throughout the bus journey from Point Pedro, protesting because he had to share a seat with his older brother. Maran threw screechy tantrums, demanding Divyan’s phone, and when he got it, played the snake game till the battery died. At one point, when the boys started to punch each other, a groggy Divyan twisted Maran’s ears and shook Tamizh by his shoulder. ‘I will tell amma that you pinched me,’ Maran wailed, but cried himself to sleep after that.
At quarter past nine the next morning, they reached the Pettah bus stand in Colombo. It was swelteringly hot. At the enquiry desk, Divyan asked for the bus routes to Borella, where the TID office was located. ‘There’s one leaving in five minutes across the road,’ a Tamil man at the counter said.
‘That is CTB, no?’ Divyan asked. He rarely used the state-run Colombo Transport Buses because most of the conductors spoke only Sinhala. ‘What about private?’
The man at the desk told Divyan the bus numbers. ‘Some routes have changed because of road repairs.’
Later in November that year, Colombo would be hosting the meeting of the Commonwealth heads of government and a makeover was under way. The Urban Development Ministry was absorbed by the Ministry of Defence and Gotabaya Rajapaksa, the president’s brother and the defence secretary, had launched a massive beautification drive to showcase the prosperity and peace of postwar Sri Lanka. With military precision, the seaside capital was being transformed: roads were relaid, pavements extended, high-rises commissioned, street-side hawkers and small shops swept away. Low-income houses were razed and public playgrounds suddenly cordoned off. The army now manned parks, malls and beaches. Giant-sized cut-outs of a waving president or his brother beamed at people from virtually every junction. Lawns everywhere warned the grubby public not to walk, play or sit on the manicured grass. Modern, growing, messy Colombo was being reshaped into a thing of sterile beauty.
Carrying Tamizh in his arms, Divyan walked with Maran to his preferred snack shop, run by an elderly Muslim woman. The single table fan in the shop circulated warm air. Sitting on a bench by a window, the boys ate biscuits as he sipped sweet tea.
Outside, Pettah market gleamed in the sun, its sea of DVDs, clothes, mobiles, toys, and electronic goods flowing through and around the private and state bus stations. The capital always overwhelmed Divyan, but Pettah put him at ease. Tamil-speakers ran most of the establishments, and there was a comfortable familiarity and anonymity in the chaos. But this time, the men who sold fake designer T-
shirts and handkerchiefs along the pavement were missing, the lottery ticket sellers were gone. A road divider had been heightened and extended along the length of the road to prevent jaywalking. Passengers, shoppers and businesspeople milled to the one zebra crossing, compressed on either side of the road, waiting impatiently for the walking man on the traffic light to turn green.
As Divyan watched, a teenager suddenly darted across the street before the light changed. Divyan expected the parted sea to converge immediately, for the men and women to shed restraint and follow the rule breaker. Instead, a policeman emerged from nowhere, slapped the boy hard, and dragged him away by his collar. The other pedestrians seemed nailed to the spot.
Divyan’s shirt was plastered to his back with sweat. He asked the shopkeeper for a jug of water to wash his face. Maran and Tamizh saw parotta curry being served at other tables and asked for some. It was 50 rupees a plate, but Divyan had only 300 rupees left in his wallet, which was the bus fare back. He told the boys their mother would be waiting for them, and they had better hurry up if they did not want to miss her.
Three months had passed since Mugil’s arrest, and this was the second time Divyan had been permitted to visit. The first time, a week after her arrest, he had travelled to Colombo for a thirty-second meeting, only enough time for him to give her some clothes and for her to kiss her sons. Since then, he had applied for the ICRC’s visitation aid for families of detainees—they paid the bus fare and gave him an ICRC card to show the police. Today he would have at least ten minutes with Mugil. They took a bus to Borella and walked to the TID office.
Unlike the white colonial buildings the government preferred to build, the office of the Terrorist Investigation Department was an unappealing boxy monstrosity. To Divyan, it was like solid fear. As he walked in, the tittering boys became absolutely silent. When he signed into a register and waited on a bench in the corridor, they hugged his legs. There were about twelve other families. One of them acknowledged Divyan with a smile to Tamizh.
