This piece was originally written on August 3, 2009 and read aloud at a Lanka Solidarity fundraiser in New York for Internally Displaced People.
In Sri Lanka, the Government assures its citizens, residents, and visitors that the war is over. But the state of emergency that war demands still persists. I have lost count over the number of times I have had to stand before a machine gun-clad soldier while he or she scrutinizes who I am—my surname, birthplace, clothing, destination, mother tongue, intent, and facial characteristics—all of these may or may not help the soldier understand and then act upon my individual and shared histories outside and within Sri Lanka’s borders. This is the moment when I am most bare, the moment when I am judged by a nation, its histories of intolerance, and struggles to accept the hybridity of experience.<!--break-->
A glance at my identity document will not reveal my life stories. As a child I cried alongside my father upon receiving a call that the LTTE had put 22 bullets into my uncle’s body, and how his then one-month child would never remember her father. As a teenager, I felt relief upon hearing that another relative had only been injured during the assassination of a politician. Here, I watched a wife of a soldier and mother of three wait in agony for four days until her husband's body was found. Here, I stand by patiently while the police flip my mattress and sift through clothes during a 7 AM cordon and search operation. Here, I sit in unwanted silence knowing that if I do speak out, I might not be able to return and am risking my life. No, an identity document cannot tell these stories. I only share them when there is a space open for dialogue.
On the day the President announced the end of the war, he also declared that the word minority would be abolished from Sri Lanka’s political future. But the term still has currency in the lives of anyone who is or has been marginalized by exclusionary politics, caste and class bias, and histories of discrimination and maltreatment. An activist in Sri Lanka once said, “The majority will not be able to live in peace and prosperity when the minorities are suffering.”
Here, middle and upper class families still view the Up Country Tamil as no more than cheap, exportable labor. Here, corrupt ministers publicly and proudly take credit for the brutal assassinations of journalists. Here, mothers request to get sterilized for monetary incentives because they cannot afford to care for another child. Here, home villages and sacred bodies have been violated and decimated all in the name of various nations, homelands, and origins.
How can we reckon with these realities? It is not a question of patriotism or treason. It is a question of justice and dignity.
Today, Lanka Solidarity has called this gathering not only to raise funds to assist those who have been displaced by the conflict in Sri Lanka but also to recognize that regardless of labels—majority, minority, Muslim, Buddhist, Up Country, Eastern Tamil, refugee, and laborer—the people of Sri Lanka and abroad need reflective moments of mutual respect and sustained spaces in which everyone’s stories can be shared and heard. I wish I could be there with my fellow members, and I hope that one day, others and I can be in Sri Lanka in solidarity and without fear.
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