ABDF

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Hi everybody!

Well, you know that old maxim, that when it rains, it pours? Well that has certainly proven true over the last couple of days. Last week: bupkis. This week: a deluge! I’m not entirely sure how or where to begin, so I’ll just jump right in.

For the next bit, I’m not going to name names; given the public nature of this website and blog, you’ll understand why.

Last Friday night a friend of mine was abducted by one of the militia groups, tortured, and held for ransom. The ransom was paid yesterday morning, and he’s now back home. Here’s the story, or at least as much of it as I know.

In the middle of the night my friend and his family were roused by banging on the door. Some men with guns ordered my friend outside, and shoved him into a white van. After blindfolding him, they drove off into the night.

“White van” or as a verb, “white vanning,” has become part of the lingo in Sri Lanka, both on the east coast and in Colombo. People, inevitably Tamils, are snatched off the street or out of their homes by men driving white vans. There are no uniforms. Usually they’re kidnapped purely for the ransom money; this is how some of the militia groups finance themselves. Most of them are returned after the money has been handed over. Some of the abductions are political; local politicians and journalists are the usual targets. Of these only some are returned alive; the bodies of the others are usually dumped on the road somewhere. Sometimes they’re never seen again.

My friend was abducted for money. Actually he had been kidnapped and tortured last year by a militia group. He was released after the payment of a huge (by local standards) sum of money. Half was paid before the militia split into two factions who began to fight each other. When the dust settled, the winning side, the one who hadn’t abducted him, told my friend not to worry about the second half of the ransom.

Lately, however, the defeated faction has been reasserting itself in the area. And they began to demand that their victims complete the payment of their ransoms, my friend included. Meanwhile the dominant faction has been instructing them not to do so; they don’t want their rivals to have money. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, people have been keeping their heads low, hoping this difficulty will resolve itself.

I didn’t know about any of this, at least with regards to my friend, until Sunday afternoon, when his frantic wife came by my house, asking if I could help her out with some money. So I went to the bank and took out as much as I could. Further money came from friends and many people I didn’t know, until the amount was gathered. Yesterday (Wednesday) morning she and his mother went to the camp to pay the ransom. He was released, and is now back home. As soon as he is fit to travel, another friend of mine will escort him to Colombo, where, as soon as can be arranged, my friend will leave for asylum in Europe, his family to follow as soon as possible.

Yesterday when I got the call that he was back home, I went to my friend’s house. There was a big crowd, although I think he’d have preferred to be alone with his family. He had taken a bath, but looked extremely exhausted. He did manage a “Hello” and a weary smile when he saw me. I saw that he was dead tired, and that I wasn’t going to be any use, so I left after about 15 minutes. He wasn’t talking about what he underwent. I talked with a mutual friend outside, who filled me in on what he knew. A doctor friend had come by to look at him and despite everything, nothing was permanently damaged.

I have never seen a person who has been tortured before. No, let me be precise; I know many men here who have been tortured, but in the past, especially during the burning days of the 1990s. I’ve never seen someone “fresh,” as it were. So this is what I saw, and what I heard the doctor had said:

My friend’s face was bruised and swollen. His eyebrows looked like they had been singed off, but there were no signs of heat or burning (figure that one out). He had very deep cuts on his wrists and ankles, where he had obviously been tied either up or down with wire. There were a couple long thin bruises along his neck, like purple necklaces, which indicates that he was choked or had things tied tightly around his neck. That’s what I saw. According to the doctor, there were no signs of lashes on his body, but he had obviously been beaten badly, as he had several cracked ribs and was badly bruised on his torso. His balls looked like they had been crushed or squeezed.

So other than that, unless my friend some day divulges the details, there is no way to know what they did to him.

If what I’m told is true, the torture usually begins right after you arrive at the location used. You are “softened up” for several hours before they even tell you why you’re there. If they demand money, they will episodically go at you until you agree to pay. It makes no difference if you are poor like my friend and actually can’t afford to pay. Well, they do seem willing to accept 50% up front, and you have to pay them a certain amount each month, like a credit card. The vast majority, who can’t afford one big payment, go on this installment plan. At any rate, once you agree to the ransom the torture stops. I assume that my friend immediately agreed to whatever they wanted.

So what is his future going to be like? He and his family had already applied for asylum in various European countries, and one had provisionally accepted him. He had just finished the paperwork last week. In the immediate future, now that he’s paid up, he’s safe for a little bit, once he’s healed somewhat he’ll get the hell out of Batti. He is fortunate; although not a wealthy man, he has many friends, and we all are doing what we can to support his leaving. But many victims do not have such a circle of friends and acquaintances and so are forced to remain here, forever afraid of any noise at night, or perhaps recognizing one of their tormentors on the street, or terrified that some other group will want money too. And my friend, too, when he’s moved will undoubtedly have access to psychological therapy; a couple of weeks ago I had a long talk with him about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and told him it was nothing to be ashamed of and even if he felt fine now, for the future of his family he ought to seek treatment ASAP once in Europe. But psychology, let alone therapy, is unheard of in Sri Lanka, and especially so on the east coast.

I’ve got to say that this whole episode has got me really rattled. For the past few nights I’ve had a terrible time sleeping; I couldn’t help but lie there imagining what was happening to him at that very moment. It made me feel really helpless. At least during the Tamil/Muslim troubles a couple of months ago, things were tangible: mobs and counter-mobs on the street, the security forces, the shortages in the shops, etc. But with this you have no idea what’s happening and there is no way of finding out.

This sort of thing happens with depressing regularity here. I’ve heard countless stories, but this is the first time it’s been someone I know, while I’m here. Puts it on a different level altogether.

OK, enough of this.

This evening I went to an eight-day dinner at my friend Prabha’s house. It is a traditional Hindu funeral rite for the newly departed.

When a family member dies the entire extended family goes into mourning. For the next seven days the family is expected to do nothing but stay at the house. Normally the front of the house, as well as the street in front, is festooned with white streamers; this is how you tell a house is in mourning. Chairs are set out in the front yard and into the street. For the whole week, 24 hours a day, neighbors, co-workers, friends, just about everyone, comes and sits for a spell. There is much coming and going. And everyone brings small packets of food: bananas, rice, sugar, soft drinks, etc, which are given to the host. Additionally groups of friends organize meals for the family in mourning. Prabha is a member of SFS (as well as my co-conspirator in our water projects) and so I joined the SFS on Sunday to prepare their Sunday dinner.

Some people will come and clean the house, do the laundry, etc to free the bereaved family from domestic drudgery.

I think this is a very good funerary custom. It reinforces the family’s sense of community, making them feel less isolated in their sorrow. It reminds the family that the departed affected a wide circle of people and allows those people to show their respect for him/her.

On the eighth day, the family reciprocates by feeding everyone. Generally they use the packets they have been receiving. This is what I went to earlier this evening.

This state continues, albeit at less intensity, for a month. The family goes back to work and daily living, but chairs are still left out, and someone, a neighboring family or group of co-workers, always spends time at the house. Finally on the 31^st day, the family gives another big feast. A highly filial family will continue giving these memorial feasts once a year, on the anniversary of their loved one’s death.

But the 8^th day dinner is especially important. One corner of the main room is dedicated to the departed, in this case Prabha’s father-in-law. A small low table is set out, on which a small alter is created; there are a couple of images of various gods, a butter lamp, etc. Before the altar is placed a whole selection of all the things Prabha’s father-in-law loved to eat. I saw everything from bananas to a small bowl of crab curry to a bottle of Pepsi. These are the things that would be served later at the general meal. But for the spirit of the man himself, the family led a puja, or prayer service.

An older man began by softly singing a chant. As he did, the various family members one by one approached the makeshift altar. A brazier of glowing coconut husks sat to the right. Each person sprinkled incense into the brazier, then with the right hand (left hand cupped under the right elbow) wafted the brazier over the altar in a counter-clockwise motion. The brazier was put down, and the person then offered a prayer to the departed, usually by kneeling on hand and knees and touching the forehead to the floor. That person got up, and another took his/her place and did the same thing; wafting the brazier then a prostrated prayer. All this was done in complete silence, except for the low chanting of the man, the occasional crackle of the burning coconut shells, and the occasional sniffling and sobbing of the people participating. I have to say I found the ceremony, in all its simplicity, very moving.

Once the family had given their puja, the altar was blocked from view with panels of white silk, and everyone left the room. Sitting outside we spoke only in whispers. My friend Sasi explained that we were giving the departed man’s spirit privacy to enjoy his last meal.

In Sri Lanka there is a species of gecko that you always see climbing the walls of houses. They are a coral pink, and about two inches long. I like them; they eat insects, especially the ones attracted to burning light bulbs. They will occasionally let out a cackle that sounds something between a birds’ chirp and that of a frog. I have been told that this cackling is believed to be whispers from the spirit world, and especially from the gods.

At any rate, we sat there, talking in low voices, waiting to hear such a cackle, which would indicate that the spirit of the man has eaten and is happily satisfied. Once the gecko is heard, people are free to re-enter the room, and the food is brought out, and everyone eats. For us, it took 15 minutes.

We in the West are so very different. We bury our dead, have a memorial service, and then expect the bereaved to just up and get on with life. All of this can happen very quickly; maybe over the span of a few days and we assume that everything is OK. I believe it used to be different, before our society became so mobile, fragmented, and non-traditional. Such rites as I describe above are more easily done in a small town where you and everyone else has lived your entire life together and everyone believes more or less the same things. In our modern society, where you hardly know the name of your neighbor, such things as the sitting and meals could never happen. I think this lack of belonging to a community is one of the biggest prices we have paid for our freedom and prosperity.

Of course certain traditional societies in the West still have these practices. Many Jews still sit shiva, and I’m sure the Amish and Menonites have their practices as well.

So now I’ve broached two depressing subjects. Time to move on to the third, which is a lot happier.

A couple of months ago I met a UK woman named Susan. Those of you paying attention will remember. She had told me that her husband Jerry would be coming to Batti. (They are both addicts like me.) Well, yesterday morning after class at Synergy, I got a call from Jerry. He had just arrived in town, dazed, jet-lagged, and knocked off his feet by the heat and humidity. We decided to meet for lunch at the Riviera.

He’s in town only for a week or two, but has an interesting project, which he wants me to help with. He has raised a bunch of money in the UK to refurbish the school in a town called Pulaweli (Pu-LAH-veh-lee). The principal, a man named Sri, has been a friend of his and Susan’s since tsunami times, and is known to me as well.

The town is right on the border between the Singhalese and Tamil cultural spheres. Before the conflict it had a few thousand residents who mostly lived in the rich surrounding paddy fields. This was a mixed population of Singhalese and Tamils who had lived together for generations. When the LTTE took over, the Singhalese were ethnically cleansed from the area. However, the LTTE was unable to push any further west, and Pulaweli became the front line of control. In fact, the school itself is just visible from the fortifications of what was the government forward line. During the Ceasefire, the LTTE used the school as it’s local HQ, as it was the best of the few buildings standing.

During last year’s offensive, the population of Pulaweli was driven east, through Tiger territory, and into Batticaloa. They were not allowed to evacuate west, despite being only a kilometer from government territory. I assume the government did not want Tamil refuges in a Singhalese area. Thus the villagers were placed in an IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camp just north of Batti, where they are to this day. Sri runs his school out of some borrowed tsunami shelters next to the local school.

Being on the front line, Pulaweli was heavy mined. The government has just declared the area mine free (!) and the residents will be moved back in the beginning of September. Jerry and Susan are very interested in bringing the town back to life; hence refurbishing the school. This is what Jerry returned to Batti to begin.

So Saturday he, Sri, and I are going to go to Pulaweli. It should be interesting; even during Ceasefire I never went so deep into what was then called the “uncleared” area. Because Sri is the school principal and known to the security forces, he feels it’ll be no problem to get through the checkpoints. We’ll see.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

I know I started this several days ago, and I had intended to post this Friday, but every time I went to the Internet café none of the computers were free, and then I was gone all day yesterday, and today all the shops in town are closed, being Sunday. So I’ll get this out tomorrow.

I the meantime, I should describe the trip to Pulaweli, and what Jerry has asked me to do.

We left yesterday at midmorning, and drove north to the town of Chenkallidy. Just a quarter km to the west of the main road is the checkpoint at what used to be the line of control. We got through with few questions, and soon found ourselves in the dry plains of former Tigerland.

It turns out that the A-5, which on a map looks like a major conduit is in fact a one-lane, ill-kept ribbon of asphalt poured directly onto the dirt. I suppose on the map it’s marked as a major highway because there really aren’t any other roads out there. I had been along this road for a few kilometers before, to the first village, back in the day. Today the town is half-destroyed, or half rebuilt, depending on how you looks at things. The monument dedicated to Tiger martyrs has been recently re-painted; now it’s a monument to the liberation of the East, complete with big huge Sri Lankan flag hanging limply in the hot still air. I wonder what the locals think of it.

Beyond that was new territory for me. Several things caught my attention as we drove along (we were in Sri’s van). First, on either side of the road stretch enormous tracks of rice paddies, all of them damaged, unused, and chocked with weeds and brush. The area used to be astonishingly fertile and produced vast amounts of rice, but when the Tigers took over it all went to seed (literally) due to lack of supplies and material. It will be a huge task to bring the paddies back, but if they ever do, wow!

We all commented on the huge numbers of cow and water buffalo all about. At least those weed-filled paddies aren’t being totally wasted. Sri said the cows were a good sign, that people felt secure enough to bring them in. I suppose that makes sense.

The other thing I noticed was that as we went further in, the villages were more and more damaged, and fewer people had moved back. Pulaweli itself is still abandoned and what few structures stand are weed-strewn and probably need to be demolished rather than repaired. The only exceptions to this are the empty church and the school.

The area is covered with those red skull-and-crossbones minefield caution signs. Large tracks have been recently torn up by the anti-mine tractors. The tractors look like huge beetles, and instead of the scoop, there is a semi-circular plate of very thick metal. Across the very front is a crank, to which heavy chains are attached. As the tractor crosses the minefield, the crank rotates quickly, causing the chains to thud into the ground, detonating the mines, and plowing up a couple inches of earth. I’m sure it is effective, where they know the mines are. But would I let my kids run around the fields? I’d be too scared. Even if there is peace in the area, I have no doubt the casualties will continue for a long, long time.

I was surprised at how intact the school buildings were. Most of the structural damage is relatively minor; lots of bullet holes, some roof tiles smashed, and so forth. But everything movable was taken and the walls have a lot of anti-LTTE graffiti. Amidst all the graffiti the little kids’ art projects are still taped to the walls: glitter-filled drawings of horses, cows and dogs. It was rather surreal seeing a child’s drawing of his house next to graffiti of an AK-47.

Jerry’s plan is to refurbish the school. The whole thing needs painting, the bullet holes need to be filled, the tiles replaced. The biggest expense will probably be replacing the window grills which were looted. And then there is the furniture; desks, table, chairs all need to be supplied. I think the toilets also need repair; they certainly need new doors as the old ones were also looted.

One of the ABDFs’ philosophies is that we don’t care who does the work, as long as it gets done. And one of my jobs is to act as a conduit for other organizations into the area. This is a prime example. I won’t be doing much of the work: Sri knows where to go for the supplies and contract work. But I will be overseeing the money. On Monday Jerry, Sri, and I will go to the bank to open an account for the project. Checks will require two signatures. One will be Sri, the other either Jerry or I. And I will be in charge of the monthly reporting. We agreed this was the best way to get it done for a variety of reasons I won’t go into.

We’ve divided the project into two phases. The first phase will happen in September and October, while I’m still here. That will involve the cement work, the furniture, and the painting. We feel that these are the most immediately needed things. Phase two will happen either in January if Jerry can make it, or in March when I return.

I think it’s a good project. We, as the ABDF, will provide invaluable support, the village will get a decent school, and it won’t have cost us a thing.

And finally, the big kovil festival at Mamangum started last week, and will continue until the 31^st. I’ve mentioned kovil festivals a couple times already in my dispatches, but this one is the final, mother-of-all-festivals. I went with my friend Pushpakaran (one of the Synergy kids) last Friday evening and the crowds are already big. The last time I went was during tsunami times, and I was surprised at how big final day was then. I’ve been told that that years’ was small, as many people were still recovering, and that this year will be gi-normous. I’m looking forward to it.

I’m glad I missed first day. On that day kovil priests hold a special puja, after which they charge the crowd waving bunches of curry leaves. They try and hit people on the shoulders with them. If you are so struck, you are obliged to stay on kovil grounds for five days. As the only white person there, I would have made a tempting target. Hey! Let’s get the white guy and see what he does! What would I have done? On one hand, I always respect and follow the rules of local religion and customs. It’s a matter of respect. On the other hand, I’m not a believer. Back on the original hand, the adventurer/anthropologist/intellectual in me says it would be a unique experience. The second hand tells me it would be boring, uncomfortable, and I have work to do. Right now the second hand is ascendant, but to be honest the first hand is wistful. What do you think you would do?

Well, this has certainly been one of my longer dispatches. I promise, tomorrow I will post this.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

B.

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