LEELA Sydney, Australia Photo 1: Sydney, 2021 Photo 2: Jaffna, 1976 Photo 3: Jaffna, 1977 Photo 4: Jaffna, 1948 My father, his three brothers, and two sisters left Vaddukoddai (Jaffna) for Malaysia in the late 1800s, chasing the promise of a better future. They wanted to ensure their father (my grandfather) didn’t have to work in his shop in Mathavachi in his old age. My mother’s roots lie in Thunavai (Jaffna). After marriage arranged through a family connection, Malaysia became her new home as well. I have an enduring love for Malaysia - most of my family and friends still call it home. I cherish the country’s vibrant multicultural tapestry and the warmth of its community life. I completed Year 10 at St. Mary's School, where English quickly became my favourite subject; I consistently earned top marks on my essays. Growing up, English was the language of our household, and my mother would often recount how her own father insisted she speak formal English - addressing men as “Sir” - so that she would be able to find a suitable husband with a professional job.
In 1937, when my father died at the age of 49, my eldest sibling was 13, and my youngest was 10 months old.
My father worked as a private medical practitioner, and when he passed away, my mother found herself without a pension and suddenly responsible for feeding seven mouths and schooling growing children.
The sudden loss thrust our family into hardship. I still recall the times when there wasn’t enough sugar for our own tea, yet my mother always saved a pinch for guests. A modest lifeline came from the 50‑acre rubber estate in Kolla Pilla (Kuala Pilah) that my father had purchased in my mother’s name, providing a small but essential stream of income that helped keep the household afloat.
In 1941, when the Japanese swept into the British‑ruled Malaya, our world was turned upside down again. The occupation lasted four long years, until the Japanese finally surrendered to the Allies.
We had sensed the coming storm and did what little we could to brace ourselves. We stockpiled food, hired labourers to dig a shallow bunker behind the house, and my mother stitched sturdy pillowcases to store a spare set of clothes in case the building was bombed.
Whenever the air‑raid sirens wailed, we dropped everything, grabbed the pillowcases and a bottle of water, and slipped into the bunker. Hours passed in there; when we emerged, our stomachs were empty.
Prices for basic ingredients skyrocketed. Rice became a luxury we could afford only once a week, so we survived on roti and whatever substitutes we could find. Boiled cassava (மரவள்ளி கிழங்கு) turned into a staple, sustaining us through those lean, fearful years. My mother, my sisters, and I never dared to leave the house, terrified of the Japanese soldiers prowling the streets. Rumours of rapes and executions circulated constantly, and every time my brothers headed out to work, my mother would anxiously wait for their safe return. Checkpoints dotted every road, turning each journey into a nightmare that stretched over four harrowing years.
When the troops performed random inspections of our home, my mother would scramble to hide the girls. The soldiers entered with massive swords. They loathed anything English. All our English books had to be destroyed, and without them, school became impossible, cutting off our education. Knowing the occupiers admired Gandhi and India, we kept a photograph of Gandhi on the wall, hoping it would spare us from harsher punishment.
For a few months, we sought refuge with another family at our rubber estate, where the army’s presence was lighter. Yet my brothers still needed to work, so eventually we were forced to return to Kuala Lumpur.
After the war ended, my mother decided to return to Jaffna. There, she had the support of her family and a home in which we could live. My brothers were proving to be quite studious, and she wanted to ensure they had every opportunity to succeed. One went on to study Medicine at Peredheniya University and the other two studied Veterinary Science in Calcutta.
We returned to Jaffna on a large ship that carried roughly 600‑700 passengers from around the world. The four‑day voyage dropped us off in Colombo before it continued traveling to Indian ports. Air travel was far beyond our means.
Two or three years after settling in Jaffna, my mother arranged my marriage. My brothers fiercely opposed it, arguing that at nineteen I was too young and insisted that I should wait until one of them completed their degrees, so we could arrange an intermarriage* that would avoid a dowry. *Intermarriage is when a brother and sister from one family marries a brother and sister from another family. My mother flat‑out rejected my brothers’ demands, declaring that she was already old and that if she died, there would be no one left to look after her daughters.
The first time I saw my husband was on the day of our (marriage) registration. He had asked to meet me beforehand, but my mother refused, fearing that if he turned down the proposal after seeing me, gossip would tarnish my reputation.
After the registration, my husband would visit our home. On weekends, he would come over, and we would sit together on the couch in the office, talking for hours. He would stay for dinner before heading back to his house. This continued for the eight months between our registration and the wedding ceremony. Although he owned a car, my mother never allowed me to ride alone with him, worried about what the neighbours might think.
Although I have always longed to return to Malaysia, it could never truly be home again because my husband, an only child who worked as an Irrigation Technical Assistant, didn’t want to leave his parents in Sri Lanka. All ten of our children were born in Sri Lanka. In October 1984, I moved to Australia and joined my two daughters, who had settled here.
I don’t have fond memories of my time in Sri Lanka. I found Jaffna to be backward compared to the life I had lived in Malaysia. I found the lack of constant electricity, having to draw water from the wells, and the lack of a social life to be difficult and dull.
When my mother and siblings returned to Malaysia when I was around 23 years old, I missed them terribly. My brothers wanted to carry on the good work of my father, who had been a popular and well-respected doctor. Their children have gone on to have very successful careers. One of my nieces is a Supreme Court Judge in Malaysia. My mother-in-law helped me raise my children. My children absolutely adore her. She also helped with the cooking, as I wasn’t particularly interested to learn how to cook, much preferring the Malaysian style of buying delicious food from the hawkers.
My mother taught us not to look up, but instead to always look down and help people who are less fortunate - a valuable lesson forged in wartime hardship that continues to guide my life today. Listen to a recording with Leela here:
In the late 1800s Leela's appa left Jaffna and went to Malaysia in the hope of finding opportunities that would allow them to support their