#tamilsurvivalstories

[sareesinthewind]

Photo1 : Vidhya Photo 2: Vidhya and her அம்மம்மா In the rhythm of their sarees we heal generations of trauma, we remember a community dispossessed, we honour mothers still resisting and we celebrate the fire of our Tamil identity. ***** VIDHYA My aatha (ஆத்தா) passed away when I was about 12 years old. My memories of her are of her loud laughter and obsession with sugar. She didn’t take care of her health and drank a lot of caffeine, with a lot of sugar. She didn’t listen to anyone including her doctor and was constantly eating candy, chocolate and a rice from the little shop she had.She cared a lot about her children and was hard working but didn’t know how to manage her finances. Her dreams were larger than life and what she could afford. She did so many ‘seetu’ loans and was in constant debt - for which my amma (அம்மா), appa (அப்பா) and rest of her children had to pay.Her birth name was Maari muthu and her home name was Varathambikai. People called her Varatha. Her birthplace is either Nagapattinam in India or Thirukonamalai - number 10 in Tamil Eelam which is a division created by the British.Nagapattinam (India) and Thirukonamalai - number 10 (Tamil Eelam) had tight oceanic relations with one another. Families including my aatha’s would travel back and forth between both communities and intermarriage was common. Sinhala colonization and occupation however ended these deep historic, spiritual and communal ties when it prevented travel between Eelam and Tamil Naadu via ocean. My memories of aatha include visiting her in Thirukonamalai during our summer breaks and her taking me and my sister to the Colombo Zoo. She fed us her homemade tamarind rice (புளி சாதம்) with spicy potato stir-fry. When I was 5, I lived in Thirukonamalai for a brief period and attended preschool, where she taught me to dance barathanatyam to the song ‘chinnan chiru kannan avan singaara vannan’ - which I performed. She sewed my skirt and blouse (பாவாடை சட்டை), did my hair and makeup. She was very artistic and talented. All her children and many of her grandchildren are great singers, musicians, dancers, athletes and amazing illustrators and painters. She was afforded the opportunity to complete 10th standard and soon after fell in love and married my thatha. Aatha was a feisty woman who could curse up a storm. Legends say that she would get into physical fights with other women and even men who were afraid of her. This was pretty common in the area of Number 10. She was our Pathira Kaali (பத்திரகாளி).Pathiram in Tamil means to be careful. There is a legend for Pathira Kaali in Thirukonamalai. A Brahmin iyer who used to do poosai at the Pathira Kaali temple had a child daughter who used to also come to the temple with him. One day they couldn’t find the child and looked all over and finally when they arrived at the temple there was a woman with the child. When the Brahmin asked the woman who she was, she told the iyer that she is Pathira Kaali, and she wanted to keep the child for the day. When the Brahmin resisted, Kaali tore the child into two and gave the Brahmin half of his child back. The Brahmin screamed and cried of sorrow and loss. The message in the story is: be careful of Pathira Kaali, give her what she wants and don’t resist her. I have inherited aatha’s looks and fearlessness which plays out in my everyday reality as I battle injustice, patriarchy, misogyny and sexism.During the war and genocide aatha was able to send some of her children abroad for a better life. Some of her children including my appa were not lucky enough to attend her funeral in 1997. She died from Tuberculosis and too much sugar.I wish she was still with us so I could ask her questions about her life her childhood. But unfortunately she left us before these conversations could happen.After her passing my father’s sister in-law (சித்தி) had brought us her saree (the one I am wearing in this photo) from Thirukonamalai to Denmark. I couldn’t have asked for more. As I’m concluding this love letter, a song plays in my head, ‘mother your saree, is like the sky’ (ஆத்தா உன் சேலை ஆகாயத்தை போலே).I will one day pass this beautiful treasure to my future daughter, son, niece or nephew and tell them about their great grandmother and about the strong Tamil woman she was.I am proud to be her granddaughter.

[sareesinthewind]

Photo1 : Dhakshayini Photo 2: Dhakshayini and her அம்மம்மா Photo 3: Vasuki Photo 4: Vasuki and her அம்மம்மா In the rhythm of their sarees we heal generations of trauma, we remember a community dispossessed, we honour mothers still resisting and we celebrate the fire of our Tamil identity. ***** Dhakshayini: I remember அம்மம்மா’s arrival to my family’s home in Melbourne. She and I became best friends. We would spend our time giggling, singing and telling stories. Sometimes her stories were about our family, accompanied by real photographs of life in Jaffna (those beautiful black and white square photographs with the white border). And other times her stories were about animals or Hindu gods. In this way she sparked my imagination, about the world that was ‘home’ and about all things supernatural, spiritual and otherworldly. Through her love and kindness she earned my deep trust and was therefore the only person I would speak Tamil to. My parents spoke to me in Tamil but I would always respond in English. When she passed away in 1994 I stopped speaking Tamil. 

When I’m cutting onions for eggplant curry, or grinding cardamom pods for paayaasum, I reflect on how my அம்மம்மா would have carried out these same simple actions, but in a different world. Wearing my அம்மம்மா’s saree is as close as I can come to embodying her experience and understanding her world. What did she live through whilst wearing this sari? What was it like to be her?   My அம்மம்மா, Maheshwari Rajasekaram, was born in 1925. She was one of the brightest children at her school but had to stop attending due to serious illness. She was married at the age of 27 to my grandfather, Muthuthambi Rajasekaram. Despite miscarriages, ongoing ill health and surviving through war, she gave birth to two daughters, Umadevi (my அம்மா) and Kaladevi. She eventually fled to Australia in 1989. Our lives could not have been more different. The juxtaposition of her saree and the modern setting in this photo series reflects this. Yet we are inextricably connected. A very close friend of mine (Connie Donato-Hunt), soon-to-be mother said to me “my little baby girl in my womb has already developed eggs in her ovaries, so I am not only supporting her life, but potentially the lives of generations to come”. This is the very physical and spiritual connection we have to our mother’s mother.   I am smiling in these photos but part of me was sad to wear அம்மம்மா’s saris. Sad because I miss her, and also because of the loss of language, culture and connection to my place of birth; the result of our escape and assimilation. ***** Dearest Thavamany, as a young child, I became deeply aware of the way that you embodied wisdom. I watched how people often came to you and how you seemingly held the answers to everything. I think back to your language of kindness and care, your respect for living within your means and measure, and the way in which you allowed faith to enter and dictate your everyday actions. Prayer was sacred to you and you always included your family in your daily practice. You would pray for us, all of us, equally and never expected prayers back in return. Each night, we would wash our faces and nestle around you at the prayer table, looking to you for cues on what to do next. You would light a candle, close your eyes and pray that we would be good children. Half an hour would pass and you would remain seated, silent and still. I would play games whilst being cradled in your lap, entangling myself in the fabric of your multicoloured sarees and housecoats, imagining that I was somewhere in that magical space of prayer with you. I recall the way that you would use these moments to teach us a type of knowledge that I can not find anywhere else. Everything you did had a sense of purpose and responsibility and yet you had all the time and patience in the world for us to learn alongside you. I didn’t listen to many people growing up but I always listened to you. It was as if you already knew that I would one day need to call on you as I learnt to navigate the highs and lows of life. Your teachings were worldly and have imparted upon me a greater perception as to how I see this world. These days I look forward to the special moments where I can place my hand in yours, play with the folds of your golden brown skin and braid plaits through your silver hair. You often read my future by looking at the lines of my palm, I study your face like I might be seeing it for the last time and then we come to rest in your comforting scent of tiger balm and baby oil. Sometimes I start to feel sad as I try and come to terms with a world without you, but you always remind me that you are ready to go and we laugh about where god might take you. During these moments, I look out to my own அம்மா for the same sense of calm that you always provided her. I started playfully calling both you and my அம்மா by your first names and I remain so eager to listen to stories of your lives before motherhood. She has the same nature and natural glow as you. You are both remarkable women who stand strong on your own two feet and keep the ground solid for those who stand by you. My அம்மா looks back at me and I feel the connection to where we have all come from. I always knew that you held a rare quality of a person who truly leads through life by example. To me, you are the absolute truth. Your ever loving, Vasuki

[sareesinthewind]

Photo 1 - Krishna’s amma and niece outside their home in Manipai, 1967. Photo 2 - Krishna, Manipai, 1974. Photo 3 -  Krishna (middle) and her family at one of their sister’s wedding, Manipai, 1969.

KRISHNA Sydney, Australia

Our eldest acca got married and moved to the south of the island when I was seven. She was 19 years old. We were lucky that our athan (her husband) was a loving and kind soul. He was a station-master and was given a new posting in the south every two years. He would send my ammah 10 rupees before each of my school holidays so that she and I could visit them.  Amma and I would travel on the YalDevy, a train which runs from Jaffna to Colombo.  We would board at 6am and arrive at 2pm. My first trip alone to visit acca was when I was 12 years old. In preparation for this journey, amma bought இராசவள்ளிக்கிழங்கு (purple yam) and பனங்கிழங்கு (palm sprouts)  and made பலகாரம் (snacks) for acca.  Everything was packed neatly in a cardboard box.  The day before my trip, amma asked me to go to the shops and buy a quarter pound of butter, bread and bananas.  The following morning she made me banana sandwiches. I was so thrilled to be setting off on a journey all on my own.We travelled by bus to the Jaffna railway station, four miles from our home. Ammah had given me money to buy soda or snacks from the sellers who would come onto the carriage when we stopped at stations. I never left the ladies compartment. I wasn’t even hungry when the train pulled out of Jaffna station that morning, but the smell of my banana sandwich was so enticing that I devoured it.  Athan  picked me up at Colombo Fort station and from there we took a coastal train to Wellawatte where the family lived.  Living in Jaffna meant that we were used to the ocean, but it was still exciting to see it in the south. My niece Ajentha was three years old and was so excited to see me.  She took me to her neighbours’ homes to show me off to everyone. The whole street knew that I had arrived.  As I am the youngest in the family, everyone calls me ‘thangachi’. But Ajentha called me ‘kanguchi’.  We still laugh about it. She now lives in Paris.  Ajantha wouldn’t leave my side for the whole month.  On Sunday we would go to the to Galle Face, a popular spot for locals to gather. It would be packed with people. We would buy ice cream and watch the children fly their kites. Acca would often buy us ice cream from the Picadilly ice cream van, which went down her street after lunch.  This was a real novelty for me as there were no ice creams vans in Jaffna.  We would also buy sliced sandwich bread from Alerics, a popular shop in Wellawatte. Ajentha and I cried so much when the time came for me to say bye to them. I was born in Rasagala Tea Estate in Balangoda, which is in the south of the island. Appa was an accountant for a tea plantation office. When I was four years old, he died from a heart attack and with that we moved back to our family home in Bamapathy, Suthumalai Road, Manipai. As the youngest child, I was spoilt by my six siblings. We had a big gang with all our cousins and friends and we spent our childhood playing outside. We built cubby houses and played hide and seek. Most of the people in Manippai were our relatives. We only locked our front door at night. Our garden was big and had a lot of fruits and vegetables which we could sell for extra cash. I had a pet goat for four/five years which my acca paid for.  I named it ‘aadu’ [goat]. When I would come home from school I would call out ‘aadu’ and it would make a noise in reply. We used my pet goat’s milk for our tea. When we sold aadu, acca gave me 5 rupees as my share. Life was never rushed back then. We were happy. We were all together. 

[sareesinthewind]

KATHAR United Kingdom These recordings [in Tamil] are conversations I had with Kathar* from Batticaloa, in which we spoke about land he grew up in - the paddy fields, the forests, its animals and the food it provided for the community. His family’s 10 acre farm was near Kanthamalai.  Bears, snakes and appa's farm: https://soundcloud.com/user-492987594/kathar-1

Cheese, tree houses and the breeze from a paddy field:  https://soundcloud.com/user-492987594/kathar-2

* Identity withheld

[sareesinthewind]

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:

Leela

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

[sareesinthewind]

DARSHINI Melbourne, Australia

~ THE SARI STORY ~ July 1979, London ~ My Amma, a smart and beautiful nursing student from Malaysia, had just met my Appa, a skinny engineering student from Sri Lanka. They met properly at a cinema. Appa being incredibly punctual arrived early with his mate at the showing of இளமை ஊஞ்சலாடுகிறது (Ilamai Oonjal Aadukirathu) staring Kamal Haasan and Sripriya. Amma and her friend had decided last minute to see the same movie and arrived fashionably late. By chance, the usher seated my Amma next my Appa. It wasn’t until intermission when the lights came on that they set eyes on each other and, well, the rest is history… After meeting at the movie, my parents went on a couple of dates around London together. On the second date, Appa asked if Amma would accompany him sari shopping to help select a sari for his sister back in Sri Lanka. Of course, Appa was completely in love with Amma and was really buying the sari for her but he knew that she wouldn’t have let him spend money he didn’t have if he revealed what he was really up to! In the end the sari deception only lasted 2 days. Appa summoned the courage to present her with the sari and declare his love for her. It seems that Amma was equally smitten as they both excitedly agreed a plan to marry. On 24 September 1980 they were legally married/registered in London without their families present (so rebel!). They subsequently returned to Malaysia for a full traditional hindu wedding ceremony with both sets of parents in attendance on 20 August 1982. These pictures of Amma in the sari were posted home to Sri Lanka and Malaysia with news of the impending marriage and so it was through these pictures that my paternal grandparents first laid eyes on their daughter-in-law. Sarees are timeless. So much history, so many stories, are held in the threads of the 6 metres of woven fabric as they are passed from each generation of women to the next. It was so special to be able to wear my Amma’s sari, a piece of my parents’ love story, 42 and a half years in the making. 💕

[sareesinthewind]

'SRI LANKA STOP KILLING TAMILS' JEGAN Australia

It has always been near impossible to get the international media to cover the Sri Lankan government’s violence against the Tamils.  In the late 90s, as the atrocities escalated,  the world was more interested in celebrating Sri Lanka’s cricketing heroes than exposing the Tamil genocide.

Early in 1999, when the Sri Lankan cricket team played in the 1998–99 Carlton and United Series in Australia, in utter desperation at the world’s silence, we hired a skywriter to write “Sri Lanka Stop Killing Tamils” above the Sydney Cricket Ground during one of the matches (13 Jan).

The decision to do this was not an easy one. There was a view  that our fundraising efforts should be sent to those affected by the war in Eelam. This was a valid concern, however, it was also an important opportunity to put Sri Lanka’s crimes on the international stage.

The total cost was six or seven thousand. We found 25 sponsors to donate $100 for each letter. A few businesses and individuals covered the rest. We fundraised specifically for this campaign.

We didn’t seek prior permission for the skywriting, which was a requirement at the time. While I was worried that we would be in trouble with the authorities, the skywriter didn’t seem too phased and was happy to take on the job! I cold called him after trying a few other skywriters who declined the job! 

The plane started to work its magic around the time the game started. I remember it to be around 2pm - but it was also many years ago - so I am not 100% confident of the timing.  It was impossible for anyone watching the cricket to miss the white letters which stood out prominently against the clear blue sky. There were no winds to scatter the smoke. The pilot told us that the height of each letter was 1km and the width was 750m. I imagine that Sri Lanka’s fans sitting inside the SCG would have been very excited as they watched ‘S R I  L A N K A’ slowly written in the sky, thinking that it would be a message of support!  Instead, they all witnessed Sri Lanka being called out for its atrocities towards the Tamils! 

During the action, I was in a car with another activist near the SCG, watching anxiously, unclear of the repercussions. Within 10 minutes of the writing ending, we received a phone call from an overseas number we didn’t identify. We nervously picked up the phone. It was the co-ordinator of the diaspora Tamil activists and he praised us for our creativity in putting the violence against the Tamils on the international stage. His support gave us a bit of confidence that the large amounts of money we had spent were justified. A few days later there was another match in Melbourne and the same message was written there. A news outlet that covered what happened in Australia, and it was our then spokesperson who spoke to the journalist who covered it.  She said that the journalist had asked about the cost. Our spokesperson explained that while it was a lot of money, it was one of the ways our community could try to raise awareness, given that the media was not interested in covering the violence. ****** We have not been able to track down any photos or find out which news outlet covered the action. * In 1984, a year after the Black July pogrom, when the Sri Lankan cricket team was at Lords in London for their first test match, Tamil protesters ran onto the field with banners and lay on the pitch. You can watch the footage here. * In 19 May 1999, UK Tamil activists skywrote "Killing Tamils is just not cricket” while Sri Lanka was playing against South Africa at the County Ground.  * In 2011, a yellow weather balloon bobbed up above the Lord's pavilion in the UK. It had "Boycott Sri Lanka" scrawled on the side in thick black ink.  * In 2012, Trevor Grant,  a former chief cricket writer at The Age called for Australia to boycott the Sri Lankan cricket team. Trevor became an unrelenting champion for Tamil justice, a vocal member of the Tamil Refugee Council  and a close friend to many of the Tamil activists. We lost another selfless soul when he passed away in 2017.  

[sareesinthewind]

EELAVAN [Location withheld]

Photo 1-3: The mountain in the final paragraph Photo 4: The rock in the final paragraph Amma and appa were always away on duty during the short years I shared with them. So, I was raised by my amma’s acca. My life’s happiest moments were the brief periods spent with my ammah, when she would visit me. In 2006, amma left me with a  neighbour P*, because my aunty and her family left to seek asylum abroad. We didn’t have any other relatives to help us. My amma may have had an anna who was in the Iyakkam. I don’t know much about appa’s family. My acca was also in Iyakkam. I am not sure how many years older she is to me. I don’t even know my own age. 

After I moved in with P*, I would often join other children in the neighbourhood who would gather at the home of a family who owned a TV.  We would watch the serial ‘My dear bootham’ and the news. This is where I first dreamt that one day I would become a news reporter - so I could tell the world what was happening to us. I loved reading and I loved history. I once found amma’s book on Lenin, and I tried to read it, only understanding a few bits. I liked reading with my amma. 

In 2007 when the attacks by the Sri Lankan Army started intensifying, amma pulled me out of school. When displacement started, P* took me with her. I remember a time when amma came to see me after she had been injured and had a bullet wound in her right shoulder. Then too, I cried and begged her not to leave, but she said her team would look for her and she had to go.  

Appa’s last visit to see me was in Jan 2009. In March or April, amma was with me and P*  when we found out that appa had been killed. An Iyakkam anna came to tell her the news and explained that they couldn't retrieve the body because the Sri Lankan Army had taken control of the area. Amma cried, as I hugged her. She didn’t eat for two days.  Iyakkam accas came to console her. We put up a photo of appa and lit a fire in front of it.  That evening a jeep came and she left in it. The last time I saw her was on May 10 2009 around 2pm.  She put her gold ring on my finger and asked me to keep it as a memory of her. I cried and begged her to stay. Over the years I have tried to find out what happened to my amma and acca - no one can tell me anything. Not knowing what happened to them is my deepest unrelenting and unimaginable sorrow. On May 14 2009 at around 6pm, N* came to where I was staying with P*. He said something to her and we left together. At around 10pm he took me to the ocean and put me on a boat with four iyakkam accas and six iyakkam annas and he told them to take me to X* safely. The annas and accas were carrying bags of paper. Thinking back now, I think they were important documents. To keep us safe, two other iyakkam boats accompanied us - and at some point those boats returned back. The annas and accas told me that we would be safe.  Suddenly our boat was surrounded by many little boats - it was the XY* navy and they told us we had to turn around. We were soon approached by people in a boat who were speaking Sinhalese. The annas and accas were forced out of our boat and into the Sinhalese boat. Their hands were tied behind their backs and their eyes blindfolded. All the documents were moved into the Sinhala boat. I was taken by the XY* navy and delivered at X* at around 3am. Before letting me go, the officer warned me never to speak about what had happened that day. The people at X* were scared that I was going to bring danger to their lives. I was asked to leave and was soon out on the streets. I didn’t eat for two weeks.  My journey since then has been one of enormous hardship, suffering, and loneliness. In 2017, I attempted to study journalism at college, with the little money I had managed to save. However I could only afford a course in Hotel Management.  Not wanting to delay my studies any further, I enrolled in it. We were trained in many skills: front office, service delivery, production department.  For me, enlisting in production department classes also meant I would be able to eat a proper meal, something that I hadn’t experienced since a young age.  Over the years, many of my meals have been bread scraps discarded by bread companies.  Many nights have been spent sitting in railway stations. If we sleep - the police would beat us. I would buy a ticket, and stay on a platform for a few hours at a time. 

I faced a lot of discrimination for being an Eelam Tamil when I was at college. Even there, I was isolated and alone. In one of my classes, my teacher called me the child of terrorists in front of all the students. It was so hard for me to experience this, but I was still determined to complete my studies.  I had one female friend for a little while. She would ask me for my notes and recipes and I would openly share them with her. I asked her if she would be my life companion. Her response was to ask me how she can accept a terrorist's son. This really hurt me and I decided that I was better off without anyone in my life. I learned to cook a lot of different dishes at college and won many awards in recognition for my talents. At the four-star hotel, where I did my training, we would work 18 hour days. After I finished my placement, the manager at the hotel wanted to give me a job. However, as I am unable to obtain official work permit documents, such opportunities will never be for people like me. 

I now work in a tea shop - 7 days a week from 5am to 10pm. I earn 6.20 AUD | 3.50 GBP | 4 EUR | 4.80 USD / day. I sleep in the back of it. Sometimes I don’t even have time to eat dinner.

In August last year, when I had to cross a border checkpoint, the police found amma’s ring and the little money that I had worked so hard to save, and they stole both from me. Through my hardest times, I had her ring with me, and now I have lost that too.

I can’t speak the language here and I have no friends. When I get a day off once every two months, I spend it at a nearby mountain, where no one goes. Even mobile phones don’t get a signal up there.  It takes about three  hours to walk up to the top. I sit there and I think about my life - and wonder what type of future I can hope for. I pretend that a rock up there  is my amma - I ask her questions about her life and ask her where she is. I share my feelings with her. I cry a lot. I feel completely stuck and unable to make any decisions, as I have nothing or no one, or no place in which I can feel safe. I start walking back down at 4pm and arrive at the bottom by 7pm. On those nights, I sleep a little better. P* - name changed to protect identity N* - name changed to protect identity X* - location withheld  XY* - name withheld