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CIAO DATE: 05/02
Georgetown Journal of International Affairs
Volume 1, Number 2, Summer/Fall 2000
Island Paradise Lost
by Krishna Ravindran
*
If any place on earth could be described as the Garden of Eden, Sri Lanka would have a valid claim to the title. Each planted tree stems to flower, every sandy white beach calls irresistibly, and the entire landscape radiates a shimmering tranquility. In the thirteenth century, Marco Polo wrote about his travels in what he called “Zeilan.” In the twentieth century, story has it that Aldous Huxley wrote the utopian novel Island after a visit to what was then the British colony of Ceylon. This was the paradise in which my parents and my grandparents before them lived and loved. This was the island in which my Tamil ancestors coexisted peacefully with the Singhalese for generations.
From a paradise under the palms to one of the world’s hellholes–what went wrong? The story of Sri Lanka’s first fifty–two years is both complex and depressing in a unique way. The downward spiral began with the elections of 1956, when the Oxford–educated S.W.R.D. Bandaranayake proclaimed that if his Sri Lanka Freedom Party won, he would make Singhalese the official language. The objective was to exclude Tamils from the coveted government jobs for which they had been favored under British rule. He won by a landslide. This policy was successful for him because it gratified the Singhalese population, a substantial majority in Sri Lanka. Over the next three decades, Singhalese politicians indulged in an orgy of chauvinism at the expense of the Tamils. They devised the notion that there was not enough room in Sri Lanka for both the Tamils and Singhalese; and that there were not enough jobs, university seats, or pieces of land to go around. The Tamils became second–class citizens, and the Singhalese mainstream rejected their call for a federal government with autonomous powers for the Tamil–dominated north. This gave rise to demands for a Tamil nation by a range of separatist groups, the most powerful of which was Velupillai Prabhakaran’s Tigers (the tiger being a symbol of ferocity, a direct counter to the Singhalese lion). Eventually, the Tigers ruthlessly wiped out or marginalized all competing representatives of the Tamil voice in Sri Lanka.
As a youth, Prabhakaran was swept up in the growing militancy in the northern peninsula of Jaffna, which is predominantly Tamil. At the age of sixteen, he dropped out of school and helped launch a militant group called the Tamil New Tigers, which in 1976 was renamed the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). The LTTE survived by robbing banks. Whenever the police closed in on Prabhakaran and his men, they would flee to the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, smuggled across the border with the help of friends. In 1983, the Tigers ambushed and slaughtered thirteen soldiers near Jaffna. Prabhakaran and his cohorts fled to Tamil Nadu once again, but hundreds of Tamils left behind were massacred in retaliation. Singhalese rampaged through Colombo, selectively looting and burning down the homes and shops owned by Tamils. My first memory of the struggle is one of the most vivid of my childhood. As a five–year–old, I remember going into my grandmother’s house one Sunday morning, as I usually did. The cement house, which was painted white was noticeably darkened. There was a large crowd of excited people entering and exiting the living room, and I remember being rushed into the kitchen. I knew that there had been an attack on my grandmother’s house that had caused a fire, but at that age I did not realize that this fire was the result of the riots of 1983–the beginning of the civil war that would change my country. My grandmother’s Tamil household was the target of Singhalese wrath, along with the homes of hundreds of other innocent Tamil civilians. Although the riots were getting out of hand, the government did not crack down on the rioters for an extended period of time, an oversight that greatly angered Tamils across the nation.
The civil war escalated over the next few years in the north and the east. With talks between the government and the LTTE grinding into a prolonged stalemate, President Junius Richard Jayewardene gradually built up the Sri Lankan army and, in 1987, set out to quash the Tigers. India, concerned about the political backlash in Tamil Nadu, its Tamil–dominated state, interceded. President Jayewardene signed an accord with Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi, resulting in the deployment of 70,000 troops in an effort to put the Tigers out of business once and for all.
This was a colossal miscalculation on two accounts, and Sri Lanka is still trying to recover as a result. For decades, the People of the Lion (all Sri Lankans) had been lectured on the perils of an Indian takeover. The landing of the Indian Peacekeeping Force (IPKF) appeared to be a Singhalese nightmare come true. Not only did this lead to the insurrection of a Singhalese group called the People’s Liberation Front, which incited further riots and violence, but more importantly, it prompted complaints of the looting and rape of Tamils by the IPKF. This increased Tamil animosity toward the government, while bolstering their support for the LTTE. Eventually, the IPKF was sent back home to India, having failed to subjugate the LTTE. The whole incident not only was an embarrassment for the government, but also proved to be valuable fuel for the LTTE propaganda machine.
The key problem the government faced in eliminating the Tigers was that the Tigers were no longer a guerrilla group known more for their martyrdom than for their fighting prowess. The once ragtag Tigers became a deadly fighting force. Furthermore, supporting the 7,000 guerrillas fighting in the north and northeast corners of Sri Lanka was a global intelligence and financial network. Using an array of front companies, the LTTE extended its web from Singapore and Australia to Europe and North America. In addition, wealthy Sri Lankan Tamils residing abroad added valuable investments to the LTTE’s coffers.
Even though I am Tamil, my life in the capital, Colombo, located in the southwest, was nothing like the lives of the Tamils to the north and east. All the Singhalese whom I knew were my friends–there were no landmines of which to beware and no gunfire at night. In fact, Colombo’s nightlife was quite “happening.” Most of the news about the events to the north was censored by the government, and the only accurate information we would hear was from family or friends visiting Colombo. There would be the occasional bomb in Colombo that would take several lives or destroy vital infrastructure, but that was all these were–occasional bombs. The city would mourn for the lives that had been lost, but would then move on.
One aspect of my life that did give me an insight into how the Tamils in the north felt was my elementary– and middle–school education. The elementary and middle schools that I attended separated Tamil and Singhalese children from the first grade. Thus, for eight years of my life, I learned science, history, geography, and all of the other subjects in Tamil, while the Singhalese children were instructed in Singhalese. Despite this separation, there were relatively few problems between the students in my class and my Singhalese counterparts; at most I can remember a few cases of Tamil–Singahalese altercations, but they were not systemic. We were competitive, but we had no animosity toward each other. Having said that, however, what this separation did instill in us was the awareness that we were Tamil and they were Singhalese–we were different from them. I could easily imagine how this perceived difference could lead to heightened competition or even hostility in the future.
In the fall of 1993, I entered high school, which proved to be an altogether different experience. At the Colombo International School, all classes were taught in English, the classes were co–ed, and the teachers were primarily from England. While I had to adjust my lifestyle a certain amount in order to accommodate the change in the medium of instruction and the inclusion of girls in my daily life, I realized that there was another change I had to make. By the end of the first month in high school, I realized that most Tamils in my class did not socialize together. Those who did enjoy the company did not do so because they were Tamil. My three closest friends from the beginning, and to this very day, were all Singhalese. Ethnic differences did not matter. This led me to wonder how important something as simple as education at an early age can build bridges between two groups.
What the country needs in order for the civil war to cease are unifiers, things that make you indifferent as to whether the person standing next to you is Tamil or Singhalese. One such unifier is cricket.
While the civil war rages, a different picture of Sri Lankan aggression has captured the world’s attention: the nation’s sportsmen pounding all opponents on the cricket field. Sri Lanka’s cricketers were not only victorious over the favored Australia in the finals of the 1996 Cricket World Cup, but they have also gone on to win four more international tournaments and have set six major world records along the way. Cricket fever has transcended the island’s ethnic conflict. Though Singhalese players dominate the national team, the country’s leading bowler, Muralitharan, is a Tamil. The cricket field is probably the only place where the ceasefire holds. As long as the Lankan Lions keep winning, cricket seems to have the power to make people forget that there are more important tasks at hand than swinging a bat at a speeding ball. But while cricket proves to be an excellent diversion, it is clearly not enough to end the war.
As far as the fighting is concerned, most saw President Chandrika Kumaratunga’s election in 1994 as a new beginning. It is true that her father was the political progenitor of the ethnic problem, and the two terms of her mother, Srimavo Bandaranayake, served were painful experiments in socialism. But Kumaratunga vowed that she would end the civil war, and people believed her. Including me.
Six years later, things have not improved. The army has taken control of most of the north and the east, but the LTTE is not even close to completing its crusade. Its imminent threat was evident with its attempt on the life of President Kumaratunga, who coincidentally was the first target that it has missed. The economy tumbles along, with minimal growth–largely based on tourist dollars, tea, and garment exports–that will never really take off without peace and an end to the bombings that have virtually destroyed the downtown financial district. My own prospects for success when I return to Sri Lanka will increase when stability is achieved all over the island.
To me, the end of the war is not in sight. I gravely fear that I will not experience the blissful paradise that my parents and grandparents enjoyed. Yet all is not lost; an end to this war is indeed possible, if difficult. Both sides will have to make concessions for this peace to be achieved. Both sides will have to learn to live together as friends and not foes. This requires equal opportunity in land and property ownership, in the workplace, and in the government. This will hopefully lead to the end of Singhalese oppression of the Tamils, and the end of Tamil agitation of the Singhalese majority. I do believe the necessary tools are in place–a secular, educated, and democratic government with elected leaders who respect democratic institutions, and enough resources in the country for both Tamils and Singhalese to share. My country would be much more advanced if the two peoples decided to unite as one entity and work toward mutual prosperity.
Endnotes
Note *: Krishna Ravindran is a senior in the McDonough School of Business, Georgetown University. He was born and raised in Sri Lanka. Back.