Photo by Ama Koralage
The persistence of this gash, persnickety
yet pernicious, painful, powerful, collective
memory, to get the image framed for
the memorial service, bodies burnt
on the Yal Devi Express, houses and kovil
in Wellawatte on fire, prisoners bludgeoned,
brutalized, beheaded at Welikada, mob
marching to the head of Elibank Road,
answered firmly by the neighbor: We have
no Tamils here. We have no Tamils here.
But for each mob that took Sinhalese
neighbors at their word a dozen more
charged. Charged–Tamils skinned,
beheaded, battered. For days.
For days while the president waited
for his ministers to satisfy bloodlust.
and call off their hounds, and
the international community to open
one sleepy eye. India finally said
that’s enough. 3000 dead, tens
of thousands on the road towards
the North and East, on boats faraway
from the island home. then war,
big bloody internecine uncivil war…
the war that should have finished
when it began by granting Tamils
autonomy. And still no person
or government can strip me
of pride, honor, faith. Even
in silence. Even under cover.
Even abroad. Even in my head
and heart I eat with my brothers
and sisters this kanji until justice
will ride into the island on its own
wind, the eye enormous.