Select Page

I arrived in Jaffna in the evening, in my astonishment a reflection of a magnificient train ride up north from Colombo, clattering over paddy fields, swamp land, herons, crows, eagles blinding the dim sun, a vastness of moist green, next to me a navy commander returning back to work, shuttling between colombo and Jaffna, government employers are allowed to travel for free, at least three times monthly, so why live in the past if there is Colombo – one reason why the trains are fully booked for weeks. And, no military, no police, no check up at the railway station, a useless valid permission in my pocket.
– Jaffna, what a wonderful broken world you are. After 5 years peace the city still lays in ruins, greenish bruises, cemented bullet holes, a tamil culture eased with the silent of peace, domesticated with the diplomacy of a warmachine, slowly coming up on his feet again, after 20 years a wobbly stance on a common national tribune watching the growing prosperity and menace of totalitaranism. The Ministry of Defence and Urban Development supposed to be finished december 2013, still working on it. The special investigation office for crime is a wooden sheg, roundaboutside of the clock tower, next to the police station, which is not more than a larger version of the sheg, not wooden, but mossy and obviously a place to feel unsafe. The prison performs my picture of not-a-place-to-die but a place to break, even if not compulsory. The Special Task Force camp is a spontanously wire fenced green field with a tiny security post and other buildings I can´t distinguish from the bordering civilan neighbourhood. The Sri Lankan government is very sure about, that there will be not a growl of a tiger again. I have seen so far one patrol walking through a miserable neighbourhood. The peacekeeper are not welcome. It seems the ending of the war has drawn a bleeding line between tamil and sinhalese. Maybe a reason why soldiers like the navy commander lives in Colombo, a nearly 7 hours train ride from his working place. The tourists, who come here are rare, I haven´t seen one by now. So guess how kind of exhausting is a walk through the city, a city which makes me smile, a city which touches my heart. If there is a bleeding line, I wanna be on this side, here, in Jaffna, the place to be on Sri Lanka, ambivalent, split in half, connected by disbelief, a recounstruction without reprocessing, not odd at all, regarding the fact, that the same government, who ended the war is still in charge and will be re-elected january next year, I dare to forecast.
I walk around the city for hours. Today is sunday and I have a rest, like half of the city. People are mostly christian. I have seen some hindu temple as well. The fishermen drink today. And not only them. Some of can barely walk already, at 10 in the morning, smudged religious painting in their mad-eyed faces, some of the cursing me. The anger of the repressed and the forgotten. I can hear people fighting, couples I assume. Children crying. Jaffna lives on its own. There is not much to export, which the rest of Sri Lanka needs or can´t export by themselves. The fishing harbours sell the catch to the next located village. “We fish only for us.” – Colombo is building the second gigantic trading harbour, next to the hometown of the president. Any questions? I can see signs with some reconstruction programs, promoting the costs the organizations spent already. I see parts of the city they live disconnected, left alone, with their grief, their efforts to recreate a routine, a home, a live. What is worth an apartment house for the subclass if you have no economic growth, no work, but powerlessness.
During a stroll around on the second day, nearby one of the fishing harbours – always my haven and approach, in a lower class district, I watched a scenerio, still drowns me in tears, left me powerless, helpless and ashamed of haven´t acted different. To my left a roman catholic burial ground. Over the white wall, which sourrounds the holy ground, in its center a chapel, with some homeless, cows and goats searching for shelter and a ressurection of divine grass, I can see some angels and their dotty naive glances heavenwards, some Jesus Christs, hanging on their crosses, pussyfooters – you stay nailed and dare you piss off again, tired to watch, “Oh my god-oh-god, what have I done”. One by one they seem to avoid witness, only the palm trees are rattling in turmoil. To my right a small shop, from upstairs I can hear a kid desperately screaming, crying, weeping and screaming again, in a way which pierces my heart with thousand of nails, arrows and spears. In a way you know it´s men-caused. And there she is, the mother, yelling and beating, I can hear her hand bruising the childishness, causing damage to the rest of its life, and this for sure not the first time. An outrageous situation. Neighbours passing by, looking at me, confused, wondering why tears running down my face. I couldn´t figure out a scope, a way to help, I felt like a child, the son of me, I was scared. And it scared me more, that nobody was affected by the kid in agony. The mother suddenly appeared, running down the stairways and I felt relief for a short moment before I realized… she went to the next bush, broke away a branch, cleaned it, shredded some tiny branches and leaves, in rage, I felt her rampage, more nails, arrows and spears. I was standing there, bare, shocked, unobtrusive and discreet, she didn´t even recognize me. Nobody did, with the punishing rud in hand. Two elder women came out of the room, disturbance in their facial expression, a mix of lack of understanding and acceptance. The mother on its way upstairs. I saw the willow whistling in her resolute pace. As she passed the two women, maybe her older daughters, no communication, wordless, no efforts to ease or to stop the rampage. They entered after her. Darkness. I stopped crying, breathing, living, like before an explosion, watching the drop of a bomb, knowing what will happen in a second, preparing for leaving the past – from this moment on everything will be different. I stood there for hours, maybe for a couple of minutes. Silence. Fear expanded. The bomb was not an illusion, I saw it, with my own eyes. I was more and more terrified as longer as it took. I left. I walked away. I stopped. Listened. I walked, stopped, listened, I could hear a kid crying, I think, I was not sure. I walked, didn´t stop again. Took some corners, searched for an hideaway, like the boy who broke the glass of the window with a football.
Me the son of my parents and the pussyfooter.
Let me tell you this. All you elders, abusing, beating, slapping, harming your kids or any other kid in any way, physical or mental, physical and mental, reap my deepest and honest scorn from the bottom of my hate. You deserve to, no, not to die, this would be to fast. I would wish to believe, in hell, kept comfortable blazing, just for you. There is no excuse to use children for your frustration, your disability to handle your life, your stupidity to continue the circle of violence in your family, generation by generation. “We also survived and it didn´t harm us.” This is the most stupid sentence and excuse I have ever heard and sadly too often. Just for this sentence you deserve at least a broken nose. What do you think harmed you than, beating your own child. This is how you offer your children a different life, a better future? Teaching them violence? Not one time is acceptable and if so, because we live in a out-of-order world, you gonna fucking excuse yourself in a more than decent way. What you do if you beat or slap, out of proportion, unjustified or punch just a bit too hard, even if it was for fun, an elder person? You excuse yourself, because you might still have a rest of decency or you just are afraid of revenge. – So why you think hurting children is justified? WHY!!! Because this is reality and you want to teach them a lesson? Strengthen them, steal them, prepare them? If you think this world is fucked up and violence is part of what you call reality, than it is because of people like you, YOU, you huge enormous shit of an asshole, no matter how poor, rich or fucked up you are! Get yourself in treatment or die in my personal hell.