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| Sunday, 10 March 2002 |
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| News Business Features Editorial
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by YOGA PERERA She comes skipping along the footpath leading from her grandparents'
paddy field to her home. She was carefree, happy as a Her mother was busy nursing the little infant. She looked up and saw the gleaming eyes of her six year old daughter Kavitha. Her world was full of colours... the emerald patchworks of paddy fields, small blue streams weaving their way across the plantation which had many fruit trees, the vast carpets of red onions and chillies spread on the compound of her grandparents' sprawling old house. Her life was shared by singing birds, fluttering butterflies, bright flowers, parents, grandparents, children in the neighbourhood and of course her little baby brother. She loved him and was proud to talk about him to whoever was willing to listen. Though with the new addition in the family, she still continued to feel the warmth and security of her closely knit family. Her grandparents doted on her and she could get away from her mother's wrath for her pranks. Her father rarely came home empty handed after work. Life in the remote village of Kilinochchi was good, easy and uncomplicated for Kavitha. Of course she heard the adults talking about the 'situation' constantly. Words like 'shelling', 'shooting' and 'bombing' interspersed 'big people's' conversations. But nothing bothered her. She enjoyed going to her little Montessori and playing with her classmates. At the last fancy dress parade she dressed up as a doctor. A doctor she will be, she mused to herself with the all-important stethoscope. Dreams... colourful... full of life... pleasant... dreams... That dreadful afternoon she saw her mother's alarmed face as she cradled her baby brother who shed bitter tears of pain. When her father returned home, they got dressed to take her brother to the doctor. She put on her favourite pink dress, whilst her mother combed her hair and had it in two little neat plaits. Once her sandals were on her feet, she ran to the waiting three-wheeler. Whilst they were returning home the evening's sun was setting beautifully, casting an orange glow. All of a sudden she heard sounds of thunder. Her parents became panicky along with the driver. The sounds grew nearer. Explosions. The threewheeler ground to a halt. All of them jumped out. There were thick clouds of smoke. She heard people scurrying and shouting at each other. The clouds were getting dark. All of a sudden, she felt her father carrying her and throwing her over a fence. Everything went black. No sound. When she opened her eyes, she saw unknown faces. She called out to her mother. No answer. After what seemed hours, she heard a familiar but wailing voice. It was her grandmother's. She gathered Kavitha in her gnarled hands weeping uncontrollably. She was the only one left in the once warm and cosy nest of four. She turned to look one last time at the strewn bodies of her dear father, mother and brother as her grandmother gently dragged her away from the scene. Her universe of kaleidoscopic colours turned grey in a matter of minutes. The cruel hands of death had snatched her family. Kavitha moved from her idyllic paradise village to a teeming refugee camp with a new label as a 'displaced' person from the war-ravaged area. She was not a person anymore but a statistic, a number amidst toddlers, children of all ages, grown up men and women, tottering and wobbly elders. Gone were the happy days of freedom. Today she is cramped along with her grandmother and aunt who lost their home and all their belongings in the war which has confined them to the camp premises demarcated by harsh barbed wire. Their home is a tiny 10' x 10' cubicle partitioned by curtains of empty fertiliser bags. Facilities are limited. Kavitha has to share the water and latrines with hundreds of strangers. Grandmother and Aunt give Kavitha whatever best they can from the meagre rations of food and other items they receive. She is now among the hundreds and thousands of children displaced by a war that is beyond their comprehension. Whilst she falls asleep on her mat between her grandmother and aunt, she hears occupants of the other cubicles snoring or talking. Sometimes a baby wails, jolting her into the realisation that her baby brother is no more. She dreams of a future world sans guns and landmines, shooting and explosion... a world where children could live with parents and siblings without fear or favour. Her faint hope of becoming a doctor someday, is only nurtured and strengthened even as she observes the scores of sick people living outside the welfare clinic manned by a harried doctor. In the night she dreams of her lost family. Her eyes stare blankly at the horizon. No more scampering off to paddy fields to see her grandparents harvesting paddy or playing hopscotch and hide-and-seek with friends. The Basic Education for Children in Disadvantaged Areas Project in Vavuniya is at present guiding and supporting a few children like Kavitha towards achieving their hopes and dreams. Even as the long-awaited opening of the doors to peace has begun, may not little victims like Kavitha be bypassed by policy makers, national and international organisations in the elation of peacemaking. the writer is Office Administrator, The Basic Education for Children in Disadvantaged Areas Project in Vavuniya. |
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little bird chirping
along the way. Her flowered dress flapping gaily in the wind, she was
breathless as she walked into their house. She exclaimed, "Mother, I
saw the most beautiful butterfly today!" and went on to describe the
colours of the winged creature she found during her roam.
