Global Peace Support Group

On July 15, 1983, government forces scored a major hit in what was then a battle with a rag tag bunch of 29 Tamil militants. The LTTE’s Jaffna Commander, Charles Anthony alias Seelan was killed in battle. The hit sent massive ripples.

Seelan was very close to Pirapaharan, and the 29 year old LTTE leader vowed blood for blood. Eight days later, military forces got wind that the Tigers were planning a retaliatory attack.

All camps in the peninsula were ordered to refrain from patrols after 11 p.m. A special patrol under the command of a lieutenant was inducted to patrol the streets till 11.30 p.m. and withdraw thereafter.

This patrol, code named ‘Four Four Bravo’ (44B) was later to be the watershed in the annals of the ethnic conflict.

The LTTE lay in wait for the 15 man patrol at Thirunelvely, the second kilometer post on the Jaffna-Pallali Road. Led by Sellakili they exploded strategically placed mines when the truck and the jeep consisting the patrol approached, and opened fire. Thirteen — an ominous number according to Sri Lankan culture — soldiers perished in the attack. Sellakili too perished.

The government had prior indication of things to come when comrades of the slain soldiers went berserk in Jaffna. The army just watched.

On July 25, inside  Welikada Prison, the section where Tamil prisoners were held was attacked. Among those killed were the predecessors of the present day Tigers — Kuttumani, Thangadurai and Jegan. Kuttumani had his eyes gorged out. The previous year, when he was sentenced to death, he had said that he wanted to donate his eyes so that someone may witness the birth of Eelam. He had also warned that there would be hundreds more like him.

Four days later, on July 29, riots once again flared when rumours swirled that Tigers had come to Colombo. The rest of the story history.

The riots resulted in the country being dragged into a protracted conflict. Defence expenditure ballooned, Tamils left the country or relocated to Tamil dominated areas. The exodus swelled the cadre among militants and funneled millions in funds. It is the aftermath of the July ’83 riots that has engulfed this country in a bloody war that has taken the lives of over 60,000 people, seriously undermined the tourist market, investor climate and wrought havoc with the economy with the war itself being brought to the heart of the city of Colombo.

The Sunday Leader this week runs a five page Insight to mark the 20th year of the riots as a reminder to the people that racism and hatred can only visit more devastation and destruction on this island nation once proudly known as the ‘pearl of the Indian Ocean.’ Lest we forget.

A war institutionalised

In 1983 the national defence budget was Rs. 1.8 billion. Twenty years down the line it has grown into a monumental Rs. 50 billion. The 2003 figure is much better — in 2001 when the war was at its worst, it was Rs. 70 billion. Defence expenditure has galloped  with the escalation of the war.

Going by 1993 prices Sri Lanka was spending US $ 700 million on defence expenditure in 2001 according to a study by Muttukrishana Sarvananthan of the International Center for Ethnic Studies.

“Defence expenditure has been greater than the combined total of social expenditure during each year under consideration (1997-2001),” he observed analysing the 2001 budget.

By the time the 20^th anniversary of the July 1983 progrom comes, defence expenditure had become the largest component of national expenditure. In 2001 it overtook the allocations for the Finance and Planning Ministry and stood as the largest single component.

If not for the present pause-in-conflict situation, the gallop would have continued. Even now defence  expenditure is way above the manageable mark.

The defence budget was not only eating in to the economy, it was suffocating funds that could have been directed at much needed development work. While defence expenditure was at 4-6% of GDP the combined expenditure on health and education was between 4% and 5% — the social expenditure  referred to by Sarvananthan.

Biggest impediment

The single biggest impediment  preventing economic growth for the last two decades has been the war. Its effects have been exacerbated by political uncertainty, global events and poor fiscal policies.

In 2000, the World Bank said that Sri Lanka’s average annual GDP growth rate of about 4.5% in the past 15 years was below its capacity. “Several factors explain Sri Lanka’s performance: the civil conflict; excessive role of the government in the economy…,” the bank said in a report titled Sri Lanka — Recapturing Missed Opportunities.

The year after the report was released, the Tigers attacked the Katunayake Airport causing US $ 1 billion in damages to the economy and sent the economy into a negative growth rate.

On top of its overbearing weight on the economy, the war was ripping through the social fabric of Sri Lanka. Researchers have linked the rise in crime rate, narcotic use and other problems to the war and the increasing militarisation of the country. The war has also left a section within society both in the south and the north that is dependent on handouts.

The 2000 report predicted — “Achieving long lasting reconciliation and trust is undoubtedly the most difficult of tasks for Sri Lanka, but one with the greatest of payoffs.” Last week while releasing the new Country Assessment Report, World Bank Country Manager, Peter Harrold said “ the fiscal strains of the last 20 years have inevitably reduced the financing available for the other war — the fight against poverty.”

Nation’s destiny

The war, in other words played pandu with every Sri Lankan’s destiny. The 1983 riots was the turning point, it institutionalised the war.

“Until the early-1980’s, the ethnic conflict was primarily limited to the political arena where destruction to property and life was minimal. However, violence had occurred on a number of occasions, such as in the passing of the ‘Sinhalese Only Bill’ in 1956. Similar ethnic riots involving Tamils and Sinhalese occurred in 1958, 1977 and 1981, with the most violent and destructive taking place in 1983. Many observers see the violence of July, 1983 as the turning point in the conflict,” the World Bank’s most recent report recapped.

“After the early-1980’s, such sporadic cases of violence gave way to institutionalised political violence which became a main feature of the conflict. At this stage, organised or institutionalised political violence was widely utilised by both political parties in power and the Tamil youth who organised themselves into armed guerrilla outfits. This development marked the militarisation and the steady brutalisation of the Sri Lankan ethnic conflict.”

Mind boggling amount

Defence allocations that stood at Rs. 1.8 billion in 1983 jumped to Rs. 2.6 billion in ’84, Rs. 6.1 billion in ’85 and Rs. 16 billion in ’86. Very few if any paid any attention to the rising ‘tidal wave’ of expenditure and the trend continued. By the time the present Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) came into place, the money going for defence expenditure was mind boggling.

Between 1982 and 1993 Sri Lanka allocated Rs. 133 billion for defense expenditure. In comparison, during the last five years of the war from 1997 to 2001 the figure — at very conservative estimates — is Rs. 280 billion.

The exact economic impact of the ’83 riots may never be quantified — no one has tried as yet. Many would prefer to forget the riots. The country has missed the bus on many an occasion without realising that longer the ethnic crisis is perpetuated, higher the ‘blood money’ that has to be paid.

Human cost of the war

The conflict in Sri Lanka has led to loss of life, the displacement of persons belonging to all ethnic groups and the destruction of infrastructure, health care facilities and schools. Approximately 2.5 million persons lived in areas of direct military activity – 65,000 people have been killed, 800,000 are internally displaced, including 172,000 living in refugee camps and another 700,000 left the country. There are 30,000 war widows and an estimated 300,000 displaced children in the north east where the school dropout rate is double the national average. The infant mortality rate in the north east is twice the national average, the maternal mortality rate is thrice the national average and 92% of malaria deaths are reported from the region. There are an estimated 1.8 million landmines in the north – a per capita incidence comparable to Angola.

Source : World Bank

Impact of July 1983 on Tamil armed struggle

By D.B.S. Jeyaraj

The violence unleashed against innocent and unarmed Tamils in July 1983 brought in its wake many unintended and unforeseen consequences. Chief among them was the rise of the Tamil armed militancy. Those responsible for the anti-Tamil pogrom and the Sixth Constitutional Amendment disavowing separatism may have expected the Tamil people to be cowed into submission through brute force. It was the opposite that happened. The Tamil Eelam demand and related armed struggle received a massive fillip.

Twenty years have passed since the July '83 pogrom. The Tamil armed struggle has reached epic proportions today. The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam organisation has become the premier politico-military force of the Tamils. It has raised militias modelled on a conventional army and is perhaps the only guerrilla force in the world that has a naval wing. It controls swathes of territory in the north and east. It is also a force to be reckoned with in areas under the nominal control of the Sri Lankan armed forces. The Tigers' reach extends even to Colombo and other places in Sinhala majority regions.

Formidable entity

Given the size and power of the LTTE today, it would be very hard to believe that this formidable entity was a very weak outfit in comparative terms 20 years ago. However unpalatable it may be to the hawks south of Vavuniya, the simple truth was exactly that. The LTTE had only 29 full time members when it launched the attack on the army patrol at Thirunelvely on July 23. It also had another 20 to 30 people as helpers and active supporters in the north east. The July '83 pogrom however changed all that.

There was a collective upsurge among Tamils after 1983. Almost every young Tamil felt that force had to be met with force. They began flocking to the existing movements like the Tigers, People's Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eelam (PLOTE), Tamil Eelam Liberation Organisation (TELO), Eelam People Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF) and Eelam Revolutionary Organisation (EROS). In addition to these several new organisations emerged overnight. Some were splinters from existing groups. There were 34 identifiable groups at one stage.

Outraged

The phenomenon of young Tamils outraged by the July violence chanting the mantra of "aayuthap porattam" (armed struggle) received two terrific boosts. Firstly India entered the scene and began providing arms and training to the  new recruits. Boatload after boatload of youths crossed the Palk Strait and received training in north and south India.

Secondly there was a massive exodus of Tamils to foreign countries. The Tamil diaspora grew rapidly in size. These Tamils began collecting and sending money to the armed movements. Thus began growing the Tamil armed struggle.

The LTTE, PLOTE, TELO , EPRLF and EROS  together had only about 275 to 300 cadres when the July violence erupted. The numbers began swelling in the aftermath of the pogrom. The combined strength of the groups reached five digits within a year. This rapid increase caused its own problems. Later fratiricidal conflicts transformed the nature of the Tamil armed struggle. Nevertheless there is no denying that the 1983 violence  effectively laid the foundation for a widespread conflict that is yet to be resolved.

There was a tremendous sense of idealism among Tamils after 1983 July. Almost every Tamil  living in  southern Sri Lanka was affected directly or indirectly. The scale of deaths, destruction and displacement was massive. Apart from the devastation there was the feelings of wounded pride and injured self-respect. The urge to prove that the Tamils were not a cowardly people was predominant. There was also the insecurity factor. Tamil consciousness underwent a significant change as a result of the July pogrom. One event that fired many young Tamils was the Welikada Prison massacre that resulted in the gruesome deaths of 52 Tamil political prisoners. Thirty five were killed on July 25, and 17 on July 27th.

Ruthless reputation

Tamils had hitherto laid great emphasis on education. It was seen as the avenue to upward mobility. A white collar job was the overwhelming desire of young Tamils. This created a bookwormish image of Tamil youths. Even worms turn. This is exactly what happened after 1983. Many highly qualified Tamils holding good jobs left them and took up arms; many undergraduates joined; so too did  brilliant students doing their advanced levels. Another feature was the number of youths studying in India and Western countries to take up arms. Later Tamil girls too started joining the movements. Today the "Tamil Tigresses" have acquired a ruthless reputation.

Violence against Tamils has been continuing since 1956. Force had been systematically deployed against Tamils to suppress their nonviolent struggle for equality. The violence was of two categories. One was the mob violence encouraged and fostered by the powers that be. The second was the use - official and unofficial - of police and armed forces to crush legitimate Tamil aspirations. This continuing process peaked during July 1983. Organised and disorganised mobs wrought havoc with active collusion by sections of the police and armed forces. That pogrom was the turning point for Tamils. The armed struggle thereafter became inevitable.

Former Opposition Leader, Appapillai Amirthalingam stated only a few weeks before the July pogrom that "the Tamil people cannot be continuously treated in this fashion." Those prophetical words became true after July 1983. That tragic period in the last week of July became the defining moment for Tamil militant consciousness. The consequences of July 1983 prevail still. The important question is have the correct lessons been learnt?

Heroes of Black July

At 6.15 p.m, July 24, 1983, the SLBC English news announced 'the bodies of the 13 soldiers killed in the landmine explosion in. Jaffna are to be airlifted to Colombo later in the evening for burial with full military honours at Borella Kanatte.'

One hour later, at a house down Railway Avenue, Nugegoda, a group of 10 to 15 people gathered to celebrate the 64th birthday of Mrs. D were discussing in hushed voices the evening news and the unfolding events. "The news said the bodies will be flown to Colombo in the night. Already Kanatte is full of people and there is going to be trouble," predicted a visibly upset Sinhalese lady doctor, whose  residence stood just across the road from Kanatte, having earlier observed the place beginning to take on an ugly face.

"Better get home soon," suggested another lady, quite emotional. After all this was a time when war was unheard of and the threat of mass scale violence evoked genuine fear. The tension in the house where a party was supposed to be happening was almost tangible. The air itself held something eerie, the feeling that hits you when you know something is going to go terribly wrong. The air was heavy, almost making it impossible to breathe, heavy with foreboding that something horrible was about to unfold that very night.

Fear

At about this same time, Mrs. D's neighbours, two Tamil families living just a few yards behind in two separate houses, but with no wall or fence standing to separate the houses, were breathing the same air and shaking; shaking with fear. Fear about the ultimate consequence, the loss of their lives, their loved ones, their homes, their lifelong possessions, for word had spread that 'mobs were waiting to teach the Tamils a lesson to avenge the killing of the soldiers.'

For one of the two families, the Sebastians, the fear was just too much. They had also heard the SLBC evening news and their relations in Borella had phoned and warned of the impending danger. Later into the night when the Sebastians phoned the Borella relations to check on the latest situation the phone rang and rang at the other end. There was no answer. To the Sebastians, it seemed, trouble was well on its way. To this family of five, if they ever needed a cue for anything, this was it. They decided to hit the road. Packing whatever they could within a matter of minutes, the family disappeared into the night. It took a couple of months before their neighbour, Mrs. D, was to receive word that the Sebastians had reached Jaffna and were in a refugee camp.

Meanwhile, guests at Mrs. D's birthday party were moving on to dessert - ice cream, jelly, and cake - when there was a knock on the kitchen door. Mrs. D who at the time happened to be in the kitchen fishing out the dessert bowls, heard the knock. With 64 years of the ups and downs of life behind her, and blessed with a fantastic sense of intuition, it is but impossible for her to have not anticipated that knock; and knowing the lady she in all probability was waiting for it, and when it came she knew exactly what to do. Stealthily approaching the kitchen door, unseen and unknown to the house-full of guests, she opened the door, and with a knowing look took in the sight of the quivering Mrs. Subramaniam.

Even before her Tamil neighbour could make the plea - the plea that every Tamil would have made to every Sinhala friend they knew that night: 'Please save us' - Mrs. D had already volunteered. "If there is any trouble you can come and stay with me," she had assured the frightened Mrs. Subramaniam, who regularly knocked on the same door, although much earlier in the day, for a chat, a cup of tea, to exchange sweetmeats during avurudhu times, to compare the 'light bills,' to borrow something or the other, and an endless list of such mundane day to day things that come up  in housewives' lives.

Assured of Mrs. D's help should it be needed, Mrs. Subramaniam quietly returned to her expectant household and told her husband and two children gathered near the doorway in almost total darkness (the lights being switched off), they need not worry.

Extraordinary meeting

Mrs. D meanwhile returned to the party and her guests. Not a word about her extraordinary meeting was spoken about - not at least till five days hence, when the flames were beginning to die-down, and that too only to her children.

For Mrs. D,  who lived alone, it all began around midnight on July 24, 1983, long after her guests had left.

Mrs. Subramaniam, aggravated by the sudden departure of the Sebastians next door and feeling increasingly vulnerable, decided to seek comfort in her Sinhalese neighbour, Mrs. D's offer. With her family of three in tow and a handful of belongings gathered hurriedly in the darkness in hand, they made their way to the back-door of Mrs. D's house, a distance of about 25 yards that was covered in thick foliage.

Mrs. D opened the door on the second knock. She had already prepared a spare room for her anticipated guests. Having been shown to the room, the kitchen door was shut firmly, as was the front door. That night nobody in the household slept.

Towards dawn the radio crackled with the news. "mobs have started to attack Tamils." The dreaded moment had arrived.

Not much after, Mrs. D could hear the loud cries and the screams of a rampaging mob, slowly but surely making its way towards her house and the two Tamil houses immediately behind.

They came in all sizes and shapes, some wearing sarongs, some shorts, some longs and all carried something in their hands - sticks, poles, bottles filled with kerosene or petrol, gunny bags to carry away whatever was of value, and some even brought carts to loot the bigger items. The mobsters had to pass Mrs. D's house to reach the houses behind and so there was no chance of them missing this house, and worse still, once they finished their business with the houses behind they had to return the same way and should the mobsters begin to wander what happened to the missing families in the houses behind...it certainly would have been curtains for five people. Through some stroke of luck though putting two and two together was not a strong point of the mob that turned up. If one ever needed an indicator of the mental capacity of those who attacked, here it was.

Mrs. D meanwhile having come to the door to answer the queries of "Demellu innawada?" by the half naked thugs seemed nonplussed. Thug or no thug the pint sized Mrs. D was not going to step aside to let some goon snoop around her house. She stood her ground blocking the doorway. "Mehe demellu ne.  Karunakara meheng yanna." The thugs however taking their time and peeping behind the open door to make sure the gray haired lady's words could be trusted, once satisfied, decided to move on. It did not take them long to pounce on the two Tamil homes behind. Within minutes having 'cleaned out' the two houses they were set on fire, and while Mrs. D could see what was going on - the petrol bombs being thrown willy-nilly into the already burning house - Mrs. Subramaniam and family hiding in the room in Mrs. D's house could clearly hear the destruction taking place. In little over an hour the mob was gone, but the fires raged on.

'Iron lady'

The will and the words of this old but 'iron lady' had saved a Tamil family from certain death.

For the next few days the Subramaniams hugged each other in the room and prayed for dear life. Mrs. D true to her promise on the night of July 24 made sure her 'guests' were made to feel at 'home' and were given the best she could muster. As the dust settled it became apparent that their own homes were nothing more than a pile of rubble. But, as the days wore on, the family realised they were lucky - luckier than many other Tamils who had to pay with their lives.

The courage of this Sinhalese lady who risked her life and all she had and the many other thousands of such Sinhalese who sheltered Tamils showed that not all Sinhalese could  be painted with the same brush as 'killers, ethnic cleansers,' etc. as is usually the case when it comes to describing 'Black July '83.'

P.S: Towards the end of July '83 Mrs. Subramaniam and family left Mrs. D's house and headed for the north. One month later, it was learn't, they were bound for Germany - a son of Mrs. Subramaniam had arranged the trip.

Mrs. D died two years ago in her old house, the 'safe house,' which to date remains distinct and unchanged in an environment that is beyond recognition to the days of July '83. The likes of Mrs. D knew no 'Sinhalese,' 'Tamils,' 'Muslims,' or 'Burghers;' they knew only Sri Lankans.

Maharaja group - "Courage to be different"

Rising from the ashes

ONE of the largest business houses to be targeted during the riots was the Maharaja Organisation.

But true to  its  motto: "The courage to be different," the owners did not fold up and run. Instead, within hours, even as the smoke billowed, they regrouped, reorganised and started rebuilding.

The irony was that the Maharaja Organisation was targeted despite the fact, over 80 % of its employees were Sinhalese.

And today, having risen from the ashes phoenix like, the Maharaja Organisation has overcome all obstacles and ventured into new frontiers, trail blazing as the most innovative electronic media organisation in the country. Theirs has been a real life story of grit and determination.

The 1983 riots brought the Maharaja Organisation to its knees. "Within a period of three days, everything had been burnt to the ground," said Group Director, Mano Wikramanayake. The company, however, took the decision to recommence business within a day of the attack.

While the general belief is that the attacks were race driven, it is the company belief that the attack on the Ratmalana factory, which had a 500 strong work force, was politically motivated.

"In Ratmalana it is our belief that the attack was politically motivated."

There were politicians at that time, who for various reasons of their own, used to try to pressurise the organisation to hire people, something the company "does not usually give in to," he said.

The head office, which was also reduced to ashes, was not set on fire deliberately, he says. "The head office was not attacked but the saree shops next door were and that was by just a general mob. Ranjanas Stores caught fire and all the sarees went up in flames. The fire spread through air conditioning vents and so on into our building and burnt the entire head office down."

However, at Ratmalana and Meegoda they were attacked by mobs. Wikramanayake believes that at Meegoda, it was just general mayhem and the mob, in the heat of things, came and set fire to the factory.

Decision to rebuild

"What was left untouched was the tea operations office, the Maharaja Investments office and a motor garage at Union Place. We all moved into those operations and then we decided that we were going to rebuild the company."

At the time, the Maharaja Organisation had five major locations; the head office at Bankshall Street, factory complexes at Meegoda and Ratmalana, the investments head office at Union Place and the tea operations at Braybrook Place.

"Our business was largely tea export, manufacture and marketing of PVC pipes, manufacture and marketing of cosmetics and personal care products, tyre retreading and we had a finance company business. Those were the key operations," he said.

The company also had other businesses like printing and pharmaceutical manufacture, which were not that big and imported and distributed many products like Citizen watches and Polaroid cameras as well.

There have been many riots over the years and the company has never been touched until '83, said Wikramanayake. "Even then our workforce was largely Sinhalese. We had at that time 3000 workers in the company, employees were mainly Sinhalese. In the factories that were burnt, I would say 99% of the employees were Sinhalese. These politicians did this knowing this.

"I don't think the attacks on our Ratmalana factory complex were race driven at all. I think the race thing was used there for political purposes and then by criminal elements. It was more than a race riot. It was complete anarchy at that time."

When they decided to rebuild, the workers had offered to work free but the managing director of the group had made sure that everybody was paid their full salary. Nobody was asked to leave.

All the riots that took place before, even the riots in '58, were localised and quickly stopped, he says.

According to Wikramanayake, the '83 rioting went on for a whole week because the then government didn't do anything about it. "On top of the riots there were political vendettas being settled, there were rogues making use of this and breaking into houses and there was a situation of complete lawlessness."

No one was prosecuted in this regard. There were no complaints lodged. The rioting was so intense that there were no complaints lodged at all and nobody was brought to book," he said.

Traumatic period

Wikramanayake describes that period as a traumatic time for the organisation but adds that, looking back, it had a very positive impact on the growth of the company.

The organisation took the opportunity to retool their factories and was able to get in new technology and reorganise the manufacturing operations but did not restart some of the businesses, printing being one of them.

The rebuilding, which they started immediately, was done by the company itself with no help from the government, says Wikramanayake.

The government had set up an organisation called REPIA for the rehabilitation of assets that were affected in the fire and all assets that were thus affected were vested in the government and the government was going to rebuild, he said. "We got this divested because we knew if the government was to help us, we would be waiting for years."

They also had to face problems with regard to insurance. The organisation's insurance was blocked and finally they received only half of what they claimed, in four installments over a period of four years.

"Because of that it was very difficult for us to rebuild, but our shareholders put in some money and our joint venture partners helped us and so on."

The Bank of Ceylon, Wikramanayake says, was largely responsible for helping the organisation get back on its feet. "They came forward and gave us the same facilities that we had on the day we got burnt. In fact they doubled the facilities."

Eswaran Bros.

It was the natural instinct: to flee, to put space between a city that has suddenly turned hostile towards the Tamil community. The tragic events of July 23, 1983 made over 65,000 Tamils flee to South India while an estimated 150,000 migrated.

For those like the famous Eswaran Brothers, their suffering did not make them sever their links with Sri Lanka.

One of the premier Tamil business concerns established in Colombo, Eswaran Bros. was different to the run of the mill operations.

One senior employee who had stayed with the company over three decades told The Sunday Leader " it was heart breaking to know that we were not wanted or trusted."

While several Tamil companies soon relocated their various businesses to South India, the Eswaran family too shifted momentarily to Tamil Nadu's capital Chennai for temporary salvation - but retained their home base in Colombo. Several of their houses were burned to cinders.

The company that experienced steady growth over four decades boasts of an interesting beginning. Eswaran Snr - a South Indian Tamil - arrived in Colombo along with an uncle of his to work as an assistant cook. This was in 1920. His business acumen led him to form his own company in 1942, and Eswaran Bros. was created in 1963.

The man had simple faith that Sri Lanka would give him the future he envisaged. The 1983 riots could not alter that fact. As his successors recall, Eswaran left for Chennai with his wife and three sons in 1983. One son stayed back to settle insurance claims, pay up debts and attend to the logistics.

Senior managers recalled that 60% of the business was destroyed in the riots. Industries, buildings, cash, all disappeared in a flash.

When Eswarans' Kotahena residence was being attacked, a neighbour took the old gentleman along with some 40 odd people into her house, and bravely stood her ground saying, " there are no Tamils inside her house" as a group of blood- hounding men bearing swords and knives threatened to break in.

The lady, one Shiela Perera is remembered by the senior staff of Eswaran Bros. with much gratitude.

As their properties went up in flames, it was a Buddhist priest from Kotahena who provided Eswarans the courage to return home. To stay back. An army officer named Nihal Marambe was in charge of the Kotahena area at that time, and some recalled that Marambe managed to recover much  of the stolen goods. The monk and the officer together ensured that the Tamils fearing for their lives could go back to their homes and live in safety.

"The officer once had a small parcel full of stolen gold sovereigns.  He would visit each home asking families to describe their lost sovereigns and returned them," recalled a top ranker at Eswaran Bros.

Momentary shift

When riots broke out, the Habib Bank - Eswarans' bankers were celebrating 50 years of business in Colombo. Having witnessed the tragic turn of events here, Eswarans' overdraft was increased making it possible for them to survive. And to expand.

The momentary shift by the Eswaran family to India fruitioned much later. In the late '90s, along with Indian and Sri Lankan investors, a three- star hotel which is very much Sri Lankan in its service was established in Chennai.

Eswaran Bros. had different business concerns including shipping, imports, exports and apartment sales until recently. Their exports are confined to bubble gums and the local concentration is on tea. They have some shops/show rooms at the Duty Free Complex, Liberty  and Unity Plazas.  

"Of course, the initial years were difficult. The truth is that first we had to try and understand whether Tamils were going to be tolerated amongst these very passionate Sinhala chauvinistic feelings," noted a senior employee.

The story of Eswaran Bros is one of courage and implicit faith. The founder often told his sons and employees that there was no permanently peaceful place.

An ignorant generation

It all happened exactly  20 years back. Yet the consequences  are obvious. Despite the ferocity of the riots and the permanent scars, the generation that was born after July '83 is hardly aware of what took place.

Most  young people born after '83 were aware of the riots but knew next to nothing of the extent to which it changed history. It has been relegated to a point of reference in time.  Here's what some think of 'Black' July.

Anusha, age 19

"I was born in 1984. That is one year after the riots took place. But I am not quite sure how it all happened, other than the fact that it was an issue between the Sinhalese and the Tamils. I am glad that I was not born during that time because even when I hear the elders relating those disastrous happenings, I get terrified."

Shehan, age 19

"It is just that I know there were lots  of trouble going on in the country between the Sinhalese and the Tamils. In fact I am not interested to go deep into the matter for everything happened in the past." 

Sonali, age16

"I am not much aware of all those incidents that took place in '83. Moreover, I think as children, we should not maintain the barrier between the two ethnic groups. Neither our parents nor our teachers encourage us to do so. Even in schools we treat the Tamils with equality. Therefore it is better if we can keep away from recalling those unpleasant memories."

Tanuja , age 20

"I was very keen in gathering information regarding the '83  riots.  I still continue to do so. What is important is  we should be aware of the cause which paved way for such a disaster because this awareness would probably be helpful to avoid such circumstances in the future."

The blue skies of 'black' Friday

Black Friday was a sunny day with blue skies. In fact, the scorching sun was making people rush to office in the tin can type coaches that plied the narrow streets at that time.

But nobody could get to their offices on time - many people stuck midway on the streets were wondering what was happening.

The black smoke that was licking the buildings shocked the people initially, but it was the gulping flames from the high-rise buildings that turned moving people into statues. There was pandemonium. They feared to move forward. The private buses that were to go to Fort were turning back and going to safer places.

No safe place

But there was no safe place anywhere. Be it Borella, Fort, Pettah or the outskirts as Nugegoda, Dehiwala or Mount Lavinia, there was fire everywhere. Mobs were all over. The sarongs were up - many were carrying half of their sarongs with one hand and huge wooden batons with the other. They were shouting "Demellu innnawada?" But it was the Tamil people in and around Colombo that huddled together in fear. The lucky families had their Sinhalese friends protecting them.

Still many people were trying to get telephone calls to their offices or homes, but at a time when cellular phones were unheard of, a telephone call was the only way to get through. But the phones were not working in the first place and even if they did, nobody cared. What everybody wanted was to go in search of safety, and there seemed to be no safety anyway. Everywhere, the mobs were patrolling, they were looking for "Demellu."

Later on, the lure was the clothes, the electrical items and all the good things that were at other times behind glass showcases.

Those who got to their offices peered from the windows at the destruction around. Never had there been so much violence in the whole of Sri Lanka at one time.

It was afternoon at Hospital Road, and there was panic as people were running inside their houses. The mobs however ran bravely, tying their lifted sarongs around their sweating torsos, "kotiya, kotiya" they shouted as they stopped a pastel coloured Volkswagen and dragged its driver out.

Mobs were stopping buses; like members of the armed forces they were checking ID cards, they were talking to people who looked like Tamils, to identify them by their accent. Stopping buses, they smashed  the windows asking "Demallu innawanam bahinna."

Here was a day when people were beaten and killed with bare hands and batons for being Tamils.

It was a day of horror for the Tamil people of this country. Children clutching in fear on to their mothers cried for their fathers. It was the male folk  who were greater prey to the mobs. Whose brother, whose uncle, whose father, it did not matter.

Disfigured bodies

The hospitals were functioning but it was the mortuaries that were busy. Bodies were being brought into the main hospitals, especially the Colombo South Hospital in  open  trucks. The blackened bodies of human beings  were  not recognisable as they lay strewn on the floor of trucks mangled and disfigured.  They were at that time called bodies of 'kotiyas' but the burnt rigid corpses were of people who happened to be on the streets, or simply at home during this black day in July. Who were they and what they felt, we will never know.

The anguish and the trauma of this black Friday spurred many teledramas and films promoting Tamil-Sinhala harmony. Sarungalay was a film that brought a sense of guilt and tears to the eyes of those who thought that this day was initiated by patriots.

But no amount of harmony on celluloid can take away the real fears and the tears that this day brought. It was a sight that will never be forgotten.

A community torn apart

July 24, 1983 is a day that will remain in the minds of many Sri Lankans for years to come.

Gangs and thugs took to the streets of Colombo with the intention of attacking and causing harm to Tamils residing in the city.

Some Tamils took refuge in Sinhalese houses  who risked their lives to protect them. But others were not so lucky. While houses burned to the ground before their own eyes, victims were locked inside their vehicles and were set on fire.

For Michael Rajasingham (name changed) July 25, 1983 was just another day. He got up in the morning and got ready to go to work. According to Rajasingham when he stepped out of his

house at Pelawatte Road in Nugegoda, his neighbours told him they had heard of some "problems" in the country. "It was a while later that I heard about the attack on Tamils in Colombo. Even then I didn't think the mobs were going to attack Tamil houses," Rajasingham said.

Rajasingham went on to say that he was standing outside his house when he heard the first signs of the mob coming down the road. "My neighbours shouted at me to go inside," he said.

Two mobs

Rajasingham shut the gate and door of the house. But within minutes he heard the sound of crashing windows and the loud noise of stones hitting his house. Rajasingham then jumped over the wall and took shelter in his neighbour's house.

The time was 11 a.m. and the first mob had just attacked Rajasingham's house. "The first mob only threw stones," Rajasingham said. However the second mob that arrived around 6 p.m. the same day were all out to destroy and loot whatever they found inside. According to Rajasingham some of these thugs were from his area and he recognised some of them.

"I was in my neighbour's house and occasionally peeping out to see what was happening. I saw these thugs throw petrol bombs at my house. A few minutes later I heard the first crashing sounds of the walls collapsing," Rajasingham said.

"I remained at my neighbour's house. My children were very small at the time. So they were taken away by one of our relatives the same day. However, I stayed on till the next day," he said.

On July 26, Rajasingham made an entry at the Mirihana police station. He remained at the Sirimavo Bandaranaike Vidyalaya camp together with others affected by the riots.

Once the situation got back to normal, Rajasingham returned to the house he had lived in for  40 years. "There was nothing left of my house. Only ash and dust," he said.

Three to four Tamil houses were burnt on Pelawatte Road, and many of Rajasingham's Tamil friends were leaving the country. They asked him to come with them. But Rajasingham decided to stay back and rebuild his life from scratch once again.  

"I was 51 years old then. How could I go to another country and start life all over again?" Rajasingham asked. "I admit I was very upset with my Sinhalese friends during the 1983 riots. We lived like brothers and sisters during that time. We ate together drank together and these people came to my place every year to celebrate Christmas with my family. But the moment the riots broke out they did nothing to prevent my house from being looted or burnt."

Abandoned

According to Rajasingham he was the secretary of the "vigilance committee" formed long before the 1983 riots. "We formed this committee with the intention of preventing robberies and problems by unknown people in the area. We had a system where if somebody in the neighbourhood were in trouble, he or she would blow a whistle. All the neighbours would then come rushing out to help the victim. But when the Tamil riots started, the Sinhalese members of the vigilance committee just ignored." 

According to Rajasingham the UNP was the main cause of the 1983 riots. It was the politicians who created this hatred among the Sinhalese and Tamils.

It took Rajasingham two months to rebuild his house. "Once a house is completely burnt it becomes the property of the government. I had to first prove that the house was mine and then start building it all over again," he said.

According to Rajasingham  one of the men who burnt down his house started a boutique after the riots were over. He started the boutique with the things he had looted from the houses in the area. However, within a few weeks the man was burnt to death when a bottle lamp toppled over.

Rajasingham also remembers that a man who had stolen a brass string hopper mould from his place - while the house was abandoned and he sought refuge next door - going around looking for a missing piece in the mould. "Nobody will believe me when I say this, but this man came back to my place after the riots asking for the missing piece of the string hopper mould," Rajasingham said.

Rajasingham did not receive any compensation. But after years of hard work Rajasingham finally sold his house in Pelawatte and moved to Wattala where he now lives with his wife and children.

A son's memoir

It was just another day for an 11 year old in grade six. Trudging my overweight bag and my younger brother I went to school, quite oblivious to the violence that had taken place overnight.

There was nothing out of the ordinary at school, morning prayers, grumpy prefects and even grumpier teachers. No anxiety, no fear, no black smoke, nothing.

The first sign of something amiss came when an urgent assembly was called, it is quite a big affair usually. When we lined up, we saw quite a large gathering of parents with very anxious looks on their faces. There was one simple message, "school's closed, get home fast."

So me and my brother trudged out of school with the rest of the lot. Outside, we could feel that nothing was right. We met our mother, a teacher at a nearby school. Our home was just five kms away from the school, but instead of taking us home she took us to a friend's place. It was on the way that we saw the first signs of burning and looting. Some shops were on fire while others were being ransacked.

After awhile, the three of us decided to head home on foot. A little later, a lorry stopped and offered to give us a lift.

Check points

At the Katubedda CTB depot the lorry was stopped. Depot workers had erected barriers on the road and were checking all vehicles for 'Tamils.' Around us the entire place was on fire. The Hidramani Garments office and shopping complex, just next door to the depot was on fire, so were houses and other garment factories around the place. When the mob tried to verify our ethnicity, my mother's first words were "ai mokada?" That put the mob off instantly. And I thought my mother was one big hero, only later to be explained that her pronunciation of 'mokada' gave away her ethnicity.

We got off from the lorry in front of the Soysapura Flats. And we walked into hell. Houses were being ransacked, life-savings were being burnt on the road. The mob was running wild. We saw a fridge being thrown down from the third floor, it fell 100 feet down with a thud and the door flew off.

Only the first few blocks were under attack, while Tamils living in the inner blocks were trapped with no way out and in mortal fear.

Neighbours had turned attackers - the Sinhalese had turned into a rabid lot demanding blood and destroying the dreams of generations. The flames that we saw as children on that day would burn right through my life. As a journalist, a decade later, I would see the Central Bank on fire, the Airport under attack. I would speak to soldiers evacuated from Elephant Pass army camp and hear stories of death due to dehydration. Almost two decades  later I would come face to face with LTTE cadres, manning the A9 highway and hear girls with sweet eyes say "we don't want to live with the Sinhalese. We will die." All this while their leader spoke peace.

Trapped

On July 25, 1983, I saw the flames, but for the rest of my life I have lived the nightmare. A nightmare of suicide bombers, of curfews, of bombs, of leaving a family not knowing if I would come back home alive.

But the nightmare was not only mine, it was a nation's nightmare. And we are still living through it.

On that day in July '83 when we got home - we lived on a first floor flat - my father, a journalist himself was at home. He had had prior notice and had got back home.

The neighbours were out. On our side there were no Tamils, so there was no immediate problem. But the surrounding blocks were full of them. We and our neighbours were divided. While some of us wanted to go out and protect them, another lot wanted to direct the mob to the relevant 'kotti geval.'

In fact, on the flat just opposite, the neighbour above indicated to the mob on rampage the Tamil house just below. The husband and wife were inside. My mother was livid, luckily the mob could not break the door and a police officer who occupied the house in front came out and chased them away.

Sanity prevailed among the lot at C5, our block. Only one house was damaged, that being occupied by some Tamil boys who had very fortunately decided not to find their way back home that night.

But the night had just begun. My father had a colleague and a good friend - a Tamil, who lived in the flat next door. He was a widower with five children. Initially when my parents went to look into their welfare, they were told that a famous film star living on the floor above had taken it upon herself to look after the family.

The actress' much vaunted courage started ebbing away when she saw the mobs marauding through the flats, burning, looting at will. She informed her guests that they were no longer guests and had to find alternate accommodation.

Which meant that about 15 Tamils, had to navigate about 100 feet from that home to ours while thousands were after their blood. Thankfully the Soysapura housing scheme is a labyrinth.

Burning and looting

Somehow, my parents with the help of other neighbours got them to our home - a two bed roomed flat -  now had almost 20 people. Within minutes our guests' house was attacked and everything thrown onto the road and burnt. On the same row was the house of a national tennis champion. It was when his property was burnt that I heard for the first time in my life the sound of tennis balls exploding. The flats themselves could not be set on fire as it would have started a massive inferno destroying entire blocks.

For whatever reason, we never came under threat. May be it was because my father was a journalist, or may be it was because my mother was a no-nonsense type. The Tamils in fear lived in our home for about six days, huddled together, no one among them had spare clothes.

It was not my courage that saved them, most certainly not. It was my parents'. Normal, run of the mill individuals, changed into beastly animals, who protected their adopted brood as rabidly as the mobs  after their blood. And yes, I am proud of them.

I really couldn't make out the empty expression of those young Tamil men seated in our main bedroom back then. I was wild with them because someone among them broke my best swimming goggles. Twenty years down the line now I can make out what those looks meant. It was of a will broken, of pride stepped upon. We hardly talked, and my father made sure that they were safely transported to the refugee camp at the Ratmalana Hindu College as soon as it was safe enough.

We lost touch with them thereafter. The family relocated to Jaffna and we heard that some of the boys had turned out to be 'boys.' If that was true I wouldn't blame them. For no fault of theirs, they were set upon like hunted animals.

Their flat was sold. Ironically a Sinhala family from a nearby block moved in - they were having problems with their Sinhala neighbours. The same neighbours who had indicated the Tamil family below.

There were others like my parents - many others. They formed vigilante committees and made sure that there was no more looting. They stayed up all night, making sure that our house would not be attacked.

Government in denial

The government of the day, that of Junius Richard Jayewardene was not among that lot. It was a government in denial. The first army and police personnel were inducted into the Soysapura flats about three days after the riots. The July 24 headline in one state-owned newspaper read - "Free economy is the bedrock of progress." The nation was in denial and later would pay dearly, very dearly.

My parents went back to being run of the mill citizens after July 25. They hardly spoke about safeguarding Tamils. They lived and died like run of the mill citizens,  except  for that brief time, where they stood together. Their efforts were not enough to prevent the Tamils in our bedroom from hating the Sinhalese, the destruction was too much for that.

Around them, my parents saw a nation turning into wild animals, but they, for whatever reason decided not to follow the safety of the mob, and took a stance. Twenty years down the line, I thank them for that, for making me see friends, families and children than Tamils, Muslims and Sinhalese.

They never gave me a political doctrine, they never left property, but they left those few days in July 1983. When black smoke swirled around them, they told me 'son you can be different.' Unfortunately there were very few like them, during the riots and afterwards.

Life in Jaffna while Colombo burned

Perumal Yanam (name changed) was in Jaffna at the time of the 1983 riots. Although he lived in Colombo and worked at the Customs Department, every month he used to visit Jaffna as his family was  living  there.

It was a family wedding that took Yanam to Jaffna. Remembering '83 riots,  Yanam told The Sunday Leader "when Colombo was burning we were basically in the dark. We didn't know what was happening and at that time Jaffna was safer for us."

He and others who were stuck in Jaffna had no way of coming back. These people he said were considered 'displaced' by the government.

"We were treated very well by the authorities. The Tamils as well as the Sinhala officers were told to come to Jaffna town and sign a registry since they couldn't go back to work. We were even paid for the three months we couldn't come to Colombo for work," he said.

According to Yanam he wanted to come back. However he said, "There were no trains, buses or any other mode of transportation to bring us back to Colombo."

He explained that living in Kokuvil - three miles off Jaffna, they didn't experience a lot of fear. "The prevaling atmosphere required people to be careful, stay at home and not go out till late at night."  The three months that followed the riots brought in a scarcity of petrol, kerosene and other fuel. Gradually the petrol stations stopped functioning as they didn't have any fuel at all to be sold. "Everything in Jaffna was at a standstill," he remembered.

"The telephones were out. The internal flights - Air Ceylon that was in operation had stopped. Communications and transport systems were cut off, so we didn't know what exactly was happening in Colombo," he said.

Relatively peaceful

Later they had heard that the planes were used to transport ammunition and arms.

"It was relatively peaceful because there was no trouble in Jaffna. We used to listen to the radio station about what was happening. Other than that we don't know what happened."

During the three months after the riots, the only mode of transport available was a small train from Kankasanthurai (KKS) to Pallai. "This was a government line. It was maybe to show us that they were still there - in control," said Yanam. 

The people who were stuck in Jaffna were waiting for some improvement in the situation for them to come back.

Yanam had been working and staying in a room in Colombo since 1952 and even after the '83 riots, he continued living in Colombo while his family lived in Jaffna. He came back to Colombo after the 'displaced' were given necessary authority to come back.

Yanam also said that after the 1983 riots, there was a receptive mood in the country for Indian help.

But in 1989 when the Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF) came to Jaffna to help, there were problems and it was in 1989 that he decided to bring his family to Colombo permanently.

Although Yanam was not badly affected by the 1983 riots he does know of several people who have gone through horrendous experiences. One is where this person's brother was burnt alive inside his car and the only way people could identify him was by his shoes.

The horror of 'Black Friday'

Sivamalar Chellaiah (name changed) aged 30 clearly remembers the events that unfolded on July 25 - 20 years ago. Sivamalar and her sister Vasugee Chellaiah were 10 and 12 years old in July, 1983 and were students at Bishop's College studying in grade four and six respectively.

"For my sister and I it was just another day and as usual our mother waited at the gate till we got on to the school van," says Sivamalar. But as they approached Armour Street, Sivamalr spotted the first sign of what was to come that day. A newly opened saivar kade adjoining Gaitey Theatre was on fire. As they were passing that building, the lady who chaperoned the 15 school children from Wattala to Colombo in the van said something to the driver in Sinhalese. "I didn't quite catch what she said but saw the concerned look on her face. Nevertheless the van took us to school."

Around 10.30 a.m. she says they went to the playground for the PT session. "We then saw parents of students had come to school and teachers too were rushing about." There were more parents coming through the main gate and Sivamalar heard one girl's mother looking at the girls in the playground and saying "they don't know what is happening that's why they are playing." In a few minutes everyone was leaving the school in a real rush.

"I was only 10. But I sensed that something terrible had happened," she says adding that since all the other students started running towards the principal's office she too ran. "Everyone was trying to reach for the telephone. I too was trying but getting nowhere. Somehow I managed to push the girls aside and grabbed the receiver. I wanted to ring my mother but when I picked up the receiver only the  dead tone of the telephone was there. Then I just began to cry," recalls Sivamalar.

Long wait

"My sister took me by the hand and we went to wait at the school gate," she says.

Sivamalar and her sister waited at the school gate for four long hours and to their sheer joy saw the familiar face of one of their neighbours coming towards them. "My mother had sent a Sinhalese boy that lived across the street to take us home. We started towards the bus stop," says Sivamalar. According to her, Vasugee is quite fair in complexion and looks almost like a Muslim girl. "I have darker skin and it's easy for anyone to recognise that I'm a Tamil. So our neighbour took my bag and holding my hand led me along the road," she says. The boy kept saying "Nangi ikman karanna."

Not a single bus was in sight. And they started towards home on foot. They were passing Colpetty when they heard the sound of an approaching bus. "It was pretty crowded but we managed to get in," she says. The bus could not proceed more than a couple of kilometres when a mob wielding clubs and iron poles came on to the main road from a side road. They surrounded the bus and were hurling abuse at the passengers. "Those men had no shirts on and most of them were wearing shorts. They were yelling at Tamil people on the bus. They shouted "Demalu behepalla nethnam maranawa," recalls Sivamalar.

Vasugee was standing close to the window and one from the gang had shoved a spanner inside and had demanded all Tamils get down.

"No one dared to move," says Sivamalar. They brought in tree trunks and placed them in front of the tyres making it impossible for the driver to move the bus forward. Sivamalar  was holding her sister's hand the whole time. She remembers tears rolling down her sister's eyes. Finally after what seemed like an eternity an old Sinhalese woman pushed herself through the crowd and got to the front footboard. She had looked at the crowd and said "Ane puthe bus eke demala aya nehe. Apita yanna denna." And they were allowed to pass.

'Guardian angel'

Sivamalar's sister Vasugee says she remembers the Maharajah building on fire and looters carrying out umbrellas and distributing them amongst those waiting outside in the street.

Sivamalar says as the bus was passing Navy Headquarters and the Inland Revenue Office she saw a girl driving a car being stopped by another group of men brandishing iron bars. "The bus slowed down and we saw the crowd asking that girl to get down. I felt my throat tightening and my mouth going dry. There was nothing anybody could do and the bus went past," says Sivamalar. She says she has no idea what that girl's plight was but says that "to this day I pray to God that girl - by some stroke of luck like my sister and I - got the chance to go home to her parents."

Sivamalar and her sister went home to their mother. But their ordeal didn't end there. When they got home they realised that their father who worked in Colombo hadn't returned. "My mother was staring out the front door crying and neighbours filled our home. They were trying to call his office but the phones were dead," says Sivamalar. Around 5.30 p.m. in the evening they heard their father's car approaching. "My mother, my sisters and the neighbours all ran outside. I saw him getting down and staggering towards the front door."

As he dragged himself on to the couch he fainted. "My sisters and mother were crying aloud. We didn't know what had  happened to him. But when one of our neighbours removed his shirt we saw that the back of it was soaked in blood," she says. "Seeing that my mother fainted," says Sivamalar.

Sivamalar's father had gone in search of her and her sister to Bishop's  College. Since they had left, her father had started towards home. Somewhere in Colombo she says "they" had tried to stop his car. But Sivamalar's father had forced the vehicle through the mob and driven on when someone had thrown a brick at the car's left shutter. "The broken glass had cut through his shoulder and though he was losing blood he had driven straight home," says Sivamalar.

Cramped in a room

The neighbours dressed his wound and the Chelliah family was asked to spend the night in one Sinhalese neighbour's house. "They said it was unsafe for us to be on our own as nobody knew what the night may bring," says Sivamalar. When they got to the neighbour's house people from four more Tamil houses in the neighbourhood had gathered there. "Around 11 p.m. we heard a crowd coming down the lane. Our Sinhalese neighbour got all of us to hide inside a back room," says Sivamalar. According to her there were more than 25 people cramped inside that room. "We were in there for two days."

She says her greatest fear was being found and killed. Their Sinhala neighbours had taken rounds in bringing food to them. "They hid loaves of bread and other stuff in bags and wrapped some in bed sheets so that no one would wonder why they were taking a lot of bread to that home we were hiding in," she says.

Inside the cramped room they had to spend long hours. "We weren't thinking far ahead - just taking an 'hour' at a time. With the noise of the mob outside growing louder by the minute I remember the elderly women inside the room started praying. The fear and tension we felt those few days cannot be described," says Sivamalar.

Carnage

Three Tamil houses down Sivamalar's lane were destroyed during the riots. Despite the neighbourhood carnage, their house was left with only a broken window.

Later Sivamalar's family found out that the mob had reached their house that night and the carpenter and brick layer who had built their house too had been amongst the crowd on rampage. "When people in the mob had wanted to burn our house down, the two who helped build ours had asked them to spare it," says Sivamalar.

"It was Sinhalese people who tried to stop our bus, kill us and tried to kill my father but it was also Sinhalese people who put their own lives at risk in hiding us and feeding us through out the ordeal," says Sivamalar.

Today Sivamalar Chellaiah works at an outstation hospital. Her sister Vasugee lives with her husband and daughter in Toronto, Canada. Their father passed away in 1988. All her other sisters too have moved overseas.

"My sister has come back twice since leaving and says she likes to relocate here. But her husband - his parent's house got burnt and destroyed during July riots - is not that keen on coming back," says Sivamalar.

"The funny thing is living where we lived, there were never any signs of a growing intolerance of us. Everything that happened was all so sudden," she says.

Yogenthiran Selvarajah (name changed), 34, unlike Sivamalar didn't actually go through any 'trouble' during the time of riots itself. But his ordeal began one month after the riots. Yogenthiran says their family  spent a few days with a Muslim friend during that "horrible" week of July, until the situation improved.

Yogenthiran and his parent's had  thought their darkest hour had ended. "Nothing happened to our house and my parent's were counting their blessings," says Yogenthiran.

What they didn't know at the time was that their biggest nightmare was yet to unfold. A month after the riots, one night in August, Yogenthiran and his father heard a knock on their front door. The time was around 9.00 p.m. says Yogenthiran. "My mother with my brother had gone to the north to attend a family function. Only my father and I were at home," he says. As the knocking sound got louder both his father and Yogenthiran came to the living room. "I asked who it was at the door and they said they were the police and if we didn't open the door they'd break it down," says Yogenthiran. "I asked my father not to open it. But my father went ahead and opened the door.

Thundering blow

"They stormed in and got hold of me and started beating me up," says Yogenthiran. "My father tried to stop them and said something to them. They asked him 'nakiya mokada kiwuwe?' I said don't call him that and in return received a thundering blow across my face. As he was trying to hit me the second time, I lifted my hand to protect myself," says Yogenthiran. "Ado mokada karate pennannada hadanne?" the men had asked Yogenthiran. "The next minute one guy shoved a gun inside my mouth. All the 'cops' who came in were drunk and this guy holding the gun was swaying back and forth," says Yogenthiran. He noted that the policemen wore jackets over their uniforms. "You couldn't make out their badge numbers or anything," he says.

"They then told my father that they are taking me in for questioning and to come to the station the next day," recollects Yogenthiran. As they took him out to the front porch Yogenthiran says the thought of taking off crossed his mind. "If I had run, I knew my father would have had it," he says.

The policemen didn't even let him get a shirt to wear. They took Yogenthiran to the police station in his sarong and slippers. Once they brought him in, they put him in the cell. "There were others inside. One of them had urinated on the floor and one cop asked me to remove my slippers and stand on it bare feet. I felt terribly degraded," says Yogenthiran. Luckily for him he says his father who had contacts with police higher-ups got him out the next morning.

The next month Yogenthiran was sent to his aunt living in the UK. "I didn't want to leave but my parent's feared for my life. "We used to be a normal family but this incident ripped me away from my family. I was sent away because of that. Leaving my school friends was something I never wanted to do. Then the next year my brother was sent. It was a couple of more years by the time both my mother and father were able to come to the UK," says Yogenthiran.

Even after his family reunited in their adopted country he says they had to go through a lot to rebuild their lives from scratch.

"I used to have these flashes of memories. They continued for a long time - years after '83, " says Yogenthiran. He says he felt deprived of one of the most basic human rights - "the right to live with your family amongst your friends where you were born."

So where's the violence?

THE question was posed in a distant country in an untroubled time. 'Why do people become terrorists? Is anything really worth dying for?' Why indeed?

Even before I arrived in Sri Lanka the image of conflict dominated my idea of the country. "Don't speak to any Tamil Tigers," warned my nervous parents. "Don't go into Colombo, it's full of bombs; don't go to the north, it's full of mines." The infamous brutality of Sri Lanka's civil war has done much to shape international perceptions. I arrived with a hardened heart - expecting a war-weary people and the ruinous rumble of trouble.

But the reality of everyday life in Sri Lanka is not in the least like I expected. Everyday I meet people of every ethnic origin but have never once met any Sri Lankan who seemingly wanted anything more than the opportunity to live, work and bring up their family without the threat of war.

In Colombo, Jaffna, Trinco - all over Sri Lanka - people appear the same and seem untouched by violent intentions or revenges. So where is all the fighting?

Internationally, Sri Lanka has a reputation as a brutal country, with the most violent guerilla fighters on the planet. Violence is an integral part of this country but unless I had known otherwise before I arrived, it would be very difficult to guess at the brutality simmering below the surface.

The remnants of conflict litter the streets and the danger of a return to arms lurks behind every newspaper headline. The threat of unrest is an almost palpable sensation that seems alien when coupled with the smiling people.

Ethnic differences

In the last three months I have traveled over a great deal of Sri Lanka but am yet to meet anyone who I could readily identify as anything other than a peace-loving citizen. Sinhalese or Tamil, Tamil or Muslim - even physical ethnic differences seem hard to differentiate in such a multi-cultural society. Yes, everyone has a flag to fly and is justifiably proud and patriotic of their respective histories and heritages, but where are the fundamentalists who are willing to die in the name of Eelam, Buddha or Allah? Their existence cannot be denied - ask any parent whose son or daughter has never returned from the battlefield - but my impression of Sri Lanka is that of a country which wants nothing more than to live in peace, regardless of their neighbours or government. For most people, politics seems reserved for the politicians.

The infamous riots of 1983 happened before I was old enough to know that a country called Sri Lanka even existed, but presumably the people who rioted, killed, mutilated and tortured are some of the very same people who I pass in the street everyday, sit next to on the bus and shake hands with at meetings. Just as those who saved countless Tamil lives by hiding them in their homes and protested the civil unrest are the same people who I pass in the street everyday, sit next to on the bus and shake hands with at meetings.

Even travelling to Jaffna on the notorious A9 road - scene of so much recent bloodshed and brutality - I couldn't imagine the well-mannered checkpoints and patrols as anything other than men in uniform performing a menial task. It was impossible to think the smart Sri Lankan Special Task Force soldier a killer, or the smiling female LTTE member a suicide cadre. I simply cannot reconcile the notion that the everyday people I meet in restaurants, shops and the busy Colombo streets are the same people who are typified by the international media as warmongers and terrorists.

Emotions on hold

The actual violence has stopped due to the Memorandum of Understanding. Sri Lanka seemingly is stuck in a-pause-in-conflict. But just because you cannot see it, it does not mean that it doesn't exist. A ceasefire sees the arms stored away in cupboards, emotions put on hold and a brief respite from killing. But the silence is eerie, and the threat of a return to arms almost palpable.

I have tried, and will continue to endeavour to understand the very complex nature of Sri Lanka's civil war, but personally I get the distinct impression that for the majority of civilians - who I am now proud to call my friends and colleagues - this is someone else's war and the violence is far from over.

"Tamils of Indian origin too were targeted"

The 1983 July ethnic riots in the country saw a large number of Tamils of Indian origin losing their lives and property, though the riot itself was sparked off as a result of the animosity between the Sinhala community and the Tamil community from the north and east.

Most of the people who were subject to harassment and injury were the Tamils of Indian origin. A number of Tamils from the plantation sector who had just started a life in Colombo lost their valuables and property. Some were killed. And this resulted in most of them fleeing to India seeking refuge. Certain leading businessmen also lost their businesses and one of them is Ceylon Workers Congress (CWC) MP,Y.Yogarajah.

Tamils from the plantation sector increasingly became targets of the police. The introduction of the Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA) was another snare for the Tamils of Indian origin.

Yogarajah says he was reduced to his shirt and trouser during the 1983 riots. The MP, who has been living in Colombo and owning garment factories, had been the target of the Sinhalese during this time. "It is because I had money. Most of the time only looting took place. I had one factory of my own and two others with partnerships with two other Sinhalese.

"The one I owned was razed to the ground while the other two factories were untouched. It is because of this I was able to re-commence my life altogether. If not for the other two factories that were not attacked, I would have had to beg," the MP said.

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