Noelnadesan's Blog

It was 12th April 1984.

A few others stood with me on the upper deck of the ship travelling from Talaimannar to Rameswaram. The bundles they carried marked them out as people from the hill country.

I kept watching the coastline of Mannar, visible in the distance, until it completely disappeared from view. My heart was heavy, my eyes brimming with emotion. I silently bid farewell—sorrowfully, wordlessly.

For many, leaving their country is a matter of business or leisure. Their journeys are unburdened by emotion. But for me, this departure was something else entirely. I was severing ties with my country, my people, and my family. I was starting a journey without knowing why, leaving behind my wife, eight months pregnant, and a son not yet two years old. It felt like a blind cat leaping into the dark.

Even the distant Palk Strait looked like an endless sea.

Leaving one’s country is never easy. To do so, one must sometimes harden one’s heart, even against family and friends. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t bring myself to hate the land I lived in. I had a government job. My wife worked nearby. Our extended family was close, always ready to help with the children. For someone with such a settled life, this decision to leave for India seemed like an unsolvable riddle. If it didn’t make sense to me, how could it make sense to my mother, my siblings, or my in-laws?

After working in Medawachchiya during the 1983 ethnic riots, I spent three months unemployed. Then, in November 1983, I accepted a position as a government veterinary officer in Ragala. Moving to Ragala was a new experience. Having grown up in the dry north of Jaffna, the chilly climate of the hill country was a stark change. Unprepared for the cold, I couldn’t sleep the first two nights. Later, I stayed at a friend’s quarters in Nuwara Eliya and returned to Ragala better equipped—with warm clothes and bedding.

One thing I liked about Ragala was that during the July ’83 riots, no Tamil shops were harmed. This was mainly due to the area’s MP and Minister for Nuwara Eliya District, Renuka Herath. She and her husband spent those tense days and nights patrolling in a jeep, stopping arsonists. Renuka Herath was probably just around thirty then.

Not far away, in Nuwara Eliya town, the daughter of Minister Rajadurai—working as a doctor—was airlifted out by Plantation Minister Gamini Dissanayake. Only after her departure did the shops in Nuwara Eliya catch fire. But it wasn’t due to ethnic tensions—it stemmed from political rivalry.

The deep-rooted rivalry between Ministers Thondaman and Dissanayake, who led competing trade unions, contributed to such unrest. In Sri Lanka, politicians often orchestrate these incidents. Ordinary people—Tamil, Sinhalese, and Muslim—mostly want peace.

However, the immediate trigger for my journey occurred in March 1984, at the Lidasdale Estate, Ragala.

Though my veterinary office was located in the estate, it was situated away from the workers’ quarters. I stayed in a small room there. Mornings in the hill country were especially serene—dew-covered tea plants glistening in the early sun, clouds nestled in the hills, the scent of freshly processed tea leaves lingering in the air. I’d always begin my day by absorbing this peaceful scene.

One morning, I noticed smoke—not the usual curling wisps from cooking fires, but something darker, more ominous. Several rooftops looked scorched or missing altogether. I waited anxiously for my assistant, Rathnam, who lived on the estate.

He arrived shortly, visibly shaken.

“Do you know what happened last night?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Sinhalese from the nearby village came and set fire to the workers’ homes in the middle of the night. The labourers fled into the tea bushes and behind rocks with their families. They’re just now returning.”

When I probed further, I discovered that the Assistant Superintendent had sexually harassed a worker’s wife. Her husband had stabbed him. In retaliation, the Assistant Superintendent told Sinhalese villagers that a Tamil had attacked him. That was all it took. The villagers descended in the night, shouting “Paradhemalo Palaayang” (Tamils, go back to India) as they set the quarters on fire.

Because I had spoken with the Tamil workers, some began to call me “Kotiya” (Tiger)—a derogatory term for Tamils, and by then, also a label for militant sympathisers. At first, I brushed it off. But soon, a Sinhalese colleague warned me: I was going to be summoned to the Nuwara Eliya police station for questioning.

I was already planning to visit Jaffna for the Tamil New Year, so I went to Colombo and quietly obtained an Indian visa.

But was the Lidasdale incident alone the reason I left?

Even if questioned by the police, I might have been safe.

I had also been denied leave by my superior, who claimed too many vets were already on holiday. When I said I’d appeal to higher authorities in Kandy, he flew into a rage. But these reasons, too, were not enough on their own.

There had to be something more profound.

Newspapers at the time carried reports that Tamil youth were being trained in India with the Indian government’s support. Working in Sri Lanka’s south, I worried I might be seen as aligned with that movement someday, wrongly. I had never been politically active. I was a product of Jaffna Hindu College, a university graduate who had led a quiet, stable life.

I never believed in ethnic division. I had Sinhalese and Muslim friends. I always felt that ethnicity and religion were like self-imposed armour—useful in conflict, but heavy and limiting. Still, in those days, no young Tamil could escape being branded politically. Like during the Holi festival—where colour finds you whether you celebrate or not—politics clung to you.

I still remember the 1974 Fourth International Tamil Research Conference in Jaffna.

On the night of January 2nd, around 8:00 PM, a parade vehicle shaped like a fish struck an electric wire. They snapped. Three people died instantly. I saw one of them convulsing on the ground, like a fish out of water—a sight I would never forget.

The next day was the conference’s final session. After finishing a tuition class with Gnanam Master, I joined four friends and walked to Veerasingham Hall. The crowd was immense—people from all over the Northern Province had come.

We managed to stand behind the stage. There were many speakers, but the crowd cheered the loudest for Opposition Leader Amirthalingam. Later, a man named Janarthanan came forward—rumour had it that he had been denied entry to Sri Lanka and had arrived by boat.

As Professor Nainar Muhammad began speaking, the crowd shouted for Janarthanan. Suddenly, glass shattered, and tear gas canisters exploded.

“They’re shooting, lie down! They’re shooting!” people screamed.

At least ten people fell on top of me. The lights went out. The air was filled with burning gas, and human cries. When I finally stood, eyes stinging, I saw two bodies hanging from the railing in front of me—like something from a war film.

I noticed a live wire and jumped away from it. I ran towards the post office. A mother and daughter grabbed my hand. I took them to a house near Kottadi and told them to hide, then fled home.

That night, I couldn’t eat—only drank milk before bed.

The next day, I returned for my bicycle. Outside the hall were piles of sandals. From what we heard, the police had mistaken Professor Muhammad for Janarthanan. Acting on orders from SP Chandrasekhar, they stormed the stage. The crowd threw sandals. The police retaliated with tear gas and live fire. The bullets hit electric wires, causing some deaths by electrocution.

No official inquiry was held. Neither the government nor the Tamil leaders offered an alternative version. It was this event that later led Sivakumaran to attempt to assassinate SP Chandrasekhar with a grenade.

So here I was, on that April evening in 1984, arriving in Rameswaram. I had $500 in American currency, but I didn’t have any Indian rupees.

A crowd of Indians gathered. “Sir, have you come from Sri Lanka?” they asked.

Could I tell them I had brought with me not just dollars, but fear and trauma?

My aunt in Mannar had packed Singapore-made Lux soap bars for me—rare in India at the time. When I sold them, I received 300 rupees.