Noelnadesan's Blog

In April 1984, during my visit to India, a political alliance called the Eelam National Liberation Front (ENLF) was formed by three armed Tamil groups: the Tamil Eelam Liberation Organisation (TELO), the Eelam Revolutionary Organisation of Students (EROS), and the Eelam People’s Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF). The leaders of these groups met and took a photo with Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) leader Karunanidhi. That photo was widely published in newspapers across Tamil Nadu.

At the time, the event was met with great joy by many. However, it also raised some concerns among others. There was talk that the alliance had cost them the support of the then Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, M.G. Ramachandran. I, too, heard such rumours.

Later, it was said that the ENLF was formed under the guidance of India’s intelligence agency, RAW. Although the alliance was formalised, I later came to understand that friendly personal relations between the leaders had been nurtured, mainly thanks to Padmanabha.

Despite the alliance, there was a lack of mutual trust and camaraderie in both India and Sri Lanka. Suspicion was widespread, like a chronic illness without a cure. I saw and heard of distrust not just between the movements but also within them. I will explain more about that later.

The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) only partnered with ENLF members towards the end of 1984. I was told that Prabhakaran once told Padmanabha, “I never trusted Naba or Balakumar; I only trusted you.” Ironically, Prabhakaran would later forget those very words.

The LTTE’s decision to join the ENLF appeared politically strategic—to isolate the People’s Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eelam (PLOTE), which was then the largest group, having trained around 15,000 youths in India. The fall of PLOTE was as momentous as the collapse of the Soviet Union.

The word “implosion” perhaps best describes the internal collapse of the movement led by Uma Maheswaran.

At the time, there was talk about establishing a joint medical centre for the liberation movements. The person who spearheaded it was Douglas Devananda, the EPRLF’s military commander. He invited me to the inaugural meeting. Although I don’t recall all the names of those present, all major movements were represented.

Yogi and another member represented the LTTE. Vasudeva represented PLOTE from Batticaloa and was the brother of Thileepan, who later died on a hunger strike. TELO and EROS each sent two representatives.

While everyone agreed on the need for a medical facility, Vasudeva and Devananda were the loudest. I still remember Yogi silently nodding without a word—probably following strict orders from Prabhakaran. I guessed the instruction was: “Observe and report back.”

The LTTE nominated Dr. Jayakularaja to lead the medical unit. Vasudeva put forward Dr. Shanthi Rajasingham as deputy, while Devananda suggested Master Kasi Viswanathan as secretary. When some questioned Kasi Viswanathan’s qualifications—since he wasn’t a medical doctor—Douglas Devananda instead nominated me, a veterinary surgeon, for the secretary role.

Dr. Sivanathan was appointed as treasurer. This joint effort was known as the Medical Unit for the Service of Tamils, and my wife, who is a medical doctor, was assigned to work there.

Aside from me, everyone else was already known in their respective movements or among the public. Dr. Jayakularaja, who had given medical aid to the LTTE, had been arrested and narrowly escaped the Welikada prison massacre. He later escaped from Batticaloa prison and fled to India with LTTE help. Dr. Shanthi Rajasingham—wife of Dr. Rajasingham, who was killed during the 1983 Welikada massacre—was then working full-time at Egmore Government Hospital in Tamil Nadu. Dr. Sivanathan, the treasurer, had been working in Vakarai (Eastern Province) when he helped political detainees escape from Batticaloa Prison. This forced him to flee to Tamil Nadu, where he later joined PLOTE’s new training camp in Theni, South India.

Although these individuals were linked to different movements, they were regarded as independent and appointed as directors of the Medical Unit. It was registered in Tamil Nadu as a voluntary charitable trust under Indian law.

Essentially, the centre was designed as the future public health institution of Tamil Eelam.

Since I lived with my family in Kodambakkam, we set up the office nearby—on the upper floor of a pawnshop in Choolaimedu.

None of the groups were willing to fund the centre. Even though we, the volunteers, were prepared to work without pay, we still had to cover rent and operational costs.

During this period, a young man named Karunanidhi from the Eastern Province—then reportedly a student at the University of Madras—needed accommodation. On a recommendation from Dr. Sivanathan, we appointed him as an assistant and provided him with food and lodgings. To cover costs, we sought support from contacts overseas. We believed many would welcome the idea of all Tamil movements uniting for a medical cause.

My wife’s brother, Arul Ranjithan, who was then working as a doctor in the U.S., visited us in India. A generous soul, he had long supported Gandhiyam and later went on to lead the Tamil Rehabilitation Organisation (TRO) in the U.S. During his stay with us in Kodambakkam, I introduced him to key EPRLF leaders, including Padmanabha. When he saw pictures of Karl Marx, Lenin, and Stalin on the walls of their office, he looked visibly uncomfortable. At the time, I didn’t fully understand his reaction, but his later actions clarified it. He probably saw me as a communist. Already married to his sister with two children, he left quietly after remarking, “These guys are preaching communism,” without any fuss.

Despite this, both he and Dr. Jayakularaja—his former university mate—continued helping us. Ranjithan donated ₹12,000 to the centre and gave the money directly to Dr. Jayakularaja, Dr. Sivanathan, and me. He also sent $100 every month to support his sister and me so we could carry on with our work without stress.

Soon, members of the Tamil diaspora began donating small amounts.

The unwavering generosity of Sri Lankan Tamils in Malaysia deeply moved me. While donors to militant movements often had various motives—revenge against Sinhalese, dreams of Eelam—those who supported this medical initiative were driven by purer intentions.

Thanks to Ranjithan’s support, we were able to pay rent and give Karunanidhi a ₹300 monthly stipend. At first, our clinic provided free medical care to Sri Lankan refugees. Over time, we expanded our services to include nearby residents as well.

Dr. Sivanathan and I regularly visited refugee camps and distributed medicines. We selected and trained some camp residents as medical volunteers in Chennai.

We sent over 20 individuals to Jaipur to undergo training in prosthetic limb fitting. We organised treatment at hospitals in Chennai for wounded fighters from various movements. We also appointed camp supervisors and recruited newly arrived Sri Lankan doctors.

Within two years, our modest ₹12,000 initiative grew into a well-funded institution managing lakhs of rupees.

Back then, many overseas Tamils had no direct connections to militant groups, so they sent money to us, asking us to pass it on to specific organisations. For many, the Medical Unit for the Service of Tamils became a trusted channel.

Dr. Sivanathan and I also helped individuals wishing to leave the movements and reintegrate into civilian life. Some men and women, brought to Chennai by agents promising passage to Europe, were later left stranded. We assisted many of them in continuing their journeys.

During this period, we met nearly every movement leader—except Prabhakaran. Because of our involvement, India’s RAW and Tamil Nadu’s Q Branch often engaged us in friendly chats, eager to gather information.