Noelnadesan's Blog

When we started the Tamil Medical Centre in Chennai, we received various kinds of aid from abroad. Most of it came with clear instructions: it was intended to support Sri Lankan Tamil refugees living in Tamil Nadu.

But some aid arrived without any coordination or understanding of the ground realities, and those contributions often left us in great difficulty. Even today, the memory of those incidents makes us cringe. All of them, unfortunately, were caused by well-meaning but misguided overseas Tamils.

A few months after renting a place for our office, we were shocked to learn that a large container from the United States had arrived at the Chennai port, sent in our name. It was filled with used clothing.

If we didn’t retrieve the container quickly, we would have to pay daily demurrage fees to the port authorities. Anyone who has lived in India knows how tough it is to get anything done without middlemen. Sivanathan and I dashed around Chennai like headless chickens, hopping in and out of auto-rickshaws. The militant groups we turned to refused to help us. In India, nothing moved without bribes, and we didn’t have money for that.

Since port operations were under central government control, even Tamil Nadu politicians couldn’t help. The only option we had was to rally public sympathy for the Eelam refugee cause. With that, we negotiated with the authorities and successfully secured the release of the container within a week.

We only paid for transport from the port godown to our office in Choolaimedu. Around the same time, a shipment of arms from Singapore was seized at Chennai Port. If the PLOTE had managed to clear that container, Uma Maheswaran might have become a legendary figure of the Eelam struggle.

But our troubles didn’t end once the container was retrieved.

We cursed the Americans who sent it without asking us first. Dr. Sivanathan, especially when angry—or just a bit tipsy—would burst into colourful language. Listening to his rants, I remembered the old Tamil proverb printed on buses: “Smile in misfortune.”

Do you know how our suffering continued after we got that container?

It held more than 5,000 items—used undergarments worn by American and Sri Lankan women, men’s vests, shirts, pants, and colourful sarees—piled high to the ceiling in our small office. We had to sort them all.

At the time, the refugee camps were located in cyclone relief shelters along the Tamil Nadu coast, surrounded by local fishing villages. Soon, we began hearing complaints in the camps: “Sri Lankan women are seducing our husbands with fancy blouses.” These came from local fisherwomen.

Refugee women usually wore half-gowns in the traditional Sri Lankan way. For the local men—used to seeing women’s legs only in the cinema during the 80s—it was a cultural shock. Eventually, the women in the camps adapted, switching to long skirts and salwar kameez to ease tensions.

Sivanathan told me, “If we distribute these clothes directly in the camps, it’ll cause riots in the slums. You deal with it.” Then he walked off. He was over thirty-five, unmarried, and lived like a celibate monk.

So, the task of sorting through the clothes fell to me and our assistant Karunanidhi. Since Karunanidhi had university classes during the day, I ended up doing most of it on my own. I spent an entire week sorting.

Some of the sarees were quite lovely. When I saw them, I couldn’t help but imagine how the refugee women might look in them. I was reminded of the Puthiya Paravai Tamil film and the saree worn by Sowcar Janaki — it had once captivated audiences across Tamil Nadu.

I threw away the undergarments. I decided to give the shirts to the men in the camps. But I also found 500 pairs of trousers. Most of the refugees who arrived between 1983 and 1984 were fishermen from Mannar, especially from Thala Mannar and Vankalai. From 1985 onwards, more arrived from Trincomalee and other districts.

How did we know they were from Mannar? The boats they arrived in told us—many bore names like Our Lady of Lourdes or Immaculate Mary. Mannar fishermen believed that the Virgin Mary’s name would protect them at sea.

I couldn’t give those pants to the fishermen. Instead, I decided to give them to the young fighters in our movement. Why not? Let them wear good trousers while carrying arms.

So, I split the 500 pairs of pants among the various militant groups.

At that time, we also received an unexpected cheque from the Eelam Tamil Association in Sydney. It was for ₹75,000, made out to the Tamil Welfare Medical Centre, with instructions to divide the funds between the LTTE and TELO.

I thought, how naive could they be?

It takes more than a month to clear a foreign cheque. And they sent it casually, asking us to hand over the money to armed groups—no concern for our safety or theirs. We even thought about tearing it up. However, our emotional commitment to the cause motivated us to proceed.

A friend at the Kodambakkam bank helped us cash the cheque straight away.

We distributed the pants to all the groups without any hassle. They were thankful for them. When we informed the LTTE that ₹50,000 and 100 pants were prepared for them, a man named Yogi came to pick them up. I recognised him from Hindu College.

We drank tea and loaded the pants into an auto-rickshaw, then went to the bank.

By then, intergroup tensions had already surfaced. I’d heard that the LTTE had shot an EPRLF member in Vavuniya. So, I asked Yogi, “You say you’re all fighting together for Eelam’s liberation. Then why did you shoot someone from EPRLF?”

He looked at me, smiled, and said, “Because Thambi (Prabaharan) told us to shoot.”

I was stunned. My whole body trembled. Everything around me blurred.

When did this boy—who once wore neatly ironed shirts, played cricket and football, and was admired by our classmates—become someone who could speak so casually about taking a life?

He could’ve at least given a reason. Said the victim was a traitor or something. But no—he didn’t even bother.

I entered the bank like a ghost, handed over the money, and said nothing. I remember thinking: Our society has ingested poison and become a monstrous version of Lord Shiva. But unlike Shiva, there’s no Uma Devi here to hold the poison in the throat.

Around that time, a Tamil man in his mid-thirties arrived from Germany. He claimed to be a senior member of the Free Democratic Party and a representative of the German Foreign Minister, Hans-Dietrich Genscher.

He said that if peace returned to Sri Lanka, Germany would invest crores to develop the North and East. He wanted to meet Tamil militant leaders. He showed us his party ID. We trusted him.

Thinking it was a great opportunity, we arranged meetings with leaders from RELO and the EPRLF, along with Sivanathan. But when he asked them to give up armed struggle in exchange for peace and investment, they dismissed him outright. He left, empty-handed.

The next morning, officers from Indian Intelligence came to see us.

“We believe the man who stayed with you was a Sri Lankan government spy. We need to investigate,” they said.

We were stunned. We denied knowing anything and recounted his behaviour. Only later did it dawn on us: Why would a foreign delegate sleep on the floor of our modest office for five days? The suspicion deepened.

Worse still, five Tamils from North America invited Sivanathan and me to the Chola Hotel. During the meeting, they claimed to possess large sums of money and were prepared to fund any group willing to carry out attacks in Colombo.

We didn’t confront them. We just cut off contact. We don’t know who they funded, but we’re sure that money exploded in Colombo—and took lives.

These four incidents left a bitter aftertaste.

The truth is, 99.9% of those who fled Sri Lanka as refugees were not politically active. Many didn’t understand even the basics of Sri Lankan politics, let alone global geopolitics. Those in the militant movements mainly acted out of emotion. Some from PLOTE, EROS, and EPRLF had a limited understanding of politics, but very little influence overseas. They were trying to survive.

Later, those who claimed to represent the LTTE abroad used the struggle to elevate themselves, to gain status, to vent their anger at the state that had hurt them. In the process, they helped sow the seeds of defeat.

They nourished a monstrous, politically illiterate force—one that ultimately collapsed at Mullivaikkal. Today, even the most legitimate grievances of Tamils are viewed with suspicion. The very people who once supported our cause now see it as unjust.

Am I bitter?

No.

This was my experience.