Noelnadesan's Blog

Once, a king announced he would marry his daughter to any man who brought him a fruit he had never seen before. But if he had seen the fruit earlier, he warned, he would force it down the man’s throat and send him packing. Many arrived bearing grapes, bananas, and other familiar fruits. Each time, the king claimed he’d seen them, shoved the fruit into the man’s mouth, and sent him away. They left laughing.

Then, one man brought a pineapple. As before, the king insisted he’d seen it and pushed it into the man’s mouth. Its rough skin tore the man’s lips—but still, he didn’t cry. The king was surprised.

“Doesn’t it hurt? Why are you laughing?”

“I laughed,” the man replied, “because I saw someone behind me holding a jackfruit.”

That’s how it was for us. If the Sri Lankan Tamils who trusted the armed movements deserve sympathy, then even more so do the Sinhalese leftists who supported the Tamil cause. They believed that the fight for Tamil Eelam was not just a struggle for Tamil rights, but a path to liberate the Sinhalese working class. Some of them had connections with PLOTE, though I never met those individuals. But I did meet members of the Vikalpakshaya group in India, led by Dayan Jayatilleka, who supported the EPRLF. Four of them became close friends: Joe Senewiratne, Sinthan De Silva, Kamal, Piyaal, and Cyril. They had fled to Chennai as refugees, unable to remain in Sri Lanka.

Looking back, I now believe that the Tamil people who placed their hopes in the militant movements were tragically naïve. I still carry in my heart those who followed the fighters and lost limbs—or their lives. I was fortunate not to be among them. Like many others, I felt a deep anger toward injustice. That anger defined me for years—first in school, then at university—and flared again during the 1983 riots. But one event in particular completely extinguished it.

When I studied at Jaffna Hindu College, about fifty students from our school usually gained university entry each year. However, that number dropped significantly because of the discriminatory “standardisation” policy. By 1974, when I sat for the entrance exams, admissions were based on district-specific quotas. From the entire Jaffna district, only five students were chosen: I was admitted to veterinary science; two were admitted to engineering; and two others to the arts. The principal of Jaffna Hindu College, Mr N. Sabalingham—who had once expelled me—now shook my hand with pride.

Later, I understood the stark disparity: Tamil students needed to score 250 marks across four subjects to get into medical school, while Sinhalese students only needed 229. For engineering, the required score was also 250 for Tamils—yet it was reduced to just 227 for Sinhalese. The bias was obvious; it was ingrained in the system. This open disparity enraged Tamil youth and their parents. At the time, Tamil political leaders had plenty of reasons to justify their struggle.

But in retrospect, one must ask—were any of them worth dying for?

Take, for example, the disenfranchisement of Hill Country Tamils—unquestionably unjust. But when India itself accepted them as Indian nationals, and both governments signed agreements, what more could be achieved?

Sinhalese colonisation in the Eastern Province? Even there, locals were given priority. There weren’t many landless people in the East to start with. Yet Tamil politicians weaponised the issue.

Consider the Sinhala Only Act or the so-called “Sri” sticker controversy on buses. As journalist D.B.S. Jeyaraj once observed, the government quietly dispatched new buses with Sinhala signage to Jaffna to avoid confrontation. Some Tamil MPs even offered to remove the Sinhala “Sri” stickers themselves. These were symbolic protests led by politicians, not acts of defiance by young militants.

Throughout, Tamil leaders were grinding chillies on the backs of their people.

Although Bandaranaike’s Sinhala Only policy harmed Tamil communities, it was being amended by the time militancy took hold. True, implementation was flawed. However, dialogue was still possible—and many lives could have been saved.

Ultimately, the standardisation policy crushed the spirit of Tamil youth. It wasn’t only the university-bound who felt its impact—every Tamil teenager started to share the same feeling: “What’s the point of studying? A Sinhalese student will block my way anyway.” Maybe even Prabhakaran once thought that way—who can say for sure?

The son of a Tamil schoolteacher might have become a veterinarian. A land officer’s son—like Veluppillai’s—could have pursued a career in medicine or engineering. If not for that single, devastating policy, perhaps the war might never have sparked.

After I sat my entrance exam, a college mate—Sivakumaran—took his own life in June 1974. I attended his funeral with friends. I was the eldest son in my family and had responsibilities. I had also just fallen in love. I ended up studying veterinary science—more by circumstance than choice. But my resentment over the injustice of standardisation never left me.

University changed me. Especially the friendships I formed with Sinhalese students—some of them former JVP rebels who had served time in prison and returned to their studies. I grew close to many Sinhalese classmates and teachers.

Although I had moved away from the militant mindset of Jaffna, in April 1977, when Tamil United Liberation Front leader Chelvanayakam died, I still travelled by train from Kandy to Jaffna for his funeral, carrying a large bouquet through Polgahawela.

But the 1983 riots reignited my fury. News that India was training Tamil militants made it seem—just for a moment—that armed struggle might offer some form of autonomy. I believed violence could create dignity where none was allowed. I won’t lie—my conscience won’t let me.

And then, the moment came that shattered that belief.

In Chennai, where many Sri Lankan Tamil refugees lived, typhoid and hepatitis were common, caused by poor hygiene and dirty water. Food stalls used the same basin to wash dishes and hands.

Joe Senewiratne from the Vikalpakshaya group contracted typhoid. The EPRLF housed him in an upstairs apartment instead of a hospital. Padmanabha asked me to visit him, and I went with my wife. Joe and I often talked about politics and communism.

One day, after parking my TVS motorcycle, I bumped into a young bloke from TELO. He said casually:

“Anna, did you hear? Lots of Sinhalese were killed in Anuradhapura.”

“Who did it?”

“The Tigers, of course,” he said, shrugging, then walked away.

He didn’t seem to grasp the gravity. But I was crushed. How could I face my Sinhalese friend?

Climbing the narrow stairs up to Joe’s room felt like scaling a mountain. When I stepped in, he smiled and asked, “What’s the matter, comrade?”

I told him.

He held his head and muttered in Sinhala: “Okkoma ivarai.” (“It’s all over.”)

“Are you upset that 200 Sinhalese were killed?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m thinking of the Tamils who will be killed next.”

“Why do you say that?”

He explained: “From now on, Tamil militants won’t be seen as freedom fighters. They’ll be branded terrorists by the Sinhalese public and the world. Jayewardene will use this narrative to gain support. Killing Sinhalese civilians lowers your struggle to the level of the state’s army. This isn’t liberation—it’s revenge. And it will destroy the cause. Most Sinhalese civilians—especially the poor—have nothing to do with the war. Even we, a small group, saw justice in your struggle and stood with you. But once it becomes racial, you will never win.”

Even if every Tamil takes up arms, you cannot defeat the Sinhalese majority.

And terrorism will never gain international sympathy. You might get short-term attention, but long-term recognition? Never.

“This is wrong—morally, strategically, tactically.”

I still remember those comrades with great fondness. Sithan De Silva bore a striking resemblance to actor Vijaya Kumaratunga and had lived with epilepsy since childhood. Piyaal often spoke of his experiences in Pakistan. Cyril, who came from a poor background, was ostracised in his village because of his political beliefs. After I moved to Australia, he wrote asking for help. I showed the letter to my friend, Dr. Diviyaanathan, who kindly gave me the money to send to Cyril.

The Anuradhapura massacre exposed the brutal reality of the Tigers. As they plunged deeper into terrorism, my faith in armed resistance shattered. From that moment, event after event only confirmed a painful truth: our struggle had lost its moral direction and was doomed to end in tragedy.

When I arrived in Australia in July 1987, I told this story to a gathering of about fifty people. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I said:

“This is better used to wipe the tears of the suffering than to wipe away blood.”

Some LTTE supporters in the room growled.

Some are still growling, even now, here and overseas.