Noelnadesan's Blog

In April 1985, Indian Customs in Chennai dealt a severe blow to PLOTE. A container carrying 1,400 rifles, 300 machine guns, and communications gear arrived. Customs officers opened it, saw the contents, and confiscated everything. The shipment was valued at US $300,000.

The story is relatively well-known. Later, I found out that the $300,000 had been handed over to a Palestinian arms dealer, who then cheated them out of it.

But behind this arms seizure lay a story that ran deep.

In 1986, a man started visiting us regularly. He was about 40, always dressed in a neat white shirt, dignified, soft-spoken, with a slightly dreamy air. He never came for medical treatment, only to chat — mostly with me. Eventually, I learnt he had left PLOTE.

By then, many small Tamil militant groups had exploded like Diwali firecrackers, scattering their members across Chennai. These men resembled discarded clay idols after Vinayaka Chaturthi, floating aimlessly. Our medical centre became a sort of banyan tree where they came to talk.

Over time, I learnt about his background. Though he was originally from Sri Lanka, he had lived comfortably in Singapore. His passion for the Tamil cause brought him into contact with PLOTE — and into the arms-smuggling operation. The weapons had come from Taiwan to Singapore, where they were secretly packed into an old paper container. Unable to trust anyone else with the job, he said he had done the transfer himself, working through the night.

When the container was seized in Chennai, he was arrested in Singapore and tortured. One method involved locking him in a freezing room for hours. He was eventually sentenced to death. At the time, Singapore’s president — who knew him personally — was forced to resign. On his last day in office, he granted the man a presidential pardon.

When he was released, he was missing part of a finger and a tooth. I saw the injuries with my own eyes.

The pardon did not return his property or money, all of which had been confiscated by the state. Offered deportation to either Sri Lanka or India, he chose India. As he told it, he said to the airport guards, “I will come back to Singapore one day as the ambassador of Tamil Eelam.”

My eyes welled up when I heard that. What moved me was not only the sacrifice but also his steadfast belief in the cause.

“I once thought Uma was as solid as a mountain,” he told me, “but he suspects everyone. Even his tea is kept in a flask so no one can tamper with it. When he travels by car, he sits behind the passenger, not the driver.”

The last time I saw him, he mentioned he planned to open a dosa shop in Chennai. He never mentioned his family. Like many others, he had sacrificed his parents, his wife, and his children in the struggle.

But what was the outcome?

I watched from the balcony as he left our building for the last time, walking away in quiet despair.