Tamil Tigress: My story as a child soldier in Sri Lanka's bloody civil war by Niromi de Soyza

Author:Niromi de Soyza [de Soyza, Niromi]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Memoir
Publisher: Allen and Unwin
Published: 2011-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

Saturday, 26 September was another hot and humid day. As I neared the Nallur Temple, I detected tension in the air. A sickening feeling rose in my stomach. I hurriedly locked my bicycle on the side of the road and pushed my way through the crowd towards the stage. Everyone else was also pushing and shoving to get nearer to the podium, raising dust everywhere. A voice through the loud speaker asked for calm. When I finally got close enough to see the stage, I saw someone examining Thileepan with a stethoscope. As the crowd anxiously waited, the man removed his stethoscope, touched Thileepan’s feet with both hands and bowed as a sign of respect. One of Thileepan’s assistants cried, ‘Ayyo, Thileepan anna...’ and threw himself on top of his body.

Thileepan was dead.

My knees turned to jelly. I felt dizzy with the heat and from being crushed by the large wave of people who were wailing and pushing towards the stage.

I believed this was the tipping point for the Tigers. With his life Thileepan had paved the way for war.

‘Everyone get away from the stage!’ shouted the voice over the speaker. ‘We need to take him to the hospital.’

I joined my comrades in forming a guard of honour along the path of the ambulance as it carried Thileepan’s body out of the suburb to the General Hospital. By late evening, after an outpouring of grief, the crowd gradually dispersed. I returned home physically and emotionally exhausted, feeling the loss of a big brother.

Later that evening there was a knock at the door. It was Kaanchana and Ajanthi. A bus was waiting outside, in the laneway. They had managed to convince Amma that I was needed to play in Thileepan’s funeral band. An hour later, the twenty of us in the bus were dropped by the side of the road, where an equal number of boys were practising the marching drill. I realised that Kaanchana and Ajanthi had told the truth—we were here to make music, not war.

In the dim light of the street lamps, I noticed a handsome young man with short curly hair, towering above everyone, striding towards us. He introduced himself to me as the leader of the marching squad. Then he took us to a house and showed us some instruments in a room. ‘Ajanthi tells me that you were in your school band and played the piano accordion,’ said the young man, looking at me. He hoped I would teach the band a tune or two. It had to be simple, because no one here had touched a musical instrument previously.

So, starting at midnight, I tried to teach my comrades When the Saints Go Marching In as we practised marching up and down the street, making a mighty racket until the early hours of the morning. But I failed in the attempt. It was only the next morning that I realised why no one had come out from the houses along the road to complain—we were the Tigers and no one was game enough to say anything against us.

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