Child Soldier
Punyakante Wijenaike
My name is Divij. Amma said she chose it because it means 'one born
in heaven'.
Why did my parents give me this name when they knew I was not born in
heaven?
The world I was born into with my first cry of protest was more like
the basement of a heaven, below which must lie hell.
The first years of my life I remained a child. My father went fishgig
daily off the coast of Batticaloa. After providing the home with fish he
sold the balance in the market.
Sometimes, as his boat touched down on the beach, people of our
fishing village crowded round him buying the fresh fish at a nominal
rate.
 Every
day Amma and Appa fought over this.
'Are YOU a rich man? Can YOU afford to give fish almost free to our
neighbours?' she protested.
'They ARE my neighbours. We need to live in peace and harmony. After
all, they help us in our time of need.'
And then the tsunami came and Appa never returned home from the sea.
My mother and I sat on rocks and waited for him morning to evening,
but he never returned. The good neighbours whom Appa had helped gave us
food to still our hunger. By now I was twelve years old.
I could not work to feed my widowed mother because I still had to
walk to school, preparing for a government examination.
One day when I was walking alone with my books, THEY caught me. The
rebel group hiding in the jungles.
At first I screamed for help but no one on that lonely road flanked
by jungle on either side heard my cry for help. I am sure such things
never happened had I been born in heaven!
For a year in I lived in the jungles, in bunkers, training in
warfare.
It was a change from watching the sea. I attended lectures given by
our Supreme Commander in the art of fighting for a new world. My gun,
when I was finally given one, stood taller than myself. I also acquired
a tool kit in place of distinctions at a government exam. I learnt to
shoot, to kill. Often I would secretly close my eyes and avoid hitting
my target.
I was reprimanded. I was dosed with drugs and brainwashed until I
turned from a frightened child into a killing machine.
For practice I shot a man in the back. He was one of our neighbours
from our fishing village, one of those who had fed Amma and me after
Appa's disappearance. I did not want to kill him, but I was made to
shoot again and again until he fell down dead. Then I was made to dig a
hole in the ground and bury him. My Commander said: 'You will do this
many more times until you learn to kill without emotion'.
From a boy I turned into a killing machine. It was not too difficult
to change because from the age of twelve my values of life were still
being formed. I even began to look upon my family and friends like those
who deserved to be killed because they stood in our way of thinking and
acting. I shot people like they were birds and animals and not human
beings.
Although I am without my Amma I do not feel lost. I feel secure among
my comrades, holding a gun. Even without education I have a purpose in
life, a goal to achieve.
I hear Amma prays for my return to her. She goes to the kovil every
day, and returns with her forehead covered with ash. But do I want to
return to her, to turn back again into a schoolboy burdened with books
in my back pack? Although my gun is as heavy as my school bag, I can
stand tall with it. It has taught me to live without fear of an
uncertain future. I am proud of my toolkit and my uniform. If I were to
die I would die with a purpose, for a cause.
But now I am back again with Amma in our small cadjan hut by the sea,
waiting for Appa to return. I am not happy with my 'rescue' from the
rebels by a foreign organization who are against child soldiers.
Who will understand me? The sea keeps rolling back and forth,
sometimes calm and smooth, most often angry and churning. When it sent
the tsunami, it killed my father, although Amma still believes his
small, fragile boat will come back riding over rough waves. My Amma
cannot touch me anymore with hope. When she hugs me close. I remain
cold. Instead of holding my gun, I am mending broken boats and fishing
nets again. I am hoping that my comrades will find me and rescue me back
into being a child soldier. Who will understand me? That I prefer being
a rebel than a docile boat and net mender?
I wish the foreign organization that took me from the rebel group
would take me abroad to a foreign land where I can make a new life of my
own. Here I feel trapped, like the sea, ever rolling back and forth
without getting anywhere. But I cannot go beyond my fishing hamlet
without an identification card. A former rebel cannot get an
identification card as a citizen easily again. I am neither a child
soldier nor a child citizen. What am I?
I watch the sea-gulls as they soar above me. I envy them their
freedom.
My Amma cries when I tell her my feelings. She cries when I tell of
my hatred for my country and my life. I tell her of the silence I am
enclosed in when I go to school and into the village that had been my
home. I tell her we are living in a basement, somewhere between heaven
and hell.
'Why did you call me Divij when I will never go to heaven?' I keep
asking.
If no one 'rescues' me again I might jump into the sea and join my
Appa wherever he is because I am no longer afraid of death. And I hate
this world where nothing positive is achieved...
Courtesy: That
Deep Silence by Punyakante Wijenaike (Vijitha Yapa Publications)
|
