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THE PLIGHT OF THE DISPOSSESSED
by Haig Balian
Kingston Whig-Standard (Ontario)
October 10, 2006 Tuesday
During the summer, while the front pages of world newspapers were
dominated by news of bombs flying in Lebanon and Israel, the headlines
here in Sri Lanka focused exclusively on one thing: the escalating
war between the army and the Tamil Tigers.
To the rest of the world, these conflicts may seem quite different.
To the people caught in the middle, however, the results are the
same. Masses of people, displaced by violence, have left their homes
to forge a life in unfamiliar and sometimes hostile environments.
In my increasingly unsafe perch in Colombo, I've been watching both
these conflicts with interest. Two generations of my family - my
parents and their parents - left their homelands in search of peace and
stability. In time, they were able to find what they were looking for.
When I look at today's refugees streaming away from their homes,
I have to ask myself: Will they find what they're looking for?
The future looks bleak. In Lebanon, a fragile ceasefire could give
way at any point, perhaps to another civil war. Even if peace holds,
the rebuilding will last for years, possibly decades. Many Lebanese,
so hopeful after 15 years of stability, are wondering whether a viable
future can be found in their native country.
In Sri Lanka, on the other hand, a ceasefire signed in 2002 has
already unravelled. Last month, a bomb exploded barely 500 metres
from the front steps of my apartment, killing a three-year-old boy.
One week later, another bomb, this one packed inside one of the
three-wheeler taxis that are ubiquitous in this country, exploded on
a busy commercial street I'd been walking on just an hour earlier.
Seven died and scores were injured.
And that's just in the city of Colombo. In eastern Sri Lanka, on the
other side of the country, the situation is more depressing. Muttur, a
largely Muslim town set on a bay popular with European sun-worshippers
in normal times, was laid siege in late July. The Muslims, truly the
forgotten group in a conflict that has pitted Tamil against Sinhalese
for 30 years, tell stories of terror and broken promises.
Many Sri Lankans who are forced to leave their communities are not
designated as refugees but as "IDPs": internally displaced persons.
Like the victims of Hurricane Katrina in the United States, they are
rootless in their own country.
One notable exception is the Tamils who live on the northern tip
of the country. Some are lucky and make it to Tamil Nadu, an Indian
province just across the channel from Sri Lanka. However, boatloads
of refugees are intercepted every day by the Sri Lankan navy.
Slowly, internally displaced persons have been trickling to safety.
Recently, 158 Muslims reached Negombo, a town north of Colombo best
known to tourists for its beach resorts. When I visited, they were
sleeping in classrooms at a Muslim school, but hopeful that a move
to a camp administered by the local Red Cross was coming soon.
Their leader was Mohammed Subair, a man whose small stature could
not conceal a simmering rage. There's a lot of anger at the camp,
most of which is directed at the Tamil Tigers. I'd been told that
the Tigers were anything but popular here, and now I learned why.
"We spoke with the [Tamil Tiger] leader, he promised us security,"
Subair said. "The [Tiger] armed guard also promised food and goods,
and that he would not harass us. He said, 'We are checking only the
perimeter.' But they arrested around 50 youths and they bound their
hands behind them... [From this 50], they [took] two youths and
killed them both. The public asked, 'Why did you kill them?' Then
they answered, 'If you ask that question, you will be killed also.' "
The 2004 tsunami ravaged Muttur, displacing thousands. Many had
returned to their newly rebuilt homes, ready to begin their lives
again. This war has wiped away the gains of 20 months' hard work.
But the lesson that nothing is permanent is ingrained in the minds
of many refugees, my mother included.
My maternal grandfather, my Dede, had the misfortune of being born
in 1905 in what is now eastern Turkey, a time and place not overly
kind to Armenians. The Armenian genocide, which culminated in 1915,
expanded the Armenian diaspora to unprecedented proportions, and no
Armenian community was larger than the one in Beirut.
It was in this city that Dede found a haven, and for a long while he
and his family lived under a veneer of stability. He made a name for
himself as a mechanic, then opened a corner store. He became a deacon
at the local church. His five children - of whom my mother is the
youngest - received a good education at the local Armenian schools,
learning Arabic, English and a smattering of French.
But in 1976, around the time the Lebanese civil war was beginning,
it was my mother's turn to flee. Sixty years of sinking roots in a
country were insignificant when faced with unceasing mortar rounds.
"I remember one night when the artillery shells were just passing by,
and you feel that it's going to explode in your building," my mother
recalled. "That's when my family decided it's time for me and my
sister to leave Lebanon."
They weren't alone. By some estimates, the civil war in Lebanon
resulted in an exodus of up to a million people, roughly a quarter of
the country's population. While many returned, a sizable proportion,
including my mother, settled in the West.
Eventually, after years of struggle, she, too, found her haven.
Today, my mother is a counsellor at a women's shelter, Kingston
Interval House. She owns her own home and has seen two sons attain
a higher education.
But what of the refugees and internally displaced persons streaming
from their homes in Sri Lanka? What about their dreams?
It's clear that most don't want to return to their homes. Despite the
fact that Muttur is no longer a war zone, aid workers are reporting
that internally displaced persons are still too scared to return.
Residents of Kantale, the town in northeastern Sri Lanka that has
become a major gateway for the displaced, are anxious for their
unexpected visitors to leave.
For the Muslims in Negombo, the chances of finding refuge in Canada
are slim. They have no possessions to speak of, little money and no
know-ledge of French or English. Only a few are educated. Unlike the
Tamils in the north, they don't even have the option of attempting
to make a run for India. In a country where poverty is rampant,
the West is a viable option for only a few. For better or for worse,
their future is tied to Sri Lanka.
In Lebanon, where a flight to North America or Europe is less of a
pipe dream, there seems to be a determination to rebuild once more.
True, some will leave, never to go back. But most are now returning
to their homes, and will attempt to reconstruct their shattered lives.
But these dreams can never be attained without a measure of
stability. And the responsibility for providing this, at least in the
short term, seems to fall on governments that have other priorities
in mind.
In short, what the refugees and internally displaced persons are
looking for is what my family finally attained. They're looking
for peace.
And it's completely out of their hands.
-Haig Balian, a Kingston native, recently graduated from the diploma
in journalism program at Concordia University in Montreal. He received
a $20,000 grant from the International Development Research Council
in Ottawa, which he used to travel to Sri Lanka and report on stories
there.
by Haig Balian
Kingston Whig-Standard (Ontario)
October 10, 2006 Tuesday
During the summer, while the front pages of world newspapers were
dominated by news of bombs flying in Lebanon and Israel, the headlines
here in Sri Lanka focused exclusively on one thing: the escalating
war between the army and the Tamil Tigers.
To the rest of the world, these conflicts may seem quite different.
To the people caught in the middle, however, the results are the
same. Masses of people, displaced by violence, have left their homes
to forge a life in unfamiliar and sometimes hostile environments.
In my increasingly unsafe perch in Colombo, I've been watching both
these conflicts with interest. Two generations of my family - my
parents and their parents - left their homelands in search of peace and
stability. In time, they were able to find what they were looking for.
When I look at today's refugees streaming away from their homes,
I have to ask myself: Will they find what they're looking for?
The future looks bleak. In Lebanon, a fragile ceasefire could give
way at any point, perhaps to another civil war. Even if peace holds,
the rebuilding will last for years, possibly decades. Many Lebanese,
so hopeful after 15 years of stability, are wondering whether a viable
future can be found in their native country.
In Sri Lanka, on the other hand, a ceasefire signed in 2002 has
already unravelled. Last month, a bomb exploded barely 500 metres
from the front steps of my apartment, killing a three-year-old boy.
One week later, another bomb, this one packed inside one of the
three-wheeler taxis that are ubiquitous in this country, exploded on
a busy commercial street I'd been walking on just an hour earlier.
Seven died and scores were injured.
And that's just in the city of Colombo. In eastern Sri Lanka, on the
other side of the country, the situation is more depressing. Muttur, a
largely Muslim town set on a bay popular with European sun-worshippers
in normal times, was laid siege in late July. The Muslims, truly the
forgotten group in a conflict that has pitted Tamil against Sinhalese
for 30 years, tell stories of terror and broken promises.
Many Sri Lankans who are forced to leave their communities are not
designated as refugees but as "IDPs": internally displaced persons.
Like the victims of Hurricane Katrina in the United States, they are
rootless in their own country.
One notable exception is the Tamils who live on the northern tip
of the country. Some are lucky and make it to Tamil Nadu, an Indian
province just across the channel from Sri Lanka. However, boatloads
of refugees are intercepted every day by the Sri Lankan navy.
Slowly, internally displaced persons have been trickling to safety.
Recently, 158 Muslims reached Negombo, a town north of Colombo best
known to tourists for its beach resorts. When I visited, they were
sleeping in classrooms at a Muslim school, but hopeful that a move
to a camp administered by the local Red Cross was coming soon.
Their leader was Mohammed Subair, a man whose small stature could
not conceal a simmering rage. There's a lot of anger at the camp,
most of which is directed at the Tamil Tigers. I'd been told that
the Tigers were anything but popular here, and now I learned why.
"We spoke with the [Tamil Tiger] leader, he promised us security,"
Subair said. "The [Tiger] armed guard also promised food and goods,
and that he would not harass us. He said, 'We are checking only the
perimeter.' But they arrested around 50 youths and they bound their
hands behind them... [From this 50], they [took] two youths and
killed them both. The public asked, 'Why did you kill them?' Then
they answered, 'If you ask that question, you will be killed also.' "
The 2004 tsunami ravaged Muttur, displacing thousands. Many had
returned to their newly rebuilt homes, ready to begin their lives
again. This war has wiped away the gains of 20 months' hard work.
But the lesson that nothing is permanent is ingrained in the minds
of many refugees, my mother included.
My maternal grandfather, my Dede, had the misfortune of being born
in 1905 in what is now eastern Turkey, a time and place not overly
kind to Armenians. The Armenian genocide, which culminated in 1915,
expanded the Armenian diaspora to unprecedented proportions, and no
Armenian community was larger than the one in Beirut.
It was in this city that Dede found a haven, and for a long while he
and his family lived under a veneer of stability. He made a name for
himself as a mechanic, then opened a corner store. He became a deacon
at the local church. His five children - of whom my mother is the
youngest - received a good education at the local Armenian schools,
learning Arabic, English and a smattering of French.
But in 1976, around the time the Lebanese civil war was beginning,
it was my mother's turn to flee. Sixty years of sinking roots in a
country were insignificant when faced with unceasing mortar rounds.
"I remember one night when the artillery shells were just passing by,
and you feel that it's going to explode in your building," my mother
recalled. "That's when my family decided it's time for me and my
sister to leave Lebanon."
They weren't alone. By some estimates, the civil war in Lebanon
resulted in an exodus of up to a million people, roughly a quarter of
the country's population. While many returned, a sizable proportion,
including my mother, settled in the West.
Eventually, after years of struggle, she, too, found her haven.
Today, my mother is a counsellor at a women's shelter, Kingston
Interval House. She owns her own home and has seen two sons attain
a higher education.
But what of the refugees and internally displaced persons streaming
from their homes in Sri Lanka? What about their dreams?
It's clear that most don't want to return to their homes. Despite the
fact that Muttur is no longer a war zone, aid workers are reporting
that internally displaced persons are still too scared to return.
Residents of Kantale, the town in northeastern Sri Lanka that has
become a major gateway for the displaced, are anxious for their
unexpected visitors to leave.
For the Muslims in Negombo, the chances of finding refuge in Canada
are slim. They have no possessions to speak of, little money and no
know-ledge of French or English. Only a few are educated. Unlike the
Tamils in the north, they don't even have the option of attempting
to make a run for India. In a country where poverty is rampant,
the West is a viable option for only a few. For better or for worse,
their future is tied to Sri Lanka.
In Lebanon, where a flight to North America or Europe is less of a
pipe dream, there seems to be a determination to rebuild once more.
True, some will leave, never to go back. But most are now returning
to their homes, and will attempt to reconstruct their shattered lives.
But these dreams can never be attained without a measure of
stability. And the responsibility for providing this, at least in the
short term, seems to fall on governments that have other priorities
in mind.
In short, what the refugees and internally displaced persons are
looking for is what my family finally attained. They're looking
for peace.
And it's completely out of their hands.
-Haig Balian, a Kingston native, recently graduated from the diploma
in journalism program at Concordia University in Montreal. He received
a $20,000 grant from the International Development Research Council
in Ottawa, which he used to travel to Sri Lanka and report on stories
there.