Sugandhi Alias Andal Devanayaki Read online

  SUGANDHI

  ALIAS

  ANDAL

  DEVANAYAKI

  T. D. RAMAKRISHNAN

  TRANSLATED FROM THE MALAYALAM BY

  PRIYA K. NAIR

  for Dr Rajini Thiranagama

  no more tears sister

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  P.S. Insights Interviews and More...

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  When I arrived at Divine Pearl, a secret Sri Lankan military camp that lay ninety-five kilometres from Colombo, it was quite late in the evening. DP was a prison camp built by the British colonizers to house hardened criminals. Though the façade resembled the palace of a feudal overlord, it was a fully equipped jail designed to hold prisoners securely and to torture them in many ingenious ways. The main building had twenty-two cells spread across three floors, and three rooms called prayer rooms that were used for interrogation. In a small building adjacent to it were offices and rooms for the officials. DP stood atop a hill in the middle of a hundred-acre tea plantation. We were subjected to a thorough frisking before being allowed in, even though we had special sanction from the president himself.

  We were there for pre-production work on a movie, The Woman Behind the Fall of the Tigers, that Transnational Pictures was producing in collaboration with the Sri Lankan government. The crew comprised of me – Peter Jeevanandam, the scriptwriter – the director Christie Alberto from Scotland, his girlfriend and cinematographer Mary Ann, Tony Bernard who was one of the producers and Charles Samaraveera, a top official in the cultural ministry and a close confidant of the president. The camp in-charge, Colonel D’Silva, and his entourage treated us with a great show of hospitality. This could be attributed to the typical fancy third-world citizens have for Hollywood, or perhaps it was because the government had shown special interest in this project. The movie was an effort by the Sri Lankan government to whitewash the atrocities that had been committed in brazen violation of human rights during the civil war. But we planned to use the opportunity to portray how anti-democratic stances within a movement can fragment and weaken the revolution itself. Christie had picked me to write the script since I had spent several years with the Tigers working on a movie project during Prabhakaran’s time, but had been forced to flee for my life without completing it.

  Colonel D’Silva explained the working of the camp in detail. The most dangerous of the Tigers were housed in this camp. They could not be rehabilitated or reintroduced into society, as neither liberty nor torture could change them. Many of them still believed that their dream of a Tamil Eelam could be realized. Some of them had even lost their mental balance. There were prisoners who thought that Prabhakaran was still alive and would come to rescue them. Some of them would suddenly turn violent or attempt to commit suicide. Each one of them had been charged with hundreds of crimes, including mass murder, terrorism and anti-national activities. The trials were prolonged endlessly.

  ‘And until then?’ Christie asked our guide anxiously.

  ‘And until then, it’s our responsibility to see that they don’t make trouble. But it’s not easy.’

  ‘Torture?’

  ‘Yes. That is often required. As the prisoners are not ordinary criminals, we have to resort to different methods. Torture without using weapons or inflicting wounds.’

  ‘How is that done?’

  ‘There is physical as well as mental torture. Prisoners are made to lie naked in a big steel box resembling a coffin. Then spiders are let loose into it. When the spiders crawl on their naked bodies, the prisoners writhe in pain. In another box, there are millipedes. There are also boxes filled with ants, scorpions, crabs and snakes. Because the prisoners are not allowed to die, we only use snakes that are not poisonous. Every day, the prisoners have to lie in one of these boxes for hours while they are interrogated. All these people have been questioned hundreds of times. Yet we continue to question them in the hope that they will talk. But they are Tigers, after all. They do not give in easily. All this happens in the prayer rooms upstairs. After the physical torture is over, we start torturing them mentally. We use the prayer room on the first floor for this. It is a mini-theatre that shows movie clips of the Sri Lankan army defeating the Tigers in battle and the victory celebrations that followed. They also show the Tamils suffering under the Tigers. These clips are played in the hope that they will make the prisoners feel guilty. We also have footage of the prisoners’ relatives cursing the Tigers, confessions of people like Daya Master who surrendered, and the advice of people like Karuna who shifted loyalties. They are also shown clips where the Tigers are criticized on international platforms for their atrocities. When movies are not being shown, songs parodying Prabhakaran and his people are played loudly.

  ‘The prayer room on the ground floor is a modern torture chamber. It houses torture machines of international standards. There are machines to pull out nails and crush bones, cots that administer electric shocks, machines that simulate drowning, electric sticks that can be used to penetrate anuses and vaginas, gas chambers that make you laugh or cry continually and weaken your body, whips studded with nails, chairs of thorns, and microscopic instruments used to administer shock to private parts. These machines are not used in ordinary circumstances. But the prisoners live in fear that they might be used at any time. Every day at eight in the morning, after roll call, the prisoners are shown these instruments and are given detailed descriptions of how they are used, before being taken to the second floor. But they are Tigers and are not easily fazed. And we still haven’t received permission from the president to use these machines. It may be because the International Human Rights Association keeps a close watch nowadays.’

  By the time the Colonel had finished explaining all this, Christie had become impatient. ‘We want to see everything,’ he said.

  The Colonel and a couple of army officers began bombarding us with questions: When will the shooting begin? Who is playing Prabhakaran? Is Mary acting in the movie? Will you shoot here? Christie and Mary were inspecting the rooms without giving clear answers to the questions. But I wanted to meet Thamizholi. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to meet her or any other prisoner. The Colonel bid us farewell saying, ‘As there are security issues, you will only be able to meet the prisoners tomorrow.’

  My mind was in turmoil after the prison visit. I did not share Christie’s and Mary’s excitement. It was the first time they were visiting such a place. But when I recalled the torture chambers in Kilinochchi and Vanni, this one seemed to pale in comparison.

  We were staying at the Taj Samudra in Colombo. Christie and Mary shared an executive suite. I had a room to myself. Being the producer, Tony had to conduct several business dealings, so he too had a room to himself.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ Samaraveera asked, slightly inebriated and eager to start a conversation.

  ‘Full of confidence. Peter’s story is so startling. We will make magic with it. Please see to it that all the necessary arrangements are made.’

  ‘You can ask for anything you want. This
is the president’s pet project. The world needs to see the Tigers in their true colours. We have to silence those who are slandering the government with accusations of human rights violations and mass murder.’

  ‘But Samaraveera, this is a movie.’

  ‘I know. We will not interfere with any aspect of movie-making. You have complete freedom. All of us have read Peter’s story … even the president. When it is made into a movie, the world will undoubtedly see the truth.’

  ‘Thank you, Samaraveera. I didn’t know that your president was so broad-minded.’

  ‘Well, that is why he has asked the cultural department to pay your remuneration as well as finance the movie.’

  ‘He is indeed great. But if we speak about his greatness in the movie, we will lose credibility.’

  ‘An intelligent artist will find a way – and you are very intelligent.’

  The cultural department had arranged a grand dinner for us. The who’s who of the film world were in attendance, including Vimukthi Jayasundara who had won the Caméra d’Or at the 2005 Cannes Film Festival, Chandran Rutnam, the director of The Road from Elephant Pass and a notable Sri Lankan presence in Hollywood, and Malini Fonseka who had starred in Akasa Kusum. The glamorous Anusha Rajapaksha clung to Christie in her revealing outfit, fanning flames of gossip that she was our heroine. After the formal introductions, Christie spoke about the project.

  ‘I met Peter, quite unexpectedly, in Berlin. It is only because of his good fortune that Peter, who had attempted to make a movie on the revolution during Prabhakaran’s time, is still alive. This movie is Peter’s story. An amalgam of the story he wrote and the life he lived. When Peter narrated the story, I realized we would have to approach the story from a different angle than The Road from Elephant Pass. My focus was on the violence and anti-democratic traits that lead a movement – and the people it claims to represent – to utter destruction. I am an outsider looking at this subject. Peter was looking at it from the inside. This movie was born out of the tension created by our differing perspectives. Mary is my friend and the cinematographer. We feel that Mary’s experience in Hollywood will be an added advantage for our movie. Everything else will be decided after Peter’s script is completed. We hope that all our Sri Lankan friends will help us in our endeavour.’

  They all wished us luck. Chandran Rutnam asked us to approach him if we needed anything. Anushka whispered to Christie, ‘I am eagerly waiting for your call.’

  After the sumptuous dinner, Samaraveera bid goodbye, saying that he would arrange for us to meet the prisoners.

  Not just any prisoner – Thamizholi. It was her that I wanted to meet.

  Yes, I would meet her.

  Colonel D’Silva led us to Thamizholi’s cell with a warning: ‘She becomes violent suddenly. Don’t ask too many questions. Just listen to her if she talks.’ Thamizholi had been the commander of the women’s wing of the Viduthalai Tigers, and one of the leaders that the Sri Lankan military had captured alive after the last battle in Mullaitivu. The official version was that she had surrendered. But nobody who was familiar with the Iyakkam or who knew Thamizholi personally could believe this. The enquiries about her and her trial were being prolonged endlessly. The torture she had endured in Sri Lankan prisons had exhausted her mentally as well as physically. But her flaming eyes had lost none of their earlier vitality and determination. She looked at me with the contempt and loathing of a caged tiger. To be honest, I was shocked by the way she looked at me. It was clear that she had not recognized me. It wasn’t possible for her to recognize me. We had met only once, nine years ago, in Daya Master’s room. Daya Master, the media chief of the Iyakkam in Kilinochchi. I had gone to meet Prabhakaran to propose a movie about the freedom struggle. I had a movie like The Battle of Algiers, which had been shot against the racist war of 1983, in mind. But it was difficult to convince them. They viewed cinema as they viewed all other art forms – propaganda intended to dismantle the false perception about the Iyakkam created by movies like Mani Ratnam’s Kannathil Muthamittal. Neither Daya Master nor his accomplices had enough knowledge about the medium to be able to understand my vision. They did not even permit me to meet Prabhakaran.

  The only relief came in the form of Sugandhi, a fighter who accompanied Thamizholi. She was able to understand what I was trying to do.

  ‘I am Peter Jeevanandam. We met a few years ago in Daya Master’s office in Kilinochchi.’

  She looked at me carefully.

  ‘Daya Master? It is a mistake to address that Sinhala shit with respect. You tell me, why have you come here? Did he send you?’

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I have no connection with him. The movie project I was forced to give up has now been taken up by a Hollywood production unit. The Sri Lankan government has also given consent. I need your help.’

  ‘My help?’

  ‘Yes. I want to know where Sugandhi is.’

  ‘Sugandhi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. How would I know? She left the Iyakkam. Who knows if she is still alive.’

  ‘Who would know that better than you?’

  ‘Inside the Iyakkam, Prabhakaran did not tolerate insubordination. Nobody who questioned him was left alive. But Sugandhi was spared. I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened to her.’

  ‘Is there any way of finding out?’

  She fell silent, then spoke in a low voice as if remembering something.

  ‘The Sri Lankan refugees in Paris have a group called Karupu. They published a magazine of the same name. During the war, they criticized both the government as well as the Iyakkam. Sugandhi used to write in that magazine under the pseudonym Eezhathachi. I think the editor of The Sunday Leader, Lasantha Wickrematunge, who was later killed, put her up to this. If you meet anyone connected with them, you might get information about Sugandhi.’

  2

  I had heard about the magazine Karupu even before Thamizholi told me about it. Nallur Sivachidambaram, the leader of the Sri Lankan refugees in Paris, used to publish it online. Siva lived in Little Jaffna, a refugee ghetto near St. Denis. He was friends with the novelist Antony Shobasakthi who was also my friend.

  When I reached the hotel, I immediately called up Antony and enquired about Siva. He only said, ‘Please don’t ask me about him. He died before his time.’ But when I explained my need, he agreed to mail me the details. On 18 May 2009, the same day Prabhakaran was killed in Mullaitivu, unidentified assailants murdered Sivachidambaram inside the Manikka Vinayagar temple that had been built by the Tigers. And with that, the publication of the magazine stopped. Everyone believed that the magazine had been stopped because the last issue had carried an interview with the famous journalist Sonali Wickrematunge, who was Lasantha Wickrematunge’s wife. But that wasn’t the real reason. The issue had also carried an announcement that Sugandhi’s autobiography, titled Notes on the Life of a Female Soldier, would be published from the next issue onwards.

  Notes on the Life of a Female Soldier

  By Eezhathachi

  He was Ananda – Peter Jeevanandam, my lover. Thoughts of love had never crossed my mind until I met him. But I fell into a sea of love from the moment I saw him. If I hadn’t seen him, my life wouldn’t have turned out like this. I would have died a martyr to the Iyakkam. I can begin my story only after bowing to him.

  I am Sugandhi. That is the name the Iyakkam gave me. My parents had named me Andal Devanayaki. I was born in Colombo and lived there until I was three. My father, Ratnasabapathy, was a Professor of Tamil in Colombo University. My mother, Kanakavalli, was a gynaecologist in Castle Street Hospital. Both of them had been born and brought up in Nallur, Jaffna. My brother’s name was Soorya Jyothy. I don’t remember their faces any more. My memories begin with their murder.

  24 July 1983, Sunday night. I was barely three. We were in a car on our way home. When we reached the city limits, we felt something was amiss. There was fire and smoke everywhere. The shops were burning. When we rea
ched Borella bus stand, a huge mob came charging at us with swords. They stopped our car and dragged my father out. They were not willing to listen. Shouting, ‘Tiger! Tiger!’ they stabbed him. Blood flowed. I don’t know whether they did it on purpose, but they set fire to the car with me inside. My parents and brother were writhing in the throes of death. I was surrounded by fire, smoke and horrifying screams. One of the assailants, a bit more humane than the rest, opened the door and pulled me out of the car. Caught among the dead and the dying, I lost consciousness.

  I grew up in refugee camps in and around Colombo. I have never wept more than I did during my time there. A thin rice gruel poured twice a day into an aluminium pan was my diet. I had to sleep on the bare cement floor. The camp resounded with the abuses of the Sinhalese soldiers. Every time I fell asleep, I would see the faces of my parents and brother and wake up. By the time my mother’s brother, Kumaravel, who was doing research at the London School of Economics, could locate me and take me away, I was six years old.

  It was my unfortunate childhood that led me to become a freedom fighter. Unlike many of the other women soldiers, I was neither forced into joining the Iyakkam nor were my family members threatened by them. It was because I had some misconceptions about it. When, at the age of twenty, I joined the Iyakkam in Anton Balasingham’s London home with the half-hearted consent of my uncle, I thought that it was a revolutionary movement, an armed leftist revolt to attain the dream of Tamil Eelam. That is how Anton Balasingham’s wife, Adele, convinced me. And it was that conviction which prompted me to give up my graduate studies at the London Film School to join them.

  My uncle’s house was in Holland Park in west London. His Bangladeshi wife, Neelambari Chatterji, was a newsreader at the BBC. Perhaps because they had no children of their own, they saw me as their own daughter. The mental wounds I had sustained as a young child had begun to heal slowly with their love and tenderness. By the time I was ten years old, I would laugh, sing and play like any other child. It was then that I started taking pictures with my aunt’s Kodak camera. Later, this became my passion.