lately, a lot of people have been asking me how i'm feeling about the upcoming move to japan. i love these people. they love me, and want to know how i'm doing and feeling. but as i'm actively trying not to think too much about my life in japan, it's been somewhat difficult. instead, i've been thinking more about the next month in chicago and iowa, and getting to spend it with the wonderful people i have in my life.

i have, however, been thinking about the topic of saying goodbye. and this (like most things, to be honest) brings me back to sri lanka quite a bit. yesterday, i found myself pretty overwhelmed, thinking about the day i left batticaloa. it was an experience i have never, ever felt before, and can't imagine ever feeling again. and in thinking about that, i've been thinking more about why my time there had such an effect on me. as i spoke to my best friend there, sampath, last night, i was obviously reminded. but, i've also been reading through some of the things i wrote while i was there. the piece below is something i wrote after attending a funeral service with the boys and girls i worked with. i think i never posted it before (as far as i can remember) because i was a little uncomfortable due to security reasons. but, i don't see that as an issue now. and i think it portrays a bit of why my time there was so completely life-altering for me. and why i love to experience other cultures/realities...and realize that it is all the same one. (if i've already posted this, forgive me.)


23 july 2010

i can honestly say i never thought i’d find myself (interesting phrase) trying to write about what it was like to go to a funeral with a group of former child soldiers. but the experience today weighed on me so heavily—in an almost literal sense—that i will try to put it into words (another interesting phrase).

the deceased was the brother of father paul, the director of the organization here that runs the children’s home. he had just celebrated his 80th birthday and, i believe, died at home with his family. when i heard about his passing, my first thought was what he must have seen in his 80 years. with my cultural lens, i might think of WWII, the moon landing, the cold war, or amazing technological advances. i wonder how many of these things and events he was honestly even aware of. instead, he saw his country’s independence from colonizers. he saw the rise of ethnic strife as the country attempted to form their democracy. he saw this fail miserably, and the 30 years of civil war that ensued. and he saw this civil war declared over, knowing full well it was not over, as his people, whom he’s known and been and been with for 80 years, continue to be oppressed and abused. i wonder if he died at peace with his country, or if he was worried about the violence that’s bound to continue, to affect his children, grand children, and great grand children (those that are still living after the war and tsunami that have killed a significant portion of the population).

when the huge bus carrying myself, a few staff people, and the 50ish former CS pulled up to the house—which may have been a funeral house, or simply someone’s home, i’m not sure—i had very little idea of what i would be doing or seeing. i had gone to an ‘8th day memorial service’ about three weeks before, but since this man had just passed a couple days ago, i knew this would not be the same. we filed off the bus and in through the iron gate, above which hung a banner with the man’s picture, dates of birth and death (almost 80 years to the day), and a few other words in tamil script that i couldn’t read. we entered the yard area, and slipped off our shoes in the sand by the door, and then proceeded through an aisle of plastic chairs towards the actual house. i was about the 10th person to enter the house, after the female staff woman and a few of the girls. the man was laying on what looked somewhat like the inside of a casket would, but much wider and with no lid. it was quite startling, actually, as i wasn’t prepared to actually see the body. he was indescribably frail, to the point that i was wondering (and continue to wonder) if maybe only his head was actually his, and his body was below a
baggy suit that had been poorly stuffed to look like it contained a body. the feet literally looked more like long rocks than feet, which was what most made me question that it was his real body. a sheer white veil lay over his face, and his hands were covered with white gloves, both creating a strong contrast with the dark suit, which literally looked almost empty. the fabric of the bed was also white and satiny, in a very casket-like way. i looked briefly at him, to take this all in, and then moved as far back as possible to make room for all the kids. as i moved back, i ended up in the only other doorway, which opened to another small room where a man was sleeping (or seeming to, anyways) on a plastic mat on the cement floor. i’m not sure if he was part of the family or perhaps a worker to oversee the visitations, but he was extremely gaunt and dirty. in fact, as i saw him lying there, i couldn’t help but think that he almost emitted a feeling of death more than the corpse in the other room.

back in the main room, there were about four to five feet of space from the outside of the bed to the walls of the room, making it nearly impossible to fit almost 60 people in any type of respectable way. i gladly moved towards the back to allow more of the kids to enter. once the majority were at least to the doorway, the auntie (female staff) took out her bible to lead a few prayers. she then passed the bible to one of the older girls, who led a couple songs that the other catholic kids sang along with. as we stood in silence, and then they prayed and sang, i gazed around the room with such curiosity that i hope my face didn’t show it. what were these kids thinking? (‘kids’ is really a misnomer, since they are anywhere from 13-25.) what is death to them? do they see it at all similarly to me? what were their eyes actually seeing? some of these young men and women—maybe even most of them—have killed people. some have killed children, or old men like this one. most have watched someone be killed, or experienced the death of a loved one. all know of violent deaths. a couple of them were crying, although none had ever met this man before. was it because of this overwhelming presence of death in their young lives? were they thinking of the things they’ve seen and done? or were they not thinking of these things at all? were they thinking of the fact that this man was able to live 80 long years—that he survived this life that they’ve worked so hard to make it through so far?

after a few short minutes in the house, we again went out to the yard area and sat huddled together in a mass of plastic chairs. after a couple minutes, a young man came around to give everyone a bottle of coke with a straw. as we sat and sipped, some chatting quietly, some of the same kids that had been crying in the room were now smiling or giggling (not disrespectfully), talking about something unrelated. was this an active attempt to forget what they had just seen and occupy themselves with something easier, happier? or was it just the way their minds functioned, easily moving from tragedy to recovery, being the only way they could have possibly survived for this long? and if so, what does that mean? about them and the reality they know? about me and the reality i know?

on the bus on the way home i sat next to one of the younger girls who tends to hang on me consistently when i am at the children’s home. on a normal basis, it has gotten somewhat annoying, as she quite literally uses me as climbing toy. but as we were bouncing along the partly-paved road, i found myself gripping her hand as if she was trying to get away. holding it as if she was slowly drifting away. grasping it as though it was the only thing that could save me from some unknown threat. as if letting go would have some type of horrific consequence. she recognized my somewhat rare return of affection and put her head on my shoulder. i bit my lip and looked out the window to keep from crying. i held her hand stronger to keep from screaming. i held on the entire way home, hoping that it might provide some answers, some peace.