Impact of the war - some poems
Through a Lense - Sri Lanka, 18 May 2009
By Priyeni de Silva McLeod
So we’ve won the war
and celebrate,
as sad, desperate people
Flee in terror.
We don’t see them run to freedom,
cheering liberty
But plodding wearily
to the unknown.
Wounded, bloody people
helped along by those unhurt,
whose hurting hearts we cannot see.
A son carries an emaciated father on bony shoulder,
An old woman falls, yet drags on her haunches,
Sand fries on her palms, she licks deliriously
“Amma no, that’s not hot spicey gram”
A hungry baby wails, a plaintive wail
Pulling, sucking at a withered breast.
They carry what bits they can
And deep memories,
As they walk away with blank expressions.
Too tired, too thirsty in the scorching sun.
While their homes go up in flames behind.
Images we see
but we know there’s much more
anguish and suffering unseen,
because they were not captured
through a lense.
Sri Lanka , today we celebrate
Peace not had for three decades.
It’s our communal responsibility
To not forget but feel the agony
of our people who have lost their all,
now languishing in camps,
Feel with compassion and with love
the pain of people left bereft
by a self-professed liberator,
A gutless chief behind human shields
Of people whom he claimed to save.
They are now destitute with
no hopes, no dreams,
Disillusioned.
In joyful celebration
Let’s not forget
the human suffering.
That indeterminate price
we pay for peace.
* On events in Muttur where a helpless Muslim community caught in cross-fire shuttled from Muttur to Kantalai to Muttur and then scattered 17 aid-workers who came from elsewhere were found shot dead, a mystery unsolved up to date.
4 August 2006 in Muttur
By Priyeni de Silva McLeod
Panic in Muttur.
A silent procession wends its way,
Bundles slung, babes on hips,
pots balancing on their heads,
to Kantalai,
With haunted expressions
Seen before, across the world
through endless time,
The pathos of leaving a loved home.
Secure in Muttur?
Return to a lie,
of unsettled disputes,
and battles.
Oppression in Muttur.
Bewildered people
Run anywhere, run somewhere,
Run from Muttur.
To make-shift homes.
Stay there, die there,
chasing elusive safety and peace.
In Muttur,
Mystery shrouds
Seventeen massacred bodies,
They only came to help.
Agony of Buttala
“Red hot steel balls pierced through the thin tin body of the bus”
reported the Sunday Leader of 20 January 2008.
By Priyeni de Silva McLeod
Some taking harvest
to sell for higher price,
Some to hospital
for more care perhaps,
Some visiting kin,
Lovers’ tryst maybe,
Fascinating tales,
Not news-worthy,
For in that bus were
Just the poor and lowly.
Indifferent to passing scenes,
Dozing - rare morning luxury.
Two women, their mouths stained red
Chatted, betel lumped in cheeks.
A baby wailed for its mother’s breast,
And the Claymore exploded.
“Red hot steel balls pierced through the thin tin body of the bus”
Red hot steel balls ripped through thin bodies of helpless people.
Surely thin.
For in Buttala the kind who go by bus
Drink plain tea, a lick of sugar on palm,
Eat rice or manioc and sambal.
Terrified travellers cowered;
Four relentless ‘Tigers’ shot.
Red hot steel balls pierced fatally,
Twenty seven in all.
Thin bodies, thin tin and large pools of blood
Remained.
Half hour later the same four heroes,
(So called in Eelam),
Came upon some farmers, toiling in the sun
Coaxing the hard, dry earth to yield.
“Duwapalla”, AK 47s raised,
The peasants ran, not fast enough.
“Red hot steel balls pierced thin bodies”,
Six dead, others wounded.
Sun-scorched thin bodies sprawled in large wet patches,
Harsh earth, soaked in blameless blood
Remained.
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Post edited by: Priyeni, at: 06/28/2011 05:51 PM
Post edited by: Priyeni, at: 06/28/2011 05:59 PM
