Echoes of Silence
A Tale of Brutality and Lost Humanity
This essay by Denzil Jayasinghe recounts the author’s experience witnessing a horrific instance of mob violence against a Tamil boy in Dalugama, Sri Lanka, during the 1983 riots. The author describes the scene's brutality, his feelings of fear and helplessness, and the authorities' indifference. Jayasinghe reflects on the hypocrisy of those who participated in the violence after witnessing their religious piety, highlighting the stark contrast between faith and action. Ultimately, the story serves as a powerful reminder of the devastating consequences of ethnic hatred and the enduring impact of trauma on both individuals and communities.
I shook and trembled, my body consumed by fear and disbelief. I had no idea what had to be done. I stood there, utterly clueless about what to do, my voice stifled as if the air around me had become silent. No words came out of my mouth, or maybe I could not hear my voice. In my school days, I had witnessed the dissection of frogs in biology class, but this scene before me was beyond anything I could fathom.
They were dissecting a young lad. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
A skinny young man, not so different from me, was stripped of his humanity right before me. He stood stark naked. How could my village, my home, harbour such brutality? The question lingered in the air, heavy with accusation. Was it merely because he was a Tamil boy? Was that the sole reason for this unspeakable horror?
Amidst the chaos, the men and boys surrounding him roared like savages, their voices melding into a cacophony of aggression. Probably fifty or sixty of them. They brandished sticks and bars, their faces contorted with hate, striking the defenceless young man who stood, stripped of his dignity, at the epicentre of their brutality. Those without makeshift weapons but their bare hands unleashed blows on him with their fists. They were yelling in joy as if they won a world game.
The young man stood exposed, his skin marred and torn, a canvas painted red with the cruelty of those around him. He did not look human. He was utterly, devastatingly helpless. And so was I — a lump lodged in my throat, choking me and rendering me mute against these monstrous sounds. No words could come out of my mouth in this monstrosity.
I had seen some of these very men and boys in the church, their faces serene with devotion, bowing before their God. This stark contrast shook me to my core. At that moment, courage coursed through my veins amidst my overwhelming fear. I longed to step into the midst of that gruesome spectacle, rescue that lad, and bring him home safely. My heart ached with a profound, desperate desire to make a difference, to quell the cruelty, and to restore the humanity that seemed to have abandoned us all. But I was alone. Terribly alone.
I felt desperate. I felt abandoned. I felt fear. If I spoke or did something to challenge these marauding mob, they would gang up on me. My bravery was fleeting. Just moments ago, I witnessed an army truck speeding down the main road, indifferent to the chaos around them. The soldiers sitting on the bonnet paid no heed to the ongoing violence. Instead, they gleefully flashed V signs, V for victory, as they passed the rioters.
I looked around, I could see the corner store at the beginning of the Cross junction. Its doors shut. The beef store was shut, too. Far ahead of me, some two hundred meters, I could see the church. It was shut, too. Everything was shut, but people were rioting.
Feeling utterly powerless, I had to abandon the scene. I couldn’t assist that young man; I couldn’t save him.
That day, I felt my humanity diminish. It remains an agonising and shameful moment of my life, a memory I’ll regret for the rest of my days.
It was Monday, the 25th of July 1983.
Location: Dalugama, a village some ten kilometres from the capital, Colombo, Sri Lanka, at the Cross junction, near the Catholic church where many rioters worshipped.
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe
Images belong to the original owners.
