The Bridge Between Boyhood and War
Events 53 years ago
The summer I turned fifteen, the war arrived in Sri Lanka like a monsoon, heavy and unforgiving. Among the fractured memories of that time, one scene burns brightest: the Kelani River, usually a ribbon of turquoise, choked with bloated bodies. It was a sight that stole my childhood innocence, a theft far crueller than any looter could manage.
The war wasn’t a distant rumble. My father, face grim by the flickering radio news, narrated tales of rebels and government forces, their actions blurring into a tapestry of violence. Schools became empty shells. Yet, even amidst the national bleeding, the pull of friendship was strong. Two months into the conflict, I yearned to visit my best friend, Ajit Martin. We’d meticulously planned this escape before the war choked the air. After much pleading, my parents, their worry a tangible weight, finally relented.
My mother’s kiss goodbye held a tremor I hadn’t noticed before. As she inspected my bag, her hand settled on my leather-bound journal. “Leave it,” she said, her voice tight. “If they find it, they might think you’re one of them.” Disgruntled, I surrendered the words that had become my refuge. The weight of her fear settled on me, a chilling premonition.
The train rattled across the Kelani bridge, the familiar rhythm replaced by a sickening lurch. A collective gasp from the compartment ripped me from my thoughts. Below, the once-sparkling river writhed with a macabre dance of death. Young men, their faces contorted in silent screams, bobbed like discarded offerings. The stench of decay hung heavy. Murmurs swirled around me: “Executed… dumped like cattle…”
Suddenly, the weight of my childish dreams felt like a leaden cloak. This wasn’t some adventure story. This was my country, the one they called Dharmadeepa, the Land of Righteousness. Where had the righteousness gone? Who were these boys, sacrificed on the altar of some unseen conflict?
Back then, politics and war were abstract concepts. I’d taken freedom for granted, a breeze on my face, the laughter shared with Ajit. Now, a seed of bitter understanding sprouted. Freedom was a privilege reserved for the compliant, not the curious, and certainly not the young.
