Stories About Life

One Man's Trash - Another Man's Cash

As I stood alone, among the once fertile, once fun, once happy memory filled field, now the land of sorrow, the land of no tomorrow, the land of no future I looked back at the way it is.

The war torn field with trees broke in half and tracks of the wheels of warships on the dried land made my heart stop its beat for a second. The hot breeze brushed my hair to reveal the burnt mark, the scar that I'll carry to my grave and the rough sand danced on my face. The now fading scar stung to bring back bitter memories of the Warfield.

As soon as I finished my A/levels and graduated from the Diyathalawa my first stop, to come and serve as a soldier in war was the North. The rational fire that burnt my Mother Sri Lanka alive drew me and my fellows away from our parents warm love and care to the battlefield. I've been in the war for twenty five years. Those twenty five years gave me nothing but bittersweet memories and scars to make my day miserable.

There have been many a nights when I had stretched on the bunk bed and stared at the rooftop counting my days towards a salty air or wandering about what is the purpose of this so called war. To cover the rational disparity in my Sri Lanka we started this war. I knew that most soldiers in my camp knew that they will either loose their arms or legs or that they will be crippled forever.

Being in the warfront is worse than imagining it. I still remember the young boy who screamed while he got shot in the heart. The bullet struck his face and blood
smeared across his handsome face. Another bullet to his heart took his soul away from us.

The newspapers reported bits and pieces of the battlefield. Their flashy headlines said much as possible as it was.

After the thirty years of war as I stood on this field where when I was first appointed was filled with green is barren in the present measuring our own luck and hard luck we had to go through taught me one thing among the rest.

We brought victory to our motherland. But how many young hearts were killed by this cruel war. How many were crippled forever. How many mothers missed their sons. How many wives looked for their husbands. How many children cried for their fathers. It's countless.

The ring of a phone brought me back to the reality. I looked around me. But no one was there. I walked towards the sound. As I reached an old tree I found a phone that was mislaid. "Thaththi answer karannako! Thaththi answer karannako!..." it chanted aloud. Its chant brought tears to my eyes. I wondered the look on this little girls eyes when she hears that her father is a prey on this battle. The way her eyes grow wild when she understands that she will never meet her father again. When she doesn't receive his love again. When she longs for him as she looks at other children with both their parents. When she remembers that she can't call anyone "Thaththi" again...

As a stork looking for fish on mud I walked along the field looking for lost memories. My ones active gun hanging useless beside me. I found a lost book drying on the
hot land. It was a diary. It dated back for two years. It was filled with notes for a family. A lone photograph fell out of the book. I bent to take a close look at it.

The young soldier with his arm around his wife and with his daughter on his arm looked laughingly at the camera. The fixed smile said the days he would miss his family. It said the time he would take to look at them again. But his eyes spoke the fear. The reality of going back to the Warfield. The uncertainness of tomorrow. The days he would have to die in vain.

I left the photograph on the ground. My heart is about to burst. Like a book that is opened to be read my feelings are out in the open.

As death welcomed all the brave soldiers into its unworthy arms we kept bringing back more. Their tears dried by the Mother Nature gave them the courage to look
at it straight in the eye.

The young war veterans of many families found friends in this field. They had their ups and downs. Their tears washed this land. Their blood shattered on this land.

Even though we lacked courage we never gave up. We all woke up each day chanting the same mantra. "We won't give up. We are heroes. We will win." Even
when the weather was harsh we never stopped. We fought in the sun and in the rain. Even when the hot rays burnt our backs or even when the shattering rain
blinded us we never stopped shooting. We never dropped the gun.

There is only just one reason to a soldier to keep fighting. He doesn't fight to his country or party. They fight to keep the person next to them alive. They fight for friendship. They fight because they know that even though their name is not famous there is a soul anywhere even if they know their name or not that there is a silent prayer sent to all the heroes.

The real heroes of this country is us. We created a peaceful country for our little children to breathe happily. That single thought lifted the heavy weight off from my shoulders.

A tear drop fell on my face. No. It was a drop of rain. The heavy thunderstorm poured down a refreshing rain. The weather seems to be celebrating. I walked
under the rain with my face lifted towards the sky. The rain washed away all my tiredness. It washed all my bad memories and reserved the good ones.

With a heavy sigh I made my way praying that another day of darkness would not shroud my country. I saluted all my soldiers who helped us to bring this victory...

Dedicated to all the War Heroes...
We are forever indebted to you...
Siya ratatamai kawadath...

24/09/2018
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