Sabiya Mahal: Commemmorating 25

years of the Northern Muslim eviction

Picture courtesy SriLankaBrief

by An IDPs diary - on 10/22/2015

Excerpt from an IDPs diary 22nd August 2003

I am worried and mad at my Mum. Why

is she doing this? Is she insane or greedy?
She says it is foolish to keep something that will be soon taken over by
them.
I cried Mum, it is our home. We have to keep it for our kids. Maybe they
will not live there but this is the only connection we have got. After all,
Mannar is our home town.
My mother sounded very determined in her stand; she continued justifying
her decision Look, you think it is going be your home again? People say

that they have even changed the name of our street, they now call it
Murugan [i] Street. What a day dreamer you are and I dont even want to
imagine my grandchildren stepping in there. She added I have decided to
get rid of this house before the war starts again.
I begged her to give me few days to think, wishing furtively to lobby my
brothers for support.
My brothers looked as if they had already discussed this well in advance.
They shouted out questions one after the other why are you so possessive
of this ruined house? It was shelled twice and haunted. Who would even
want to step in there again, let mum sell it off.
My second brother added his input cautioning me Remember, we sold our
shop for peanuts when we had to rent a house in Colombo. Come on, it is
time to sell all we have got and invest. Who knows when they will start the
fight again?
My youngest brother, in an effort to make light of the situation said with his
usual playfulness, you know something sister, mum is smart and you
should let her do what she wishes. After all it is her property?
That night I felt mystified. Can anyone put monetary value on this house
that preserves those myriad happy memories I still want to hold on to? The
feeling of belonging that was taken away at gun point on the cold morning
of October 24th 1990.
Talking about us- the Northern Muslims a friend of mine came up with this
instinctive phrase you guys were swimming in a pond before eviction and
now you have the ocean.

It is true that we have the ocean, but it is also easy to get lost in it. Besides
we dont want to be in an ocean, was a reply I didnt dare to tell him given
that it would bring about a discussion which I feared. In fact, I get very
uncomfortable at the very mention of this unfortunate incident, let alone
discussing it.
My brothers were too small to feel the way I felt about being thrown away.
They are simply angry about bearing the IDP stamp. For them the easiest
way is to get rid of everything that reminded them of being displaced. This
way they can wipe away the bitter past and build up a new identity, as
Colombo Muslims.
It is hard for me to stay disconnected; indeed I want to deal with the past
because I am hurt and ashamed. My wounds need to be healed and it can
be done only by returning, finding answers to my questions and if possible
renewing relationships. It is tough to explain this to my brothers. After all,
they have been forced to think that our homes are in enemy territory. Who
would want be connected to their foes? Well, it is time to use my last resort.
This will work because they all love me. I begged them with tears Look,
what is on sale is our dignity. This is a real disgrace to our grandfather and
daddy.
That was the last conversation about selling the house. I know they didnt
understand what I meant but they stood by me because of my tears and
that is how I stopped (or should I say postponed?) the sale of our ancestral
house- Sabiya Mahal [ii].
I wondered why my mother didnt feel the way I did about this house. It was
my mothers birth that brought prosperity to my grandfathers business,
and he built this house for her. She and her seven siblings grew up in this

house and my mothers dream wedding took place here as well.

Our next door neighbor, Thevi aunty used to tell stories about mums
wedding; how my grandpa decorated the street that led from the railway
station to our home with coloured lights so that all his friends who visited
Mannar for the first time would not get lost (this didnt make any sense to
me because we lived in such a small Island and I wondered how anyone
could really get lost here!).
She said it was like a Thirukaitheswaram Thiruvilaa [iii] with Thoranums [iv]
on both sides of the road, and how my uncles and her brothers, Sivam and
Shakti, covered up a well in our front garden to make a stage for musicians
to play Nathasvaram [v] (if they only knew that they were sitting on top of a
36 feet deep well they would have caught the next train to Jaffna!)
She told me the fuss mum made when she had me, the first grandchild and
how the whole house was babyproofed. She pointed out to me the nail
marks on both sides of the walls where my father had nailed down wooden
panels to keep me away from the steps and uneven surfaces.
Mum, how is it possible for you to say that you dont want to go back there
any more? Why do you hate this house so much? Is it because you too dont
want to deal with the bitter past, like my brothers? These are questions I
never asked her fearing that I would re-open the deep wound of daddys
untimely death triggered by displacement.
I have been to my hometown many times in the last couple of years, but
never had the bravery to step into Sabiya Mahal. In fact, I stayed with
friends or relatives and avoided even passing by. Nevertheless, this time,
after all the commotion I made to stop the sale, I thought of going back to

visit.
I can remember how nervous I was that day; it was like going to see my
long lost dear friend. I reached out for the best dress I had in my travelcase. Thirteen years that is very long time, isnt it? As I entered Moor
Street I glimpsed that safe haven standing strong as it used to be. As I got
closer to it, I noticed something different it had lost its air of affability.
Years of negligence and war had cast plenty of scars. The porch and
parapet walls looked as if they had been stripped naked.
During the war this house brought hope and reassurance. For many of us
this was the only safe haven that pulled all of us together my aunts,
uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors this place reminded me of festivals
and weddings.
Usually after a fight there would be curfews. I loved curfews because our
house used to be full of people people of different age, class, caste and
faith. Grandma borrowed big pots and pans that were used only for
Kanthiries [vi] from our Mosque and cooked in the back garden using stone
stoves stoked with piles of wood. Christi uncle- an amazing story-teller, a
political science teacher and a superb cook- assisted her. Sivam anna [vii]
and Mustafa (who worked at the nearby grocery shop- Myillvahanam Kadai)
challenged each others masculinity by cracking huge chunks of firewood in
one strike.
We gathered the chopped firewood when they took breaks and brought
them to Christi uncle in anticipation of the usual bribe. Christi uncle always
gave us rewards when we did something good. Most often these rewards
were funny stories of his childhood and growing up together with my father
in their village Vidathaltheevu [viii].

I loved these stories, which portrayed my father as a sturdy yet very

mischievous boy. Occasionally smoke would engulf the whole house and we
all coughed endlessly with tears in our eyes, but I loved those days and the
tears too.
All of us sat on the floor and ate whatever grandma served on banana
leaves. The food tasted so good, in fact I secretly wished for long curfews.
In the evenings Nimmi and Ranjini joined me in rehearsing the songs Sister
Lourdes taught us on our last scout camp. We often forgot that we were in
the middle of a bloody civil war.
I still stood in our front garden trying to bring the nerve to step inside.
Suddenly everything became hostile and I felt numbed. The sharp
memories of war and the last few days engulfed me emotions of sorrow,
loss, tension, fear, atrocities and distrust. Memories that still kept me awake
most nights.
God, now I can smell only death and pain here.
My best friend Ranjini became a freedom fighter and later that year she
was proclaimed a Martyr. Uncle Christi became a traitor and his body was
hung on a lamp-post with a bullet in his forehead.
I became the other in my school and even among some of my closest
friends. Myillvahanam kadai got bombed one night and Mustafa too since
he slept there. Thavi aunty and her only son Kumar disappeared at a
military check point when they went to see their relatives in Adampan [viii].
Sivam anna, a brilliant and devoted mathematics teacher was taken for an
inquiry to Thalladi army camp [ix] and no one saw him afterwards. Since
then, maths became a bitter subject to me. Shakti anna who was admitted
to Jaffna medical college opted to join the struggle for a homeland, his

choice for guns and cyanide capsules came as a last resort of survival. If he
had stayed with us, who knows, he may have also disappeared like his
brother.
I saw Shakti anna only once after he became one of the big boys [x], that
was when he came to alert my father the night before they attacked the
Mannar police station. It reminded me of our endless attempts in preventing
my brother from his growing interest in Al Jihad and how he ended up
being wanted. If not for our friends, neighbors and Shakti anna he would
have ended up hung from the lamp-post too. The last few days in this house
were like living in a hellhole, the azaan [xi] (call for prayers) became a sign
of tension and fear. Every time mosques loudspeaker came alive at odd
hours our hearts stopped beating the thought that something dreadful
had happened killed us minute-by-minute.
When at last on October 24th the same loud speaker announced that we
had 24 hours to vacate our homes, I knew neither our friends nor Shakti
anna could rescue us this time.
My numbness turned into humiliation and distress.
God this is making me sick. I ran out and walked back quickly to my friends
house. My head felt so heavy I thought it would blow up. I ran to the
bathroom and sat beneath the tap. While the cold water poured on me I
cried- yes I cried for the first time to wipe clean the memories of living in
Sabiya Mahal.
That night I called mum and said lets get rid of this ghost house.
Glossary:
[i]Murugan A Hindu God
[ii] Sabiya My grandmas name

Mahal Arabic word for a place of rest

[iii] Thirukaitheswaram Thiruvilaa Famous Kovil festival celebrated in
Mannar.
[iv] Thoranum Kind of decoration mostly done by the roadside with young
coconut leaves
[v] Nathasvaram A musical instrument played by Tamils in their festivals
and weddings.
[vi] Kanthiries Muslims annual ritual in which the entire Muslim
community gets together and prepares meal for the whole town in a
mosque.
[vii] Anna Elder brother in Tamil
[viii] Vidathaltheevu and Adampan Small towns in Mannar mainland
[ix] Thalladi Army camp Infamous for detaining and torturing young Tamil
men in Mannar.
[x] Big boys- Denotes Tamil Tiger rebels
[xi]Azaan Call for Muslim Prayer (05 times a day on a regular schedule)
Posted by Thavam