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Prasanna Weerawardane continues his trek in Minihagalkanda Lost.... Soon, I had dropped far back. The rest were a thin line of people disappearing into the distance. At some point they would turn right into the top of the dunes and into the trail we had come through. At this rate I would miss the trail, and pretty soon I became aware that there were no people in sight, even on the far horizon. I trudged on, and on, and on, hoping to catch up. It finally dawned on me that the rest had gone up the trail over the dunes, and I was lost. It was time
to panic! Feeling very much like the Ancient Mariner with too much ocean, I began to trek back, and keep an eye out for footprints leading up the dunes. I went up animal tracks a couple of times, panting my way up the dunes, to face impenetrable scrub jungle. ...and found I was too exhausted to enjoy the ride back, dreaming of ice coldpacks, drinks, etc. We got back and I promptly collapsed into the deepest pool in the Menik, and stayed there until dinner time. As a suitable postscript, and a hint of the wrath of the jungle gods for venturing into untrodden territory, both Cedric and I suffered for weeks afterwards from virulent tick bites we picked up at Yala - the symptoms were itching and fever. The ticks were from the sambhur, and that helpful tree I had leant on probably had been infested with them. I emerged two weeks later very thin, burnt a dark mahogany, and a lot wiser on suitable apparel for Yala. So it ended, this expedition into the wilder shores of the southeast. Would that time had stood still, and we were all back there, in 1993, stranded on a beach by the eastern jungles. But time, as the Mayan saying goes, is a man on the road, and inexorably, the roads we travelled were sometimes controlled by destinies out of our grasp. ...and lost
again A few months earlier, his eldest son Jason, who had joined the Air Force, went down in a tropical storm in a cargo plane heading for Jaffna, in which he was the navigator. In the aftermath of the helicopter crash, Cedric's body was never found, and from some eyewitness accounts, it is thought that he is still alive, held prisoner by the Tigers, somewhere in the vast jungles of the north-east. In the near twenty-year ethnic war which has torn Sri Lanka apart, in which the roll call of those killed far outstrips the official head count of 55-60,000 given by the Government, one aspect which has bypassed the news is the fate of the thousands of army, navy and Air Force personnel 'Missing In Action'. The Government washes its hands off these disappeared, content to give cash payments to dependents and play down the fate of these men. There are no mechanisms, apart from the efforts of the ICRC, to find out their fate. After Cedric's disappearance, his partner, Druki, helped set up an organisation which seeks to keep alive the hopes of the MIAs' relatives. It is now the new millennium, and Cedric has been gone since 1996. If the current peace efforts to end this horrendous war succeed, and he returns, it will be the ultimate test for this great survivor. It seems to have the hallmarks of a Greek play, perhaps by Euripides: an unmatchable hero goes off to fight an unwinnable war, is lost in battle, and is taken prisoner to Hades, where he is held. Will he return? The outcome is yet to be written, the Fates still spinning their eternal thread. For all his relatives and friends, his loss is immeasurable. For me, he made hairpin turns into lazy corners. His passing from those who were close to him brought home how unique he was, and how bereft our society is, that those of his calibre should be lost. Postscript,
2002 What the ceasefire and eventual peace, long a faint whisper in the storm of war, means to all the people living in the north, the east and the south, is a return to the arcadia which this island was famous for. The sufferings of the people of the north and the east have been immeasurable. For those of us in the south, perhaps it has been the loss of innocence. It is time for hope to be reborn, and to take root once again. Hear the song
of an Autumn Cicada A heavy dew
hinders the flight
The sight that met our eyes near and around the precincts of the hospital was one of chaos and confusion, a Dantean scene, with the dead, near dead, the dying and the maimed, being brought in their numbers in ambulances, vans, cars and cabs by anonymous samaritans. As the Triage Officer on this day, it was my responsibility to separate the dead and 'group' the injured. The cause of
the mayhem was the explosion of a car bomb at 5.20 p.m. at the main
bus stand in Pettah when peaceful, hard working people, men and
women, were awaiting with stoic patience their turn to board overcrowded
buses and vans, to wend their weary way home The injuries
were due to: The wards of the Accident Service had to bear the intrusion and thrust of 63 bodies, 25 dying patients and 249 injured within a space of 30 to 45 minutes. Naturally, this created administrative and primary management problems which were sorted out with the ingenuity of all medical and paramedical staff who were available at that time. In this time of crisis bureaucratic rules and other obstructions were done away with so much so that there were no registration formalities for the victims. The Director of the Hospital who worked as tirelessly as the others arranged for a medical ward to treat those with mild and moderate injuries. While the dead and those who died within the first 30 minutes were counted, registration of the rest commenced the following morning. Data sheets were prepared and attached to the clinical notes of all the patients. These sheets listed the name, age, sex, registration number, the nature of injury and any other details collected by doctors attached to the unit of the Triage Officer. It needs to be mentioned that these sheets are preserved. A few of the injured, however, would have left before registration and hence the count on admission is probably more than recorded. Extent of the
disaster The fact that order was restored from a scene of utter confusion at the Accident Service is testimony to the diligence of the surgeons, medical consultants, house officers, nurses, attendants and indeed all the other staff of the General Hospital and the unknown volunteers who helped and cared for the victims to the best of their ability. It is said that a leopard will not change its spots and also that many wolves wear sheeps' clothing. In this context it is hoped that the LTTE Tiger will discard its stripes and attire itself in desired apparel that signifies peace, now and forever. |
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