Jesuit Refugee Service aids homeless,
internally displaced victims of
Sir Lanka's internal battles.

Thousands of Sri Lankans are refugees in their own country, internally displaced, living in camps such as this one. "Even when freedom comes, we shall all walk over the bones of our sons and daughters. What kind of freedom is that?" asks a mother whose sixteen-year-old son was killed in Sri Lanka's ethnic violence.

"How much I long for a visit from my mother and father, from my brothers and sisters! I am in prison in southern Sri Lanka. My family is in the north. I know the conditions they live in. I am aware of the restrictions imposed on travel, the cost, and hazards. But still my heart yearns for a visit. I have had none since I arrived here, about two years ago. I wonder where my family is. I hear the war has displaced many people from their villages. Is my family among those who are refugees in their own land? I feel time has passed me by ... How I long to hold my mother's hands, to look at her face ... Will there be a time for me to be with my family again, to share the joy of being among them, in known places and with familiar people?"

These words of a Tamil refugee, a victim of the country's long-running civil war, echo in my mind as I arrive in Sri Lanka. This is my first time on the island, following a visit to camps in southern India that shelter 70,000 Sri Lankan refugees who have fled this war, which has raged since 1983.

The conflict pits the government and army against the rebel Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, fighting for a Tamil homeland in north and east Sri Lanka. Norway has initiated moves to bring the warring parties to the negotiating table, but in the meantime, armed combat continues.

Ethnic discrimination against the minority Tamils by the ruling Sinhalese is at the root of a war that has claimed 60,000 lives. Sri Lankan Tamils who have fled their homeland can be found in almost every other country in the world. Within Sri Lanka itself, over 700,000 Tamils are "internally displaced": people who have fled their homes but remain within the country.

We are in Sri Lanka; we work for Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS), an international organization that accompanies, serves, and advocates the cause of forcibly uprooted people. Together with Fr. Navam, longtime collaborator with JRS in Sri Lanka, we head for Mannar and Vavuniya, army-held northern districts.

We are driven along neatly paved roads through, at first, well-developed areas. Farther north, however, cars are less and less frequent; tanks, buses, and bicycles take their place. The roads are now bumpy, and army checkpoints become routine. Buses must stop at each checkpoint, some only five minutes apart.

Moving along the border between the area controlled by the army and that held by the rebels, we see soldiers with mine detectors patrol the roads, checking for booby traps. Fr. Navam points out destroyed homes and churches amid the vast, green landscape of palm trees and paddy fields. "These were villages once," he explains. Now they are deserted, the inhabitants displaced by war.

These young Tamil women (above) attend a boarding school in southern India run by nuns. They benefit from the importance JRS places on helping displaced Tamils continue their education. Camps (left) that house Sri Lanka's internally displaced suffer from inadequate facilities, lack of privacy, and few if any work opportunities. But educational opportunities help preserve social structures and values. One camp offers sewing classes for young women; another has a home for girls. JRS takes care of their education, food, clothing, and overall formation.

On the way to Mannar, we stop at Jeeva Nagar, a camp for displaced people. Over 200,000 internally displaced people live in these government-run welfare centers, as they are called, where space is crammed and assistance inadequate.

We walk down dusty paths between rows of huts and meet Arokim, a thin, sad woman wearing a bright pink dress, several sizes too large. She cries as she talks; it is the first anniversary of the death of her daughter, Jude, a teacher who was killed along with 41 other displaced people when the church where they had taken shelter was shelled.

"I had another son who got sick and died. Now I live with my remaining daughter and my husband, Nicholas, a retired postman," says Arokim.

Nicholas is 56 —he seems much older. He complains of liver problems but cannot get medicine; it is embargoed in the north. To leave the center a permit is required. However, only one-day passes are granted, so he would have to be back by evening — not enough time.

Asked if the center has health services, Nicholas shakes his head. "We are refugees, we are very poor," he replies.

Another stop is a parish-run home for 40 war orphans. One of us asks a young boy his name and gives it a try. "Bangladesh?" Bursts of laughter and the boy grins: "From now on, that will be my nickname." Fr. Navam tells me the child's story. In 1988 his father was picked at random and executed by the army in retaliation for the death of soldiers in a bomb blast.

Unfortunately, there are even more hardships that children like this young boy face, including lack of education. A JRS survey in one district found that a high number of displaced children had not been attending school. JRS has been working to combat this; the principals of nearby schools were contacted, and many children were admitted.

JRS also conducts classes for young people to help them obtain proficiency in English. Typing, sewing, and tailoring lessons are given at a Vavuniya camp so that skills can be developed for future employment opportunities.

Poopathy (above) lives in a camp for the internally displaced in Trincomalee, in eastern Sri Lanka. Her son, Prabhakaran, disappeared following an attack by Sinhalese on the detention center where he was being held. Sivamalar (right), a refugee in eastern Sri Lanka, lost two sons —Prakash, shot by the army, and Kandeepan, killed during a riot at a detention center. "I had seven children, five sons and two daughters. Now my third and fourth sons are no more."

At times though, the future seems like a long way off--as we leave the orphanage, loud, dull thudding noises are a reminder of the harsh present.

"Shelling," Fr. Navam comments.

Upon our arrival to Mannar Island we meet workers of Valvuthayam, a charitable organization, who outline the human rights violations suffered daily by Tamils in the war zones. One such violation is the pass system, an army program supposedly to catch militants. In effect, it severely restricts the freedom of movement of Tamil civilians from the north, unfairly stigmatizing them as terrorists.

There is also the constant fear of arrest on the vague suspicion of links with the rebels. Innocent people are frequently arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, a law that allows for arbitrary arrest, prolonged detention without trial, and torture. Some detainees have been languishing in prison for over two years.

The number of deaths and "disappearances" of civilians at the hands of the security forces is high. Sri Lanka has been ranked second worldwide in cases of disappearances. The Valvuthayam human rights officer, an elderly man, is unfaltering in his endeavors to get army personnel to account for arrests.

"The first priority is the person's life. Our immediate reaction is to get an admission of arrest; otherwise, the detainee may disappear," he explains. "When the military police are aware a case is being followed, they are careful."

The local church defends fundamental rights with spirit and courage. The Bishop of Mannar diocese, Rayappu Joseph, steadfastly speaks out against discrimination. He is single minded in his pursuit for justice and grieved for his people. Witnessing the Church as a sign of hope in suffering, I am proud of the contribution of JRS, which provides education, care for orphans and widows, support for Tamil prisoners and their families, and presence in war-torn areas.

JRS's work with children has helped to bring those living in camps and welfare centers into the schools. When a survey at one refugee camp turned up the fact that more than 350 students were not attending school, JRS opened one that now educates the majority of them.

We leave Mannar for Vavuniya, some three hours away. The parish priest, Jeyabalan Croos, also a JRS coordinator, takes us to Poonthoddam, a welfare center where JRS set up a school for the primary grades. The school is a long and narrow concrete building, with low walls along the sides, so people lean over to watch. There are no partitions dividing the classes. Children sit on mats on the floor. Ten volunteers serve the school's 310 children; uniforms and school supplies are provided. JRS workers also offer guidance for families in the camp, home to about 3,000 people. While there is not very much anyone can do to help the residents generate meaningful income, a few donated sewing machines have been a start.

Throughout the trip, we often feel sad, angry, and helpless in the face of unimaginable misery. However, our frustration is mixed with tremendous admiration and liking for so many people we meet, for their generosity and humor despite their circumstances, and for their dignity and strength. There is Jesuthasan, who works at the JRS office in Colombo and insists on hosting us the night before we leave the country. We are touched by the welcome they extend to us. As we share a meal, Jesuthasan and his wife tell us how they lost their home during anti-Tamil riots in 1983. Sinhalese neighbors hid Jesuthasan's family and saved them.

"We had nothing left. We would have gone crazy if it were not for this," said Jesuthasan's wife, pointing to a cross on the wall. "Prayer has helped us very much; we rebuilt everything bit by bit."

When we thank Fr. Navam for accompanying us, he simply replies: "It is my obligation." We leave Sri Lanka convinced we have a duty too towards innocent civilians who continue to suffer in silence. Borrowing words spoken by the Mannar Bishop: "Let us at least try to rouse the conscience of the world and those of good heart.