The women who wrote these poems are all but one former members of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). All were detained and tortured after the end of the armed conflict and were forced to flee abroad, leaving loved ones behind. They vary in age from their twenties to sixties; one is widowed, some married and some unmarried as of yet.
They attended a weekly psychosocial programme in London where they began to read Tamil poetry. Poems included ‘Lost Evenings, Lost Lives’ (edited by Lakshmi Holmstrom & Sascha Ebeling), Packiyanathan Ahilan’s ‘Then There Were No Witnesses’ (translated by Geetha Sukumaran) and Cheran’s ‘In A Time of Burning’ (translated by Lakshmi Holmstrom).
The women in the group started composing lines of verse themselves, responding at first, to a word given as a prompt. The lines were typed on phones, scribbled on scraps of paper – transient and shared on a WhatsApp group. They poured their pent-up feelings of pain, emotion and desire into words, sharing their inner worlds. All this while in limbo – trapped by COVID-19 pandemic and waiting for life to restart so their asylum cases could be processed, and a new life begin.
There are more than 100 poems now – extraordinary works of self-expression, exhibiting courage and love in the face of unimaginable suffering. They are poems of healing.
We publish six of those poems below.
Life
If God gives me the right
to be reborn as whoever I wish,
I would refuse to be born again.
As my desires turn to ashes
life on this earth is merely mechanical.
The belief in the sweetness of the future
makes the bitterness of the past disappear.
As time moves on it becomes clear.
Life is a battlefield.
Whether seen or unseen, several hundred enemies
began this war. Whether you were against it
or gave way to it, its impact
was always your own.
A thousand reports, their words dipped
in poison, flew like arrows
turning our minds into battlegrounds.
Life taught us so many, many lessons.
Like birds seeking ripe fruit
our relatives sought money.
In this panic stricken time
no one gained from this.
Friendship is a blessing from God.
Why does time make its colours disappear?
To speak ill of others has become the duty
of neighbours. Like a soap opera
with thunder and lightening
this pestilence crushes me.
On the wheel of life
happiness and pain interchange.
Yet for us the wheel seems stuck
on permanent suffering.
That fleeting time which knew no pain
has disappeared, and a time
that knows no happiness has dawned.
That special time, which flourished
in the sea of joy has been lost
and I had no concept of it, until its loss.
Is this to be my fate?
Even though my body is tired
of bearing this life of suffering,
like a parrot waiting for freedom
I too wait. Filled with hope.
Looking forward to a new beginning.
- Saaviththiri - (translated by Shash Trevett)
A Love that Blossomed in War
Heroism turned to love
and we found each other
during the holy war
to liberate the motherland.
He shone brightly with bravery,
wisdom and virtue. He rejoiced
in praising love above all else.
The suffering of the people became his own.
I too was not exempt: I became bound
by his love. For many years we lived
as one, crossing long distances,
journeying together.
And then one day our two hearts lost
their compass points in destiny’s game.
The news of my beloved’s
‘Heroic Death’ reached my ears
my small heart crumbled.
It’s a lie, I screamed, trembled,
shattered into pieces.
It was disastrous news.
Sixteen years have now passed
and my mind still has not the courage
to forget him. It is impossible
to forget him. I suffer
bound by the circle of time.
In dreams he appears to me
as if alive again, bearing stories.
As I search for him he disappears
like a mirage, complaining
that I had forgotten him.
How can I forget your memory?
Where will I search for the imprint
of your life? Are you not my own life?
Your final words still echo in my ears.
I melt into tears along with the traces
of your memory.
- K. Pommai - (translated by Shash Trevett)
Dreams become Mirages
A warscape. People on the move,
empty handed.
Hunger, thirst, fear.
Under a tree. Rain.
Hair stands on end.
Sleepless life in a camp.
In our own land
refugees.
Drinking water, rainwater.
Illangai, India, soldiers
atrocities.
The Tamil people in shackles.
Cluster bombs, bunkers.
Covered corpses.
Pieces of flesh hanging off trees.
The maimed, loved ones
those who suffer loss
bodies bearing bullets.
A slow death.
Prisoners.
Dreams become mirages.
- Sara - (translated by Shash Trevett)
My Heart Boils
In our life tragedy surrounds us
like an unstoppable spring.
The memory of our fallen heroes
who once burned bright
forever troubles us.
To those protectors who formed a bulwark
around our lives and culture
our minds humbly seek to give thanks.
In the purifying wind which flowed
with their strength, we glimpsed
visions of the beloved land.
How can we forget this?
The ache of those whose loved ones
had been made to disappear
by the actions of traitors.
When I hear people say ‘Tamils,
be careful’, my ears burst open.
The Tamils who welcomed all who came
among them, have lost their land.
My heart boils in torment.
- Sara - (translated by Shash Trevett)
My Wish
To see again with joy the face I knew
in my mother’s womb.
To wake again to a new day
amidst the uncertainties of this life.
To repay those who welcomed my birth with tears
with teardrops of my own at their death.
To believe that you will return in the darkness
as I sleeplessly wait for you.
To wake each day believing
that the tears of the night were but a dream.
To speak till my death the language
I learnt in my youth;
these are my wishes.
- Sri Devi -(translated by Shash Trevett)
Moonlit Hope
Hope is a life lived among flowers
even though not all contain nectar.
Hope is the sound of anklets
on moonlit paths, even though some
remain hidden in darkness.
Hope is the song of a happy mind
the smiling face of gentle speech.
Hope is today’s joy stamping
on tomorrow’s sorrows.
Hope is sharing the laughter of others
while searching for happiness in your dreams.
Hope is the lotus blooming at the touch
of moonlight, fish leaping in play in ponds.
Hope is the sight of a sleeping river
and the sound of nature’s quiet laughter.
Hope is blemish free, shining
like the full moon, or a mother’s face.
- The Friday Poets: (translated by Shash Trevett)
