17 February 2009
In a parking lot off the main street of this town in Sri Lanka's lush "coconut triangle," a recruiting drive is taking place.
Standing next to a red school bus emblazoned with military posters and with loudspeakers mounted in the windows, three army commandos chat with a group of young men who seem impressed by the soldiers' camouflage uniforms, special forces badges and high-cut leather boots.
Posters around this town a three-hour drive north of Colombo show pictures of local youths who have enlisted and ask residents to donate blood. Radio ads encourage people to "join the winning side."
It's understandable why the army has focused on Kuliyapitiya. Smaller farming communities such as this one, where job prospects are scarce, have been especially fertile ground for Sri Lanka's military in its decades-long civil war against the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam.
"It used to be that kids grew up wanting to be doctors and lawyers; now they want to join the army," said Chandana Bulathsinhala, who works for an opposition member of parliament here.
The recruitment has come at a cost. This area of 150,000 has buried 5,000 soldiers over the past few years, Bulathsinhala said. In recent months, there have been as many as three funerals a week.
Sitting on a sagging mattress in her cramped clay-tiled roof home, a cat curled up next to her, Kusuma Gunawardana wiped away tears as she talked about her son.
Two weeks ago, the 24-year-old soldier disappeared near Elephant Pass, a key access point to the Jaffna peninsula in the north. The police came to tell Gunawardana her tall, thin boy had vanished in a fire fight against the Tigers.
"There's been nothing since then. No offers of help, nothing," she sobbed.
"I want to know what's happened to him. I want to end this feeling."
Steps from Gunawardana's front door, a poster pays tribute to Alimanka, a local commando who died during fighting in Jaffna. "Brother, you have not died. You bloom as a flower among us."
Brig. Udaya Nanayakkara said 3,700 Sri Lankan soldiers have been killed since July 2006.
The families of fallen soldiers keep receiving their paycheques – Gunawardana still gets about $220 a month – until a time when they would have reached age 55.
Families also get a lump-sum payment worth about $820. That figure is doubled if the soldier was married, Nanayakkara said.
But it's small solace to Gunawardana. "This government is to blame as well," she said.
"How many more boys have to die? It would have been better to have him living and not go in the military, even if we had to go and beg."
The difference between Colombo and towns like Kuliyapitiya is striking. In Sri Lanka's oceanside capital, the war is celebrated.
Last weekend, at a cultural fair called Deyata Kirula, hundreds of thousands of spectators packed a fairground to see signs of Sri Lanka's progress.
The most popular exhibits were the military ones. Crowds crushed around a recently captured Tamil Tigers submarine. Children sat on anti-aircraft guns and next to grenade launchers as grinning parents snapped photos.
At one exhibit, a soldier showed a pair of Buddhist monks how to work an AK-47 rifle.
But for many families, the wounds will never heal.
On Jan. 9, 1997, Samantha Perera went missing during fighting in Jaffna. Three years later, the military declared him dead, though his body hasn't been recovered.
Nine years on, the family still can't put up his photo because his father can't take the pain.
"He cries at least two or three times a day, still," said Jayantha Perera, Samantha's younger brother. "He's not the same person."
Back in Kuliyapitiya, 19-year-old Koolitha Mancanayaka said goodbye to his friends, hours after enlisting. Just as the poster ordered, he was ready to go to war.
"My family at first wasn't impressed with my decision," he said. "But they have given a good verdict now."
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