Focus

S.B.'s imprisonment: The twilight of freedom?

By G.L. Peiris

It was the English political philosopher, Edmund Burke, who made the apt comment that all that is required for the triumph of evil is that men and women of goodwill do nothing.  'Evil' must surely include the dilution, and....

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S.B.'s imprisonment: The twilight of freedom?

By G.L. Peiris It was the English political philosopher, Edmund Burke, who made the apt comment that all that is required for the triumph of evil is that men and women of goodwill do nothing.  'Evil' must surely include the dilution, and the eventual disappearance, of freedom in all its manifestations. The history of human civilisation, in a variety of cultures straddling the globe, demonstrates beyond doubt that the spirit of liberty seldom, if ever, is extinguished overnight.  Each inroad is tentative and cautious; its impact is limited.  However, the process of erosion, once begun, moves forward, often by imperceptible degrees until, in the fullness of time, it reaches its culmination.  The only durable safeguard against this is heightened public awareness leading to increased public involvement. It is this practical truth that is enshrined in Harold Laski's prophetic observation that "eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

S.B. Dissanayake

It is my belief that, throughout the annals of freedom in our land, illuminated by such inspiring judgments as that of the Supreme Court in the Bracegyrdle case, one of the gravest setbacks is represented by the recent judgment of the Divisional Bench of the Supreme Court in S.B. Dissanayake's case. It is of overriding importance, I am convinced, that not only those dealing in one way or another with the law but the public at large should have knowledge of, and sensitivity to, the issues involved in this judgment.

I proceed to offer, in question and answer form for convenience, a simple and succinct analysis of the implications of this judgment which constitutes a regrettable blemish on Sri Lanka's proud legal system. 

1. What is the effect of the judgment of a Divisional Bench of the Supreme Court in S.B. Dissananayake's case?

The National Organising Secretary of the largest political party in the opposition in Sri Lanka's parliament, an elected member of parliament and one of his party's most effective strategists and speakers in the sovereign legislature and in the country at large, is doing hard labour for two years in  Welikada prison.

This fate has befallen him because of certain words which he used in the course of a political speech, expressing a view that had been adopted as formally declared policy by the political party in which he held high office. In fact, the gist of the impugned statement consisted of a principle which had been explicitly endorsed by the parliamentary group of the United National Party prior to its articulation in a public speech by S.B. Dissanayake.

This is the first time a member of parliament and a senior office-bearer of a political party has been imprisoned in our country for contempt of court; and the conviction and sentence are in respect of a statement made at a public rally, which was held by the Divisional Bench to have the effect of "scandalising the court." This was the substantial basis for S.B. Dissanayake's imprisonment.

2. What is meant by "scandalising the court" and is this idea useful or appropriate today?

"Scandalising the court" is one of the forms of contempt of court, liability for which is intended to provide legitimate protection within defined limits for courts of law in the exercise of their constitutional functions.

It is clearly recognised in all legal systems that a court of law has power to punish for an act of contempt committed in the court itself (for example, abusing the judge while he is on the bench, threatening counsel or making a disturbance which interferes with the proceedings) or outside (for instance, intimidating witnesses or tampering with evidence) if the latter category of act impedes the administration of justice. But the concept of "scandalising the court" has been frowned upon in modern democratic societies as archaic, authoritarian and indeed harmful.

3. Is there clear judicial authority characterising the notion of "scandalising the court" as undemocratic and out of line with modern values?

There is. More than a century ago, the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, which was then the highest judicial tribunal for the entire Commonwealth, said that "committals for contempt of court by scandalising the court itself have become obsolete." In keeping with this view, no such proceedings have been successfully instituted in England for at least 65 years.

4. Why is it that courts throughout the democratic world, in sharp contrast with the approach of the Divisional Bench in S.B. Dissanayake's case, have been inclined to consign the concept of "scandalising the court" to the dustbin of legal history?

This has happened because of the manifest acknowledgement that the idea of "scandalising the court" has a chilling effect on the right to freedom of expression. This has been aptly described as "the matrix of all human freedom" and is entitled to firm entrenchment in all societies which genuinely cherish the spirit of liberty.  "Scandalising the court" is an outmoded idea which inhibits the fundamental right to freedom of speech and expression which has received pride of place in such landmark international instruments as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.

5. But in order to preclude impairment of its stature and to ensure retention of the esteem and regard of the Sri Lankan community, wasn't the Divisional Bench justified in resorting to the notion of "scandalising the court" as a source of protection?

Respect in all relationships, private or public, has to be earned.  It cannot be demanded or compulsorily exacted. Respect is either spontaneous and therefore of intrinsic value; or coerced and consequently a mere sham.

It is well to fortify ourselves with the practical wisdom pervading an Australian judgment:  "Public institutions in a free society must stand upon their own merits; they cannot be propped up if their conduct does not command the respect and confidence of the community. If their conduct justifies the respect and confidence of the community, they do not need the protection of special rules."

6. The Divisional Bench thought it proper to send S.B. Dissanayake to prison for two years because of "a vituperative and slanderous tirade" directed against the court.  Wasn't that a natural and legitimate reaction?

Not if the standards set, and the criteria applied by courts in modern democracies are taken as a guide.

Michael Foot, as prominent at the relevant time in the Labour Party of Britain as S.B. Dissanayake is today in the UNP, poured verbal vitriol on a celebrated judgment of Lord Denning, one of England's most revered judges, and indeed described Lord Denning as an ass.  A leading British newspaper, The Observer, carried an article with the banner headline:  "Why Denning is an Ass."  Lord Denning, far from contemplating the imprisonment of first rank politicians and journalists on the ground of "scandalising the court", professed himself capable of accepting such harshly expressed criticism with poise and humility.

If further examples of informed and enlightened judicial attitudes are required, a Canadian judgement furnishes an even more telling illustration. At the conclusion of a bitterly contested trial in Ontario, counsel representing the unsuccessful litigant threw decorum to the winds to such an extent as to proclaim that litigating in that jurisdiction is a "charade" because the judiciary is "warped" and "the courts and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are sticking so close together you would think that they were put together with Krazy Glue."

Not even strictures of this severity were considered by a court upholding liberal values to warrant the sanctions imposed on S.B. Dissanayake by Chief Justice Sarath Silva and his bretheren on the Divisional Bench.

7. But, whatever the applicable authority may be, is it right in principle to leave the highest court in Sri Lanka exposed to criticism which it purports to find slanderous and hurtful?

In the setting of a hierarchy of values suitable for a modern democratic society, the sensitivity of judges must yield to higher concerns relating to freedom of expression, the right to articulate dissent and the role of the opposition in a parliamentary democracy.

The jarring note struck by the Divisional Bench, and its far-reaching onslaught on the foundations of freedom, are all too evident when one considers, by way of refreshing contrast, two salient points persuasively made by courts in modern democratic societies. 

The first is that, because of the inherent importance of the functions discharged by the courts, they cannot but be the focus of adverse comment and criticism, not all of which can be reasonably expected to be "sweetly reasoned or well-founded".  There is an overriding need for tolerance and understanding.  "The courts are not fragile flowers that will wither in the hot heat of controversy".

The second consideration is that criticism, to be regarded as permissible, does not necessarily have to be correct in substance, tenor and perspective.  In the words of the Privy Council, "the path of criticism is a public way; the wrong headed are permitted to err therein. Justice is not a cloistered virtue." Tolerance of excess, in other words, is a necessary part of the price to be paid for preserving the vigour and vitality of core democratic freedoms.

8. In the swirling mist enveloping the issues in S.B. Dissnayake's case, we have perhaps lost sight of the essential question relating to the nature of the wrongdoing imputed to him. What was it, precisely, that he was sent to prison with hard labour for?

The backdrop to this consists of a sequence of events which are overtly and intensely political in character.

The constitution of Sri Lanka empowers the president to refer questions of law or fact of considerable public importance to the Supreme Court for an opinion which the court is required to express after an appropriate hearing.

President Kumaratunga purported to invoke the consultative jurisdiction conferred on the Supreme Court by this provision, in a situation where she wished to take over the defence portfolio from Tilak Marapana, PC, who had been designated to hold this portfolio by former Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe who commanded a majority in parliament at that time.  The gist of the question referred to the Supreme Court for its opinion was whether powers and responsibilities subsumed in the presidential prerogative, defined in the relevant provisions of the constitution, obligated the President to hold the defence portfolio herself.

While the court was deliberating on this issue, S.B. Dissanayake, in a public speech made a statement, the gravamen of which was that an opinion given by the Supreme Court in the exercise of its consultative jurisdiction had no binding force and need not necessarily be acted upon.

If S.B. Dissanayake erred in expressing this view, so did the attorney general of the republic and President's Counsel, K.N. Choksy, among other legal luminaries.  The former, in his submissions in the Supreme Court in proceedings involving the special determination on the Tax Amnesty Law, specifically and emphatically supported the view which received expression in S.B. Dissanayake's speech. The latter, in a statement which he issued to all media under his own name as Minister of Finance during the closing stages of the parliamentary election campaign in 2004, stated exactly the same view.  What is more, this was (and is) none other than the view of the UNP officially adopted at a meeting in the precincts of parliament by its parliamentary group and therefore a view that S.B. Dissanayake, as a member of that party, was both entitled and required to articulate on its behalf. 

The Divisional Bench was at great pains to insist that this view about the legal effect of a consultative opinion, was wrong.  This is wholly irrelevant.  It is certainly not the law that a major public figure, expressing a controversial view on a matter of public importance at a political rally, is entitled to protection against imprisonment for contempt of court, only if he succeeds in persuading the court which subsequently tries him for contempt, that the view he expressed is worthy of acceptance by that court as the correct view.

Such a proposition has only to be stated for its absurdity, and indeed its daunting consequences, to become apparent.  The essential point is that, having regard to positions which had been taken in public contexts on this identical issue by leading personalities in the law, S.B. Dissanayake, a layman, had no reason to believe, at the time he made the impugned statement, that the view he was expressing was incorrect, let alone perverse. If only correct views on legal matters can be publicly expressed by politicians and others, the parameters of public discourse in our country, or indeed anywhere else, will be uninvitingly narrow.

9. But doesn't that comment overlook the fact that S.B. Dissanayake's speech was couched in abusive language and, in particular, that he used a pejorative expression that would necessarily have been expected to cause offence to the court?

This circumstance has no bearing whatever on incidence of liability for contempt of court.  Nothing is more definitely settled in the governing law than that mere abuse or vituperation, by itself, does not amount to contempt of court. The greatest latitude has been shown by judges in modern democracies in permitting the expression of views, however intemperate or extravagant, on public issues. It has been emphasised repeatedly that contempt of court cannot be resorted to justifiably as a shield to buttress the ego or the self-esteem of judges. These factors must succumb to the primacy of interests pertaining to the indispensable right of expression and dissent.

10. In that case, if abusive remarks, on their own, do not constitute good and sufficient grounds for meting out punishment for contempt of court, what is the additional element required for penal consequences to follow?

The superadded requirement  pertains to the integrity of processes involving the administration of justice.  The cardinal component of the requisites of liability for contempt of court is that the impugned statement should have the effect, either generally or in a particular case, of impeding the smooth and effective administration of justice by tending to diminish the esteem in which the court is held by the community, or in some other material way.

11. How is this requirement to be applied to the circumstances of S.B. Dissanayake's case?

The only possible substantial complaint in this situation is that of perceived usurpation by an unauthorised person of the court's inalienable function. The bench of five judges were giving their minds to the Presidential reference and had not yet transmitted their opinion on the Defence Ministry issue at the time S.B. Dissanayake made the impugned observations. These remarks could validly have attracted liability for contempt of court only on the basis that they were open to reasonable construction as a hindrance to, or obstruction of, the course of justice.

This would have been the case if the statement attributed to S.B. Dissanayake was of such a nature as to induce in the public mind, in all the circumstances of the case, the perception that there was a real danger of the court's function being usurped, by some form of duress or intimidation, by the maker of the impugned statement.  The test stipulated in this regard by the law is that this danger must be serious and imminent, not merely remote or peripheral.

In S.B. Dissanayake's case it certainly made a difference that the Presidential reference was being deliberated upon not by a jury but by a bench comprising five judges of the Supreme Court.  The rationale underpinning this difference is that trained judges are much less likely than a jury consisting of laymen to be swayed or deflected from the discharge of their proper function by statements of the kind made by S.B. Dissanayake. Consequently, on account of the high degree of improbability of damage inflicted on the administration of justice by the utterance of S.B. Dissanayake, his conviction for contempt of court is unwarranted in principle.

12. Granting all that has been said so far, is there any compelling reason why the general public should regard the conviction of S B Dissanayake, and the sentence passed on him as a matter of direct concern to them?  Isn't it simply a question of a politician, however prominent in the public life of the country, taking a calculated risk and paying the penalty in terms of the loss of his own freedom?

The issues involved far transcend the anguish and tribulations of an individual.  The reasons for intensity and continuity of involvement on the part of society at large are both urgent and overriding.

Basic features of the proceedings in the Supreme Court in S.B. Dissanayake's case entail immediate jeopardy to core values which form the bedrock of the protection accorded to defendants in all criminal trials in our country. One of the most fundamental among these values is the undisputed right of an accused person to remain silent and to refuse steadfastly to contribute in any way to the proof of his own guilt.  Firmly entrenched principles regulating the burden of proof require the prosecution, if they can, to establish in their entirety the ingredients of liability without reliance on any response or evidence to be obtained from the accused person.

Nevertheless, surprisingly and indeed distressingly, Chief Justice Sarath N. Silva directed the registrar to read out the impugned statement, sentence by sentence, to S.B. Dissanayake who was then ordered to declare whether he uttered each word, phrase and sentence.  This procedure, totally incompatible with the privilege against self-incrimination and the presumption of innocence - pivotal principles which govern all criminal proceedings - amounted to a clear travesty of justice.  t represented cavalier dismissal of received wisdom which had nurtured the development of the law over centuries. The chosen procedure had the effect of rejecting, with disdain and obviously with inadequate appreciation of the seminal issues involved, a whole range of levers and mechanisms which had been designed by successive generations of judges to ensure justice and fairplay in criminal proceedings.  On any objective appraisal, it signified the low water mark in the judiciary's commitment to the cause of freedom in our country. 

If the public remains insensitive to the implications of this anomaly, it does so at its own peril. The inescapable reality is that flawed judicial action, wittingly or unwittingly weakening the foundations of freedom, is fraught with as much danger as, if not even greater danger than, executive caprice or excess.  So destructive a trend, initiated by the judgment, may be difficult or even impossible to control at a subsequent stage, once acquiescence becomes established.

13. Leaving aside sanctity of legal principles contravened by the judgment, can it be supported at least from the standpoint of common sense or reasonableness?

Unfortunately, the judgment is just as vulnerable in this sense as it is on the ground of unjustifiable departure from hallowed principle. The palpable unreasonableness of the approach adopted by the court can be demonstrated by asking two simple questions:  Can any politician who, like S.B. Dissanayake, delivers several public speeches a day as part of his accustomed routine, possibly recall every word, sentence or phrase which he is said to have used in a speech made by him several months ago? If not, is it at all consistent with everyday notions of justice and equity to require a politician in that category to declare the authenticity of the words he used, and on pain of conviction and imprisonment, to accept or repudiate responsibility for each word, phrase or sentence?

14. Even if the judgment is exposed to criticism on the basis that its underlying premises are not in harmony with the cultural ethos of a modern democratic society, must it nevertheless be accepted as a lawful judgment having the force of law?

The judgment is not even lawful, in the sense that some of its salient conclusions are demonstrably contrary to provisions of statute law which it was bound to apply.

Judges are not above the law.  Courts of justice, even when they operate at the apex of the country's judicial system, must necessarily act within the borders of their jurisdiction. If they overstep these bounds, their orders, decrees, and judgments are null and void in the eyes of the law.

In S.B. Dissanayake's case the Divisional Bench purported to pass sentence in reliance upon a constitutional provision which referred to "imprisonment" as one of the forms of punishment which the court was empowered to mete out. The meaning of "imprisonment" in the sense in which it is used in this constitutional provision, has to be ascertained by reference to the Interpretation Ordinance.  The applicability of the latter in this context is made clear by provision contained in Section 2 of that Ordinance.

The word "imprisonment" in the constitutional provision under which S.B. Dissanayake was sentenced, is defined by Section 2 (x) of the Interpretation Ordinance as having the meaning of "simple imprisonment." However it was a sentence of rigorous imprisonment, and not one of simple imprisonment, which the Divisional Bench purportedly imposed on S.B. Dissanayake.

It follows that the court, in passing the sentence which it professed to do, exceeded the jurisdiction which the constitution conferred upon it. The inevitable consequence of this is voidness in contemplation of law. S.B. Dissanayake, then, is doing hard labour in Welikada prison only because the court acted in disregard of a statutory provision, by which it was mandatorily governed.

15. Quite apart from the legality of the sentence, was two years' imprisonment with hard labour a proportionate sentence in S.B. Dissanayake's case?

A member of parliament and general secretary of a leading political party who asserted in a public speech that if the leader of his party lost the presidential election, this could only be because of a pre-judgment on the part of the court, was admonished but not imprisoned for a single day for contempt of court. A newspaper which published the speech, was treated with equal leniency.

With one recent exception which has attracted trenchant criticism both here and overseas, no one has been imprisoned in Sri Lanka for contempt of court more than a quarter of the period of the sentence imposed on S.B. Dissanayake. In several cases the contemnor, upon conviction, suffered no other discomfort than being admonished and sent home.

A perceived inequality of treatment in respect of a matter so vital as the severity of a custodial sentence is injurious to the court's stature because of the paramount need for consistency and uniformity of approach. A significant consideration in this regard is encapsulated in Lord Hewart's celebrated dictum that justice must not only be done, but must manifestly and apparently be seen to be done.

16. Finally, what is the most disturbing aspect of the judgment and the sentence in S.B. Dissanayake's case for Sri Lankan society, as a whole?

The crucial need is to rid ourselves of a sense of complacency arising from the facile assumption that these are misfortunes visited upon others, not upon oneself. A society which gradually loses the capacity to feel and to express outrage is destined to fall prey to onslaughts, of progressively enhanced frequency and increasing severity, against the lifelines of liberty.  As Thomas Jefferson pointed out, freedom cannot be enjoyed selectively or in segments; either it permeates society through all its layers, or it does not exist at all in any wholesome sense.

In the midst of the turbulent conditions prevailing in Sri Lanka today, we can do no better than remind ourselves of the immortal words of John Donne:

". Never send to know

For whom the bell tolls:

It tolls for thee."

The writer, Professor G L Peiris, D.Phil. (Oxford), Ph.D (Sri Lanka), was Rhodes Scholar and Distinguished Visiting Fellow of All Souls College, University of Oxford, Distinguished Visiting Fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge, and Smuts Visiting Fellow in Commonwealth Studies in the University of Cambridge; Butterworths Visiting Fellow in the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies, University of London; Emeritus Professor of Law and former Dean of the Faculty of Law and Vice-Chancellor of the University of Colombo.

One month: no relief for victims

The Plaque at the site of the Siribopura development project unveiled by 
President Chandrika Kumaratunga a few days back

By Mandana Ismail Abeywickrema in the deep south 

Standing in front of a structure which was originally his home, K. D. S. Chandana tries hard to wash his Canter lorry - his only worldly possession - with a straight face.

A short distance away in the Hambantota town, or rather what used to be the town, uncleared debris still remains as a reminder of the day the tsunami struck.

Apart from the bare and empty spaces, the only change to take place since December 26, 2004 are the tents that have been pitched to house the displaced.

Like Chandana, these displaced people, after surviving the tsunami, are now engaged in a battle - a battle to survive and return to their normal lives as soon as possible.

Looking around him, Chandana looked surprised that it is one month since the tsunami, as nothing around him seems to have changed much.

Only survivors

Looking somewhat composed, Chandana said that he was now living with a friend and then as if understanding the uneasiness of the moment as questions loomed about his family, quickly said that his eldest daughter was with his sister.

"My daughter and I are the only survivors from our family. She is with my sister till I sort things out," he said.

Chandana lost his wife and three kids - a five year old, three year old and a seven month old baby - to the tsunami.

One month later, Chandana is still trying to pick up the pieces of his life while returning to normalcy to him now seems only a distant possibility.

"I haven't received anything. The police got details and I received money for three of the dead family members as we couldn't find the body of my youngest," he said.

His survival now depends on the help he receives from his friends and family.

Chandana also has doubts about relocation.

As a businessman, he says, he would find it difficult to continue with his livelihood if relocated to the interior.

"I can only engage myself in agriculture in the interior and I'm not used to it," he said.

M. S. Samsudeen from the US houses in the town walks in the now bare land and stands on the soil where his house used to be.

"There were about 200 houses in this scheme and they all belonged to the fishermen," he said.

The land area around Samsudeen, except his, was marked into slots by ropes and polythene streams.

These slots have been marked by their former owners for easy identification of their land.

Looking at two men who were a few feet away marking their territory, Samsudeen observed that even though there were 'rumours' of being relocated they prefer to stay in their original lands.

"We are all fishermen and how can we do our job if we are sent far from the sea," he said.

Some of the villagers in Samsudeen's scheme are in the nearby mosque while some have found shelter in the houses of relatives and friends.

No compensation

Compensation promised by the government for the dead have not been received by many.

Most people in Hambantota are yet to even receive death certificates for their departed loved ones.

"My daughter-in-law and grandson lost their lives and I received compensation for only the little boy. We are yet to find the body of my daughter-in-law," Samsudeen said.

The compound of the mosque is filled with tents housing most of the displaced families in the area.

It is inter-racial harmony at its best - Muslim and Sinhalese families sharing tents, becoming one in circumstances that left their lives in tatters.

Unlike Chandana or Samsudeen, the displaced in the mosque were not going to take things lying down.

Walking forward to meet the media, they expressed disgust at the incompetence of the authorities to bring back some sense of normalcy to their lives, even one month after the tsunami devastation.

Pointing their fingers at the tents, temporary water and sanitation and other relief aid, they said that none were from the government.

"All these were given to us from private donors," they said.

In the same vein they observed that they are yet to receive any of the relief provided by the government - compensation or even the promised Rs. 350 coupon, entitling those affected to dry rations and money from the co-operative outlet in the area.

"We have no confidence in the government," they said.

Claiming that the whole devastation has now taken on a political twist, they were unanimous in the sentiment of the poor who were affected being left with nothing while the rich have taken it as an opportunity to oil their palms.

The people also questioned as to how certain projects - the Hambantota harbour and new township projects - which were held back due to the lack of funds, suddenly seem to be taking off the ground.

They alleged that the government without helping the families affected by the tsunami is going ahead with its development projects.

None of the displaced in the Hambantota town are willing to be relocated to lands in the interior.

Foundation

However, the government headed by President Chandrika Kumaratunga laid the foundation to the first housing development project in Siribopura last week.

Under the project, the Hambantota town is expected to be relocated to the 500 acre site, on which nearly 3,000 houses are to be built, along with the key town landmarks.

According to the site manager at Siribopura, once the ongoing clearing operation comes to an end within a week or two, the construction phase would begin.

The project is expected to be completed in six months.

If the fisherfolk are relocated to the new venue, they would have to make a cumbersome journey to the shores by bus or another mode of transport.

As pointed out by Samsudeen and the other displaced fishermen, they would have to leave their boats on the beach and chances are that when they return the following morning thieves would have stolen the diesel, nets or for that matter even the boats as there would be no security once dusk falls on the shores. The sentiments were echoed by fisherfolk right along the southern coastal stretch.

Even in Tangalle, Mirissa and Weligama, the fisherfolk who have now returned to their original lands prefer to even live in makeshift tents and carry on with their livelihood rather than be relocated elsewhere.

Taking up another livelihood for these fishermen, whose ancestors too have engaged in the same profession, seems an impossible task.

The task of clearing the debris of their shattered houses has now been left to the displaced people themselves. Right along the coastal line, people are engaged in clearing the carnage the tsunami bequeathed them.

It is however ironic that military personnel from various countries who arrived in Sri Lanka to help with the relief effort and the clearing process are slowly moving out of affected areas.

The reason for moving out, they point out, is the fact that they have nothing to do as the Sri Lankan authorities have not assigned any tasks to them.

With such a background, it is now up to those displaced to take up the task of clearing the coastal belt.

The US marines, whose presence in the country caused much controversy, were not seen deployed in any of the southern cities during last week.

One month after the tsunami, the plight of those affected remain the same.

Charging that they have been a neglected lot who have now become pawns on the political chess board, returning to their normal lives seems nothing but a dream.

Dazed children return to school

Students study the remnants of their school

Sitting inside recently reopened schools, students kept looking over their shoulders at a calm and serene sea - with palpable fear.

The few students who were brave enough to walk into the schools in the areas worst affected in the Hambantota, Matara and Galle Districts, exhibited the trauma brought about by the tsunami disaster.

Principal, Mahamaya Girls College, Matara, N. Haththotuwa explained that the broken boundary walls of the school has made matters worse as the students now had a clear vision of the sea, which has affected their lives in many ways.

School principals together with the teachers in all the schools were busy trying to retrieve the remaining student records while trying to address the psychological trauma of the students.

Frightened

A teacher in a leading school in Matara on January 26, one month after the tsunami, kept consoling a student who said that she was now afraid to step into the school in case another wave came. Parents outside most of the schools in the Galle and Matara Districts kept looking at the sea with an expression that spoke a thousand words - the fears of another tsunami and the immediate need for relocation for the safety of students and teachers alike.

According to the Education for All and MDG Monitoring Unit, 73 schools in all the affected areas are to be relocated while 100 are to be rehabilitated.

A teacher at the Thalalla Maha Vidyalaya in the Hambantota District clad in white looked mournfully at the sea, as memories of the daughter she lost kept flooding back into her mind.

Walking in the school grounds, she heaves a sigh of despair - her daughter was washed into the school where she breathed her last on December 26, 2004.

Uphill task

Now that the schools have reopened, the uphill task of rebuilding the infrastructure to once again allow the education system in the Southern Province to run a smooth course, still poses a great hurdle to authorities.

School principals, teachers and foreign psychologists are engaged in post tsunami trauma management with children, but the carnage that surrounds them makes it difficult for them to completely wipe out their tragic experiences.

The immediate issue, as pointed out by several principals, was the rebuilding of schools and return to normalcy as that too would help ease the tension in the minds of the young ones.

In the case of rebuilding, most private entrepreneurs have come forward to provide necessary funds to rebuild schools, but the red tape in the state sector has made the task next to impossible.

Vice Principal, Thalalla Maha Vidyalaya, P. Hettiarachchi observed that so far private donors have come forward to build several of the school buildings completely damaged by the tsunami.

The barrier ironically is none other than the Education Ministry and the red tape that comes with it.

Being a government school, renovations or additions to the building have to be done with permission from the Ministry.

Although the funds are all ready to be utilised, rebuilding has to be set aside till the Ministry grants "permission to proceed."

Haththotuwa also noted that the school's request for a new boundary wall is yet to be granted, while such a measure would bring about some sense of normalcy to the school.

According to Haththotuwa, since Mahamaya is a school identified to be relocated, authorities are more involved in finding a suitable location for the school.

Freedom to make decisions

On the contrary, the school adjoining Mahamaya, St. Mary's Convent has already commenced its rebuilding operations and the first things to be rebuilt was the boundary wall.

Sister Sandamali Kurera observed that the convent has more freedom in making decisions with regard to rebuilding and renovations as it was a semi-government school.

"We are a government assisted private school, so we have more freedom when it comes to making decisions," she said.

The delay in the process of rebuilding the minds of the school children depends heavily on the rebuilding of school infrastructure.

As Hettiarachchi pointed out, "we can somehow build their minds, but the problem is the need for basic facilities."

However, building minds too is expected to take time.

Schools in the affected areas have allocated the first few weeks to address the psychological issues of the students.

"Teachers are now involved in mental rehabilitation," Hettiarachchi said. His comments were echoed by Haththotuwa and Sister Kurera.

Haththotuwa explained that while guiding students towards their respective religions, they are also reminded of the importance of survival.

"We cannot stop here. The Ministry has so far not indicated any postponement in public exams. So we must go on," she said.

Every school in the affected areas has recorded deaths of students as well as teachers.

The uncleared debris and empty spaces, which were originally buildings that housed their classrooms would be a constant reminder of that fateful day.

Peraliya Sri Jinaratana Maha Vidyalaya, which educated more than 900 students in its four buildings, is now left with one building, and that too partly damaged.

The school which now serves as an aid point and IDP camp, has been shifted to a nearby school in Seenigama.

Costs

On January 25, the first day of the new school term, the areas affected by the tsunami saw only a handful of students from Sri Jinaratana Maha Vidayalaya attending school.

A parent who wished to remain anonymous said that till the rebuilding was completed and life returns to normal, students would be hesitant to go to school.

"We try to take them to school, but halfway down the road they look at the sea and refuse to proceed any further and run back home," she said.

As pointed out by all the principals who spoke to The Sunday Leader, the sooner the rebuilding process begins, the better it would be for the healing process.

But the rebuilding process itself depends on the state.

One hundred and seventy six of the 3,547 schools in the north - east and southern provinces have been partially or fully damaged.

According to the details of damage caused by the tsunami to schools in coastal areas in the country prepared by the Education for All and MDG Monitoring Unit of the Education Ministry, the estimated cost of the renovation of schools would be Rs. 10,392.5 million.

According to a report from the Centre for National Operations, none of the schools in Kilinochchi have been damaged by the tsunami.

The estimated cost of Rs. 2,282 million to renovate the schools in the Ampara District is the highest amount, according to the report.

The costs estimated for the renovation of schools in the Hambantota District are expected to be Rs. 485 million, Matara District - Rs. 985.5 million, Galle District - Rs. 1768 million, Kalutara District - Rs. 725 million, Gampaha District - Rs. 216.5 million, Batticaloa District - Rs. 1857.5 million, Trincomalee District - Rs. 971.5 million, Mullaitivu District - Rs. 590.5 million and Jaffna District - Rs. 511 million.

However, none of the estimates involve the cost for the supply of classroom furniture as UNICEF has agreed to supply furniture to all the damaged schools.

- Mandana Ismail Abeywickrema

A month after the monster

Thangamani drinks kurumba atop the debris of what used to be her home

Text and photos by Amantha Perera 

That was the day the beer ran out. Three Sundays after the tsunami, at the famous watering hole, Subraj in Batticaloa, the beer finished. The Subraj, a favourite among NGO workers, journalists and just plain visitors to the city of singing fish looked biblical- like, the site of the famous tower of Babel. 

Before the brew finished, spirits were overflowing in many incomprehensible tongues. Parachute journalists, whose knowledge of Sri Lanka was limited to one word - tsunami - were toasting with get-rich-quick fixers making a killing. A guy wearing a Medicines Sans Frontiers t-shirt was running around waving an empty bottle, trying desperately to get the attention of overworked waiters for another fill. There were tables outside as well. An order took a minimum of one hour to reach the table.

A month after the monster waves hit the coast, the beer ran dry at the Subraj.

A few blocks away, Logi, an aid worker with Sarvodaya was just about to call it a day. Her sleeping quarters were on the second floor of the Sarvodaya office in Batticaloa, half filled with tsunami relief material.

Since December 26, she has been working 14 hour shifts without going home, and tomorrow was going to be a hectic day. A district legal officer with Sarvodaya, the 31 year old Logi was visiting refugee camps and collecting data on lost documentation. It's not sexy sort of aid work. She travels with an oversized, transparent suitcase filled with papers, sits at a tin shack all day and interviews people. Each one would have to trace his or her history to the great-grand parents.

On a bike

Travelling to the camps was a problem, given that Sarvodaya was short of vehicles and Logi's own chally bike was damaged by the tsunami. "It sounds like a boat now," she said. Given that there were so many motorbikes sounding like boats along the tsunami ravaged coastline, Logi pulled no. 375 at the garage. Till the repairs are carried out, Logi finds her way about.

She gets up at 4.30 a.m. in the morning, no hot water bath, no four by four with A/C and driver waiting downstairs. She does paper work till 8 a.m., then prepares for the day ahead. Her first stop for the day is Onndachchimadam about 25 kilometres south of Batticaloa. The Onndachchimadam bridge that linked Batticaloa with the devastated Kalmunai was damaged. While engineers constructed a temporary link, those who had to cross the causeway, lined up on planks and crossed one after the other. Logi talked with civilians at the nearby kovil, half of which was in the lagoon. "It took the kovil away," she said looking bewildered at the submerged parts.

At the nearby beach, everything was smashed, houses, kovils, schools everything. One month after the tsunami, a back-hoe was just reaching the scene to clear the road. By then residents and scavengers had removed what ever they could from the houses. Kala, whose house was reduced to a pile of bricks stood on top of them and watched the back-hoe remove debris at her neighbour's house.

Those like Kala watched in silence as the back-hoe moved to clear away a lifetime's hard work. When the back-hoe's shovel swirled towards her house, Kala winced. "They spend most of their lifetime trying to build a house, and now what?" Logi remarked.

A little distance away Pavithan and Gajendran who looked barely into their teens carried away wooden railings from a house ripped apart by the tsunami. The owner had hired them to remove whatever possible, he has no intention of coming back. His house situated about 100 metres from the beach was virtually tossed up and ripped apart by the waves.

Office

Logi next lugged her suitcase to the Chittipalam welfare camp housed at a school. The classrooms have been turned into one room homes for six families. Children run all over the place. At the camp kitchen, a watchful STF officer kept an eye on the massive vat that cooked the rice. A camp resident turned porridge with the help of what looked like a small oar, sweat peeling off him.

Logi set up office right in front, close to the entrance. There people line up, scraps of paper in hand to register for new documents. From 10 a.m. till 5 p.m. in the evening that was what she and her two colleagues did, take down names, one after the other. There was a lunch break at 1.30 p.m.

So far there had been no outbreak of disease at the camp. The Centre for National Operations in Colombo said that prompt preventive action was the reason. There were posters that warned of disease and preventive measures at the camps. But visiting doctors from Canada held their breath at the camp.

"This is a possible breeding ground for respiratory diseases," they said. If pneumonia broke out it will be like wildfire, warned the doctors working in coordination with the Tamil Rehabilitation Organisation.

During her lunch break Logi told tales - horror stories rather. "A young girl from Onndachchimadam lost her husband to the tsunami in Galle. Now she is walking around as if in a daze.

"Another woman, four months pregnant survived, but the husband died and the village people said it was her bad karma that killed the husband. She attempted suicide thrice, once by taking poison, then by swallowing shreds of glass. That failed and she hung her self.

"A family lost all three children who were away at the aunt's place for Christmas. A woman just gave birth to a still born, the doctors say it's the tsunami trauma," the stories went on.

"Everything is tsunami"

"It is tsunami, tsunami, and tsunami. Everything is tsunami, now," Logi said half jokingly. After lunch she returned to the camp and took down names. Thereafter at dusk she started her 25 kilometre journey back, reached Batticaloa around 7 p.m., did some paper work till around 9 - dinner and then bed.

For Logi, the documentation was serious business, "they need this, they have lost almost all government papers they had, even to make a police complaint they need this now." Listening to the deaths, the marriages and the births while sitting next to each other had become too much to bear for the three Sarvodaya workers. Next day they decided to take a break - if visiting refugees in Tiger held areas was any break at all.

Logi travelled to Panichchankerni near Vakarai on the Batticaloa - Trincomalee highway The main tsunami welfare camp is housed near the Panichchankerni Vidyalaya. Villagers displaced from the nearby fishing village were housed at the camp which was one of the many tent cities that now dot the disaster areas.

Tent city

The tents were okay for the sun, but not for the rain. When the rain came, the refugees ran to the school. When school commenced, rain or sun, they would have to stay in the tent city.

At the school, Logi watched as free books provided by Sarvodaya were distributed among kids. They clutched the books and walked across the small stream that had appeared in front of the school with the recent rains. The cover was full of messages on mines. Heightened mine awareness since the tsunami was a unique situation in the conflict areas. "Mines laid near the camps have been washed away, so we have to teach the children about them," Logi said.

Posters warning of mines were pasted near the camps. In the afternoon UNICEF and Sarvodaya conducted a mine awareness programme for the camp children. This is post-tsunami Panichchankerni.

Only foundations

Along the beach there are no houses, everything is wiped out. Only the foundations remain. Even to get to them, villagers had to navigate through four feet of water along stretches, accumulated during the tsunami and the subsequent floods. Near the beach, it was not difficult to find burnt bodies. Decomposing and with no morgue within 50 kilometres, villagers simply burnt the bodies.

Villages like Panichchankerni bore the brunt of the hostilities between the Tigers and the security forces. Even after the ceasefire, sporadic violence has erupted between LTTE cadres and Karuna supporters in the area.

Forty-five year old Kasumathi Thangamani, a widow with four children squats on the foundation of her former small home, drinks kurumba and stares blankly. Almost half her life she lived through the conflict, never thought of building a brick house. It was only after the February 2002 ceasefire that she was able to build a small brick home with the help of a local NGO.

"Now it's all gone, the waves came and I ran, and now nothing is here," she said. She was right in the middle of the double whammy that LTTE Leader Velupillai Pirapaharan referred to as the two tsunamis during his talks with the Norwegians. Number one was the war, number two, the December 26 tidal waves.

The Vakarai hospital was open only a few weeks before the tsunami and it is no more, so is part of the bridge that linked Vakarai with Panichchankerni. All travel beyond that was through boat. A single back-hoe was trying to do some repairs to the causeway, but with limited success.

Even if the causeway was unaffected, don't even think of driving a 30 tonne rig with relief supplies into the area. The bridge near the Kukul farm camp can only hold seven tonnes, "If we bring big vehicles here, we would have to unload everything at one end, transport them by hand across the bridge, reload and then proceed," Logi said, adding, "these people suffered very much during the war. It was only during the ceasefire that they were able to do something, now the tsunami has destroyed all that."

Thangamani lived off a government dole of Rs. 100 a month and whatever she eked from helping fishermen. But the tsunami destroyed almost all the boats and no one dares to go to sea. "I don't know how I am going to rebuild this," she said.

It was the same hopeless echo that came from Sinnavani Murugesupullai of Mankerni and Pedurupullai Allagaiya of Kayankerni, fishermen from villages south of Panichchankerni in government controlled areas.

Murugesupillai lost his father, his house, that of his son-in-law and their boats. The family lived at the welfare camp near the Kajuwatte army camp. "All 120 boats on the beach were destroyed," Murugesupillai said. His boat was in two pieces, lying 400 metres from each another. "No boat, no house, fully gone," Allagaiya said at the Kayankerni camp. Both said that they were provided with immediate relief, but had no plans for the future. They said that if boats were provided to them, they would return to their former jobs.

No boat

Fifteen year old W. Robinson, a member of 126 Sinhala families living on the Mankerni beach had the same problem - no boat. His family was living at the Queen of Angels Church. Unlike the Tamils around them, Robinson and company were happy to be housed near a damaged army camp despite a very real threat of mines.

But for all of them, their stay at the camps appeared to be a long one. At the Kayankerni camp, return to the destroyed houses appeared such a distant possibility, that the village primary school had recommenced inside a large tent in the middle of the camp.

Ramanadan Sundararajan appeared to be unscathed by the tsunami. He lives in Valachchenai and his house is intact. "But all my boats are gone," he said. He is the perennial malu mudalali, lending boats and equipment to the likes of Robinson and Murugespullai. The tsunami left him with a house and no way of earning an income. "I lost 12 boats and nets, I don't live in a welfare camp but I don't make any money as well," he said. Being the amiable boss he visits the fishermen who worked for him regularly handing Rs. 100 notes. "Don't know how long I can do this," he remarked handing the orange note to Murugesupullai.

Logi is aware of the situation - the likes of Sundararajan, rich enough for now, but for how long? "There are lots of people who are not here at the welfare camps, living with relatives or at rented places. Sometimes they don't want to be with the poor, or they are nervous about the women. There is no way to process all of them."

Too few toilets

After the school she visited the camp across the road. Six families to a tent live in tents provided by aid groups, the inside is full of provisions stacked up. The kitchens are located at the back of the tents, sometimes next to the lavatories. But the camp residents don't seem to care, like at all the camps. The lavatory to tent ratio is unbelievably one sided, too many tents, too few toilets.

"These people are used to this, they do this at home as well-use the jungle," said a police officer stationed at the Kayankerni camp.

After a day at the camps, Logi returned to her sleeping quarters. She decided to go home today to wash the dirty clothes and prepare something passably civilised to wear in Colombo where she was expected the next day.

Home was hardly the refuge it is for others. Walking into her parents' house at Mamamgam, just out of Batticaloa was like walking into a pink funeral parlour without a body. Logi lost her 15 year old niece Udaya to the tsunami. She was at her house by the side of the lagoon when the waves hit. Her body was found arms raised and eyes open, as if gasping for breath. It was recovered by her own father.

"When the tsunami came I was walking from the kovil with my mother, people were running away. First we thought the bund at the Unnachchi tank had broken, once my family was safe I went to the hospital," Logi recounted.

She was at the Batticaloa Base Hospital from 11 a.m. till 5.30 p.m., while helping other victims she looked for Udaya. She finally found her, stacked on top of hundreds of other bodies. "I removed my black shawl and put it on her, there were other bodies and I didn't want to lose her," Logi said.

The body was later brought to Logi's parents' home. There were no undertakers available, the body was washed and dressed at home and laid on a bed. "Then people were again screaming that the waves were coming back, we wanted to take the body upstairs, but finally we buried it."

Udaya's mother still talks fondly of her young daughter. She shows visitors her sports certificates. Her three sisters and brother remain silent beside her. It's the silence that is unbearable.

She is the typical Sri Lankan woman, hospitality first and sorrow later. She places a cup of tea in front of visitors. All is silent, a little while later she breaks the silence and asks "Is it okay?"

The flood gates rupture. The visitor cannot take any more, he runs out, sits on the mud outside and sobs. The whole family sobs. It's a choir of sobs.

"This is why I don't come home, I can't take this," Logi says mid-sob. She turns her head away from me for the first time in three days and hides.

But Logi is a tough chick, she has walked over hot coals and travels around Batti in a moped, and within five minutes turns around to me and says, "Let's go." We are back on the road, yet another camp, yet another tale of misery that takes Logi away from her own.

On the way she looks intently at the sea and muses, "tsunami loves us."

The Emperor's new clothes

By Henry Holdenbottle

Darling Satellite,

This Lalkantha chap is, I would say at a venture a bit of an upstart. I would even go so far as to say that he is a bit of an upstart with a penchant to be a tad repetitive in his public utterances. Come to think of it, all these red chappies are bally upstarts dear, a veritable bandwagon of brown-skinned Jeffersons Movin' On Up.

You, he says; and I see the dark-glasses-sporting Somawansa nodding sagely while Weerawansa blinks his jaundiced eye in full agreement; are acting in such a manner that brings readily to the minds of the lower classes, the famous story of the Emperor's New Clothes.

This particular emperor referred to, if you recall the tales you may or may not have heard at your nanny's knee in the days when you romped about in pink underwear; was the silly fellow who believed he was wearing a magnificent gown and purple cloak made by an equally magnificent gaggle of tailors, when in fact he was wearing nothing at all. To make it worse, the masses - asses as they were and are and always will be, believed the hubris surrounding the Emperor's wardrobe and nodded and grinned inanely pretending to see gorgeous folds of silk, kashmir and velvet when all they could really see were sagging folds of flesh.

The Emperor strutted about proudly until a clever little tyke whispered boldly what everyone was thinking. That the Emperor was not wearing any clothes at all. You, says Lal Kay are exactly like that. The Emperor I mean, not the tyke. We are to presume then that El Kay sees himself as the innocent little pup that revealed the truth to the masses.

If the scrambling to gain recognition after the tsunami fractured the blue party in several places, the gibberish spoken by you in its aftermath was a cause for riot. Not least of these incendiary speeches was the one you made in the land of Humbugs about not wanting to hold something. What was it now? The Fort? No it was not that. My hand? I doubt it... no one has yet refused these large hams of mine... Oh yes I remember now - elections. Yes. You did not mind holding my hand but you were singularly averse to holding elections. A sentiment I may as well tell you not looked upon any too kindly by your red brothers.

From all accounts (none of them trustworthy) everyone of those dashing young red chaps would love to tickle my fingers. They were none too pleased about the election story either. Not a concept well thought out or discussed with them as members of the alliance, they accused. A decision that will be fought vehemently from within they promised. It did not stop Lal Kay and his clan from also grumbling incessantly that rich people were running the alliance forgetting that it was the reds who brought them to power.

Speaking of rich people, Mallo is a chap who has been living off the fat of this land for yonks - and it shows. What's more he's been going around calling you stupid. At best that was a stupid thing to do. The subject of controversy besides himself is of course the 100 metre coastal buffer zone so forcefully pronounced by you on every media channel. Having awoken from his deep dream of sleep in the City of Angels, he has winged it to Paradise and is now attempting to cause a ripple or two himself. Just keep him inland darling that's all I ask. Forbid him specifically to make any plans to cruise the Indian Ocean in the near future. Take him deep sea and disaster is sure to follow. Why you ask? I will tell you why. With Mallo's love of the cup that cheers, he is sure to rendezvous on the upper deck and accidentally fall off. If he were to accidentally make a drop like so and fall off the bally boat, bim! an undersea quake would follow and before you know it what would we have? Ripple turning to wave. And the up shot? Another bally tsunami. After floating about for 10 days the chap will be back making statements about how stupid everyone is.

Obviously Mallo is not seeing eye to eye with you on this small matter. A thing you I know are quite accustomed to. You may remember that when playing with your Ken and Barbie dolls as a kid in rompers, Mallo had often cried uncontrollably as you played dress up. Never did he see eye to eye with you on the subject of evening wear for the miniature mannequin. If that were not enough, how often had you told the tiny Clown Prince as a child in a sisterly manner that it may be alright from time to time to play monster games but never to grow up to be one. Did he listen? No. And the upshot? Calling you stupid and causing a rumpus within the party.

Wait a minute... Wait just a minute. Mallo is not a chap I often like to agree with if I can help it, but dash it all... what did he call you again?... I say darling for once... in a general sort of way he may be right.What! What!

Toodle oo for now.

The sunshine amidst the sorrow

WOMEN shrieking and what sounded like the roar of a freight train awakened me. I jumped out of bed and ran to the balcony door of our second-floor guest room to see water - filled with wood and cars and pieces of twisted metal - swirling below us. Damika, the owner of the inn, and some of his family had run up the stairs to our balcony. I looked over their shoulders at the rising waves and went cold with fear. I shouted to Kate, my friend and travel partner, who was getting ready to go to the beach, to grab her money belt, and then rushed back to watch the sea escalate to the bottom of our balcony in an agonisingly prolonged 20 seconds. It was 9:25 a.m. on December 26 and we were in Unawatuna. A few minutes earlier, it had been clear and calm. Kate's decision to take her morning walk on the beach a half-hour later than usual was one of many fateful choices that we had made or that had been made for us. Ultimately, Damika's decision to give us a room on the second floor instead of the ground floor was what saved us. Inexplicable

One month ago, the tsunami claimed the  lives of over 30,000 Sri Lankans

Many days later, we would learn that the series of tsunamis unleashed  by an underwater earthquake off the shores of Sumatra had taken the lives of more than 250,000, including more than 40,000 in Sri Lanka. But on the morning of December 26, there was no explanation for the relentlessly rising sea. Eventually it slowed, then stopped, and there was silence. Almost instantly, it was replaced by screams. Everywhere I looked, people  were scrambling onto any high surface they could find - rooftops or balconies.

Paul, an Englishman who was sleeping in the room below us, swam out of his room. We hauled him onto the balcony. A young Sri Lankan woman splashed up to the stairs shouting: "My grandmother. I let go of her hand."

Damika was banging his chest and sobbing, "My father, my brother, my uncle ..."

A British teenager, who was in shock, and screaming "My mum, my dad, my sister, my eight-week old brother!" was dragged over the railing. He had lacerations all over his body, and his clothes were torn and muddy. We tried to console him, but each second brought new screams of terror.

Now I realise that the strange calm I felt at the time was shock. The scene outside had become increasingly more terrifying; more surreal. The water was slowly receding, but now buildings were starting to collapse around us, and the noise brought fresh waves of panic. Half of Damika's house, right in front of our balcony, came crashing down. Would our building be next? The mantra I repeated to myself would continue for  the next four days: "I want to go home. I want to see my family. I don't want to die."

Memories

Below us, the water was teeming with all the objects that once held so much importance: televisions, furniture, cars, shoes. Life was the only thing that mattered now, and people were screaming out for the ones who had lost it. Suddenly, the sister and mother of the British boy  appeared on the balcony of the guesthouse next door. They were overjoyed to see each other alive, but their father and baby brother, it seemed, were still missing. At that moment, the father shouted from the ground floor of our guesthouse. He was holding the limp baby in his arms. I yelled down, "Give the baby C.P.R.! Give the baby C.P.R.!" but neither he nor his wife were able to do anything other than stroke the motionless bundle.

I furiously tried to remember the infant C.P.R. lesson I had been given by my friend shortly before I left. Three fingers and cover the mouth and nose to give mouth-to-mouth were all I could remember. But it was too late. Quietly, the mother took her baby up to the balcony and cradled him to her breast. I walked back upstairs to our room and threw my soggy money belt on the bed.

Shouts in Sinhalese from the neighbours across the way brought us to our feet, and to the balcony door again. Someone had seen another wave coming. That was it. "We're going to die here," I told Kate. I  thought of my mother having the same look as those around us - inconsolable sorrow.

There was nothing we could do but wait. After an interminable hour of intensely watching the receding water, we saw dry patches of ground. Kate and I decided to leave. We packed a small backpack for survival: bottled water, flashlight, water purification tablets, extra socks. My other belongings were left behind.

Portrait of sorrow

We plowed through the thigh-deep, debris-filled water toward an undamagedhotel on the hill. The journey took no more than 15 minutes, but each second brought jolts of fear that another surge of water was about to strike. The hotel was filled with people in varying states of shock and despair. Everyone had stories, stories that on their own would be chilling almost beyond belief. Together, they created a portrait  of sorrow in surreal proportions.

We wanted to be higher still, and, with the help of a local man, Raja, struggled up the cliff behind the hotel. Raja told us that the entire bay had emptied of water; the sea had withdrawn and was no longer visible. Halfway up, we heard shouts from below and then the dreaded sound that I still listen for. It was the sound of the ocean as it pelted its entire being, once again, onto the battered shore, travelling farther inland as there was less resistance from the fallen buildings. We ran, stumbling, over logs and up embankments, through the jungle, helping the injured and shocked, to get to higher ground. At the top, we turned and watched the sea engulf the once sleepy tourist-filled village. Only the coconut trees were visible.

The village at the top had not been physically affected by the water, but grief was everywhere. People, dressed only in tattered bathing suits or wet pajamas, were dazedly walking around asking if others had seen their wife, daughter, husband, aunt. How could any of us get through the next minutes, hours, days or years?

Sri Lankan hospitality

Together. That is how. We survived the trauma of this disaster  because we had the generosity and hospitality of the Sri Lankans. Every family in the village took in tourists for the three days we had to wait  before we were evacuated. They shared their meagre belongings, their limited food and their precious water. They, who had nothing and had lost much, gave everything. Forty of us slept on mats outside the home of a family who came around at regular intervals with sugary tea, bananas and coconuts. They cooked us dinner for two nights. They let us drink water out of their well. They slept beside us to protect us from possible looters. Only one person spoke English, a man named Siri, who had owned a bar and restaurant on the beach. He had lost his business, his home and a nephew, yet he never stopped lookingafter  us.

We gave all our extra money, water purification tablets, clothing, antibiotics, malaria medication and shoes to Siri and his family, and also to Damika when we saw him on the day of our evacuation. By then, Damika had already buried three members of his family. He now stood in the only clothes he had, waiting with us for an hour until our busarrived to take us away, to safety.

Since I will not return to my job as a teacher at  Valley Stream South High School on Long Island until September, I plan to drive around the United States, visit schools and do presentations on my experience, which revealed the generosity of a people who live in a country that many Americans cannot even find on a map.

- Laura Dunham