Suspended Like Scales: Alumna Aids Tsunami Relief Effort

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Ramesh pointed at the ground beneath my feet. “That used to be a house,” he said, shivering. Indeed, I was standing on a slab of concrete that was all that remained of a small but comfortable two-bedroom house. “And there,” Ramesh pointed, “was an enormous coconut tree. See, it has all fallen.”

The devastation was evident to me, but devastation is only truly comprehensible to those who knew a place before it was damaged. What Ramesh was saying, I was able to understand, but not really and truly sympathize with.

I tried to imagine my neighborhood in Atlanta disappearing overnight. I imagined my house being filled with water, and myself running in neck deep water with children in my arms trying to save my last remaining possessions – myself and my family. I shivered as Ramesh had and turned away.

Karaikal

The next day, we made our way a little further south to Karaikal, where we met a volunteer named Mr. Balraj, a simple and kind schoolteacher who had dedicated his time to the relief efforts. In the month after the tsunami, he had sent his wife and child to his relatives, and taken leave from his job so that he could serve the affected people – delivering supplies, overseeing construction and simply serve as a pillar of support.

Balraj explained that in Pattinacherry, many children had died, leaving many women and children in distressed states. The local primary school in the village for children under 10 had dropped in strength from 196 to 140 post-tsunami. Upon arriving in Pattinacherry, the distress was apparent. Many children were quiet; some did not speak at all. Others spoke, but a scared, shakiness persisted in their voices.

One boy, about 13 years old, had lost his mother and sister. His sorrow was fresh, for he had just performed the traditional 14th day ceremony done two weeks after a loved one passes away. As per tradition, his head was shaved. His eyes were red. He had been crying a lot. One of my team members turned a video camera towards his face but he neither looked up nor turned away. Unlike Ramesh, he was not anxious to talk. What could he say? What use were we to him? His mother and sister, and 1/4th of his village had disappeared in an instant.

I spent a great deal of time talking to the women of Pattinacherry. “Why,” one woman asked me, “must we face this cruelty of half of us being left alive, while the other half have died?” Another woman looked me in the eye, “They have given us all plates,” she laughed bitterly, “so now we can go around begging. Do you think food and clothes will help, with all these lives gone? Our pride was in our families, our homes, our lives. How will you ever get that back for us?”

The group of five or so women looked at me, one with a sleeping child in her hand. Their bodies exhausted, their eyes deep set in sorrow, full of hopelessness. Without any answers to give, tears began to well up in my own eyes. Finally, with nothing left to say, I told them that they must be brave for the sake of their children. The women agreed, for left with feelings of such despair and hopelessness, they had settled on the fact that they must stay strong– if only for their children.

A group of young men spoke of how they had just bought sets of cricket gear all the way from Chennai. “But now, our fields have been swallowed by the water,” they said, explaining that their fields had been on the shoreline, which post-tsunami, had changed and come closer to the land.

One young woman in particular, chatted with me freely. She was about my height, and approximately my age (24). She was wearing a plain, peacock blue sari, had a beautiful figure, and a kind smile with perfect, straight white teeth. I asked her if she was married and she replied, “Yes, it’s been four years.” Then raising her hand slightly, she showed me two fingers. Still smiling, she said, “My husband has two wives. He lives with another woman somewhere else; apparently he did not like me. I have been living with my older brother all this time, but now that he is unemployed, I do not know what will become of me.”

(Continued …)

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