The Seasons of Trouble (51 page)

The interviewer returned after twenty-five minutes. ‘Happy to continue?’ he asked. The interpreter on the monitor translated this into Tamil. ‘Yes,’ Sarva replied. He smiled politely and wondered if that was inappropriate.

‘I have been sent a witness statement by your solicitor,’ the interviewer said, showing it to Sarva. ‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Yes.’ His lawyer from Elder Rahimi Associates had recorded a statement with his account of the detention, trial, imprisonment, emigration and arrival in the UK, in chronological order.

As the interpreter started to translate the next question, they were disconnected. When they retrieved the connection, the video went down. From then on, the interpreter was just a voice. He repeated the question: ‘Does this witness statement contain all of the reasons why you are claiming asylum?’

‘Yes.’

‘I notice that you mention an older brother. Where is he currently?’

‘He’s in Colombo now.’

‘Does he work in Colombo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has he had any difficulties with the authorities?’

‘Yes. He had a problem when I was in jail. He was abducted and beaten. He sold his travel shop and gave that money to his abductors.’

‘When was he abducted and released?’

‘I don’t remember the exact date. I think after 2008.’

‘Why was he abducted?’

‘Because I was involved in the LTTE, he was abducted by the TID. But they took his money, so it may have been partly for extortion that they abducted him.’

‘Who abducted him?’

‘Probably the government authorities.’

‘Do you know this for sure?’

‘I think … because they questioned my brother about me, where I was. Only government authorities knew that.’

‘Has he had any further trouble with the government?’

‘I don’t think so. Not to my knowledge.’ Sarva knew part of the assessment would be to check if his family was still being harassed in Sri Lanka, but he was irritated at having to speak about his brother. Deva had backed off from helping Sarva or his mother, and it was difficult to show concern for him now. He was relieved when the interviewer got off the subject.

‘Okay. You joined the LTTE in 2003, correct?’

‘In 2002,’ Sarva corrected him.

‘Do you remember the date?’

‘May 2002.’

‘Are you sure it was 2002?’

Sarva was dead sure until a few seconds ago, but now he felt doubtful. ‘I think 2002. But I forget dates these days.’

The interviewer tried another tack. ‘What year did Sujeevan steal your stock from your shop?’

‘2002.’

‘What year did you go to the Vanni to retrieve it?’

‘2002.’

‘Your witness statement says it is 2003. Is this a mistake?’

‘I can tell you it was 2002. I may have given 2003 wrongly to the lawyer. When we spoke, I was in tension because of my problems. That may be why I gave the wrong date.’ The interviewer’s face was unreadable. Sarva had done dozens of interviews since his detention—the violent kind, the sympathetic, investigative, superficial, cynical kind—but this was by far the most dispassionate.

‘Why did you join the LTTE?’

‘I was forced to join them,’ Sarva said.

‘Your statement at paragraph thirteen says that you were quite taken with LTTE ideas. It makes no mention of your being forced to join. Can you clarify?’

‘Initially they took me by force. But because they gave me some lectures on their ideology, I was attracted to that. After they gave me the lectures, they took me for training.’

‘Then how were you forced to join the LTTE?’

‘They asked me to either get the training or work for no pay on their farm as punishment.’

The interviewer took notes. Sarva knew he had given muddled responses—he had not sounded believable. He was not lying anymore, but the reality of his two years in the LTTE was not black and white, not easily compartmentalised as voluntary or forced.

‘You were trained in the use of weapons, is that correct?’

Sarva said yes.

‘Which weapons?’

‘Initially the AK-47, and different AK families. And also physical training and working as a sentry, checking people. We also had lessons on politics. This is the basic training for three months.’

‘I want to talk about the AK-47. How many bullets did the AK-47 hold?’

‘Thirty rounds.’

‘How many in the magazine?’

‘Twenty-nine. It has been a long time. The numbers may be wrong.’

‘What is the effective range of an AK-47?’

‘Three hundred metres.’

‘How many settings does an AK-47 have?’

‘Auto and single. There is a switch. One for auto, one for single, and a safety.’

‘Does one switch do all three, or is there a separate switch?’

‘One switch.’

‘Which side of the gun is the switch on?’

Sarva imagined holding the gun. His right hand moved. ‘Right-hand side. Because it is made for right-handed people.’

He had not thought or spoken about these details for years. Jehaan, Shirleen, Randy, his lawyer Mr Vel, his friends in Swansea—he
had told none of them about the LTTE apart from the bare fact of his conscription. He had been too afraid of being abandoned and having to pay forever for his mistake. Not even Amma knew about his having become a willing trainee for a while, let alone his proximity to AK-47s. The truth was dangerous in Sri Lanka, but here he knew that lies were the things that could get him deported. For the first time, moreover, he felt safe enough to confess.

‘Where is the cleaning equipment kept for an AK-47?’

‘Underneath the front—the barrel. There is a rod. There is something for cleaning the barrel kept in the butt of the gun.’

‘How would you adjust the sights of an AK-47?’

‘There is a clip on the AK-47. You can adjust it to one hundred, one hundred and fifty, two hundred, three hundred metres. Like that … I used AK-2 more. But I have seen the AK-47.’

‘Oh. Are your previous answers in relation to an AK-47 or an AK-2?’

‘There is no difference between the two. The only difference is we can fold the butt in AK-47, not in AK-2.’

‘Where did you use the AK-2?’

‘During the basic training.’

‘What training did you receive as a commando?’

‘It was very intensive, more than physical training. I was taught how to be patient in the field. They gave instructions on heavy weapons, it was more detailed. More crawling, training on rifle positioning. In basic, we ran for six kilometres, in the intensive, we ran for ten.’

‘Why were you chosen for this extra training?’

‘I was so good in the basic training, so I was selected.’ Sarva instantly worried that he sounded proud about being picked. He was sure the interviewer would wonder how he could simultaneously have felt proud to be in the Tigers and yearned to go back to his family.

‘Did you volunteer for this extra training?’

‘I was compelled to go with them. They told us that we had to continue.’

‘You were sent to Colombo to work as an operative after a further three months of intelligence training. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ That was the condition under which he had been released to go home to his mother. The leaders in the intelligence unit had asked him to wait at home for an assignment.

‘What were your instructions in Colombo?’

‘Initially, I was told that if I was given a parcel, I had to pass it to someone. Activities like that.’

‘Were you part of a particular cell or subsection of the LTTE at this point?’

‘No. When I went to Colombo, after three days, I went to Malaysia. I didn’t work in Colombo for the LTTE.’

‘How did you feel about the LTTE after living among them and training with them for all this time?’

‘I feel the LTTE safeguards the culture of the Tamils. The Tamil community does not chastise the LTTE. Only, say, 20 per cent of the people do not recognise it. But in some cases, I disagree with the Tigers.’

‘What about the LTTE do you not agree with?’

‘I don’t think they should make people join them by force. I disagree with them on that.’

‘When you left Sri Lanka, were you still working as a member of the LTTE?’

‘I left the LTTE when I went to Malaysia in January 2004. My mother sent me to Malaysia for fear of my life. I stayed with my brother there.’

‘Why? Why did you leave the LTTE?’

‘I wanted to live in peace, happily with my family.’

‘But by leaving the LTTE, you had to leave your family. This confuses me.’

‘While I was with the LTTE, they would not let me see my family. I was not allowed to visit for two years while I was with them in the Vanni.’ Sarva thought of that day when Amma had come to see him at the Tiger base, her distraught face on seeing him in uniform. In the documents with the interviewer, there were three letters from her addressed to politicians and Tiger leaders, begging for her son’s release.

‘Have you actively taken part in an LTTE mission?’

‘No.’

‘Have you killed on behalf of the LTTE?’

‘No.’

‘Have you assisted anyone else in any way to kill on behalf of the LTTE?’

‘No.’

The interviewer said that he knew of LTTE trainees who worked abroad, making contacts, collecting money and so on for the LTTE. ‘Did you ever behave in this manner on behalf of the LTTE?’

‘No. After I left the Vanni, I had nothing to do with the LTTE.’

‘When did you leave the LTTE?’

Sarva realised that he was being asked the same question in different ways to check for contradictions. ‘January 2004. After that I went straight to Malaysia.’

‘Date you returned to Sri Lanka?’

‘I don’t remember the month. It was 2005.’

‘You were in Malaysia all of this time?’

‘My brother had a house there. I was staying with him.’

The interviewer asked if Sarva was willing to take a short break. When he left the room, Sarva breathed deeply. He felt weak, his hands limp. He had not ever been closer to the truth than in this room.

After the break, they talked about his detention. There was something from this period, too, that Sarva had told no one.

‘You were tortured during incarceration, right?’ the interviewer asked, adding that there was no need for Sarva to repeat all the details in the witness statement. He only wanted to know specific methods of torture used. ‘For example, you were placed in a chair and hit from underneath. What were you hit with?’

‘They hit me with something like a thick rope. I was blindfolded, so I could not see …’ Sarva was feeling suddenly feverish, he wanted to say it before he lost his courage. ‘Sir, I asked for a male officer to interview me here. If female, I would not be able to tell everything I want to tell you …’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was … sexually abused …’ His hands were cold, he felt so ashamed. ‘Sexually … tortured.’

The granite face of the interviewer softened. ‘Do you want to tell me how you were sexually abused?’

‘I was blindfolded and tied to a desk and … they took off my clothes. I was made to kneel down and everyone came and … I don’t want to describe.’ He began to sob.

The interviewer gave Sarva a glass of water. He took notes and said he didn’t need to know more. ‘You told these men that you did not receive training from the LTTE. Is that correct?’

Sarva struggled with the lump in his throat. ‘Someone had already given them information about me. Initially, I did not tell them I had been to the Vanni or received any LTTE training. After they beat me, I told them that I was given forced training. I had to.’

‘Did you sign any confession?’

‘They tortured me to sign a few pages. Some had writing, and some were blank. I didn’t sign them.’

‘Were you asked to be an informer for the government?’

Sarva said he wasn’t.

For the next few minutes, they clarified a few confusing statements in the documents. The interviewer pointed out that the seaman’s book stated that Sarva was six feet ten inches tall. ‘You are not that tall, can you explain?’ Sarva was five feet nine inches; he was not sure why they had given him a giant’s height.

When the interviewer asked about family in Sri Lanka, Sarva spoke about the TID’s continued harassment of his aunt and mother in Colombo and Nuwara Eliya. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his nose leaked. Just a week earlier, his mother had been shoved by plainclothesmen as they entered the house. She had fainted and had to be taken to the hospital.

The interviewer wanted to know about the petition against the New Magazine prison authorities. Sarva explained that the Sinhalese prisoners were used to ‘kill’ the Tamils. ‘Our clothes were taken off and we were beaten.’ The attack had been reported in the newspaper with photos. There was also a medical report of the injuries he had sustained.

He was asked if he had any lingering medical conditions.

‘A lot,’ Sarva replied. Because of the beating on his feet, he had trouble walking. He also suffered from insomnia and post-traumatic
stress, for which he took sleeping pills. He was receiving physiotherapy and medication from the government-appointed doctors for immigrants.

‘We will finish now, okay?’ the interviewer said. ‘Do you want to add anything?’

Sarva folded his hands. ‘Please, I can’t go back … If I go back I will be killed. I want to live in peace with my family.’

‘Why do you wish to remain in the UK?’

‘Because … because it is a free country. I expect my life to be protected here.’

They shook hands and Sarva walked out of the office. The sun was finally out, and the snow had ceased. More people were out on the street.

Walking back to the Cardiff train station, Sarva wished he had elaborated on his jail time. He should have better explained the institutional discrimination, the volatile environment he was running from. After the interviewer had brought up the torture, Sarva had lost his composure. He had uttered the words to an absolute stranger. It had sucked away every bit of his energy. He hoped he would never have to talk about it again. The answers about the LTTE had been messy, but Sarva knew he could not have done better. Little was redeemable in that part of his life, but if Giri Anna was right, it would not matter.