Short Story of Nihal's War

 Nihal's War

My teacup is the bottom cut from a blue plastic bottle and I am sitting on a rock with Sinhala soldiers near  Arugam Bay. The soldier's stopped our car and one tried to tell us why we couldn't go further but we couldn't understand his English.

"Say it in Sinhala." I told him, "It will be easier for us."

He and his friends were excited to hear their language coming from people they thought were foreigners and asked if we would like to have tea with them. They made it sound important so we said we would.

There are seven soldiers camped under a tree that provides some shade for the rocks we are sitting on. they can see for miles in every direction, which means that the LTTE can see them as easily. Under our feet is sand and the vegetation is an occasional tree and many browning shrubs - it's the dry season and very hot out here. I don't know how these men can stand to be in uniform and wear boots but they only laugh when I ask them.

while waiting for their small pan of water to boil they turn around often, their eyes searching for any distant movement that might mean the enemy is near. At least two carry rifles in their hands at all times, but the others sometimes leave their guns propped against the tree. One the way here, we have passed empty buildings peppered with bullet holes. We have gone through other check-points and have given two soldiers a ride to their destination for there are no buses. They just got into the back of our car and sat there smiling.  

We went down a path yesterday because we saw fresh elephant dung and came upon a hidden military camp beside a  huge tank. On all other sider, the jungle was thick and it was all too clear that the guerrillas could creep up unseen. Here too, the welcome had been warm, but the military personnel there were better educated than the boys we are now sitting with.

That officer-in-charge said, " Your binoculars are useless for these distances, try mine."

His were superb and I could see the elephants on the opposite shore standing in grass too high for us to see their babies. There were thirteen adult elephants and they looked like grey rocks until they raised their heads. The animals had passed though the camp the evening before, which the officer said was good because as long as they ware around, the LTTE wouldn't bother the camp. Gunshots would upset the usually benign animals and an angry head wouldn't be interested in political arguments, as the guerrillas well knew, they 'd  kill anyone in their path. Now that this part of the country had been ravaged by war, the people had moved away so the elephants had moved back. When people ware around the animals had to be driven away and were often killed because they did such damage to crops. I told him I had never seen a herd of wild elephants out of Yala Game Sanctuary before, "But now I've seen two herds so he could go there himself. "Come aging," he said before he left.

The water boils as a car approaches and two soldiers with rifles hurry to the road to intercept it. They have a word with the driver and it turns slowly around to return where it came from. I see the men inside staring at us. They are wondering, no doubt, what a middle-aged light-skinned couple could be doing hanging out with the troops in this remote place. One soldier returns and there is much laughter. He has told the people in that car I am his Auntie.

The tea is served but there is no milk and sugar, our new friends tell us sadly. They are amused when they hear that's how I often prefer it. I have nearly finished mine when I realize the seven men have only four blue cups between them so only two are drinking with us now. I hand my half-drunk tea to one of the others saying. "I've had enough!" and he drains it. My friend goes to the car and brings back all the biscuits, sandwiches and fruit we 've packed for lunch and adds them to the soldiers' very small stash of supplies, telling them we can easily eat at a rest house. They handle the food with reverence, wrap it in a clean cotton rag and hang it form a branch to protect it from ants.

I say, we must leave.

"Why don't you write about us?" Nihal the youngest asks me because my friend has told him I am writing a book.

"Tell me a story and I will write it," I promise.

He talks with his friends and their happy smiles disappear. He tells me, "It is better not tell our stories. We have many but they are dangerous to tell."

"Tell your stories after the war, "I say in English.

He repeats my words to the others and they begin to laugh. I suspect they are not convinced there will ever be an after the war.

Nihal follows me to the car and says, "I an twenty years old. when you write, write that I am very young."