The heat was scorching––the sun was lava!
I returned to Trincomalee. The office would often send me back to Colombo right after the 5th week to avoid giving me R&R breaks, and SOLA (special operational living assistance)? –– an allowance given to staff operating in emergency non-family duty stations. In any case, I was given the hazard pay. I learned one thing in my decades of working in emergencies––aid workers who choose conflict zones don’t do it for financial gains. Helping people to cope with loss and grief could be the real motivation.
Intensive, fresh fighting broke out between the Tamil tigers and the Sinhalese army around the Peninsula. UNICEF and other development partners were here to provide humanitarian assistance to the internally displaced population from Mutur. Several camps were set up. Adults, children, young people, sick and the able bodied had fled to Trincomalee to escape the war.
The government tried to deny the Mutur happenings at first. Then mostly ignored it but flexed its muscles to muzzle our voices. We were indomitable, essentially.
The head of UNICEF Trincomalee’s post was vacant at the time. Due to the Mutur-emergency and political situation, Colombo decided to send senior officials by rotation to act as the OIC. Yasmin was our deputy Rep. She arrived for a week while I was there.
“What do you want me to bring for you guys?” she asked graciously. 90% of the mission-team members were women. Stores were closed, even pharmacies. Feminine hygiene products topped the list of our demands. Yasmin came fully armed with them . . .
Around 6-ish in the morning, she and I went for walks on the beach before the war woke up. DD was a late-sleeper and mostly evaded us.
The red glow of the sun glimmered on the foaming waves. Cool air rose from the Ocean . . . The war seemed unreal.
The office was about a 15–20-minute drive from our hotel. We scattered in the tin-roofed building––in tiny corners set up our laptops, cramming in the miserly spaces available. Our room didn’t have air-conditioning.
. . . Right after lunch we got the news of a small group of Tamil families camping in the open––outside of the organized shelters provided by the agencies. Office sent me to check this camp. I set out with the UNICEF driver, also my interpreter.
30-40 families had walked through the night, avoiding main roads to reach this location, close to the town. They made low roofed temporary tents––cowering under the sweltering heat of the mid-day sun. UNICEF/UN vehicles were well recognized. I received friendly smiles smeared by fright and exhaustion, sadness and relief to be alive.
There were many children. I needed to know if they were vaccinated. Our driver explained what I said. In seconds a line was formed by mothers holding their children in arms or by their hands. They showed me the BCG vaccine marks. I had to feel the arm of each child––they mistook me for a doctor.
“He has a problem breathing,” the driver pointed to a toddler limp in his mother’s arms. I placed my ear against his back and listened to the whizzing––a textbook case of ARI. One course of penicillin was all he needed. I couldn’t prescribe it. I was a public health professional. I advised the mother to take him to the hospital but she shook her head. The Tamils were afraid to go to any government facility.
ARI is a killer of children under 5. My heart broke. I cried softly on our way back––wore my sunglasses to hide my tears. I went straight to the hotel, crawled in my bed.
“Nuzhat, where did you leave the office keys? Need to lock up.” Yasmin was on the phone. I had fallen asleep. I remembered . . . she had given me the keys. I was supposed to have gone back to the office.
“I am sending the driver,” she said calmly.
There was a railway-crossing on the way to the office that we were advised to avoid after dark. LTTE and the Army targeted it often. I had jeopardized the safety of both colleagues. So, I decided to ride back with the driver.
We locked up the office and drove back to the hotel together, safely. Trincomalee was sober under the night sky wrought with million stars.
I was going back to Colombo the next day.
I reported about the new camp. My replacement was our Japanese JPO who arrived by mid-morning. I briefed her in detail and hoped the tiny fellow was still breathing. She promised to do her best.
My heart was heavy as we took to the road.
Colombo was as usual when I stepped in the office the next morning. I carried a rock inside my heart the whole day . . .
My phone woke me, deep in the night. It was our JPO.
“Nuzhat, we found the boy! Took him to hospital––he’s under treatment now. We saved him!!!” Her elation filled the void in my apartment, the loneliness of the night outside.
I jumped, screamed. My neighbors must have thought the war made me crazy.
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