“Every Night is a Pointless Prayer for Change . . .” , by Nuzhat Shahzadi

The meeting got more depressing. The report shared with us was tragic, stuffed with boundless heartaches. The world outside seemed bleak. Then the rain began––splish-splash––drenched the trees, the houses, the narrow streets, added thickness to the desolation, on that morning in 2006 in Colombo. We smelt pain in the air . . .

Eric (UNICEF) had pulled me into the “Ban Landmine” group. It consisted of UNICEF, UNDP and sister development agencies, including some key NGOs––Motivation (UK), Handicap International (France), White Pigeon (UK). In the decades-long civil war ––the face offs between the Sri Lankan army (SLA) and the Tamil Tigers (LTTE) were frequent. Life became wrapped in unimaginable suffering, especially for the Tamils. The major offensives were launched in the land they resided in. 

Land mines are dangerous. An enemy without a face, smell––ruthless and treacherous, strikes in stealth.  In Sri Lanka, the victims of unexploded ordinances (UXO) and landmines were mostly males between the ages of 13-50 plus (18-35 were the most vulnerable). Those who survived, lost limbs. Some lived with spinal cord injuries–– devastating disabilities that chained them to wheel chairs for life. It changed their universe; shattered their lives. Living with the trauma of loss was the reality.

Both the LTTE and the SLA implanted landmines without any conscience, zero accountability for destroying human lives. Mines were laid in Kilinochchi, Jaffna, parts of Trincomalee, Vavuniya and other live-conflict areas of the country. Records were not kept properly––maps got lost or destroyed. The war zone was a live mine field, in essence. 

The Ban Landmine group’s role was to collect/share data, publicize the stories of untold tragedies to the outside world, and act as advocates to raise awareness about this heinous weapon of war responsible for civilian casualties. We wanted the warring parties to stop the use of landmines. We wanted to change policies. Those days India and the U.S.A were the major manufacturers and exporters. . . both governments weaved webs of lies draped in false promises of human rights and democracy, huh!

Our partner NGOs were instrumental in helping and healing the communities––Handicap International and White Pigeon provided prosthetic limbs, rehabilitation counselling and vocational training to the victims, implemented mine risk awareness education (MRE) programs with UNICEF and several development partners. The Sri Lankan government cooperated. I travelled around the country with MRE teams as an adviser-trainer on MRE. We needed robust, appealing communication to reach out to the communities, to shake the policy makers. My expertise in behavior change communication and public health came handy.

I attended community meetings held by White Pigeon (possibly around Trincomalee). 

“These prosthetic limbs are durable, easier to use . . .,” the NGO colleague showed me an array of artificial legs and arms . . . That was the first time I saw what they looked like. I touched them, felt the hard-surface with my fingers.

“However, the younger victims have to wait till they are a bit older because they outgrow their prosthetic limbs very fast,” he added. That’s how things were those days. Resources were limited, technology was developing.

“It hurts at the beginning. Then you get used to it,” one victim told me. His stoic countenance veiled his anguish. 

In 2007, the Sri Lankan air force MIGs bombed the White Pigeon's Office in Mullaitivu district killing two civilians and injuring another four.

I met Rachel (possibly that was her name) at the Motivation Office in Colombo. Motivation was a strong advocate for the rights of the land mine survivors living with life-time disabilities. In addition to rehabilitation counselling, it also provided wheel chairs to the victims, supported the general hospital in Vavuniya in strengthening its physiotherapy services to the victims of spinal cord injuries, and addressed intellectual disabilities in children. (The latter one was a very small scale, low-key effort due to limited funding and availability of skilled service providers). Rachel arranged my meetings with their families. Listening to them (mostly mothers), understanding their heartaches hurt, badly.

“They live in a world of isolation . . . entrapped in an existence that they don’t understand . . . and neither do we,” an anguished mother told me. 

I went to several field missions with Handicap international (HI). HI programs supported vulnerable people with disabilities. They focused more on women with disabilities. I was touched by their dedication and commitment.

“Women are mostly powerless in patriarchal societies. When they have disabilities, they become totally invisible,” a colleague from HI very correctly voiced. It wasn’t a news to me, though, . . . 

She shared many stories from the field––hardships and about rising above miseries––hope survived surrounded by despair and grief. HI had established rehabilitation centers around the country as a direct response immediately after the 2004 Tsunami. 

In Afghanistan, I came across survivors, wounded in armed conflicts, and their families. I saw them, I understood their trauma, I absorbed their pain . . . 

“I feel I am not a man anymore, Nuzhat jaan,” an RPG survivor who had lost both legs confessed to me in Herat. Admission of weakness was extremely rare for men in the Afghan culture.

I was struck by his courage.

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You can contact Nuzhat at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com