It is not merely the morbid fascination of a budding cultural anthropologist that always draws me to these places β I find the way that people, and countries, treat their enemies much more revealing than the way they treat their gods.
You might catch a glimpse of it from the corner of your eye every now and then. But if you want a closer look you will have to work for it. A boy playing on a rainy beach on the Jaffna peninsula β a world away from the sandy tourist resorts. I wanted to have a good long look, to pull up the carpet and see what was swept underneath. Even more so once I found out that in October , just days before my arrival, a new regulation was introduced which requires foreigners to obtain a permit from the Ministry of Defence prior to travelling north.
In fact, it makes me hell-bent on doing that exact thing straight away. Five minutes ago! I make it a point to travel to places that require permits designed to keep people out. Not so much out of political conviction or anthropological zeal, but rather out of a childish fascination with all things forbidden. Jaffna, the capital of the Tamil north, is closer to India than to the Sri Lankan capital of Colombo β both geographically and culturally. The Jaffna peninsula is a predominantly Hindu region in a country of politicised Sinhalese Buddhism and parts of the region have been cut off from the world for three decades, as the Tamil Tigers established a fully-functional parallel government, banking system and a television and radio network in their efforts to create an independent state.
Now young Sinhalese are taking the opportunity to see with their own eyes the places that they had only ever heard about on the evening news. Stepping out of the freshly renovated train station I prepare for the usual barrage of shouts from tuk-tuk drivers, hotel touts, and industrious vendors of Cheap Chinese Crap.
It never comes β a couple of puzzled looks in my direction and a tentative smile or two is all the welcome I get. The silence is almost complete, save for the soft drumming of rain on tin roofs and the annoyed croaks of the countless crows perched on walls, chimneys and power lines. The streets are deserted and the heavy grey skies are swollen with monsoon rains as I head down south towards Main Street, strolling down the middle of the road. I feel oddly elated, as though I had discovered a secret that is all mine to keep.
