Let me start with a childhood memory. My father was Tamil, my mother was Burgher – that’s what they call people with European ancestry in Sri Lanka – and we were living in a predominantly Sinhalese neighbourhood just outside Colombo. One day in May 1958 our Sinhalese neighbour Menike, who was like a member of our family, came over in great distress, insisting that we leave our home at once and go somewhere safe because a bloodthirsty mob was heading our way. At around the same time my mother’s former student Yasmine, who had become a family friend, also Sinhalese, came over in a car, offering to shelter us at her parents’ place. My mother had been for a walk so my parents knew that Tamils were being attacked, but at that point they refused to leave. They packed off my brother and me and our Tamil grandmother in a taxi with another Sinhalese neighbour to stay with our Burgher grandmother, and started making Molotov cocktails to defend themselves and their home. By this time Menike was frantic and threatened to commit suicide unless they left. They finally agreed, and yet another Sinhalese neighbour drove them in his car to Yasmine’s parents’ place.
Thirty years later, when I was doing research on Sri Lankan refugees and internally displaced people, I came across numerous similar stories in which Tamils had been saved by Sinhalese friends, neighbours, colleagues, or even total strangers. To me these stories encapsulate the divided soul of Sri Lanka: hatred and violence on one side, love and compassion on the other, racism on one side, anti-racism on the other, brutal authoritarianism on one side, a stubborn pursuit of democracy and human rights on the other.