Risking all for others

When she was a bright 12-year-old in Colombo, Sri Lanka, Anandi Kularatnam barely knew her neighbours. They were a Muslim family who had no children of their own.

Kularatnam's family enjoyed a cordial relationship with them, never suspecting that one day their neighbours would be their saviours.

During a recent visit to Dubai, Kularatnam, 37, now based in Sydney, Australia, recalls the time. "Life was full of possibilities," she says.

"I had just entered upper school (grade six), was president of the Junior Tamil Literary Association, a house prefect and had finally enrolled in a Bhartanatyam dancing class after months of waiting. I was loving every minute of life.

"It was 1983 and there was tension in the air for my family were Jaffna Tamils living in Colombo, Sri Lanka. It was a year of uneasiness as tension was mounting between the Tamils and the Sinhalese due to the Tamil Tiger guerrilla (activity) in the north of the country. There were hushed conversations among the elders that would stop when I was around, but I paid little heed.

"Then one day in July, everything changed. One of our Tamil neighbours came to our home shouting that cars in the street were being burnt and the houses of Tamils were being looted by Sinhalese mobs. 'Get out!' he shouted.

'Get out before it's too late!'

"It was a terrifying moment for me. I stood in the lobby of our house, listening until my father asked me to go and pack. My mother started crying as we frantically packed, me holding my 2-year-old baby sister in one hand.

"There were so many important things for me to take. My autograph, photographs and books ... but all I gave my mother to pack was my favourite sheet, without which I could not sleep, and a family picture.

"And amidst the tears, one of our Muslim neighbours came in. I heard him ask my father to hurry up and come with him. Our neighbours were some of the few non-Tamils in the predominantly Tamil area where we lived.

"The ladies did not speak English, knew little Tamil and our family did not speak much Sinhala or their dialect so we had very little contact with them.

"Except for the occasional exchanging of biryani during Eid and sweets from our house during Deepavali, we had very little to do with each other. They lived in what then seemed like a mansion.

"We then hurried from our back door and ran all the way to their home, a few houses away. The next few days were the most terrible in my life. We could smell smoke everywhere and one by one most of the Tamil houses down our lane were burnt down.

"We couldn't see anything as the window in our room faced the sea. My mother was in constant tears and my father in a constant fury. We were asked to stay in one room and our hosts, although the ladies could not converse much with us, were very kind.

"A day after we fled there, there was a loud banging on their gate in the night as mobs with flaming torches screamed for the man of the house. 'We know you're harbouring Tamils in there,' they screamed. 'If you don't let them out, we'll burn your house down too, just like we burnt theirs down!'

"That entire day I had prayed that our house would be spared ... so when I heard these men say they had burnt everything we owned, I cried. I cried for all my things, my memories and my old life. Because that was the time I realised that my life, as I knew it, was over.

"For the next two days, the banging on the gate and the screaming continued. I remember the ladies of the house would run into our room looking terrified and hush us as we huddled in a corner crying.

"We stayed in their home for four terrifying, long and sad weeks. Eventually, my father made arrangements for us to go to India as 'refugees'. It was a terrible label to bear.

"Going down our lane in our neighbour's car for the first time and seeing the empty shells that had once been houses was horrifying. The stories I heard were even more horrifying. I was engulfed by so much hate.

"But as I grew up and we moved to Australia two years later, I have met many people from our community who went through similar or worse situations that July.

"And I've also met many people who were helped during those dark days ... and I realised that all these people who had helped us did so risking their lives, families and homes.

"Today with two children of my own, I sometimes wonder whether I would be brave enough to take that risk - placing everything I have on the line. And I realise the magnanimity of our former neighbours to whom we probably owe our lives.

"It's easy to stereotype and easy to hate when you have been affected. But there is the good and the bad. Having everything you own taken away in a stroke is one of the worst things that can happen, but rebuilding again makes you a much stronger person.

"As evil as people can be, there is also goodness in this world - goodness that far exceeds and conquers that evil. If you can't have that faith in people, life is barely worth living."