We were heading towards Batticaloa, the capital of eastern Sri Lanka, supposedly controlled by the government forces, but trapped deep in the ever-expanding web of ethno-political frenzy. The ruthlessly violent conflict between the country’s two largest ethnic groups, Sinhalese and Tamil, grew from occasional skirmishes since the mid-century over particular issues of discrimination against the minority Tamils. It intensified in the 1980’s as the tightening economic noose lured opportunistic politicians to employ "divide and conquer" for short-term gains. The tactic boomeranged, literally pulverizing many of them, and their cannon fodder, the naive minds riled up by clannish myths and lies, also perished and maimed in hundreds of thousands. A pain-stricken overseas spectator of this theatrical carnage during its most intense decade and a half, I was determined to use my month-long vacation to feel the pulse of the surviving cast. My cousin, Kamal, a government officer living in the relative safety of the border town Ampara, volunteered to accompany me through the hit-and-run war zone of Batticaloa, predisposed to brave the risks of the journey. Thus, the cookies-and-drinks spectacle, unfolding repeatedly at military barricades along the way, perplexed both of us.

During Vesak Poya, many social organizations and well-off individuals set up colorful decorations and propped-up murals (Pandals) depicting religious stories, drawing thousands of people to the streets. Following the Buddhist tradition of free giving to accumulate good karma, many businesses and youth groups give away free food and beverages to the passers-by. The war-weary military of Batticaloa, mainly Sinhalese Buddhists, probably wanted to surprise with this altruist tradition their longtime "suspects" --the Hindu Tamils, the dominant ethnic group in the area.

On any other day, the military would have confiscated my camera and jailed me for attempting to photograph security installations. Just a simple baggage search at these check-points could turn into a major hassle if the military man could not easily read your identification papers, or if he simply had a bad day. On the way to Ampara, I got exasperated at how they made me pull out every piece of clothing from the bags at the barricades, set up mostly every 10 miles. My slide projector contributed to the problem too, as I had wrapped it in a blanket to cushion it from the jolts when the bus rocketed over huge black-holes in the road. Once the military men discovered the curious-looking gadget, they wanted to see whatever else lay under my clothes.

Yet, my childhood in a small southern town of Sri Lanka brings to my mind very different images. I remember white-clad school children lining up the roads, waiting for buses or walking towards schools; City streets congested with pedestrians, bicycles, bullock-carts and a few vehicles; Women balancing parasols and grocery bags, struggling to wipe off the pouring sweat with their tiny handkerchiefs; Men juggling the traffic, doubled under the weight of bulky sacks on their heads or shoulders.

Violence has no deep roots in Sri Lankan society. Only 30 years ago, an afternoon newspaper that headlined violent crimes went swiftly into decline for the lack of both interest and material. The Sri Lankans, well known for their hospitality, would extend a generous hand even to a complete stranger, as I found out in my wanderings throughout the island during late ‘70s and early ‘80s. Once a Tamil fishing village fed and housed us, a large hiking group of mainly Sinhalese. Another time, a group of poor plantation workers came rushing after, up a steep trail, carrying a thermos flask, because they felt obliged to provide us, the accidental over-night campers by their village, the morning tea!

Such whole-hearted generosity began to suffer as the ethnic conflict escalated. Then, on a hike to the central hills, we were forced to leave by the villagers who marched us to the community center. Only after establishing the identity of a mutual acquaintance would they boil the rice and dust-off the makeshift beds. In 1990, soon after the bloodiest youth uprising in southern Sri Lanka, I made a short-hop home after 5-years abroad and tried in vain to learn why the South exploded. These Southerners, who would lay out their philosophy of life on the bus, in the coffee shop or even under a coconut tree, all had their mouths under lock and key. They were still in shock.

During the recent trip home in 1999, I noticed that the culture of violence has exploded island-wide. The proliferation of arms and the presence of thousands of military and paramilitary fugitives, combined with high unemployment, harsh economic pressures, and the roiling vengeance –a result of many massacres, have created a market ripe for cheap, trigger-happy mercenaries. Those without the will to take revenge on others turn it back on themselves. Sri Lanka has recently registered the highest suicide rate in the world --a symptom of rapidly devaluing human life.

How serious is the security consciousness in Sri Lanka? Upon my arrival at the international airport, I had "orders" to pick up a refrigerator and a microwave for some relatives from the duty-free shop. Luckily, my brother came in a van to pick me up. Tired and sleepy, I dreaded traveling in the wee hours of the morning, suspecting further delays by military inspections of my huge luggage. "Don’t worry, they won’t bother us at this hour" my brother knew the subterfuges of Sri Lankan military better. We drove non-stop, through the heart of the capital, Colombo, to my hometown 100 miles away. The logic goes like this: a person planning to blow up something would do that only among heavy traffic. So, the military doesn’t bother checking at nights!

Now, no place on Sri Lanka is safe, despite the overwhelming presence of the military. The Tamil guerilla group, fighting the civil war in the North and the East, can strike at will at military or civil, rich or poor, men or women, young or aged. The mercenaries neither give a hoot: the victims need only have some resemblance to the list of political or personal enemies of their clients. The wave of explosions that welcomed the year 2000, were planned deliberately to cause maximum havoc, targeting mainly the public buses and crowded gatherings. Equally bloody were the end-of-Presidential-election revenge attacks against media personnel and at times against entire villages, alleged political opponents. Nobody has the monopoly on cruelty.

Encouraged by the lax security in Batticaloa, Kamal picked up two local Tamil friends to guide us. Signs of normal life were still rare. Seeing a school of fishermen in canoes, netting shrimp under the heavily fortified bridge of the "Singing Fish," I jumped out with my camera ready. I had miscalculated: "Stop right there!" a long black tube took aim at me. Even before my startled cousin could step out of the car, our Tamil friends ran towards the military man to plead my case. Surprised, and probably more confused by the act of the Tamils, the Sinhalese officer let me fool around with my camera.

A few minutes later, at the other side of the lagoon, I tried to shoot the "shrimpers" again, this time by edging closer to the thatched huts by the beach. "Pleeease, no!" the faces of our Tamil friends drained white. "Military don’t hang around here. So?" I insisted. "That’s exactly why." They would not let me move an inch towards the village. The complexity of life in the war zone muffled me. Were they afraid of me falling into the hands of the guerillas? Or rather feared being seen guiding two Sinhalese around?

Back again in the government controlled area, our guides took us to the edge of a high security zone, where no civilians are allowed. "But why? Here I see nothing but these artificial-looking lagoons." I always look for reasons. "They really are worth millions, in terms of artificial shrimp. High level naval officers own these ponds. Once they declare the zone ‘high security’ they can run the business as they please, at tax-payers’ expense!"

We dropped our guides and reached Ampara an hour later, when the security forces clamped down suddenly, jeeps flying around sirens blaring, reactivating the barricades. We called our friends in Batticaloa. "Remember the street corner where we showed you a burned telecom box? Right there, a suicide bomber blew up a high ranking government supporter a little while ago!" 11th April, 2000.