“If you don’t speak Sinhala, why are you in Sri Lanka?”
I was asked this by a Sinhalese passenger in a tuk-tuk that had collided with my car when I asked them to wait for the insurance agent, as my Sinhala is limited and I wanted to sort out the matter through him. My friend, a Sinhalese, who arrived at the scene shortly after the accident, confronted them firmly for making that comment.
“Tamil is a national language too. Do you speak Tamil? If not, why are you in Sri Lanka?”
It was a simple question, but it stayed with me. Perhaps because it wasn’t really a question about language. It was a question about whether, in their eyes, I belonged.
Many Tamil diaspora people do not identify themselves as Sri Lankans. For some first-generation members of the diaspora who left the country because of discrimination and violence in the 1980s, even the name “Sri Lanka” does not necessarily feel inclusive of the identity they associate with the country. Some still call it Ceylon, the name used during British colonial rule, perhaps because it feels less associated with the identity of one community.
A sense of belonging can’t be forced. It should be felt. To feel that I belong to a particular country or community, simply being born there, living there, or being related to members of that group isn’t enough. A sense of belonging is nurtured by how we are treated, whether we are accepted, whether we are loved, and whether we feel safe. One could live in a country or community and still feel like an outsider. Likewise, someone who chooses to be away from, or is compelled to be away from, a particular community or country for whatever reason could still feel that they belong to that community.
When someone says, “I denounce a particular identity,” or “I identify as something else,” rather than attacking that individual, we should start asking ourselves, “What have we done to make someone feel that they do not belong? What have we done to make them denounce that identity?”
When I go around the country, particularly to the South, sometimes I get asked, “But Tamils want a separate state.” I always respond by saying, “Yes, that was the political demand at one point. But, as a country, have we ever stopped to think about why they wanted to separate from Sri Lanka in the first place?”
Nobody leaves a happy home unless there is an underlying reason — usually because they no longer feel at home. I remember learning that a friend’s uncle, a renowned and wealthy dentist, was living in a rented house in Colombo. I asked my friend why he did not own a house in Colombo when he could easily afford more than one. My friend told me that he had lost everything during the 1983 Black July anti-Tamil pogrom. Since then, he had decided not to own anything in Sri Lanka.
So, if we are genuine about having an extended family living under the same roof — in Sri Lanka’s case, every community living in an undivided country and proudly embracing a Sri Lankan identity — we need to ask ourselves, “Why are people compelled to leave?”
You cannot tell people to leave the country or go to Tamil Nadu when they are Tamils, or to the deserts when they are Muslims, at every “opportunity” you get, and also expect us to identify ourselves with something you designed simply because you demand that we do so.
I have often seen young Tamils living in Sri Lanka exploring ways to leave the country. For some, Sri Lanka becomes a place to stay until they can find a way to leave for good. I have heard Tamil youth say, “If I’m going to be treated as a second-class citizen in my own country with no opportunities, I would rather live in a country that treats me as a second-class citizen, where at least there are opportunities.”
Perhaps the achievements of many Tamil diaspora members around the world also tell us something. Many have gone on to build successful lives in countries far from where they came from. At the same time, some of those who remain here still feel that even basic opportunities can be harder to find.
Despite all these challenges, a significant number of people — people like my father and me — have chosen to stay in Sri Lanka, let alone in Jaffna. We have refused to leave our “home”. I have also found myself encouraging young Tamils to stay in Sri Lanka, or to come back after completing their higher studies, gaining some experience, or building a better life for themselves elsewhere. But sometimes I ask myself whether it is fair for me to make that request when I cannot honestly promise them that things will improve for them here.
I want them to stay. I want them to come back. But what can I honestly promise them? That they will have better opportunities? That they will feel more accepted? That they will not face the same questions and doubts about whether they belong?
That is perhaps my own conflict. I still believe Sri Lanka is home. I have chosen to stay here, and I want the younger generation to have a reason to stay or come back. But I also understand why someone might look at their options and choose a different life elsewhere, call another place home, or identify themselves as something else.
That is why I think this needs to be a moment for reflection, rather than another blame game. Before attacking someone like Maitreyi for how she chooses to identify herself, perhaps we should stop and ask ourselves why someone might feel that way. What have we done, or failed to do, that has made someone feel that they do not belong?
Because I can tell you one thing. Attacking Maitreyi for being honest about how she feels is not going to make anyone feel more connected to Sri Lanka.
If we genuinely want people to see Sri Lanka as home, perhaps the first thing we need to do is make them feel at home.
Aingkaran Kugathasan is a development professional specializing in digital democracy, governance and media and an Attorney at Law
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