Table of contents

A Difficult Family Meeting

The Foreign German

My Afghan Family

Spit in my Face

Reunion in New York

Missing Hamburg

The Baptism

My Father’s Ashes

A DIFFICULT FAMILY MEETING

ONLY 20 MINUTES until the landing of the Ryanair machine at the London Stansted airport. I still saw the clouds under me, the landing had not yet begun. I was on the way to Nala, my second youngest sister, in London. There I was to see our father again for the first time in 16 years. In 2005, the year before, I had already been able to hold my mother in my arms at Nala’s home. Now both parents had come together in London.

Although I was already 29 years old and an adult man I envisioned my parents before me as I had known them as a child in Sri Lanka. A picture had imprinted itself especially: together with my parents, my older sister Ruji, the younger sisters Vani and Nala and my little brother Jana -- I am visiting a temple festival. Once a year there is a temple festival in every temple, that lasts ten days. During the festival days, the adults fast. At our house, like in most families, there was neither fish nor flesh. But many many men went secretly to places where beef was served, and even palm wine.

For a visit to a temple we dress quite traditionally; the women wear a sari and the men a white vedi, a sort of wrapping skirt of silk or cotton, mostly no shirt but instead a chawl around the shoulders.

For my mother it was always important what the neighbours thought about us. Therefore I also had to wear a veddi and “wip futhie” on the forehead (ashes from burned cattle dung, as a sign of belonging to the Hindu faith). Wip futhie is distributed to the believers by the priests in the temple after the prayer. It is that the Hindu god Shiva rubs his body with the ashes of the dead. Therefore it is also very important that our body be cremated at death.

The last time I had seen my father was in the summer of 1990, before I left my hometown Puthur in the north of Sri Lanka. In Colombo, my mother hoped to find smugglers who would take me to Germany. My father was a jolly big man with a fat stomach, who loved children, and would have given anything that we might not starve during the civil war. And he was also a frugal fox. Swiss sugar was very popular during the war, we children would thus suck candy instead of taking sugar in our tea because it was cheaper.

My father, as head of the family, had to divide up the money we earned as a family so that we could survive. I learned quickly to live economically, to give up unnecessary things and to treasure every rupee. The war forced us to spend money only for the things most necessary for life. That formed me for the rest of my life.

The landing of the plane brought me back to the present. I felt the excitement of meeting my parents again after such a long time. It was my father’s greatest wish to see me once again. Although he had suffered for years from high blood pressure, diabetes, and an open wound on his leg, he had willingly undertaken the difficulties of the long flight.

My sister Nala, who has lived in London for years, arranged a visitors visa for my parents. My job was to pay for the flight. That was not easy for me as a student. I had the good fortune that after my studies I had a stipend from the Heinrich-Böll Foundation and would therefore have the money for the flight.

Impatiently I got up from my seat before the safety belt light went out. Hurriedly I went to the visa control, which was meanwhile familiar to me. Still, my heart raced with the fearful question, whether something could still go wrong at the control or whether I would answer the officer’s questions correctly. In the end there was no reason to worry; after the standard questions that I answered without hesitation, I was permitted to enter the country.

Then I went directly to the baggage claim, to get my suitcase. It cost 15 Euro to check my bag with my cheap flight by Ryanair. Usually a hand baggage was sufficient that did not cost extra money. But this time I had presents with me for the family; a shirt and a heavy xxl sweater for my father and a purse as well as a similarly heavy wool sweater for mother so she wouldn’t have to freeze in the unusually cold London air. But also presents for my sister’s children. I had bought t-shirts at C&A in Hamburg with lots of wonderful figures from children’s films. At C&A in London I had received my first winter jacket before the flight to Germany.

With the hand baggage in one hand and the suitcase in the other I went to exit. Waiting there for me were my father and my sister Nala while my mother babysat Nala’s children at home.

During the flight I had thought about what how I should greet my father, what he might expect from me. Now I stood in front of him and had no idea what I should do. There was no embrace. He only looked, silently, at me from head to toe and said in Tamil, “Vaa, vanko,” or “Come come, sir.”

He appeared suddenly to be fragile, and not the strong father I remembered. He had aged also. I was looking at the face of a sick man, as I knew it from a lot of patients at the clinic. My father had become a stranger for me. I had almost not recognized him. I was confused and sad. He wore an old jacket of my brother-in-law’s and a gold necklace that my sister had given him. On his right ring finger, a golden ring with nine different stones. According to Hindu belief, they were supposed to bring him happiness in life.

We went to the parking lot, where my brother-in-law [bil] awaited us in the car. Father was allowed to sit in the front. Nala had to help him. He couldn’t manage it by himself any longer. I stood there helpless and only watched. I wasn’t sure whether it would be acceptable to him if I helped. In my childhood he was the one who did everything alone and never had needed our help.

After I had stowed the baggage in the trunk, I sat down by my sister on the backseat. While we drove toward London, a strangely stifled atmosphere prevailed. My sister tried to break through the muffled silence. She asked questions, hoping to get father and me into a conversation.

It was usual for me to address my father as “Sir” in Germany. it is customary that children speak to their elders and older siblings in the formal Sie-form. That a father, as the head of a family, would address his son in the Sie-form, I had not yet experienced. My siblings said this was a sign of respect for me, for all that I had thus far achieved in my life. A greater honor could not have been granted me. Perhaps this respect was the reason that my father had not hugged me at our reunion nor had he shown any emotion. His behavior complied with Tamil tradition, but still made me very sad.

After about 40 minutes we arrived at Nala’s house. My mother opened the door. My sister’s children stood beside her and clung to her sari. The joy of our reunion was great. She took me in her arms and continually stroked my face.

On account of the excitement of seeing my parents again, I had eaten nothing all day. As I suspected, my mother had gotten up very early and had begun to cook Tamil dishes for me. It was wonderful to enjoy a meal cooked by my mother after such a long time. My tongue burned after the delicious and unnecessarily hot spicy food. Mother could scarcely believe that the food in my new homeland was not so spicy as in Jaffna. Happily, she had also made “payasam”, a sweet dessert that cooled my tongue. After dinner we had tea – tea with milk and a lot of sugar. That tasted fantastic and took away the last spiciness of the meal.

We sat in my sister’s windowless living room by artificial light. Most of the houses in my sister’s neighbourhood are very small, the fewest with a garden in which children can play. I was sad that my sister’s children could not grow up with the outdoors like we had back then in Sri Lanka, a life like before the civil war, when one could play hide and seek under the coconut palms and the mango trees; I wished it were so for my nephew.

My father spent most of his time in his old age in Sri Lanka outdoors, in front of the house in the shade of big trees. There he conversed with neighbours about God and the world, and, of course, the war and the hope of a better future. He only came inside for meals. Now he was visiting a land where life was lived in narrow quarters. He and my mother could only sit in the living room and watch Tamil TV the whole day. My mother was familiar with this habit from her first visit, but for my father it was quite new. And what he saw and experienced did not coincide with the picture he had made of his daughter’s life in London.

The children of my father’s youngest brother also live in London; and we visited them one after the other. Again and again the time before the war was recalled, how lovely it had been in our country – and every time we were overcome by a feeling of sadness and nostalgia.

My father was the eldest son in his family, and thus enjoyed great respect from his younger brothers and their children. They cooked his favorite dishes for him, not taking his diabetes into account. I didn’t like it, but every happy hour for my parents was more important than the stern look of the doctor. Secretly they served brandy after the meals, which my father loved to drink. As a child I didn’t like it when my father drank at home. Often I had put sand and pebbles in his alcohol bottles or sometimes simply threw the bottles away. Now he was so old and so sick that his feeling contented had absolutely top priority before my dislike of the alcohol.

My parents and I slept in my sister’s home, in one room. My father on the floor, mother and I shared the bed. We were given two blankets, one for Father and one for me and mother. Everytime when I woke up in the night, I realized I had taken the entire blanket for myself, and mother slept like a fetus, arms and legs pulled up close to her body. I covered her again with our common blanket and tried to sleep again.

It was a very unusual situation, sleeping in one room with my parents after such a long time. The last time must have been the summer of 1990 in our old house in Puthur. I lay in between the two of them, one leg over one of the other. Only then could I fall asleep. I had to think of that as I tried to get to sleep. I needed to tell them how protected I had felt and how proud I was of them that they had been able to bring all four of their children to safety. This had cost them considerable sacrifices in their lives.

The next morning for breakfast we had sambal ( a mixture of coconut, onion, chili, pepper, and salt) with white bread. I felt reminded of my schooltime in Puthur, when every morning we had bread and sambal. My mother spent the whole morning washing my father’s laundry in the bath. I thought it was terrible, I could barely watch her and see how she had so little strength, had to do all this washing by hand. She wouldn’t allow help either. That my mother had to torture herself in this way, made me angry. When she was finally finished, I was allowed to help her after all that, with hanging the clothing in the garden on the clothesline between the two pear trees. While doing this I was able to press a lot of water out of the clothes. That showed me how weak my mother had become.

I would like very much to ask my sister and brother-in-law why my mother was not allowed to use the washing machine. But in the home of my bil it was not allowed, in Tamil tradition, to say something, let alone to criticize or even to pitch in. Because he had married my sister, my bil had to be treated with gratitude and respect. Nor even was I allowed to intervene, even when he kicked her while she was holding her one-week baby in her arms. This event caused me sleepless nights. How bad it must have been for my mother to see how her daughter was beaten by her son-in-law. Until today I have not been able to speak with my mother about it.

I was really happy that my bil had not beaten my sister and the children in the presence of my father. He would not have tolerated it. He is against every form of violence and despised parents who beat their children, which is unfortunately the rule in Sri Lanka. Often they beat their children so hard that they have an arm or leg broken. Their brutal violence they try to hide by saying the child had fallen on the steps. Often the children come to school with such bad wounds that the police have to be called in for their protection.

My father had hit me, as far as I can recall, only once or twice with a little stick that broke apart with the first stroke. I had both times the feeling that it had hurt him more than me. As children we had to watch ourselves around our mother. If I misbehaved, I was supposed to keep away from her by at least a meter. My father called out, so that the distance between my back and her hand was to far for her right hand. Usually I ran away from her and climbed up a little tree in the yard.,coming down after she had calmed down. Mostly everything was forgotten, and I escaped the stroke of her right hand.

At out London reunion, my parents got around to the topic that I most dreaded. I should finally agree to a marriage proposal. I had already received several from Tamil parents who lived in Germany, Switzerland or Denmark and whose daughters were medical students. My parents had many times urged me to agree to an arranged marriage with one of these women. My brother told me particularly that these were women of the best castes.

I didn’t know how to speak with my parents, who were molded by the Hindu faith and Tamil culture, about my own life expectations. While I was studying I would base my hesitation to marry on the fact that I had to concentrate on my studies and in addition, the money I had saved was sent to Sri Lanka for their support. For a marriage there really remained nothing at all. After my studies, while I wrote my doctoral dissertation, I had to send even more money home so that my father’s hospital expences could be paid. I barely had enough money for myself, let alone for a family. I tried not to let the topic of marriage come up during our telephone conversations.

What distressed me especially on this topic was the absolute acceptance of the caste system. From birth to death one belonged to a specific caste as well as an appropriate professional group. Priests are at the top of the caste system; only he who comes from a priestly family can become a priest. Large landowners belong to the upper caste, while a field laborer comes from a family that has worked in the fields of living loved ones for generations. The laborer can only come from a family of laborers. And both of these professional groups belong to the lowest caste. In Sri Lanka this system may still be valid. But for Tamil refugees who have come to Europe, this rigid caste system is no longer meaningful. Most refugees, independent from this caste membership, have to work first as dishwashers, kitchen help or cleaning personnel. Many of them have even been able to offer their children a good education, and it can happen that the children of former field laborers become doctors or lawyers. It is very hard for my parents to see the overcoming of caste barriers as a positive development, and not to judge people by their caste membership. This thinking seems to be too deeply engraved in their minds. Arguments can’t convince them otherwise.

Marriages happen traditionally within the same caste. For parental permission for the marriage of a son or daughter it is, beside profession and family, above all else caste membership that is decisive. I cannot at all understand how people from the upper castes, who have fled to Europe and America during the war and wash the plates of strangers, clean toilets and sometimes must clean the behinds of people in their care, can still cling fast to this rigid, intolerant, unreasonable caste system. How can they stick to being members of upper castes, when it comes to marriage. And this after so much misery and mutually scattered havens during the civil war.

Just so absurd I think it is that before the marriage ceremony the parents of the bride have to promise the groom’s parents a dowry. The bride’s family must provide a certain sum of money, or a house, or gold, or sometimes all of this together. This amount of the dowry depends on the groom’s position.

Also before my sister’s wedding, my father had to provide a house, gold, the payment of the wedding expenses and 5000 Euros as dowry. This promise he was not able to keep. For me it was very unpleasant that every time I visited my sister, I was held responsible for the sum still owed my brother in law. I was a student at that time and finally, my studies through, a nursing assistant in the ward and what I earned above that, I sent my parents at the end of the month,. With additional jobs during vacations as helper or promoter of optical businesses I earned money for the weddings of my sisters.

I was very grateful to my younger brother, who in the meantime lived in New York, that he was able to pay the remainder of the promised dowry just before my father’s visit to London. Otherwise my father would not have been able to meet his son-in-law without embarrassment, otherwise he would have lost face and honor. Many Tamils who now live in Europe or the USA marry women from Sri Lanka. Many parents are happy that this way, without the help of smugglers, they can bring their daughters to Europe or the USA. For this, the men’s families require a high dowry. Marriage is a lucrative business. This traditional thinking with its restrictions and intolerance, is the culture my parents will force upon me, and it estranges me more and more from my family. I feel closer to Germany and its society; my new homeland, than to Tamil culture, and live as a normal citizen of this land.