The story is set against the backdrop of the Sri Lankan Civil War (1983-2009), a brutal conflict between the government and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), fighting for an independent Tamil state. This war led to widespread violence, forced recruitment, and displacement of civilians.
Amidst this turmoil, many fled the country seeking safety and better opportunities, often facing exploitation and hardship. Although the story is fictional, it reflects some of the struggles of those escaping such dire circumstances.
I was crammed into a container with sacks of coffee beans and spices, waiting to be exported to Australia. I was told that Abdullah would take the container to a safe spot where I could get out, find a place to stay and get a job.
I peeked through the cracks of the container and saw my last sunrise in Indonesia—the sun was cradled in a blanket of lavender clouds—lavender like [1]Amma’s sari.
I’m on my way to Australia now—I hope Amma is proud of me.
***
When I was eleven, I saw the men with guns kill [2]Appa.
Appa’s corpse lay on the floor, a pool of blood had surrounded his head from the bullet in his forehead. They killed him because he refused to join them. I was in shock; it happened so fast. He collapsed, staring right at me.
I hid behind the front door, peeking out, hoping the men with guns wouldn’t come back, and avoided looking at Appa’s eyes.
Footsteps approached the veranda, and I heard anklets jingling. Amma came home after selling hibiscus, marigold, and jasmine garlands at the kovil, which was flooded with devotees offering flowers and sweetmeats to [3]Lord Hanuman on a Tuesday for happiness and prosperity during the chaos of the war.
As Amma grew closer to the door, I started sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Enna, Madhu?’ Amma asked why I was crying.
I pointed to Appa’s body and Amma dropped the sack of rice and vegetables she had bought with her daily wage and ran to him.
She shook Appa violently, hoping to bring him back to life. Her lavender sari turned mauve as it soaked up all the blood around him.
‘Aiyo baba, un Appa irantuvittar,’ Amma , announcing Appa was dead. She sat cross-legged, placed his head on her sari, and closed his eyes forever.
Amma and I left Kilinochchi with Appa’s savings hidden in her bra and her heirloom jewellery stuffed inside a doll she had sewed for my eighth birthday. We travelled by bus, tractor, boat and on foot until we reached Colombo, passing multiple checkpoints without being robbed, by the blessing of [4]Lord Ganesh.
Amma earned about two thousand rupees a month selling garlands outside the kovil and making sweetmeats. She saved all she could to send me to Indonesia when I turned eighteen.
***
I landed at Jakarta airport and waited to be picked up by Rafiq, a friend of a friend who had promised to find me accommodation and a job.
Rafiq was a cab driver, and he took me to Kalijodo.
When we arrived, he led me through dark alleys where women sat on the verandas in skimpy clothes and wrapped themselves in bright scarves of crimson, saffron, emerald, and lavender.
The lavender reminded me of Amma, but the woman wearing it had a sly expression.
Some women rubbed against Rafiq, some caressed his face, and some covered their faces when they saw me with him.
The alleys got darker and louder at night, filled with moaning, laughing, screaming and fighting.
‘Uncle, how much longer to your house?’ I asked.
‘This is not my house. You’ll stay here tonight. My friend will give you a job,’ he said.
Rafiq dragged me into a house where a fat man sat smoking cigarettes. The house smelled like tobacco, mold, and piss. He smiled and nodded at Rafiq.
‘Ah, yes,’ the fat man said, approaching me. He stood in front of me with his hands on his hips and stared.
He pulled each of my breasts with one hand while scratching his groin and touching my lips with the other. I could smell the piss on his fingers as he stroked my face.
‘So, you have practice, girl? he asked.
I didn’t know what to say and stared at Rafiq, hoping he could explain what the fat man meant.
‘No, brother. She is new,’ Rafiq said.
‘New to what?’ I asked.
‘Shut up, girl. Don’t you know it’s bad to talk back to elders?’ Rafiq said angrily.
‘I will train you, girl. I will train you tonight,’ the fat man reassured me, grinning as he stroked the bulge in his pants.
‘Good night, brother,’ Rafiq said, closing the door behind him.
‘I need a job,’ I reminded the fat man.
‘You already have one and I will train you tonight,’ the fat man said as he took his crotch out of his pants and instructed me on how I must do my job at gunpoint.
He sat on a chair, grabbed my head, and pulled it to his crotch. It smelt rancid and made me gag before he shoved it down my throat.
He tugged at my hair, pulling out some strands, and then dusted his hand to remove the hair entangled on his fingers.
I bled and cried that night, but I got the job.
***
I worked in Kalijodo for six years and obeyed the instructions of the men who had me at gunpoint or strangled me. Others were gentle—but their gentleness didn’t mean that I didn’t cry myself to sleep each night.
I never called Amma; I wanted to be dead.
The women in the brothel spoke of how people they knew travelled illegally in boats or export containers of coffee and spices to Australia with fraudulent student visa documents. I had saved up all the money I earned over six years to pay a man who promised to get me onto an export container and help me escape. It had been a year and I hadn’t heard from him.
We were in the middle of an epidemic; the fat man’s best girls disappeared or migrated to Australia in containers with their bastard children and I was asked to do most of the work.
My body ached and I hated myself. I didn’t want the money or the job, so I walked out one day.
I walked from Kalijodo to Jakarta and slept outside a [5]warung for a week, clinging to my handbag which carried all my savings, some crumpled clothes and a statue of Lord Ganesh Amma had given me before I left. I learned to share scraps of food from the dumpster with stray dogs and beggar children.
I could have afforded ten bowls of nasi goreng with the money I had, but I was afraid of wasting it. So, I walked into the closest warung and begged the shopkeeper for a free meal. A man walked in from the kitchen and yelled:
‘Eh, you are container girl, no?’
I remembered him—he was the man who promised to send me to Australia in a container a year ago.
‘I try to find you almost one month now and Boss said you disappear,’ he said as he clicked his tongue in disappointment.
‘Do I have a chance now?’ I begged him, telling him what my life had been like in the past six years.
‘Hmmm, one container leave tomorrow at 6 o’clock morning. You come at 3 o’clock morning when we put things into container, okay?’ he said, piling three ladles of nasi goreng onto a lavender plastic plate and handing it to me.
I remembered Amma’s sari again—I remembered her warmth and kindness as I devoured the plate of rice.
***
As I sit with the sacks of coffee and spices, waiting to be exported to Australia, I whisper to the wind:
‘I’m on my way to Australia now—I hope Amma is proud of me.’
[1] Amma: ‘Mother’ in Tamil
[2] Appa: ‘Father’ in Tamil
[3] Lord Hanuman: A Hindu deity known for his strength and loyalty to Prince Rama in the epic Ramayan
[4] Lord Ganesh: A Hindu deity known as the remover of obstacles and new beginnings
[5] Warung: ‘Local eatery’ in Bahasa Indonesia