Trigger Warnings:

  • depiction or discussion of violence, war, killing

  • depiction or discussion of particular kinds of non-consensual sexual activity

  • depiction or discussion of discriminatory attitudes or actions

 

knowledge is pwr

I have always been the type of acca (older sister) to blurt out whatever was on my mind. I didn't understand boundaries, I didn't understand that there was some information you should withhold from your little sisters. I know it sounds silly, but I guess I tell my sisters everything because I wanted that for myself. When I was 10 years old, I knew that if I asked my father a question he would respond, truthfully, intellectually, and with careful concern that he was treating me like an adult. I was ready for the world, all the social issues, I was ready. I guess that is why I want to be open and honest with my little sisters (ages 11 & 13.) They are the most important things in my life, I see them as lineage, as a continuation of my "legacy." When my sister has questions about #BlackLivesMatter vs. #AllLivesMatter, I don't hold back. White Dominant Culture, Intersectional Feminism, and White Supremacist Capitalist Hetero-Patriarchy have become common contextual lingo amongst myself (my mind//understanding), and therefore have become a part of my sisters'. I know it seems funny, but I don't want to hold back the "truth" that they deserve to know. 

ring ring, wake up! 

Well tonight, I got a wakeup call. I have been collecting evidence for a research paper for my Human Rights Law class at Berkeley. I did a couple quick "google scholar" searches before I get frustrated. I cleverly shot over a facebook message to one of my mentors//friends//and acca (I don't have many people I can call acca for myself. I am basically the acca of the family. So when I call someone my acca, they are really someone I hold close to my heart.) Anyway, I message my acca asking for advice, help, or tips on how to start research. She gave me a few authors names, along with two films I should watch (both of which can be found of youtube.) The first film was "The Killing Fields." From the first 5 minutes of this film, to the last second (and 50 minutes afterwards) I was balling my eyes out. It was the most horrific sight I have seen. Ever. Mind, I have been working on the issue of Child Sex Trafficking in Oakland for a couple of years now. I produced my own film on the issue, and have seen many films regarding child sex slavery. But not once have I been so largely affected by media. I don't know what it was about this particular piece. Was is that the little girls//boys//women//men resembled family? Was it familiar tamil phrases screamed out across human battle fields? Was it that this could have been the inevitable fate of my kin- father aunts grandparents-- myself? I don't know what it was. It shook me to my core. One scene in particular, at the end, displayed a woman who was once a news reported for a Tamil owned station, raped assaulted and killed-- her body bloody, as men laughed called her a c***.

After the 48min film was finished, I lay numb in my bed. Completely horrified.

ignorance or pain?

All of the years that I have spoken to my father about the war-- this, no this was NEVER mentioned. Was it that he didn't know for himself, or that he didn't wan't to know? It could even be PTSD, or was it that he just didn't want to tell me. If the latter is true, I thank him. I was not ready. Today, I was not ready. Tomorrow, I would not be ready. I don't think anyone, who comes from such a privileged background, as I myself am, would ever be ready to know that:

I WAS A LUCKY ONE. I MADE IT OUT. WE ALL DID. THAT COULD HAVE BEEN US. EASILY. BUT FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, WE WERE NOT (physically) TOUCHED, HARMED, FORCEFULLY MOVED AROUND LIKE WAR PAWNS, BURNED, LYNCHED, RAPED, no none of that. 

home is a blackhole 

But today, I sit on my computer: confused & depressed. There is something in my heart that is missing. I feel like I have lost a something special, something deep. There is a depth of emptiness, a hollow hole of sadness, a pit of despair that makes me feel disconnected from my motherland. I don't know who I am, where I am from, lost in this world with no hope of a home. I will always be lost, always be homeless, because somewhere in the depths of the jungle, and the ocean coast, the heat of the desert, and in the chilly patty fields of Sri Lanka, there is a lost people, and a country with a blood soaked flag. Blood that will stain the tear drop country that we once called home. 

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