Back to hell

The woman said her husband had been killed by a bomb. He was ploughing the paddy field when it happened, coaxing the bulls through the sodden ground, the straw hat she had woven shielding him from the sun. He was barefoot and shirtless when the bomb came, and his sarong had been ripped off by the blast so that when they found him, he was naked and in pieces among his dead animals.

All eyes were on the woman as she spoke – the lawyers, the interpreter, the reporters shaking out pens and furiously scrawling in notebooks. She had a prominent mouth that jutted out distractingly, overcrowded with big white teeth. There was a script, carefully fabricated to strike a balance between detail and emotion, and the woman relayed it in a practised, vacant tone, staring at a point on the far wall. She would not look at Grace.

Although no one had been released from detention, at the beginning of November the chair had announced it was time to move on to admissibility hearings. They would begin with the women and unaccompanied minors, but in the new year they’d add men to the schedule too.

Now, in addition to detention reviews, Grace had to listen to all the gory details of people’s alleged life stories and decide whether or not they could apply for asylum. Before each hearing, she braced herself for the onslaught.

This was Grace’s third straight week of admissibility hearings and her last one for the day. If she left within the hour, she would avoid the Friday rush. But they were already four hours and nine minutes in, and the end was nowhere in sight. Warm air gusted from the vent above Grace’s head. Heat spread outward from her chest, rising up her neck. Her mouth was dry, but she had left her office in a hurry and forgotten her water glass.

Grace stifled a yawn. It had been a bad night. She’d been standing at the front window watching a group of men coming at the house, running as though they were being chased, Steve in the lead. She’d had her hand on the deadbolt when Meg screamed in terror, waking Grace up, her stomach riotous with panic. Steve, his back to her, was snoring. The red digits on the nightstand shone 2:48. Grace lay there, in confusion, while the house slumbered.

Meg’s scream had been real. Even now, Grace could recall its verisimilitude, its pitch-perfect texture. Meg, her first-born by minutes. How closely our nightmares can mimic reality.

The woman claimed her name was Hema. She and her two teenaged daughters had arrived without so much as a library card and, in lieu of documentation, had signed a meaningless piece of paper affirming their names and ages.

The husband was only the first casualty. My sisters and mother, the woman said. All dead. My nephews and cousin brothers also gone, stolen by the LTTE. They would come with their tractors and stop opposite the house, all the boys they’d already caught crammed onto the flatbed trailer hitched at the back, chins on knees, staring out, dejected.

She used the word caught instead of recruited. Or the interpreter did. It was impossible to decipher who was saying what.

The interpreter jotted notes as the woman meandered through her tangents, flicking the pen up from the pad as he dotted each sentence with a finishing flourish. He strolled in every day with his things under his arm – a notepad, a legal reference guide, a Tamil–English dictionary, and two ballpoint pens – and lined them all up at punctilious right angles. Grace was irritated by this fair-haired man and his obsessive compulsions, this interloper who had no real role at these proceedings, no tangible responsibility, yet was the only one who understood every word.

The woman said she had two younger brothers. They were clever boys, good with their heads but useless with their hands. In her retelling, the brothers became sanctified. They were transformed into a single entity.

The brothers had never held a gun in their lives, didn’t even have the stomach to slash a knife across a chicken’s neck. The brothers were sensitive and squeamish. They had flat feet. The woman reported all of these details in a deadpan voice, like a truculent child repeating a history lesson.

Grace watched her speak, not understanding a word, scrutinizing her body language for a hint of what she was saying. The whole room held in suspense, at the interpreter’s mercy until he translated whatever he thought fit to repeat, with whatever commentary he chose to add or delete. Grace had the urge to knock his sanctimonious little stack of books and pens right off the table.

The brothers had hidden in the chicken coop when the recruiters came with their tractor. At first, their mother said she didn’t have any sons. But the LTTE had their own ways of ferreting out the unwilling. The woman’s mother was beaten. Palmyra fronds have dry, serrated edges. They can slice through skin.

A startled gasp threatened, but Grace swallowed it down, reproaching herself for getting emotional. Focus on the job.

The mother begged the Tigers not to take her sons. They were needed in the paddy field, and, anyway, they did not know how to use a gun. Please, please, don’t take away my boys. What do you want them for? They will be of no use. The woman said she never saw her brothers again. Her mother had died from the beating. Grace was skeptical. Was it possible to die from a beating? Squirming inside her clothes, she longed for air conditioning, to remove her suit jacket, undo her buttons, and air herself out in front of an open freezer.

In the last days of the war, the woman and her daughters had deserted to the Sri Lankan side.

Grace wanted to know when, but the woman would not say. April? Grace asked. Or May? Early or late? The woman said she did not know; she did not have a calendar. Every day and night, it was the same – bombs and shelling and people dying.

The time of day, then, Grace said, glancing at the clock. Ten past four. So much for avoiding rush hour.

I don’t know, the woman said. I didn’t have a watch.

She sat there, stubborn and unyielding as a rock. She had arrived in Canada and now that she was here, she would not be moved.

Grace fanned herself with an empty file folder. It must have been thirty degrees in the room, but no one else seemed bothered.

What was the position of the sun in the sky? Grace asked. Surely you recall. Was it high? Was it setting?

The woman glanced at her lawyers. No, Grace thought. They can’t help you.

The woman twisted her hands together, finally shaken out of her stupor. She fumbled for the answer. It was…it was…we had not had time for lunch…no…oh…that day there were clouds.

Tell us how you did it, Hema, Gigovaz said. Tell us how you crossed to the Sri Lankan Army side.

The young lawyer – the student – pushed a little cup of water toward the woman and said: Have a drink.

Stalling tactic, Grace thought. She could picture the circle of water in the cup, the tiny bubbles on its surface. The woman put the paper cup to her lips and drank. Her microphone was still on and the whole room heard the small gulps. Grace’s tongue was like sandpaper. She could grant this woman’s admissibility or she could do the safe thing and ship the three of them back to where they came from. She longed to go home and make this decision in peace.

The woman said, There was a lagoon.

Immediately, Gigovaz interjected. He wanted Grace to know this was the Nandikadal Lagoon. Here was the LTTE’S last stand – Tigers and civilians all trapped together on a narrow strip of land between lagoon and ocean. It was all well-documented. Exhibit L in the Evidentiary Package.

She was galled by his presumption of her ignorance, the unnecessary interruption in this already drawn-out saga. Mr. Gigovaz, Grace said. Are you giving testimony or is your client?

The woman said there were Tiger cadres guarding the lagoon, shooting at deserters. But people were streaming across anyway. When he translated, the interpreter waved his arms out in front of him as the woman had done to indicate waves of people.

The army was on the verge of victory and everyone was terrified. The lagoon was a murky brown, heavy with blood and the bodies of the fallen. It appeared impassable, but there were shallow areas. The Tigers were pointing out the paths, turning their backs as people waded across.

Grace cut in: I thought they were shooting at you. Now you’re telling me they were helping you to escape?

The woman grew flustered. Just when Grace thought she might finally catch her eye, she turned away. She shook her head yes, then no.

These people, Grace thought. They want to have it both ways. Well, she said, which one was it?

The woman said: The cadres had orders to shoot, but not everyone was following. Some might have been like my brothers – forced to fight. Anyway, they had joined to shoot at the army, not their own people.

The woman had recovered her nerve. She was on a roll now, intoning again in that dull, flat voice. The interpreter matched her tenor, belabouring every word and stringing out the sentences. Grace thought he was probably paid by the hour.

The woman said the whole lagoon was being bombarded. Shells spiralling at them, blasting into the water. People were falling back, shot by Tiger cadres or felled by bombs. The woman and her daughters pressed on. The water was up to their waists. It was slow going. Up ahead, they saw a cadre. He was just a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. His gun was pointed right at them.

The woman put both hands over her face as the interpreter relayed her story. Gigovaz pushed a tissue box toward her and she blew her nose.

Singh was writing in her notebook. The excitement in the reporters’ corner was palpable. They stared out like a single hungry entity, recording everything Grace said word for word so she could relive it all in the newspaper the next day and Fred could scrutinize her performance.

I was so frightened, the woman said. I did not want to die. But then one of the other cadres, a girl, shot her gun. But not at us – at the one who was going to kill us. She shot him and he fell down and she threw her gun into the water and took my hand and we all ran together.

Was she telling the truth? Grace peered at the woman, hunched across the room, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Why was she really here?

Grace was sweating freely now, the blouse beneath her suit jacket staining. She said: Please explain to me, madam, what the Tigers were doing. Were they helping you to cross the lagoon or were they trying to prevent you?

The woman trembled. She pulled her sleeves down further over her hands, as if she was trying to disappear into the sweater. It was…they were…My daughters and I were not the only ones…there were many others with us who also ran.

That doesn’t answer my question.

Grace was weary of this woman’s stuttering. If the story was true, if it was hers, surely she would be able to recount it in a straightforward way.

It was nearly five now and Grace had a dull pain in her shoulders, crawling up the base of her neck, the prelude to a headache. Her thirst demanded quenching.

The interpreter was speaking. Grace raised a hand to silence him.

Okay. Fine, she said. Let’s talk about what happened after you allegedly crossed the lagoon.

The Sri Lankan Army was there. They saw us coming and they saw that we did not have weapons, that we were not Tigers.

Singh spoke up. But wasn’t there a Tiger cadre with you, holding your hand?

Yes, but she was not wearing a uniform, so after she threw away her gun, she was like the rest of us.

I see, Singh said. And in your interview with the immigration official at Esquimalt you said the army was kind to you.

The woman flared up. Kind? They were monsters. We were made to live in a cage, a high fence all around. People dying everywhere.

Exhibit F, Singh said. After the war, the Sri Lankan government set up temporary IDP camps. A UN report found the conditions to be satisfactory. In fact, there was no reason for this woman and her daughters to leave. Eventually, they would have been relocated back to their homes.

In her notebook, Grace scrawled out the letters IDP followed by a question mark.

No, the woman said. We would have died. There was not enough food or water. Every day people going missing.

I thought you said there was a fence, Grace said.

The army men. They took people. The woman dropped her head as she said this. Grace knew there was something she wasn’t saying.

Where were these people taken? Grace asked. Her shirt was soaked through now. She did up the buttons on her suit jacket, hoping no one would notice.

I don’t know. Men and boys were being disappeared.

Singh started to say something, but Grace cut her off. Let’s go back, Grace said. You crossed the lagoon and were met by the Sri Lankan Army. In your interview with Immigration, you said they gave you tea and medicine. Is this true?

Yes, the woman said. That is true.

And this was the Sinhalese. The people you called monsters.

They were kind to us then, yes. Those people were good.

Singh said: Naturally, in the midst of a war, the state’s efforts to safeguard its citizens are hamstrung. But the war has ended and the reasons for which the migrant sought protection have ceased to exist.

Gigovaz spoke up: People were going missing from a government-run refugee camp. Not only did the state fail to perform its duty, it in fact participated in the persecution of its own nationals.

The lawyers liked to hear themselves speak. They had been sidelined for the past two hours, and now, seeing their opportunity, they jumped on the chance to hold forth with their legalese.

Singh said: Sri Lanka is a democratic country with a rule of law. We’re not talking about a totalitarian state here.

A democratic country with a long history of human rights violations against its Tamil minority, Gigovaz said. In Mrs. Sokolingham’s case, there is a risk of persecution. Gigovaz was emphatic, punctuating his arguments with jabs of his pen.

Singh sat with her hands folded calmly in front of her, offering rebuttals with the blandness of a person stating the obvious. The risk of persecution must be real, not speculative, she said.

Enough, Grace said. She was weary of these two as well. She turned to the interpreter. Ask how much she paid the agent.

Fifty thousand rupees, the woman said.

We have intelligence that people paid as much as fifty thousand dollars, Singh said.

I only had fifty thousand, and that is what the agent took.

And when you say the agent, you mean the smuggler, Grace said.

Fred had told her about the smugglers. International criminal rings that got rich off duping humanitarian countries. Shady and large, they had tentacles all over the world. Difficult to find and impossible to bring to justice.

The woman said, To us, the smugglers were like Good Samaritans.

Grace wanted to slap her.

Singh said: It is the Minister’s opinion that the migrant is inadmissible on the grounds that she has aided and abetted a smuggling operation.

Grace said: I would tend to agree with you, Ms. Singh.

The woman’s eyes widened. She swivelled in her seat, frantic, and shouted something in her language.

The interpreter said: There was no choice! Those men, those army dogs!

The woman’s lawyers looked afraid. Their client had gone off the script and they had no control over what she said next. The reporters perked up.

The woman stifled a cry. Then she turned and faced Grace straight-on and yelled a string of invective, her rage breaking through the language barrier and slamming Grace hard in the chest. The woman’s hands, balled into fists, were pressed to either side of her head. Her expression was wild.

Grace was momentarily stunned by the vitriol spewed in her direction. She closed her eyes, humiliated, then told herself to stop being unprofessional. It was her job to adjudicate the truth, not be a grief counsellor. Abruptly, the woman stopped shouting and slapped a hand to her mouth.

We had to leave, the interpreter said in a quick, high voice.

The woman waved her arms to silence him.

Those dogs, the interpreter said. They hate us so much.

She vaulted across the table, her hands flailing at his mouth. The interpreter pushed back his chair.

Mr. Gigovaz! Grace yelled. Please restrain your client!

A dog. Grace had been called worse things in her life. She would not be intimidated by this woman’s tantrum.

The young lawyer pulled the woman away from the interpreter. She said something, but her microphone was off and Grace couldn’t tell for sure if she was even speaking in English. Now the three of them appeared to be having a side conversation in Tamil.

Grace slammed her hands on the desk and yelled, STOP!

There was an abrupt, contrite silence.

Mr. Blacker, Grace said. You are under oath to interpret faithfully. Please finish.

A dog. The insolence and disrespect. Grace would have it all repeated, in English, for the record.

The woman put her hands over her face and Blacker said: They raped my daughter.

The woman cried openly. Loud, gasping sobs projected in stereo. Gigovaz reached over and turned off her microphone. The rest of the room was still, everyone staring determinedly away from each other. Grace was confused. She tried to retrace the woman’s words. The dogs. Not a dog.

Finally, Singh spoke up. This testimony deviates from what was told to Immigration at the port of entry.

Grace spoke to the woman directly: Is this true? Was your daughter assaulted? She could not bring herself to say the word rape.

The woman shook her head no.

Mrs. Sokolingham, Gigovaz said. Just tell the truth. Don’t be afraid.

I do not know what happened, the woman said. She had turtled back into her sweater and was sniffling, swiping at her nose with her sleeve.

I know this is very difficult, Gigovaz said. Please, just tell us what you know.

The woman did not turn on her microphone when she spoke and Grace did not admonish her.

The interpreter cleared his throat. He said: Many of the army men were young. They must have been away from home, from their wives, for a long time. They liked to look at the girls in the camp. I saw things…girls standing at the fence and letting the guards do dirty things to them for presents.

Grace’s pulse raced. Meg’s scream came back to her.

They hated us, the woman said. But they were also men.

Grace wanted to put her fingers in her ears, order the woman to stop talking. She had asked the question, but now she didn’t want to hear any more.

They were always prowling around with their guns, the woman said. My daughters are fourteen and sixteen. I kept them inside the tent, but one night two men came. I tried to stop them. I tried to stop them, but they took my elder daughter…they took…Tara.

Meg screamed and the room tilted, blurring out of focus. Grace tensed and gripped the table, trying to master herself. There was no proof, none at all, that any of this was true. Her head cleared. The floor beneath her feet was concrete again.

When she looked back up, she saw the reporters. They were loving every minute of this. Grace could feel their excitement, the frenzied shorthand. They would print it up word for word. They took my daughter, the woman said, her voice flat, matter-of-fact. She came back in the morning. Her dress was torn. And those dogs, they had cut her hair.

All day the reporters had waited, patient through the bureaucratic monotony of detention reviews. And here, finally, was their reward: a perfect, sensational sound bite. Those dogs, they had cut her hair.

The woman spoke to the interpreter. Her voice was defiant. She didn’t need the microphone to be heard. The interpreter turned to Grace and said: Tell them, if they try to send us back, I will kill myself and my daughters. Better to die here in heaven than go back to hell.