Entry Three

JOURNAL ENTRY #3

I write so that I will never forget. Months, perhaps years from now when this page is but a forgotten leaf in my journal, there will be thousands who still live its present reality.

Hikkaduwa, Galle Road Sri Lanka

Time has passed since the day after Christmas, 2004. A concerned friend wrote me yesterday: "2 months later, how much can be done? Hope it's worth it." It is true; other world events have caught the public's attention.

When countless lives had been swept away with those tidal waves, we'd read the stories, watched the news clips, and viewed the web shots in horror. We'd seen enough. Do we really want to be reminded of the tragedy?

I do not write these entries to press a matter too far in the past to grasp. I write so that I will never forget. Months, perhaps years from now when this page is but a forgotten leaf in my journal, there will be thousands who still live its present reality.

Hikkaduwa is a tiny fishing village on the coast of Sri Lanka. Like the other villages around, every other building is some kind of guest lodge, pub or seaside restaurant. They say life once thrived here-and especially nightlife. They say the restaurant where we stopped for lunch and coffee once bustled with foreign tourists. I count less than ten foreigners on the street today.

This little street winds like a worm through building rubble. It is as if something blew upon everything in sight. Almost nothing stands higher than 10 meters now.

We drive for two hours, stopping at 3 refugee camps. The children greet us with beaming smiles. Most of these ones are blessed; they still have their parents. Fathers and mothers alike produce photographs of what is left of their homes. We look for the camp office. They direct us to a single plastic chair on the roadside, and our disbelief is almost an amused one. But the man in uniform assures us that this spot is indeed the office, and so we speak with him about the needs of this camp. School materials for the children, we are told. And of course other basic necessities, such as floor mats and cooking stoves. Today we will buy what we can, and return tomorrow with more.

Our sponsorship is meager, but good enough to purchase 13 kerosene cookers for a few families. There are 450 families in this camp.

Will our tiny efforts make a difference? The smile of these children tell me the worth of our time spent here. I am led to a tent, home to two little girls and their parents, who invite me for a cup of tea. I refuse at first, not wanting to take the little they have. But they insist on proving their warm hospitality, and so I sit, surrounded by more children. They speak basic English, and for that, I am glad.

.My first cup of the famed Ceylon tea. It is hot, very milky, and very sweet. I am astounded by their generosity. As we spend time in this camp, we hear the stories. One woman's arm is in a cast. It was broken as she fell, trying to run with her children from the oncoming wave-a wave traveling at 700 mph. She is lucky that her babies are still alive. The man sitting silently on a chair amongst the rubble is not so lucky. His neighbors tell us he has returned to the pile of what used to be his home, the only survivor in his family. But his story is one in a million.

Two months later.the world forgets, yet the people left of this tragedy will never. How can they? They say that the spirits of the dead still walk this place. They roam at night, screaming; they cry out, "the waves are coming! The waves are coming!" And hearing their awful shouts of terror, the living run from their tents in the dark of night. They may flee from this place, but never from this paranoia. Ghosts haunt Hikkaduwa. And they will haunt many years from now. Even though the sea is silent, the bodies it has borne upon its waves will forever wash up on the memories of the loved ones that were left behind. Left behind, to rebuild their lives. And it will take much, much longer than 2 months for that.