Villainy of War

Villainy of War(S.P. Lazarus) S. P. Lazarus
Tamilnadu
India
splazarus@gmail.com




Villainy of War
S. P. Lazarus

The monsoon had set in. The war in north-eastern Sri Lanka had shifted to Mullaitivu and much of the population of Vanni had fled. It was past midnight and it was raining sheets of water and hails of bullets and shells. I was in bed, tossing and turning for more than an hour trying to get some sleep. But the horrors of the day kept flitting across my mind: the makeshift hospital was overflowing with the dead and dying, shattered limbs, gaping wounds, blood and gore everywhere and the groaning of the injured begging for attention. I could do just so much; medicines were running low, most of the staff had relocated to the safe zone and the fighting was getting closer to where I lived.

Then above the din of the lashing rain and the exploding shells, I heard the sound of boots running along the pavement just outside my house. I shuddered as I sat up in bed, confused and frightened – times were bad, anything was possible.

Before long there was a loud banging on my front door. This roused my wife and our 4- year old son. My son was terrified and he was crying. My wife instinctively tried to stifle his loud sobbing by covering his mouth.
"Take the boy and run out through the back door. Head for the fringes of the forest and hide there. Everything will be alright in a couple of days."
"Why do I have to run and hide? We have done nothing wrong, no?"
"This is not the time to reason, nor are these people the type that will listen. Go before it is too late. Go for the sake of the boy.
Do you know what they will do to you if they apprehend you?" I asked my frightened wife who just stood there staring at me, her expression blank.
"I know: it is a fate far worse than death. So go quickly,” I warned her as I hurried her.
"You too come with us," she pleaded after a moment's hesitation.
“I am a doctor. They will not do anything to me,” I blurted, not sure if that was the case.
“Besides, my place is with the wounded and suffering. I cannot desert them,” I added with sincere conviction.

I let my wife and son out through the back door and waited till I saw their silhouettes blend with the darkness that lay beyond, bolted the door and went back upstairs anticipating the worst.
The banging became louder and fiercer. And in a matter of minutes I heard the big wooden door come crashing down. This was followed by the sound of heavy boots on the ceramic floor of the house.

I came and stood at the head of the stairs, suffering agonized moments before something happened. I saw the beams of flashlights hurriedly swinging left to right, right to left and then focus on the staircase and eventually me.
“There’s the traitor, there’s the balli,” I heard a soldier shout and a couple of them ran up and scuffed me so hard that I literally rolled down the stairs and landed with a thud.
Then one of them lifted me up only to be battered by another with the butt of his rifle. “Traitor, traitor”, he shouted as he continued to bludgeon me to the ground.
“I am not a traitor,” I screamed as I tried to ward off the blows with my hands. “I am the doctor at the hospital,” I pleaded.
“You are aiding terrorists, no?” a senior among the soldiers accused me. “That way you are a traitor,” he concluded.
“No. I treat the wounded. I do not question their affiliation. And I swear to you that most of the patients are civilians – women and children ---”

I was again pummeled to the ground even before I could finish my plea. The kicks and blows began to rain on me and I eventually lost consciousness.
When I came to, I found myself on the street just outside my house, my hands tied behind my back. The rain had fizzled to a fine drizzle. The biting cold made me realize that I had been stripped naked. When one of the soldiers realized that I was conscious, he hurried to my side, kicked me in the ribs and pulled me up to a kneeling position. In a matter of moments I realized that I was not alone in my predicament. Through puffed eyelids I could see, a little distance from me were others – like me, naked, hands bound behind their back, and on their knees.

On the other side of the street stood a man - apparently a senior army officer. With him was Balaraman – a man who lived a few houses away from mine – a man I knew well – apparently not well enough as I was to soon find out. Balaraman and the army officer were in a conversation. The conversation was obviously about me because every now and then Balaraman kept pointing to me. It was apparent that Balaraman had become an informant and as is the case with most informants he falsely accused his neighbors only to save himself from a fate similar to mine.

The senior officer walked up to me. “You know that man?” He asked pointing to Balaraman.
“Yes.”
“That man has confirmed what we have long suspected, that you are a traitor.”
“I am no traitor, sir. I am no traitor,” I pleaded. “I am the doctor at the temporary hospital. I treat wounded civilians,” I tried to explain as the officer began to walk away ignoring my pleas.
When the drizzle intensified into a steady downpour, the officer together with the informant disappeared into an unoccupied building. Just then an army truck appeared and halted a few yards from me. Soon the naked men were all herded into the truck. Some of the men who were so badly kicked and beaten and couldn’t stand up on their own were carried by a couple of soldiers and thrown into the truck. The others, including me, were scuffed and kicked into the vehicle. In a few minutes the truck set off in the direction of the wooded mountains.

Although there were more than twenty of us in the back of the truck, no one said a word.
“Where are they taking us?” I asked tentatively, unable to control my anxiety.
“To shoot us sar, what else,” whispered an old man when no one else responded.
“Why? I have done nothing wrong.” I cried.
“Sar, none of us did any wrong. Only wrong we have done is getting caught in the middle of these two,” the old man added referring to the two warring sides.
The truck chugged along uneven stretches of fields for what seemed like forever. And then when it was almost dawn it stopped in a bushy wilderness.

The couple of soldiers sitting in the back of the truck guarding us jumped out. “Five of you come down,” one of them ordered, pointing to the five closest to the exit. The alacrity and confidence of his tone showed that he was not new to what he was expected to do. The two soldiers herded away the five deeper into the wooded area, leaving two others to guard the rest of us. And after that for ten minutes there was no sound other than the faint sound of rain water gushing in a rivulet nearby. Then came the distant sound of gunshots.

My turn came with the second batch of five. We were led along the rivulet for a couple of miles. There we were made to halt. I looked around; there was no trace of civilization as far as the eye could see. Here we were blindfolded and made to kneel along the bank of the rivulet.
I knew what was about to happen. I prayed – not for myself but for the safety of my wife and son. And then I heard the sound of gunshots a couple of yards from me.

After a few agonizing seconds I felt something hard and cold being pressed against the back of my head. Once again, the sound of a gunshot. This time it was closer and louder.

“End”