Island of Blood , livre ebook

Anita Pratap

Island of Blood
Frontline Reports from Sri Lanka, Afghanistan and Other South Asian Flashpoints
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Sri Lanka: A Ravaged Nation
Mothers and Sons
Destiny
From Thambi to Annai
Island of Blood
Fighting to Walk Away
Afghanistan: The Doomed Land
A Nation of Rebels
On Another Planet
Ayodhya: Cycle of Revenge
Attack! In the Name of the Lord
The Survivors: The Human Face of Tragedy
Silence of the Birds
In the Veils of Sorrow
Suffer, Little Children
Author s Note
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
ISLAND OF BLOOD
Anita Pratap has worked for leading Indian and American newspapers and magazines, including Sunday, Indian Express, India Today and Time . Until 1999, she was the New Delhi Bureau Chief for CNN, reporting news from South Asia.
She has won several Indian and international awards, including the prestigious George Polk award for her coverage of the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan in 1996. In 1998 she was awarded the Chameli Devi Jain award for her sensitive portrayal of the human condition and for her talent, dedication and courage as a reporter .
She is currently freelancing, making television documentary films and writing columns for magazines.
Island of Blood is her first book.
www.anitapratap.com
For
Zubin You helped me touch the sky, for you are the wind beneath my wings, thank God, thank God for you;
my parents K.J. Simon and Nancy, for giving me the foundation to fly;
and
my husband Arne, for helping me fly in new directions.
Sri Lanka
A Ravaged Nation
Mothers and Sons
I have often been asked to define my happiest moment. What people expect to hear is about the time I got a prestigious international award, or a fancy job, or cracked a story. But my answer is probably the same many women would give: the birth of my firstborn.
What a clich ! But like all clich s, how true!
Zubin, my son, is the only child I have borne. So I don t know whether women experience the same joy at childbirth when they deliver their second, third, or tenth child. But his birth was for me the most beautiful moment. I experienced the miracle of life unfold from within my body. No experience before or after has measured up to that instant of pure joy.
Perhaps the moment was so special because I witnessed Zubin s birth. I saw him being born, without any of the accompanying labour pains that young mothers often find unendurable. I was twenty-two years old, and what allowed me to enjoy this magic moment was that he was a Caesarian baby. I had a lumbar puncture, which meant I was benumbed waist down but was fully conscious and alert above the waist. For the three preceding months, I had been vomiting for no apparent reason and had become thin and weak. The doctor decided it was no longer safe for the baby to remain inside.
With you as mother, how could I possibly be safer outside? Zubin would wisecrack much later.
I watched my gynaecologist, Lalitha Kumari, directing her team of doctors, nurses, anaesthetist, as they cut open my belly. I, of course, couldn t feel a thing. A green sheet covered my waist and I kept trying to raise myself on my elbows to take a better look at the infant lying curled up inside, upside down.
The baby is perfectly positioned, I heard my gynaecologist murmur. Even before he was born, Zubin was responsible, did things just right.
As I peered down to have a better look at my belly, the doctor whacked my arm and pushed me flat, warning me not to get up again.
You have such big eyes, I am surprised you have to raise yourself to see the baby. If you get up once more, I will give you full anaesthesia, she threatened.
But why can t I see my baby? I m not afraid of blood and gore, I said.
You will be when you realize the blood and gore is your own, she said, pushing me back and ordering the nurses to keep me pinned down.
I rolled my big eyes pleadingly at the nurses, but they looked like carvings on Mt. Rushmore. I lay back in resignation, glaring evilly at my gynaecologist. I could see her smile behind the mask.
Then I realized I could see my baby after all-in the reflection in the doctor s spectacles. I stared intently at my split-open belly and saw my baby, inverted, knees raised, head down. Then Lalitha Kumari s arms blocked my vision. She was lifting my baby out.
You have a fine baby, she said.
Is he okay, is he normal, does he have all ten fingers, does he have toes? I asked in rising panic.
I had known all along that my baby would be a boy. Not that I had tested for his gender, and not that it mattered to me either way, but I just knew. So I didn t need the doctor to tell me that. But it was so important to know that he was normal-a fear that plagues all mothers-to-be. Is he okay, is he normal, does he have all ten fingers? I asked again.
Yes, yes, he is absolutely normal, assured the doctor. Does he have all ten fingers? Does he have toes? Does he have fingernails? Does he have both eyes? Are his nose and mouth in their proper place? I could think of a million things that could go wrong. So many things had to be put together and in the right place. One small mistake, one careless oversight by God, and my baby would be deformed for life.
Of course they are. Relax, she said patiently. Now be quiet.
She held my baby by his ankles to whack the breath of life into him. The whole world stood still. I stopped breathing. It was the longest moment of my life. Every nerve, every pore, every cell extended expectantly out of my body like a zillion quivering antennae to catch the very first decibel of sound from the planet s youngest being. My son!
Then he let out a wail. Strong, loud, full-throated. The tension in the room eased visibly, and I heard sighs of relief.
You are the mother of a handsome baby boy. Believe it or not, he is absolutely normal. The most perfectly shaped nails I have ever seen-though I must admit I have never looked at a newborn s fingernails before. They re already a bit long, so you ll have to clip them soon. But I will say this: he is one of the most beautiful babies I have helped deliver, she said, holding up my baby for me to see.
It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my life!
His face was pink and furrowed, his eyes shut tight and his toothless mouth wide open as he protested his exit from the womb. Then I realized it was my son, and he became the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I couldn t believe it. My son! I had delivered a baby. And he was normal, healthy and beautiful-well, at least the gynaecologist thought so, and she had a million babies to compare him with.
Watching his screwed-up face, hearing him cry, was such a tender moment. I felt tears well up in my eyes. Before I knew it, I was crying. Tears of joy that I ve never wept, before or after.
And then nothing. I lost consciousness.
That was flashback, twenty years ago. In the present: Zubin driving his car, and me sitting beside him on the front seat. We are driving down from Bangalore where he is studying law, to vacation with my parents who live in Kochi in Kerala. It s actually a ten-hour drive, but Zubin and I have decided to take three days, meandering through the hills and forests and beaches of south India.
Rediscovering my roots, I tell Zubin.
Oh, then we will wind up in Africa, laughs Zubin, who says I look like a cross between Michael Jackson and pop star Des ree. Cross, not as in combination, but separately. Meaning, I look like Michael Jackson when I ve washed my hair-it gets curly like his in that song Remember the time .
I agree. I mean, I do resemble the new Michael Jackson, not the darker, rougher Jackson who bears no semblance to the fairer, smoother version. And Zubin claims I look like Des ree when I am lipsticked and dressed up to go out. I don t agree. I think I am better looking. My mouth is big, but not that big.
Very funny, I say mockingly, but can t suppress my giggles. Zubin makes me laugh. I find him extremely funny. Two people in the world find all of Zubin s jokes funny- Zubin and me. He pretends he doesn t-that s part of his cultivated cynical image. And he has a scathing tongue. Most of the time I am his victim. He makes fun of my clothes, my hair, my work, my reactions, my sermons. In short, he pokes fun at everything.
I really enjoyed reading Edward De Bono s article in this morning s newspaper, I say. I am a great fan of De Bono and gave his book on lateral thinking to Zubin on his thirteenth birthday. De Bono says people should learn to think holistically . Most people tend to look at a problem from only one plane-either emotionally, or financially, or whatever. He says you should think holistically, meaning think logically, think emotionally, think psychologically.
Think regularly quips Zubin. Solves most problems. The problem now is, where do we halt for the night? Let s think holistically-logistically, geographically, financially, security-wise, I tell Zubin.
We don t want to be kidnapped by Veerappan, we don t want to spend a fortune, it has to be somewhere in south India and a place we can reach by car, says Zubin. I am thinking holistically, but we have a hundred choices to wade through. Or maybe we should pull over and sleep in the car, then wait for tomorrow s newspaper and read De Bono s second instalment to give us more ideas on how to solve a problem.
Very funny. To solve a problem, it s more important to find out what you want, rather than what you don t want, I say. It should be some place we can access in about three hours-we have to reach before sundown. The landscape should be beautiful. We don t want to sleep in some crummy lodge facing a parking lot. We are on holiday, so the price is negotiable. I don t mind paying more if it s worth it. Wynad is beautiful and close by. Let s head there.
Why do you bother to read Edward De Bono? You have your own way of solving problems. Mom, why