A Good Memory While Serving In My Country Jail As An Officer (Part 1)
You must have wondered why the picture of ocean and boats when I mentioned about prison.
I was still serving 2 years bond, a mandatory rule of working as a regular officer.
During the bond, the superintendent approved me to join a few others being deployed overseas.
We were sent to Sri Lanka, Galle. It was a long journey into a village named Thalapithiya.
We were there to help re-build the community after the Tsunami in December 2004, which wrecked living conditions and lives.
This was the most meaningful part for me. It was my 1st airplane ride. I had never taken a vacation on an airplane as my parents were damn poor.
I remembered listening to schoolmates who told stories about New York City Christmas tree or the snow at Eiffel Tower in Paris.
Although till date, I had not stepped into France or Spain, to remember my 1st long journey flight to Sri Lanka at 21 years old was a blessing.
As I journeyed with a bunch of officers and a handful of former delinquents, I recalled Saint Teresa of Calcutta.
She inspired me to deal with people as humanly as possible, not as commodities. Give others their 2nd chance in life.
It was in Sri Lanka I learned about myself through being a service towards other society, community, race, religion, and culture.
This would be about them…the Sri Lankans. There would be several parts in new articles to shorten reading time.
Let’s read part 1…
In the heart of every people contained that longing for connection and acceptance.
The village was mostly Muslims.
Their skin darkened a lot under the scorching sun. Most of us were tanned by the 2nd week, no different from them. I felt embraced into a new family.
It took within 6 months that we couldn’t tell if a person was an Asian by birth or a Sri Lankan.
We stayed in Uncle Haneefa’s compound. His son-in-law’s house was still halfway done in bricks. It wasn’t plastered with cement yet.
We occupied his daughter’s house which was empty of furniture. It was just plastered with cement a week before we arrived. We washed the entire house clean before laying our sleeping bags around.
What shocked me was the sight of a huge boat about 6 level tall. I opened the back kitchen door and saw huge pile of damaged infrastructures into tiny pieces, and the boat.
I felt tiny.
Uncle Haneefa in his language and gestures spoke in his Sri Lanka language. We had no idea of a single word. But I observed his hand gestures as he described the Tsunami waves.
Eventually his eyes welled in tears as he shown me the damaged radio and hardware when they returned to their living places. It was a mountain of thrash.
We needed a tractor to haul the damages away. Lucky for us, that area was to be kept untouched till further notice.
He pointed to the watermark stained on our kitchen wall. It was how deep the water had been. Not any great national swimmer would be able to fight against mother nature.
They were evacuated to the top hill side, where it was once a prison in the past and a cannons’ fort during war. That hill side became a commercialized tourist spot, restaurant, and hotel.
Every corner of the village were houses.
At the entrance of the village was a house of a tuk-tuk motorcycle driver. We called him Uncle Tuk Tuk. He fetched us every morning to the nearby market and brought us back.
His son-in-law, Abdallah, could speak fluent Malay language. So, it was an advantage for me to understand what went on.
Every house I dropped by insisted that we enter their houses. It was an offence for them if guests reject their invitations.
We sat and smiled. We listened to their stories in their Sri Lanka language without understanding a single word. We understood by their hand gestures and the marks on walls or damaged goods.
They offered us plain water. To them, they honored us. And in time to come, more blessings would greet them again.
Sometimes, Abdallah brought us to visit some other houses and became our interpreter.
All houses and families had stories to tell with their eyes brimming in tears. But having us sat for just 10 minutes brought them hope.
“Allah brought us His Mercy through bringing all of you here. You are all like Saints or Angels sent by Him to help us. To bring us hope. That is why every house you go, when they invited you in, they longed for that mercy and hope. They get upset and feel offended if you do not enter…” Abdallah.
Lessons:
Whenever we went through all sorts of distraught unknown to our colleagues or friends, we longed for connections. We desired to be accepted as we who we are.
Even though we weren’t born Eurasians, Americans, or Asians, we desired to be accepted as a human.
As a believer in Mother Mary and the Saints, I tasted what it meant that we were created into 12 tribes with a purpose. The main purpose? To befriend and help each other.
The unexpected visitors were God-sent angels. I would not deny that every human being were saints — awaken or slept through their lives. For that, we tried to see the divinity in every individual.
When I felt tiny looking at the huge boat behind the kitchen door, I felt gruesome. I felt like I was in a horror movie. I felt small and powerless.
And that was a reminder regardless our authority in our vocations, there would always be someone else more powerful. Water would be one of them.
I loved deployment for humanitarian aid overseas. It came with a lot of prices to pay for. I hadn’t finished my story, and I would continue probably in the next one.
These were memories. Without these memories, I would probably be like any other younger generations who think too highly about university degree studies.
Destination would be meaningless without prospering in the journey. I had seen a lot working behind bars and being sent on a humanitarian field. Those who knew, knew.
See you again in my next article…
Xoxo
💗 Lissa💗
