Volume 6, Chapter 3

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Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 6, Chapter 3

 

January 12 - 20, 2005

 

 

"When Will It End?"

 

 

As my flight made its descent towards Colombo, the capitol of Sri Lanka, I

gazed out at the tropical scenery below. Sri Lanka looked much the exotic

land described in the in-flight magazine. It seemed all the more so when,

after landing, I drove into the city with the local ISKCON temple president,

Mahakarta das. The humidity, the endless array of rich green foliage, the

luxuriant swirls of the Sinhalese alphabet, the multi-colored Buddhist flags

and the variety of fruits on sale all made for what seemed a paradise.

Indeed, Marco Polo described Sri Lanka as the finest island of its size in

the world.

 

But like anywhere in the material world, Sri Lanka also has had its fair

share of misery, which recent events have only confirmed. Just two weeks

before I had arrived, a tsunami, a 10m wall of water created by an undersea

earthquake thousands of miles away, ravaged much of the country's beautiful

1,340km coastline.

 

I had come to assist local devotees in the relief effort, not to enjoy the

beauty of the island, which attracts an annual 400,000 tourists. As we

stepped out of the car and into our small temple in the center of the city,

Mahakarta said, "Since the tsunami hit we have been distributing prasadam in

several towns along the coast. But it's presently beyond our capacity to

reach out effectively to the many victims of the catastrophe."

 

"How many people have been affected?" I inquired.

 

"More than 33,000 have died," Mahakarta replied, "and 835,000 have been made

homeless, mainly in the southern and eastern coastal regions. The United

Nations and numerous humanitarian organizations are working to give food,

shelter and badly needed supplies in these districts, but relations between

the Sinhalese government and the Tamil Tiger rebels is hampering aid

distribution to some areas."

 

Researching Sri Lanka before arriving, I had an idea of the political

situation. For more than 30 years the country has been embroiled in a civil

war between the minority (18%) Tamils in the north and the majority (74%)

Sinhalese in the south. More than 60,000 people had died until a ceasefire

was agreed in 2002. The fragile truce has been threatened, however, due to

Tamil disatisfaction with alleged inaction over their demands for autonomy.

 

The tension evaporated with the tsunami. Although bickering broke out when

the government was accused of giving more foreign aid to the Sinhalese, both

sides are now preoccupied with burying their dead and caring for the

survivors.

 

"We have to increase our prasadam distribution," Mahakarta said. "Donors are

sending a lot of funds."

 

I agreed, but I was at a loss how to begin. Many relief organizations were

already at work and the government had recently complained that some of the

smaller groups were actually getting in the way. As destroyed roads were

repaired and washed-out bridges rebuilt, tons of supplies were being shipped

into the affected areas. Army personnel and doctors from around the world

were setting up camps along the coast to help victims. Those that survived

the tragedy were temporarily being moved into schools, sports stadiums,

government buildings, or tents. Plans were already under way for the

reconstruction of villages. But a law was quickly passed that no structures

could be built within 500m of the shoreline - a precaution against future

tsunamis.

 

It wouldn't be easy to just jump into such a professional, well coordinated

operation. It couldn't be the usual American Food for Life program of

driving to a downtown area and feeding the homeless. In Sri Lanka we would

be working in a disaster zone.

 

I phoned Priyavrata dasa, director of Food for Life Global in America.

Together we came up with the idea of calling the Red Cross and offering our

help. It seemed wise to join in already-successful efforts. I could

understand that we weren't the first to offer help when the Red Cross

secretary on the phone asked, "What particular contribution does your

organization have to offer, Sir?"

 

I had to think quickly. "We're prepared to cook and distribute hot meals,

Ma'am."

 

There was a short pause, then the secretary said, "Give me your number and

I'll call you back in an hour."

 

Forty-five minutes later my cell-phone rang and the secretary said, "I have

made an appointment for you with the president's secretary at 4pm today."

 

"The presidential secretary of the Red Cross?" I queried.

 

"No, Sir, with the secretary of the President of Sri Lanka."

 

"Oh, yes, of course," I replied, trying to hold back my excitement.

 

That afternoon, accompanied by Mahakarta das, I met the president's

secretary, Mr Krishnan. Needless to say, he was a little surprised when we

entered his office in our robes.

 

Standing up and shaking my hand, he said, "I am in charge of organizing the

present relief work in our country. I am dealing with the main disaster

relief organizations, such as Oxfam, Care, Red Cross, Medicine sans

Frontier, UNICEF, etc."

 

Squinting at me, he said, "Which organization do you represent?"

 

"Food for Life - Global," I replied. "A branch of the International Society

for Krsna consciousness."

 

"Food for Life - Global?" he said.

 

Again I had to think quickly. Seeing a computer on his desk, I said, "Yes,

Sir. Please look at our website: www.FFL.org."

 

He typed in the address, and when the website came up he studied it

carefully.

 

"I see," he said after a few minutes. "Very impressive. So your people can

distribute hot meals to the victims of the tsunami?"

 

"Yes, Sir. We're experienced in the matter. It's vegetarian food - no meat,

fish or eggs. Will people be inclined to eat that? I heard most of the

tsunami victims were fishermen."

 

"For now it's not a problem," he replied. "At the moment, the fisherman are

not eating fish because they say the fish are eating the dead bodies of

their relatives washed out to sea by the tsunami."

 

"Oh, I see," I said grimmacing.

 

"How many can you feed daily?" he asked.

 

"Five thousand to begin with," I replied. "And more later."

 

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. My eyebrows went up as he began

to speak.

 

"Major-General Kulatuga? This is the presidential secretary. I understand

you need help with food relief in the Matara district. I have a group of

people here who can cook and distribute food for 5,000 people a day. They

can increase that number as the weeks go by. Are you interested?"

 

The reply must have been immediate, for Mr Krishnan said, "Yes, Sir, I'll

send them down immediately to discuss the details with you."

 

Foreseeing that any relief work we would do in Sri Lanka would be a major

operation, I had requested several devotees from my Polish festival tour to

join me. Tara das and his fiancee, Radha Sakhi Vrnda dasi, flew from Greece

where they were distributing books, Santi Parayana das and Rasamayi dasi

came from Mayapura, Niti laksa das from London, and Laksminath das (who runs

Food for Life in Durban, South Africa) also made the journey. Dwijapriya

dasi and her two sons, Dhruva and Devala, joined us from America. With

several of the men, we set out the next day in a van along the coastal road

south towards the district of Matara, one of the worst affected areas.

 

The mood in the car was upbeat. Within 24 hours of arriving in the country

we had met the president's secretary, who had given us government

authorization to distribute food in a designated area, and we were about to

meet the military to discuss the logistics of distributing food to refugees.

The mood switched from upbeat to light when a devotee mentioned the bad

weather in Europe and how we were in the tropics. But we were soon reminded

that this material world is a fool's paradise at best.

 

Forty-five minutes into our journey we rounded a bend on the winding coast

road. Suddenly all of us became silent. An entire village had been reduced

to rubble. As our driver instinctively slowed down, we saw the destructive

power of a tsunami. Not a house in the village was left standing, the entire

place a pile of broken concrete, twisted steel, and splinters of glass and

wood.

 

"My dear Lord!" one devotee exclaimed.

 

"I can't believe what I am seeing!" said another.

 

The worst thing I had ever seen was the destruction in Sarajevo, Bosnia,

just after the end of the Balkan War. I thought I would never witness

anything more terrible. An entire city had been ravaged. But as we drove

through more villages and towns leveled by the tsunami, I realized it was

unprecedented in recent history: 33,000 people had been killed in just under

30 seconds. That's how long it took the 10m wave, moving rapidly as it hit

the shoreline, to devastate the villages. Witnessing it first hand certainly

had a more pronounced effect on me than seeing it in the media.

 

As we continued driving my heart broke seeing people, 20 days after the

tragedy, sitting dazed in the ruins of what used to be their homes or

businesses. Some were crying. We passed one home that was partially

standing. The facade of the house had been ripped away revealing several

bedrooms. Inexplicably, despite the force of the tsunami, children's clothes

were neatly folded on shelves in one room.

 

Mesmerized, I hadn't even taken my camera out to take pictures for an

article I had been asked to write for Back to Godhead magazine. Grabbing the

camera, I now clicked away kilometer after kilometer, trying to capture the

destruction. Suddenly, I stopped the photographic frenzy and put the camera

away. "There's no hurry, " I thought. "You'll be seeing scenes like this

every day for the next month."

 

Every 2-3km I noticed fresh graves alongside the road. "There was no time to

transport the bodies elsewhere," said our driver. "All of these roads were

closed because of debris."

 

In some places we passed lines of survivors standing by the road. I inquired

from our driver what they were doing.

 

"They've lost everything," he said. "They're standing there hoping people

will stop and give them anything - cooking utensils, clothes, toys, some

comforting words."

 

Although Krsna says in Bhagavad-gita that a devotee does not lament for the

living or the dead, at that moment I felt genuine saddness for those people.

Unable to offer any practical assistance, I prayed to Srila Prabhupada that

they would have the opportunity for devotional service, the panacea for all

suffering in this material world.

 

Struggle for existence

A Human race,

The only hope

His Divine Grace.

 

[ From Srila Prabhupada's Vyasa-puja offering, 1932 ]

 

After three hours of driving past crumbled homes, smashed cars, upturned

boats and piles of rubble with untold pieces of household paraphernalia, I

couldn't watch any longer. I took out my Bhagavad-gita and began to read.

I thought, "From this day on, if you entertain even the slightest desire to

enjoy this world you're simply a fool and the greatest hypocrite."

 

While passing through one village, our driver said, "In this town 11,000

people died and 230 cars were washed out to sea."

 

I looked up briefly to see a little girl crying next to her mother on the

steps of what must have been their home. I also noticed that the traffic was

moving slowly. There was none of the usual speeding and passing cars, the

sound of engines roaring and the continuous honking that one generally

experiences on Asian roads. Seemingly out of respect for the tsunami victims

- living and dead - the traffic moved at a funereal pace.

 

A slight respite came sometime later, just before we turned off the road

towards the army camp. Looking up from my reading, I saw a large black dog

sitting in the ruins of a decimated house. I had noticed very few animals

along the coast. Obviously some had been swept away, while many seemed to

have instinctively anticipated the tsunami and run in search of shelter.

Somehow this dog had survived and looked quite well. I asked the driver to

slow down and I called out "Hare Krsna!" to the animal. He heard me and ran

excitedly towards the car. I waved as we passed him. A moment later I looked

back and saw him sitting by the road wagging his tail - eyes still fixed on

our car.

 

Somehow our little exchange in the midst of all the sorrow had encouraged us

both. "In the worst of times," I thought, "a little love goes a long way."

 

A few minutes later we pulled into the army camp. The sergeant-at-arms was

waiting for us and quickly escorted us into a room with a large oval table

surrounded by 12 chairs. A few minutes later Major-General Kulatuga

entered, accompanied by six of his staff. Like Mr Krishnan the day before,

he looked surprised to see our robes. As we stood to greet him, I shook his

hand and remained standing until he was seated.

 

The mood was formal as the Major-General began his briefing. Standing with

stick in hand, he pointed to the wall full of maps and charts.

 

"Here in Matara district there are 1,342 confirmed deaths, 8,288 people

injured, 613 missing and 7,390 families have lost their homes and are living

in camps for displaced persons."

 

Turning around and looking at me, he said, "We prefer not to call them

refugee camps." Then, with emotion in his voice, he continued, "They are our

people, not refugees. Do you understand?"

 

With scenes of people sitting hopelessly in their devastated homes still

fresh in my mind, I replied, "Yes, Sir. I do understand."

 

Still looking at me, he emphasised the need of the hour. "We are

professional soldiers. We fought the Tamil Tigers for years. But now we are

busy clearing the roads of debris, cleaning wells and repairing buildings."

 

"And we are here to help you," I said.

 

Pausing for a moment, and with less formality, he said, "Thank you."

 

Turning back to the maps and charts, he said, "Our priorities are reopening

the hospitals and schools, rebuilding the bridges, and restoring

communication. Seventy-five percent of all telecommunication, 80% of all

contaminated water supplies, and 87% of electricity have been restored."

 

Looking at me again, he said, "Your contribution will be to feed the people

in camps for displaced persons. Mr Krishnan told me you can provide hot

meals. Is that correct?

 

"Affirmative, Sir."

 

Pausing again, he looked at me curiously and said, "You were a military

man?"

 

"Yes, Sir," I said with emphasis, as a soldier does when addressing a

superior officer.

 

Smiling, he nodded his head, obviously more comfortable with our

cooperation.

 

"Now you will visit one of the camps so you can get an idea of what is

happening." Turning to one of his staff he said, "Major Janaka, take them to

Rahula College. I believe we have over a thousand displaced persons there."

 

Following in our van behind the Major and six armed soldiers in a truck, we

drove for 30 minutes to the camp for displaced persons. Getting out of our

vehicles, we walked into the camp and were immediately the object of

everyone's attention. Due to the humidity, only the children were active.

Most adults sat about talking in small groups. I noticed a huge pile of

clothes on the campus lawn, obviously donations, through which several women

were rummaging. There was an improvised medical clinic in one classroom,

where three members of the Red Cross were attending to a few infants. Five

army soldiers, obviously present at the camp for security, sat casually

nearby.

 

It was a sober scene. Though the horror of the devastation was kilometers

away on the beachfront, the reality that these people had lost family

members, homes and professions was close at hand in the looks on

their faces. When I smiled at one elderly couple sitting on the lawn, they

stared back at me with no emotion. I saw many such people. Others expressed

their loss when I spoke with them. The Major told me that most people in the

camp had lost one or more relatives - and everyone had lost their home. Once

again the magnitude of the tragedy hit me.

 

"You can cook over here," the Major said, pointing to a nearby shed. As we

approached the site, I noticed a number of people cooking rice and subjis.

 

"Where are they getting their foodstuffs to cook?" I inquired from the

Major.

 

"We are providing them," he replied.

 

I was a little surprised. "Is that the case with all the camps in this

area?" I asked.

 

"Yes, it is."

 

"And throughout the country?" I inquired further.

 

"For the most part."

 

I was taken aback. The media in the West had given the impression that

victims of the tsunami were in desperate need of food.

 

"I thought people here were hungry, Major."

 

"They were in the initial stages of the disaster - for the first week," he

replied, "but we have things under control now. The world has given us ample

food, medicine and other supplies."

 

"Then what part do we have to play?" I asked.

 

"You can take some of the burden. My men are overworked delivering supplies

to the 35 camps in this region. We've been here for three weeks. All relief

organizations have a part to play and every effort helps in serving the

people who survived the tsunami."

 

As I reflected on his words, he stepped closer and said, "The government

will be grateful for anything you can do, I assure you. "

 

I looked around and surveyed the camp again. "It's no small thing if the

government acknowledges our support in relief work at this difficult time,"

I thought. "It will surely bear fruit in the future. And, what's more, we'll

be distributing prasadam, the mercy of the Lord. Such mercy is the best of

all forms of welfare."

 

Breaking my meditation, I shook his hand and said, "We'll play our part.

We'll begin in three days."

 

Quickly jumping into our van, we headed back to Colombo to pick up the rest

of the team and supplies. Making a quick calculation, I realised we'd

require tons of rice, dhal and vegetables. I called Mr Krishnan and

requested a large truck to carry the goods south. He replied it was ready

anytime.

 

As we journeyed, I watched again in disbelief at the destruction. At one

point we ran into a huge traffic jam. As we waited, our driver pointed to an

empty battered train with 15 coaches, standing still on the railway line

just 30m away.

 

"That train was hit broadside by the tsunami," he said. "Over 1,000 people

died. No one survived. They are still finding bodies in the area."

 

As I looked closer I could see men with white masks around their mouths and

noses, digging in the mud nearby.

 

"The masks are for the stench of death," the driver said. "It's been almost

three weeks and any corpses remaining are very deteriorated."

 

It was yet another stark reminder of the cruel face of material nature. I

turned my eyes from the scene. I'd had enough for one day. Enough tales of

death. Enough scenes of descruction. Enough of the tsunami.

 

"Move on!" I shouted at the driver as the traffic cleared.

 

He looked back at me.

 

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's been a difficult day."

 

As he accelerated, I thought, "Tomorrow will bring relief, for we'll begin

distributing prasadam."

 

But just 2km down the road we witnessed yet another reminder of material

existence: the aftermath of a head-on collision between two cars.

 

"Don't look," one devotee said turning from the scene.

 

"Don't worry, I won't," I replied as I closed my eyes and started to chant

japa. "When will it end?" I thought.

 

It must have been only two minutes later that Krsna showed me the final and

most painful lesson of the day. We rounded a bend and suddenly a dog ran

into our path, pausing just 10m in front of our car. I immediately

recognized it as the dog I had waved to earlier in the day.

 

"Watch out!" I yelled.

 

But the poor creature never had a chance. Just as he turned his face towards

us, our van ploughed into him with a loud thud. Disappearing under the

vehicle, I heard his body being crushed under the wheels. The driver had

failed to slow down.

 

It was dusk, so no one saw the tear that glided down my face and dropped

silently onto the floor of the van. But I guessed they could sense I was

affected.

 

"It was just a dog," the driver said.

 

"He was more than that, " I said softly. "He was a spark of life among all

the death and destruction I saw today."

 

"The day's almost over, Maharaja," one devotee said. "We'll be home soon."

 

"Yes," I said under my breath, "I want to go home, to the spiritual world,

and never return to this world of birth and death."

 

etam sa asthaya paratma nistham

adhyasitam purvatamair maharsibhih

aham tarisyami duranta param

tamo mukundanghri nisevayaiva

 

"I shall cross over the insurmountable ocean of nescience by being firmly

fixed in the service of the lotus feet of Krsna. This was approved by the

previous acaryas, who were fixed in firm devotion to the Lord, Paramatma,

the Supreme Personality of Godhead."

 

[srimad-Bhagavatam 11.23. 57 - One of the sannyasa mantras given by the guru

at the moment of initiation into the renounced order of life.]

 

indradyumna.swami (AT) pamho (DOT) net

 

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