Peralyia
Friday, March 31, 2006
My Story of Peralyia, Sri Lanka , by Malcolm Pitcher
I visited a place called Peralyia.
I had seen some of the devastation previously when I had travelled down to Galle on the train. It’s difficult to describe this place and the photos really do not do it justice. So much brickwork and rubble is apparent, a testimony to the force of the Tsunami & Mother Nature.
I have spent three days in this place going from temporary house to wooden hut, being invited in to sit and listen to the stories of the Tsunami. At first it sounds unreal, maybe it’s just a village story, but you soon realise that these poor people have suffered more than we can ever begin to comprehend, it is real and they are still living it.
I visited a place called Peralyia.
I had seen some of the devastation previously when I had travelled down to Galle on the train. It’s difficult to describe this place and the photos really do not do it justice. So much brickwork and rubble is apparent, a testimony to the force of the Tsunami & Mother Nature.
I have spent three days in this place going from temporary house to wooden hut, being invited in to sit and listen to the stories of the Tsunami. At first it sounds unreal, maybe it’s just a village story, but you soon realise that these poor people have suffered more than we can ever begin to comprehend, it is real and they are still living it.
.
In every hut it’s the same sad story. The first wave hits, the second bigger wave crashes in and then devastation, destruction & death. Without exception I was shown photo's usually water marked of members of their family who were lost in the Tsunami. Middle aged Men and Women who lost Mothers, Fathers, Brothers and Sisters - but the hardest stories to swallow were always the same. It was when they told you of loosing their little children. So matter of fact, no emotion, they told it like a story, some how detached. Then suddenly they stopped speaking & looked away, a “flash” realisation that it wasn’t a story, it was real, it happened and these children were never coming back...They would look back at me and I could see this deep haunting sense of loss in their eyes and a pain etched deep into their faces & despite their smiles I was well aware that these poor people were in a state of trauma. I found it very hard to listen as this black cloud of sadness swept over me, but this was a very tiny price to pay in comparison to what they had to endure for the rest of their lives.
.
When I left their house my head was spinning but I hardly had time to catch my thoughts before I was invited into the next house to do it all again.
When I left their house my head was spinning but I hardly had time to catch my thoughts before I was invited into the next house to do it all again.
Archives
