By Rebekah A. Meek, '05

The smell of kerosene used to remind me of sitting on my grandma's kitchen floor during the winter. Now it brings visions of refugee camps—blue tents lined in neat rows amid a backdrop of rubble, stairs that lead to open sky and houses with wounds where windows used to be.

These days I feel like the Ancient Mariner; a story to tell to whomever is willing to listen. My tale, however, is not my own, but rather the story of the people of Sri Lanka. It's the story of people who had so little to lose, but still lost it all in one devastating morning in December when they woke up to find water tearing down their walls, rushing through their bedrooms and washing away their loved ones.

At the end of March, I spent 10 days traveling through Colombo andGalle, one of the most devastated areas in Sri Lanka, visiting refugee camps, monasteries, and elementary schools. I went with the intention of filming narratives of individuals who had experienced the tsunami, but I came home with so much more.

I was treated like an honored guest in every place I visited. Any attempt at normalcy, any renewed routine was stopped when the small group I was traveling with entered a community, a camp, or a home. At one refugee camp, we were seated in a row of lawn chairs, offered fresh paw-paw juice and welcomed with a traditional song and dance performed by a small group of children.

What was most striking was that in every place we visited, there was so much hope and joy. Despite the devastation, I never once heard "why did this have to happen to me...." Families who were literally living on top of rubble with no roof or running water went on as though it was just another day. I'll never forget the image of a young boy brushing his teeth at the edge of the void that used to be the foundation of his house. I'll never forget Davica and Dilini, two 11 year old girls from Lovigahawaththa, dancing in a shelled-out house. Their spirits infallible.

But most of all I'll never forget the story of Pubudu. Pubudu is the exception to the rule in his community. The only child out of 55 families who has ever made it into college, not to mention the top engineering university in the country nor that he got "straight A's" on his A levels. He also studies traditional Kandyian dancing and when I asked him what he does for fun on the weekends, he said with a straight face that he studies.

On the morning of December 26th, Pubudu and his younger brother were watching an early cricket match on the television. The normal sounds of a seaside village waking up began to fill the air. Then suddenly the tone changed.

Pubudu recalled that he knew something was terribly wrong when he heard children start to scream. His father yelled for him to grab his education certificates because without them Pubudu couldn't prove his enrollment at university. He remembers grabbing the papers, but has no recollection as to how he ended up outside floating in the water with his brother and mother who was clutching a two-year-old child.

They managed to grab onto a steel pole nearby, and his brother and mother pulled themselves onto the roof of their house. What Pubudu didn't realize was the steel pole he was still holding onto was somehow connected to a circuit box. The water rose above the level of the box and Pubudu became temporarily paralyzed by the electric shock. His brother and mother were yelling at him to pull himself onto the roof, but he could only stare blankly at them, unmoving.

The circuit was eventually flooded and Pubudu was able to reach safety on the roof. But the relief did not last long. Pubudu alongside his mother and brother turned to watch their father get swept away by the wave. It was the last time they would ever see him, unable to even find his body.

Pubudu's father, a social worker for Lovigahawaththa and teacher at nearby Buddhist monasteries, was well respected in his community. So much so that someone gave him the house on top of which his wife and children found refuge from the wave. The problem is that Pubudu's father never got the deed to the house and the government is only rebuilding houses for families who can prove that they hold the deed. This document is impossible for most families to produce, Pubudu included.

Pubudu wrote me an e-mail the other day telling me that his mother has run out of money and the government has stopped helping. They don't even seem to be giving out the meager ration of dahl, rice and sugar that they were providing. His brother and mother are still living in a camp and other community members, still without a livelihood, are beginning to get restless. Because of what Pubudu calls "the big shout," his brother is able to study for his A levels.

Pubudu has been lucky enough to find a sponsor who is willing to build a house for him, but he needs to find the funds for land. If his family gets a house, his mother hopes to open a small communications shop to support her family. My fear though, is that if that doesn't happen, Pubudu will have to drop out of school and lose what he's worked so hard to achieve. He'll still have to see his mother and brother living in room barely big enough for two twin beds, in a building with almost 50 other families and no working toilets. Which to get to, he was to walk down the road where his father was washed away and past the house he grew up in, now barely standing in shambles.

The monsoon season is coming soon and thousands children and families are still living in tents that flood every time it rains. A government official told us they hoped to find permanent housing for all of the displaced within the next 5 years. Five years in a tent is completely inhumane, but fortunately we have the power and the privilege to make sure that doesn't become a reality.

If you'd like to help Pubudu or one of the thousands that are suffering in the area around Galle, Sri Lanka, please call 919.923.4237 or e-mail me at rebekah.ann@gmail.com. There is still so much need and every little bit of help matters.