The words have not lost their strength or power, even though years have passed. Decades of journeying through the time machine have not lightened the memories. Still fresh and terrifying, they haunt the mind, the body, and even that once beautiful village—Chemmani.

“Please give me a moment. Let me have some water.”
The thought that she might have begged for just a rest still haunts me, over and over. Perhaps the deepest, saddest, cruelest words one could ever utter. No one can truly interpret the underlying meaning of those words. They were not merely words. They were drops from a bleeding heart; painful droplets a broken body shed; blood-stained tears from a pair of dried eyes; the cry of a wingless bird longing for peace; the lament of a dove that once spread its wings across the political sky.

Those words disturb the core of my being even today. Terrifying dreams lengthen my sleepless nights. The horror of those words circles me—above my head, beneath my feet, and inside my soul.

“Give me a moment…”
This is how her words died along with her, they said. Those words still scream in my head. A whirl of panic sinks me into its darkest, deepest waves.

Once a beautiful village, Chemmani remained outwardly peaceful, wearing a camouflage of calm. Beneath that beauty, however, lay midnight horrors. Even though the country claimed “peace,” there was no peace in its minds, hearts, or homes. Not only the midnight hours, but also dawn, dusk, and midday were filled with fear.

The vast Chemmani plain was chilled with the morning dew, the mist of dusk, and an overwhelming sense of dread. The air was heavy with haunting memories, restless spirits, and the stench of rotting corpses. Goosebumps marked the skin; dark hairs stood straight like bullets ready to fire. Even the dogs sensed the unease—howling through the night without pause. Adding to the terror, stories spread of screams echoing at midnight. People who ventured out after dark returned shaken, whispering about shadowy figures and mysterious visions. The truth lay hidden in the dark, waiting to be revealed.

Jaffna Peninsula—a mango-shaped homeland of Tamils in the tear-shaped island of Sri Lanka. An ancient city where traditions, culture, customs, and religion were preserved for centuries. Once praised for its high level of education and its English-speaking civil servants, Jaffna’s peace and pride were intentionally destroyed when the state military captured the peninsula from the freedom fighters in 1995.

In every society, the family is its foundation; women are its heart. The virtue of women is the pillar on which that foundation rests. The military deliberately shattered that virtue, dignity, and self-respect. Families’ foundations were found not in homes anymore, but in wells, in bushes, on beaches—washed up by waves.

Lance Corporal Somapala, a soldier in the Sri Lankan army, was arrested after accusations of military human rights violations in the peninsula. A corporal—perhaps not innocent but desperate to escape punishment—revealed the truths long buried in darkness. His testimony echoed like thunder across the island.

A mass grave in the beautiful plains of Chemmani was unearthed. Humanity was shocked to its core. Among the skeletons that surfaced—nearly 150 in all—was Krishanthi and her family.

Krishanthi, named after the flowers that bloom in December—the month of her birth—was as delicate as a blossom. The only daughter of a well-educated, sophisticated family, she was carefully protected from society’s harms. Her brother Pranavan adored her like a fairy princess. Her dark curls fell around her eyes like bunches of grapes. Her bright brown eyes danced with joy and intelligence. Everyone in the village believed she would win the hard-fought entrance to medical college—her lifelong dream.

But on her way home from her final exam—the very gateway to that dream—she was stopped at a military checkpoint. Despite producing her student ID, soldiers dragged her into the camp. Without the presence of a female officer, as required by international law, she was subjected to repeated searches. By six men.

A slight, eighteen-year-old girl, raised in a world where even the mention of sex before marriage was taboo, found herself cornered by men many times her size. She froze in shock. Her mother had never prepared her for this, and she had no words for what was happening. Fear, shame and pain collided as she cried for mercy, still unable to understand why this was happening to her.

She might have begged them to stop. She might have begged to be touched more gently. Finally, she begged for just five minutes’ rest and a sip of water. “Let me have some water.” But the beasts did not relent.

“God, let me die in peace,” she must have prayed. But God never responded.

“Amma, help me Amma, they are torturing me.” She cried out, believing her mother would somehow hear. Instead, they gagged her with cloth.

Her body failed under the strain.
She lost her voice.
She lost her hope in mankind.
She lost her faith in God.
And finally, she lost her senses, collapsing into darkness. Still, the “checking” went on. On and on.

At last, she closed her eyes—never to return from the fort of darkness, never to rise again from the cruelty that tore her body and soul, never to walk out of the grave dug inside the camp compound.

The news of her arrest spread like wildfire. Her mother fainted when she heard. What would she have done if she had known that Krishanthi was already buried?

Pranavan’s desperate scream—“Krishi!”—brought neighbors rushing. A close friend volunteered to accompany them to the camp, not knowing he would never see another sunrise. The army, sensing “trouble” in the three, dragged them inside for “investigation.” They never returned.

When they did return, it was not from the camp, but from the Chemmani grave.

The poor family died without knowing their beloved Krishi lay beneath the same soil. Krishanthi rested in the grave, unaware that her mother and brother had followed her on the same path—to protect her, even in death.

The graves yawned open, releasing the stench of rot. Horror and terror seized the land. People avoided Chemmani Road, but could not avoid the chill that clutched their hearts. Commissions were formed. Media screamed for justice. Nations condemned the violations.

But Chemmani still waits. Its plains, terror-stricken, still await justice to be dug out. Fear-stricken faces still wait for humanity’s hand to protect them. Krishnas still wait—buried in wells, hidden in zero zones, abandoned in forests, preyed upon by fish—to be found, to be laid to rest, to be given peace… if only for five minutes.