Anoma Laphir, secretary to her uncle, Sri Lankan President Mahinda Rajapaksa, is not an easy one to crack. But behind that tough exterior is the terribly sad tale of a woman who lost her husband 15 years ago to the long-drawn civil war with the LTTE.
I was never scared or anxious about my husband, Lt Colonel A. Fazli Laphir, working for the Army, because I hadn’t even once imagined him dying in a battle. For me, he always fought to return home. But on that ominous day, I just knew that something was wrong.
I still remember the look on his face when he left. I watched him go down the stairs and then as usual, I rushed to the balcony to wave him goodbye. Just before he got into the vehicle, he looked up at me and blew a kiss. That was the last time I saw him.
It feels like it all happened yesterday. The date was July 16, 1996. Fazli was to come home (in Colombo) for lunch, but only made it around dinnertime. He was running a fever after the long drive from his camp. He wanted to return to the camp. I did not ask him to stay because that would make him sad.
Fazli left the following day. There was no news from him, until the next morning — July 18, 1996 — when he called to tell me that the Tigers (LTTE) had hit Mullaitivu camp. He told me that he was leading a rescue team, which was to be airdropped into the camp.
After that conversation, an uneasy feeling haunted me. There were heavy rains that night and I woke up three times imagining the sound of his Land Rover. I kept reassuring myself that it had nothing to do with Fazli.
The next day, I went to my brother’s house in a nearby army quarters to borrow some grated coconut. By then, news about the LTTE killing over 1,500 soldiers in Mullaitivu camp began to spread. I tried to behave casually, and went back home to cook. Later during the day, a journalist friend called to say that Fazli was injured in the incident, but was out of danger. I called Fazli’s base camp at Naula (near Matale), but they said that they had no news. I suspected they were hiding something.
Normally, I would wait for my son Viraj to return from school to have lunch with him, but that day I went ahead and finished my meal. In my mind, I was already trying to garner some strength. When Viraj, then 13, came home, I told him to be prepared for the worst.
Viraj was born out of my first marriage.
At around 5 pm, some officers came home and broke the news. Fazli had been killed and they were not sure when his body could be retrieved, because the war was still on. The officers claimed that despite being hurt, Fazli continued to guide the operation until a mortar shrapnel hit his face and went through his brain.
His family insisted that he must be given an Islamic burial, but I was firm on him being rested with full military honours. I was his wife, so my word prevailed.
From then on, I put up a brave face and tried to carry on with life. In 2005, on my uncle’s suggestion, I started working at Temple Tree, the Colombo residence of Sri Lankan President Mahinda Rajapaksa, and it keeps me busy to this day. Once the President asked me to receive a former LTTE leader Karuna, who had crossed over to the government’s side.
I tried my best to be natural, while shaking hands with him. But I could not help thinking that Karuna, having been the second in command in the LTTE after Prabhakaran, would have led that Mullaitivu operation, which killed Fazli. The pain of losing Fazli still sits heavy in my heart, but I have come to terms with life.
Today, I want to live, not just exist.
I don’t cry or mourn anymore, because he’s with me all the time. Friends ask me to get married, some even brought proposals, but I am yet to find a man I feel confident enough to accept.
Viraj has just entered university. He wants to be a games designer and he has my full support. I enjoy time with my friends and annual trips abroad, and my poetry, painting and woodcarving, which blossomed because of Fazli’s encouragement.
I still feel his presence, especially when I’m in my fifth-floor studio that overlooks the sea — Fazli loved the sea. I light his favourite incense, play his favourite Prem Joshua music and pick up the painting brush. That’s when I feel his breath on my shoulder.
As told to R. Bhagwan Singh
