The past few months in the U.S has been interesting, fascinating and been a constant topic of discussions in various dinner parties or well, non-dinner parties around the DC metro area.

We come together as a desi community, may you be Lankan or Indian or Pakistani in one topic, who will lead this nation. The discourse has been passionate, sometimes on the verge of ridiculous yet goes on till the wee hours of early Saturday mornings. Many of my American friends are surprised by the knowledge we have of the candidates, the demographics of each state to county and even at the knowledge we have on the historical important events and trends.

Yes we love politics. Give us a good political battle over superbowl and we will chew on it like a good connoisseur tasting the latest creation by celebrity chefs on Iron Chef.

However all these discussions end in one similar statement. “Let’s take another shot of Patrone, we can’t vote anyway”. The sad truth in the United States is that a many passionate residents who followed the election closely and who studied the election even closer, cannot vote because they do not have citizenship status. To a normal American this is incomprehensible. The usual reaction is one my girlfriend had, “WHAT?? You can’t vote that is ridiculous!!” If at all we have more knowledge about the candidates than most of the average American.

This takes me back to a basic pillar of this country. No taxation without representation. The country was based on this mantra, yet we the new immigrants keep on paying tax’s with one hanging fear in the back of our minds. No matter how long one has lived in this country, we could be shipped back home in one second over any small violation or even just by being accused of unpatriotic thoughts. What? How can one be patriotic when there is no right to vote?

The humor in all this dawned on me today while at work. I was walking with a colleague when a fellow co worker stopped me for not having the “I voted” sticker on my shirt. She was exasperated that my vote was not casted on such an important day. I had to tell her that I cannot vote because of citizenship. Her reaction, “Well go right now and fill out whatever paperwork you have to do and vote. The polling closes at eight thirty!!!” My answer, “my dear if you only knew”.

Change…will it come to countless immigrants who work hard, make a decent living, provide enormous contributions to the progress of this country and are proud of being here? I doubt it will, even with a the slogan “Change” repeated over and over again. This change will not be for us, who lived here half of our lives. The change cannot come to us because frankly, America will not care to learn of the plight of the unheard.

It is common for anybody to look at the desi community and spot your usual doctors, lawyers and other well to do folks. And it is common to see the regular desi driving the BM or a brand new Mercedes. However the reality on the street especially in the North East United States is very different. We do see the well off desi walking in his Calvin Klein suite. However this is not about that South Asian. This story has to do with the struggle majority of the Sri Lankans in DC metro area go through on a daily basis. The sacrifices they make to be here, and the never-ending question “is this all worth it”.

Monday evening at dinner in my mothers friends house, the usual ritual begins with auntie Sudha talking on the phone to Lanka at exactly 8 p.m. After the conversation she is sad. She has not been to Sri Lanka in 17 years and the last time she saw her daughter was 17 years ago. The kid she left in Lanka is now a woman. And the mother only communicates and knows her daughter through a phone line. She cannot go home, because she will not be able to come back and her daughter cannot get a visa to come here, because the mother is in the U.S. There is always hope that some day an amnesty bill will pass so she can travel outside the country. She works as a maid cleaning wealthy peoples houses and lives in a bedroom rented to her by another Lankan family.

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The Party Stands – My home for the opening game.

Location: Jamaica, Kingston
Time: 3:30 a.m.

Dolo: “You going to be ready tomorrow morning?” (of course not sober at all!)
Me: “What? oh what time?” (by this time did not understand what sober meant!!)
Dolo: “Get your brown a… to my front porch by 7:00?”
Me: “In the morning?”
Dolo: “Whag Wa mon, you think they play cricket at night?”
Me: ” Seven in the morning!!! That is ungodly man, what the heck the game starts at 10??!!”
Dolo: ” To step into a Godly ground you have to wake up at an ungodly hour….don’t sleep, dont be late I will leave your a.. walks to Sabina! ”

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Mexico City, Summer of 2002.

Mexicio City Immigration officer: “Welcome senor to Mexico”

Partially sober Roy from a long night prior to taking off from Orlando “Gracias”

Immigration officer “Can I see your passport, are you here for pleasure or business”

Partially sober Roy “I am here to visit my friend”

Immigration officer “aaah you are from….”

Partially Sober Roy ” Sri Lanka… (the officer looks blank)…near India”

Immigration officer “aaah Iiiiindhia..long way from home senor”

Half sober Roy “yes”

Officer has tried to scan the passport twice while we were chatting but apparently nothing is registering. He gets his fat book out of the side of the table and starts flipping through the pages. The fat book has a lot of passport pictures.

Immigration officer, “Senor is there another name for your country”

Still Partially sober Roy, ” huh!!! umm nope”

Immigration officer, “Senor your country does not exist!”

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It was July 24th 1983, I had to see a doctor at the Colombo general hospital. The trip was an exciting one for a 9 year old child. It was filled with a train ride, the “power set”, through all my favorite towns, eating out in Colombo and watching the country slowly pass by. I got up at 5:30 a.m. excited about the ride and as always we were at the Borralasse station around 6 a.m. I took my traditional piss on the tracks, my mother screaming to behave in public. The train came, I got in, not realizing that this day will be in the history journals of Sri Lanka as the date our Island changed forever.

Ask any Sri Lankan living in any corner of the world where they were on July 24th 1983 and they will remember exactly what they were doing the moment our small Island combusted into a smoldering anarchy. This is my story, how I remember it and what I witnessed as a 9 year. I am sure many Lankans will have similar stories and even more horrendous ones, because I just count myself as lucky to be able to pronounce “Baldiya” properly in Sinhalese. Two thousand Tamils were not that lucky.

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