Devastated queen   March 2011

The title of Delobel’s story is the translation of the Sinhala name ‘Samudra Devi’, also borne by this particular train service that terminates at Matara, 160 km away. The departure time was 6.40 am, but Sri Lanka’s trains are notorious for their poor adherence to schedules. Operations that day, though, were atypical in two respects. The first was later revealed to the press by the head guard of the train, Wanigaratne Karunatilake: ‘Invariably there is a delay of 15 to 30 minutes, but on December 26, for the first time in my career as a guard, we left Maradana sharp on time.’ The other important difference was that the Samudra Devi is usually powered by a Canadian M7 locomotive, but that day a speedier M2 was used to pull the eight carriages. As a result of these two factors, the overcrowded train – around 200 ticketless travellers jumped aboard along the way – was ahead of schedule, which was to have a profound consequence on the fate of the train. If it had been running behind schedule as it usually does, the Samudra Devi would have avoided being inundated by the tsunami. 

 

Another telling circumstance was that the engine driver had no mobile phone (four other trains on the track, whose drivers did have mobile phones, escaped the waves). According to evidence presented at the official inquiry, the railway control room had therefore made concerted efforts to contact the nearby stations of Ambalangoda and Hikkaduwa by telephone to warn the driver. The train had actually stopped at Ambalangoda when repeated attempts were made to call the stationmaster, but he was involved in the unloading of goods. By the time he received the message the train had left.

 

At 9.30 am, near Peraliya village, 93 km from Colombo, the track signals were red, as the area had already been hit by the first waves of the tsunami – so the driver stopped the train, unaware of the true situation. The train had reached the stretch of track that followed the curve of a wide bay, coming within metres of the beach. Soon water surged around it. Hundreds of villagers, believing the train to be secure, climbed on top to avoid being swept away, while others stood behind it, hoping its weight would take the force of the water. 

 

Water gushed into the carriages up to waist height. Many passengers stood on their seats. Twenty minutes later the next wave, at some nine metres high the tsunami’s biggest, picked the train up, detached the carriages from one another and hurled them against the trees and houses which lined the track. Those atop the carriages were flung into the treacherous waters and those seeking shelter behind them were crushed. The eight carriages were so packed with people that the doors could not be opened, and they filled with water, drowning almost everyone inside. The Queen of the Sea no longer ruled the waves.

 

Only a few dozens survived to give an account of what transpired, one of them being the head guard, Karunatilake: ‘Suddenly we heard a monstrous sound coming from the sea and a huge blackish-grey wave like that of a makara [dragon] rose high above the coconut trees. Passengers were screaming. I heard ithibiso being chanted by Buddhists and some Muslim boys praying to Allah.’

 

‘This wave took up 85 percent of the horizon, and it was coming toward us,’ recalled UK-based Shenth Ravindra, 25. ‘It wasn’t a wave, like a curl with surf – it was just a wall, like a cliff face of water.’ He said there was panic as passengers tried to brace themselves and hang on to the children on board. The second wave hit the train as it was at this angle and it pushed his carriage inland until it became wedged against a house. He then jumped from the top of the carriage onto the roof of the house and later decided to swim for it because he was afraid the house would collapse, or that there would be another wave. ‘There was like a sea of dead bodies, children and women mainly … I had to clear a path through the water by pushing them away and heading as far inland as possible.’

 

After the final wave, 12-year-old Madushika Kalhari’s father broke the glass pane of a window and crawled out. With the help of her mother, Madushika was lifted through the window, followed by her younger brother Naween. But when her father tried to lift her mother out of the carriage, another passenger held on to her legs in his effort to escape, sealing both their fates. 

 

It is not known exactly how many people died, but the toll is estimated to be between 1700 and 2500. Only 824 bodies were actually recovered, as many were swept out to sea or taken away by relatives without informing the authorities. Thus Peraliya has become the site of the world’s worst train disaster, eclipsing the Bihar disaster of 1981 when 800 died after a cyclone toppled a train into a river. The village itself also suffered heavy losses: hundreds of inhabitants died and out of 420 houses, only 10 were spared.

 

Immediately after the disaster the surviving inhabitants of Peraliya considered the wrecked train to be a curse upon their village. Yet when the railway authorities set about to remove the carriages during the rebuilding of the line, the villagers realised that the train was now part of their collective soul. They demanded its return, so a short parallel line was created and three of the carriages were placed on it as a memorial.

 

Poignant images

Photographs of the incident played a significant and varied role in the story of the Peraliya disaster. Those that depicted the aftermath – the eight crumpled and battered carriages, some toppled over, all scattered over a devastated landscape; the torn clothing strewn about; the wreckage of the carriages with detached wheels lying about; the rail track curled around in the manner of a Mobius strip – gave the world some of the most lasting glimpses of the horror of the tsunami’s Ground Zero. 

 

The disaster reinforced the truism that photographs are essential memory aids for those whose home environment has been destroyed. In Communicating Disasters: An Asia Pacific resource book (2006), edited by Nalaka Gunawardene and Frederick Noronha, Shahidul Alam reports: ‘I came across a family that had gathered in the wreckage of their home. I wanted to ask them their stories, find out what they had seen, but stopped when I saw them pick up the family album. They sat amidst the rubble and laughed as they turned page after page.’

 

The voyeuristic impulse of outsiders prevailed, however, and the opportunity for a ghoulish photo-opportunity was avidly seized. Amantha Perera reported in the Sunday Leader of 24 April, 2005: 

 

Tourists, local as well as foreign, are trooping to Peraliya like never before, as if it were the star attraction at an amusement park. There is the [foreign] woman in a reddish pair of shorts and matching top [about to have her picture taken]. ‘Move closer; make sure you get the carriage, okay?’ She shouts instructions as her eyes pan the props for the best spot to pose. After several shots, she asks aloud, ‘What happened here? How many died?’ 

 

Yet, a positive aspect of the world of photography was revealed by Stephen Khan in ‘Postcards from Peraliya’ in The Independent of 7 March 2005. ‘Before the wave, many Sri Lankan children had hardly seen a camera. So, when the world’s media arrived, many were frightened when cameras were pointed at them.’ Juliet Coombe, one of many international volunteers who travelled to Peraliya to assist the villages, hit upon a plan – give the children cameras! ‘It struck me that their perspective of this devastated village and its iconic train would be interesting; but more importantly, I thought photography could serve as a form of therapy, by helping the children to confront their fears.’ And one image dominates the children’s portfolios – the train. ‘The train has become part of the village. It is etched on their lives … Nine-year-old Danuka gave an insight into the significance of the train. “The broken carriages look like my friend’s tsunami scars. The train is bleeding. So many people died. I feel the carriages are like open wounds.”’ 

 

Today, six years later, the carriages are rapidly rusting away. They are a transient memorial, as is the fading poem from a husband to his lost wife written on the side of one carriage:

 

Did the children and I come to you when the waves came?

Were the kids there with you when death came? 

In eternity, do you want to be mine again?

Will you come back at least in my dreams?

 

Richard Boyle is a contributing editor to this magazine.