On a grey, humid morning in Sri Lanka’s northern Jaffna peninsula, a quiet crowd gathered outside the gates of the Jaffna District Secretariat. Women in their fifties and sixties stood still, clutching worn photographs of their sons, husbands, brothers—faces suspended in time, missing since the darkest days of the country’s long civil war.
They had not come for politics, nor protest in the usual sense. They had come for something more primal. More sacred. Truth. This month marks twenty-five years since the name “Chemmani” first passed tremblingly from lip to lip—a mass grave site alleged to hold the remains of hundreds of Tamils who disappeared during the 1990s. For those left behind, that silence has been deafening.
“I just want to know where my son is,” said one mother, softly. “He was 19 when they took him. People said they saw him in an army camp. Then—nothing. No body. No word. Not even a shirt.”
The Earth Has Kept Them But Who Will Help Us Dig?
Chemmani first came to national and international attention in 1998, not through official investigation, but through the dying words of a condemned man—Lance Corporal Somaratne Rajapakse.
Awaiting execution for his role in the rape and murder of Tamil schoolgirl Krishanthy Kumaraswamy and the subsequent killing of her mother, brother, and a neighbour, Rajapakse made a stunning claim: more than 300 Tamils had been abducted, murdered, and buried in mass graves by Sri Lankan military personnel in Chemmani.
It was an accusation that shook the country. And yet, despite international calls for justice, only 15 bodies were ever officially exhumed. Two were identified as men who had disappeared in 1996. Seven military officers were eventually charged—but the full extent of the claims was never investigated.
“There were supposed to be hundreds,” said Shanthini, whose younger brother vanished that same year. “Fifteen is not justice. Fifteen is not the truth.”
The Sri Lankan government later stated that foreign and local experts had found no additional graves, and that there was no evidence of tampering. To the families, this felt like yet another door slammed shut in their faces.
A Cry for International Supervision
Now, a generation on, the families are calling again—not for revenge, but for accountability. Their plea is simple: allow international oversight of the Chemmani exhumations. They no longer trust Sri Lankan authorities to investigate their own crimes.
“We know what will happen,” said a retired schoolteacher from Kilinochchi. “They’ll dig in the wrong place. They’ll find nothing. And then they’ll close the file forever.”
Other mass grave sites echo their sorrow—Mannar, Mullivaikkal, Mirusuvil. Each one another unmarked wound. Each one another unanswered question.
“We’ve written letters. We’ve marched. We’ve begged,” said one elderly woman. “We’ve asked the UN. We’ve asked rights groups. We’ve even asked journalists. But still, we are waiting.”
Memory as Resistance
For the mothers, widows and sisters left behind, the weekly vigils and annual memorials have become acts of quiet resistance. In the absence of truth, they carry stories. In the absence of bones, they carry photographs.
They remember the curfews. The disappearances. The white vans in the night. The knock at the door. The silence afterwards.
They remember the way the world looked away.
“Are we not mothers too?” asked one woman, who wore her son’s shirt tied around her waist like a sari. “Even animals are buried with dignity. Why not our children?”
Her voice did not shake. But her hands did.
To the World: Don’t Let Them Be Buried Twice
Their message now is directed not at Colombo, but at Geneva. At the UN. At those who claim to stand for human rights and justice. They are calling on the international community to ensure that these sites—like Chemmani—are not left to disappear again beneath weeds, bureaucracy, or wilful neglect.
Only a credible, internationally supervised process, they argue, can bring the truth to light. Only then can healing begin.
Until then, they will wait. Under sun and storm. Holding curled photographs and faded documents. Repeating their stories until someone listens.
“He never came home,” said one mother before stepping away from the Secretariat gates. “And I need to know why.”
The association issued five clear demands:
- The Chemmani exhumation must be officially designated a mass grave investigation.
- It must be conducted under the supervision of international forensic experts, following global standards.
- All evidence must be preserved and the process must be transparent.
- Journalists and relatives of the disappeared must be allowed to observe and report freely.
- The upcoming visit of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights to Sri Lanka should include an inspection of the Chemmani site.
Justice, according to the relatives of the victims, is still elusive despite the discovery of numerous mass graves over the years, including in Mannar, Thiruketheeswaram, and Kokkuthoduvai. “Neither justice nor truth have been served, even in the case of those who have been exhumed,” the association’s statement went on to say. The offenders have not been held accountable, and the truth has not been communicated to society or the next of kin. The court proceedings have been rather slow.
