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Anthropology & Medicine

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Eloquent bodies: conflict and ritual in northern Sri Lanka

Jane Derges
a a

Anthropology Department , University College London , UK Published online: 02 Dec 2008.

To cite this article: Jane Derges (2009) Eloquent bodies: conflict and ritual in northern Sri Lanka , Anthropology & Medicine, 16:1, 27-36 To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13648470802425930

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RESEARCH ARTICLE Eloquent bodies: conflict and ritual in northern Sri Lanka1
Jane Derges*
Anthropology Department, University College London, UK (Received April 2007; final version received April 2008) It is increasingly apparent that hostilities continue in the aftermath of war and conflict, where presuppositions of peace and safety are rarely reflected on the ground. In Sri Lanka, the 2002 ceasefire agreement between the Sri Lankan government and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) has recently collapsed. This collapse developed slowly over a period of several years, beginning with cautious optimism before descending into deep pessimism with increasingly high levels of violence brought about by the absence of any real progress. Efforts to rebuild and reintegrate both rural and urban communities in the north of the country have had to take place within an atmosphere of silence, suspicion and a marked escalation towards the renewed outbreak of war. This article, following sixteen months of fieldwork in the northern Jaffna peninsula, examines how Tamil youths many of whom were imprisoned and tortured during the war have transformed a well-known ritual that has seen a dramatic increase since occupation of the far north by government troops in 1996. The ritual, previously an act of devotion to a popular Tamil god, Murugan, has transformed into a demonstration of strength and youthful challenge. This article examines how toleration of ritual pain can be contrasted with the pain and suffering of war, and articulated not only for the self, but also for the entire community. Keywords: northern Sri Lanka; conflict; ritual transformation

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In northern Sri Lanka, optimistic frameworks of peace-building, retribution and justice are no longer applicable. Instead they have become replaced with a renewed outbreak of hostilities that have been gradually escalating over a period of four years. It is the civilian population who must survive alongside the daily reality of fear and continuing violence that shapes and mutates day-to-day existence. This escalation into open conflict comes in the wake of three previous ceasefires and provides little in the way of optimism, as the daily bombing raids and abductions grow. This research was carried out over a period of sixteen months between July 2003 and November 2004, one year after the ceasefire agreement came into operation. After twenty years of war, it was again possible for Tamils to travel around the Jaffna peninsula (despite the restrictions of the high security zones), to revisit Colombo or Trincomalee, see friends and, most importantly, welcome back relatives from abroad, most of whom were visiting after many years in exile. After the initial relief, there was a breakdown in talks between the government and the LTTE in April 2003, which heralded a gradual deterioration in the political and social landscape of the north and east. The atmosphere was one of considerable exhaustion after so long a period of war many stated that this

*Email: j.derges@ucl.ac.uk
ISSN 13648470 print/ISSN 14692910 online 2009 Taylor & Francis DOI: 10.1080/13648470802425930 http://www.informaworld.com

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was the last and final opportunity for peace, and indeed this period of relative calm proved to be all too brief. Within this setting, questions arose as to how Tamil civilians could articulate their suffering in an atmosphere where trust had been severely compromised and undermined. Also, how could research be carried out in such a setting, when the people of Jaffna were weary and exhausted and it was clearly inappropriate to ask directly about trauma or personal experiences of the conflict. Obtaining data through recorded and structured interviews was also unsuccessful because of the fears of surveillance from all factions, so instead other ways of obtaining useful information were developed. This meant taking opportunities that were offered and following leads rather than actively pursuing a particular course; this often took me on interesting journeys and provided many useful insights. The research questions, although having some form in my own mind, usually arose from informal interviews/conversations and in response to information that was given. Observing different aspects of social interaction, especially body language and social behaviour, gave a more contextualised view and historical data provided details of life in the north from before the conflict, for comparison. However, undertaking research in societies that are in conflict entails an acceptance of a degree of ignorance in certain aspects of the enquiry, usually in exchange for the safety of all concerned. Despite these difficulties, I had the good fortune to meet and eventually live with a Hindu Tamil family, and became immersed in all aspects of daily life. I also met a number of other Tamils who were willing to recount many of their experiences and engage in discussions about their lives, after so many years spent living in isolation. I attended numerous festivals, weddings, family events and ceremonies, and temple pujas, and traveled around and outside the peninsula by various means. All of this helped in identifying local issues of importance, but I was never less than acutely aware of the effect my presence had on those around me. I had regular contact with two local Nongovernmental organisation (NGOs), who were generally well respected throughout the peninsula, and provided reassurance when my identity was invariably questioned. Also my interest in Tamil culture and society was usually met with enthusiasm and a desire to describe the changes and concerns regarding this. It was helpful being able to speak some Tamil, to be in the company of other Tamils and to maintain a high level of visibility traveling everywhere by bicycle/bus/motorbike (as opposed to the few foreign aid workers, who maintained a more remote presence). On bus journeys to Colombo, I was questioned along with everyone else at the checkpoints, presenting my visa and later the obligatory pass from the LTTE, but had no problems maybe because I was female. At other times, either friends or myself had to answer questions about who I was and what I was doing there and how-did-they-know-that-I-was-who-I-said-I-was. I was often told that my presence and movements would have been noted, but I moved about with relative freedom and have since been able to make return visits to Sri Lanka unhindered.

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No war, no peace The Jaffna peninsula in the far northern tip of Sri Lanka was often likened to an open prison; captivity and confinement having become central and defining experiences for Tamils living in the geographically isolated and marginalised north. The continuation of low-level violence after the declaration of peace was enabled within an atmosphere of impunity that became chronic. A half state of no war and no peace seemed to be indefinite and was largely unacknowledged by those outside its immediate realm

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and effect. Due to this assumption of peace, safety and reconciliation, acts of violence became increasingly easy to perpetrate. The focus of attention was also shifted elsewhere once the ceasefire came into operation with the arrival of multitudinous development agencies competing for opportunities in the rebuilding process. The conditions for this ongoing violence appeared to be embedded in part in the declaration of peace itself, whereby the original grievances remained unresolved. The peninsula is almost an island in itself, joined to the rest of the country by a thin strip of land called Elephant Pass. Currently, it is inhabited by Tamil-speaking Sri Lankans; fifteen per cent Catholic or Protestant and the remaining seventy-five per cent Hindus. The peninsula is under government control, with a heavily militarised presence including operational and non-operational checkpoints, situated at most crossroads. Segments of land are cordoned off into what are called high security zones and include much of the coastal region and some farming areas. This has forced many Tamils from their land and homes into urban camps and temporary settlements, or into the empty houses of absent Tamils who fled the fighting some years previously. Access to employment in both agriculture and fishing the two main sources of income in Jaffna is severely restricted. Despite its reputation as a centre of affluence, learning and culture, this has changed over the last twenty or more years, with thousands of Tamils having died or fled abroad; most major buildings and civic structures have been destroyed. This gives Jaffna the feel of a large village where both derelict and a few newly renovated homes exist side by side, and where large expanses of open overgrown ground are cordoned off and waiting to be de-mined. The tsunami of 2004 made many people in the coastal regions homeless again and dislodged landmines that had been carefully mapped during the ceasefire period. Among those Tamils born into conflict after the 1980s, thousands were arrested, imprisoned, and tortured, and many disappeared (Hoole et al. 1990). The few who were released returned to their villages and families, and attempted the complex process of reintegration (Somasundaram 1998). They were, and continue to be, targeted by all factions: either under suspicion of collaboration with the LTTE, other paramilitaries or the army, or targeted for recruitment into the insurgent ranks. For those without financial means of escape, they are trapped in both a confined geographical and discriminatory impasse, which has led to an accompanying sense of futility, frustration and anger. Concerns were expressed regarding the behaviour of some Tamil youths who had joined local gangs and were the reason most people remained indoors after dark under a kind of self-imposed curfew. A marked distrust between people was frequently identified as a problem, made easily accessible to a Sri Lankan collective consciousness of four hundred years of colonial domination. Internal divisions were also fed by rumour and accusations of questioned loyalties; village was often pitted against village and the extensive infiltration and observation of the populace made anonymity rare, even within crowds real or imagined, the fear of surveillance had the power to silence.

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Living with silence: the transformation of a ritual Frequent references were made to the transformation that had taken place to a familiar ritual amongst Tamil youths released from prison. Many made vows that if released, they would perform one of the harshest and therefore most devout acts of recognition: thuukkukkaavadi. This involves the suspension of the devotee from a large scaffold attached to a small motorised tractor, by a series of eight hooks inserted into the skin of

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the back and legs, and a silver vel (spear) piercing the mouth and rendering the devotee silent. He is transported between two temples one his village temple by the tractor, which is highly decorated with images of the chosen deity, flowers, plantains, and limes for protection, and loud devotional music hails from two speakers. Alongside, walk a small retinue of family, friends and villagers. There are various styles of suspended kaavadi, some representing a pose of the chosen deity or their vehicle; for example, the peacock, vehicle of Murugan, is represented by the devotee suspended horizontally as though in flight. More recent styles are a demonstration of bravery with the devotee suspended by one hook only from the top of his back. Kaavadi refers to the heavy wooden arched frame decorated with peacock feathers and lime, and carried on the shoulders of Murugan devotees during temple festivals. This arch is a symbolic representation of two hills, part of well-known story of a battle between the god Agashthyas servant, the demon Idumban and a victorious Murugan. Murugan has a dominant place in worship among the ancient Veddas of Sri Lanka, as well as many modern-day Tamils. He carries a vel (spear or lance), which protects against bad spirits and was used in a dance performed before hunting in order to bring good fortune, safety and protection. The Veddas were known as iya vamsa sons of arrows and it is believed that Murugan was originally a tribal hunter god who became the national god of the Tamils because of the protective features of the vel. The vel is the mulamurthi (the anthropomorphic representation of the deity) in many Murugan temples in the north and east of Sri Lanka, known as velayuta shrines/temples. The vel, when inserted through the cheeks and mouth, is a symbol of Murugan and vel worship, and by renouncing speech, promotes concentration towards higher thoughts of the deity (referred to in Tamil as mauna: silence) and ensures protection of the supplicant. The vel was discovered from an earlier ancient ritual in Tamil Nadu and is referred to as a mouth lock (Wood 2002). Murugan, son of Siva and Parvati, is described by Fuller Collins (1997) as both a godking, ruler of a divinely ordered society and a youthful challenger and teacher to the older gods. His name is derived from notions of youthfulness, splendour and compassion (Obeyesekere 1978); he is often invoked as the divine lover (19), and from the seventh century onwards as the war god, Skanda. Amongst his Tamil devotees, Murugan is also known as both a protector and a healer of sickness: worship of him is thought to confer worldly security and prosperity and help resolve difficulties in material, everyday life. There are many devotional songs to the youthful divine figure of Murugan and this emphasis on youthfulness is widely envisaged among Jaffna devotees. These qualities of youthfulness, protection and healing are forceful incentives in the lives of younger Tamils, but notably other gods and Amman (Mother Goddess) are also now evoked Amman in the form of Kali, and Mariamman, for example, who is noted for her quick temper, and to bestow disease and suffering on neglectful devotees. She is also known for her easily forgiving nature if placated, which may account for the rise in devotions to her in recent years. How the gods come to be understood changes according to the setting in which their devotees are living and worshipping, according to Krishnapillai (1998, 16), who writes: . . . the way in which the people apprehend the divine is a statement about the way in which they see themselves and their content in a given moment. This contributes to an understanding of how vel worship and thuukkukkaavadi may have developed within the current state of violence, self-censure and fear. The vel has become a representation of silence, not only for greater devotion, but within the present context of oppression.

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This ritual therefore seems to convey in symbolic and mimetic form personal experiences related to various aspects that include both devotion and more recent concerns difficult to articulate.

Eloquent bodies In reaching beyond the purely phenomenological aspects of embodiment, it was Goffman (1971) who sought to understand how the body was connected and engaged with social action. His emphasis on the bodily production of social hierarchy, dominance and control re-contextualised the body within society (Williams and Bendelow 1998, 56, emphasis in original). Social order, according to his theory, is maintained through publicly ascribed techniques of the body involving complex and conventionalised social rituals aimed at the successful negotiation of social space. Therefore, it can be assumed that when these social rituals are disrupted, negotiating social space also becomes disrupted, thereby undermining confidence in the presumption of a natural order. Subverting the purpose and function of everyday objects serves to undermine this natural order and creates fear and uncertainty in its place. Public spaces and everyday objects are no longer what they seem; otherwise benign spaces and objects become threatening or take on malevolent form. For example, during the conflict, the spiked tail of a sea ray was used as an instrument of torture; bodies were dumped in communal wells; gun boats and helicopters fired at people working or playing on the beaches; domestic spaces were made permeable to bullets causing injury. The bodies of Tamils were regularly humiliated at the checkpoints, by having to connect with other hostile bodies during these rigorous border searches (Hoole et al. 1990; Somasundaram 1998). In these highly contentious and closely observed settings, the voice must demonstrate conformity in order to avoid unwanted attention, but there are other times and places when, despite the voice being silent, the body is not. There are several studies of kaavadi from Sri Lanka and Malaysia that have sought explanations for the changes in its popularity and practice. Most have concentrated on either psychological or sociological explanations. Fuller Collins (1997) identifies the lower caste status of Tamil kaavadi devotees in Malaysia, who are in conflict with the Hindu elite. She suggests that the elephants trunk of popular deity Pillaiyar (or Ganesh) is a phallic symbol and the tongue piercing a symbol of impotence related to social oppression. Likewise, Wilford (2000) stresses both the caste/class differences as significant and Ward (1984) the bio-psychological aspects related to pain and motivation, asserting that vanity plays a part in its increasing popularity in Malaysia, evidenced by the ever more elaborate styles seen among young devotees. Obeyesekere (1978) identifies the ecstatic dancing of aathumkaavadi as an expression of the repressed sexual desires of unmarried males, many forced through social patterns of change to seek employment away from their villages and move into urban slum areas in Sri Lanka, where marriage prospects are bleak. These explanations have parallels with social changes that have taken place among young Jaffna Tamils, but do not sufficiently explain the current dramatic increases in devotees of such an extreme form of kaavadi, within the context of the political conflict of the last two decades. Despite being a well-known ritual in south Asia and beyond, it was previously seldom practiced in Jaffna itself. Thuukkukkaavadi became widespread in the aftermath of the army occupation of the peninsula in 1996 increasing from a dozen or so in one year to a total of seventy, as I counted at a single temple, in the course of one day. All the devotees came from a broad spectrum of both caste and social class that included many elite highcaste Tamils, as well as agricultural workers and more recently many Tamils returning

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from abroad. I subsequently came to know the kaavadi organiser (himself a high-caste Vellala) and accompanied him regularly in his work assisting devotees in the ceremony. This would be followed up with interviews and conversations with devotees, their friends and families about the practice and their experiences often over several meetings. One became a key informant who makes an important contribution to theories identified and developed in this study. In terms of its motivation, many young Tamils reported less interest in religiosity and instead talked of the personal challenge (chavaal), fun (musuppaaththi) and the release of aggression. Unlike those who do the ritual purely as an act of devotion, members of this group undertake fewer preparations and mostly deny any entrancement. Although the explicit reasons for the vow are rarely articulated, it is stated by many including the kaavadi organiser that now the majority are those who have been imprisoned and it is presumed, tortured. This raised the question as to whether this could be seen as a re-enactment of torture, such was its apparent similarity. But the pain was identified by devotees as greater for the observer, than for themselves: a weary smile often greeted questions related to pain tolerance, as though I had somehow missed the point. Most acknowledge first the experience of challenge or daring, as well as fun (musupaaththi) and the release of energy (aarral or valimai) that this brings. One devotee spoke of his overwhelming sense of power that would enable him to beat one hundred men down and that he possessed a warrior power which could be used for destructive purposes. He had suffered, but got three times the happiness afterwards. There is, undoubtedly, an element of show and youthful bravado; it was said that some did it to impress girls as well as their friends and there was much joking beforehand, for example, as students egged each other on in a dare. However, this changed once the ritual commenced and other elements contributed in focusing the mind, such as the devotional music, which was seen as essential in helping concentration and giving a sense of a full heart. Frequently and spontaneously, devotees claimed that it was a ritual act carried out not on behalf of the individual, but rather for the community as a whole. This makes sense following the widescale suffering of most villagers, subjected to cordon and search operations, arrests, disappearances, bombings and other enormous losses. Again, many people spoke of feeling trapped, treated as less than human and having no voice. Ward (1984) also acknowledges the importance of kaavadi not only for individual devotees, but for their community by offering some element of catharsis to resolve conflicts. The case study described later is of a man who performs this ritual on behalf of his brother; the idea that thuukkukkaavadi could be performed not only for oneself but for another, or many others, raises the notion of the ritual as a collective or, in this instance, familial, rather than individual act. And as mentioned previously, many devotees say the pain is greater amongst onlookers than for the individual devotee. From observing the ritual, this was confirmed by the obvious distress of others present, whereas the suspended devotee appeared pain free, even relaxed and aware of his surroundings. Many people who had witnessed the thuukkukkaavadi devotees, said they found it hard to watch. When asked why, many stated that they knew or could imagine what led them to undertake such an extreme and serious act.

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The question of pain Ariel Glucklich (2001) suggests that pain is usually defined as a problem that needs to be overcome and, if possible, removed entirely. In the field of medicine the aim is to identify

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pain, eradicate it or at least subdue it. But through religious texts it is possible to see another way of understanding the experience of pain through a model of efficacy. In addressing questions concerning the cultural construction of embodiment (14) within pain discourses, Glucklich challenges Foucault on his theory of the technology of self, suggesting that pain is not always an internalisation of societys aggression, but that there is some ambivalence in the experience of self-inflicted pain (as opposed to pain that is external, unwanted and beyond the individuals self-control), and suggests that religious self-hurting transcends bodily pain. Interestingly, no blood is shed during the ritual procedure, although it is encouraged after the hooks are removed for cleansing purposes, but even then does not always occur. There are no explanations offered, beyond divine intervention, for this phenomenon apart from links with acupuncture, mentioned by several research participants. Daniel (1987) writes of the beauty of pain through his personal account of a pilgrimage to Subra Malai in south India. He provides an insight into how pain is transformed into love anpu in this case for Ayyapan. Whilst the torturer seeks to create pain in another, repetitive self-inflicted pain through devotion eventually absents the self from it it leads one away from pain and ultimately towards joy. This would explain the sense of elation and dissociation reported amongst all devotees: as Glucklich also states, pain can release not only analgesic qualities (2001, 30) but also a sense of detachment and euphoria. One participant remarked on his detachment from what was happening around him during the ritual, but also his awareness of the distress of people watching him from below: It was not as tough as I thought (it would be), but it seems very hard and painful for the viewer. My neighbours asked my mum why I was doing it; she told them I dont know ask him. I told them for fun they wont believe me. Thomas Scheff (1979) talks of this state of detached curiosity as double vision during which one is both the participant and the detached observer of emotion: both ones own and those of others present at the scene. A distanced recurrence in which trauma is not so much re-experienced as recalled through a drama in which feelings are evoked in the viewer that are an approximation of their own experience: an experience from the past that is triggered by an event in the present for both devotee and observers.

Thuukkukkaavadi: a contemporary devotee I first came across Ramesh as he was starting his thuukkukkaavadi ritual outside a local Murugan temple. The vel (a thin spear) was in the process of being inserted through Rameshs cheeks and the nagathalai (snake head) attached so that it protruded from his mouth, making speech thereafter impossible. Four hooks pierced the skin of his back, placed carefully to balance his weight, and to them thick ropes were attached. Before the remaining four hooks were inserted in the lower limbs, he, his relatives and some fellow villagers and myself went into the temple. He walked in a clockwise direction around the inner courtyard and then began to run, appearing to be entranced: staggering, lurching and weaving, looking distressed, tearful and unaware of the people around him. A relative held tightly on to the two ropes seeming to control and manage his movements, holding him back at times and preventing him from careering off. Once outside, he appeared immediately calm, he lay on the mat face down and had the remaining hooks inserted quickly in his upper thighs and calves. The men watching were serious, impassive and silent, including several small boys looking on intently; most crowded around closely and watched the organiser as well as Ramesh, with arms folded and puckered brows.

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The women on the outside of the circle were crying and clearly upset assuming this was concerning the physical pain he was enduring, it became apparent that the locus of their distress came from somewhere else. Loud devotional music was playing from speakers attached to the tractor, no one was talking and very few people came to watch from other houses at this point. Finally he was raised from the ground while great care was taken to balance and adjust the ropes and watch his expression to assess his degree of comfort/discomfort. He was fully aware of his surroundings, looking about him, calm and with no obvious signs of distress. He was handed a vel and some margosa leaves to hold for protection and he began to sway his arms as though flapping wings; above him sitting on top of the scaffolding at the forward end was another assistant who bounced the scaffolding so that he was also moving up and down, all of which gave the impression of a giant bird in flight. He and the rest of the company then left for his village and the Kaliamman temple, where he later celebrated over a communal meal given for the entire village, after a puja performed by the temple priest. On the journey back to the village some five miles away, conversations with some of the family and friends accompanying him en route, offered possible explanations for the vow; his cousin thinks it is because he was ill when living in the Vanni where he and his family had been displaced during the war. It is also stated at one point that his job as a labourer has been going badly and he has made some bad financial decisions, which have led him to make a vow for assistance. When we met later, he appeared euphoric, was limping slightly but claimed to experience no discomfort, but instead said he felt energised and strong. At this initial interview as on other occasions, expectations had to be adjusted as to what information would be possible given the setting: seabing was arranged formally with four chairs; one for myself, one for my female translator/assistant, and opposite, a chair for Ramesh and one for a man introduced as his uncle a silent and rather intimidating observer. Around the room, standing, were other members of the family and village word having got around quickly of my arrival. Outside, other villagers peered silently in through the glassless windows, whispering occasionally. In the informal atmosphere earlier everyone had appeared cheerful, friendly and relaxed; but somehow this changed, becoming somewhat tense and unduly formal; efforts to lighten the interview were unsuccessful. However, the minute I got up to leave, everyone relaxed, photos were taken and I was asked many questions despite previously offering to answer questions before the interview. In subsequent meetings I would drop in, having been told that this was acceptable and would encourage a more relaxed and conducive atmosphere. Then, different members of the family and village would be present and generally it was much easier to talk: it was on one of these occasions that Rameshs mother spoke of her familys experiences. Rameshs elder brother was arrested by the army during the war, suspected of helping the LTTE. He was taken off by the special forces to an army camp and, in accordance with previous experience following arrests, it was assumed that he would never be seen again. It is said that following an arrest the prisoner will join the vast ranks of those who have disappeared during the war and will never be seen again: they will disappear and funeral plans and preparations will be made immediately. Miraculously in this case, he was released, having been tortured and then after many months returned to his family. His mother made a vow to the goddess Kali that some form of boon would be given in thanks for her divine intervention, but she did not specify what form this would take. A short while later, she went with her younger son, Ramesh, to have his charts read and was told

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by the astrologer that he was at great risk of some life-threatening problem; at this it was independently decided by Ramesh to perform thuukkukkaavadi to Kaliamman. His mother was reluctant to allow him to perform such an austere vow but he was insistent that he perform this both for his own future safety and following his brothers release. She refused to go to the first temple to watch but remained at their village temple; when he returned with the thuukkukkaavadi she went to their house and waited for him there. His sister was sent with him to the first temple but was overcome with distress and was sent home by relatives; his elder brother, of course, stayed. Other male and distant female relatives and villagers and friends were present to support him. Ramesh and his mother both felt the vow had been successfully fulfilled; his mother hoped it would not be repeated, but Ramesh said he would consider doing so again, should the need arise and the circumstances be appropriate.

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Discussion According to Scarry (1985), language is rarely able to express adequately the experience of torture, but Daniel (1996) suggests it can be articulated instead through metaphor. In the instance of thuukkukkaavadi, the experience of pain is translated symbolically through the body and appears to re-create the torture experience but at the same time apprehend control and power over pain and instead re-position it within the authority of the sufferer. The sun dance encountered in many Native American tribes also has parallels with the ritual of thuukkukkaavadi not only in its techniques, but more importantly in its motivations. The sun dance is carried out as a redemptive ritual aimed at resolving the Native Americans conflict with white society and it mourns the loss of dead tribesmen through a re-enactment of capture, torture and release (Jorgensen 1972). The experience of many devotees of thuukkukkaavadi would seem to correspond with this aspect of ritual motivation both in its mourning of losses and as an act against forces that would ensnare, constrain and wound. Notably, Jorgensen and Voget (1984) also describe the collective aspect of the sun dance ritual, rather than its purely individual motivation. These complex issues of reintegration following release from prison also resonate with Goffmans ideas on stigma (1968 [1963]). Efforts to realign oneself with the prevailing ordinariness of society after such extreme events would be made more arduous by the bodys duplicity or spoiled identity (Williams and Bendelow 1998, 59). Perhaps the symbolically stigmatised prisoner becomes transformed by another kind of mark the visible stigmata scars of the kaavadi devotee. During the performance of thuukkukkaavadi, this transcendence from stigmatised to stigmata-cised also endows the devotee with the power of healing; they are often given a sick child to hold, for example. The body has a key role in negotiating this spoiled identity and becomes the mediator between social and self-identity (Williams and Bendelow 1998, 60), thereby recapturing a feeling of individual strength as well as reconciliation and reintegration with the collective body of the village community. By re-situating the body as an active agent of intent, it can be seen as a central, productive and in some instances cathartic entity that seeks to redress some of the violence perpetrated against it. By firmly placing authority within a local context, it has been made to show this through the transformation of a locally renowned ritual. By re-contextualising encounters of extreme violence in the form of performances that utilise pain, it is possible to re-classify traumatic experiences and emerge having gained a measure of, albeit temporary, strength for both self and community. Language is often inadequate to fulfil

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this task for reasons related to fear, tyranny and the sheer enormity of the losses. Within this beleaguered community, recognised capacities and resources have been used to overcome some of the suffering and loss through familiar but redefined, embodied and ritualised performances that are not necessarily or exclusively acts of religious devotion. This new mode of ritual performance has been able to provide a space in which Tamils can find some potency. These devotees undertaking thuukkukkaavadi in huge numbers articulate the violence and brutality of the Tamils experiences over the last twenty-five years, and are not to be easily silenced.

Note
1. The research was made possible through an award funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) (2003).

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References
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