Wars do not end neatly on the battlefield, as the lives of Tamils in Sri Lanka’s north and east make evident.

On May 18, the community will mark 17 years since the end of the long and horrific civil war that radically altered their lives. With its shadow lingering, the memory of the war that the armed forces and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) fought can hardly be confined to this annual commemoration. It manifests in their precarious daily lives and continues to weigh on their hopes for the future.

“It was very tough and risky during those years [1983-2009],” says Natarasa Padmaleela, 54, from Udayarkattu, in the northern Mullaitivu district. “We kept moving around, ate whatever was available, washed clothes with palm fruit, and lived in constant fear of shelling. But life now seems even harder.”

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This is a common refrain among Tamils — not because they cannot distinguish between the grave dangers of a live war and the slow, painful pace of recovery, but because “peace” has yet to bring substantive relief or real prospects for a better life. One where they can earn a decent living, feed their families three meals a day, move freely without military men peering, remember their loved ones, and heal.

It is not for the want of trying. There are few options that Sivarasa Yogeswari has not explored since the war ended. From working as a domestic worker in Saudi Arabia, to finding employment on small farms for a daily wage, to being a shop assistant, she has given everything a shot.

“My life may look normal from the outside. But other than the fact that I managed to send my children to school, I have nothing to show for all this work. It is exhausting,” says the 51-year-old, living in the neighbouring Kilinochchi district. The fatigue is hard to miss in her lean frame and strained gait.

Underplaying deprivation

Since 2009, the Jaffna-centric Tamil polity has largely focused on wartime accountability and the still-unresolved political question at the heart of the ethnic conflict. Whether in parliament or in their frequent meetings with representatives of foreign governments — on whom many Tamil leaders continue to pin their hopes for justice — they raise issues such as enforced disappearances, the prolonged detention of suspects under draconian anti-terror laws, military and state-backed land grabs, provincial council elections, and power devolution. They speak far less about poverty, unemployment, the strain on rural livelihoods, soaring living costs, and the widespread hopelessness felt by ordinary people.

These realities are borne out by data. A 2022-23 United Nations-led study of multidimensional vulnerabilities, based on three dimensions — education, health and disaster, living standards — and 12 indicators, including school attendance, health, unemployment, and indebtedness, found Mullaitivu, Kilinochchi, and Vavuniya in the north, and Batticaloa in the east, all of which are dominated by Tamils, among the most vulnerable districts on the island.

“Tamil politicians are fighting for our rights. The Centre (government in Colombo) should take care of our sustenance,” says Perumal Pradeepan, a fisherman in Kilinochchi, explaining that one is like “uduppu” [clothes, connoting dignity] and the other, “sappadu” [food for survival]. Although he appears to assign the causes of dignity and equal rights to the Tamil leadership, and the responsibility of fulfilling basic material needs to the national government, he finds them intertwined in his own life: his fight for survival is not detached from his desire for dignity.

“I am 32. I have over 15 lakh (roughly ₹4.4 lakh) in debt, after I borrowed money to buy nets. I struggle every day so that my family does not go hungry. It is humiliating to face the lender. This is my life,” he says, tearing up.

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Tamils seemed wary of President Anura Kumara Dissanayake ahead of the September 2024 presidential election — his rival candidate and now Opposition Leader Sajith Premadasa got their highest vote share — but they made a quick switch in the general elections in November of the same year. In Jaffna, for instance, the National People’s Power (NPP) beat well-entrenched Tamil parties and won three out of six seats.

The shift was palpable days before the November 14 parliamentary polls. Addressing a packed rally in Jaffna’s coastal village of Passaiyoor, Dissanayake promised to return people’s lands held by state agencies. He pledged to revive industries, create jobs, and build a country where all citizens, regardless of ethnicity or religion, feel equal. His popular image of a “simple leader”, charismatic outreach, and clear messaging convinced Tamils that he deserved a chance. Barring Batticaloa in the east, the NPP emerged at the top in all Tamil-majority areas in that election.

Accessing land

In April 2025, a road from Vasavilan to Palaly town in the northern part of the Jaffna Peninsula was reopened to the public, 34 years after the military closed it for “security concerns”. In October 2025, the Ministry of Defence convened a high-level meeting to resolve “operational and administrative hurdles” to expedite the handover of remaining private lands to their owners. Residents have welcomed the initiative, but they question its slow-paced implementation.

It is not just the military that controls people’s land, but also other state agencies, such as the Archaeology and Forest Departments, that are staking claim to land. The concern is especially prevalent in the Mullaitivu district. According to Thurairasa Ravikaran, a legislator from the opposition Illankai Tamil Arasu Kadchi (ITAK) representing the district in Parliament, the Dissanayake administration has been more responsive than its predecessors to the district’s infrastructure needs, including roads and bridges. “They have responded swiftly and positively to those requests. But when it comes to land grabs in the district by various state agencies, they seem unable or unwilling to address it,” he says.

In the last few years, the issue has repeatedly cropped up across districts in the north and east. Kurunthurmalai in Mullaitivu became a site of fierce contestation. Tamils, whose ancestors had worshipped Siva at a hilltop temple, were suddenly told by soldiers that they could not visit the “archaeological” site, even as it rapidly morphed into a Buddhist centre of worship, with a stupa.

“Building Buddhist shrines where Hindus traditionally prayed, and taking over people’s agricultural lands in the name of forest conservation are huge concerns. We see these planned settlements of Sinhalese in the north and east as a way of altering the demography of the region,” Ravikaran notes, adding, “Let’s not forget that contestations over land are what trigger big conflicts.”

Finding jobs

In a district where the majority relies on farming and fisheries for a living, restricted access to land translates to a drastic fall in incomes. Apart from the few openings in the public services, there are few desirable jobs forthcoming for the youth. The heavy reliance on informal, rural livelihoods also means that the official rate of unemployment in these areas distorts the picture.

Joblessness is more pronounced in the north and east than in the rest of the island, Governor of the Northern Province, Nagalingam Vethanayahan, says, while pointing to the government’s efforts aimed at employment creation.

“The saltern in Elephant Pass is being revived. The saltern in Kurunchathivu is another high-potential area we are focusing on,” he says. The government also initiated reconstruction work at the once-well-known chemical factory in Paranthan, which had been inactive for nearly four decades owing to the war. “Work is on to set up three new industrial zones in Paranthan, Mankulam, and Kankesanthurai, to boost employment and economic growth. We are also looking at expanding value-addition facilities and cold storage for agricultural produce, so we can tap the export market,” says the Governor, a former Government Agent (similar to a District Collector in India) who has served in Jaffna.

Locals have for long been demanding small industries tied to local resources. While the initial steps appear promising, the projects are expected to take at least a few years to become fully operational, generate employment, boost demand, and revitalise the local economy. Meanwhile, the poorest among the Tamils — impoverished by the war — continue to bear the brunt of crisis after crisis, from the Easter bombings of 2019, the COVID-19 pandemic, and the island’s financial meltdown in 2022, to the war in West Asia now. The crushing austerity of the ongoing International Monetary Fund fiscal adjustment programme only compounds their hardship.

A different struggle

It is in this context that Padmaleela says life is now harder. She is thinking of her time as a young LTTE combatant. She joined the movement while in her late teens, with the hope that the Tamil struggle would end the state’s violent discrimination. “Honestly, I did not know what to expect in a porattam [struggle]. It was only after I joined them that I understood the organisation’s structures and Anna’s ideology,” she said, referring to LTTE chief Velupillai Prabhakaran.

As was common among cadre, she was trained in combat and served at different locations. “We were bound by purpose and idealism, and I felt cared for as an individual. Be it nutritious food, clothes or mental strength, I was looked after. But now, I feel abandoned. That is why I say this struggle is harder,” she says.

Padmaleela lives in Mullaitivu with her husband, Arumugam Natarasa, and three children. Today, her husband, who she met during the movement, is a wheelchair user, following injuries from the war. “He needs a caregiver by his side,” she says.

She steps out to work at small farms when one of her children is home. The family barely manages with her earnings, the government’s monthly disability allowance, and the Aswesuma cash transfer scheme for select poor households.

“My older daughter runs a small tailoring business; the other two are studying,” she says.

Natarasa is seated on a bed, the only piece of furniture in their living room, other than a couple of plastic chairs. He listens intently, without uttering a word. “The war really affected him. He just remains silent,” she says. From trauma to disability to deprivation and disillusionment, the war’s many imprints crowd her small home.

Except for their older daughter, now 23, their children do not understand the Tamil struggle, their parents’ role, or the war itself, according to Padmaleela. “They have no context or sense of history to understand our present lives. I feel there is a disconnect, but that is how it is. As long as their lives are better than ours, with decent jobs and a good future, I am okay,” she says.

In Padmaleela’s view, it is not just her children who are indifferent to their past; it is the Tamil polity too. “These politicians invariably turn up for Maveerar Naal [‘Martyrs’ Day’ marked by families of LTTE cadre in November] and the Mullivaikkal commemoration [to observe the civil war’s end in May]. They have no idea about how we struggle to live on other days,” she notes. The dissonance between the veneration of “LTTE martyrs” on political platforms and the abject neglect of survivors of the movement pains her.

Before her many attempts to make a living, Yogeswari, too, had been part of the LTTE. Portraits of her siblings, who also belonged to the outfit and died during the war, hang in her living room. “I was called ‘Inbam’ [joy] in the movement. I felt seen and valued as a person. Today, I am forced to borrow money just to buy basic provisions. My heart sank when I saw another former combatant selling peanuts at a bus stop. He had been a captain. This is our life,” she says stoically.

R. Jagadeeswaran says he has dozens of numbers saved on his phone with a CID (Criminal Investigation Department) or TID (Terrorism Investigation Department) prefix. The 35-year-old fisher association leader was only briefly with the LTTE, towards the end of the war, but cannot escape the surveillance that endures 17 years since its end. “They call all the time and ask about our whereabouts and what we are up to. I am sure I will get a call once you leave asking who visited me,” he says. “It is frustrating to deal with this when the war is over, the movement is long gone, and we are just trying to live.”

Yogeswari, too, has had to contend with frequent questioning by the CID. “Last year, they summoned me and asked whether the movement would be revived. I told them it was all over — that I was simply trying to live and raise my children.” Contrary to the popular narrative that many Tamils survive, or even thrive, with money pumped in by relatives abroad, families like hers have no links outside or incoming remittances.

Other than firefighting after every crisis, successive governments have done little to devise a comprehensive economic plan for the war-battered region, contends Arunasalam Elangeswary, a coordinator for economic alternatives with the Suriya Women’s Development Centre in the eastern Batticaloa district. “Batticaloa has faced multiple blows over the last few decades – the war, the tsunami, the Easter bombings, the pandemic, the economic crisis, cyclone Ditwah, and the war in West Asia,” she says, flagging the severe local impact of disasters, both natural and man-made.

Over the last two years Batticaloa, one of Sri Lanka’s poorest districts, has seen the highest number of departures of migrant workers seeking employment as domestic workers and caregivers, mostly in West Asian countries. “Everyone is desperate to leave. You know there is a crisis when a coastal community foregoes fish in their meals. We also see families reducing three meals to two, and many are in debt,” says Elangeswary. She adds that families need social security, “not in some narrow, targeted way, but as a broad-based policy”, to cope with this pressure.

“The government should also consider giving land to groups of people, especially women, so they can cultivate it as a collective. Schemes aimed at supporting individual businesses have repeatedly proved inadequate. One-off programmes and entrepreneurship ideas cannot be sustained in a fragile economy. Meaningful revival calls for a clear economic vision,” she says.