Remembrance as healing, not provocation

Remembrance of war dead has never been a simple matter. Around the world, the memories of conflicts linger long after the last gunshot fades, and the act of remembering becomes intertwined with power, grief, politics, and unresolved trauma. 

Victors often write history, shaping narratives that justify their triumphs and obscure the suffering of others. This dynamic can make remembrance a battlefield of its own, one that can remain active not merely for decades, but for centuries.

The United States still grapples with the legacy of its Civil War, which ended in 1865. The arguments over how to remember Confederate soldiers, whether their statues should stand, and how the war should be taught continue to divide communities to this day. 

In Asia, the visit of a Japanese prime minister to the Yasukuni Shrine, where the remains of more than 1.6 million war dead, including 20 convicted war criminals, are enshrined, regularly provokes outrage from China and South Korea. Even though the Second World War ended 80 years ago, the memories remain raw.

It is hardly surprising, then in Sri Lanka which endured a brutal 30-year civil conflict, still struggles with the remembrance of its own war dead. The end of the war in May 2009 did not bring an end to the emotional and political battles over how to commemorate those who died.

This week, the LTTE’s Maaveerar Naal or Great Heroes’ Day is marked in several countries with significant Tamil diasporas. For many in these communities, the day is framed as a solemn tribute to fallen fighters. Yet the observances often drift into the realm of glorification, the LTTE is celebrated uncritically, without acknowledgment of the bombings, assassinations, child recruitment, and systemic violence it unleashed on civilians, including Tamils.

This is where the complexity lies. The young men and women who joined the LTTE, many forcibly, many under immense pressure, many out of desperation, were also human beings and citizens of our country. Their families grieve them as loved ones, not as symbols. Denying families the right to mourn only deepens wounds and perpetuates alienation. Yet mourning must not slide into propagating the ideology or the violent legacy of the LTTE. It is entirely possible to acknowledge personal loss without romanticising the organisation that caused immense suffering.

We must chart a path toward a form of remembrance that heals rather than provokes. That requires balance, empathy, and courage. It means recognising that grief does not belong to one community alone. Thousands of Sinhala soldiers, Tamil civilians, Muslim villagers, and LTTE cadres died in the conflict. All their families carry scars. No mother’s tears are more legitimate than another’s. Mourning must be humanised and depoliticised.

A healing remembrance also demands honesty, about the crimes committed by all sides, about the failures of leadership, and about the suffering endured by ordinary people. To remember truthfully is not to weaken the country, but to strengthen its moral foundations. Pretending that only some lives are worthy of commemoration perpetuates division and recognising all losses creates the grounds for reconciliation.

Our political leaders, civil society, and communities must work together to create rituals and spaces that allow people to mourn privately, commemorate respectfully, and reflect collectively without fuelling separatist sentiment or triumphalist nationalism. Remembrance should become a bridge to understanding, not a weapon in political struggles.