Journey from war-torn Sri Lanka to Berlin

This is my house where I was born and spent my childhood

By Dr. Mohamed 

Shareef Asees

A village of tanks and paddy fields

I was born in Pavatkulam Unit Two, a small Muslim village in Vavuniya, in the north of Sri Lanka. Life there was simple and rooted in the rhythms of land and water. Our homes stood between a great village tank and vast paddy fields that fed us. Most families were farmers, some fishermen, and together we formed a close-knit community of about 400 Muslim households. 

My father, the GS village headman, was a man of respect and responsibility. I was the sixth of his children. My earliest memories are of running through the fields barefoot, helping at harvest, praying at the mosque, and returning home to the smell of wood-fired meals. Childhood was untroubled—or so it seemed. None of us imagined how quickly innocence could shatter.

1990: The year that broke us

By 1990, Sri Lanka’s civil conflict had worsened. That year, the LTTE expelled more than 75,000 Muslims from the Northern Province, uprooting entire communities in a matter of days. Fear seeped into every wall of our own village. We never knew when it would be our turn. On the night of 21 October 1990, that fear came alive. Around 250 armed LTTE fighters entered Pavatkulam. Their mission: destroy the army camp located in the middle of our village, and punish anyone they accused of aiding the military. Their accusations were false, but their ruthlessness was not. 

Families gathered at our home, believing safety lay in numbers. Our family had two houses: the old Mahagedaera, where my siblings were born, and the newer one, where I happened to be that night. At 10 p.m., the stillness shattered. Gunfire, shouting, the sound of boots on our doorstep. Armed men stormed inside with guns and swords. We had no electricity—only the dim glow of chimney lamps. One of them grabbed me, demanding that I lead him to the army camp. Fear paralysed me. To say no meant death; to obey meant betraying my people. In a desperate burst of courage, I tore myself free, ran to the kitchen, and climbed up the chimney, pressing my body into its sooty hollow.

Hiding in the chimney

From that narrow, suffocating space, I heard it all. The fighters stormed through, beating women and children, shouting orders, demanding information. When people resisted, the punishment was merciless. Nine villagers were killed that night, including a woman. I remember one scene with unbearable clarity: a gentle neighbour in his forties—innocent, unarmed—was accused of withholding support. When he stood firm, they shot him dead. I saw it with my own eyes, trembling in the chimney, choking on smoke. That night ended my childhood. The boy who had once run freely across paddy fields grew into someone who knew too much of death.

The long walk into exile

By dawn, grief gave way to survival. Our village emptied itself. With no vehicles, families carried what they could and walked 25–30 kilometres to safety. After hours of exhaustion, we reached Ikkirikkollawa, a Muslim village between Madawachchiya and Anuradhapura. My family stayed five days before moving again—to Thelambugalla in Kurunegala, where my elder sister lived. About 40 displaced families joined us. A kind paddy landowner allowed us to build huts; my family was given an abandoned coconut store to live in. It had no electricity, no windows, and no kitchen. Yet compared to straw huts, it was a blessing. We lived there four years. Thelambugalla’s villagers were poor in money but rich in humanity. They shared food, lent tools, and offered kindness. In those years of displacement, their generosity kept us alive.

The struggle for education

Education became my lifeline. The nearest local school was inadequate. My elder brother—my mentor, now a senior lecturer at the University of Colombo—insisted I attend Panagamuwa School, seven kilometres away. Every day I walked three kilometres across the Deduru Oya river to catch a bus. From Grade 10 through Advanced Levels, I studied with stubborn determination. Against all odds, I earned a place at the University of Peradeniya to study Political Science. It was the first real crack of light after years of darkness.

A door opens to Japan

By then, my brother was pursuing his PhD in Japan. With his encouragement, I applied for higher studies and, in 2003, moved to Japan as a research student. Over the years I completed my MA and PhD. Japan was a revelation—disciplined, orderly, safe. For the first time, I lived in a society untouched by war. But my heart remained tied to Sri Lanka. In 2010, I returned with a mission: to contribute to peace.

Teaching peace in a wounded land

Back home, I began my academic career. It was not easy—funding was scarce, politics often intruded—but I persevered. Over the years, I taught nearly 600 postgraduate students—future scholars and policymakers—the subject closest to my soul: Peace and Conflict Studies. I collaborated with NGOs, contributed to reconciliation programs, and spoke on television and radio about the need for healing. My lectures were not just theory—they were rooted in memory. Every word carried the weight of what I had seen in 1990. I believed then, as I do now, that education is the strongest weapon for peace.

2019: The Easter Sunday attacks

But in April 2019, Sri Lanka was torn apart again. The Easter Sunday bombings shook the entire nation. As a Muslim scholar, I felt a profound sense of shame and sorrow. Though my family’s life was comfortable, my wife feared for the future of our two daughters. The shadow of suspicion had returned, and this time, we knew it would linger. Together, we made a painful decision: to leave. I applied abroad, and soon received a fellowship in Germany. With that opportunity, my family and I moved to Berlin. It has now been four years and eight months since we began this new chapter.

From survivor to scholar

Today, I live in Berlin as a peace scholar—teaching part-time at a university and researching conflict and reconciliation. Life here is very different from the paddy fields of Pavatkulam or the coconut store in Thelambugalla. My daughters go to school without fear. My wife has built her own circle of friends. And I continue the work that began long ago: teaching peace. I remain, however, two people at once. I am still that teenage boy hiding in a chimney to escape death. But I am also a father, a teacher, a researcher, and, above all, a witness.

Why I tell this story

I share this journey not to reopen old wounds, but to remind us of what war truly means. It is not just fought on battlefields—it is lived in homes, in villages, in the lives of children who run, hide, and grieve. From Vavuniya to Kurunegala, from Peradeniya to Japan, and now to Berlin, my life has been shaped by conflict but guided by hope. If there is one lesson I carry, it is this: peace is fragile, but possible. And it is worth everything. For the sake of my daughters, for the memory of my neighbours who died that night in 1990, and for the countless families still torn apart by violence, I will continue to tell this story. Because remembering is the first step toward ensuring it is never repeated.