My dear Vijay

You, Vijay, are not just another politician

I write to you not as a politician or an academic, but as a Sri Lankan who has lived through years of pain, and as someone who has witnessed firsthand the devastation of war. I also write as someone who has admired you as an actor, as a man loved by millions for your humility, your charisma, and the way you connect with ordinary people. Now, as you prepare to step into politics, I feel compelled to share a few words with you, not out of anger, but out of deep concern and hope.

A war that nobody won

We fought a war in Sri Lanka for 30 long years. A useless war. Ultimately, no one won. Hundreds of thousands of people lost their loved ones. The property was destroyed. A whole generation was scarred, broken, or lost forever. The numbers still haunt us. There were an estimated 89,000 war widows in the North and East after the conflict. Most of them were young women, suddenly left with children to feed, households to run, and a lifetime of grief to carry. They faced not only poverty, but also social stigma and isolation.

And it wasn’t just the Tamil community that suffered. Sinhalese families in border villages lived in fear of bombs and massacres. Muslim families were driven from their homes, uprooted from the lives they had built. The war consumed everyone. Pain did not discriminate.

What did Tamil Nadu do?

But what hurt us deeply was this: while we were suffering, what did the politicians of Tamil Nadu do? They lit torches and marched on the streets. They staged fiery protests. They raised funds. They gave shelter and training to militants. They spoke loud words in assemblies and parliaments. But did they ever come to our villages to wipe our tears? Did they ever build us a school or a hospital? Did they ever sit with a grieving mother or an orphaned child?

No, my dear Vijay. They played politics with our pain.

The children we lost

This is what cuts me the most. The world knew, Human Rights Watch, UNICEF, journalists, and aid workers all knew that the LTTE was taking children. Children were dragged from classrooms. Some were taken at night, kidnapped from their homes. Others were picked up while walking to school. Parents who resisted faced threats, violence, and even detention.

Where were the loud voices then? Did a single politician or actor from Tamil Nadu speak against this? Did anyone have the courage to say: “This is wrong. You cannot sacrifice children”?

I was there. I lived in camps, I visited villages, I worked with families in the North and East during those years. I listened to thousands of stories from both sides. Later, I made a documentary called ‘Butterfly’, it was about child soldiers, the innocent lives torn apart before they even knew what life was.

Every story I heard was a wound. A father whose daughter was taken in the night. A mother whose two sons were pulled out of school. Families broken, not just by war, but by those who claimed to fight for them. And through all this, Tamil Nadu’s leaders chose silence.

Today’s needs

Now, my dear Vijay, you speak of reclaiming Katchatheevu Island. You want to make it a political promise. But I must ask: what will an island do for us? Will it build a single home? Will it feed a single widow? Will it send a single child to school? Our people’s needs today are simple, but urgent.

We need schools where children can learn without fear.

We need homes where families can live with dignity.

We need jobs so young people don’t have to migrate or lose hope.

We need small initiatives, fishing boats, vocational training, and microfinance that allow ordinary people to stand on their own feet.

If you truly want to help Tamil people, these are the places where your energy, your influence, and your resources should go.

The diaspora too

There is another truth we must face. Our Tamil diaspora, spread across Europe, North America, Australia, and beyond, has also played this game. For decades they held protests, organised marches, wrote petitions, and even built monuments. Their voices were loud in foreign capitals, their influence strong in media circles.

But did those same voices invest in our widows, our orphans, our youth? Did they build schools in Kilinochchi, or clinics in Batticaloa, or job centres in Hatton? Very little. They spoke of justice, but rarely sent the kind of help that would let our people rise again.

My dear Vijay, this is where you can make a difference. If you appeal to the diaspora, not for more protests, not for more statues and memorials, but for real, practical rebuilding, you can change the course of history.

Imagine if every Tamil family abroad contributed to scholarships for children here. Imagine if diaspora engineers, doctors, and entrepreneurs created projects in Jaffna, Trincomalee, and Batticaloa. Imagine if their love turned into livelihoods for those still trapped in poverty.

You have the moral authority to ask this of them. If you do, you will not only win the hearts of Tamils, but of all Sri Lankans, because they will see a leader who chose to stand by us at a crucial moment in our history.

You have the power

You, Vijay, are not just another politician. You are a man with millions of fans. You are married to a Sri Lankan woman, so this land is part of your family too. People trust you. They look up to you. Imagine if you used that influence not to reclaim an island, but to reclaim the future of thousands of broken families. Imagine if you said, “I will build 1,000 schools,” or “I will create 10,000 jobs.” Imagine the hope that would spread, not just in Tamil Nadu, but here in Sri Lanka as well.

This is your chance to be remembered not just as a star, not just as a politician, but as a true leader who healed, who built, who united.

A gentle appeal

My dear Vijay, politics is often about noise. About slogans, about symbols, about stunts. But real leadership is about listening to the quiet cries of ordinary people. Our cries are not for islands. Our cries are for dignity, for healing, for survival.

So, I appeal to you with respect: if you wish to stand for the Tamil people, then stand where we truly need you. Stand with the widows. Stand with the orphans. Stand with the jobless youth. Stand with the farmers and fishermen. That is where your name will shine brighter than any film. That is where history will remember you with gratitude, not suspicion.

With hope and respect,

Vishnu Vasu

Author and Documentary     Filmmaker

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