By Ariaratnam Gobikrishna –

Ariaratnam Gobikrishna MD

It was a sultry morning—another day in Jaffna spent chasing the fragments of childhood memory. I found myself at the Malayan Café, one of Jaffna’s old vegetarian establishments, hoping to rekindle the familiar taste of its timeless dishes. Yet, there was a delay in placing my order—not due to any disorganization, but because the server was carefully processing every Tamil word I spoke. I realized, with a gentle jolt, that Tamil wasn’t his first language. A short exchange revealed he was a Jaffna university student from the South—Sinhalese by birth—working to support himself through school.

I expressed my admiration during our brief conversation. There was something poignant in his quiet determination and respectful demeanor. It reminded me of another recent encounter at the Heritage Hotel, where the receptionist gently prompted me to speak in English. Even the room service staff, with similar courtesy, apologized for not being fluent in Tamil. It was humbling—a subtle reminder that in this once exclusively Tamil enclave, new winds were blowing.

That same afternoon, I visited a nearby village to assist a young family with a child. What followed was a series of dead ends—disheartening ones. The young father, a high school dropout with no assets or familial support, rejected every suggestion I offered. Jobs were dismissed as beneath him, relocation was unthinkable—he spoke of cultural roots and the comforts of home, though his circumstances betrayed none. What troubled me more was the caste-laden language he used to demean hardworking people, making me increasingly uncomfortable. It was a conversation that revealed how deep the rot still runs.

As I sat reflecting, a message arrived on my phone—the same young man was prodding me about a purchase of land nearby to build a house. That brought me to a disturbing pattern I’ve observed: the new wave of land speculation in Jaffna, led by the diaspora.

Two kinds of returnees have emerged in their twilight years—religious zealots and flamboyant showmen. The former are locked in a quiet competition to outdo each other in building religious monuments, with the Hindu contingent leading the race in grandeur and scale. The latter are snapping up land near Jaffna town and the Nallur temple, constructing lavish homes and parading them on YouTube like trophies. This frenzied demand has driven prices through the roof, sparking criminal land grabs and ugly feuds within families—sometimes even leading to the dispossession of the elderly from their ancestral homes.

Today, in Jaffna, it’s hard to carry a conversation for more than a minute without hearing the word “Kodi” (millions)—referring not to dreams or ambitions, but to land values, uttered amid crumbling structures and a backdrop of decay. The contradiction is stark.

It reminded me of a recent conversation in Malaysia with a family whose grandparents had migrated from Jaffna. On a fact-finding visit, they had returned to the old homeland, only to be met with boastful relatives prattling on about property values. One of them summed it up with a bemused chuckle: “Why are they living like this, la?”

My encounter with the receptionist at Jetwing Jaffna, conducted entirely in Tamil, was frustrating from the very beginning. I was asked to prove that my booking through Bookings.com had been paid for—something I had already confirmed through the app. In the end, I had to pay the full amount upfront just so they could “check with their accounts department.” The resolution took over 15 days, after countless back-and-forth emails.

This wasn’t just an isolated incident. I’ve noticed a pattern whenever I try to raise a concern or offer a constructive suggestion in Jaffna—it’s met with resistance, sometimes bordering on defiance. The common refrain is: “We need funds because of the civil war.” But along with that comes a rejection of any advice, expertise, or input—almost as if acknowledging outside perspectives is a threat to their self-image. There’s a deep-seated belief that, despite everything that’s happened, they lack nothing—except money. And once you show them the money, everything else supposedly takes care of itself. It’s a transactional mindset that misses the bigger picture. Without accountability, without a willingness to learn or adapt, no amount of money can build what was lost—nor can it sustain what remains.

It’s hard not to feel disheartened by the transactionalism that has taken root—where money is welcomed, but questions are not; where development is measured by the square footage of a house or the height of a temple kopuram, not by the dignity of everyday life or the health of civic discourse.

For a region that suffered deeply from a war rooted in exclusion and inequality, one would expect more humility, more openness to ideas, and a greater sense of collective purpose. Instead, there is often a brittle pride, cloaked in postwar victimhood, that refuses to confront its own shortcomings.

Jaffna deserves more than handouts—it deserves honesty, courage, and a willingness to grow. But that growth will not come from overseas bank transfers alone. It must come from within: through hard questions, uncomfortable conversations, and a letting go of the very hierarchies and habits that once tore it apart.

Until then, we may continue building temples and mansions—but not a future.