Sonali Deraniyagala: "I could do nothing: neither speak nor cry"

In 2004, Sonali Deraniyagala was 40 years old and lived in London with her husband and two children. They decided that they would not spend that Christmas in England but in a nature reserve in the south of their country, Sri Lanka. On December 26, the tsunami –a word she didn't know– swept away the lives of her husband, her two children aged 5 and 7, and her parents. For a long time, she only thought about killing herself, but she found comfort in memories and in writing. What remains of those we love when they are gone? What do we remember? Questions and reflections that she wrote over seven years and which became the book Wave (wave), which is now being translated into Spanish by Capitán Swing and will be in bookstores from this Monday, June 8.

This book was not meant to be published.

— No, it was just for me. My therapist recommended it to me, it must have been about two years after the tsunami. At first, I told him no. I didn't even want to live, let alone write. But little by little fragments came and I started to jot down little things to remember them.

You started with the wave.

— About being inside, how surreal it was, because I was convinced, while living it, that I was dreaming it. And in the end I was writing for 6 or 7 years.

Does it serve to write?

— I don't feel like it's cathartic like some might imagine, but it was useful for me to put words to emotions along the way. And also as a kind of distraction, I had something to focus on.

December 26, 2004. What do you think?

— It's my division. My before and after.

It's incredible the sentence a friend tells you just before the tsunami.

— It seems almost unreal. She was in the next room, she was younger than me and told me that in a few years she would like to have a partner with whom to start a family. At that moment my children were jumping on the bed, you can imagine, making noise and bothering. She looked at them, looked at me and said: "What you have is a dream." Immediately afterwards she looked out the window and said: "My God, the sea is coming in here".

What did you think?

— I had not even ever heard the word tsunami. I didn't think of anything serious, I suppose I expected that at some point it would stop and go back. And then I saw that no, that it wasn't stopping.

You arrived at a jeep with your husband and your children, and you tried to flee until a big wave overturned the vehicle. When they find you, alone, you explain that you simply stay still.

— It was as if on one hand the brain was shutting down. I had the feeling that all of it was unreal. And at the same time, on a deep level, I knew what was happening. But I couldn't do anything: neither speak nor cry. I was as if frozen.

They took you to the capital, Colombo, where your family lived.

— And there I stayed for many months.

You speak very naturally about how to kill yourself.

— It was something I was clear I would do. I wasn't clear when and how, but the thought was there all the time.

But it was prevented by an army of people around you.

— They came from everywhere: friends and family from Sri Lanka, London, Australia… And they not only protected me at first, but for many years, even though I couldn't feel gratitude. They made me feel safe, yes, because at first I wasn't even capable of being alone in a room, I would go crazy. 

You actually explain that you saw them arrive and thought: but what are they doing here?

— I just thought "leave me alone". And no one left me alone. In fact, if I was in the bathroom there was someone outside, and if I took too long they would knock on the door. It is now, after twenty years, that I do know that these are the important things in life: to offer friendship and kindness unconditionally. And they were there unconditionally for me.

It's hard when you recount the first times, like, for example, going out on the street again. What do you remember?

— Two months must have passed and I was with a friend from England. The streets were the same, and I remember avoiding looking in many places because they brought back memories. And above all, the feeling of surrealism: how can I be going out if everything has disappeared? 

What was painful to see?

— What you see accidentally: a ball, a shoe... things that were part of your normal life before.

You took your time to return home.

— In our house in London, four years. My friend Anita, with whom we were neighbors, took care of it all this time. She came immediately to Sri Lanka, and I told her "throw it all away, everything". But she didn't, and I'm grateful to her for it. When I entered, four years later, everything was as we had left it. There were even gifts for the children, so they would find them as Christmas presents.

How did you feel?

— A lot of pain, obviously, but also a lot of calm. I had been trying for a long time to distance myself from all that, and somehow entering the house meant breathing again, feeling how I felt before. It was a way of saying 'ah, it was this, yes, I belong to this again'. And I felt it physically, viscerally.

You say it in the book: it is painful to remember…

— But less painful than trying not to remember it. It's better to remember and feel... and feeling is better because it makes you feel alive, even if what you feel at many moments is agony.

What is unpronounceable sometimes comes out unexpectedly. I think of the gentleman from Miami.

— Totally. I met this elderly, nice couple, and the gentleman at one point said: "I can't believe someone like you is single. I don't know what the men of today have in mind." He must have seen my face and said: "Oh, you're married, sorry, or perhaps separated..." And it just came out of me: "My husband is dead".

How does one survive what has happened to you?

— I don't know. In recent years, what is happening in Gaza has been broadcast to us, there was a civil war in my country and also in Sri Lanka last year a cyclone caused very serious landslides and entire families disappeared. And there is no single way to survive. The worst thing that could happen to me happened. But I have education, resources, a family, I was able to go to friends' houses in New York, or to see a therapist. And I am aware that this also makes a difference. Because disasters disproportionately affect people without resources. There are people who lose their families and find themselves without a home or food. I suppose everyone survives in different ways. Mine was to try to get closer to it instead of away from it. To feel it in all its intensity and agony.

And happiness is lived again?

— Absolutely. At first I only felt terror, and for a long time I couldn't even think about the following week, I just thought I didn't want to live. But being in New York, a therapist, writing, helped me. I am always thankful for all of this.

Do you remember the first time you laughed?

— Curiously, laughter came soon. We were with my cousin and the doctor came to visit me, because I had serious infections. And the doctor was afraid to enter, he knew what had happened to me. Then the poor boy, all nervous, dropped the bag, and instruments started falling out of it, they rolled everywhere and he was picking them up. I looked at my cousin and we started to laugh. The mind is a strange thing. 

Today you study the economic impact and recovery in areas affected by natural disasters at Columbia University.

— I have always worked in development economics, even before the tsunami. And now there are phenomena that are advancing and may be more serious due to global warming. And we see that the affected people are always those with fewer resources. So it has become a big problem. 

You focus on how to organize economic recovery well.

— Yes, because it is key to quickly find out who has been most affected. There is a lot of research showing that after events like Katrina or Sandy in the United States, the gap between whites and blacks increases. This is important to study well, because there are families who, beyond the emotional shock, never recover economically.

What would you say to someone going through a very difficult loss?

— That minutes must pass. Because life happens minute by minute, and there are moments when you think that hours will never end. But then it gets better. And the other thing that seems important to me is to do what seems right to you. People say many things, have many theories, but what is important is to believe in what you feel is correct for you.

Dedicate the book to Alexandra and Kristiana.

— Anita's daughters, my friend and neighbor, and the person who looked after my house in London for years. 

Why?

— They were the best friends of my children, they grew up like siblings. Anita came to Sri Lanka very early, and when I told her I wanted to die, she asked me, "What will my daughters do?" And it's a phrase I always kept in mind when I thought I couldn't take it anymore. Anita made me take the first flight to leave Sri Lanka and see them about ten months after the tsunami. 

Are you still in touch?

— The girls were here last weekend. One has a PhD in mathematics, the other is just finishing her studies in anthropology. And on Mother's Day they always send me something. We are family, and dedicating the book to them was a way of dedicating the book to the next generation. To the generation of my children.