The Reunion
I’m eighteen years old and we’ve just arrived at the village of Bentota. A flurry of burnt-orange dust surrounds our white van and it’s nearly impossible to make out the small clay hut before us. I feel an aching lump form in my throat. It’s difficult to breathe and my limbs seize up. I take a moment. Once I’m alone in the van, I calm my breathing and dab my face with Dad's tartan handkerchief.
As I walk toward the patchy wooden front door, I look down at the terracotta floor and count twenty-five different pairs of shoes beside the door. Twenty five people are inside the hut. Cheering and clapping erupts as the wooden door is opened. Haris, our interpreter, gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. Inside, the home is dark and dusty. My eyes sting from the sudden change in light, but I see beautiful white smiles, brown skin like mine and glossy ebony hair. Instantly, I think, these are my people.
Dad looks concerned, showcasing an uncomfortable smile, whereas mum has a genuine warmth to her expression, despite her face glistening from the tropical Sri Lankan climate. My two families collide and emotions run high. At the peak of my happiness, I become conscious that someone is missing.
My biological mum, Sithy, passed away before I had the chance to meet her. This trip had been in the making for over ten years, and it saddens me that the one person I needed most to meet is no longer here.
Despite feeling overwhelmed, I take comfort in Haris' words as he translates. I reach out to my biological family. I rub my sister’s slender back while she nervously speaks in Sinhalese. I cradle my other sister’s bony hands while she stares deep into my eyes, twirling my hair in her fingers. My older brother is far too timid for that kind of physical contact; his eyes are darting, and I hug him that little bit longer than the others. Then my father approaches. His fragility is alarming. I realise I know very little about his life.
We’re offered a traditional feast. As we sit down to eat, I notice Dad’s smile is genuine now, and Mum has removed the video camera from her cheek. This experience has taught me the power of human connection. Even in the face of overwhelming uncertainty, there are people who will welcome you with open arms.