Brotherless Night

Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of death and death by suicide.

Sashi begins the book by admitting that she is in communication with a terrorist and acknowledging that she herself could once have been categorized as a terrorist, which is a label that strikes fear and outrage in the minds of many. Yet she counterintuitively endeavors to portray herself (and, potentially, the unnamed terrorist correspondent) as a sympathetic figure. Her point here, and throughout the novel, is to call into question the label itself. She says, “[That] word, terrorist, is too simple for the history we have lived” (3). She believes that living through a decades-long civil war—wherein loyalties and alliances are changeable and recriminations and retributions are unimpeded by the rule of law or logic—requires a reframing of terms. Thus, Sashi challenges the traditional understanding of terrorism, portraying it not as an inherent identity but as a product of systemic violence and survival in extraordinary circumstances.

Sashi and the other characters in Brotherless Night live through a violent civil war and experience terror on many levels, whether it is meted out by the government, the militants, or the so-called peace-keeping forces that occupy the country. Ordinary people who live through such extraordinary events are often mere victims of much larger and more violent forces. As a result, they seek only to survive and will do it by any means necessary. Their suffering underscores the inadequacy of the label “terrorist” to describe those swept up in the conflict and who resist through any means available to them. Sashi makes this point in the Prologue, in which she states, “[When] I was that woman, when two terrorists encountered each other in my world, what they said first was simply hello. Like any two people you might know or love” (3). In this way, she normalizes and neutralizes the threat that is expressed by the word “terrorist.” Circumstances overwhelm civilians and militants alike, narrowing choices and sowing conflict.

Sashi’s narrative shows that the Sri Lankan government, in its efforts to suppress Tamil insurgency, turns to draconian measures: For instance, they round up and detain Tamil men in Jaffna, including Sashi’s younger brother, Aran, in a preemptive attempt to suppress militant activities. The riots in Colombo, which claim the life of Sashi’s oldest brother, Niranjan, are the Sinhalese government’s retaliation for the death of soldiers killed by Tamil militants. Following Niranjan’s death, both Dayalan and Seelan join “the movement” (the Tamil Tigers). Even the IPKF, once viewed as rescuers, quickly become compromised by the violence and their own ignorance of the history and nuances of the conflict. The endless cycle of attacks and retaliations blurs the lines between victim and perpetrator, showing that terror is both inflicted and endured by all sides. As Sashi bitterly observes, “Every Tamil boy born in the year I was born was acceptable collateral damage” (136)—this is the view of both the government and the militants.

Despite Sashi’s understanding of the roots of terrorism, she does not excuse the acts of violence committed by any group. As a doctor, Sashi focuses on saving lives rather than taking them. She never forgives Seelan for choosing to join the Tigers and abandoning his family. Similarly, she does not consider K a martyr for volunteering for the fatal hunger strike, and she does not condone the actions of Priya, a suicide bomber. Sashi’s empathy for these individuals does not excuse their violence but is a recognition of the trauma that shaped their choices. As she observes about Priya, “She had been a civilian, and they—the soldiers, the peacekeepers, and the Tigers—had made her into something else” (300). Terrorists, Sashi suggests, are not born but created by injustices and losses.