A murder of crows peck at a katta karawala carcass outside a stretch of fishing wadiyas as the sun sets, leaving a long shadow over the Mullaitivu beach, situated on the north-eastern coast of the Northern Province, Sri Lanka .
Every now and again Pedurupullai Markupillay throws a stone in the general direction of the crows. He doesn’t care that the carcass is being attacked but doesn’t want to allow the crows to be too comfortable at settling outside his wadiya.
Markupillay began fishing when he was 18 years old. Now 69, he owns five boats that he leases out to the other fisherman that have settled into the wadiyas along the Mullaitivu beach. He has four children. Three of them are adults now. They have little to no interest in following their father’s footsteps and devoting themselves to a life at sea. “The younger generation are distracted and have no concern for what we do. Fishing used to be a generational occupation. My father was a fisherman, so was my grandfather,” he says.
Markupillay’s eldest daughter Kelansuthayini was attending a leadership programme at the Senchoali Children’s home in Vallipunam when it was bombed by the Sri Lanka Air Force. She was 18. His wife passed away some years ago as well; the years have hardened him to the realities of an occupation that’s unpredictable, uncertain and volatile.
Kerosene oil arrives just once a month — the shortage severely denting the community’s ability to fish. “6,500 litres per month is what they send. It’s the bare minimum we can deal with,” says Markupillay. The litre of kerosene oil that was Rs. 75 a year ago is now Rs. 365. Monsoon rain or mid day shine, catch or no catch, this is the reality the community has to contend with.
To work around the shortage, the men collect their respective kerosene quotas and share it among those who venture out to the sea. A portion of the catch is then shared back with the rest of the community. If someone among the group is unwell or unable to go out, the others share something of their return as well. It is the practical solution of a close knit community to get around times of crises.
“The younger generation don’t understand the value of the community we have built around ourselves,” reflects Markupillay. The boat owner still understands and sympathises with his children’s desire to pursue a better life and progress upwards rather than commit their lives to an unpredictable life at sea, yet it is the future of his occupation rather than of his children that he seems to weigh more seriously as he speaks. The economic crisis has affected the community no doubt, yet the sense of community that has built a system of understanding among the fisher folk is something that helps it stay afloat all the same.
While kerosene shortages and occupational sustenance form the backbone of the issues on land, further out at sea, the fisher folk of Mullaitivu must contend with the Tamil Nadu bottom trawlers from the North and light-course fisherman from the South, both of which are of serious detriment to the fishing ecosystem that the fisherman of Mullaitivu depend on.
Boats from Trincomalee and Batticaloa who venture into Northern waters often employ the light-course system here, complains Navaratnam Shanthan (38) one of the fishermen who regularly takes Markupillay’s boats out to sea. Already deemed illegal due to the harm it causes to marine life, light-coursing sees a bright set of LED lights shone directly into the water, driving the fish in a specific area into a large net where they are separated and harvested, causing an imbalance in the ecosystem as one type of fish is allowed to thrive while another is systematically fished. “Fishermen from Negombo and Trincomalee come here and use dynamite in the water as well,” notes Shanathan. “They don’t care about what it does to the sea. Their life doesn’t depend on the ecosystem here.”