The Photo Board

January 1, 2005

They have posted photos of the dead in the church at Vailankani. Every morning, dazed residents shuffle past to scan the faces of the victims, searching for loved ones lost first to the sea, and then again to the mass burials that followed.

There are no names for Vailankani’s dead. Their faces stare back from square wooden boards, each labeled only by number. Photo 188 is a young man in a yellow checked shirt. Photo 56 is a girl with short cropped, tomboy hair. In all, there are 194 photos on the wall here.

As I stand watching, a woman in a pink scarf approaches and tugs at my arm. Without a word, she directs me to photo 89 – third column over, third row from the bottom. She thrusts a black and white passport photo into my hand, looks into my eyes, and bursts into sobs. She has just found her husband among the faces on the wall.

A crowd gathers silently around her tears. She points again, disbelieving, to the small passport photo – a wiry young man with a neatly trimmed mustache – and opens her hands in supplication. I step back unconsciously, uncertain of what’s expected of me. The woman is absorbed back into the crowd, and I take the chance to look carefully at photo 89. It is a man with sand caked hair, his head slightly turned, his face deeply bruised and graying. I can’t be certain, but the likeness is there, as much as the dead can resemble the living. I stare for a long moment, hoping I’m wrong. But my eyes answer the woman in the scarf when she returns to take the photo from my hand.

Her tears attract a priest, then a policeman in a dull green uniform. She offers the passport photo to him, and stands back to await his judgment. For a moment, the tears stop. Not trusting herself, she has pinned everything on this final verdict. Stepping into his role, the policeman leans down to photo 89 and holds the black and white photo close. Those who had gathered turn their faces to the board and return, one by one, to their own private searches. The woman in the scarf seems horribly alone to me.

The policeman turns and slips the passport photo into her trembling hands. He nods and takes her arm, and turns to consult with the priest in charge of the picture boards. That is her answer. I watch as the weight falls almost visibly upon her. Then, she turns to me again, her scarf wet now with tears, and holds the photo up slowly, as if I who know nothing of such pain can assuage her anguish, as if only a stranger could lift this grief from her. I can say nothing as she is led gently from the hall. Behind her, the crowd closes in again on the photos of the dead.