The letter trembled in my hands, not from the gentle evening breeze that swept through my apartment window, but from the weight of history it carried. The crisp white paper bore a military insignia at its corner, faded but unmistakable. My eyes traced over the words again, disbelieving.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑀𝑟. 𝑆𝑅𝑁𝑌 𝐺𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑎,

𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑆𝐿𝑀𝐴, 𝐷𝑖𝑦𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑎. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦, 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑒𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑤𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

 

𝑆𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝐶𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑆𝑈 𝐴𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑦𝑎 𝑃𝑊𝑉 𝑎𝑛𝑑 64 𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑠

A phantom letter from fallen heroes. My hands shook violently now. Captain Saliya Upul Aladeniya had stood his ground at Kokavil transmission tower thirty-five years ago, choosing death over surrender alongside sixty-five brave men. Their bodies were never recovered from that blood-soaked earth. And yet, somehow, their voices had found a way to reach across the divide between the living and the fallen.

Outside, Colombo pulsed with life car horns, street vendors, children racing home from school. A Sri Lanka at peace, unknowing of the price paid by those sixty-five souls. I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes. When I had accepted Director Rajapathirana's offer to play Aladeniya in his film, I had thought it was merely another role. I never expected to become a vessel for ghosts.

I opened my eyes and gazed at my reflection in the window glass. Beyond my face lay the twinkling lights of a nation that had nearly forgotten its defenders. "I will tell your story," I whispered to the shadows. "I swear it."

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫,
I had sat across from Director Rajapathirana in his cluttered office, surrounded by awards and framed movie posters. Most featured my face Yashwin Gunawardena, Sri Lanka's beloved romantic hero, the man whose on-screen kisses made teenage girls swoon and whose dramatic proclamations of love had become cultural touchstones.

"Mr. Yash, we would like to cast you as the lead character in our new film," Rajapathirana had said, sliding a thick manuscript toward me.

"Another love story?" I'd asked with a practiced smile.

The director's expression had hardened. "No, Mr. Gunawardena. A war story. A true one."

He had watched me carefully as he explained. "You are Saliya Aladeniya. Captain Saliya Aladeniya. That officer who sacrifices himself for freedom of our land."

The name had stirred something in me a vague recollection from history lessons long forgotten. A battle. A siege. A last stand.

"I will look at the script and tell you," I had replied professionally, expecting to take the customary two weeks to consider the offer.

That night, as rain lashed against my windows, I began reading. The story of Kokavil unfolded before me not as dry historical record but as living testament. I saw Aladeniya boarding that train from Kandy, unaware he would never return. I felt the growing desperation as supplies dwindled. I heard the whistling artillery shells and the crackling flames. By dawn, tears had soaked the manuscript's pages, and I knew this was not merely a role to be played but a sacred trust to be upheld.

My call to Rajapathirana had come not two weeks later, but mere hours after receiving the script.

"I need to do this," I had told him, my voice thick with emotion. "Not for my career. For them."

The Sri Lanka Military Academy at Diyatalawa stood like a sentinel against the misty highlands, its colonial architecture a reminder of histories layered upon histories. Our convoy of actors arrived on a Monday morning, greeted by stern-faced officers who showed no difference to celebrities.

Captain Lanka Sooriyabandara, a compact man with eyes that had seen combat, assessed us with unconcealed skepticism. "So, you're the movie stars who think you can play soldiers," he had remarked, pacing before our ragged line. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll either understand what that means, or you'll quit."

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The first week broke us down systematically. Dawn runs through mountain trails that left us gasping. Obstacle courses shredded our hands and bruised our bodies. We learned to field strip weapons, to move in formation, to communicate using military hand signals. Our muscles screamed. Our pampered skin blistered and tore.

I watched as the days grew harder, but not even one of us walked away. No one packed their bags. No one gave up. We grew closer, forged by shared hardship into something resembling a unit.

At night, I studied Aladeniya's service record, tracing the trajectory that had brought a bright young man from Trinity College, Kandy to that fateful command. I learned he had been a gifted student with a passion for cricket. That he had joined the volunteer force out of patriotic duty rather than career ambition. That his mother had begged him not to return to duty after that final leave.

In the second week, Captain Sooriyabandara informed us we would be visiting Kokavil itself. The military transport rumbled through territories once ravaged by war, now slowly healing under tenuous peace. As we traveled, I gazed out at villages rebuilding, at children playing in fields once seeded with landmines, at life persistently reclaiming ground once ceded to death.

"Prepare yourselves," Sooriyabandara cautioned as we approached our destination. "You are entering hallowed ground."

Kokavil. The name hung in the air like a prayer. The rebuilt transmission tower jutted into the evening sky, a steel monument to both technological progress and human sacrifice. Around its base, the jungle had been cleared to create a small memorial garden, but nature was already reclaiming the edges, vines creeping toward the center like memories refusing to be contained.

We stood in silence as the setting sun cast long shadows across ground that had drunk the blood of heroes. Captain Sooriyabandara moved to the center of our circle, the fading light glinting off his insignia.

"Please, remove your shoes," he commanded softly. "This is a sacred Place."

As dusk deepened into night, small lamps were lit around the perimeter of what had once been the camp. In their flickering glow, Sooriyabandara's face seemed to shift between present and past, between the living and the shades of those who had fallen here.

"This is the story I am telling you,” He began, his voice dropping to a ritual cadence, "a historical legend of 65 Soldiers sacrificing their lives for the country for one purpose. So, listen to this story carefully."

He spoke of the tower's strategic importance, the highest point in the Northern Province, crucial for communications across the region. Of how in 1982, it had risen as a gesture of international goodwill, only to become a focal point of bitter conflict. Of how Colonel Abhaya Weerakoon had dispatched three officers and eighty-four men to secure it during the fragile peace of 1990.

"The peace agreement with the LTTE was already crumbling," Sooriyabandara continued. "Both sides knew war would resume. It was only a question of when and where the first blow would fall."

As night deepened, so did the tale. Lieutenant Jayantha Ratnayake departing on leave on July 7th. Second Lieutenant Aladeniya assuming command of sixty-four remaining men. The first probing attacks by LTTE forces testing the camp's defenses. The slowly tightening noose as surrounding camps fell silent one by one.

I closed my eyes and saw it all Aladeniya moving among his men, reassuring them even as he must have recognized the gravity of their situation. The desperate attempts to resupply by air, with bundles falling into enemy hands. Men licking ice cubes mixed with dirt to quench unbearable thirst. The wounded were crying out for water they could not provide.

"By July 10th 1990," Sooriyabandara said, his voice falling to a near-whisper that forced us to lean closer, "they had been surviving on salt porridge and boiled leaves for weeks. Seven were dead. Twelve were wounded. Ammunition was critically low."

A phantom pain gnawed at my stomach as I imagined that hunger. The smell of cordite filled my nostrils though no shots had been fired here for decades. Somewhere in the darkness beyond our circle, a nightbird called a lonesome sound that might have been the last natural beauty those soldiers heard.

"Higher command ordered evacuation," Sooriyabandara continued. "But Aladeniya knew the wounded couldn't be moved through enemy lines. He knew the strategic value of what they defended. He told his men: 'I will not abandon you even if I die. If you need to, there is no harm in escaping.'"

The captain's voice broke slightly. "But not one man left. Sixty-four voices answered as one that they would stand with their commander to the last bullet."

In that moment, under the vast canopy of stars that had witnessed their sacrifice, I felt Aladeniya's presence so strongly it stole my breath. Not as a historical figure but as a brother-in-arms, separated only by the thin veil of years. I understood then that I was not merely preparing to play a role I was being entrusted with a man's soul.

Dawn brought a different perspective on the Kokavil site. In daylight, we could see the precise layout of the former camp, the foundations still visible in places, nature's reclamation incomplete. Sooriyabandara walked us through the tactical situation, pointing out defensive positions, the vulnerable approaches, the location of the well that had become unreachable.

"Imagine," he said, gesturing to a depression in the earth that had once been a bunker, "holding this position for weeks. No reinforcements coming. Supplies dwindling. The wounded crying out behind you. Enemy fire is intensifying. And still, not one-man broke ranks."

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We spent the day moving through the former camp, placing ourselves in the defenders' positions, feeling the sun beat down as it had on them, sensing the oppressive weight of the jungle's edge where enemies had lurked. By afternoon, the physical reality of their situation had imprinted itself on our bodies and minds in ways no script could convey.

As evening approached once more, Sooriyabandara gathered us beside the charred remains of what had once been the communications building.

"On July 11th, 1990, the final assault began," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "Five hundred LTTE fighters against sixty-five starving defenders with limited ammunition. They fought through the night and into the early hours of July 12th. One by one, the defensive positions fell. The oil tank was hit, engulfing part of the camp in flames."

He pointed to the concrete foundation before us. "Lieutenant Aladeniya made his way here, to the transmission station. From this spot, he sent his final message to headquarters."

The captain's voice shifted, taking on the cadence of recitation, as if the words had been inscribed in his heart:

"The 1st line of my camp has been hit by tera. There are many tera everywhere. So don't think about me. Shoot as much artillery as possible at the camp, or send the Air Force and drop bombs on it… Don’t worry sir…  I will fight till I die."

The words hung in the humid air. I sank to my knees beside the foundation, placing my palm against the sun warmed concrete. Had his hand rested here in those final moments? Had he felt the building shake with incoming fire? Had he known, as he requested his own position be bombed, exactly what legacy he was creating?

"After that transmission, silence fell," Sooriyabandara continued softly. "Wing Commander Romesh Mendis led MiG fighters to the coordinates. They bombed the area thoroughly, ensuring the strategic tower would not fall intact into enemy hands."

Night was falling again, the jungle coming alive with sounds that seemed too peaceful for such hallowed ground. I remained kneeling, my hand pressed to the concrete, tears streaming unchecked down my face.

"Officially, they remain 'missing in action,'" the captain concluded. "Their bodies never recovered. But make no mistake they died here, as a brotherhood, having never surrendered either their position or their honor."

In the gathering darkness, I made a silent vow to the man whose life I would portray: "I will carry your story with dignity. I will honor your sacrifice. Through me, you will speak again."

When we returned to Diyatalawa, our training acquired new purpose. No longer were we merely preparing for a film we were preparing to bear witness. Every detail mattered now: how a soldier stands at attention, how commands are given, how weapons are handled with respect rather than bravado. We absorbed these lessons with monastic dedication.

During an evening briefing, Captain Sooriyabandara brought out a polished wooden case. Opening it reverently, he revealed a gleaming medal suspended from a maroon ribbon.

"The Parama Weera Vibhushan," he said, lifting it carefully. "Sri Lanka's highest military honor. Only Thirty-one have been awarded since 1948 independence. Lieutenant Aladeniya received his posthumously, promoted to Captain in recognition of his extraordinary leadership."

He allowed each of us to hold the medal briefly not Aladeniya's actual medal, he explained, but one identical to it. When my turn came, the weight of it surprised me. How could such a small thing encompass such immense sacrifice?

"To earn this," Sooriyabandara said as I returned the medal to its case, "requires valor beyond what most humans could comprehend, much less emulate. Remember that when you portray these men. They were not action heroes. They were flesh and blood, facing impossible odds with nothing but duty and brotherhood to sustain them."

That night, I dreamed of Aladeniya for the first time. Not as I imagined him in battle, but as he might have been in peacetime laughing with friends at Trinity College, bowling cricket balls on a sun dappled field, embracing his mother before boarding that final train from Kandy. I woke with tears on my pillow and the unshakable sense that I had been chosen not by a director, but by Aladeniya himself.

In our last week of training, we conducted a full reenactment of the Kokavil defense. With Sooriyabandara observing, we took positions around a mock camp perimeter. For forty-eight hours, we rotated through simulated combat scenarios, sleep deprivation, and rationed supplies. It was a pale shadow of what the actual defenders had endured.

On our final night at Diyatalawa, exhausted and transformed, we gathered in the officers' mess. The usual military formality had softened slightly, allowing for reflection rather than instruction.

"When you leave tomorrow," Sooriyabandara said, "you will return to your comfortable lives. Hot showers. Restaurant meals. Adoring fans. But I hope you take with you something of what these men embodied not just for your film, but for yourselves."

He raised a glass. "To Captain Aladeniya and the sixty-four who stood with him, absent companions."

"Absent companions," we echoed, a phrase I had never spoken before, yet which felt ancient on my tongue.

As we prepared to depart the next morning, Sooriyabandara took me aside. For weeks he had been our instructor, distant and demanding. Now, something more personal entered his manner.

"My father was stationed at Mankulam," he said quietly. "Few kilometers from Kokavil. Close enough to hear the final bombardment but too far to render aid. He never forgave himself for surviving when they did not."

"What did he tell you about that day?" I asked softly.

"Very little," Sooriyabandara replied. "Only that when the radio fell silent, and then the aircraft came, every man at Mankulam wept. My father said, “We lost sixty-five brothers that day, but gained sixty-five guardian angels.”

He pressed something into my hand tarnished button bearing the insignia of the Sinha Regiment. "This was recovered from the Kokavil site years later. I've carried it as a reminder. Now I entrust it to you."

Words failed me. I could only clasp his hand in both of mine, this transfer of relics more meaningful than any contract I had ever signed.

"Tell their story truly," he said. "Not as war propaganda or empty heroics. Tell it as the story of men who could have chosen to live but instead chose something greater."

"Did your father ever speak of Aladeniya directly?" I asked.

Sooriyabandara's eyes grew distant. "Only once. He said, 'Aladeniya was no different from any of us, except in the moment when it mattered most. When faced with an impossible choice, he chose honor over life. That's what makes a hero not fearless but choosing to act despite fear.’

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Filming began two weeks after our return from training. I had lost twelve kilograms, gained muscle definition, and acquired a soldier's bearing that no acting coach could have instilled. More than physical transformation, however, I had undergone a spiritual one. I was no longer merely playing Saliya Aladeniya, I was offering my body as a vessel for his story.

The production spared no detail in recreating the Kokavil camp. Military advisors, including Sooriyabandara, oversaw every aspect from uniform insignia to the progressive deterioration of the defenders' appearance as the siege wore on.

During a scene depicting the midpoint of the siege, the script called for Aladeniya to address his increasingly desperate men. I delivered the scripted lines mechanically, feeling something was missing.

"Cut!" called Director Rajapathirana. "Yash, what's wrong?"

"It doesn't feel right," I admitted. "These words... they're good, but they're not his."

"What would he have said?" the director challenged.

I closed my eyes, remembering the photograph, the button, the hallowed ground at Kokavil. When I opened them again, I was no longer Yashwin the actor, but something closer to the man I was portraying.

"Brothers," I began softly, looking at each actor representing Aladeniya's men, "I know you're tired. I know you're hungry. I know you're afraid. So am I. But look at the man beside you. That's who we fight for now. Not for flags or generals or politics. For each other. When this is over, we'll go to my mother's house in Kandy. Best hoppers in Sri Lanka, I promise you. Hold on to that. Hold on to tomorrow."

Silence fell over the set. Then Rajapathirana whispered, "Keep rolling."

When we filmed Aladeniya's final radio transmission, the set fell silent with reverence. The words were no longer lines in a script but a sacred text:

"The 1st line of my camp has been hit by tera. There are many tera everywhere. So don't think about me. Shoot as much artillery as possible at the camp, or send the Air Force and drop bombs on it…"

I paused, feeling Aladeniya's presence overwhelming me.

"Lieutenant, confirm your request," came the voice of the actor playing the headquarters commander.

"I confirm, sir," I replied, my voice steady despite the tears streaming down my face. "Better the tower falls by our hands than theirs."

"And your men?"

"They stand with me. To the last."

"Lieutenant... Saliya... this is a suicide."

I smiled then, a smile of profound peace amidst chaos. "Don't worry sir... I will fight till I die. For my motherland."

As I spoke these words, surrounded by the simulated chaos of the final assault, something extraordinary happened. The boundary between performance and channeling dissolved. For a brief, transcendent moment, I was not Yashwin Gunawardena speaking Aladeniya's words. I was merely the conduit through which Aladeniya himself spoke to posterity.

When the director called "Cut," I remained kneeling beside the radio set, unwilling to break the connection that had formed. Eventually, Sooriyabandara himself helped me to my feet, his eyes glistening with unspoken recognition of what had transpired.

"He was with you," he said simply. "We all felt it."

The filming concluded after three grueling months. When the last scene was wrapped, there was no customary celebration. Instead, the entire cast and crew observed a minute of silence for the sixty-five who had inspired our work. No applause could have been more meaningful.

******************************************************************************
And now, months later, this impossible letter had appeared beneath my door. I held it to the light, examining the handwriting, the paper stock, searching for evidence of prank. Finding none, I was left with the inexplicable: a message from beyond, or perhaps, more rationally, a symbolic gesture from someone connected to the Kokavil story.

The film will premiere next week. Early screenings had left the audience silent and tearful. Critics were already using words like "transformative" and "historic." But none of that mattered beside the weight of the letter in my hands.

I carefully folded it and placed it in my wallet. Then I picked up my keys and headed for my car. I needed to drive to Kandy, to visit the childhood home of Saliya Aladeniya at No. 109/01, Lewella. I needed to meet his family, those who had carried the weight of his absence for thirty-five years.

I needed to tell them that their son had spoken to me, and through me, would soon speak to the nation. That the sixty-five of Kokavil would be forgotten no more.

As I drove through the lush highlands toward Kandy, I glanced in my rearview mirror. For a moment, just a moment I thought I saw sixty-five figures in military uniform standing at attention on the road behind me. When I blinked, they were gone. But their presence remained a sacred burden I would carry for the rest of my days.

Some stories are not just told they are entrusted. Some characters are not just portrayed they are honored. And some obligations transcend the boundaries between living and the fallen, between history and memory, between fact and legend.

The legend of Kokavil would live on. Not as a footnote in military records, but as a testament to what humans can become when called to their highest purpose. And in that becoming, achieve immortality.

(A creative retelling of a true event.)

KASUN SAPUMOHOTTI