By Col Bhaskar Bharti (Retd)
They marched into dark jungles in a foreign land, far from home, with only their oath and uniform for comfort. They fought under the harsh Sri Lankan sun, wading through gunfire, booby-traps and guerilla ambushes. And many never returned. Yet, for decades, their memory lay buried in silence. Widows grew old wondering why no one asked about their husbands. Children of the fallen grew up hearing nothing but the flicker of fading memories. The nation they laid down their lives for turned away. This is not just history. This is heartbreak.
Voices that Echo
A veteran of the Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF) once confessed in hushed sorrow: “We were asked to bring peace. But when we returned, the peace we found at home was cold indifference.” Another widow – her voice trembling with grief, shared how she had lost not just a husband, but dignity. She said: “My children ask where their father is, but no recognition, no ceremony, not even a mention. It is as if, he never existed.” These voices are not dramatic exaggerations – they are the real, quiet heartbreak of families betrayed by time and memory. For years, they held tiny ceremonies, lighting lamps at home, praying at makeshift shrines because there was nowhere else to go.
From Hope to Hurt – The Journey of IPKF
In 1987, when India intervened in Sri Lanka under the peace-accord, the IPKF was meant to disarm militants peacefully. Instead, it got entangled in a brutal war of survival. The guerrilla tactics of the insurgents turned villages into battlegrounds, jungles into mazes of death, and friendships into memories of blood and dust. Between 1987 and 1990, more than 1,171 Indian soldiers lost their lives, and nearly 3,500 returned wounded, many scarred forever, some with missing limbs, and others with missing hope. Many received gallantry awards, one even the prestigious Param Vir Chakra, yet the nation refused to treat their sacrifice as it did in other wars. Officially, the mission was labelled ‘minor’. No grand welcome at the docks. No bugles. No buglers calling out last salutes. No public honours, no national mourning, no remembered glory. When the troops returned to Chennai in 1990, no officials were sent to wave flags. There were no parades, no sound of drums, no ribbons or flowers. Just silence. Many soldiers recall coming back expecting cheers, but were greeted by apathy. That silence was the first casualty.
The Cost of Silence — Lives, Families, Memories
For the families of the fallen, every day without recognition was another wound. Children grew up with no photograph to show their classmates. Widows repeated the same unanswered questions. Mothers held on to letters, medals, and stories, hoping one day someone would ask. A veteran once said: “We didn’t fight for medals or fame. We fought because our flag asked us to. But ask us now, and we will tell you, what’s the use of a medal if no one remembers who earned it?”
Some of their comrades are still buried in unmarked graves in Sri Lanka. There are stories – heartbreaking ones, of soldiers cremated without ceremony, sometimes even without their names being used, because the operation was politically delicate. For decades, across newspapers, history books, classroom lessons, there was only silence. Their bravery was excluded from the national narrative. Their families left to remember in solitude. And slowly, the wound deepened.
A Flicker of Light in Long Darkness
After nearly four decades, there was a moment that brought tears, but also hopes. On 25 November 2025, the Chief of Army Staff, General Upendra Dwivedi led an official wreath-laying ceremony at the National War Memorial. Veterans, widows, children, all stood together. For perhaps the first time, their pain, their loss, their sacrifices were spoken aloud by the nation. A decorated veteran called it a ‘long-awaited embrace’. Many families wept silently. Some held tight to brittle photos of their loved ones. The bugles played. The wreaths lay on silent stone. In that moment, the names that had been lost to neglect were read – as if someone finally remembered to whisper them aloud. As one veteran said: ‘Today, after 38 years, the nation finally said ‘we remember’.
But for many, the ceremony remains a small step on a long road. Institutional recognition, permanent memorials, and public remembrance, these are still pending. Many of the fallen remain unacknowledged in war-history books. Many wounded soldiers still await proper care, respect and dignity.
Why Recognition Matters for the Living not just the Dead
Because, this is not only about history. It’s about humanity. When a country sends its youth to fight for ideals – justice, peace or security, it must treat every life as sacred. When soldiers fall, far from home, their blood mixes with foreign soil. That soil becomes sacred too, and their names must be etched with dignity. If we forget them, we teach future generations that service can be silenced; sacrifices can be ignored. We tell them: ‘You fight. You may die. But don’t expect us to remember’. That kills more than one generation. Recognition is not a reward. It’s justice.
The Wound Heals Only if Memory Lives
For 38 long years, the brave men of IPKF carried invisible wounds. Their families carried invisible grief. Their sacrifice is priceless, lay invisible to the nation that asked for it. But the ceremony at the National War Memorial was more than a symbolic act. It was a tear, finally shed for long-forgotten soldiers; a name finally spoken after decades of silence; a promise long delayed, that they will not be erased again. Still, one ceremony does not absolve a nation of its debt. The grief of families does not vanish with wreaths. The stories of the martyrs do not get told in history textbooks with a single act of remembrance.
If we truly want to honour their sacrifices and blood, we must engrave it, publicly and permanently, in our collective memory. We must ensure that the names of those who gave their lives in Sri Lanka, are as familiar to every Indian schoolchild as the names of 1971 or 1962 or 1999 war heroes. Because a nation that forgets its warriors, especially those who fall far from home, in peacekeeping / peace enforcement missions, under ambiguous politics, is a nation that forgets itself. And a nation that forgets itself can never become great.
(The author is an army veteran and a social commentator. He is an alumnus of National Defence Academy and Indian Military Academy. He is a Post Graduate in HRM and Journalism and Mass Communication. He is based in Dehradun.)
