On a recent summer afternoon in June, as I walked through the streets of La Chapelle in northern Paris, better known as “Little Jaffna” which is located in the city's 10th arrondissement, I spotted posters bearing the image of Velupillai Prabhakaran, the late leader of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). Framed by red and yellow colors and often accompanied by the LTTE’s iconic tiger emblem, these posters carried slogans in Tamil celebrating Prabhakaran as a revolutionary and national hero.
The image of Prabhakaran carries particular political weight as he was not merely a political figure; he was the leader of one of the most feared insurgent groups in modern history, proscribed as a terrorist organization by countries including India, the United States, and the European Union. The LTTE’s three-decade-long civil war against the Sri Lankan state claimed the lives of over 100,000 people and ended in 2009 with Prabhakaran’s death in the Mullaitivu jungles.
Coming from the northernmost part of India, the events of May 21, 1991, which unfolded at the southern tip of the country, have stayed with me for reasons I still can't fully explain. I had a mathematics exam that morning, and around 5 a.m., my mother returned from the market with milk and quietly told me that former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi had been assassinated. The exam was postponed. For the next two months, I was captivated by the unfolding investigation, following every development with the intense curiosity only a child, encountering the world through a moment of national tragedy, can feel.
In a strange twist of proximity, one of the senior police officers involved in the investigation Radha Vinod Raju, a key figure in the Special Investigation Team (SIT) that cracked the case, used to visit our home. Years later, he would become the first Director General of India’s National Investigation Agency (NIA). But back then, to a young boy trying to make sense of headlines and hushed conversations, his presence lent the unfolding events an immediacy and weight that felt deeply personal.
Now, nearly three decades later, as I stood in Paris staring at posters of the man many believe was behind that assassination, those memories came rushing back. Little Jaffna is home to one of the largest Tamil diaspora communities in Europe. Fleeing waves of violence in Sri Lanka in the 1980s and 1990s, tens of thousands of Tamil refugees from the country made their way to France, often through perilous sea or land routes. Today, France’s Tamil population is estimated at over 100,000, with Paris serving as its cultural heart. Many of the Tamils living in Paris lost family members during the conflict. Some still await news of the disappeared. Others cling to the narrative that the LTTE’s defeat was not just a military loss but the end of Tamil political dignity in Sri Lanka.
In some ways, the atmosphere here reminded me of Jackson Heights in New York city, a place I know intimately from over a decade of living there. Much like in the Queens borough of the city, people from South Asia come to this neighborhood in Paris to shop for groceries that are staples in Indian and Sri Lankan kitchens. The shelves are stocked with everything from curry leaves and dosa batter to jasmine garlands and incense sticks. My host in Paris mentioned that he often goes to the area for his haircut, a small but telling detail that echoes Jackson Heights, where many opt for the cheapest and most familiar barber in the city.
Having witnessed and studied conflict areas for over two-decades now, I was cautious about how I framed my questions during this visit. Fortunately, I found a few ideal interlocutors. For instance, one was a Tamil-origin student from Mumbai, pursuing his Master’s degree while working part-time. He offered not just linguistic help but cultural context, helping me navigate the food, the street conversations, and the layered silences of this unique diaspora pocket.
Diasporas have long memories. Unlike those living in conflict zones who must make daily compromises with the reality of power, diasporic communities can afford to preserve unyielding narratives. Removed from the immediate pressures of the post-war reconciliation process, many Tamils abroad continue to see Prabhakaran not through the prism of terrorism or militarism, but as a symbol. This veneration plays out most visibly during Tamil national remembrance days like Maaveerar Naal (Great Heroes’ Day), held on November 27, the day Prabhakaran’s birthday is also commemorated. In cities like Toronto, London, and Paris, these events draw thousands, with children dressed in Tiger uniforms and speeches calling for Eelam (a separate Tamil homeland). Is this freedom of expression or the glorification of violence? Are these posters an innocent homage to a fallen leader or a provocation that risks reopening wounds?
The French government, like many European states, has a complicated relationship with diaspora politics. On the one hand, France prides itself on its republican values namely liberté, égalité, fraternité and its secular tolerance of diverse cultural expressions. On the other hand, it is also a country increasingly uneasy with displays of identity that challenge its unitary conception of citizenship. In 2006, France banned the LTTE as a terrorist organization, aligning with the EU designation. Tamil political activism in France, from peaceful demonstrations to lobbying for war crimes investigations, has largely been tolerated. At times, French officials have even offered quiet sympathy for the Tamil cause, especially in the aftermath of the brutal final months of the war in 2009, during which the Sri Lankan army was accused of shelling no-fire zones and killing civilians en masse.
Another interlocutor from Tamil Nadu whom I met informed me that one need to see the imagery here in a particular context. There is a deeper issue, however, that is not legal but moral. For many Tamil families of Sri Lanka in Paris, these posters are a form of justice denied. The UN has acknowledged credible allegations of war crimes committed by both the Sri Lankan military and the LTTE. But progress toward accountability has been glacial. Successive Sri Lankan governments have promised and then shelved mechanisms for truth and reconciliation.
As I wrapped up my nearly three-hour walk through the neighborhood, I paused at the metro station and gathered the courage to ask a direct question to a young passerby who seemed to have Tamil roots from Sri Lanka. When I inquired about the Prabhakaran posters, he responded simply, “He is my hero and this is what I know.” His tone was firm yet cautious, and he appeared unwilling to elaborate further. That brief exchange reflected the silence that so often surrounds deeply polarizing memories. In the heart of Paris, beneath the image of a slain LTTE supremo and the man widely believed to have masterminded the assassination of a former Indian Prime Minister, the struggle for Tamil identity, and the complex, unresolved legacies of South Asia’s violent past, quietly endures.
(The author has worked for 25 years as a practitioner, researcher and analyst on conflict areas and violent extremism issues.)