Soldier girl? Not every Tamil teen wants to be a tiger: "Sundari," a sixteen-year-old girl in northern Sri Lanka, doesn't wish to fight her country's war, though she was trained to do so at age eleven. The saddest tragedy is that using her real name in a call for peace could get her killed.

EVERY WAR HAS A NAME. Some call this Asia's bloodiest civil conflict, while others refer to the twenty-plus-year battle as the "No Mercy War" But the most appropriate stamp might be "The Children's War" for both victim and combatant, because the civil war in Sri Lanka isn't being waged exclusively by adults, nor is it just a boys' club. Young girls are getting--or being dragged--into the act. Their willingness to do so depends upon whom you ask.

Initially a nonviolent separatist movement, the Tamil armed resistance was launched in 1983 by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) against the Sinhalese majority government after years of failed negotiations. The fighting was only halted, briefly, by a 2002 ceasefire mediated by Norway. Renewed tensions, however, reveal a nation closer to a return to war than one reunited in the aftermath of the December 26, 2004, tsunami. Some thought surviving one of history's deadliest natural disasters would heal the torn nation (as it has in Indonesia). But in Sri Lanka's turbulent north and east, political unrest throughout 2005 gave way to escalating violence in 2006.

"All-out war" is the oft-used phrase for what seems to be the inevitable direction. And if the conflict officially resumes it will be fought in part by children. Some participants hope to fight for the cause. Those who don't may not have a choice.

The Tamil Tigers have two significantly negative reputations: masters of the suicide bomb attack and recruiters of child soldiers. Since 1987 the Tigers have shown their most vile stripes with the use of the suicidal Black Tigers, which includes females (teens and young women) willing to self-detonate for the cause. In April 2006 a reportedly pregnant woman killed herself in a suicide bomb attack in the capital Colombo.

The rhetoric of bravery and sacrifice has convinced many Tamil girls, but not all remain loyal to the cause. Sundari is a graduate of Tiger training who now lives in a children's home in northern Sri Lanka. She wants to be a teacher and she studies hard in spite of frequent school closings from civil unrest. The odds are further stacked against her via a quota system that discourages passing grades for Tamils.

Five years ago, without any pretense of parental permission, Sundari was taken from her school and family in Killinochchi, a village on the southern tip of the Tigers' Jaffna Peninsula base. As one of thirty girls seen as future soldiers, Sundari lived at a Tiger camp about one hundred kilometers away from home.

"It was difficult for me to live there," Sundari recalls. "I was scared at first and didn't know any of these people."

For three months she was trained in guerilla warfare, including how to handle an AK-47 assault rifle capable of discharging 600 rounds per minute. Each day started at sunrise, with duties and chores before breakfast. Mornings included running, weapons training, and courses in escape and evasion techniques suitable to many environments. Afternoons and evenings included lectures and graphic films depicting the worst of human behavior. Sundari says the general theme of the speeches was, "Come join the LTTE to fight for our country." The unspoken message indicated there was no choice in the matter. She and the other girls were told they had no future in their country unless they fought and were willing to die in a war that had begun before they were born.

Though they were children, they weren't blind to what life had shown them. Tamils in the north suffered through the poverty coupled with what many considered the institutional discrimination against a people. They were little more than slaves, and many of the Tiger arguments, sadly, made sense.

"Listening to the lectures made me feel good about dying for my country," Sundari recalls. "I thought it was the right thing to do."

Some children have been approached again in recent months and told they may be called to duty. In northern communities close to Tiger country, there's little secret that the resistance fighters are preparing for action, should negotiations fail to produce results.

The Tigers are a determined group: defiant, stubborn, and patient against seemingly insurmountable odds. In 1983 the ambush of a Sri Lanka military patrol established the LTTE as it is known today, a group that would eventually earn the title, "Most Successful Terrorist Organization in the World," according to one Western diplomat who spoke anonymously to Time magazine. Suicide attacks joined the Tiger arsenal in 1987, and the LTTE'S need for carriers soon included women and children--boys first and, in the second decade of the war, young girls.

In spite of a growing body of testimony--too many gifts have described the training sessions, so their existence can't be denied--the LTTE still denies that their child-recruitment strategy includes weapons training and the solicitation of suicide bombers. One member of the Tigers--who gave a name with an English approximation of "Steven"--describes the "orientation" sessions as voluntary, amounting to little more than watching some videos.

"They show films, give speeches, and let them know what the mission is about," Steven says. "They don't take anyone by force. It's a free invitation. If they're willing to fight for the Tamils, they can join."

For some Tamils, suicide bombers are recognized as courageous martyrs. This year's "Black Tiger Day," held every July 5th, honored the 273 men and women who have given their lives in such attacks over the past nineteen years. The glory of sacrificing for the cause is supposed to inspire children. But some, like Sundari, turn away from the violent solution embraced by struggling Tamils.

"After leaving the camp, when I came to live at [the children's home], I didn't want to be a Tiger," Sundari says. "I can study and become a teacher."

There are many children's homes and hostels in northern Sri Lanka like the one Sundari calls home but there is a need for many more. The safer environment offers hope for the future, showing the children a choice between war and peace. In spite of dealing with the loss of her father when she was thirteen--he died a poor man's death from malaria--and an indigent family unable to provide even the most basic necessities, Sundari has chosen a more productive path here. Besides Sundari she has been called other names, including "Bossy Little Thing" a nickname given for her role as group leader to a half dozen younger girls. She's good at motivating younger children: stern when necessary, loving by nature. Recently she informally "adopted" a four-year-old from a nearby village who spends time at the children's home.

Still, the reality of the conflict is everpresent. April and May were difficult months along the northeast coast. In the districts of Batticaloa, Trincomalee, and elsewhere, new strains of rumors and gossip echoed the artillery and assaults. When the LTTE's maritime branch, the Sea Tigers, allegedly sank several military vessels, the Sri Lankan military responded with a barrage of long-range explosives aimed inland, targeting Tiger compounds.

Several times, not-too-distant explosions could be heard within the children's compound. Sundari insists she wasn't scared--at least, not for herself. "The small children suffer from the noise," she says of the explosions that, by May, could be heard every few days. "It makes me worried."

On one such occasion Sundari chose a different form of weapon in response: she entertained her companions. At the hostel the staff, the children, nearby elder Lankans, and others huddled on the modest compound. Sundari took it upon herself to offer dinner theater entertainment, pulling from her considerable repertoire a few songs, some jokes, and a one-girl skit in which she impersonated the facility manager.

For a few hours, at least, Sundari's audience could think of something other than war.

"She cured everyone's fears," recalls an entertained facility manager. "Such a beautiful sight."

Psychologists could compose countless papers on the girls' response to the war. The little ones are often frightened; the unsettling loud noises create a tension even the youngest child can sense. Others, who seem so innocent, treat the explosions with a sad acceptance.

"They aren't scared," says the manager of older girls like Sundari. "They hear it every day." How can these young inhabitants be scared of something that has been commonplace since when they were very young, something they were trained to expect?

Each morning children board rambling buses for school, knowing they may be stopped at military checkpoints. The children know that soldiers sometimes do more than just search. In January, five students in the northeastern town of Trincomalee were killed, guilty (according to local Tamils) of nothing more than being Tamil.

And so it truly has become, in many ways, a children's war, fought in the poverty-beaten districts along the Bay of Bengal that marks the end of Sinhalese control and the beginning of regions under Tiger scrutiny.

What little the world has known of the Sri Lankan civil war has generally attributed the atrocities solely to the Tigers. While state-owned newspapers and media report one version of high-profile incidents, the word on the street chronicles a different history. Often Tamils and Sinhalese alike are uncertain of who might have perpetuated an act of war; splinter groups and government supporters are accused of stirring up trouble for propaganda purposes. Reprisal attacks are subject to interpretation, while politics mean little to those who lose friends or family to a war they don't fully understand.

Perhaps a silver lining of the deadly tsunami cloud was that it brought more attention to the conflict. In a flesh light, international monitors have seen countless violations of the ceasefire agreement on both sides of the battle. Monitors for Human Rights Watch warned the Sri Lankan government that it, too, has escalated the conflict with seemingly random attacks, and an increasing number of the victims are civilians who once thought of themselves as safe.

The peace talks that were postponed in April have become practically another myth to many Sri Lankans; by May the Tigers appeared to be laying the groundwork for renewed combat. Steven said the LTTE has spread the word for civilians to leave controlled areas.

"If the peace talks don't succeed, there will definitely be a war," he said. "They have also made a request for whoever supports Eelam to come get training."

Some will come; others, like Sundari, won't.

"We cannot be fighting with each other," Sundari says of the seemingly endless crossfire. "We must find a solution and make peace. If the war continues like this, our education will be interrupted. We need peace, not fighting."

On June 15 a civilian passenger bus in the country's north was hit by a claymore mine assault, leaving more than sixty dead in the deadliest attack since the ceasefire. The incident (blamed by the government on the LTTE) sparked yet another round of attacks and counterattacks. For two days after the bus assault, the Sri Lankan Air Force bombed suspected Tiger compounds in and around Killinochchi, resulting in an undetermined number of fatalities.

A family funeral brought Sundari back to her native village that same week. Her fears of renewed war played out in front of her young, sadly experienced eyes. She had been on a passenger bus when what she called "a bomb blast" abruptly halted the journey.

"We were stuck for three hours on the road," Sundari reports. "Many, many army and LTTE men were around us. We were all scared."

The bus was searched, the passengers screened, and three hours later they were allowed to leave. They considered themselves lucky, as she did when the Air Force bombed places near where she was staying.

By the end of June Sundari was back at what she calls home, determined to believe in a peace she has never seen. "I am still hoping and praying for peace," she affirms. "I am afraid of war again. It will be difficult to study because of no school. I like school."

Sundari and her hostel friends would like to be many things--teachers, doctors, attorneys--but struggle to believe such dreams are still possible. For Sri Lanka's children, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" is a speculative question; most don't want to be soldiers, no matter the uniform. UNICEF issued a statement in June accusing both the Tigers and a breakaway group under the command of Karuna Amman, a former eastern commander of the LTTE, of child-soldier recruitment.

For many Sri Lankans, peace has become as difficult to believe in as it is for the children to imagine. By the end of July more than 800 people had been killed during 2006, with the majority being civilians caught in the crossfire.

Sundari maintains her commitment in spite of daily conversations that speculate on a return to all-out war that many expect. It was a war she was trained to fight. But instead Sundari prefers to prepare herself and her group for another talent show, to study hard at school, to become a teacher (when classes are held), and to believe there's a better future than can be found as a soldier, or as a suicide bomber.

At sixteen, Sundari has made her decision.

"I don't want to be a Tiger anymore."

James A. Mitchell is a reporter and author in southeast Michigan. He is the author of Applegate: Freedom of the Press in a Small Town and the forthcoming It Was All Right: Mitch Ryder's Life in Music. He is currently working on a book about Sri Lanka.