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Bullet shots rang through the silence, hitting dead walls. Cement splintering, in meek response. Lives cowering behind the sky blue colored walls, hiding from death and ideologies, a mere collateral. From this vantage point, sight of a civil war killing civil rights felt like dry humor injected into the sorry literature of life. Sri Lanka was burning, Jaffna was dead. A huge explosion rocked the day, leaving remnants of screams for freedom and separation. Alas, what was left was flesh and blood, scattered around like poetry, intensely painful. When war happens across the sea, it lives parallel to you. In Tamil Nadu, where I grew up, Jaffna would turn up in a Ctrl+F through memories. The Bay of Bengal separated us and yet kept us together, as millions ferried across it, to live. I saw the lights of Rameshwaram from Thalaimannar, one evening. If I had a good boat, I could row to India. The tear drop shaped island, a cruel joke of geography. Seven years after the Civil War ended, I found myself standing amidst green plantain and coconut trees, foot precariously perched on a railway track. I relived the printed words I had read all my life. Gunshots, bullet holes, dried up wounds. I awkwardly waddled over the tracks to get a closer look at the house. Marred with holes, it resembled a pockmarked face stricken by pox, the house looked ugly, wounded and in pain. War stains the dead and alive alike. "We don't talk about war in Jaffna", these words were pushed into my ears like a welcome gift. Neoline was a war refugee and had spent two decades in Thiruvanamalai as the LTTE and Sri Lankan Government raged the civil war. She let me into her life over Sri Lankan fish curry. Was it the war, her husband's untimely death or was it raising three kids in a refugee camp that lent her face the sternness? It doesn't match the warmth of spices she has generously marinated the fish in. In the cities down south, there is nothing that speaks of war. Sri Lanka is a perfect postcard with tropical weather, beautiful beaches, abundant history gifted by Buddha and generous hosts. Up North, Jaffna seems like it's trying hard to rub off the scars, the clean roads and urban infrastructure seem like a gift to a recuperating patient. I guiltily spend hours staring at holes on walls in the street, ashamed at the stark nakedness of war. The house next door, doesn't look ugly anymore. Just a relic, witness to resilience and strength of hundreds of Neoline.