Mother is in the middle of a circle. It is a circle drawn by a stick, right in the mud outside of her bungalow. She is under rows of banana trees. The grass is a thatched green, dry. She hears a prancing in the distance, as if deer are dancing on the dirt road. She is smelling betel nut. How she wants to go dance with the deer, sing songs to them, decorate their bodies with curcuma.
She remembers she is not allowed to leave the circle, but she doesn’t remember why.
As a young girl, she was told the outside world was scary, and for good reason. People used to come trying to shoot them all down. Sri Lanka doesn’t belong just to the Sinhalese, just as it doesn’t belong just to the Tamils. It belongs to everyone. But everyone wanted to kill each other for years based on what language they spoke. It is only because of recent random economic dilemmas that people have been putting their anger aside and yelling at the government. The economy is getting better, though it was in shambles for years, and people are still trying to do their best not to starve. There isn’t violence today, but what if the people who have had enough decide to storm the streets and take their problems out on others?
What if once more the Sinhalese take out their frustrations out on the Tamils—hard-working and normal people like Mother?
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