The Easter bombings: Breaking the cycle of violence
You wouldn’t believe how light a bomb feels in the cradle of your own arms. I remember the warm yellow sand of Batticaloa beaches, pillowy grains sifting between the grooves of my size two feet. Seaweed lined the shore in slimy patches that we tiptoed around, searching for shells hidden among the green carpet. A brisk wind bounced along the rolling tide, and yet all we could feel were the steady waves of the sun beating down on our backs. With a toothy grin and an oversized cap perched on my head, I posed for a photo, brandishing in my arms a landmine the size of my head. That day, we...