Such a contrast from the stark, sere Jaffna landscape.
Voices of children drifted to them through the woods. The desert sounds never included children, she mused.
But these voices were sharp and aggressive.
She glanced at Wathsala and loped ahead to see what was the matter.
A ring of children with sticks surrounded something and appeared to be beating it.
“Stop!” she called, her voice deep and sharp. Accustomed to command, she did not have to call twice.
Instantly they put down their sticks.
Except one, an adolescent boy whose kufiya indicated his beliefs.
There are Muslims in the area, she thought, knowing they were few.
He raised his stick to strike again.
She caught it on its backdraw and wrestled it from his grasp. An old woman cowered on the ground, one lacerated hand holdin
