Sixty thousand Sri Lankan Army troops are currently stationed in Mullaitivu District, which means there is now at least one soldier for every two civilians. Reports by the Tamil Guardian state that Sri Lanka's Department of 

has reportedly had a heavy hand in "inventorizing" heritage sites this area, having claimed 400 acres of land around holy Kurunthoormalai

 home to the historic Athi Aiyanar temple. With the aid of a local NGO, we visit a small village in an area decimated by itinerant bombing, which still has very little in the way of structures or homes.

Mullaitivu East: Now How Do I Grieve Them?

They sit all four to a bench, facing me, each in a different colourful dress. They eye me suspiciously as the translator speaks about my interests in the region. Slowly, they answer my questions, reserved and staunch, not wanting to show too much emotion. I am keenly aware of the trauma these mothers have faced, this being one of the worst hit areas of the conflict. They don’t have much to say about land occupation, or the military, though they are answering my questions as politely as they can.

Then something happens that I have witnessed many times on this trip. Trauma spills out all in a jumble from someone’s lips, as though it was waiting all along—all these past 15 years to be heard—to be remembered.

The woman who speaks is small in stature and older than the rest. She is dark-skinned with deep lines streaking across her face. Her bare feet rub against each other anxiously. She tells us that three of her children are buried on the other side of the local army barricade. All three were taken against their will by the rebel militants. With very little training, they were thrust into the fighting, where each one fell, one after the other. The army bulldozed their graveyard and built a military base on top of it. This I have heard throughout my journeys all over the North & East: the cemeteries of fallen rebel soldiers being razed as soon as the war ended, as though the death of a loved one could ever be forcibly forgotten.

She fights back tears as she tells us, repeating over and over: 'Now how do I grieve them? Now what do I do?'

The other women remain quiet, they choose not to share their secret pain on this day.

Northern Province: Erasing The Past To Preserve The Future

Upon arriving in the Northern Province, we speak with a local artist about 

, impermanence and erasure. Having lived just outside of Jaffna for the entirety of the war, he believes that 

 is an art that has been practiced here since long ago, but there is a reticence to acknowledging that history, perhaps due to a well-worn survival strategy. I am reminded of a conversation I had with my grandmother, who was forced to hide any identifying Tamil symbols during the Black July pogroms of 1983. She took out her gold nose ring, stopped wearing the Tamil 

’ and ceased adorning her hair with flowers—all traditional symbols of Tamil womanhood—to survive the times and limit the risk being killed. This gradual erasure of Tamil practices and customs has become a way of surviving discrimination and violence.

My mind begins to spin when the artist offers an explanation, 'Erasing the past to preserve the future'. I wonder, what proves existence? And what forms does it take when it is dormant? Perhaps existence can be held through word of mouth and community care, these acts becoming an active and almost invisible resistance to oppression.

We are recommended to visit this area by a local journalist, and told that we don’t need to ask questions from anyone, just to go and see with our own eyes.

We drive the unpaved road, staring out the window at house after house occupied by the military. Even the shells of houses destroyed by bombs have signs of military life: a uniform hung out to dry, an armed guard dozing out front. These shells betray the long-ago grandeur of this area with its huge villas and expansive gardens. I ask the driver to turn down a small road because it feels like the eyes of the military are all around us.

As we drive we come across yet another bombed out house. Three Tamil workmen are chopping down a very large tree out front. We stop and in typically Tamil fashion launch into a familiarity that allows strangers to share intimate details with one another immediately upon meeting.

We learn that this plot of land is part of the 100 acres recently released by President Ranil Wickremesinghe. In a bid to resurrect his waning popularity, Ranil released a meagre 100 acres of land for redevelopment from the approximately 74,000 acres of state land and 6,400 acres of private land that has been "occupied" since the war. Unsurprisingly, the land belongs to the wealthiest members of this community.

A couple of weeks after the release, the Tamil owner of this property hired a team to clear the land and get it ready to sell. The property boasts two huge banyan trees, sacred to Buddhists. These trees are common on temple grounds and Buddhist holy sites, often accompanied by a ruling that forbids them to be cut down.

We stand and watch as the Tamil workmen mercilessly hack at the Buddhist holy trees under direct orders from the landowner to cut them down and remove all trace that they ever existed.

Jaffna Town: Every Day It Refreshes My Mind

Back in the town center we visit with another local artist and musician, a woman who hosts a music school in her house. As we sit with her and her adoring son, the haphazard sounds of children learning to play violins emanates from the next room.

We were directed to this woman, having been told by many that she is an expert on the art of 

. She speaks to us excitedly about her private practice, something she undertakes every single morning at the threshold of her home. At first she tells us that she draws to welcome visitors and to protect the home. She loves the fact that it forces guests to slow down and proceed with tenderness, so they do not disrupt the energy of the house. After some time, she admits that her main goal in the practice is that it eases her troubles and centers her mind. She tells us that the knots in the pattern change according to her mental state, on some more troubled days there are more knots than usual. She believes the pattern is a gift, not only to herself and to her family, but to the people who pass through the pattern during the day. They take a little bit of her gift with them on their feet, as do the birds and insects, and in this way she is offering protection and connection to the world at large.

She isn’t bothered by the impermanence of the art, in fact she says "every day it refreshes my mind, my home and my life to create these patterns." I am taken by her unattachment to the outcome, and by the willful, intentional impermanence that she undertakes every day. Perhaps there is some solace in the control she wields, as the sole creator and destroyer of the pattern.

Our last destination on this journey is the sacred island of Nainativu, known as Nagadeepa by the Buddhists. The small island is home to the Hindu Nagapooshani Amman Temple and the Buddhist Nagadeepa Purana Vihara, places of pilgrimage for Buddhists and Hindus alike. The ferry we take to the island is tiny and packed full of worshippers of both faiths. We sit on the steps and stare out at the bright blue waters with the approaching shrines in the distance. The boat stops and as I begin to disembark the Tamil boatman stops me. He says, 'This Nagadeepa'. I nod because yes, I want to go to Nagadeepa/Nainativu. I try to disembark again and he stops me again. 'This NAGADEEPA', he says forcefully. I look at my guide and we both shrug. I turn back and say 'Nagadeepa, Nainativu, same same' with a shake of my hand. His smile turns downwards and he begins to look angry. I slink back into the boat, not sure what mistake I’ve made. The ferry springs to life with a lurch and the boat turns towards another corner of the island. It’s only in that moment that I realize my error. There are two docks to disembark, one long wooden dock leading to Nagadeepa, the Buddhist shrine, and another about 200 metres away leading to Nainativu, the Hindu temple. I feel sheepish having unwittingly offended our Tamil boatman. He does not act kindly towards us for the rest of the trip.

The Amman temple at Nainativu is renowned as a place to worship fertility. Around 1000 devotees come daily from as far away as India to pray for a baby or to thank the god Amman for giving them a family. We see Hindu Tamil devotees and also quite a few Sinhala Buddhists visiting the shrine to ask for help. It’s a beautiful place with a rich history involving a supposed visit from Lord Buddha himself, who came to solve the dispute of the local Naga kings. Over the years both temples have been destroyed and rebuilt by colonizers, rebel militias and war. Still, it’s a peaceful place with many visitors of all faiths intermixing. When we leave, I stare back at the two temples, standing side-by-side, imagining them existing this way for millennia.

Religion often gets instrumentalised in political warfare, but perhaps an adherence to ancient religious practices and their principles are a gentle form of resistance to that phenomenon. With structures coming and going depending on the occupier, the sacredness of these sites is never broken. The community does not forget, despite being pushed to reform their identity to conform to the occupying state. It is ever-present, and yet largely unseen unless sought out.

, unfolding as it is created, also uses the transient energy of nature to tell its own narrative upon the earth. It works with the changes and is not concerned with impermanence, which is ever-present in the mind of its creator.

This road trip is one of many that I have taken in the lands of my ancestors, but this time has felt markedly different. Although the Tamil population has been through many traumas, and the world has witnessed them all, now the oppression has become silent and insidious. A wily snake that weaves its way throughout the Tamil homeland, overrunning history with its own new, false narrative. It will not stop, despite the resistant efforts of the people. It seeks to overwrite the sacred history of this land and further disenfranchise the Tamil people. What does impermanence become when it has nowhere to go?

*Completed with the assistance of the Chalmers Family Fund and the Ontario Arts Council

Impermanence and the Present Moment, Pt 3

*Some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of those interviewed.

One of my first memories of my homeland is walking through the ruins of a bombed-out temple near the holy bathing waters of Keerimalai. I was barely an adult, having been brought to the northern tip of Sri Lanka to meet my grandmother, who had refused to leave during the island’s decades long civil war. As my parents chatted, I wandered through the sandy remains. I remember feeling like I was walking through a movie set, my unformed opinions not able to grasp the totality of destruction I was seeing. Shyly running my fingers along the decimated walls, I discovered a bullet hole is exactly the size of my finger. Touching the rubble that day brought me full force into the reality of the present moment.

The temple was targeted multiple times by Sri Lankan Air Force bombing raids in 1993, which killed 180 Tamil civilians, including five infants. The surprise attack was carried out despite the conspicuous presence of temple flags planted at the four corners of the sanctuary. Priests fled in horror and disbelief, only moments before the shells dropped.

Hinduism and Buddhism both originated in India and share many common precepts. Both religions hold fast to the idea that impermanence is the only constant, and that we must embrace the notion of change to ever feel truly and fully at peace. In Sri Lanka, you will often see a small statue of Buddha in Hindu temples; and in similar fashion you will almost always see a Hindu icon in Buddhist shrines. The crossover suggests that there is a common bond in one’s search for divinity.

For years, the ancient holy places of Sri Lanka co-existed peacefully, with various religions sharing space. Dutch, Portuguese, and British colonizers failed in turn to occupy or subsume these spaces. It was during the 30-year civil war that holy sites began to be targeted by civil forces acting on orders from leaders of the Sri Lanka Army (SLA) and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE or Tamil Tigers).

The Eastern and Northern Provinces of Sri Lanka are traditionally Hindu areas, considered the homeland of the Tamil people, the largest minority group in the country with a population of around 3 million. The predominantly Hindu Tamils have long suffered oppression by the Buddhist Sinhalese government—a legacy of segregation that stretches back to colonial times. Eight years after independence, the government instituted the Sinhala Only Act, making Sinhalese the official language of the country. This was only one act amongst many that instigated a series of violent ethnic pogroms which left Tamil communities in terror, catalyzing several armed resistance movements, including the most infamous of them all, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, commonly known as the Tamil Tigers.

The decision to “end” Sri Lanka's 30-year civil war in May 2009 reflected the violence of its origins, as then-president Mahinda Rajapaksa ordered a surprise attack by land, sea, and air on Mullivaikal—a thin stretch of coast that had been designated a “no fire zone.” The United Nations estimates between 40,000-70,000 Tamils were killed during the Mullivaikal Massacre, an incident that continues to haunt Eelam Tamil people to this day.

Today, the predominantly Tamil North and East of the country remains heavily militarized, with the North alone boasting 40 naval bases manned by 5,000 personnel. In the 14 years since the end of the war, there have been reports of what Tamil NGO Pearl Action calls "State Sponsored Sinhalization," with Tamil land being forcibly taken and religious sites torn down, while any protesters are silenced and beaten. In the eyes of the Sinhalese government, Tamils grieving the losses of war are unequivocally prohibited. Today, I embark on a trip through these areas to see for myself whether the claims are true.

A dear friend who is a seasoned traveller, a Hindu devotee, and a fiercely independent woman with a slow gait and gentle demeanour, joined me as a fixer and translator on this journey. Together, we begin by taking a train from the capital, Colombo, to the eastern coast, before driving up through Trincomalee and Mullaitivu. Our last stop will be in the Northern peninsula of Jaffna—known to Tamils as Yalpanam. Despite the languid pace and reflective nature of Sri Lankan travel, we know this trip will also tear open the wounds of our past. With every step we are committed to healing our psyche of the generational traumas of war, while bearing witness to the stories of the people we encounter.

Our first stop is in the eastern town of Batticaloa where we visit a well known Tamil painter. Batticaloa is an area that feels somewhat forgotten by time. Its relaxed pace and warm smiles hide a history of trauma, group massacres, and bombings.

We arrive at the artist’s house in the morning, ripe mosquito time. His orange and yellow hued home is sparsely decorated, fully dedicated to the long standing artistic practice that he hones every day. In simple sarong and ancient glasses, he invites us to sit, always to sit, before we begin any lessons. Swatting away mosquitoes, we speak of the weather, the land and slowly, as with many people in this area, he touches upon his knowledge of sacred sites that are being occupied by the Archaeological Society. He tells us of a site at Kokkadicholai, as well as one high up on a hill, the Kusalanamalai Kumaran temple. Finally we prod him to the task at hand and he rises slowly from the broken chair on which he sits.

He produces a small bowl of soft rice-flour. Cleaning off a well-worn painting table, he begins to drip the flour finely between two fingers to form a thin and perfect line. He says very little as we pepper him with questions, but proceeds to draw perfectly straight and wavy lines, circles, and more. He steps back quietly and in this way we know that he wants us to mirror him. Our lines are haphazard and poorly executed, but we all giggle. Composing himself to draw again, he eyes us solemnly and says "Practice, practice." We spend all morning following his instruction.

He creates detailed geometric patterns for us, and when asked, he provides very little discourse on the matter. Having survived war, economic crises, a tsunami, and many other traumas on the east coast, I guess he feels no need to elaborate, only to draw and create to his heart’s content.

I ask him, “Why do you like these patterns? What draws you to them?”

He replies simply, “Beauty and peace.”

Hoping he will open up, I prompt him further, “Are you bothered at all by the transient nature of the work?”

Without looking up, he responds without wavering, “No. Everything comes and must go.”

As we draw, he speaks less and less, perhaps remembering his days as a youth studying classical art in India. The patterns, however, become more and more complex, and we marvel at the skill and precision with which he executes them. After each bold attempt, he quickly wipes the art away with a well-worn rag and begins again. No holding on, no preciousness about his art, just one swift movement with his hand and all is lost forever to memory and time.

As he continues to teach us the gentle art of 

, I begin drawing a line between the impermanence of occupation and this time-worn Tamil practice. 

 is a transient art, created each morning only to wash away at night. It offers protection and peace in the fleeting moments of joy that one must relish under occupation.

It seems that no one knows when the Tamil art of 

 came to Sri Lanka. It has been practiced and passed down through family lineage for as far back as anyone can remember. Some believe it was brought to Sri Lanka by Indian workers from the north, who still slave away in the rice paddies of the hill country. Others believe it was always here, hailing from a time when Sri Lanka was connected to South India by a thin strip of land still visible from space. It is a beautiful and intricate art, often practiced daily by the female head of the household. Many designs are derived from magical motifs and abstract designs mingling with philosophic and religious iconography.

The element that draws me to this art is the temporality of it. Intricate patterns are drawn every morning, sometimes taking one or two hours to complete. Over the day they are stepped upon by visitors, washed away by rain, eaten by ants or wind-swept. The purpose of the pattern is to be used, to be discarded as the day winds along. It is in the act of creating the pattern that the artist finds peace, never tied to the outcome.

As we leave the artist’s home, we know where we need to go next. Research in Sri Lanka takes its toll, as we hold space for people releasing untold sadness. Visiting temples is a sort of respite, a place to release our own fears for the Tamil people. We prepare ourselves for the bumpy ride to an ancient temple on the top of a mountain.

The World Will Always See Those Who Lost As The Villain

Sri Lankan history is consistently in dispute. Even with ancient inscriptions and records, the facts shift and change according to the current ruler. We have seen the world over how capitalism/colonialism relies on no absolute truths. Forced impermanence always plays a heavy role in the will to dominate others.

Cursory research on this temple tells us that a Sinhala prince lived on this site, and that the archaeological department has begun unearthing artifacts to support this claim. However, Tamil locals tell us that this is an ancient Hindu site built in the 11th century. After a deeper search on some forums and land surveys, I find details confirming its Hindu origins.

Early in the morning, we all pile into a small green rickshaw, too small to fit the entirety of the family at whose home we are lodging. And yet, fit we do. After some time, the road turns to dirt and the father carefully navigates the giant rain-filled potholes as we bump along for miles and miles. A group exclamation occurs as the mountain comes into view, looming beautiful and serene against the treeline.

As we approach, the land begins to feel tinged with magic. This is an ancient place, founded around a cave temple which soon became a worship place for the jungle god Murugan, a deity that is much beloved by Tamils across this tiny island. The God of War, but more specifically the war you wage within yourself, Murugan is prayed to when one is struggling with something formidable, that requires help to overcome it. There are reportedly inscriptions in this temple that date back 1,500 years.

The climb up is treacherous and steep, a thick metal rope our only assistance to guide the way. At first, it seems impossible, yet we persevere and make it to the top, barefoot the whole way. The view is stunning, the energy palpable. I’m moved to tears more than once, as I give my heart and my struggles to Murugan.

As we descend, the stone is violently hot and sears the bottom of my feet. I run haphazardly down the treacherous hill, and as the others lag behind, I spy some newly placed stones around the bottom of this site. Upon further investigation, the stones are markers placed by the archaeological department. Written in Sinhala language only, they read "Archaeology."

We leave this place and decide to go and look for the priest; perhaps he has more of a story to tell about these stones that seem completely out of place. Although we stop a few times along the road to inquire about the priest, no one wants to help us. Finally we obtain his phone number from an unassuming young man who clearly tells us that he does not want to talk about the holy site. The priest reluctantly agrees to meet us up the road. We wait and wait in the shadow of a fiercely hot day, and yet he does not arrive. A spritely older man on a motorbike stops, grabs the phone and tries to convince the priest to speak to us. He says, "it’s our duty to speak about this, to tell outsiders what is happening here." While he is talking, the father of our host family says the priest "seems scared." Not long after, the priest finally asserts that he will 

The man on the bike, Manu—with the whitest teeth and biggest smile you’ve ever seen—begins to talk. He says many people are afraid, but he is not because he is a Hindu and he believes in his right to worship. He says he will fight until his dying breath to see these sacred places preserved.

A small contingent of locals are fighting encroachment by the Archaeological Department. They push back mainly through the Hindu concept of

, which means non-violent protest. This small group have succeeded (for now) to stop the occupation of their ancient Hindu lands. We find out from Manu that this is just one of 38 lands around the area that are marked for redevelopment and archaeological investigation by the department. Villagers have fought against each one and managed to stall the process for years.

We find out that the Archaeological Department claims this ancient Hindu site to be of Sinhala Buddhist origins, and has been digging to find artifacts to support this claim. While local people have indeed found ancient Hindu artifacts, these are dismissed, and fresh holes are dug from where newly-made Buddhist "artifacts" are then "pulled" from the ground as though they had been there all along. Our new friend Manu asks, "Do they think we’re stupid? Money wins, justice never wins. Right thought, right action never wins." This sentiment is shared throughout the North and East of the country, where Tamil people have faced erasure for nearly 100 years.

Before he leaves, Manu tells us that he doesn’t know why he stopped his bike to talk to us, he feels he was led by the gods to stop. He says, "The world will always see those who lost as the villain." I think about all of the Tamil people I have met who have lost so much more than their reputation, who have lost entire families, their homes, and now, their sacred right to worship.

On June 2, 2020, Sri Lankan President Gotabaya Rajapaksa announced the formation of a new Presidential taskforce to administer Archaeological Heritage Management in the Eastern Province. The taskforce was entirely Sinhala in its composition, despite the Eastern Province being majority Tamil. Included in this task force were several Buddhist monks, who are among Sri Lanka’s most notorious hate-mongers. After some complaints, the president appointed one Tamil and one Muslim representative to join the force. A report by independent online newspaper 

 states that the taskforce has only vague mandates and a lack of Parliamentary oversight, nor any requirements for public reporting on their activities. The Chairperson of the taskforce has even published a book which claims that "99.9 percent" of archaeological sites in the East are Buddhist, despite thousands of years of history positing the opposite.

Back at the homestead in Batticaloa, we practice 

 with the young women of the family. Sitting barefoot on the front verandah we gently draw with desiccated coconut—delicate patterns which start and end without a break in the lines. This continuous detail is thought to be for the protection of the home; if the line remains unbroken no harm can enter as evil spirits will be trapped within the pattern. I feel the days' events wander away as I draw, a gentle peace descends in the waning sun. Crows stop to watch us curiously as a line of ants slowly forms, eating away at the pattern as we draw it. 

 is formed by placing a series of dots down first, and then connecting the lines over and over to form an undulating pattern. The pattern never ends. You could potentially repeat them upwards and outwards forever. In this way, I feel centred and graceful while performing the act, as though there is some order to the universe despite the chaos of the day.

As we leave the next morning for our trip up the coast to Trincomalee, the pattern is still there but has changed form. Some lines have been broken, some have been eaten by ants and other creatures. The smear of coconut pieces feels like a loss, and I struggle to accept that our efforts have been changed in this way. The others step over the pattern with ease.

*Completed with the assistance of the Chalmers Family Fund, the Ontario Arts Council and ArtsEverywhere.

Impermanence and the Present Moment, Pt. 1

In a city as old as time, a Buddhist statue sits at the centre guarded by a chain link fence. At 2,000 years old, the ancient port city of Trincomalee has a Hindu history far preceding the Buddha statue that was placed here in 2005. It is one of the oldest known Tamil settlements in Asia.

A man is watering flowers in the garden. We ask him if we can enter through the small, locked gate. He assents, his red-rimmed eyes and apathetic smile subtly warning us against staying too long. The pristine white statue sits untouched. No flowers or traditional offerings have been placed upon it. We ask the attendant: "Why the gate? Don’t people get to freely worship here?"

He tells us that shortly after the statue was built some Tamil radical militants threw a grenade at the statue, blowing up a part of it. It had to be rebuilt, and after that the fence was added for the statue’s security. I ask him if Buddhists worship here and he eyes my Tamil adornment with suspicion before replying, “Of course.”

He tells us that during the time of the bomb attack, there were frequent protests by village locals who strongly opposed a symbol of Sinhala nationalism being placed in a primarily-Tamil area during a civil war.

When asked what happened to those protestors, he reluctantly says, "They were all killed." And when pushed for details, he eyes us suspiciously again and only offers, "They were taken out to sea and killed. The sea took them."

After a few wrong turns we travel down a lonely, dusty road to the Kali temple, which seems unusually quiet. After a brief stop to ask for directions, we find the young priest of the Kovil at home in a small hut with his family—a lively wife and three sweet-faced children, shy and docile.

Our conversation with the young priest eventually leads to rumours that the government is preparing to take over the sacred site. He says that he hasn’t heard of any plans to claim the Kovil, but the land around the temple has been claimed by the Department of Archaeology. He estimates about 10 acres. He is reticent to answer more questions, but the silences are quickly filled with shouts through the kitchen window from his wife as she cooks dinner for the family. We listen to her silhouette as she describes how another temple nearby (Semmeeswaran aalayam) has been claimed by the army, and they have stopped any Tamils from going to worship there. A Buddhist stupa has been placed there so the local army soldiers can worship. She eventually emerges from the shadows and enters the garden, serving us ginger tea, fully sweetened.

She continues to talk, while her husband looks sheepishly on. She speaks about how special that Shivan temple was, it was a beautiful place up high on a rock that many locals flocked to because of its special energy. She seems frustrated and upset that they cannot go there anymore. Her husband, in contrast, just shrugs his shoulders and says, “‘What can we do?”’

We ask if they have heard of the government appropriating other temples in the same way. The wife nods her head excitedly and points in multiple directions, naming 

that has been claimed. In one area, which we had noticed while driving in, she says there was a sacred and ancient Ganesh idol on the side of a cliff facing the ocean. The army knocked the idol into the ocean and placed a Buddhist stupa there instead.

By the end of the conversation we all sit silently, feeling thorough disdain for what we all know to be true. We pass a brand new stupa on the way out with a fresh coat of cold white paint gleaming in the sunset.

Kanniya Hot Wells: The Gods Must Be Angry

Walking towards the holy hot springs, we see a small, newly-built brick structure with a sign written in English that reads: "Sivan Kovil." We are confused because Hindu Shiva temples do not normally look like this—encased in brick, with no fanfare. Our driver tells us there used to be a Shiva temple up above where we're standing, and when we follow his hand gestures our eyes fall upon a giant gleaming white Buddha statue in its place.

The current Shiva "temple" is poorly blocked off, allowing us to swiftly evade the broken fence and launch towards the building. We are curious to take a peek inside the darkened windows when a police officer calls out to us and informs us that we’re not permitted to go any further. When pressed, he explains there is an open investigation with the Department of Archaeology and no one is allowed to observe the site until the case is resolved. We are desperate to look inside, to have our eyes fall upon what we can only assume are the dusty, damaged remains of the revered God of destruction and rebirth.

I am reminded of our conversation the day before with the priest's wife. “The Gods must be angry," she'd said. "Their retribution will come.”

The seven hot wells renowned for their healing properties are very busy, with Tamil locals and Buddhist monks sharing the space. Bucket after bucket of hot water is poured over heads and shoulders, the drops glistening in the sunlight. A flash of orange catches my attention and I see an elderly Buddhist monk watching over the scene. While it all seems friendly, there are no other Sinhala tourists there. Only the monks, who have a showy presence—likely to enforce the changing of hands of this Tamil site.

The older monk then escorts a lone British tourist around the area, explaining how this is an ancient Buddhist site of healing. She believes him, eyes wide with respect. And why shouldn’t she? A quick google search tells us this same narrative, with many websites being updated recently to accommodate the new "findings." Only locals to the area continue to pass on the origins of this site, from person to person, mouth to mouth.

Before we leave, we encounter two Tamil youth who tell us that this site once housed the grave of a revered Tamil sage, and many people used to come here to pay tribute. Soldiers from the army destroyed the grave site and covered up any signs of its existence.

The night before we are set to travel north, I dream of 

 patterns. The never-ending lines of symmetry, precision and complexity swirl together in a vast universe of stars, outwards and upwards. I awaken and begin drawing, enraptured by these line-filled drawings which can be seen not only in Hindu mythology, but throughout history in Islamic, Greek, and Pagan philosophies. What is it about patterns that help us find God? Perhaps it is to seek control in an uncontrollable world

Eelam, Sri Lanka