When Nadarajah Arulnathan visits his church at Pasikudah, he puts on a surgical mask because along the way he must pass rotting bodies tangled in the underbrush. They can’t be removed because of the landmines, washed loose from a nearby military base and scattered across the land. The church sanctuary is battered but still stands. Not so the dozens of houses that once stood around it; they are simply gone, their foundations mute testimony to the time when people ate greasy Sri Lankan hoppers (pancakes) with their fingers and yelled down the street to tell their children that it was time to come in. No one yells at anyone now.