I always knew Sri Lanka like the back of my hand, missing sleepovers and high school dances in exchange for traveling and helping orphans affected by the war. Voices that spoke in my native language on weekends, pushed aside by my weekly interactions with my English classmates. But it was a separate culture of a certain situation and this would only be possible if it was a separate nation. I only married the two from a distance, reading the morning headlines that described the bloodshed flowing from my country. Say no to plagiarism. Get a custom essay on “Why violent video games should not be banned”? Get an original essay When a colleague asked me to help her develop a leadership program with her parents for war-affected orphans in the north and east of Sri Lanka, I said yes, because I wanted to help. Fresh out of high school, I wholeheartedly embraced the promise of volunteer tourism: a one-part rewarding, two-part adventure with the added potential of self-discovery. Rushing across the island with a bus full of volunteers, I had come to save lives and, perhaps, change my own. We crossed the center of the country, formerly destroyed by war. Just before getting off the bus, one of the volunteers asked me: don't you think it would be beneficial to send the money we spent to get here, to improve the lives of these children affected by war? I couldn't believe this could be true. Anjuli was one of the participants in our adventure to help those in need. She was 14 when I first met her, one of seventy-eight girls who lived on an acre of land near the ocean. At the orphanage, like many others, she did not fit the definition of an orphan, as she told me: “I am here because my amma (mother) wanted me to live in a safe place ". Safe from whom, I didn't want to know yet. I had only come to ease into the task at hand, but I was preoccupied with their traumatic stories. At least a dozen times a day, my mind would be disturbed and I would ask myself: why am I here? Marilla considered me one of her own, a familiar alien. Marilla's father had left her to join the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), freedom fighters in a movement fighting for a separate Tamil nation against the government. His father was arrested by the Sri Lankan army and brutally tortured by them. He was a broken man when he returned to a home destroyed by war, only to fall deeper into poverty. The outbursts of violence he experienced frightened Marilla. I had to banish him from there, she said worriedly and silently. For a complex problem, is there a quick and easy solution? The safe space of a children's home filled with childlike joy seemed insufficient, but by whom? My own appa (father) called the church home one evening. How is it? » he asked, anxiously. I thought for a moment. I feel…uncomfortable but peaceful at the same time. Throughout the evening, many children told stories. Bits and fragments of their stories would remain forever etched as a memory in my mind. In all of the children, the pain was evident in their eyes, even as they laughed, communicating what you needed (and yet didn't want) to know. Anjuli carefully stirred the pot of stew and said, “If the war starts again, I will join the free fighters. At the orphanage, such bizarre comments have no meaning..