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This weekend I dove into the heart of the community – the Sittwe Market. It is the liveliest and smelliest place in the city. Boys carry buckets of fish from boats straight into market stalls. Despite the stench, I linger between the corridors of dried fish to admire its old-world charm.
After a tea stop, I walk inland from the market. I pass a man dozing on a tuk tuk. He smiles, perplexed by my presence and gestures.
A few turns later and I’m buying a shiny green bike from another man. His religion has been bad for business. Choosing him from a hand-full of bike vendors is a minor yet political act. Chuffed with my new purchase I ride on.
Smiles turn into apprehensive glares from armed police officers as I pass Aung Mingalar (the old Muslim Quarter). Before the 2012 riots, it was a popular meeting spot for people from all communities. Today most of its residents have left and few venture within.
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On a good day, I leave the office before sunset and step onto the beach. The sand is black, the water too. Serene, despite the garbage littering the shore.
I walk with my head phones pinned to my ears like armour, blocking out the jeers. For the most part they are friendly, “Hello Miss” or “How are you?” Occasionally they are not.
“Fuck you foreigners”, yelled a young, attractive man from the motorbike he shared with three others.
It was my first visit to the beach. My colleague barely skipped a beat as she continued to talk about dinner. “Go home!” he yelled, speeding on casually, sandwiched between two western clad youth.
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