“Hello. I’m Emma Cott from The New York Times.” “How are you?” “Good. How are you?” “Fine.” “This is your father’s shop?” “Yes.” “Can we go in?” “Yeah. You come here.” “Wow. So, what was here before?” “And this happened when?” “Sunday. The day of the terrorist attack?” “Yeah. Between 7:30.” “In the evening.” “So the terrorist attack happened in the morning —” “— and this happened in the evening. Do you have any idea who was responsible?” Mohamed Ifaz and his father were born and raised in Sri Lanka. They live south of the capital city. Like most of the shopkeepers on this street, they’re Muslim, which could explain why their store was torched right after the terrorist attacks here. We traveled to Negombo, to the site of the deadliest of eight suicide bombings that ripped through this country on Easter morning. People here told us they’re now scared to gather, even to grieve. We came to witness a country in mourning, and to see what’s being done to prevent that grief from leading to more violence. Sri Lanka has a long history of ethnic tension. Nearly three decades of civil war ended in 2009, but that conflict was between Tamils, who are mostly Hindu, and the Sinhalese majority, who are mostly Buddhist. More recently, Buddhist extremists have attacked Muslims and Christians. And now, there’s a growing concern that Sunday’s bombings could create a new rift between those two minorities. The police tell us there’s a mosque that’s sheltering Muslim refugees from Pakistan and Afghanistan, who are fearing for their lives. “We heard that some families are living here that have been moved.” “Yeah, Pakistan families, yeah.” “O.K., the ones that have been moved since the bombings?” “Yeah.” Since Sunday, the cops have been dropping people off here for their own protection. They’re sleeping on the floor and there’s almost no food, and they have no idea when it will be safe to go back to their homes. Reporter: “What happened to make you come here?” Reporter: “Somebody came to your house with knives and sticks?” Reporter: “People were outside your very house?” Reporter: “And what were they saying?” Only some of the people we talked to say they were actually threatened by mobs, but everyone is sharing stories, and the uneasiness spreads. Reporter: “You said Sri Lankan people were fighting at your house?” Reporter: “And saying what?” “You are —” Reporter: “And how was it before the Sunday attacks?” Reporter: “When you heard what?” We decide to head to a police station to see what the cops are doing to defuse tensions. “Nice to meet you. Thank you. Thank you for speaking with us.” But as soon as we arrive, an officer interrupts our meeting. Someone has called to report Muslims in the area. We rush out to see how police will respond. By the time we get there, a crowd has gathered outside an apartment. People tell us that the Muslims living there haven’t come out for days, which seems suspicious. Reporter: “Is this the family? They’re taking them in?” Minutes later, a family appears. This van will take them to the police station where they’ll be registered, then to the mosque where they’ll join the other refugees. It’s not safe for them to stay here anymore. [praying] Back in town, the funerals continue. As soon as one finishes, another begins. No one here is calling for revenge. There is only grief and shock. But a flier is distributed, urging survivors of the bombings not to lash out against their neighbors. The terrorists want to disrupt society by pitting one group against another. More violence would only give them what they want.