I spent more than half the day at the police station today... where a very public notice in ONLY SINHALA reads that the citizens of the country have a right to be served in their own languages! My friend's husband was taken in yesterday, not arrested, just taken in, by the police. Their identity papers were offered to the officers carrying out their duties diligently on May day - "no need" they said. ''Produce them at the police station when you come to get them.''

''Should they get into pants? They are in their sarongs after all!''

''Of course not! Small trip to the neighbourhood police to support keep the peace!''

Evening came and went. And so did the night. The friendly chit chat at the neighbourhood police station seems to be growing into a longer visit - much deeper bonding I suppose.

So the language used: Sinhala of course! I very urgently turned to my friend: ''I thought I knew you guys well! And now I know you have Sinhaleseness hidden somewhere inside you too!" She smiled through her furrowed brow. Apparently her sister-in-law can read Sinhala and read it out the night before when she arrived after all the tension of mis-communication had taken place between the Sinhala police officers and the Tamil detainees families.

Her husband wanted to leave the country; she didn't. I hold the warmth of her hand in my palm; Vowaal who flew through the streets of Jaffna on her bicycle; who held the paint brush to bring joy to her dying mother; who rebelled against a threatening father to embrace the love of her life. I feel her faltering resolve; her breaking spirit. My selfish heart yearns to hold and keep.