by Luxman Aravind
He continues to hoard power rather than decentralising it, and not a single soul dares to challenge him. His charisma—manifested through his calculated walks from the Presidential Office to the Finance Ministry, his minimalist lifestyle, and his meticulously crafted public image—has blinded the nation to the looming threat beneath the surface. The real danger here is not just the centralisation of authority, but the emergence of a new cult of personality (something eerily reminiscent of Rajapaksa’s reign), where he places himself above all, the “big man”, while turning everyone else into objects of mockery. Take his own General Secretary of the JVP, for example—this so-called “most senior comrade” who, with shameless audacity, defends his decision to join the ABBA party, claiming he was invited to promote tourism. This man seems to have forgotten that he holds no official role in government. Instead of retreating into the shadows and waiting for the political storm to pass, he displays a shocking arrogance—either an ignorant disregard for political reality or a dangerous miscalculation of his power.
Let me make myself clear: I have no issue with people living their lives, enjoying their success, or finding personal freedom. But when that enjoyment is paired with such glaring hypocrisy, it becomes a societal time bomb, not just for him, but for the country at large. And while this unchallenged cult of personality continues to grow, President Dissanayake is heading straight for a monumental clash with reality. Come December in Delhi, the real test will begin. When India’s top enablers demand he fully implement the 13th Amendment, he will be cornered. After securing a supermajority, the pressure will become unbearable. From that moment forward, he will be entangled in a crisis of his own making, and to navigate this disaster, he will need practical, grounded minds—not the clueless trade unionists or the sycophantic pseudo-intellectuals who currently surround him.
But this is where the issue takes a far darker turn—it is about the two generations bearing the scars of Sri Lanka’s political nightmare. One generation, shattered by the violence and divisions sown by Wijeweera and Prabhakaran, and the other, condemned to a post-truth era where propaganda and strategic manipulation are given more importance than competent governance. Dissanayake’s ability to vilify “designated enemies” and rally support based on fabricated narratives is unparalleled. Yet as time passes, the cracks in his governance will become undeniable. His honeymoon period is swiftly coming to an end, and when the reckoning arrives, the true consequences of his failures will be laid bare for all to see. If this continues, the nation will realise too late that his rise to power has only led to a deeper fall into chaos.
The history of Sri Lanka is nothing short of tragic in its repetition—a never-ending cycle of upheavals, brief moments of hope, and eventual disillusionment. From the blood-drenched battlefields where Velupillai Prabhakaran’s Tamil Tigers fought for an independent Tamil Eelam, to the ideologically driven insurrections of Rohana Wijeweera’s Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) aimed at toppling the state in the name of revolution, the island’s narrative is a stark reminder of the elusiveness of true transformation. These movements, both borne of legitimate grievances and deep-seated discontent with the old political order, ultimately resulted in the elimination of their leaders, without due process or any semblance of judicial fairness.
What remains, however, is not the liberation they promised but the enduring vacuum that their deaths created—a vacuum that continues to distort Sri Lanka’s political landscape to this very day. If anything, these movements highlight the profound and enduring paradox of revolution: though they are born from the desire to liberate, they too often end in the consolidation of old powers, leaving in their wake not emancipation, but stagnation, or worse, the return of more tyrannical forms of governance.
Prabhakaran and Wijeweera were not just the figures of the insurgencies they led. They were the last hopes of a generation that sought to reform and revolutionise a state that had long ignored the cries of its people. Yet, both were eliminated by the state in ways that can only be described as brutal, without any judicial process—an act that is itself a reflection of the brutal, often arbitrary, methods by which the state maintained its power. In doing so, they left behind not just a physical void but a moral and intellectual one, one which would continue to haunt the country for decades. The “cream of the society”—the educated, the thinkers, the would-be reformers who might have steered Sri Lanka away from its endless cycles of failure—were either killed, imprisoned, or exiled. What followed was the gradual erosion of Sri Lanka’s intellectual and political capital.
The tragic irony here is palpable: revolutionaries, who often see themselves as dismantling the very structures of oppression, end up reinforcing those same structures. As the French philosopher Michel Foucault might argue, power is not something that is simply eliminated or overthrown, but something that is reshaped and redistributed. In their deaths, Prabhakaran and Wijeweera left behind a political system that, rather than collapsing, simply adapted to the new circumstances. The state—the very apparatus they had sought to dismantle—remained intact, its institutions thriving even as it absorbed the shock of their violent ends. The intellectual vacuum left by their deaths only served to perpetuate the old elite’s grip on power, a grip that has remained almost unbroken since.
It is here that we begin to see the continuing tragedy of Sri Lanka’s political trajectory. The new generation of youth that emerged in the wake of the civil war and the JVP insurrections—those who came of age in the post-war period—had access to a globalised world that promised opportunities for growth, exploration, and discovery. The internet, social media, and the broader flow of information seemed to promise a world of new possibilities, one in which the constraints of the past might be transcended. Many of these youth went abroad, sought education, and broadened their perspectives. They returned, or at least remained connected, armed with the knowledge of contemporary issues and global movements. Yet, instead of returning with fresh ideas for reform, this new generation found itself at the mercy of a political system that, though ostensibly democratic, was nothing more than a perpetuation of old power structures.
Enter Anura Kumara Dissanayake and the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP). In the aftermath of the Aragalaya—the 2022 uprising that saw mass protests against economic mismanagement and corruption—the JVP, with its revolutionary rhetoric, began to tap into the disillusionment of a population hungry for change. Dissanayake, who stood tall amidst the confusion, was hailed by many as a beacon of hope, the leader who might restore Sri Lanka’s dignity and transform its political structure. And yet, as the months have passed, his leadership has begun to show troubling signs. The promises of “renaissance” have become hollow as his government consolidates more and more power into the hands of a select few. Dissanayake has assumed control of 94 government institutions, centralising power within his own hands and those of his party, the JVP. This centralisation of power is not, as some might suggest, a necessary step to overcome the nation’s political paralysis; rather, it is a troubling indication that the very ideals of democracy, decentralisation, and pluralism are being undermined.
What is particularly concerning, however, is the paradox at the heart of this new government’s rhetoric. The JVP, in its critiques of the old guard and its promises of a break from the past, seems to have learned little from the very history it claims to critique. The consolidation of power under Dissanayake—much like the methods employed by those before him—resembles the very authoritarian tendencies that the JVP so vociferously condemned in the past. It seems that the more things change, the more they remain the same. Dissanayake’s centralisation of power, and the sheer scale of his control over governmental institutions, calls into question the very nature of his party’s commitment to its purported ideals of revolutionary transformation. Can a party that speaks of “renaissance” truly be committed to democratic ideals when it is consolidating power in such an authoritarian manner?
If this new government fails—as so many others have before it—the consequences for Sri Lanka will be profound. The vacuum left by failed revolutions, from the time of Prabhakaran and Wijeweera to the current moment, will once again be felt. In a society where intellectuals and reformers have been systematically eliminated or driven into exile, there is a palpable absence of critical thought—an absence that only deepens with each passing generation. The failure of the JVP/NPP could well lead to a resurgence of the very elites that the country sought to replace, as the youth once again find themselves disconnected from the political process. The disillusionment of the new generation, many of whom were once hopeful of reform, will be compounded by yet another failure of leadership. This disillusionment will give rise to a political apathy that allows old, exploitative systems to return unchecked.
In many ways, the failure of this new government would be the final confirmation of the thesis laid out by thinkers like Žižek and Havel: the enemy is not only “out there” in the form of corrupt politicians or oppressive regimes, but also within us. It is in our collective failure to overcome the cycles of violence, revolution, and co-option that we see the deepest flaw in Sri Lankan society. The tragic cycle of uprisings that lead to the elimination of leaders and the creation of vacuums—only for those vacuums to be filled by the same corrupt systems—reveals a much deeper societal ailment. This is not merely a political failure; it is a reflection of a cultural failure, a failure to confront the very contradictions that perpetuate the crisis.
As the island nation stands on the precipice of yet another moment of reckoning, one must ask: Can the country break free from the shackles of its own history, or will it continue to spiral into the abyss of its own making? Perhaps, as Havel suggested, the answer lies not in abandoning hope but in recognising the brokenness of the system and striving to repair it—slowly, painfully, and through the difficult work of dialogue, humility, and self-reflection. The question is not whether Sri Lanka can overcome its past but whether it is ready to face the future without falling into the trap of repeating the same mistakes. The rise and fall of Prabhakaran, Wijeweera, and now Dissanayake serves as a potent reminder of the dangers of ignoring the deeper, underlying truths of our political systems. Until these truths are confronted, Sri Lanka’s history will continue to repeat itself, condemning each new generation to the same disillusionment and the same empty promises.
The writer can be reached at luxmanaravind@gmail.com
