by Our Defence Affairs Editor
The leaked Defence MoU between Sri Lanka and India, emerging during Narendra Modi’s recent official visit, is frightening — a glaring manifestation to the perilous immaturity of this so-called “renaissance government,” driven by pride and hollow arrogance. Even before the text of this agreement surfaced in the media last week, the events surrounding Modi’s visit revealed the real picture: the President of this country audaciously declared a military airbase as an international airport for a single day, merely to facilitate Modi’s helicopter departure — a flight that traced a symbolic path over Ram-Sethu, carrying with it a far more compelling and ominous narrative.
In no uncertain terms, what has been clandestinely orchestrated and now reluctantly dragged into the public sphere is an affront not only to our democratic temperament but to the very sinews of national sovereignty. The so-called Memorandum of Understanding on Defence Cooperation — a beguiling euphemism for strategic servility — has laid bare the infantilised hubris of a regime that treats geopolitical subservience as pragmatic diplomacy. That this was executed under the guise of historical kinship and bilateral fraternity makes it doubly insidious; the betrayal, in this instance, is perfumed.
Clause by clause, the document reads like a geopolitical chastity belt forged not in mutual respect but in hegemonic design. Take, for instance, Article 2.2.8, which breezily nods to “mutual cooperation” on ship design, hydrography, UAV technology and oceanography — domains that are, in fact, strategic goldmines. These are not mere trade exchanges; they are instruments of long-term maritime dominance and surveillance capacity. Why would Sri Lanka — a nation whose ports already teeter precariously between Indian and Chinese gravitational pulls — willingly invite another layer of entanglement?
Or examine Article 2.5.4, which speaks of supply or loan of “equipment, platforms and defence materiel.” Such open-ended phrasing is nothing short of legalised ambiguity — a backdoor through which a more permanent Indian defence footprint could materialise on Lankan soil. That this is framed as “mutually agreed” masks the asymmetry of power: when the tiger stretches its paw and the deer nods, consent becomes theatre.
Seven Most Consequential and Potentially Dangerous Clauses for Sri Lanka
- Clause 1.3 – National Security Clause
“Neither Party shall allow the use of its territory for activities harmful to the national security of the other”
Risk: This vague formulation hands India a powerful pretext to veto or pressure Sri Lanka’s independent diplomatic and military actions — especially with rivals like China or Pakistan.
Implication: Erodes Sri Lanka’s sovereignty by allowing India to define “harmful activities” at its discretion. - Clause 2.5.4 – Supply or Loan of Equipment
“Supply or loan, on mutually agreed terms, equipment, platforms and defence materiel”
Risk: Sets the stage for dependency on Indian military hardware, possibly locking Sri Lanka into unfavourable or opaque logistical and technological ecosystems.
Implication: Compromises procurement autonomy and may weaken negotiating power with other global suppliers. - Article 3 – Cooperation in Defence Industry
(Joint ventures, product acquisition, infrastructure development, technical support, etc.)
Risk: Facilitates unchecked Indian entry into Sri Lanka’s defence economy, with little emphasis on transparency or national safeguards.
Implication: Defence industrial sovereignty may be quietly undermined, leading to strategic entanglement and economic leverage. - Article 4 – Technology and Research
“Collaborative research and transfer of technology”
Risk: Without airtight IPR agreements and parity clauses, India could gain dominant control over sensitive innovations, patents, or strategic datasets.
Implication: Intellectual property developed on Sri Lankan soil could be effectively outsourced or expropriated. - Article 7 – Classified Information
“…will be used, transmitted, stored, handled and safeguarded in accordance with the applicable laws and regulations of the Parties.”
Risk: Vague and asymmetrical definitions of “classified” material may expose Sri Lanka’s defence secrets to Indian oversight.
Implication: Opens the door to intelligence imbalances or breaches, especially without robust oversight or auditing mechanisms. - Article 10 – Dispute Resolution
“…will not be referred to any national/international court, tribunal, or other similar body”
Risk: Strips Sri Lanka of neutral adjudication channels in case of conflict, locking it into diplomatic asymmetry with a far more powerful neighbour.
Implication: Reinforces a structural imbalance, effectively placing India in both the judge’s and partner’s seat. - Article 11 – Jurisdiction Clause
“…subject to the jurisdiction of the host country”
Risk: While superficially affirming sovereignty, enforcement in sensitive legal matters involving Indian personnel may be politically influenced or diplomatically suppressed.
Implication: Creates a legal grey zone where justice could be uneven, especially in the face of pressure from New Delhi.
History proffers warnings for those who read. One does not need to look beyond our own region to see the perils of allowing bigger neighbours to cloak encroachments as partnerships. The India-Maldives UTF naval base agreement stands as a cautionary tale. In it, India gained the right to develop and effectively operate a maritime facility under the garb of logistical support. The local backlash was volcanic — giving rise to the #IndiaOut campaign and propelling an anti-Indian political wave that reshaped Maldivian politics. If that scenario seems distant, recall that the Maldives too once welcomed India with garlands and protocol — until it realised that partnership had turned into positioning.
What this MoU embodies is a lexical sleight-of-hand, a diplomatic legerdemain in which phrases like “peacekeeping operations,” “subject matter expert exchanges,” and “capacity building programmes” veil the real thrust: embedding Indian presence in Sri Lanka’s defence institutions, supply chains, intelligence structures and strategic infrastructure. Article 2.3.4 even discusses “mutual cooperation in defence infrastructure development.” What exactly does this entail? Are we to expect dual-use Indian-built infrastructure across our coastline, our bases, our command hubs — dressed in the language of shared development but programmed with the telemetry of surveillance?
Further foreboding is Article 4.2.4, which states “collaborative research and transfer of technology.” This benign-sounding clause, when unpacked, suggests the potential seepage of critical Lankan military innovations — however nascent — into Indian defence tech pipelines. The MoU acknowledges intellectual property concerns in Article 8, but the very need to explicitly underscore IPR protections betrays the fear of appropriation. Will the proverbial Trojan Horse wear a tricolour sash?
And we must not forget the anatomy of control through cyber corridors. Article 2.5.3 introduces “Defence Cyber related cooperation and engagements in critical and emerging technologies.” In an era where digital sovereignty is indistinguishable from national sovereignty, this is an invitation to allow another country inside our firewalls, our data ecosystems, our intelligence networks. This is not “friendship.” This is engineered dependency.
If the textual skeleton weren’t bone-chilling enough, the performative context surrounding this agreement is even more macabre. A presidential sleight turned a military airstrip into a faux international airport — to accommodate the Indian PM’s helicopter exit, no less. The symbolism is inescapable: our skies, like our policies, repurposed for external convenience. The flight via Ram-Sethu — whether deliberate theatre or providential irony — routes us directly through history’s most contested bridge between cultural diplomacy and regional dominance. Here flies not just a helicopter, but the spectre of a greater India, tracing its contours over a receding Lanka.
And yet, this MoU seeks to anchor its legitimacy in “international best practices” and “respect for national laws” (see Article 1.2). But the best practices of whom? For every claim to internationalism in the document, there is an echo of the US–Philippines VFA — another agreement which, under the promise of cooperation, gradually mutated into a quasi-basing arrangement replete with jurisdictional ambiguities and sovereignty dilemmas. Indeed, Duterte threatened to cancel it outright, stating baldly that the Philippines was “not a colony.”
Sri Lanka, however, seems not merely eager to host but to host without question. This enthusiasm, unfettered by parliamentary scrutiny, public consultation or strategic clarity, resurrects painful memories of the SOFA and MCC agreements with the United States, both of which were shelved after virulent public and political opposition in 2019. The echoes are unmistakable: secretive drafting, vague language, pretexts of modernisation, eventual exposure, and public rage. Have we learned nothing? Or is this the same script now written in Devanagari?
Consider further the chilling precedent of China’s presence in Djibouti. What began as an anti-piracy logistics hub has morphed into a full-blown military base, equipped with naval piers and high-powered weaponry — a pivot in Beijing’s Indo-Pacific strategy. The legal language in their initial agreement bears eerie resemblance to that in our MoU: temporary, logistical, mutual. Today, Djibouti’s autonomy is dissected in think tanks and parliaments around the world. Are we to become another entry in that grim ledger?
Worst still, Article 10 of the MoU explicitly states that disputes will be handled “amicably” and “will not be referred to any national/international court, tribunal, or similar body.” This is nothing short of a strategic gag order. If a future government — less enamoured by saffron diplomacy — seeks recourse or challenge, it will find itself bound in a diplomatic oubliette, denied access to the very instruments of international justice.
And in Article 11, while affirming that visiting Indian personnel are subject to local laws, the phrase is too conveniently brief. Experience from other jurisdictions — notably, when American soldiers under SOFA were accused of crimes in Okinawa, Japan, and protected through legal loopholes — reveals how these jurisdictions are often honoured more in breach than in observance. What then of accountability?
This MoU, draped in the livery of “friendship” and “shared history”, is nothing short of a bilateral seduction — where one partner arrives with roses and leaves with blueprints of the bedroom. Sri Lanka must recall that sovereignty is not always lost through invasion. Sometimes it is bartered away, smoothed by protocol, smiled away over handshakes, and ratified by those who call themselves patriots but act as stewards for others’ ambitions.
If ever there was a time for the Lankan polity, civil society, and citizenry to awaken from this diplomatic stupor — it is now. Let not Ram-Sethu become a bridge of regrets.
