by Luxman Aravind
In 1956, the Betrayal of Buddhism: Report of the Buddhist Committee of Inquiry was not just a religious document; it was a mirror held up to a nation that had already begun to lose its soul. Written in a time when the island was emerging from the shadow of colonialism, the report was both a lament and a warning. It exposed the corrosion of the Buddhist moral base, the manipulation of faith by political and foreign powers, and the absence of an ethical vision in governance. Seventy years later, the same words echo with startling accuracy. Sri Lanka, once again, stands at a crossroads—leaderless, rudderless, and spiritually hollow.
The report’s authors warned that “Democracy in Ceylon is faced today with the gravest danger it can know from religious bodies corrupted with wealth and power.” This was not merely an indictment of the Catholic Church or Western influence. It was an implicit rebuke of a Buddhist society that had surrendered its moral agency to convenience, compromise, and political expedience. Today, as we drift through yet another political transition, we are witnessing the full flowering of that betrayal. A country that once claimed to be the guardian of Theravāda civilisation has become a playground for opportunists—religious, political, and economic—each cloaking self-interest in the rhetoric of patriotism and piety.
The report’s significance lies not in its sectarian grievances but in its prophetic vision. It foresaw that a nation divorced from its moral compass would inevitably decay. The authors wrote of the risk of “a State made subordinate to the Church,” but what they truly feared was a State made subordinate to corruption, greed, and hypocrisy. Today, that fear is realised—not through ecclesiastical domination, but through a broader spiritual collapse. The temples are crowded, the sermons loud, the festivals lavish—but the essence of the Dhamma, the discipline of truth and compassion, has evaporated from public life.
When the report warned that “absolute power is the surest way to absolute corruption,” it anticipated not only the arrogance of colonial privilege but the moral decay of the post-independence elite. Sri Lanka’s current crisis is not merely economic or political; it is existential. We have become a nation of managers without monks, economists without ethics, and leaders without light. The Buddha’s vision of governance—the Dhammiko Dandadharo Raja, the ruler who governs through righteousness—has been replaced by the politician who governs through deceit and spectacle. The rot is not new, but its consequences have become intolerable.
What is missing in Buddhism today is not ritual or recognition, but relevance. The Betrayal of Buddhism report insisted that the religion must “improve the moral quality of its citizens to the maximum extent possible.” Yet, Buddhism in Sri Lanka has largely become ceremonial—a matter of identity, not insight. The temples, once seats of learning and conscience, are too often silent on issues of justice, corruption, and compassion. Monks appear in politics not as reformers but as partisans; the robes, once symbols of detachment, have become instruments of ambition. The decay is not only institutional but intellectual. There is no contemporary articulation of the Dhamma that speaks to the anguish of the poor, the alienation of the youth, or the despair of the displaced.
This absence of moral imagination is what has left Sri Lanka barren of visionaries. The report’s call for a Buddha Sasana Act—to vest the moral authority of the Sasana in a national body free from political manipulation—remains one of the most neglected proposals in the island’s modern history. Instead of uniting the Sangha, successive governments have exploited its divisions. The monks themselves, often fragmented by lineage, language, and ideology, have become pawns in a larger game of patronage. The tragedy is that the very institution that should have been the conscience of the nation has become complicit in its moral collapse.
The report also warned against the misuse of religion for political ends, noting that “public opinion prevents these bodies from openly launching a Christian or Catholic political party. But how long can public opinion last?” The answer, sadly, is that it did not last long. Today, the exploitation of Buddhism for political legitimacy is routine. Politicians drape themselves in saffron when it suits them and discard it when it does not. The Buddha statues that adorn every roundabout and government office have become emblems of hypocrisy rather than sanctity. Buddhism, in its public form, has been nationalised but not internalised. It has become an aesthetic, not an ethic.
The Betrayal of Buddhism report’s insight into the fusion of religion and state power remains profoundly relevant. “It is anomalous,” it declared, “for a secular State like ours to have a Government exercising the powers of a Buddhist monarch.” Yet Sri Lanka continues to oscillate between the rhetoric of Buddhist nationalism and the reality of moral bankruptcy. The State invokes the name of the Buddha to justify repression, while ignoring the Buddha’s call for justice. The Sangha preaches detachment but seeks privilege. The people, weary of sermons and slogans, drift further into cynicism. The result is not a Buddhist nation but a spiritually colonised one—a society that has traded wisdom for convenience.
At its core, the Betrayal of Buddhism is not just about religion; it is about nation-building. The authors understood that a nation without moral purpose cannot survive political turmoil. They wrote: “We are of opinion that it is the duty of Government to improve the moral quality of its citizens to the maximum extent possible and through the use of all religions.” That idea, radical in its inclusivity, offers a blueprint for modern renewal. Revitalising Buddhism is not about dominance but about direction. It means reclaiming the Buddha’s teachings as a moral foundation for governance, education, and civic life—not as a weapon of division but as a source of wisdom.
Sri Lanka’s political paralysis today is the direct result of this moral vacuum. The report warned that “a Government supposed to be neutral to all parties can permit and even promote these religio-political colonization schemes.” Replace “colonization” with “corruption,” and the diagnosis is identical. Every regime since independence has used religion as camouflage for self-interest. Every crisis—economic, ethnic, or environmental—has been deepened by the absence of ethical leadership. The Buddha’s teaching of appamāda, heedfulness, has been replaced by a culture of indulgence and impunity.
To revitalise Buddhism in Sri Lanka, therefore, is not to romanticise the past but to recover its moral force. It means stripping the religion of its political ornamentation and restoring its ethical substance. The Sangha must return to its original role as teacher and critic, not functionary or beneficiary. The state must stop treating Buddhism as a political asset and begin treating it as a spiritual responsibility. And the public must rediscover the courage to demand moral leadership rather than settle for theatrical nationalism. Only then can the Dhamma regain its transformative power.
The Betrayal of Buddhism report remains, to this day, one of the most intellectually honest documents ever produced in Sri Lanka. Its authors were not apologists or chauvinists; they were patriots who understood that the true strength of a nation lies in its moral integrity. Their words—“Over Ceylon, Christianity sits enthroned, and Ceylon bound hand and foot has been delivered at the foot of the Cross”—were not an expression of hatred but of despair. They were lamenting a spiritual subjugation that had replaced one colonialism with another. Today, that subjugation takes different forms—consumerism, cynicism, and a politics of permanent betrayal.
If there is one lesson to draw from the report, it is that no nation can rebuild itself on a foundation of hypocrisy. Sri Lanka’s crisis is not a failure of intellect but a failure of conscience. The Dhamma, once a living philosophy, has been reduced to decoration. The Sangha, once a moral guide, is often silent in the face of injustice. The State, once envisioned as a protector of the people, is a playground for opportunists. To revitalise Buddhism is to reverse this decay—to reawaken a sense of responsibility that transcends religion and restores humanity.
We are told to think of ourselves as Sri Lankans first and Buddhists afterwards, as the report itself admonished. But to be truly Sri Lankan, one must first be truly human—and that humanity must be grounded in truth, compassion, and discipline. Buddhism offers those values, but it cannot impose them. They must be lived, not legislated. The Buddha did not create a religion of ritual but a culture of awakening. That culture is what the report mourned, and what we must now restore.
Sri Lanka does not need another saviour or strongman. It needs a moral awakening. It needs leaders who understand that the Dhamma is not a slogan but a standard. It needs citizens who realise that nation-building begins not with constitutions but with conscience. The Betrayal of Buddhism is not a relic of the past; it is a warning for the present. Its voice, if we listen, still speaks: that a nation without virtue will perish, and that the greatest betrayal of Buddhism is not by others—but by ourselves.
