Editorial
In Sri Lanka’s tragic modern history, we often speak of the horrors inflicted upon the Northern Muslims in October 1990, given two hours to abandon homes, livelihoods, and lifetimes of accumulated memory. Yet almost no one remembers or acknowledges the equally devastating expulsion of Sinhalese communities from the North and East. While history books, media narratives, and political rhetoric have elevated certain voices, those of the Sinhalese who were uprooted, rendered homeless, and robbed of their ancestral lands have been systematically silenced. This selective memory is not an accident; it is a deliberate construct that privileges certain ethnic narratives while marginalizing others, reinforcing a hierarchy of victimhood that suits contemporary political and social agendas. The irony is stark: the very groups that demand equality, reconciliation, and coexistence while castigating others for “exclusivism” have themselves benefited from the deliberate erasure of other communities’ suffering.
The Sinhalese expelled from the North and East endured forced migration under the same oppressive shadow that loomed over Muslims and Tamils. Entire villages emptied overnight, homes and farmland abandoned, families scattered across the country. Yet while aid, media attention, and international advocacy descended upon the Northern Muslim community, Sinhalese survivors were left to drift in relative obscurity, their plight trivialized or ignored. In contemporary political discourse, this selective remembrance manifests in subtle but potent ways. Politicians and commentators highlight certain atrocities while systematically downplaying others, using narratives of victimhood to curry favor with international donors, advocacy groups, and the global diaspora. Some lawmakers remarked in parliamentary debates that “every community has suffered, yet some suffering is recognized more than others,” a statement that seemed to vanish into the ether without challenge or acknowledgment. It is precisely this selective recognition that has allowed some communities to consolidate advantages, secure housing and development projects, and wield international sympathy, even as they propagate a moralistic rhetoric about inclusivity and equality.
Nowhere is this hypocrisy more evident than in the housing and development projects funded by wealthy Middle Eastern nations with dubious agendas. No government has had the backbone to oversee how these funds are channeled. The Easter bombings, a national tragedy, were exploited by Cardinal Ranjith and elements of the Church for political clout, using unproven conspiracy theories and pursuing selective vengeance against certain targets while ignoring the broader truth behind the attack, serving as a blunt early warning of the deeply rooted Islamic radicalization that continues to threaten social cohesion. If structural issues of governance and oversight are not addressed, the consequences will be unprecedented. The current government, with its vague statements and half-measures, appears entirely unprepared to confront these systemic challenges.
Entire settlements in Northern and Eastern provinces, ostensibly intended to support displaced communities, have instead become instruments of exclusivism, privileging certain ethnic or religious groups while quietly sidelining others. The allocation of resources, the construction of communities, and the framing of these projects in international discourse all contribute to an atmosphere where some groups claim moral authority, dictate the terms of reconciliation, and advocate coexistence—all while actively perpetuating a de facto ethnic hierarchy. Meanwhile, the displaced Sinhalese, who once formed vibrant communities and contributed to the cultural and economic life of the North, remain largely invisible. Their lost lands, destroyed homes, and severed social networks are rarely referenced in policy discussions or international aid agendas. The state, whether through negligence or complicity, has allowed this inequity to persist.
This erasure has far-reaching consequences. By sidelining the experiences of one community, we distort historical memory, impede genuine reconciliation, and set a dangerous precedent for the future. When victimhood is weaponized selectively, it fosters resentment, fuels ethnic polarization, and undermines the very principles of coexistence that are publicly championed. The irony is bitter: those who lecture others about equality and reconciliation are often the beneficiaries of historical omissions, using narratives of persecution as tools to secure resources, influence, and legitimacy. In the process, they delegitimize the suffering of other communities and create a social environment where grievances are measured not by the depth of loss, but by political and media visibility.
What is particularly alarming is the lack of accountability or even acknowledgment from the government. The absence of an official narrative that includes the displacement of Northern Sinhalese, the lack of restitution or rehabilitation programs, and the silence in the face of development projects that reinforce exclusivism collectively signal a tacit acceptance of inequity. While political leaders issue statements on reconciliation, coexistence, and minority rights, the experiences of a major ethnic group remain marginalized, creating a profound dissonance between rhetoric and reality. This selective recognition is not merely symbolic; it has material consequences, affecting land rights, access to housing, political representation, and the very capacity to return home.
Sri Lanka’s post-war reconciliation is incomplete, not merely because of unhealed wounds among Tamils and Muslims, but because the suffering of Sinhalese communities has been systematically erased. A true reckoning requires acknowledging all victims, confronting inconvenient historical realities, and ensuring that development, aid, and political recognition are not instruments of ethnic favoritism. Until this is addressed, claims of equality, coexistence, and moral authority by certain communities and their international patrons remain hollow. The consequences of continued silence are grave. We risk entrenching ethnic hierarchies, perpetuating resentment, and undermining the fragile fabric of national unity. If Sri Lanka is to move beyond its tragic past, it must first speak honestly about all who suffered, including those whose voices have been deliberately muted for decades.
