Editorial
With due respect to the monks from Vietnam and their puppy named “Aloka”, one is nevertheless compelled to interrogate the spectacle presented to the public under the banner of a so-called Walk for Peace in Sri Lanka. What has been framed as a moral procession towards reconciliation increasingly resembles, to many discerning observers, a carefully engineered media exercise rather than an organic movement. The participation of a pro-government aligned yet privately owned media outlet only deepens the suspicion that what is being staged is not merely a spiritual journey, but a tightly managed narrative intervention, dressed in the language of peace while quietly advancing other interests.
Sri Lanka’s media sphere has long been entangled in allegations and counter-allegations of political proximity, commercial self-interest, and shifting editorial loyalties. It would be disingenuous to assume that media institutions operate in isolation from power. Over the years, various outlets have been accused—rightly or wrongly—of adjusting their positions in line with changing political currents, sometimes while invoking the rhetoric of press freedom, yet simultaneously engaging in opaque dealings and selective silence. There have also been persistent public discussions around earlier episodes in which media figures were alleged to have crossed into questionable intermediary roles in defence-related matters during past administrations. Whether fully proven or not, such claims have contributed to a steady erosion of confidence, particularly when contrasted with the confidence with which certain platforms now present themselves as moral judges of national reconciliation.
It is within this atmosphere that the current “peace walk” must be examined. Peace, in a nation marked by decades of internal armed conflict, cannot be reduced to a ceremonial march or a media-friendly journey across symbolic locations. It is a delicate and demanding process that requires inclusion, historical depth, and, above all, trust. Yet the choice of route has already sparked unease. A procession beginning in Anuradhapura, an ancient centre of Sinhala Buddhist heritage, inevitably carries layered meaning. In a society still carrying the emotional and political weight of conflict, symbolism is never neutral or harmless. The absence of an equivalent starting point in the Northern regions, such as Jaffna or Nagadeepa, has been noted by critics who argue that such decisions risk reinforcing, rather than healing, long-standing perceptions of separation. Whether intentional or not, such choices inevitably shape interpretation in a country where memory and identity remain closely intertwined with place.
The historical setting against which these initiatives unfold cannot be ignored. Sri Lanka endured a thirty-year conflict shaped by internal insurgency and entangled in wider regional dynamics, leaving behind not only physical destruction but also deep ideological fractures. External involvement in various forms has been widely discussed by analysts over time, including references to India’s role within broader Cold War and post-Cold War regional calculations. These matters are not easily reduced to simple moral labels, nor can they be compressed into neat narratives of innocence and blame. They belong instead to a contested past where accounts differ sharply, and where collective memory remains unsettled and often politicised.
Against this backdrop, the transformation of “peace” into a media-driven procession risks stripping the concept of its depth. Critics argue that what is being offered is not reconciliation in substance, but reconciliation as display. The danger lies not only in the spoken message, but in the implied suggestion that unity can be arranged through curated routes, symbolic gestures, and amplified publicity. When such narratives are shaped by institutions perceived—fairly or unfairly—as being close to centres of authority, scepticism is not only expected but inevitable. It reflects a society repeatedly exposed to the use of public emotion within competing political and institutional agendas.
This is not to dismiss the sincerity of those who take part, including religious figures whose intentions may be grounded in genuine compassion. Yet even sincere intent can be absorbed into wider systems of narrative control, where meaning is directed less by individual conviction and more by institutional framing. In such moments, the language of peace risks drifting away from the lived realities of those who endured the harshest years of conflict, becoming more performance than practice.
If peace is to carry real meaning, it cannot be confined to symbolic journeys that begin and end in carefully selected locations, nor can it rely on media amplification that shifts between moral authority and political convenience. Genuine reconciliation demands discomfort, honesty, and a willingness to confront how stories are shaped, who benefits from their shaping, and who is quietly excluded in the process.
The question is not whether a walk for peace appears desirable, but whether such displays, in their present form, contribute to real healing or merely add another layer to a long pattern of curated narratives that continue to shadow public life in Sri Lanka. And in that reflection, one truth remains unavoidable: this is not the path of Dhamma as taught by Gautama Buddha, who called for inner transformation, compassion without agenda, and liberation free from manipulation, spectacle, and power.
