by Luxman Aravind
A cohort of sycophantic apparatchiks, long relegated to the role of spineless yes-men under previous regimes, has recently resurfaced, styling themselves the “Winning South” or Dinana Dakuna. This appellation—already a semantic misstep given its historical connotations as a geographic epithet for Sinhala-dominated regions—has become a banner for a motley crew who, in their newfound purported political sagacity, seek to lecture the nation on Sri Lanka’s manifold crises. Yet their emergent voices reek less of genuine statesmanship and more of opportunistic grandstanding bereft of substantive ideological or pragmatic framework. Their parlance, though superficially incisive, is devoid of the political gravitas necessary to navigate the nation’s existential challenges.
Sri Lanka is not in want of such lachrymose recitations of failed nostalgia, nor the pathological confessions of erstwhile potentates lamenting their erstwhile impotence. To wrestle back the levers of power from President Anura Kumara Dissanayake and his coterie demands more than the contrived soundbites of those who have long been complicit in the rot. It requires sagacious political wisdom, an unflinching grasp of the exigencies of governance, and a coherent vision grounded in both the material realities and the moral imperatives of our fractured polity.
Yet, what do these self-styled liberators proffer? An amorphous discourse riddled with facile critiques, obfuscations, and an all-too-familiar charade of anti-corruption posturing designed to camouflage their true intent: the preservation of personal and pecuniary privileges. The phenomenon of individuals who have, by all reasonable measures, never engaged in productive labour or enterprise ascending into the echelons of billionaire oligarchs through the venal machinery of political patronage is not merely corruption; it is the perfidious symbiosis of political and economic power—a stratagem that Antonio Gramsci presciently identified as “hegemony,” the subtle domination of civil society by ruling elites through consensual acquiescence rather than brute force.
The ethical bankruptcy of this cadre underscores a broader malaise afflicting Sri Lankan democracy. The nation stands perilously close to an abyss where democracy is not only eroded but effectively obliterated by a confluence of institutional decay, pervasive clientelism, and the absence of a credible opposition. In this crucible, the question arises: what kind of social and political movement can transcend mere power struggles and instead galvanise a robust, principled opposition essential for the survival of democracy itself?
One must recall Alexis de Tocqueville’s seminal insight that “democracy is the most difficult of all regimes to maintain.” His observation, forged in the early 19th century, resonates with chilling urgency in the Sri Lankan context today. Democracy demands not merely elections, but a vibrant opposition—one that challenges the incumbent not for the sake of obstructionism or factional aggrandisement but to serve as the guardian of democratic norms, a crucible for policy innovation, and a repository of alternative visions. The absence of such an opposition is tantamount to a democratic void, a vacuum readily filled by authoritarian impulses.
The opposition in Sri Lanka must eschew the temptations of mere electoral opportunism and instead cultivate what Hannah Arendt described as the “space of appearance,” where individuals come together to deliberate, dissent, and act in concert. This necessitates an opposition that is professionally constituted, intellectually rigorous, and ethically unimpeachable—a movement that recognises its role not as a vehicle for personal enrichment or factional revenge but as the indispensable foil to executive overreach and populist demagoguery.
President Dissanayake himself is a paradoxical figure in this narrative. Admittedly, his tenure is marked by contradictions and shortcomings. Critics decry his alleged mendacity and unfulfilled promises, yet one must ask whether the electorate could have entrusted him with power had he been an unyielding purveyor of unvarnished truth in a polity accustomed to the artifice of political deception. In navigating the “ground realities,” as he terms it, Dissanayake performs a pragmatic, if imperfect, stewardship that the country may either ultimately vindicate or repudiate. This ambiguity is intrinsic to politics itself, a domain Aristotle deemed the “highest form of practical wisdom.”
To supplant him, Sri Lanka requires not the pathological, hypocritical proxies of corruption who cloak their self-interest in hollow rhetoric, but a cadre of politicians possessing the mettle to engage in earnest dialogue and principled contestation. Such a cadre must comprehend that the quintessential role of opposition is not to seize power at any cost but to function as the sentinel of democratic accountability.
History offers instructive exemplars. The Indian National Congress in the colonial era, despite its elite composition, managed to orchestrate a nationalist movement that was inclusive, ideologically substantive, and morally compelling, thereby creating a polity resilient to authoritarianism post-independence. Conversely, the collapse of the Weimar Republic in Germany underscores the perils of a fragmented opposition incapable of resisting the tide of authoritarianism—not through the absence of dissent but through its disunity and moral ambivalence.
Sri Lanka’s Dinana Dakuna, with its vacuous nomenclature and insipid political rhetoric, epitomises the very antithesis of the opposition the country desperately needs. Instead, what is called for is a “counter-hegemony” that can wrest civil society from the clutches of entrenched elites. Gramsci’s concept of the “organic intellectual” is germane here: a cadre of leaders who are not only theoretically adept but also deeply embedded in the lived realities of the populace, capable of articulating a collective will that transcends narrow factionalism.
The bottom-line is that the country does not require yet another cacophonous congregation of self-interested factions masquerading as political saviours. It demands a reimagined opposition—professional, principled, and profound—a movement that neither lusts for power per se nor resigns itself to impotent dissent but embraces the heavy mantle of democratic guardianship. As Edmund Burke sagely cautioned, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” The time for good men—and women—to act is now, before Sri Lanka’s fragile democracy succumbs to irreversible decay.
