by Luxman Aravind
A high-profile individual, distinguished by a considerable calibre of expertise, while his recent visit to Toronto, recounted a disconcerting encounter with the new Sri Lankan government—an encounter that serves as a harbinger of a creeping political malaise that could irrevocably alter the nation’s governance. This individual, initially invited to assume the leadership of one of Sri Lanka’s most significant state-owned enterprises, initially entertained the prospect as an opportunity to contribute meaningfully to a country grappling with profound economic and political turmoil. However, as he sought to reconcile the terms of the offer with his own sense of professional integrity, he was confronted by a shocking stipulation. Should he have agreed to the post, he would have been compelled to cede all authority over his salary to the ruling Party, with the Party itself determining not only the compensation but also the conditions of his engagement. What was once a role intended to serve the state, now appears, in its starkest form, to be little more than an instrument for furthering the Party’s control.
This appalling condition is not an isolated anomaly but emblematic of the insidious centralisation of power underway in Sri Lanka—a centralisation that subverts the very notion of governance as a public trust, transforming it into an apparatus of subservience. What was once a structure where the government was tasked with the public’s welfare has now evolved into a system where the Party dictates the very parameters of individual autonomy. The state, in this disconcerting new order, becomes a mere proxy, a pass-through entity that funnels resources and authority to the Party. It is the Party, not the democratic institutions, that holds ultimate dominion over the nation’s affairs.
Sri Lanka, which once reveled in its embrace of liberal economic principles—having gradually abandoned its post-independence socialist doctrines since the 1970s in favour of a more open market economy—now faces a darkening future. The economic liberalisation that allowed for some measure of growth, however uneven, is now rapidly being eroded. The foundation of a free market, however fragile, is under siege, not by external economic forces, but by the very Party apparatus that purports to act in the name of reform and national rejuvenation. The shifting dynamics suggest an alarming move away from a liberalised economic model toward a statist system in which the Party alone determines the course of economic and social life.
This perverse transformation, however, is not an anomaly; it is a calculated recalibration of the political structure that serves the Party’s interest, and not the broader populace’s. What was once considered a functional, albeit imperfect, liberal democracy, has been steadily replaced with a system that closely resembles the centrally-controlled models of totalitarian states, where the apparatus of government is not in the service of the citizen but in the service of an all-powerful ruling party. The implication here is not merely one of policy change, but a radical reordering of the relationship between the governed and the governors. The “government” becomes little more than an extension of the Party, leaving no room for dissent or independent thought.
Sri Lanka’s fate now increasingly resembles that of other countries whose political trajectories were similarly distorted by the rise of authoritarianism. Let us not forget the grim history of nations such as China, whose transition to a Communist state in the mid-20th century was marked by the Party’s gradual absorption of all state functions. In China, the government became a tool of the Communist Party, a subservient arm of its will. The idea of a neutral, impartial government serving the people was expunged in favour of an iron-fisted system where loyalty to the Party became synonymous with loyalty to the state. The political class became a class of Party functionaries, their salaries, benefits, and careers entirely at the mercy of the Party’s centralised power. This kind of structure, one in which the Party claims to be the embodiment of the national will, is one that erases any semblance of public service as an independent function.
In North Korea, the totalitarian state became a living embodiment of the Party’s power. The state, along with its military, economy, and society, became an extension of the Kim regime, a mechanism for furthering the personal power of the ruling family and its ideological vision. The individual, in such a system, loses all autonomy. They are subsumed into the will of the Party, which dictates not just their employment but their thoughts, their daily interactions, and even their loyalties. The state is not just oppressive; it is a suffocating machine that limits and confines the very identity of the individual. This terrifying model is one that Sri Lanka, with its increasing centralisation of power within the Party, risks mirroring. The Party is already exercising control over public discourse, shaping the way information is disseminated, and determining who is deemed worthy of participating in the political process. Sri Lanka’s emerging political reality is eerily reminiscent of the bleak, authoritarian regimes that have historically risen in the wake of promises of national salvation.
Take, for example, the Cuban revolution, which was supposed to bring about equality and fairness. Initially, it seemed as though the Party’s rise to power could address the deep inequities in Cuban society. But over time, the Party entrenched itself as the central authority in all aspects of life. It directed the economy, controlled the media, suppressed dissent, and created a society in which loyalty to the regime was not only expected but demanded. This was not merely a shift in governance, but a complete transformation of the country’s political and economic life into something indistinguishable from a totalitarian state. Cuba’s experience serves as a grave reminder of the dangers of unchecked political power, even when it claims to serve the interests of the people.
Likewise, the fate of Venezuela under Hugo Chávez offers another cautionary tale. Chávez, a populist leader, promised to upend the entrenched oligarchies and redistribute wealth to the poor. Yet, over time, he consolidated power within his own hands, and the state became less a vehicle for reform than an extension of his personal and Party’s will. The media was curbed, opposition was silenced, and a once-thriving economy was reduced to a crumbling disaster. Venezuela’s decline under Chávez’s rule, and the continued suffering under Maduro’s, underscores the fragility of democratic systems and the danger of ceding too much power to one political entity.
In all these examples, we see the same disastrous pattern: a political entity, cloaked in the rhetoric of reform and national salvation, consolidates power to such an extent that it suffocates every vestige of freedom and autonomy. The state is no longer a neutral, democratic entity but a tool for the Party’s objectives. The future, in such scenarios, becomes a bleak prospect, where the promise of progress is always just out of reach, obscured by the suffocating grip of absolute political control.
Sri Lanka, in its current trajectory, risks becoming yet another nation to fall prey to this delusional thinking. It may well believe that this centralisation of power is necessary to rescue the country from its economic woes, but history teaches us otherwise. The same mechanisms that are being employed today—centralisation, control, suppression of dissent—are the very tools that have led nations into disaster time and again. The promises of national rejuvenation ring hollow when we realise that they come at the cost of political freedom, personal autonomy, and democratic governance.
This is the great tragedy of Sri Lanka’s current path: a nation that once believed in democratic principles and economic liberalism is now on the verge of becoming a one-party state, where the Party, not the people, will determine the course of the nation. It is a path that is, in the long term, unsustainable and fraught with peril.
In the haunting words of Pol Pot, in one of his final interviews, there is a grim recognition of the catastrophic failure that comes with such experiments: “We did not succeed. We tried, but we failed. We thought that we would succeed, but we mysteriously failed.” These words should serve as a chilling warning to Sri Lanka as it embarks on its own ill-fated journey down this dangerous road. Ambassador Julie J. Chung, you must be utterly pleased with the rewards you have gained from your so-called ‘more than professional friendship,’ and the price Sri Lanka will soon have to pay for it.
