Editorial
In a nation where meaningful leadership seems like a distant memory, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s recent declarations reveal a tragicomic spectacle of hollow promises, personal ambition, and a flagrant disregard for Sri Lanka’s fragile political reality. Behind every rhetorical flourish, there is a paradox: a leader who calls for unity, yet with each word, pulls the threads of the country’s fabric further apart.
This administration has mastered the art of manipulation—speaking of progress while failing to address the systemic issues suffocating Sri Lanka’s future. The President’s team has consistently delivered a cacophony of empty promises: they talk about fuel prices, yet fail to study agreements or industry documents; they discuss rice prices, even as accusations fly that key figures in their administration are pocketing donations from rice traders manipulating the market. They speak of education, proposing the cancellation of exams up to the eighth grade, yet can barely address the ongoing crises facing Advanced Level students or those who sat for the Grade 5 scholarship exam. Where is the leadership? And how much longer can their rhetorical machinery function without exposing itself for the hollow theatre it truly is?
One of the more controversial moves made by President Dissanayake at yesterday’s political rally in Northern Province was his recognition of Tamil ‘political prisoners.’ This phrase, laden with historical implications, strikes at the very heart of Sri Lanka’s painful past. The President’s use of this term is not just a nod to political correctness but a deliberate attempt to reshape justice itself for electoral gain. As the country inches closer to a pivotal election, Dissanayake seems eager to rewrite history, even if it means distorting the concept of justice to win votes. By referring to former LTTE fighters, men and women who waged a violent campaign against the state, as “political prisoners,” the President not only whitewashes the bloody conflict but disrespects the pain and sacrifices of those who fought against the LTTE’s separatist agenda. If those who terrorised this nation are now to be considered “political prisoners,” what of those who stood in defiance of them? Who will honour the memory of the millions of Sinhalese, Tamil, and Muslim civilians who fought to keep Sri Lanka united, a task that continues to this day?
This move is also more than a matter of political semantics—it is a direct attack on the ethical foundations of justice itself. Dissanayake’s acknowledgment of “political prisoners” among Tamil detainees could have far-reaching consequences. He risks legitimising the very separatist narratives that Sri Lanka has struggled to heal from, risking a return to the division and violence of the past. Where, then, does one draw the line between freedom fighters and terrorists? The President’s rhetoric seems to erase that line entirely, choosing political expedience over moral clarity.
Sri Lanka’s history offers a tragic irony in this debate. The nation’s last widely recognised political prisoner, Vijaya Kumaratunga, a renowned actor and political activist, was imprisoned under the emergency regulations of President J.R. Jayewardene in 1982, accused of being a Naxalite, a charge that was never substantiated. Kumaratunga’s death at the hands of the JVP during their violent purge of political opposition in the late 1980s marks one of the darkest chapters of Sri Lanka’s political history. Yet, in an ironic twist, it was Kumaratunga’s widow, Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga, who later became Sri Lanka’s first Executive President and worked tirelessly to bring the JVP back into the democratic fold. In her efforts, she sought to heal the nation’s wounds, persuading the JVP to abandon violence and embrace democracy. To now see her husband’s killers—members of the same political party—pursuing the very same political ambitions as President Dissanayake is both tragic and telling. How can the leader of the JVP, a party whose own violent history is entwined with the blood of this nation, now invoke the term “political prisoners” with such ease?
It is not just a matter of historical irony but a profound ethical dilemma. By rebranding convicted terrorists as political prisoners, Dissanayake doesn’t merely distort justice—he undermines it. Is this the leadership Sri Lanka needs? A leader so willing to gamble with the nation’s identity in the hope of securing a fleeting political victory? The President’s actions—his casual manipulation of language—are not only reckless but dangerous, for they undermine the very notion of justice that binds the nation together.
But Dissanayake’s opportunistic political theatre does not stop there. He has also made a vague and superficial promise to return land seized in the North during the war. While land reform is undeniably necessary, his approach to this issue reflects a complete disregard for the delicate balance between national security and the rights of citizens. By offering sweeping promises without a detailed plan, Dissanayake shows little understanding of the complexities that true reconciliation demands. If the President is truly committed to resolving the land issue, why does he not offer a clear roadmap? Instead, he dangles these promises before voters like carrots to win their support, cynically ignoring the long-term work required to heal the deep divisions in the country.
This same detachment is evident in the government’s approach to education. The Prime Minister’s recent suggestion to cancel all exams up to the eighth grade is a disheartening and misguided response to the country’s educational crisis. In a nation where children’s futures are decided by the rigour of exams, this suggestion amounts to a surrender. It is a painful admission of the government’s failure to address the root causes of the educational crisis—a crisis that has seen students’ prospects diminishing due to systemic failure. Is this how Sri Lanka values its youth? Is this how a nation committed to progress treats its future?
Ironically, the National People’s Power (NPP), the party that now leads the charge for these populist moves, has long criticised others for using coercive tactics to inflate the size of their rallies. Yet, recently it was revealed that President Dissanayake orchestrated a rally in Jaffna by busing in people from other districts. This hypocrisy reveals the ugly truth: the NPP is no different from the other political parties it claims to oppose. If the party that promises change is willing to engage in such dishonest tactics, then what does it say about the sincerity of their commitment to real transformation? When former MP M.A. Sumanthiran questioned why Dissanayake couldn’t address his supporters in their own districts rather than staging a theatrical spectacle in Jaffna, it wasn’t just a critique—it was an indictment of the President’s lack of faith in his own words. If he cannot trust his rhetoric to resonate with the public, then what is left of his leadership?
But perhaps the greatest tragedy of all lies not in the hypocrisy, dishonesty, or manipulative politics of this government. The true tragedy is the silence of the Sri Lankan people. A nation that has suffered so much seems willing to accept these hollow promises as meaningful action. Where is the outrage? Where is the demand for accountability? This complacency, this acceptance of empty rhetoric, is the lifeblood of a government that knows it can continue its charade without fear of challenge or consequence.
