by Our Political Affairs Correspondent
Sri Lanka’s political history since 1948 is built on a foundation of lies, betrayals, and carefully crafted illusions that have defined the country’s course. This pattern has reached a new stage with the emergence of the National People’s Power (NPP), a force that not only highlights but also perpetuates the contradictions deeply rooted in Sri Lanka’s political culture. To fully understand this, one must examine the dissonance between the promises made before coming to power and the actions taken afterwards. This disparity does not simply expose the hypocrisy of political actors; it reveals a deeper and more troubling phenomenon—the active complicity of the people in their own deception. Here lies the essence of the “Sinhala Dialectic,” a system that thrives on lies while presenting them as inevitable truths.
Since independence, the act of gaining power in Sri Lanka has rarely, if ever, been achieved by telling the truth. The recurring betrayal of the electorate by those they empower is not a new story; it is a chronic cycle of manipulation. The rulers who promised a “righteous society” in 1977 or “humanitarian capitalism” in 1994 only demonstrated that deception is not an anomaly in Sri Lankan politics but its driving force. For over seventy-five years, this dynamic has endured, with one consistent feature: the people, willingly or otherwise, choosing to be misled. The problem is not simply a deceiving politician on one side and a naïve population on the other. The people are not passive victims but active participants, desiring and even demanding the very illusions they are later disillusioned by. They are deceived not because they lack awareness but because they choose to close the gaps in their lives with fantasies, whether it be promises of economic prosperity, nationalist resurgence, or moral renewal.
The actions of the NPP follow this same pattern. Critics are quick to highlight the contradictions between the party’s rhetoric before gaining power and its actions once in office. While such criticism is often reduced to ridicule or political point-scoring, it overlooks the underlying mechanics of how power is acquired and maintained in Sri Lanka. Lies are not incidental to the process; they are the currency of political legitimacy. Those who criticise the NPP for breaking its promises fail to ask the more fundamental question: was the path to power ever grounded in truth? When figures like Sajith Premadasa, Champika Ranawaka, or Namal Rajapaksa decry the NPP’s betrayals, one must ask them a simple question: “Did you gain power by telling the truth, or did you rely on the same mechanisms of deceit?”
The people’s complicity in this process extends beyond mere gullibility. Their willingness to accept lies stems from their own unresolved contradictions. They externalise their frustrations and uncertainties, investing their hopes in promises that they know, on some level, are hollow. The allure of the Kelani Cobra, the barren land projects, or the spectres of Chinese or Indian dominance are not grounded in reality but are constructs that serve to entertain rather than enlighten. This investment in deception is not about creating meaning; it is about distraction. It is a form of collective entertainment that allows the population to avoid confronting the deeper inconsistencies in their lives.
The consequences of this deception are often stark and brutal. Leaders like Mahinda Rajapaksa, who once basked in the adoration of a nation, find themselves cast aside when the illusions they spun inevitably unravel. Mahinda’s story is emblematic of the Sinhala Dialectic—his belief that the people’s adoration was genuine was shattered when the same crowds that celebrated his triumphs turned on him with equal fervour. The blood-soaked triumphalism of 2009 gave way to his isolation and irrelevance by 2022. This pattern is not unique to Mahinda; it is the fate of all leaders who mistake the theatrics of power for enduring loyalty. Ranil Wickremesinghe offers a stark contrast. Unlike his predecessors, he has never relied on the fiction of popular support. His ability to manipulate political structures while dismissing the façade of people’s mandates illustrates the ultimate cynicism at the heart of Sri Lankan politics. Power, in his case, is achieved through the cold calculation of alliances and strategy, bypassing the need for mass deception. And yet, even his power is precarious, dependent on the same system of lies that governs the political arena.
The NPP’s ascent, then, is not an aberration but a continuation of this dialectical process. By exploiting the same mechanisms of deception that have sustained Sri Lanka’s political class for decades, the NPP has simply adapted to the rules of the game. What makes this moment distinct is the transformation of the governing structure itself. Unlike past regimes centred on individuals, the NPP’s power resides in the party. This shift introduces a new dynamic, one that is both potentially destabilising and inherently contradictory. The party’s internal organisational logic, its reliance on collective decision-making and its ideological commitments, will inevitably clash with the demands of governance. Whether this contradiction will lead to a crisis within the party or the broader political system remains to be seen.
The broader question that emerges is whether the people will continue to accept this cycle of deception. Will the NPP’s betrayals provoke the same disillusionment that toppled previous regimes, or will they be met with a new form of resistance? The answer lies in the people themselves. For over seven decades, they have chosen deception over truth, not out of ignorance but out of a desire to avoid confronting the harsh realities of their lives. The rare moments when truth has emerged in Sri Lankan politics—whether through revolutionary movements or the fleeting clarity of mass protests—have been met with brutal suppression or co-optation. Real change requires not just a rejection of lies but a fundamental transformation of how the people engage with politics. It demands an encounter with the truth, not as an abstract ideal but as a concrete reality that challenges their desires and reshapes their lives.
In a system built on deception, the emergence of truth is not a passive event but an active, disruptive force. It is a moment of profound political transformation, where the illusions that sustain power are shattered, and the people confront their own complicity in the system they claim to oppose. This moment is not inevitable; it must be created. Until then, the Sinhala Dialectic will continue to dominate, perpetuating a cycle of lies that serves only to entrench the very system it claims to oppose.
