by Durga Velayudham and Luxman Aravind
The question of whether Trincomalee is being quietly prepared for an Indo–US– “Sri Lanka” joint military command no longer belongs to the world of speculation or online paranoia. It sits now in the uneasy space between rumour and reality, between what diplomats deny in public and what they discuss freely in private, between Sri Lanka’s chronic fragility and the strategic appetites of larger nations that never stopped circling the island. If the history of this harbour teaches us anything, it is that foreign powers rarely show interest in Sri Lanka out of charity. They come when the island is weak, distracted or drowning. Cyclone Ditwah exposed not only the helplessness of Sri Lanka’s disaster response, but also the opportunism of those who arrived with assistance in one hand and quiet ambitions in the other.
The collapse of Sri Lanka’s military capacity has become almost farcical. The Air Force’s acknowledgement that it has “only two helicopters, and dozens of others are yet to overhaul” is not a minor embarrassment. It is a national security failure. The fact that many repair tenders were handed to private actors “who don’t even have the capacity” shows just how deeply corruption has devoured defence institutions. Sri Lanka’s armed forces, once presented as a disciplined machine capable of defeating one of the world’s most ruthless insurgencies, now resemble a hollowed structure filled with rusting equipment and procurement sharks. Ditwah did not create the country’s vulnerability—it revealed what was already there.
Into this void came India and the United States with remarkable speed and coordination. Their aircraft, vessels and personnel were presented as humanitarian saviours, and no doubt some of that was sincere. But assistance of this scale, delivered with this level of military visibility, is never merely assistance. It is always an entry point. Sri Lankan television channels, some of which were given transport on US military aircraft during the operations in the North and Hambantota, began broadcasting glowing coverage of “extraordinary humanitarian missions”. Many journalists, untrained in geopolitical analysis or psychological operations, acted as if foreign military deployments on Sri Lankan soil were simply public service gestures. The very same public that once erupted in hysteria because Chinese labourers wore uniforms that “looked military” now welcomes highly trained foreign soldiers, aircraft and command teams with almost no critical thought. Something fundamental has shifted—and it has not shifted in Sri Lanka’s favour.
More troubling was the discreet deployment of the C-130J Super Hercules under the rubric of “emergency airlifting of victims”. Lockheed Martin does not present the C-130J merely as a transport aircraft; it is a modular, network-enabled platform engineered to support advanced ISR functions, including terrain-following and synthetic aperture radar configurations, secure beyond-line-of-sight satellite communications, real-time data-link integration with joint command architectures, and roll-on/roll-off mission systems used for signals collection, battlespace management and pattern-of-life surveillance.
These are not speculative capabilities but core features emphasised by the manufacturer for special operations and theatre-level situational awareness. Yet none of the areas most severely affected by Cyclone Ditwah possess airstrips capable of accommodating a C-130J landing, rendering the stated justification of “victim airlifting” operationally implausible. When an aircraft optimised for persistent surveillance, command-and-control integration and rapid force projection is introduced into an environment where it cannot credibly fulfil its declared humanitarian role, the question ceases to be logistical and becomes strategic. What arrived was not relief adapted to Sri Lanka’s terrain, but a platform configured for access, mapping and presence.
In private diplomatic discussions, the shape of the emerging plan becomes clearer. A senior diplomat involved in Indo-Pacific affairs explained to us recently that a proposal is being developed to establish a joint military presence in Trincomalee, framed as a “rapid response” hub for natural disasters and maritime emergencies. She stated plainly that the proposal “was initiated by India” and then followed by the United States, describing it as a design for “joint military bases” justified by emergency preparedness. The language is gentle. The intention is not. If India and the United States are aligning on Trincomalee, it is not out of humanitarian sentiment. It is because both nations have, for decades, desired influence over this harbour.
India’s ambition goes back generations, and the United States has documented it clearly. In the CIA’s Daily Digest of 24 August 1951, the agency wrote that “High Indian military officers have repeatedly and frankly told Ceylon’s Inspector General of Police that India needs and must have the use of the Ceylonese naval base at Trincomalee.” The Inspector General judged that India had “expansionist designs on Ceylon”, and the CIA noted that Trincomalee was “one of the best naval bases in the Indian Ocean area.” These were not fleeting remarks; they formed the backbone of Indian strategic thinking. And they still do. When India intervened in Sri Lanka during the 1980s, when it armed Tamil insurgents, when it negotiated the Indo-Lanka Accord, and when it stationed the IPKF on Sri Lankan soil, it did so with one eye fixed firmly on Trincomalee.
US intelligence recognised this decades later during the Cold War. In the 1988 CIA Intelligence Assessment ‘India’s Navy and Its Indian Ocean Strategy’, the agency wrote that before India intervened in Sri Lanka, “New Delhi was disturbed that its rivals, Pakistan and China, provided most of Colombo’s foreign military aid, and feared that the United States or the United Kingdom would gain access to the Sri Lankan port of Trincomalee.” The assessment concluded that India’s long-term ambition was “to restrict, and eventually eliminate, the foreign presence in the region.”
Today, however, India’s strategy is adapting. New Delhi understands that it cannot keep every external power out of Sri Lanka. China is already deeply embedded in the island’s economy, infrastructure and political imagination. Therefore, India seems prepared to accept an American presence in Trincomalee, not as a concession, but as a safeguard. Better the Americans than the Chinese. Better a partner than a rival. Better shared access than total loss. The proposed joint command, framed innocently as a disaster hub, is the perfect geopolitical compromise: India keeps influence; America gains access; Sri Lanka gets the illusion of partnership.
The United States, meanwhile, has never disguised its long fascination with Trincomalee. Declassified documents stretch across seven decades, and they all point to the same conclusion: America considers Trincomalee a critical node in its Indian Ocean ambitions. In a 1956 CIA Current Intelligence Bulletin, the agency noted that Britain was preparing to give up Trincomalee and asked, with visible concern, how long the harbour would “be available to the British, and to us, in time of need.” This was not a passing thought; it was an early warning. Later documents, such as the intelligence paper on Soviet naval expansion in 1970, warned that the Soviets might “actively seek to acquire… base rights at the northern port of Trincomalee.” The United States feared losing Trincomalee not only to India but to the Soviets, and later, to any external rival.
American strategy in Sri Lanka has long been subtle. In November 1983, when Vernon Walters visited Colombo, he said he would avoid visiting Trincomalee “in order to avoid unnecessary speculation.” Yet shortly thereafter, the Counterspy report noted that both Walters and Defence Secretary Caspar Weinberger had “raised the possibility of increased use of this strategic base by the US Indian Ocean Navy.” Any denial of ambition was always strategic theatre.
Even local actors recognised the harbour’s political value. During the ethnic conflict, both Tamil and Sinhalese groups believed that controlling Trincomalee would give them leverage over Washington. The CIA’s 1984 assessment on communal violence stated directly that “both the Tamil and Sinhalese communities seek to control the harbour at Trincomalee because they believe that the port will provide a bargaining chip in dealing with the United States.” It also noted that “Prime Minister Gandhi apparently continues to believe the United States is seeking to gain port facilities at Trincomalee for the US Navy.”
All of this history now collides with Sri Lanka’s present vulnerability. Cyclone Ditwah devastated the country, and in its aftermath India and the United States displayed levels of military efficiency that Sri Lanka simply cannot match. This is where humanitarianism becomes an instrument of influence. The narrative of “international disaster cooperation” provides a politically comfortable doorway for foreign militaries to establish routines, structures, supply depots, communication platforms and integrated command mechanisms. Over time, these do not function merely as rescue assets—they become operational footholds.
This is why the visit of US Ambassador Julie Chung to Trincomalee is not trivial. When she went diving with Sri Lanka’s first female naval diver, her statement that “the US Navy and the Sri Lanka Navy will continue to maintain that cooperation” was not casual diplomacy. It was a symbolic demonstration of belonging. Her gratitude for exploring “the beautiful seabed off the coast of Trincomalee” was not a tourism remark—it was a public claim of familiarity with a contested maritime space.
Similarly, the arrival of Allison Hooker, the US Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs, this week, only days after her strategic meetings in India, signals more than routine diplomacy. Her remarks about “deepening economic and commercial ties” and “strengthening defence cooperation” echoed almost exactly the tone Victoria Nuland once used when laying the groundwork for strategic partnerships in fragile states. The Embassy’s language, invoking a “free, open and resilient Indo-Pacific”, is the familiar script of American power projection, always wrapped in democratic packaging.
Sri Lanka is not resisting any of this because it no longer has the structural capacity to resist. Its economic crisis has bent its politics. Its military decay has weakened its hand. Its elites are too divided, too indebted and too dependent on external goodwill to mount any coherent defence of sovereignty. In such conditions, a joint Indo–US command in Trincomalee will not arrive with a treaty or a public ceremony. It will arrive through slow institutional blending, through “partnership buildings”, through “capacity upgrades”, through emergency drills, through logistics staging, through humanitarian pre-positioning. It will become reality long before it becomes public knowledge.
The historical record is unequivocally clear, yet our policymakers and politicians often ignore these lessons, prioritising political survival by any means necessary. They remain unwilling to yield to foreign powers that possess the capacity to exert influence over them, including through channels that shape public sentiment. Such influence is frequently exercised through funding streams directed to NGOs, selected individuals, and various entities capable of moulding public perceptions.
Despite this bleak reality, let us reiterate the facts. When the United States looked at Trincomalee in 1956, it wondered, “How long will Trincomalee be available to the British, and to us?” When intelligence analysts examined the Soviet fleet’s expansion in 1970, they warned that the leftist Ceylonese government might grant “base rights at the northern port of Trincomalee.” When CIA assessments in the 1980s analysed Indian intervention, they noted that New Delhi acted partly because it feared that “the United States or the United Kingdom would gain access” to the harbour. When militants destabilised the East in 1985, the US Embassy noted that a West German–Swiss partnership withdrew a major investment in Trincomalee “in the wake of growing guerrilla operations”, demonstrating how the harbour’s fate always shapes foreign engagement.
Every actor wants Trincomalee for themselves. Every actor fears that someone else will get there first.
Sri Lanka is the only actor that does not seem to understand what is happening.
Cyclone Ditwah gave India and the United States the perfect justification to deepen their presence while the country was disoriented. Humanitarian language removed the sting of military arrival. Media campaigns softened public perception. Political leaders, desperate for assistance, accepted foreign presence as inevitable. The proposed joint command—whether framed as disaster management or maritime safety—is the natural next step.
The tragedy is that Sri Lanka is drifting towards this outcome not through negotiation but through incapacity. Sovereignty is not lost through invasion; it is surrendered through weakness. It slips away when a country cannot protect its people, cannot repair its own aircraft, cannot manage its own tenders, cannot fund its own military, cannot speak with one political voice, and cannot withstand the charm of foreign assistance disguised as partnership.
The future of Trincomalee will soon answer a question the island has avoided for decades: will Sri Lanka remain the owner of its most strategic harbour, or will it become a host to forces that promise safety while quietly restructuring the balance of power in the Indian Ocean? If the country continues along its current path, the answer will not be decided by the Sri Lankan people. It will be decided by those who have always coveted the harbour and have now found their opening.
And the most uncomfortable truth is this: they did not seize the opportunity. Sri Lanka handed it to them.
