Editorial
In a country where memory is short and justice is slower than molasses, Sri Lanka’s latest scandal comes as no surprise. The name that now resonates through the streets, classrooms, and headlines is Hayeshika Fernando, now infamously dubbed “Teacher Amma.” This self-styled tuition queen—currently a fugitive wanted for assault—didn’t just sell a few fake promises. She sold the soul of an entire generation, exploiting the fragile egos of parents and the desperate hopes of children, all while institutions meant to protect these young minds stood dumb, blind, and shamefully complicit.
This is not merely about one woman or one incident. This is a national tragedy. A story of a society so broken that it confuses noise for knowledge, social media glamour for substance, and business for education. In the glitzy, overproduced videos that made “Teacher Amma” a household name, one can see the choreography not of education—but of exploitation. With lights, filters, slogans, and stage-managed “success stories,” these classes became circuses. And our children? The captive animals performing for applause.
The fifth grade scholarship exam, once a noble tool to elevate bright students from underprivileged backgrounds, has now become a grotesque contest of status anxiety and middle-class delusion. Parents don’t enrol their children in these tuition empires out of necessity—they do it out of fear and ego. They aren’t choosing education; they’re gambling with their children’s mental health to buy temporary bragging rights.
And this is where predators like Teacher Amma thrive. They promise results, manipulate minds, and profit massively while hiding behind smiling selfies, motivational slogans, and choreographed public shows. But behind the screens and stage lights is a well-oiled machine built on psychological pressure, emotional manipulation, and unchecked abuse.
Hayeshika is now on the run, accused of physically assaulting a young man over a social media post. Her husband and her institution’s manager have already been arrested. Her phone is off. She has vanished. But her empire—founded on parental delusion and systemic failure—remains intact. It is not she who failed the system; it is the system that empowered her. This con was crafted in broad daylight—with the full consent of a nation addicted to shortcuts and spectacle.
Let us not forget, this is the same country that birthed con artists like Sakwithi Ranasinghe, a bogus English teacher turned financial messiah who duped thousands with pseudo-intellectual charisma, and Thilini Priyamali, who pulled off elaborate financial scams from behind the veil of spiritual trust and political proximity. “Teacher Amma” fits right into this rogue’s gallery. The difference? She weaponised the aspirations of children—and the blind desperation of parents.
There is an entire industry now—a tuition-industrial complex—built on the ruins of formal education. Education departments have been reduced to rubber stamps, unable or unwilling to regulate, while private tutors—some charismatic, some criminal—operate as celebrities, gods, and saviours rolled into one. In a rational society, they’d be licensed, audited, held to strict standards. In Sri Lanka, they’re celebrated for their Instagram followers and YouTube views.
It is shameful that not a single meaningful oversight mechanism exists to monitor how these tuition empires function. Are they psychologically safe for children? Are their staff vetted or trained? Is there a complaints process for abuse? Are there educational standards? The answer to all is: No. And that’s exactly how someone like Teacher Amma built her empire—unchecked, unscrutinised, and almost invincible.
But the real enablers in this story are the ego-centric parents. The ones who believe that success is a number, that tuition is a status symbol, and that exhaustion is proof of effort. Parents who willingly enrol their 10-year-olds in eight-hour coaching camps, pump them with short notes, and then proudly post their children’s ranks on Facebook like trophies. What you don’t post is the anxiety, the tears, the therapy sessions later needed to recover from these years of psychological warfare. You, dear parent, are not preparing a child—you are producing a boiler chicken, pumped with facts, fattened for slaughter, and incapable of critical thought.
This pattern is not unique to Sri Lanka. In India, the rise of coaching centres in Kota led to such a suicide epidemic that the government had to intervene. In South Korea, the “hagwon” culture has turned childhood into a 16-hour academic shift. Even China—where the obsession with academic success runs deep—had to ban for-profit tutoring in 2021 to curb student burnout and economic inequality. What are we waiting for?
Meanwhile, the Sri Lankan state continues to act like an elderly bystander muttering “ane paw” while children collapse under pressure and manipulators walk free. Even the police response reeks of theatre—deploying three separate teams to track a woman who was once paraded as a saviour of scholarship students. Where were these teams when she was allegedly emotionally and mentally abusing students on a daily basis? Where were they when parents first raised doubts? Where was the Ministry of Education when tuition classes started replacing schools as the primary sites of learning?
The truth is simple: this didn’t happen in spite of the system—it happened because of it.
What must be done now is not a half-baked regulation or an apology from some ministry bureaucrat. It is a complete dismantling of the tuition-industrial complex. We must outlaw all unregulated tuition centres. We must criminalise the monetisation of children’s exam stress. We must audit the mental health impact of these exam regimes. We must invest in public education like our lives—and democracy—depend on it.
Because they do.
This is not a debate about public vs. private education. This is about saving the childhoods being stolen in the name of competition. This is about stopping the con-artists before they become household names. This is about refusing to let the next “Teacher Amma” rise from the rubble we refused to clear.
Until then, every tuition billboard, every over-hyped scholarship class, every smug social media success story should be viewed not with pride—but with shame. Because behind every one of them might be another predator. And behind every smile, another broken child.
And this time, the nation won’t be able to say, “We didn’t know.”
