by Luxman Aravind
In diplomatic circles, there is an old saying: “If you are not at the table, then you are on the menu.” One is compelled to wonder whether Sri Lanka’s current Foreign Minister, Vijitha Herath, has ever paused to contemplate the meaning of that adage. His performance in Parliament yesterday, attempting to justify the government’s humiliation at the United Nations Human Rights Council in Geneva, demonstrates a staggering lack of understanding of international politics, and perhaps something worse — a wilful disregard for the dignity of the nation he claims to represent. His words were less a defence than an admission of failure, a revelation of how far Sri Lanka’s foreign policy machinery has decayed under a government content to mistake passivity for prudence, and confusion for diplomacy.
The Minister’s explanation that the resolution was passed without a vote — and that this somehow absolves the government of blame — is a pathetic exercise in evasion. His claim that previous administrations “spent public money” and “travelled the world seeking votes” may contain a kernel of truth, but the larger point he misses is catastrophic. The task of a foreign minister is not to save travel expenses or reduce diplomatic engagement, but to advance and protect the national interest, however arduous or uncomfortable that may be. The suggestion that abstaining from the process, or avoiding a vote altogether, constitutes some kind of diplomatic triumph is laughable. It is not a victory of principle, but an abdication of responsibility.
It is said that “diplomacy is the art of letting someone else have your way.” By that standard, Sri Lanka’s current foreign policy is not diplomacy at all; it is surrender disguised as tact. When Herath boasts that the resolution was “passed without a vote,” he seems blissfully unaware that such a procedure usually signals that a country has lost the moral and political leverage even to contest the outcome. This is not neutrality; it is irrelevance. And irrelevance is the worst fate a nation can suffer on the world stage.
In his speech, Herath accused previous governments of internationalising domestic issues and of lying to the international community. Yet he and his government have done precisely the same — only more incompetently. He claims that the government has “rescued” the issue from internationalisation, but it is plain that Sri Lanka remains firmly under the microscope, not because of hostile powers, but because of its own failures to build a credible domestic process for truth, justice and reconciliation. To parade the so-called “Truth and Reconciliation Commission” as a panacea is to mock the intelligence of both the Sri Lankan public and the global community. Without genuine independence, transparency, and the courage to confront hard truths, such commissions are little more than political props, erected to deceive the world and pacify the populace.
The Minister’s rhetoric reeks of insecurity and self-deception. He speaks of “rescuing” the issue from foreign hands, yet his very attendance in Geneva, at the expense of taxpayers, belies that claim. If, as he says, the outcome was already known, why did he travel there at all? The UN offers a free livestream of every session — a tool he could have used from Colombo, sparing the public purse and the nation the embarrassment of his hollow gestures. This is not statesmanship; it is theatre. And a very poor performance at that.
Thucydides once wrote that “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.” The Minister’s speech was a painful confirmation that Sri Lanka has descended into the latter category — a country whose representatives confuse submission with strategy and failure with finesse. True diplomacy is not about bowing before inevitabilities, but about shaping them through foresight, credibility, and moral authority. The Foreign Minister’s actions display none of these qualities. Instead, they reflect the intellectual decay of a political class that neither understands nor respects the principles of diplomacy.
It is not difficult to detect in his words a dangerous complacency, perhaps even complicity. One is tempted to ask whether this ignorance is genuine or deliberate — whether the government’s tame acquiescence to external pressure is born of incompetence or convenience. There is, after all, a fine line between being outmanoeuvred and being bought. When Herath claims that “the government’s commitment has been accepted by the Human Rights Council,” one must ask what commitments were made, and at what cost to sovereignty and truth. To claim victory in such a context is to celebrate one’s own submission.
The Foreign Minister’s conduct, and that of the diplomatic corps appointed under this government, is a matter of shame. Once, Sri Lanka sent to the world stage men and women of intellect, dignity, and independence — people who could command respect even in disagreement. Today, we see a parade of mediocrities and loyalists, clinging to titles they do not deserve, mouthing platitudes they barely understand. It is said in the Arthashastra of Kautilya that “a king should employ ambassadors who are wise, eloquent, and born of noble conduct.” Our present representatives are none of these. They are not diplomats; they are passengers — content to drift while the ship takes on water.
Even Machiavelli, hardly a paragon of morality, understood that the appearance of strength is essential to survival. “A prince,” he wrote, “ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred.” But Sri Lanka’s diplomacy today wins neither love nor respect. It evokes only pity. The world does not hate us; it has simply ceased to care. And that is far worse. For a nation that once prided itself on independence and intellect, this indifference is the ultimate humiliation.
The government’s defenders may call this cynicism, but the truth is plainer: Sri Lanka has been reduced to a spectator in its own story. Ministers speak of sovereignty while kneeling before expedience. They speak of reconciliation while silencing dissent. They speak of patriotism while squandering public funds on vanity trips to Geneva, even as the people at home struggle for survival. When questioned, they invoke “domestic mechanisms” and “new beginnings” — the same hollow promises recycled year after year. One cannot help recalling George Orwell’s bitter observation: “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”
The tragedy is not merely that Sri Lanka has lost face abroad; it is that it has lost faith at home. A government that cannot look the world in the eye cannot expect the trust of its own citizens. Herath’s speech was not an act of diplomacy, but of damage control — a feeble attempt to rewrite failure as foresight. It fooled no one. His words were the verbal equivalent of a white flag, fluttering over a foreign ministry that has forgotten its purpose.
If there is still any sense of honour left in the corridors of power, the Minister and his entourage should tender a sincere apology to the nation — or resign, and save what little dignity remains. For this government has not merely mismanaged foreign policy; it has demeaned the very idea of diplomacy. To travel to Geneva and call surrender success, to waste public money and then mock those who question it — this is not governance. It is betrayal. And if there is a bottom to the pit into which Sri Lankan diplomacy has fallen, one fears that this government is determined to find it.
