by Eric Bailey
There are moments in the life of a nation when the real test of character is not found on the battlefield, but in what follows after the guns fall silent. Wars reveal courage. Peace reveals conscience. It is in times of political convenience, institutional pressure, and public indifference that the true measure of honour is exposed. Sri Lanka is witnessing such a moment today, and the silence surrounding the treatment of former intelligence chief Major General (Retired) Suresh Sallay raises questions that should deeply trouble every veteran, every serving officer, and every citizen who believes in the fundamental principles of justice and human dignity.
For nearly three decades, Sri Lanka’s armed forces fought a conflict that demanded extraordinary sacrifice. Thousands of men and women entered service knowing that they might never return home. They endured conditions that most civilians can scarcely comprehend. They walked into ambushes, survived suicide bombings, watched comrades die beside them, and spent years separated from their families. Some returned bearing visible wounds. Others carried injuries that could never be seen. Many never returned at all. Their names today are etched into monuments and memorials across the country, silent reminders of a generation that surrendered its youth to preserve the state.
Throughout military history, from the warriors of ancient civilisations to the professional armies of the modern era, one principle has remained constant. Soldiers fight not merely for flags or governments. They fight for one another. The bond forged through shared hardship is unlike any other relationship. It is built upon trust, sacrifice, loyalty, and the certainty that no man or woman will be abandoned when circumstances become difficult. This is why military institutions place such emphasis on comradeship. It is not sentimentality. It is the very foundation of military cohesion.
Yet one cannot help but wonder whether those values have become little more than ceremonial slogans in contemporary Sri Lanka.
The reported treatment of Major General Sallay should not be viewed through the narrow lens of political affiliation, personal loyalty, or individual opinion. Whether one admires him, dislikes him, agrees with his actions, or questions his decisions is entirely beside the point. The issue is much larger than one individual. It concerns the standards by which a civilised society treats those who stand accused but have not been convicted. It concerns the distinction between justice and humiliation. It concerns the difference between lawful investigation and conduct that undermines the very principles the state claims to uphold.
Reports have emerged alleging that Sallay was subjected to treatment that many observers have characterised as degrading and inhuman. Reports further indicate that explanations provided regarding certain procedures have intensified concerns rather than alleviated them. These matters remain subject to scrutiny and examination by the appropriate authorities. However, the broader issue extends beyond legal definitions and technical arguments. It concerns the preservation of human dignity.
Every democratic society worthy of the name recognises a simple truth. A detainee does not cease to be human because he is under investigation. A suspect does not surrender his dignity because he is unpopular. A citizen does not lose his fundamental rights because political circumstances make him a convenient target. These principles are not rewards granted to the innocent. They are protections guaranteed to all.
What makes this episode particularly disturbing is not merely the allegations themselves. It is the deafening silence that has followed.
Where are the veterans?
Where are the retired commanders who spent years lecturing younger officers about honour, loyalty, and duty?
Where are the former chiefs who spoke endlessly about military brotherhood?
Where are the decorated officers who built public reputations upon narratives of courage and sacrifice?
Where are the men who once stood beside Sallay in operational rooms, intelligence briefings, command centres, and battlefields?
Why have so many chosen silence?
This silence is not dignified. It is not prudent. It is not professional restraint.
It is moral cowardice.
The military profession has always distinguished between physical courage and moral courage. Physical courage enables a soldier to advance under fire. Moral courage enables him to stand for what is right when doing so carries personal consequences. The first earns medals. The second earns respect. History is filled with examples of men who possessed the former but lacked the latter.
One is compelled to ask whether many of Sri Lanka’s self-proclaimed guardians of military values have become precisely that kind of men.
The uncomfortable reality is that speaking today may carry risks. It may invite criticism. It may provoke political hostility. It may jeopardise future appointments, access, influence, or personal ambitions. Yet if fear of consequences is sufficient to silence those who spent careers preaching courage, what exactly remains of the values they once claimed to embody?
A veteran’s duty does not end when the uniform is removed. Military service is not merely an occupation. It is an ethical commitment. The obligation to defend principles survives retirement. The responsibility to speak against injustice does not expire with rank. The commitment to stand beside one’s comrades does not vanish upon leaving active service.
Indeed, one of the defining characteristics of respected military traditions throughout history has been the willingness of veterans to defend institutional values even when governments, politicians, or bureaucracies fail to do so. They understand that loyalty is not blind obedience. Loyalty includes the courage to speak when silence becomes dishonourable.
This is where the present silence becomes impossible to defend.
If veterans remain silent when allegations of degrading treatment emerge against a former senior officer, what exactly do their repeated invocations of honour mean?
If they cannot defend the principle of dignity when one of their own is involved, why should younger generations take their speeches seriously?
If they refuse to question conduct that appears inconsistent with the standards they once demanded from subordinates, what moral authority do they retain?
The issue is not whether Sallay should be investigated. Every citizen is accountable under the law. The issue is whether the law itself is being upheld with integrity, fairness, and respect for basic human dignity. Justice does not require humiliation. Due process does not require degradation. The strength of a legal system is measured not by how it treats the powerful when they are popular, but by how it treats individuals when public opinion, political interests, or institutional agendas make mistreatment easy.
History offers a harsh lesson in this regard. Institutions rarely collapse because of dramatic acts of destruction. More often, they deteriorate through the gradual normalisation of conduct that should have been challenged at the outset. Every generation inherits a responsibility to defend standards before they are eroded beyond recognition.
That responsibility today belongs particularly to those who once wore the uniform.
The silence of veterans in this moment is therefore not merely disappointing. It is revealing. It exposes the difference between ceremonial patriotism and genuine principle. It separates those who truly believe in military values from those who merely invoke them when convenient. It demonstrates who understands the meaning of comradeship and who regards it as a useful slogan for speeches and commemorations.
Today the individual concerned is Major General Suresh Sallay.
Tomorrow it may be someone else.
The question confronting Sri Lanka’s veterans is therefore straightforward.
When a former officer’s dignity is reportedly subjected to treatment that raises serious concern, when fundamental questions emerge regarding the conduct of institutions, and when the principles of fairness and humanity appear to be under strain, will those who once preached honour continue to remain silent?
Because if they do, they should stop speaking about brotherhood.
They should stop speaking about loyalty.
They should stop speaking about courage.
Most importantly, they should stop presenting themselves as custodians of military values.
For the greatest betrayal of military honour is not committed by an enemy on the battlefield.
It is committed by comrades who remain silent when conscience demands that they speak.
