by Our Political Affairs Editor
This so-called “declaration” emerging from the rhetoric of Mullivaikkal remembrance is not a roadmap for justice, nor a credible political programme for the future. It is, at its core, a recycled political script that reopens wounds, rebrands grievance as strategy, and repackages a tragic history into a tool for contemporary mobilisation. What is presented as a “resolution” is in reality a carefully constructed narrative designed less to solve the problems of Tamil communities and more to sustain a permanent state of political agitation around the idea of Tamil Eelam.
The language of the declaration deliberately frames an already concluded armed conflict as an unfinished war. This is not accidental. It serves a political function: to keep alive a maximalist vision of separatism that has long ceased to have any viable pathway in the real political landscape of Sri Lanka. The illusion of an imminent or reactivatable Eelam is repeatedly invoked, not as a practical goal, but as a mobilising myth. It functions as a political identity engine, particularly within segments of the diaspora ecosystem where distance from the ground reality allows narratives to evolve without the constraints of daily governance, economic hardship, or post-war reconciliation efforts.
What is often ignored in such narratives is the complex and difficult reality faced by Tamil communities themselves, particularly in the north and east. Issues such as unemployment, drug abuse, social fragmentation, caste-based discrimination, and limited economic mobility remain pressing concerns. These are not abstract political slogans; they are lived realities that require governance solutions, investment, institutional reform, and social healing. Yet they are frequently overshadowed by high-decibel political declarations that prioritise symbolic confrontation over practical development.
There is also a growing disconnect between diaspora-driven political activism and the lived experience of local populations. While diaspora groups often frame their engagement as solidarity, critics argue that parts of this activism risk becoming self-sustaining political industries. Conferences, commemorations, advocacy campaigns, and NGO-linked initiatives sometimes generate visibility and funding cycles that do not always translate into tangible improvements on the ground. In this context, the concern is not legitimate remembrance or advocacy, but the transformation of historical trauma into a permanent fundraising and influence mechanism detached from present-day realities.
It is also important to acknowledge that international NGO engagement in post-conflict regions is not inherently problematic. Many organisations contribute meaningfully to human rights documentation, humanitarian support, and development work. However, sustained criticism has emerged from various quarters regarding performative engagement, where complex local realities are reduced to simplified narratives that fit external advocacy frameworks. When external actors travel briefly into affected regions, document selective imagery, and exit without sustained engagement, it can create a distorted impression of conditions on the ground. That distortion is then amplified through global advocacy networks, often reinforcing pre-existing political positions rather than encouraging genuine dialogue.
At the same time, it would be intellectually dishonest to reduce the region’s challenges solely to external influence or diaspora politics. The Sri Lankan state itself bears responsibility for long-standing governance failures, uneven development, and the slow pace of meaningful political reconciliation after the war. Infrastructure development alone cannot substitute for unresolved questions of political representation, accountability, and dignity. Any serious analysis must hold multiple realities at once: the persistence of state shortcomings, the dangers of extremist rhetoric, and the fragmentation of Tamil political representation across competing visions.
Religious institutions, too, are often drawn into these debates, sometimes as moral voices calling for justice, and at other times as actors perceived to align with particular narratives. However, reducing complex faith communities to political labels is both inaccurate and unhelpful. The real issue is not religious involvement per se, but the politicisation of suffering in ways that risk deepening divides rather than promoting reconciliation.
What is ultimately most concerning about declarations such as this is not only their content, but their political function. They risk reinforcing a cycle in which historical trauma is continuously reactivated to justify present-day polarisation. This creates an environment where compromise becomes harder, where moderate voices are drowned out, and where the space for practical problem-solving shrinks further. In such a climate, communities that most urgently need economic development, social stability, and institutional support are instead pulled back into symbolic battles rooted in a past that continues to dominate the present.
The idea that any single narrative—whether of triumph, victimhood, or resistance—can fully define an entire community is itself a distortion. Tamil society, like any other, is not monolithic. It contains diverse political opinions, generational differences, and competing aspirations. Many within these communities are increasingly focused not on abstract national projects, but on education, employment, migration opportunities, and local governance reform. These voices are often overshadowed by louder, more polarised rhetoric.
A sustainable future cannot be built on permanent confrontation politics or on the monetisation of historical grief. It must be built on addressing real socio-economic conditions, strengthening democratic representation, and creating space for genuine reconciliation without coercion from any ideological extreme. The persistence of grievance narratives may continue to have political utility for some actors, but their long-term value for the people they claim to represent is far more questionable.
The greatest disservice to the memory of past suffering is not remembrance itself, but its transformation into a perpetual political instrument that prevents closure, distorts present realities, and delays the possibility of a shared future.
