Features

VEDDA TRAILS AND TALES

Published

2 years ago

2024/09/1

Thilina Walpola

(Excerpted from Falling Leaves, an anthology of autobiographical tales by LC Arulpragasam)

Vedda Tales

Elephants (apart from sneaky bears!) were the main danger to the Veddas – since they would ravage and destroy their chenas. Their main fear was that they could be ambushed by elephants when in the ‘talawa’ or tall ‘savannah’ grasslands, interspersed only with small trees that offered no safety from elephants. The danger was even greater from a lone bull elephant, injured or ostracized from the herd, which could attack, even if unprovoked.

The first story is from an isolated chena in the jungle, where a lone Vedda from a flimsy platform built on a sturdy tree, tried to scare away a marauding elephant that was destroying his chena crop. Armed only with an old flint-gun with only one ball cartridge, the frightened Vedda discharged his only shot at the elephant. The latter, although severely wounded, charged repeatedly at the tree to which the Vedda hung for dear life. After several attempts to get at his tormentor, the wounded elephant, roaring with rage, retreated into the jungle. But an elephant never forgets! The next time that the hapless Vedda ventured into the jungle, the elephant was waiting for him. It blocked his path – and smashed him into smithereens!

Another story involves a famed elephant ‘charmer’, who was the leader of his clan at Danigala. Whenever a rogue elephant charged, he was reputed to stand his ground unflinchingly, shouting some chant that would cause the elephant to veer away, lumbering harmlessly past him! This always happened – until he committed a grievous sin. During the maha roghe’ of the 1930s (probably the devastating malaria epidemic of that time), his entire clan and family had been wiped out.

He was left alone in his lonely fastness of the Danigala rock with only his 14-year-old daughter. It is then that he committed the unpardonable sin of co-habiting with his own daughter – for which he paid the ultimate price. The very next time that he was confronted with a charging elephant, he put out his chest as was his wont, and unflinchingly shouted out his famous chant. But the elephant did not waver this time. It hurled him many yards away and proceeded to stamp repeatedly on his lifeless body. Thereby hangs a cautionary tale!

A different story illustrates the Veddas’ tenuous hold on life in their daily struggle with the elements. One night in Henebedde, at the height of the monsoon, a terrifying thunderstorm arose, filling the night with thunderous roar, venting winds and livid lightning, tearing down mighty trees and striking terror among the Veddas. Adding to the chaos, terrified animals were stampeding through the hamlet, including a herd of elephants that rampaged through their pathetic huts.

Unfortunately, a terrified baby elephant, having lost its mother in the storm had found its way into one of their huts. While the terrified occupants cowered in the corner, the baby elephant even more terrified, was trumpeting forlornly to its mother. The angry mother looking for its baby smashed the hut down, killing one of the cowering children. I experience the elemental fear of the Veddas even today, in their thoughts of that terrible night!

There is also the famous story of ‘Wallaha’ (the Bear), the famous head of the Henebedde clan, justly famed for his bravery. One day on a jungle trail, he was suddenly attacked by a bear – probably the most dangerous animal in those jungles. It follows the unsuspecting, attacking them when they are most vulnerable. Taken by surprise, ‘Wallaha’, not being able to use his bow and arrow, had to fight the bear with his bare hands.

The struggle lasted for more than two hours, in which the bear gouged out his eye and tore out his right arm. He did, however, manage to kill the bear with his bare hands – for which he was revered for generations with the name ‘Wallaha’ (the Bear). I showed a photograph of ‘Wallaha’ from Seligmann’s book to Kaira his son, now head of the Henebedda clan. Since he had never seen a photo before, he shouted: ‘Wallaha’ – and proceeded proudly to show it off to his entire clan!

The last story pertains to one that I myself had witnessed – in which I almost shared the Veddas’ superstitions of evil spells and spirits! A feud had erupted between the Henebedde clan and the adjoining one that lived across the rivulet that divided their hunting grounds. Things came to a head when the rival clan hired a ‘kattadiya’ (a dealer in evil spirits) from the South to cast a curse and ‘evil eye’ upon them. I remember even to this day (75 years later!), the night of throbbing, obsessive beat of drums, wafted by the winds across the river, sounding a seeming spell on the terrified Veddas cowering over their fires.

The once-familiar jungle now seemed to be closing in on them from all sides, fraught with their fancied fears of foreboding evil, their strangulated faces framed by their flickering fires – with me too succumbing to their fear of evil afoot! None of the families slept that night: neither did I – for the terrifying drums kept throbbing through the night. The next morning, drugged by deprived sleep, we staggered on our way to our next jungle destination. On the way, we heard loud singing and the sound of much laughter – partly to scare away wild animals. But we found that the jolly songs were emanating from the ‘evil’ kattadiya of the previous night! He was actually a very jolly fellow, whose infectious laughter provided us with companionable company. How easily the terrors of the previous night were dissipated and its expected evils extirpated!

My Personal Travails on the Trail

I need to list some of the hardships that I experienced on this trek, since it is germane to my story. First, we only ate the frugal food that the Veddas shared with us – for we had thrown away our supplies, which weighed a ton after a 12-15 mile walk every other day. Secondly, although we were supposed to boil our drinking water, we could not even find water to boil! In fact, we had to dig deep with our hands in dry riverbeds to collect even a few drops of dirty water.

No wonder, I developed severe dysentery! Moreover, I had to wear the same khaki shirt and trousers for three months in the jungle, able to wash them only when we found any rock pool or watering hole! Fourthly, by walking about 12-15 miles every other day, I was forced to cut big blisters on the soles of my feet every night with an un-boiled blade – only to walk the next morning on the newly-cut blisters! Meanwhile, I had developed severe dysentery (passing blood) by drinking dirty water, with accompanying back aches due to weakness. I had also grown a long beard – which I had not been able to shave for over three months!

Meanwhile, we discovered that we had walked off our maps of the Uva Province and were in fact going farther into the Eastern Province – which had not been our intention! I therefore decided to try to reach Inginiyagala (some 27 miles away) for medical treatment for my debilitating dysentery. But walking into Inginiyagala from the jungle in 1951, we found only massive jungle-clearing by massive machinery and a boom town straight out of the American Wild West – since the dam was under construction by American contractors. We could not even find a town centre or any professional – least of all, a doctor. Not having any money, I had to return to the jungle without treatment.

Our immediate concern, however, was that we had no food to eat, nor any place to sleep – nor any money, which was a necessity in this American boom town! Fortunately, our Vedda led us to a garbage dump where I greedily gobbled down food (we had not eaten all day) thrown away by labourers into the garbage bin; I knew only that my dysentery couldn’t get any worse!! However, I now faced the gruelling prospect of walking back about 90 miles to our original starting point, which was Bibile, in the Badulla District. I gritted my teeth and accomplished this task too, using my rifle as a haramitiya or old man’s stick!

But worse was still to come! I had left all my money with a school teacher in Bibile, since I had no use for it in the jungle. The teacher now apologized that he had spent (gambled) it all away; promising profusely to pay me back in instalments over the next two years! But I needed the money immediately to pay for medical treatment – and to catch a train back to Colombo for hospitalization! Desperate now, I used my last 12 cents to buy a bus ticket to Padiyatalawa (In hindsight, I realize my folly now: I was trying to work my way always towards Colombo, where I needed to get into the hospital).

I had no money – not even to eat. I somehow managed to reach an Apothecary’s clinic, somewhere in the jungle near Padiyatalawa. It was night time now –and the clinic was closed. When I shouted for help, a shuttered window slowly opened, and a double-barrel gun poked out – for it was a lonely place in the jungle. I shouted in English that I was a Lecturer in the University – to show that I was not a bandit! At last, however, Providence smiled upon me.

By an absolute and unbelievable stroke of luck, this Apothecary had worked under my father, a medical doctor, whom he greatly admired. He said that he had never worked under a better boss, nor ever met a more decent gentleman than my father! He welcomed me into his house. After giving me to eat (I had not eaten since morning), he attended to my medical needs. He even advanced me money for a 3^rd Class train ticket to Colombo – as a low-paid Apothecary, he could not afford more. Tears come to my eyes (even after 75 years!) as I write this: for the providence that led me by chance to this forsaken place, where only the merit of my father saved me. I had neither the physical strength nor the financial means to go any farther! This was the lowest and most helpless position that I had reached in my entire life!

However, even more bad news awaited me in Colombo! Whereas I had been promised a post in the Sociology Faculty of the University, I found that the Vice-Chancellor (Sir Ivor Jennings) had now decided not to advertise the post that year. I was thus forced to sit for the Civil Service Examination – which was only two to three months away. Being absolutely sick with dysentery, I was forced despairingly to cram around the clock to face that examination. It is with luck that I managed to pass first in the CCS exam. of that year (1951).

In the Jungles of Wellassa-Bintenne

In 1950/51, when I was still in the University, I undertook a sociological survey of the Veddas living in the jungles of Wellassa and Bintenne in the Badulla District, as part of my University studies in Sociology. Mr. Cuda Bibile, a University colleague, accompanied me. The only authoritative study of the Veddas at that time had been done by Dr. C. Seligmann, a German anthropologist in 1911. In the course of our survey, we covered on foot about 250 miles through savannah-type grasslands in Wellassa and through thick jungles in Bintenne, visiting places where only Seligman and Dr. R.L. Spittel had been before.

We set out with a survey map dating from the 1930s of the scattered Vedda settlements. But the Veddas were hunter-gatherers, and their ‘hamlets’ had migrated over time along with their chena (swidden) fields, which moved every two years. Only sometimes knowing where we were, we ultimately found that we had walked off our maps of Wellassa and Bintenne in the Uva Province to Inginiyagala in the Batticaloa district of the Eastern Province! We trekked over a period of three months during the hottest time of the year, June-August, in the dry zone.

I carried a rusty old rifle (abandoned by the British Army after World War II), which I bought for the equivalent of US $ 2 off the Pettah pavement. This was to serve as protection against wild animals, as well as for foraging for food. But we found that it was impractical to shoot any game for food, since we had to carry the animal for the next fifteen miles until we reached our next destination. We also jettisoned our supplies because they weighed a ton by the end of each long day of walking!

We went into the jungle with no money – because there was no use for cash (only barter) in the forest. Since we had nothing to barter, we lived entirely on the charity of the poor Vedda families that we encountered. We would get a Vedda from one hamlet to walk with us for the ten to fifteen miles a day to reach the next little hamlet. These were not even ‘hamlets’ in the true sense of the term, since they consisted of only five to seven pathetic huts made of tree bark and leaves which moved, following the Veddas’ chena (slash and burn) cycle. We would spend about two to three days in each settlement, learning about their way of life and listening to their ancestral stories before moving on to the next settlement. In this manner, we covered the Vedda settlements of Dambana, Danigala, Henebedde, Bingoda and Mullegama over a period of three months.

Elephants were always a problem, especially in the ‘savanna’ grasslands of Wellassa. Sometimes on our walk of 10-20 miles each day, we would encounter a herd of elephants, sometimes up to fifteen or more, right across our way. Since this was open grassland, interspersed only with small trees that could easily be knocked down by elephants, we could not afford to be seen or scented by them. Our Vedda ‘tracker’ would always position us down-wind from the elephants, so that they could not scent us. But this meant lying in the grass sometimes for two hours, baked by the merciless sun, hoping that the herd would move on. We were always apprehensive that we would be benighted in the jungle, unable to reach our next destination before nightfall.

Life Among the Veddas

The Veddas in Seligmann’s time (1911) lived almost entirely on hunting and gathering. They shot game with their bows and arrows, gathered honey from the caves and trees as well as herbs and roots from the forest. By 1950, part of their time was devoted to chena (swidden) cultivation, which involved about four months’ work in felling and burning the forest in the dry season; they sowed their grains (mostly maize and millet) and planted their manioc (cassava) with the first rains. They continued their hunting and gathering at the same time, which continued to define their way of life.

Most of the Vedda settlements consisted of only five to eight households, all of them closely related. The group in Henebedde lived in a small clearing in the jungle, bounded by a perennial stream. Their huts were small, measuring only about 9 x 9 feet, with sides of bark and roofs of leaves. They only had one opening for the entrance, but no door or windows. They shared this limited space with their family, their hearth and their hunting dogs. Since there was no room in Kaira, their leader’s hut, I was allowed to sleep halfway through the door, with the choice of having either my head or my protruding toes being chewed by pesky bears!

Although the Veddas had their own language, which was still in use in Seligmann’s time, it was hardly used at the time of our visit in 1950. Like all the clans living in the area, they spoke Sinhala as their main language, even at home among themselves. However, as we walked eastward into what we later found was Bintenne Pattu of the Batticaloa district, we found that Tamil replaced Sinhalese as the main medium of communication.

We set out with a survey map dating from the 1930s that was supposed to mark the scattered Vedda settlements. But the latter were not to be found where they were supposed to be. The Veddas were hunter-gatherers, who lived partly by chena (slash and burn) cultivation. Hence their ‘hamlets’ had migrated along with their chena fields. We ultimately found that we had walked off our maps of Wellassa and Bintenne Pattus in the Uva Province, finding ourselves at Inginiyagala in the Eastern Province! We must have covered around 250 miles on foot over a period of three months, during the hottest time of the year, July-August, in the dry zone.

I carried a rusty old 303 rifle, which I had bought for the equivalent of US $2 off the pavement from old army surplus, sold as junk after World War II. I found later that it was completely cock-eyed, hitting one coconut tree while I was aiming at another coconut tree! But I reckoned that I could shoot a charging elephant at close range! The rifle was supposed to serve as protection against wild animals and foraging for food.

But we found that we could not shoot any animal for food since we had to carry it for the 12-15 miles to reach our next destination. Since we were supposed to cook our own food, we set out with some rice and dhal and a pan for cooking. However, we jettisoned our supplies within three days because they weighed a ton by the end of each walking day! We were also supposed to boil our water before drinking; but we could not even find water to boil! Since we were at the height of the dry season in the dry zone, we had to dig two to three feet with our bare hands in dry river-beds in order to find even a bit of black-coloured water to drink. No wonder that I got severe dysentery!

We went into the jungle with no money since there was no use for cash, but only barter, in the forest. Hence we lived entirely on the charity of the poor Vedda families that we visited. We would eat only what the Veddas ate – which was a kurrakanthalape (boiled kurakkan ball with a green chillie on top). We would get a ‘tracker’ from one hamlet to walk with us for the 12-15 miles needed to reach the next little hamlet. These were not even hamlets in the true sense of the term, since they consisted of only five to seven pathetic huts made of tree bark and leaves. Thus, we covered the Vedda settlements of Dambana, Danigala, Henebedde, Bingoda and Mullegama, over a period of three months.

Elephants were always a problem, especially in the savanna-type grasslands of Wellassa. Sometimes on our walk of 12-15 miles each day to a different settlement, we would encounter a herd of elephants (sometimes up to fifteen or more) right across our way. Since this was open grassland, interspersed with small trees that could easily be knocked down by elephants, we could not afford to be seen or scented by them. Since their sense of smell is strong, our vedda ‘tracker’ would always position us down-wind from them. But this meant lying in the grass for two hours or more, baked by the merciless sun, hoping that the herd would move away. We were always apprehensive that we would be benighted in the jungle, leaving us a prey to wild animals.

The Veddas in Seligmann’s time lived almost entirely on hunting and gathering. They shot game with their bows and arrows, gathered honey from the caves and trees, as well as herbs and roots from the forest. By the time of our visit, however, part of their time was devoted to chena cultivation. This involved about three months’ work in felling and burning the forest in the dry season and sowing their grains (mostly maize and millet) and manioc (cassava) with the first rains. They of course continued their hunting and gathering, which still continued to define their way of life.

Most of the Vedda settlements consisted of only five to eight households, all of them closely related. Their huts were small, measuring only about nine by nine feet, with sides of bark and roofs of leaves or talawa/ grass. They only had one opening for the entrance, but no door or windows. They shared this limited space with their family, their hearth and their hunting dogs. In the course of these travels, we spent three days in the settlement of Henebedde.

The group at Henebedde lived in a small clearing in the jungle, bounded by a perennial stream, which provided their water supply. The ‘hamlet’ comprised only seven or eight families, with Kaira as their head. He gave me shelter at night in his own hut, made only of bark and leaves. Since his hut was crowded with his family and hunting dogs; this left me with the choice of leaving either my head or my toes outside the hut – to be possibly nibbled by bears at night! We ate only what the family ate, which was cassava or sometimes kurakkan talappe (moist balls of ground millets), eaten with only a green chillie.

While at Henebedde, I showed Kaira a picture from Seligmann’s book (published in 1911) of the Vedda chief at that time. Kaira, who probably had not seen a photo before, was astounded to see a picture of his own father, the chief at that time: ‘Wallaha’! he cried. His father was named ‘Wallaha’ (‘Bear’) because he had fought and killed a bear with his bare hands, despite the fact that the bear had gouged out his eye and torn out one arm. We depended on Kaira’s protection, food and hospitality for three days, before going on to other Vedda settlements.

Although the Veddas had their own language, which was still in use in Seligmann’s time, it was hardly used at the time of our visit in 1951. Like all the clans living in the area, they spoke Sinhala as their main language, even at home among themselves. However, as we walked eastward into what we later found was Bintenne Pattu of the Eastern Province, we found that Tamil replaced Sinhalese as the main medium of communication. Of course when the Veddas came into town for barter, they used their own language, partly to prevent others from understanding their conversation, but partly as a ‘show’ to get money from strangers who had never seen Veddas before!

(More on the Veddahs next week)

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Features

Sri Lanka’s rice conundrum: Time to stop managing crises and start fixing the system

Published

23 hours ago

2026/09/4

Thilina Walpola

Prof. Ranjith Senaratne,
Emeritus Professor in Crop Science and former Vice-Chancellor,
University of Ruhuna and General President of the Sri Lanka Association for the Advancement of Science (2023) and
Prof. Prasad Jayaweera,
Dean, Faculty of Computing, University of Sri Jayawardenapura

Rice is not merely another crop in Sri Lanka. It is our staple food, an integral part of our history and culture, and a foundation of the civilisation that flourished around our ancient hydraulic systems. Revered as Buddha Bhogaya, the Buddha’s crop, rice has sustained our people for more than two millennia. Yet, remarkably, a country with such a profound relationship with rice continues to lurch from one rice crisis to another.

At one time, we have a surplus. At another, we face shortages. Prices rise sharply, consumers complain, farmers struggle to obtain remunerative prices, millers and traders become the focus of public attention, imports are hurriedly arranged, and governments announce yet another set of measures to contain the crisis. Then, after the immediate problem subsides, the matter recedes from the national agenda, until the next crisis arrives.

Why does this keep happening despite decades of agricultural research, policy interventions, expert committees and public debate?

Perhaps because we have been asking the wrong question. The fundamental problem is not simply how to produce more rice. Nor is it merely a question of prices, imports, fertiliser, farmers, millers or markets. The rice conundrum is a complex national systems problem.

We cannot solve a system by fixing its parts in isolation

Sri Lanka’s rice sector is an intricate web of interconnected systems involving agriculture, land, water, climate, technology, finance, energy, transport, markets, trade, governance, institutions and consumer behaviour. A decision made in one part of this system can have consequences, sometimes unintended, in another.

A change in fertiliser policy, for example, can affect productivity and production costs, which in turn influence farmer profitability, market prices and the need for imports. Irrigation decisions affect not only production, but also water availability, energy use and environmental sustainability. Guaranteed prices influence farmers’ cropping decisions, while import policies can simultaneously protect consumers and weaken incentives for domestic production. Likewise, market concentration can affect both the price received by farmers and the price paid by consumers. This is precisely why isolated interventions so often produce disappointing results. We keep treating symptoms while leaving the underlying system largely untouched.

For decades, we have generated valuable scientific knowledge on individual aspects of rice production and marketing. But knowledge generated within disciplinary and institutional silos does not automatically translate into solutions to complex real-world problems. What is needed now is a fundamentally different way of thinking.

From a “rice crop” to a “rice system”

The first step is to stop looking at rice simply as something that is grown in a paddy field.

The rice system begins with land, water, seed, inputs, technology and finance. It extends through cultivation, harvesting, drying, milling, storage, transport, wholesale and retail marketing, and finally to the consumer’s table. At every stage, there are different interests, incentives, constraints and actors: farmers, farmer organisations, input suppliers, machinery operators, millers, traders, wholesalers, retailers, financial institutions, government agencies, researchers and consumers.

And hovering over the entire system are climate change, changing consumer preferences, technological transformation and national economic conditions. A weakness anywhere in this chain can compromise the performance of the whole system.

Consider post-harvest losses. If significant quantities of rice are lost because of inadequate drying, storage or processing facilities, increasing production alone cannot solve the problem. Similarly, if farmers produce efficiently but face weak markets and poor bargaining power, productivity gains may not translate into improved livelihoods.

The question, therefore, should not be “How much rice can we produce?” but “How can we make the entire rice system work better?”

That requires us to see the connections.

The missing ingredient: reliable, real-time information

There is another fundamental weakness that deserves urgent attention: we still lack a comprehensive, integrated, interoperable and reliable national information system for rice. Information is scattered among different institutions, often collected using different methodologies and not necessarily available when decisions need to be made.

How much rice will actually be produced? How much is in storage? What is the likely demand? Where are the emerging production shortfalls? What are the stocks held by different actors? How are prices moving along the value chain? What are the likely consequences of climate conditions? Without timely and reliable answers to such questions, policymakers are forced to make critical decisions with incomplete information. This is not merely an administrative inconvenience. It is a national food-security vulnerability.

Sri Lanka should therefore seriously consider establishing a National Rice Intelligence and Decision Support System (NRIDSS), an integrated digital platform that brings together relevant real-time information from agriculture, meteorology, irrigation, markets, trade, statistics and other institutions. Such a system could support production forecasting, market monitoring, import decisions, early warning and evidence-based policy formulation. In an increasingly uncertain climate and volatile global economy, this should no longer be regarded as a luxury. It is becoming an essential component of national food-system governance.

The deeper problems cannot be ignored

A systems approach would also force us to confront some uncomfortable structural realities. Why does productivity remain relatively low despite decades of research? Why are so many holdings too small to achieve economies of scale? Why are modern technologies and precision agriculture not being adopted more rapidly? Why do farmers often have limited bargaining power? Why do substantial losses occur after harvesting? Why can market power become concentrated in a relatively small number of actors? Why are guaranteed prices sometimes announced too late to influence farmers’ production decisions? Why are policy interventions so often reactive rather than proactive? And how will droughts, floods, temperature extremes, changing rainfall patterns and emerging pests affect the stability of rice production in the years ahead? These are not separate questions. They are parts of the same system.

From crisis management to systems governance

Sri Lanka does not need another isolated discussion about rice. What is needed is a national policy dialogue and action forum that brings all relevant actors together, not merely to exchange speeches, but to develop a shared understanding of the system and agree on what needs to be done. Such collaboration must go beyond consultation or the exchange of views. The different parties need to work together from problem definition through to implementation, bringing their diverse knowledge, perspectives, interests and practical experience into a common process.

Farmers bring contextual and experiential knowledge; industry actors understand market realities and operational constraints; scientists contribute evidence and analytical capabilities; policymakers bring institutional and regulatory perspectives; while technology and data specialists can provide new tools for understanding and managing the system. When these different perspectives are brought together systematically, they can reveal interdependencies, challenge assumptions, identify feasible interventions and generate solutions that are evidence-based, practically implementable and socially acceptable.

This is the essence of a transdisciplinary systems approach: not simply working across disciplines, but bringing together multiple stakeholders and multiple forms of knowledge to co-create solutions and share responsibility for outcomes. The process should therefore go beyond presentations and speeches. It should involve systems mapping, causal analysis, stakeholder dialogue, scenario planning and the participatory identification of the critical bottlenecks and leverage points in the rice system. Most importantly, it should distinguish between what is urgent and what is important, and between interventions that merely alleviate symptoms and those capable of changing the underlying behaviour of the system itself.

We need an implementation roadmap, not another report

There is, however, one important caveat. Sri Lanka has no shortage of reports, recommendations and policy documents. What we often lack is sustained implementation. Any national initiative on the rice conundrum must therefore end not with another set of broad recommendations but with a prioritised national action roadmap. It should identify short-, medium- and long-term actions, assign institutional responsibilities, establish timelines and define measurable indicators of progress. The ultimate objective should be to move Sri Lanka from reactive crisis management to proactive systems governance.

A national opportunity

The rice conundrum may, in fact, provide Sri Lanka with an opportunity that extends well beyond rice to deal with other important crops. If we can demonstrate that a complex national problem can be addressed by bringing together science, policy, stakeholder knowledge, real-time information and systems thinking, the approach could become a model for addressing other persistent challenges, from climate resilience and water security to energy, food systems and disaster risk.

The choice before us is therefore quite stark. We can continue responding to each rice crisis as it emerges, adjusting prices, arranging imports, appealing to millers, reassuring consumers and supporting farmers, only to repeat the cycle later. Or we can step back and ask a more fundamental question:

What is it about the way our rice system is structured and governed that continually produces these crises?

That is the question that needs to be answered. Sri Lanka has the scientific expertise, institutional capacity and stakeholder knowledge required to do so. What is needed now is the willingness to bring these fragmented sources of knowledge together and examine the rice sector as one interconnected system.

Our ancient civilisation understood the importance of interconnectedness: land, water, agriculture and society were organised as parts of a larger whole. Perhaps, in confronting the modern rice conundrum, we need to rediscover that systems wisdom, this time supported by modern science, technology, real-time data and transdisciplinary thinking. The time has come to stop merely managing the rice crisis. It is time to fix the system that keeps producing it.

It is against this backdrop that the Sri Lanka Association for the Advancement of Science (SLAAS) proposes to convene shortly a “National Policy Dialogue and Action Forum on the Rice Conundrum in Sri Lanka”, bringing together the key stakeholders across the rice system. The Forum is intended to provide a platform for moving beyond piecemeal and reactive interventions towards a coordinated, evidence-based and transdisciplinary systems approach, one capable of generating lasting and pragmatic solutions to what has become an “island-shaking national issue”.

Features

This curse of partisan politics in Sri Lanka

Published

23 hours ago

2026/09/4

Thilina Walpola

78 Years of Demagoguery, Not Democracy

by Brigadier Ranjan de Silva
rpcdesilva@gmail.com

On the 4th of February every year, we raise the lion flag and speak of democracy. We speak of 78 years of “self-rule.” But honesty demands we ask: what kind of rule have we actually had? It was not democracy. Democracy is government for the common good, constrained by law, informed by reason, and accountable to truth.

What Sri Lanka has had for 78 years is demagoguery — government by manipulation, by party, and by passion.

Defining the Curse:

The dictionary defines demagoguery as “political activity that seeks support by appealing to the desires and prejudices of ordinary people rather than by rational argument.” Its tools are simple: divide the people, promise the impossible, demonize the opponent, and govern for the next election, not the next generation. That is the political culture we inherited in 1948 and perfected since.

78 Years of Evidence:

The record is not ambiguous. Policy by Pendulum – 1948–2024. Instead of a national development plan, we got a partisan wrecking ball. 1956: The “Sinhala Only Act” was passed not after linguistic study, but as an election mobilization tool. 1970-77: The SLFP nationalized private enterprise and imposed import controls. 1977: The UNP reversed course with an open economy overnight. 2005-2014: Mega infrastructure was built on Chinese loans with no feasibility transparency. 2015-2019: Those same projects were called “white elephants” and stalled. 2020-2021: The organic fertilizer ban was announced as a populist “green” policy, reversed 6 months later after it collapsed agriculture and food prices. The Colombo Port City, Hambantota Port, and the Central Expressway all followed the same pattern: started, stopped, rebranded. The country pays twice. The party takes credit once. Economics as Election Candy. Demagoguery is expensive. 1960s: Subsidized rice to win rural votes, leading to the 1971 food crisis.

2005-2014:

Fuel subsidies and public sector hiring sprees that doubled the wage bill. 2019:

Unfunded tax cuts that removed Rs. 500 billion in annual revenue with no offset. By April 2022, external debt hit $51 Billion and we defaulted for the first time. The party that cut taxes was not in power to manage the IMF program. The party that inherited it was blamed for the austerity. This is the cycle. Institutions captured. A democracy needs referees. We turned them into party cadres. The 17th Amendment 2001 created independent commissions. The 18th Amendment 2010 abolished them. The 19th 2015 restored them. The 20th 2020 gutted them again. Police transfers, university vice-chancellors, and state bank chairmen have all been decided by party headquarters, not merit.

When the institution serves the party, the citizen gets leftovers.

Identity over Ideas: From 1956 to 1983 to 2009 to 2022, our elections have been won on fear, not spreadsheets. “They will erase your language.” “They will sell the country.” “Only we can protect Buddhism/the minorities/the nation.”

Rational debate on debt, productivity, or climate adaptation never wins a rally. Prejudice does. That is demagoguery by definition.

Party Interest subverted the National Interest. The core damage of 78 years of partisan politics is this: the nation became secondary to the party. Need power sector reform? Impossible, because our unions will strike. Need to cut 300,000 ghost employees? Impossible, because our voters will defect. Need a 20-year education and export plan? Impossible, because it won’t show results before the next election. So, we borrowed. We patched. We lied. The result: a railway system that still runs on 1950s engines, hospitals without paracetamol in 2022, and a brain drain of 300,000+ skilled workers since the crisis. The parties rotated. The country declined.

The Opposition’s Original Sin and here, all parties share guilt equally. In opposition, the job is not to govern. It is to destroy. The UNP in the 60s called the SLFP “communist.” The SLFP in the 70s called the UNP “imperialist.” The JVP called both “traitors.” The SJB, SLPP, and NPP today use the same script with new logos. Every tax is “anti-people.” Every reform is “a sell-out.” Every crisis is proof the other side is evil and must be removed at any cost. Then they win. And implement 80% of what they opposed. Because demagoguery has no principles, only positions. 78 years of unmerciful, bad-faith criticism has not produced accountability. It has produced cynicism. The public now believes all politicians are the same — because for 78 years, they have behaved the same.

Breaking the Curse:

Changing the party in power will not end this. We must change the incentives that reward demagoguery. Three reforms are non-negotiable: Bind future Parliaments to national policy. Pass 10-year frameworks for energy, education, and public debt with 2/3 majority protection. Infrastructure and fiscal rules should outlast one government, as they do in Chile and New Zealand. Depoliticize the state. Independent commissions for police, elections, public service, and bribery must have constitutional budgets and appointment panels that exclude MPs. No more 18th/20th Amendment style rollbacks. Demand better from voters We must stop rewarding the best slogan and start demanding the best spreadsheet. Town halls over rallies. Costings over promises. A 5-year plan over a 5-minute speech.

In 1948, we did not inherit democracy. We inherited an election. For 78 years we have used that election to choose our favourite demagogue. The prize has been debt, division, and decay. The curse of partisan politics will only end when citizens and leaders agree on one principle: Party second. Country first. Until then, February 4th will remain a ceremony, not a celebration.

Features

Developing markets for fruits, vegetables and flowers in the Gulf

Published

23 hours ago

2026/09/4

Thilina Walpola

Image courtesy Export Development Board)

Export diversification – Missing the wood for the trees – Part II

by Gomi Senadhira

Sri Lanka established its diplomatic presence in the Gulf region only in the early 1980s. First, a small embassy was opened in Abu Dhabi, covering the UAE. Then in 1982, embassies were opened in Jeddah and Kuwait. The embassy in Jeddah covered Saudi Arabia while Kuwait was responsible for Kuwait, Oman, Qatar and Bahrain. Commercial Diplomats were also assigned to these two embassies. A senior private sector executive, with experience in marketing, was posted to Jedda as the commercial counsellor. I was posted to Kuwait as a second secretary (Commercial). Our instructions were very clear. Focus not only on traditional exports. Product diversification was a priority.

Developing Markets for Agricultural Products

At that time, Minister Lalith Athulathmudali had just launched his Export Production Villages (EPV) programme. He believed that the EPVs working closely with the exporters would provide an ideal opportunity for rural households to directly benefit from the government’s new open trade policy. Agricultural products, particularly fruits and vegetables, were a key component of this approach and the ministry thought that the Gulf countries, with large Sri Lankan communities, would have a ready-made market for these items. Thus, from day one we were compelled to explore the market for nontraditional exports; fruits and vegetables (F&Vs) were on the top of our priority list.

From cane baskets to cardboard boxes

Fortunately, the market for the F&Vs products in the region was at a very early stage of development. That provided an opportunity for Sri Lankan exporters, who were also inexperienced, to work with the importers and grow together. For example, in Kuwait, one of our first customers for F&Vs was a small supermarket where the manager was a Sri Lankan. After the first shipment arrived, he invited me to inspect the shipment. I visited the supermarket and was shocked by what I saw. While produce from other countries was packed nicely in cardboard boxes, our packaging mirrored transport to Manning market, cane baskets! As a result, fresh produce had suffered significant damage. A long report, with photographs, to the trade ministry produced an immediate response. After all, this was a pet project of the Minister. Within weeks, shipments were packed in cardboard boxes. Immediately afterwards, an expert on packaging from the Commonwealth Secretariat was sent to Kuwait with an official from the EDB to study the problem.

By then, we had also managed to develop a friendship with the management of the Salmiya supermarket, a large upmarket supermarket patronised by wealthy Kuwaitis and expats. It was a cooperative and the chairman was a Kuwaiti public servant. I could only meet him after 6 PM when his large office functioned as a diwaniya, a cherished cultural space in Kuwaiti society. Guests moved in and out the room. I had to spend time with them sipping many cups of tea. Though that meant at least two hours on each visit, it helped greatly to develop a close relationship. The general manager was an efficient and friendly Palestinian. After many visits we had succeeded in getting an order for F&Vs. The day after the first shipment arrived, I got an urgent call from the GM to come and inspect it. Once again, I was in for a surprise. Inside the cold room, the consignments from other countries were stacked neatly on top of each other, while vegetable boxes from Sri Lanka had collapsed once placed on top of each other, crushing the produce within.

Fortunately, our packaging experts arrived in Kuwait soon after this incident. They spent two days in the Salmiya Supermarket, studying the packaging from other origins. We were also successful in assuring the GM our packaging would improve. After that, packaging improved and exports moved smoothly. With that, Sri Lanka emerged as a small but reliable supplier to the mainstream market, not just the ethnic segment of the market.

Export of Fresh Vegetables by Sea

Towards the end of my tour, a Sri Lankan businessman requested me to find a buyer for cabbages, which he was prepared to export in large quantities by sea. I introduced him to the largest fruit and vegetable importer in Kuwait. Their regular suppliers of similar vegetables were Jordan, Lebanon and Syria. Luckily, the company was keen to diversify the supply sources. A few weeks later, the first container load of cabbages from Sri Lanka arrived in Kuwait. Immediately after the arrival of the container, I visited the company. They were pleased with the quality and the price and were looking forward to importing more fruits and vegetables. Unfortunately, that turned out to be a one-off event. Later on, when I was back in Sri Lanka, the exporter informed me that he couldn’t continue with it due to the problems with the local supply chains.

Floriculture

During the period I was asked by the EDB to explore the market for floricultural products, more particularly for cut flowers. At that time Kuwait was a relatively large importer of cut flowers and live plants. The main suppliers were the Netherlands and Colombia. Importers were also reluctant to move out of the established supply chain, particularly due to “snob value” associated with the product from Europe. However, after some difficulties, one importer agreed to place a pre-paid trial order. After the arrival of that shipment, he was impressed by the quality of the product and the orders expanded rapidly. As a result, by the end of 1985 Kuwait had become a major buyer of Sri Lanka’s floricultural products.

From village to global markets

As a result of the proactive promotional work undertaken by the EDB and the embassies in the region, by 1985, Sri Lanka had managed to acquire a small but significant share of the F&V and floriculture markets in the GCC countries. We had also identified domestic supply chain issues that hindered exports. All that was done, long before Southeast Asian or African countries even entered into that market. In fact, my Southeast Asian colleagues used to contact me often to reserve “durian” for them at the “Sri Lankan supermarket”.

Most importantly, a substantially large share of produce from Sri Lanka in Kuwaiti supermarkets originated in the EPVs. Of course, that didn’t just happen. The ministry (or the minister) using the carrot and stick approach “encouraged” exporters to buy the produce directly from the newly established EPVs. (The writer can be reached at senadhiragomi@gmail.com)