Opinion
AYU– A Review
This is one of the most enigmatic of Sinhala films that I have seen. I had to see it twice to understand the rationale of the non-linear narrative and the developing plot. It moves on at least two planes – one, the straight-forward storyline and the other, the surreal presence of Ayu, the little girl who titles the film.
First for the story. A young doctor, Nishmi, is caught up in a dissatisfying marriage with a tour operator who is hardly at home. She is uneasy about his regular absences from home and disturbed about the foreign feminine voices she hears in the background whenever she phones him and his postponements about when he is coming home. She is not at all close to her widowed mother who seems to visit her often. The mother, caring as most mothers are, steeped in Buddhist cultural traditions, is nevertheless an annoying presence in the apartment. Her Buddhist piousness seems to annoy Nishmi. As the story develops, we come to realise that the mother is worried about Nishmi and wants her to attend a Bodhi Pooja she has arranged. It was somewhat later that we became aware of Nishmi’s serious illness and the appeal to the spiritual by the mother is because Nishmi is afflicted with HIV.
The flashforward to Nishmi going for a night out on the beach is sudden and leaves us somewhat bewildered. The first assumption is that she seems to have decided that she needs some excitement for her lonely life with the husband away. The way she readily (too readily) and coyly, befriends the beach boy Sachin, makes us wonder whether she is really in it for a good time – in vengefulness for the possible infidelities of her husband with foreign women.
The first turning point in the film comes with her discovery that she is pregnant and her decision to go all the way to Ella where her husband is on a group tour. She meets with an accident, and we find her in hospital with multiple injuries and bleeding heavily. The outcome is that she loses her pregnancy and is wheelchair bound.
The fact that she has had to have a blood transfusion is not clearly revealed at first. Later, she is found positive for HIV. She reacts with fury at the husband whom she suspects to have given her the virus through his ‘affairs’ with multiple foreign women. There is a severe showdown, and she insists that the husband leaves the house.
Nishmi goes through serious depression and loss of will to live knowing that her days are numbered. We see her gulping a handful of pills with her mother pleading outside the closed door. But we are not sure whether she is not willing to undergo immediate treatment that is now available, or whether the complete breakdown of her marriage makes her suicidal, or whether she is unaware of modern treatments. But we must dismiss the last possibility as, surely, she is a doctor.
I am left wondering whether she is unaware of her illness when she frolics with the beach boy and a growing warmth and intimacy develop between her and Sachin. Because we get to know that by this time, she is aware of her illness. The contrasting juxtaposition of her depression and her sense of joy in the presence of Sachin is not easy to unravel. I still can’t.
The next twist in the narrative comes with a phone call from her husband – who still proclaims his innocence and his love and loyalty to Nishmi – in which he gleefully announces that “It is negative” with a sense of being vindicated of her accusations. It takes a few moments before we realise that he is referring to an HIV test he has done. It is then that Nishmi’s attention turns to the blood donation she received during the accident. She goes looking to find who the donor is.
Let me digress a bit at this point.
I am aware of dramatic/artistic/cinematic license to deviate from the real world for narrative effect. The medical lapses observed in the film are stated here not to devalue this excellent film in any way. I must make a few observations in this regard. It seems that Sachin as a donor has escaped detection as a HIV carrier at several ‘checkpoints’ in the process adopted during blood donations. The lengthy and detailed questionnaire and the counselling interview before the donation would have shown that Sachin, as a beach boy with a highly probable history of multiple sex partners would have been at high-risk and his attempt at voluntary donation should have been rejected at the outset. Unless he lied in the questionnaire and the interview – which is informed in writing to donors as a punishable offence. All blood is serologically tested in Sri Lanka for HIV, Hepatitis B and C, syphilis and malaria.
I presume that it is neither irony nor a coincidence, that Nishmi is a paediatrician and she contracts HIV through a blood donation. The basis of this story has close similarities to an event in the past. Perhaps the seed of the story for the film comes from there.
On a dreary November day in 1995, Dr. Kamalika Abeyratne, Consultant Paediatrician, Lady Ridgeway Teaching Hospital, Colombo, her husband Dr. Micheal Abeyratne, Paediatric Surgeon and their son were travelling on the Galle Road for a medical meeting. The car skidded on a slippery road and hit a concrete post and Dr. Kamalika was badly injured. She was given two pints of blood at Karapitiya and 34 blood transfusions at SJP hospitals. Six months later she was found to be positive for HIV. But then, the procedure for detection of HIV in blood donors was not fully established.
Whereas it is still possible that a HIV positive donor (false negative) can go undetected in serological testing, it is extremely rare today and they are thoroughly investigated. From Sachin’s character, where we find an innate humanism and an understanding of life and its mysteries, we may dismiss the possibility of him being a vengeful donor who deliberately donates blood under false pretexts to spread the disease. Such instances of vengeful donations are known the world over and Sri Lanka as well.
The donor of a positive transfusion transmission of HIV can be traced and followed up. But as shown in Ayu, there is still no definitive provision in Sri Lanka for the victim to be informed of the identity of the donor. Under the circumstances, why Sachin, being a high-risk donor remained undetected and not rejected as a donor, is cinematic license for dramatic effect and therefore, understandable.
Returning to the film, we come to realise that the identity of Sachin as the donor was given to Nishmi surreptitiously by an obliging doctor-colleague hastily written on a scrap of paper. It is then that we are shown how Nishmi goes in search of this donor and discovers Sachin and why she deliberately befriends him. The reason behind her going to beach nights is understood only at that point in the film.
There are many moments that Nishmi is reflective of life and talks about the indefinite destinies of individuals caught in the vicissitudes of life, and the metaphor of the endless sea comes into good effect. The paper boat that she builds also indicates the fragility of life in a mighty sea of random circumstance. She tells Sachin – “We are in the same boat”. But we come to realise later, that the boat carries critically important messages that connect critical points in the narrative – Sachin’s name and address given by the doctor and Sachin’s last testament which Nishmi reads while Sachin’s body is taken out of the church as the film slowly moves towards its conclusion.
Now, we come to the surreal that takes the film transcends a simple tragic love story to become a cinematic masterpiece. Who is ‘Ayu’ and what is she doing in the film? Why is she central to the film for it to be titled after her? I concluded, after much thought, that she doesn’t exist physically. Then, how do we see her? She is obviously a metaphor. Metaphor for what?
In the film, our first meeting with her is when Ayu is on the beach with a childhood toy that spins in the wind (bambare) which is later seen in the water damaged and being washed away in the waves. This toy could be symbolic of the cycle of life – the samsaric journeys that we traverse in Buddhist mythology. Is this opening a grim reminder – a metaphor – of the theme that permeates the film?
Of lives caught up in this cycle; of wasted youth? We come to understand that this film hangs on the Buddhist philosophy of the four sublime states – Metta, Karuna, Muditha and Upekka and the hoary traditions of Sinhala Buddhist culture.
We next see Ayu when Nishmi is doing her ward round in hospital, and she/we observe an empty bed with a bed sheet carelessly left behind. In clinical experience, when we see an empty bed, the first thought that rushes to our minds is death. A patient has died and has been removed to the mortuary. Only thereafter, on inquiry might we be told that the patient has been taken for investigations or else, just gone to the toilet. But death hangs there in that image until we find the occupant of that bed, Ayu, sitting by herself in an adjacent room. Does Ayu depict Nishmi’s loneliness – feeling alone, uncared for and as bewildered as a child whose grandmother has not come to see her?
While we see the developing relationship between Nishmi and Sachin, with moods fluctuating from joy to melancholy and uncertainties and the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’, a distinctly ‘Bollywoodian’ scene confronts us. Rain, wet clothes, gloom and dusk descending into night, cuddling closely in the cold for warmth in an isolated tree-hut in a desolate nowhere, leaves us as voyeurs of a close intimacy. As morning breaks, Nishmi suddenly observes Ayu skipping down the path. Nishmi’s joyous reaction is consonant with the happy demeanor of Ayu, but Ayu is far more subdued. Obviously, Nishmi is overjoyed with the outcome of that night. Sachin comes down and sees Ayu for the first time.
Ever since, Ayu has taken a role that connects Nishmi and Sachin to each other. Every following scene has the threesome together – on the beach and on the train. The train symbolizes the passage of time and Ayu watching the passing scenery in silent contemplation tells us that Nishmi and Sachin are now linked in life with Ayu the child – as a symbol of the little time – ayu’ (life) left for them. It is nevertheless a happy time of togetherness with Ayu holding their hands and ‘connecting’ Nishmi and Sahin to each other. They are bound together to the limited time of ‘ayu’ left – denoted by the little child that is Ayu.
The complete absence of emotion at all times in Ayu’s face, gradually leaves us with a frightful foreboding. We come to realise that Ayu is just a timekeeper. Ayu is the personification of time. The foreboding intensifies in the hospital scene where Sachin is seriously ill. Ayu walks in alone (Nishmi is not to be seen) and looks at Sachin and seems to know what he wants. She deliberately slowly opens the bedside drawer and takes Sachin’s purse almost on cue – knowing what Sachin wants and gives it to him. He takes out the small paper boat and gives it to her. We see a close up of the crumpled bed sheet as the waves of the sea and Ayu’s hand taking the boat on the crests and troughs of it. The boat is facing rough seas. Suddenly, again as in the early scene in the hospital ward, we are chillingly confronted with the symbolism of Ayu as death. Time is up to take Sachin away. Later, we see Ayu in the funeral scene with Nishmi. One gone, one to go.
And in the final scene we see Nishmi and Ayu in a boat in still waters and we hear Nishmi’s words in the background where we come to understand that Nishmi wills to live and will take treatment. She veers the boat and changes direction – and we see in that instance, that Ayu is no longer on the boat. We are left at the end of the film with a ray of hope that all is not lost.
I find this film to be extremely cerebral and visually rewarding. The direction and cinematography by this young team is exceptional. The glimmering lights on the receding waves on the beach, the fireworks in the dark as Nishmi walks drunkenly on the beach, the clarity of the contrasts in the colour palette, vivid use of close ups strategically of faces, shows a super mastery of the cinematic medium.
Jagath Manuwarna is excellent in giving life in a very realistic way to a beach boy. He seems to have endured a pierced eyebrow to add to the authenticity of the character. I first saw him in his own directorial debut Rahas Kiyana Kandu (whispering Mountains) in which he was the main actor as well. It too was a new genre. And he was exceedingly good there too.
Sandra Mack in her first cinematic role, acts with great feeling and maturity. The full spectrum and nuances of emotion demanded of her is dealt with exceptional finesse and subtlety as any veteran would have. What a great find for Sinhala cinema!
by Susirith Mendis ✍️
(susmend2610@mail.com)
Opinion
Prisoners are human beings
In developed countries such as US, prisons are normally built, far away from City Areas because of the risk of prison breaking as happened recently in Negombo. For an example, just imagine what would be the fate of people around Colombo, if an attempt to break the jail in Welikada become a success. Therefore, it is necessary to introduce strategies to discipline our prisoners to behave as humans rather than simply displaying above message to the people living outside of the prison, as happened in Sri Lanka. To materialised above idea. it is necessary discipline prisoners mentally before they are released. As a Buddhist country we could develop our own model based on Buddhist Stanza such as Wanaropa Sutta to mentally discipline the prisoners. According to that Stanza, people would naturally get self-disciplined themselves while growing trees
The World Health Organization (WHO) reports, that the food not only affects physical and mental health, but is also key to successful rehabilitation and resettlement after release of prisoners. Recognizing this, many organisations and correctional facilities are striving to create a stronger and more sustainable food system among prison populations, which totaled more than 10.35 million globally in 2016, according to the World Prison Brief.
Based on above observations, we could creatively plan to relocate our prisons outside cities. For an example, already ecologically damaged area adjacent to Wilpattu Sanctuary could be used to build an ecofriendly prison. It should be designed with qualified Landscape Architects specialized in designing ecofriendly prisons as adapted in other countries. Those projects should be a joint effort with prisoners because the prisoners themselves should also become the partners of the project while rejuvenating original forest cover after project completion. While creating the forest cover, in the case of Wipattu, we could also use our traditional Chena Cultivation approaches which are now treated in developed countries as most sustainable land use method, to produce healthy foods without damaging eco systems.
By that approach, we could also transform whole prison premises to Organic Food Production Farm, managed by the prisoners themselves. This is very common in developed countries. In my view, the prisoners serving long term jails are ideal for this effort. After their release, they would definitely duplicate their experience in their residence areas rather than repeating crimes as happening now days. They also could be entitled for any profits generated from the project which takes about 5 years for completion. Income generating from farms could be deposited into the bank accounts of prisoners in order to use it after their release.
Another potential area for this intervention is Kandakadu Prison, which was an Agriculture Farm before it was transformed to a rehabilitation camp. Being located adjacent to an area with elephant population and the Beach in Batticaloa, eco-tourism hotel might be the best option for this area. Income generation from tourism is the return on investment which could be used to duplicate same concept to similar locations. Another potential area is the Right Bank area of Maduru Oya located near an Army Camp. Animal Husbandry is ideal for this area. Another potential area is Manthieu island, Batticoloa.
Capital required to invest for this type intervention could be generated by selling the urban areas currently allocated to prisons. Sri Lanka Army could be the ideal implementation agency mainly because of possible reluctances of Prison Officers to work in remote areas such as Wilpattu.
Mahinda Panapitiya
Opinion
Resplendent isle in transit: The misery of getting from A to B
For centuries, many travellers have waxed eloquent about Sri Lanka, the “Resplendent Isle.” They spoke of lush tea estates, golden shores, and a spirit of much-admired spontaneous hospitality that defined our Pearl of the Indian Ocean. But today, the residents of this isle know a different reality; one not of postcards, but of grease, grit, and the grinding misery of a transport system, virtually in terminal collapse. To move from Point A to Point B in modern Sri Lanka is no longer a simple errand; it is a “Herculean effort” of survival against a backdrop of state incompetence, private-sector thuggery, total disregard for human decency and a government that seems to have outsourced its conscience to the highest bidder.
For the millions who call this thrice-blessed island home, the daily reality of navigating it by any form of transport has become a “major catastrophe” of Dickensian proportions. To move from Point A to Point B in 2026 is no longer a simple logistical task; it is a distasteful test of human endurance, a drain on the spirit, and a gamble with one’s own safety. The current transport status of Sri Lanka is not merely “poor”, a terminology that defies even proper definition. It is a monumental systemic failure, a toxic cocktail of state negligence, private-sector extortion, and a total collapse of regulatory oversight.
The Iron Horse in Decay: A Rail Service in Tatters
At the heart of our transit woes is the state-run surface rail service. As the only transport entity exclusively handled by the government, the railways should be the backbone of our economy. Instead, they have become a testament to nonchalant and omnipresent bureaucratic apathy. The carriages, many of which look as though they have not seen a lick of paint or a structural repair since the mid-20th century, are in a state of advanced decay.
The statistics tell a grim story. Derailments have become so frequent that they are no longer headline news but a daily footnote in the lives of commuters. These “accidents” are rarely the acts of God; they are the inevitable results of poor maintenance of tracks and rolling stock. Unacceptable delays are now the standard operating procedure. A journey that should take an hour often stretches into three, leaving students, office workers, and labourers stranded on sweltering platforms while the authorities offer nothing but silence or hollow excuses. While other nations race toward high-speed travel connectivity, our “Queen of Jaffna” and “Udarata Menike” crawl through a landscape of systemic neglect.
The symptoms are visible to any commuter: rusted carriages with leaking roofs, seat upholstery that has not seen a deep clean since the 1970s, and an electrical system prone to sparks and darkness. But the issues run deeper than aesthetics. We are witnessing a terrifying frequency of derailments, often blamed on “technical faults” that are actually the predictable results of poor track maintenance and a lack of spare parts. Accidents at unprotected crossings continue to claim lives, while “unacceptable delays” have become the only predictable feature of the timetable. For the office worker in Colombo Fort or the student in Peradeniya, the train is no longer a vessel of progress; it is a gamble with time and safety.
The Bus “Mafia” and the Ransom of the Commuter
If the rail service is a ghost of a bygone era, the fee-levying bus service is a modern-day war zone. The landscape is split between the state-run Sri Lanka Transport Board (SLTB), burdened by a very poorly maintained fleet of ageing buses and a massive and aggressive fleet of private buses, which outmatch and outperform the state-run flotilla, not by efficiency but by sheer intimidation. It is absolutely crucial to note that neither serves the public. The SLTB really operates a skeletal, poorly maintained fleet that barely scratches the surface of demand. The private buses are a law unto themselves.
At the heart of the private transport sector lies an association that critics have aptly dubbed a “Mafia.” Headed by the influential figure colloquially known as “Bus G”, this association holds the entire nation’s commuters to ransom. At the drop of a hat, they can paralyse the country with “trade union action” that are little more than unsophisticated blackmail. In a telling ransom note, whenever a policy change or a fuel hike threatens their bottom line, the buses disappear from the roads. The result? Thousands of citizens are stranded in the blistering heat, watching their productivity and dignity evaporate while the “association” negotiates with a government that appears to be absolutely terrified of their political muscle.
There is a dark irony in the politics of it all. The kingpins of this “bus mafia” openly boast that they were instrumental in bringing the current political powers into office. Consequently, the government appears not just toothless, but complicit. While the public suffers, the state turns a blind eye to overcrowding, reckless driving, and the use of nasty, addictive drugs by the staff, which turns our highways into graveyards. The powers-that-be do not have the gumption to call a spade, just that, a spade, and rein in the miscreants, using the finest employment of the laws that govern this country.
The Law of the Tuk-Tuk: A Free-for-All on Three Wheels
Descending further into the chaos, we find the omnipresent three-wheeler and taxi services. Once a convenient alternative, the “Tuk-Tuk” has become a law unto itself. In a country where the cost of living is already spiralling, these unscrupulous operators have created a “free-for-all” fare system. There is no central control over rates; instead, passengers are forced to haggle or succumb to whatever arbitrary figure the driver decides upon. For those who can afford to bypass the buses, the totally inconsiderate charges of three-wheelers and private taxis offer no sanctuary. What was once a convenient last-mile solution has devolved into a predatory racket. The tuk-tuk services have become stallions of self-importance, operating without any meaningful oversight of rates or conduct.
Commuters are met with the nonchalant refusal of short-distance hires. Drivers, seeking to “make a fast buck,” prioritise long-distance hauls where they can extort exorbitant, unmetered fares. In the absence of a standardised digital fare system enforced by the state, the passenger is always the loser. The arrogance is palpable, and respect for fellow humans has been thrown out the window. These operators behave as if they own the asphalt, often claiming that their collective vote base was the kingmaker for the current political establishment. This perceived “immunity” has bred a culture of impunity where the commuter is treated as a nuisance rather than a customer.
For the elderly trying to reach a hospital or a worker trying to get home during a rainstorm, the “refusal” has become a standard, insulting rejection. The fee-levying taxi services, though slightly more professional in appearance, operate with a similar mercenary mindset, exploiting the desperation of a public that has no other choice.
The RMV Mess, the Registration Trap and the Police Ambush
For those who have attempted to escape the public transport nightmare by purchasing their own vehicles, a different kind of trap awaits. The government has allowed the mass import of private vehicles, including two-wheelers, but the Registrar of Motor Vehicles (RMV) has become a black hole of inefficiency. Delays in vehicle registration now run into several months. Despite a surge in private vehicle imports, the bureaucracy has ground to a resounding halt. Vehicle owners face “blatant delays” in registration that extend for several months, leaving them in a bureaucratic and legal limbo.
The situation is worsened by the government’s decision to halt the private-sector issuance of number plates, centralising it into a system that is currently a “total mess.” Tens of thousands of vehicles are forced to ply the roads displaying only engine and chassis numbers, a temporary measure born of necessity. Yet for all that, and totally against even a minuscule iota of any consideration, the Police Department seems to have missed the memo and become a set of hungry predators. Officers wait in ambush, charging these owners with hefty fines for being on the road without official number plates; plates that the state itself has failed to provide. It is an avaricious cycle, where the state fails to register your car or motorcycle, and then the state’s law enforcement arm punishes you for that very failure. Rather than focusing on the blatantly reckless bus drivers or the lawless Tuk-Tuks, Police Officers wait in ensnarement to pounce on these “unregistered” vehicles. Even when owners produce documents proving the delay lies entirely with the RMV, they are charged and fined. The message is clear: the citizen must pay for the government’s failure.
The Prohibitive Cost of Mobility
Overseeing all of this is the crushing weight of fuel prices. The government continues to raise the cost of petrol and diesel with scant regard for the downstream consequences. These so-called “cost-reflective” adjustments may look good on a balance sheet in Washington or at the International Monetary Fund, but on the ground in Colombo and Kandy, they are prohibitive. Every hike in fuel prices triggers a “ripple effect” that raises the price of bread, vegetables, and, of course, the very transport that people use to get to work to pay for those goods.
Finally, a Nation at a Standstill
The transport crisis is not just a logistical problem; it is a moral one of utter social degradation. It reflects on a government that has abandoned its primary duty: to provide the infrastructure for a functioning society. We are living on a “glorious isle” where the beauty of the landscape is now obscured by the soot of a broken bus and the stress of an uncertain commute. Going from Point A to Point B has become a major travail of unbelievable misery.
Overseeing this chaos is a government that views the fuel pump as an Automated Teller Machine (ATM). The cost of all fuel types, from petrol to the diesel that powers the nation’s mobility has reached “absolutely prohibitive” levels. With scant regard for the domino effect on the cost of living, the authorities and the powers-that-be continue to raise prices, fuelling a major catastrophe of economic inflation.
For the average Sri Lankan, the “travail of unbelievable misery” is now constant. We are a nation on the move, but we are moving towards a cliff from which we are likely to fall into an abyss of no return. Until the transport sector is stripped of its political “protectors” and returned to the service of the people, this “Resplendent Isle” will remain a beautiful prison for those trying to get from Point A to Point B.
If the current administration continues to protect the infamous “mafias”, ignore the decay of the rails, and profit from the administrative chaos of the RMV, and totally fail to get their act together, they are not failing just the transport sector; they are in fact failing the very heart of the nation for sure. Our Motherland, Sri Lanka, deserves a whole lot better than a state of an ever-present and unending transit catastrophe. All the rhetoric about a rich country and a beautiful life that was promulgated in the not-too-distant past remains only as unbelievable wishful thinking.
By an Aficionado
Opinion
Why do many Sri Lankan students become school dropouts?
Education is widely recognised as the foundation of a country’s development. In Sri Lanka, free education has provided generations of children with the opportunity to attend school regardless of their economic background. Despite these advantages, many students still leave school before completing their education. School dropout is a significant social issue because it affects not only the lives of young people but also the country’s economic and social progress. Understanding the reasons behind school dropout is essential for finding effective solutions.
One of the main reasons students leave school is financial hardship. Although education in Sri Lanka is free, families still have to spend money on uniforms, stationery, transportation, private tuition, and other school-related expenses. For low-income families, these costs can be difficult to manage. Some students are forced to work to support their families instead of continuing their education. In rural areas especially, children may help with farming, fishing, or family businesses, reducing the time and motivation they have for school.
Another important factor is academic pressure. Sri Lanka’s education system is highly competitive, especially because of major examinations such as the Grade Five Scholarship Examination, the G.C.E. Ordinary Level, and the G.C.E. Advanced Level. Many students feel stressed by the heavy workload and the pressure to achieve high marks. Those who struggle academically may lose confidence and believe they have little chance of success. As a result, some choose to leave school rather than continue facing disappointment and failure.
Family problems also contribute significantly to school dropout rates. Children who experience divorce, domestic violence, alcoholism, or the loss of a parent often face emotional and financial difficulties. Some students become responsible for caring for younger siblings or elderly family members. Without proper support, balancing family responsibilities with education becomes extremely challenging. In such situations, education may become a lower priority.
Another reason is the lack of interest in traditional classroom learning. Every student has different talents and learning styles. However, the education system often focuses mainly on academic achievement rather than practical or vocational skills. Students who are gifted in sports, arts, technology, or technical work may not feel motivated in a classroom that emphasises examinations and textbook learning. Without opportunities to develop their unique abilities, some students become bored and eventually stop attending school.
Bullying and mental health issues are also important causes of school dropout. Some students experience bullying because of their appearance, disability, ethnicity, language, or family background. Others suffer from anxiety, depression, or low self-esteem but do not receive the counseling they need. When students feel unsafe or unwelcome at school, they may begin missing classes and eventually leave school altogether. Schools that lack proper counseling services may struggle to identify and support these vulnerable students.
In some parts of Sri Lanka, long travel distances and transportation difficulties discourage students from attending school regularly. Rural students often travel several kilometers every day, sometimes on foot or using unreliable public transport. During the rainy season, flooded roads and poor infrastructure make travel even more difficult. Frequent absenteeism caused by transportation challenges may eventually lead students to drop out.
For some girls, early marriage and teenage pregnancy become barriers to continuing education. Although these cases are less common than in some other countries, they still affect certain communities. Young mothers often find it difficult to balance childcare with school responsibilities. Social stigma and limited support can further reduce their chances of returning to education.
The COVID-19 pandemic also increased the number of students at risk of dropping out. During school closures, many families lacked internet access, smartphones, computers, or stable electricity for online learning. Students from disadvantaged backgrounds fell behind in their studies, and some never returned to school after classes resumed. The pandemic highlighted inequalities in access to education across the country.
The consequences of school dropout are serious. Students who leave school early often have fewer employment opportunities and may earn lower incomes throughout their lives. They are more likely to experience poverty, unemployment, and social exclusion. School dropout can also contribute to higher crime rates, child labor, and poor health outcomes. For the country, losing educated young people means a less skilled workforce and slower national development.
Several solutions can help reduce school dropout rates in Sri Lanka. The government can strengthen financial assistance for low-income families through scholarships, school meal programmes, and transportation support. Schools should provide counseling services to address mental health concerns and prevent bullying. Teachers can receive training to identify students who are at risk of dropping out and provide timely support. Expanding vocational education and technical training would also give students more opportunities to pursue careers that match their interests and abilities. Finally, parents, schools, communities, and government agencies should work together to encourage regular school attendance and create a supportive learning environment.
In conclusion, school dropout is a complex issue caused by economic difficulties, academic pressure, family problems, mental health challenges, transportation issues, and limited educational opportunities. Although Sri Lanka has made remarkable progress in providing free education, ensuring that every child completes their schooling requires continued effort from all sectors of society. By addressing the root causes of school dropout and supporting vulnerable students, Sri Lanka can build a more educated, skilled, and prosperous future for the next generation.
Saumya Aloysius
saumyaaloysius@gmail.com
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