Features
Deconstructing Sugathapala de Silva (Part 2)
By Uditha Devapriya
This is the second of a two-part essay, from my remarks at a speech I delivered at the Kolamba Kamatha Festival on March 28, 2026.
To understand this phenomenon more clearly, I think we need to reflect on trajectory of modernism in Sri Lanka. In early 20th century Ceylon, ideas of modernism and modernity were disseminated by a group of avant-garde artists and intellectuals.
Most of them hailed from a Westernised elite. They included Lionel Wendt, Harry Pieris, George Keyt, Justin Daraniyagala, and Aubrey Collette. By dint of their wealth and agency, these men were able to transmit new ideas to the country.
However, they were circumscribed by a lack of proficiency in Sinhala and Tamil. For instance, Harry Pieris, the modernist painter who led the 43 Group following the death of Lionel Wendt in 1944, once wrote that he wished he knew Sinhala well.
“What a lot of good I could have done in my field of work.”
Of course, this was more than a problem of language proficiency. But it explains why the revolt in the Sinhala theatre had to pass two junctions instead of one. Notwithstanding their lack of fluency in Sinhala, the modernist painters of Sri Lanka, including Pieris, Keyt, and Collette, had the luxury of falling back on a medium that did not require much fluency in language. As a result, they were able to convey their innermost thoughts about the world they inhabited, both to their countrymen and to foreign audiences.
For this reason, the modernist revolution in painting came earlier than in other art forms. In theatre, by contrast, the language gulf was very much present, and it needed to be resolved before questions of theme and experience could be addressed.
By the 1940s one could discern two divergent paths in Sri Lankan theatre.
The first was dominated by nurti, nadagam, and other “hybrid” theatrical forms that had become a part of everyday life in the cities, including Colombo. These plays were patronised by the Sinhala petty bourgeoisie. The second was the English theatre, which covered productions of British and European plays. They included E. F. C. Ludowyke’s adaptations of Antigone, The Good Woman of Szechwan, and The Insect Play.
My argument is that Sarachchandra managed to bring these two streams together. I am of course not suggesting that he reconciled the nurtiya to Ludowyke’s English dramas, because he didn’t. What he did, with Maname, was to cloak Sinhala theatre in a modernist garb. It is easy to understand why many praised him for pioneering authentic Sinhala theatre, but in reality, he was putting together a range of dramatic styles. He also broke with precedent by adapting, not a Western play as his colleagues had done, but rather a Buddhist parable. This was modernism incarnate: the past cohabiting with the present.
However, while the stylised form that Sarachchandra pioneered had its strengths, one of which was its wide appeal and its consonance with Sinhala cultural revival, it was also constricted by a few weaknesses. For one thing, it lent too itself easily to imitation. Within a few years of praising Maname, hence, Regi Siriwardena could write.
“Why, oh why, must the playwrights of this school turn only to legend and folktale for their materials? I am afraid that with a continued diet of this kind Sinhala drama will die from lack of contact with contemporary life… The playwrights who have followed Dr Sarachchandra seem to have been far more concerned with form than with content.”
In another essay, written around the same time, Siriwardena argued that the departure of E. F. C. Ludowyke rang a death knell for English theatre in the country, adding that with the rise of a bilingual class of artistes and audiences, it had been rendered somewhat obsolete. In the same vein, he implied that the popularity of Sarachchandra’s dramas paradoxically made the very forms and structures on which they were based outdated.
Siriwardena’s contention was not that stylised drama had no place in contemporary life, but that it needed to be reinvented and made more relevant. He brought up dramatists like Brecht and Brendan Behan, who in their countries – Germany and Ireland – had used opera and musical theatre as “an instrument of social comment or satire.”
Clearly, Siriwardena was calling for a fusion of stylisation and naturalism which he felt would achieve mass appeal and social relevance. Yet was this combination possible in the context of the changes sweeping across Sri Lanka?
To a considerable extent, that question would be resolved not by Sarachchandra, but by the playwrights who succeeded him and opposed him. It is at this point that we should turn to Sugathapala de Silva and the Angry Young Men of his time.
I want to digress here to an anecdote. Although I never met Sugathapala – I was nine years when he passed away in 2002 – I did meet several artists who knew him, associated with him, and often worked with him. Among these was the writer Premaranjith Tilakaratne. Premaranjith passed away in 2017. I first met him two years earlier. I recall having several conversations with him, physically and over the phone. In one of them, he recounted to me a confrontation he once had with Sarachchandra.
A lover of American cinema, Premaranjith had watched and admired Robert Wise’s great Oscar-winning musical film, West Side Story. Around six years after its release in 1961, he would translate and adapt it himself, as Kontare. The music in it had stirred him, and he wanted to impress Sarachchandra. Seeking a meeting with him, he confidently played one song after another on his record player. When the record was finished, he looked towards the guru, perhaps expecting a positive response.
But Sarachchandra was put off. He was not smiling, he was frowning.
“What did you think?” Premaranjith asked him.
Sarachchandra paused for a while before replying.
“It is nothing but cacophony!” he said, dismissively.
At one level, this was a clash of vision. Though the two of them continued to interact, Premaranjith remained critical of Sarachchandra’s views. In a way, the confrontation reflected a chasm between established cultural forms and the newer forms that the likes of Premaranjith, Ranjith Dharmakeerthi, and Sugathapala de Silva pioneered.
The critic Ajith Samaranayake has pointed out two reasons for this. The first was a gradual disintegration of society and of class barriers. In 1960s Sri Lanka, this was felt discernibly through the migration of bilingual youth from the village to Colombo.
To cite Samaranayake, it was a generation who “had come to Colombo in search of the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow.” Such shifts reflected a breakdown of the class barriers and social codes which had governed colonial society. In the 1950s, not surprisingly, there was a rise in the number of undergraduates at the University of Ceylon. The shift to Sinhala and Tamil at schools and universities contributed to this growth.
The second reason were new developments in Western theatre, cinema, art, and literature, which were becoming increasingly accessible to Sinhala and bilingual social milieus. Whereas modernist artists like Wendt had once transmitted new ideas, these ideas had now come within the reach of other groups. That was partly because of cultural institutions, including foreign missions. Places like the British Council held regular screenings of films and had access to the latest art and culture magazines. The new generation of artists made use of these opportunities to broaden their horizons.
It is against this backdrop that Sugathapala de Silva should be viewed and celebrated. The agent provocateur of Sinhala theatre, he represented the peak of the rebellion that dominated Sinhala theatre in the 1960s. Ajith Samaranayake describes him as a member of a class of self-reliant, self-supporting artistes who later went extinct in the country.
To be sure, de Silva’s contributions, as a playwright, novelist, translator, journalist, critic, and commentator, have been written about by those more qualified than I. What I will thus do when wrapping up my speech is to examine what brought him and his peers together, in the context of his group, Ape Kattiya, and their contribution.
I note five factors which distinguished Sugathapala and his contemporaries. The first is the class composition of these playwrights and artists. Most belonged to a Sinhala lower middle-class, and many of them hailed from villages outside Colombo. Sugathapala himself, for instance, came from Nawalapitiya, while Premaranjith came from Ratnapura, Sumana Aloka Bandara from Kurunegala, and Henry Jayasena from Gampaha.
The second point is that, at least in the 1960s, these artists experimented with existential themes, informed by their readings of Sartre and Albert Camus. It was only towards the 1970s that they became more oriented to politics. While plays like Jayasena’s Apata Puthe Magak Nathe predicted this shift in as early as 1968, the peak of that trend was Sugathapala’s Dunna Dunu Gamuwe, first staged in 1972.
The third point is that there were sustained exchanges between these artists. There were collaborations between them. In the same vein, there was a healthy, constructive rivalry and competition. Many of these artists hobnobbed with Sugathapala, yet later they began their own troupes. Premaranjith Tilakaratne, for instance, founded 63 Kandayama, Sumana Aloka Bandara founded S Thuna Kandayama, and G. D. L. Perera Kala Pela.
Of the lot, it was Premaranjith who disagreed most visibly with the trajectory of the Sinhala theatre of Sugathapala and his colleagues. Thus, while the latter embraced political themes after the 1960s, Premaranjith went for adaptations with European tragedies and American musicals: Thoththa Baba, an adaptation of Joe Orton’s Entertaining Mr Slone, Kontare, based on West Side Story, and Julie, based on August Strindberg’s play.
It is interesting that in his last play Premaranjith returned literally and metaphorically to the Tower Hall, with a revival of the Nurti tragedy Sri Wickrama. This was the kind of theare which both Sarachchandra and his intellectual descendants had so vigorously opposed. Premaranjith’s swansong courted some controversy, but it proved that these playwrights, united as they were in one sense, differed greatly in another.
The fourth point is that these dramatists were ably helped by a tremendously talented pool of actors who in turn carved out independent careers, not just in theatre but also cinema. The most obvious name that comes to mind is, of course, Tony Ranasinghe. Both Tony and his brother Ralex were prominent members of Ape Kattiya, and it was from the Ape Kattiya acting cohort that Lester James Peries got several leading cast members aboard films like Gamperaliya, Delovak Athara, Ran Salu, and Golu Hadawatha. They included not just Tony, but also Wickrama Bogoda, G. W. Surendra, and Anula Karunathilake.
The fifth and in my view most important point has to do with the question I raised at the beginning: essentially, whether it was possible in Sri Lanka to synthesise the stylised drama of Sarachchandra with the naturalistic dialogues-driven drama of his successors. Between the one and the other, there had been attempts, including by Dayananda Gunawardena with Nari Baena and his brilliant adaptation of The Marriage of Figaro, Bakmaha Akuna. Henry Jayasena’s Kuveni is another oft-cited example, though his Janelaya, which he described as an experiment, tried on a larger scale to combine these two genres.
Perhaps I am being diplomatic if I say that Sugathapala de Silva, and Ape Kattiya, did not fully resolve the issue of whether a reconciliation of these two genres was possible. But then that is an open-ended question. In any case, the Sinhala theatre today, whether at the Lumbini, Elphinstone, or even Lionel Wendt, has answered this question positively: there are enough and more plays in which stylised elements cohabit with naturalist elements.
Whether Sugathapala himself thought this synthesis was possible is left to be seen. My own contention is that his personal experiences, as a young man of the 1950s, who grew up to the 1960s and saw the tumultuous politics of that decade and the 1970s, along with the onset of civil war and insurrection in the 1980s and 1990s, convinced him that naturalist, dialogues-driven, and highly charged theatrical forms was not just a way forward, but the only way forward. I believe that at one level, this made him cynical about older artistic forms. In his foreword to the first edition of Dunna Dunu Gamuwe, written in the aftermath of the 1971 insurrection, for instance, he raised a question.
“Can we bring drama to the people only by following old traditions? Some people wrongly believe that to fill theatre halls, new plays should be created only from what is left of old forms like Bali, Kolam, Sokari, and Nadagam. But this is just another attempt to make people forget the reality of their lives and take them into a world of fantasy.”
This is not to say that Sugathapala abandoned every traditional element in Sinhala art and literature. It is interesting that Dunna Dunu Gamuwe itself begins with a modification of a folk song, rewritten to suit the story’s political and satirical overtones.
ඉන්නේ දුම්බරයි මහ කළු ගලක් යට
කන්නෙත් කරවලයි රට හාලේ බතට
බොන්නෙත් බොරදියයි පූරුවෙ කළ පවට
යන්නේ කවදා ද මව්පියො දකින්නට
Sugathapala renders this plaintive song thus:
ඉන්නෙත් කොම්පැනියෙ කළු ගල් හිතක් යට
කන්නෙත් කරවලයි රට හාලේ බතට
බොන්නෙත් බොරදියයි ලබුගම හතර වට
යන්නේ කවදාද ගැලැවී රැහැන් පොට
What this indicates is that Sugathapala de Silva did not dismiss the possibility of a fusion between the old and the new. Rather, he felt the old had outdated the new and become irrelevant. He believed that cultural forms that were unnecessary in our wider struggles for justice belonged, to quote Leon Trotsky, in the dustbins of history. This did not mean that he discarded the past; merely that he preferred cultural elements which would resonate with the present and the future. He felt that older artistic elements needed to be reconfigured for them to become relevant to the struggles of our time. It is this which, more than anything, epitomizes Sugathapala de Silva’s views of the medium he made his own. I will end by saying that, in making that medium his, he made it ours too.
(Uditha Devapriya is an independent researcher, author, columnist, and analyst whose work spans international relations, history, anthropology, and politics. He holds an LL.B. from the University of London and a Postgraduate Diploma in International Relations from the Bandaranaike Centre for International Studies (BCIS). In 2024 he was a participant in the International Visitor Leadership Program (IVLP) conducted by the US State Department. From 2022 to 2025 he served as Chief International Relations Analyst at Factum, an Asia-Pacific focused foreign policy think-tank. In 2025 he did two lecture stints in India, one as a Resident Fellow at the Kautilya School of Public Policy in Hyderabad and another on art and culture at the India International Centre in New Delhi. Since 2023, he has authored books on Sri Lankan institutions and public figures while pursuing research projects spanning art, culture, history, and geopolitics. He can be reached at udakdev1@gmail.com.)
Features
‘Lord Edgware Dies’
It has been some time since I read an Agatha Christie, the plot of which I cannot remember. So, I was delighted to find on the shelves of a friend Lord Edgware Dies, which I had a vague memory of, but no certainty about who had done it.
When I read it, I found that my memory of who was probably the killer was correct, but I could not be certain and the red herrings Christie threw in were so diverting that until almost the very end I wondered if I had been wrong.
The plot is very simple. Jane Wilkinson, who is married to Lord Edgware, tells him that she is desperate for a divorce since she is in love with a very proper Anglo-Catholic peer, Lord Melton, but Edgware refuses to divorce her. She asks Poirot to talk to him, which he does, and is surprised to find that Edgware has told Jane he is prepared to give her a divorce. This was, after he had categorically refused, through a letter, which Jane said she had not received.
That night Edgware is murdered, after Jane had been to see him, or so the butler said, and also Edgware’s secretary. But Jane had been that evening at a grand dinner many miles away, where a dozen fellow guests could swear to her presence.
There was a solution however to the mystery of two Jane Wilkinsons, namely a skilful impersonator called Carlotta Adams who, in the opening chapter had impersonated Jane Wilkinson, who had also been at the performance. But when Poirot goes to see her, he finds that she had been found dead on the morning after Edgware had been killed, of an overdose. And in her bag was a gold case, with a strange inscription, that contained the drug, along with a pair of pince-nez.
Her maid said she had written a letter to her sister in America and posted it the previous night. Poirot asks Inspector Japp to get the letter, and a transcript is received from America, and in it the name of Edgware’s nephew Ronald Marsh is mentioned; he had taken Carlotta to dinner after her performance, with which the book opens, and had then set her a challenge. Japp arrests Marsh, but Poirot is not happy and asks for the original of the letter, which the sister sends him. That shows that a page is missing, and the tear is obvious, though that raises the question as to why it had not simply been cut.
Matters are further complicated by the fact that Marsh had gone in a taxi to the Edgware house, along with Edgware’s daughter Geraldine, in the interval of an opera which had previously seemed to provide them with cast iron alibis. Geraldine had gone in to fetch her pearls so that Marsh could raise money he needed, and thus had an opportunity to kill Edgware, as did Marsh, for the driver said he had got out of the taxi while waiting and gone into the house.
Marsh explained why he had gone to the house on the night of the murder as having followed Bryan Martin, an American actor, who had been in love with Jane, whom he saw go into the house with a key. But there was no one visible when he entered, and Geraldine almost immediately came down and they left together. And Martin too has become an object of suspicion to Poirot, for he had been to see him before the murders were discovered with a story of being followed by a man with a gold tooth – a story Poirot immediately realized was false when he was asked how old the man was, and was told he was young, for young people did not have gold teeth.
A heap of French money Edgware had got for a trip to Paris was missing, but since Marsh had no need for it after his cousin’s offer of help, Poirot deduces that it must have been taken by the butler, who has disappeared. Christie has stressed that he is astonishingly handsome, unusual in a butler, and Poirot notes a resemblance to Martin, so he thinks the mysterious man going into the house must have been him.
Incidentally, later Poirot assumes that Edgware’s change of mind was because he was involved in some scandal, and I believe Christie intends us to see the cause of this in his handsome butler, though this is not specified.
Meanwhile, Poirot has asked Japp to find out the provenance of the case found in Carlotta’s handbag, and it turns out to have been made in Paris, specially commissioned, and collected by a woman with pince-nez.
But then another murder occurs—that of another guest at the grand dinner, which provided Jane with her alibi. The victim is an actor who had been bemused when Jane, at a lunch, thought the Judgment of Paris referred to the city. He told Hastings he wanted to see Poirot, but was killed before he could get to the appointment. Poirot had rushed there when told about his request, but it was too late.
Meanwhile, Poirot has tried out the pince-nez on Edgware’s secretary, but she could not see through these. It was only a chance remark heard outside the theatre that led him to try them out on Wilkinson’s maid Ellis, a spare pair that had been appropriated for the night of the murders.
Poirot then lays things out, having summoned Martin and told him that he probably suppressed Edgware’s letter, as he had been dropped by then and he did not want Jane to marry another. But after teasing Martin, Poirot says that Jane was in fact the murderer, and she got Carlotta to impersonate her at the dinner while she went to the house and killed her husband. After meeting Carlotta later and checking with her through a call that she had
not been rumbled, Jane had gone ahead with the murder – she put veronal into her drink and the case with veronal into the handbag. She forgot to take out the pince-nez she had used earlier to imitate an American. Carlotta had registered as the American in a hotel and Jane had gone to see her, and there they exchanged identities. After seen the letter, she made use of it by tearing off the page that referred to her, and the S of She, so that the person who had challenged Carlotta to impersonate her seemed to be a man.
There is a coda in which Jane, condemned to death, writes to Hastings, still full of pride at her ingenuity hoping she will be remembered.
Features
Desilt reservoirs, learn from our ancient irrigation systems
by Prof. O. A. Ileperuma
Silting of reservoirs is a major problem today affecting our hydropower production and irrigation systems. The main Mahaweli reservoirs are silted to a considerable extent reducing the water holding capacity of them. Due to poor soil management practices, floodwaters deposit large amounts of silt in these reservoirs. When the Polgolla reservoir was fully drained about two years back, one could see mountains of silt in the lower reaches of the reservoir. A rough estimate is that 50% of the total capacity of these reservoirs has been lost to siltation. This is a serious issue which affects not only power and agriculture but also flood control.
Our ancient irrigation systems ensured that desilting of reservoirs took place under royal decree where all users of the reservoirs were ordered to carry out desilting of reservoirs during the dry season. The clay thus collected was used in making bricks for the construction of great stupas which dot the landscape of our ancient kingdoms. This ensured that the reservoirs had their full capacity filled with water for the next cultivating season. Our ancient kings were clever enough not to construct reservoirs by blocking main rivers such as the Mahaweli. A classic example is the Minipe left canal where they tapped only the surface water of Mahaweli. Even the bigger tanks such as Nuwara Wewa and Parakrama Samudraya were fed with minor rivulets. There were also other ingenious features in the cascade irrigation systems built by the ancient kings, such as mud sluice canals and forest reservations between the reservoirs in the cascade system. These reservations helped trap silt and remove excess nutrients, which could otherwise contribute to increasing salinity as water flowed from one reservoir to another.
- Parakrama Samudraya
- Kalawewa
- Kotmale
A classic engineering marvel is the former Yoda Ela, which carries water from Kalawewa to Nuwara Wewa and Tissa Wewa. It is 87 km long although the straight distance between these points is only about 40 km. The gradient of this canal is about 10 cm per km or 6 inches per mile. Yodha Ela functions as a moving reservoir and feeds about 4,600 hectares of paddy lands. It is a winding canal with about 120 smaller reservoirs on its way. It was constructed during the reign of King Dhatusena around 459 AD and later expanded by King Parakramabahu by connecting more reservoirs to the network. Unfortunately, during the Mahaweli project our modern-day engineers constructed a concrete canal replacing the winding path of this Yoda Ela also called Jaya Ganga. This effectively removed the ability of the old Yoda Ela to remove silt and nutrients. The bank of this Ela has wet zone trees such as jak and areca nut growing well. They take up the nutrients from the flowing stream making the water suitable for irrigation later.
Ancient Mesopotamian civilisations depended on dams constructed along the two main rivers, Euphrates and Tigris. After continuous irrigation of their fields over several thousand years, salinity of the irrigated lands increased making them unsuitable for agriculture. People died due to famine and this clearly illustrates the danger of blocking main rivers for agriculture. There is scientific evidence that the salinity of paddy soils in the Mahaweli C area is increasing.
We saw the devastation caused by Cyclone Ditwah. The sluice gates of the Kotmale Reservoir were opened, and Kandy and Peradeniya were flooded. If the reservoir had had greater storage capacity, couldn’t the opening of the gates have been delayed? This may not be an argument that modern-day engineers would readily accept, and I am not an irrigation expert. These ideas may well be naïve. But most of us tend to think of reservoirs mainly in terms of hydropower generation and irrigation, while their role in flood control receives much less attention. The question therefore deserves serious consideration. Could restoring lost reservoir capacity through desilting help improve our ability to manage extreme rainfall and reduce flood risks?
Desilting our reservoirs should be considered a national priority.
Features
Losing out to Ethiopia
Export diversification – Missing the wood for the trees – Part III
by Gomi Senadhira
In Sri Lanka, the word “Ethiopia” is often used as disparaging slang to describe individuals or areas experiencing extreme poverty, starvation, or severe economic hardship. This linguistic habit originated in the 1980s with the Western media coverage of the devastating Ethiopian famine of 1983-85. That media coverage shocked the world but also left an outdated and offensive global stereotype that the country is permanently starving. Much has changed since then. By now, with an annual growth rate of around 9%, it is the fastest-growing economy in sub-Saharan Africa. Ethiopia has also emerged as a highly competitive exporter and is challenging not only its competitors in the region but also countries like Sri Lanka. This article is on how Sri Lanka has lost ground to Ethiopia (and a few other countries) in the GCC markets for agricultural and floricultural products.
Sri Lanka – A Pioneer in the Agriculture and Floricultural Market in the GCC
As discussed in Part II of this article, by the mid-1980s Sri Lanka had established a strong foothold in the GCC’s fruit, vegetable, and floricultural market. Geographical proximity and well-established shipping and air links gave Sri Lanka a strong comparative advantage over Southeast Asian and African nations. Thailand, Vietnam, and Kenya were not even in the market. At that time, Ethiopia was experiencing (as BBC news reports described) “a biblical famine”.
The market was not very large, but it was lucrative and growing. Trade Minister Lalith Athulathmudali as well as the Chairman of the Export Development Board, Victor Santiapillai, who visited Kuwait (and the GCC countries), recognised the market potential for these products and encouraged us to continue with our work. The minister was particularly keen to further develop links between the market for these products, exporters, and his Export Production Villages (EPVs). So, it was becoming a successful case not only for export diversification but also for transferring gains from exports directly to rural households.
From Trailblazer to Tailender
As a result, even by the beginning of this century Sri Lanka had a larger market share than most of its competitors from Asia or Africa. But since then, our competitiveness has weakened significantly. The tables below provide a comparative snapshot of Sri Lanka’s performance vis-à-vis Thailand, Vietnam, Kenya and Ethiopia in the GCC market for vegetables, fruits and floricultural products. As illustrated therein, in 2001 Sri Lanka was ahead of Thailand, Kenya and Ethiopia in this small but rapidly growing market. Since then, we have fallen behind Thailand, Kenya and many other countries in that lucrative market. If this trend continues, Sri Lanka will fall behind Ethiopia within the next few years. (See Table 1)
In the GCC market for vegetables (covered in HS chapter 07), Sri Lanka was ahead of most other competitors in 2001. As illustrated in Table 1 , Sri Lanka had failed to develop this market, while Thailand, Kenya, and even Ethiopia had very efficiently increased their market shares. The GCC is a market to which Sri Lanka can supply some vegetables, like cabbages, by sea. It appears Sri Lanka had also failed to exploit this mode of supply.
We can see a similar trend in the market for fruits. Vietnam, Kenya, and Thailand have emerged as major players, while exports from Sri Lanka have staggered on slowly. In this segment, Vietnam has emerged as a leading player during the last twenty years and the GCC imports from Viet Nam have shot up from US$44 thousand in 2001 to US$346 million by 2024. In part one of these articles, I discussed the remarkable increase of jackfruit exports from Vietnam “…just $3 million in 2015 to an impressive $236.8 million in 2023” while most of our jackfruit production rots under the trees. This explains how countries develop their markets, geographically and product-wise. (See Table 2)
Sri Lanka’s performance has been weakest in the market for floricultural products (HS Chapter 06), which groups live trees, cut flowers, and ornamental foliage. When we first entered the market in the 1980s, the market was dominated by the Netherlands, and Kenya and Ethiopia were not even in the market. At that time, we identified the Gulf states as a market where Sri Lanka could have a dominant presence due to geographical proximity. Even in 2001, Sri Lanka was ahead of Kenya, Ethiopia, and Thailand. But by now, Kenya has emerged as the dominant supplier. Ethiopia is also expanding its market share and is the third-largest exporter. (See Table 3)
Missing the Wood for the Trees
In the mid-1980s, Sri Lanka first established its foothold in the GCC market. Since then, Thailand, Vietnam, Kenya, and even Ethiopia have moved well ahead of us and have become leading players. Why did we lag behind in our export diversification efforts in general and, more particularly, in the GCC market?
The reasons are very clear. After the initial attempts in the 1980s and early 1990s, Sri Lanka has not been proactively involved in identifying, developing, and promoting new products and markets, or protecting and further developing new markets already established. The focus has simply been on traditional exports: tea, coconut, cinnamon, and garments, while other products were almost ignored. In essence, we have been and continue to focus intensely on a narrow group of products and markets, and we have lost sight of the bigger picture.
(The writer can be reached at senadhiragomi@gmail.com)
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