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‘Monks’ in Cartel and Our Hacked Republic

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Sri Lankan monks arrive to appear before a court after their arrest in Negombo on April 26, 2026, after 22 of them were arrested at the airport with 242 pounds of powerful cannabis, officials said.Ishara S. KODIKARA /AFP via Getty Images

It is shame! It is ridiculous. It is unacceptable. But it is not surprising. This is what it has become. Yet shame itself will not repair anything. This may not be the first time, and it will not be the last. It will continue to surface in different forms, in different places, under different labels. The recent arrest of 22 individuals identified as Buddhist monks at Bandaranaike International Airport in Colombo, after arrival from Thailand, where authorities reportedly uncovered around 110 kilograms of high-potency cannabis concealed in luggage, has already entered public circulation as spectacle, accusation, and counter-accusation. The total value is estimated at approximately Rs. 1.1 billion (around US$3–3.5 million), a sum greater than what has recently been lost in the Treasury transaction scandal. Some immediately frame it as conspiracy, others as impersonation, others as institutional decay. The speed of interpretation has already overtaken the slower task of understanding.

Our democracy is hacked, our systems are hacked, our structures are hacked, and even our collective conscience is hacked. More disturbingly, even we, as individuals, are hacked—our judgement, attention, trust, and sense of truth are continuously intercepted, redirected, and reshaped. We are not merely a hacked republic; we are a hacked republic composed of hacked minds, operated through hacked institutions, sustained by hacked processes, and governed through hacked perceptions of power, responsibility, and reality itself.

This is precisely where the deeper error begins: treating the event as moral collapse rather than structural symptom. Because what is unfolding is not simply about individuals, but about the condition in which religious identity, institutional authority, and modern logistical economies now intersect without stable boundaries. The question is not whether Buddhism has been betrayed or defended, but why it repeatedly appears in spaces where its institutional language no longer matches the systems it is forced to operate within.

Buddhism is designed as a transformative psychology, but it is increasingly practiced as a cultural identity system. That gap is not rhetorical; it is structural. The teaching tradition speaks in the language of liberation, impermanence, and the dissolution of attachment, yet its institutional presence is embedded in state recognition, public symbolism, political mobilization, and social trust economies. The result is not simply contradiction, but functional dissonance between three layers that no longer align: teaching, institution, and culture. At the level of teaching, Buddhism remains inward-looking and epistemic. At the level of culture, it becomes outward-facing identity and political signifier. At the level of institution, it becomes fragmented administrative structure dependent on historical legitimacy rather than integrated legal architecture.

It is here that the deeper historical problem emerges. Buddhism did not fail through malice alone. It lacked the organizational technology that later Western institutional forms developed and exported globally: incorporated bodies, written constitutions, centralized hierarchies, property-holding corporate structures, and juridical personhood. Ernst Kantorowicz, in The King’s Two Bodies, describes how Western political theology gradually produced the legal fiction of the corporation as an entity that persists beyond individual mortality. That fiction became a foundation for modern institutional endurance. Religious bodies in that system are not only spiritual communities; they are legal persons capable of owning property, entering contracts, and sustaining continuity beyond individual authority.

In contrast, the historical Buddhist monastic system in Sri Lanka evolved under a different logic. The Vinaya regulates conduct, discipline, and communal life, but it does not construct the monastery as an autonomous legal corporation in the modern sense. The vihara is not originally a corporate legal subject. It is embedded in a kingship-based order where protection, land, and authority flow through personal sovereignty. The Buddhist Commission Report itself implicitly recognizes this rupture when it states: “The Sinhalese monarch ‘protected’ the Sasana and maintained it in its purity… There is no authority to perform that function today.” That absence is not merely political; it is structural discontinuity.

The same report sharpens the point further in its legal critique of post-kingly governance, observing that “Parliament… may reduce the powers of the Queen but it cannot reduce the powers of the Christian religious bodies.” Whether one agrees with its conclusions or not, the underlying claim is consistent: religious institutions were not encoded equally into modern legal architecture after colonial transition. What once functioned through embodied sovereignty and customary obligation was translated into a legal system that privileged incorporated forms and property regimes that Buddhism did not originally require in order to function.

Karl Polanyi’s analysis becomes useful here, not as economic theory alone but as a description of systemic translation failure. He writes that “man’s economy, as a rule, is submerged in his social relationships.” The disruption occurs when that embedding is reversed, when land, labour, and institutions are extracted from social and moral frameworks and reclassified through abstract market and legal categories.

In such a system, what cannot be translated cleanly into legal property or institutional form does not disappear physically, but it becomes administratively unstable.

The Buddhist temple system, historically tied to service obligations, merit economies, and sacred stewardship, was not originally designed to function as a competitive legal-economic actor. Yet it was placed into a world where survival increasingly depends on precisely that capacity. In that shift, structural vulnerability emerges not from doctrinal weakness, but from translation pressure between incompatible systems of value.

This is where Joseph Tainter’s logic of complexity adds further clarity. Systems do not collapse simply because they are weak, but because their previous forms of stability become maladaptive under new environmental conditions. A decentralized monastic order that functioned effectively under agrarian kingship becomes fragmented under bureaucratic state systems, globalized economies, and surveillance-driven legal regimes. What once ensured flexibility becomes organizational opacity; what once ensured local autonomy becomes institutional fragmentation.

At the same time, the political environment transforms Buddhism into a resource rather than a system. It becomes a field of symbolic capital. For some actors, it is mobilized as cultural legitimacy. For others, it becomes a mechanism of electoral survival. Within this dynamic, institutional clarity becomes secondary to symbolic utility. The danger is not only external exploitation but internal adaptation to that exploitation.

This is why contemporary incidents, including allegations involving individuals identified as monks in illicit trafficking operations, cannot be treated as isolated moral ruptures. They must be read as stress points within a system where identity carries trust weight, but institutional verification mechanisms are uneven, and where religious symbolism intersects with global logistical networks that operate outside traditional moral economies. The robe becomes not only spiritual signifier but also social access marker within a trust-heavy environment lacking unified structural oversight.

The deeper issue, therefore, is not decline in the moral sense, but failure of structural translation across three domains. Teaching continues to articulate liberation. Institution continues to operate through inherited fragmented forms. Culture continues to function as political identity. Between them lies a widening gap that modern legal and economic systems traverse without friction, while religious structures struggle to adapt without losing internal coherence.

To speak only in terms of blame is to remain at the surface. To speak only in terms of scandal is to misread structure as accident. The real condition is more difficult: a religious system that once operated within a kingship-based, embedded moral order now exists inside a disembedded legal and economic architecture that does not fully recognize its original categories of reality. Until that mismatch is addressed at the level of institutional design rather than sentiment or accusation, repetition will continue, interpretation will continue, and instability will continue to reappear in different forms, always mistaken for something new, when in fact it is the same unresolved structure expressing itself again.

by Nilantha Ilangamuwa



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‘Lord Edgware Dies’

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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.

Agatha Christie

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.

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Desilt reservoirs, learn from our ancient irrigation systems

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Polgolla

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.

Victoria

Moragahakanda

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.

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Losing out to Ethiopia

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From Trailblazer to Tailender

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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