Features

Implementing the Paddy Lands Act of 1958 – the Cultivation Committees

Published

5 years ago

2021/01/17

Sahan Weerasooriya

by Chandra Arulpragasam

Introduction: A Personal Note

In the CCS in early 1958, I was appointed Deputy Commissioner of the Agrarian Services Department, in charge of implementing the Paddy Lands Act of 1958. In setting out to draft the Administrative Regulations under the Act, I came across a number of structural, legal and operational considerations, which probably had not been foreseen by its authors. This was probably the first time that it was being looked at by an administrator with field experience – and the first time that it was being looked at by someone who was new to the Paddy Lands Act and to its thinking.

First, from a conceptual side, the concept and design of the Act did not fit, for example, the agrarian conditions of the Batticaloa district, which raised some problems of implementation. Secondly, because of the Act’s contentious nature, its legal provisions were likely to be challenged and its implementation obstructed. This made it necessary to examine its provisions from an adversarial point of view – which revealed many legal and administrative vulnerabilities. Thirdly, there were new problems of implementation. For example, the Act safeguarded tenants, but there were no records of tenants or of landlords. New records of land ownership, tenancy, etc. would have to be created from scratch before implementation could even begin.

In comparison, the land records in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh had been built up over a period of 200 years by the British imperial power. How could such records be created within six months before the Act would become operational in six districts of the country – as stipulated in the Act? Moreover, there were all sorts of potential legal and administrative problems in the elections of the Cultivation Committees. And so on.

The Commissioner of Agrarian Services happened to be abroad for three weeks. Thus, not only was I was the Acting Head of a Class I, Grade 1 Department at the age of 28 years, but I also needed policy-level help, because this was hitherto unchartered territory in the country. So I asked for an appointment with the Minister of Agriculture, Mr. Phillip Gunawardene, the author of the Act, whom I had never met or seen before. The Minister was charming, affable and even fatherly, over a cup of tea and cakes in Parliament. Getting down to business, I brought to his notice the number of legal difficulties and some of the administrative problems that needed his guidance.

I was so intent on my presentation of the potential legal problems of the Cultivation Committees that I failed to notice that he had tossed his spectacles on the table, which was a sign (I was told later) that he was losing his patience – and his temper. I was only half way through my list when he suddenly banged his fist on the table with a loud noise, stopping me abruptly. “Young man” he exclaimed: “Have you come across these difficulties in the field – or are they in your head?” When I pointed weakly to my head, “Go and work”, he thundered! “And when you come across these problems, then you come to me!” In complete disarray, I scooped up my files and scooted from Parliament, leaving a trail of paper in my wake! This was the first and last time that I saw Mr. Phillip Gunawardene.

Within a few months, he was isolated and pushed out of the Cabinet, to be succeeded as Minister of Agriculture by Mr. C. P. de Silva. This resulted in two difficulties that I had to face. Within a few months, every one of the legal and administrative problems that I had raised with the Minister had actually come to pass. But secondly, when I needed ministerial help, Mr. Phillip Gunawardene, was no longer there. Instead, there was a new Minister, Mr. C.P de Silva, his political foe, who was actually opposed to the Act, and who decided to let it fester in its own legal difficulties so as to discredit it countrywide. In fact, I had to battle with the new Minister to amend the Act in order to give effect to the intentions of Parliament, or to repeal it. I gathered that he was not prepared to go to Parliament to publicly repeal it, since it was publicly popular. As late as 1960, I was struggling to get the same loopholes plugged that I had pointed out to the former Minister (Mr. Philip Gunawardene) in 1958.

Although upset by my encounter with Mr.Phillip Gunawardene, I came later to recognize that I had been looking at it only from my own administive and legal point of view, not appreciating his political difficulties in going back to Parliament for amendments before implementation had even began! Although I never met Mr. Gunawardene thereafter, he must have appreciated my work, for he later paid me a handsome compliment in Parliament, as recorded in Hansard.

New Ideas: The Role of the Cultivation Committees

Starting from the premise that the state machinery, especially at lower levels, was subject to the influence of the landlords, the Paddy Lands Act created a new Agrarian Services Department at national level, devoted to its implementation. Moreover, in order to bypass the lower level of administration at field level (which was thought to be under landlord influence), it created Cultivation Committees with assured majorities for the actual cultivators. This attempt to bias the administration in favour of the weaker sections of the agrarian society represented a change from the view prevailing from colonial times, namely, that the administration would be neutral in its dealings with all sections of the public. It is relevant to note here that most of the agrarian reform programmes in Latin America started from the same premise. Similarly, they opted for separate, dedicated agencies for the implementation of their land reforms, outside their existing ministries. The experiences of Japan, South Korea and Taiwan were quite different because their land reforms were carried out under martial law, or with the active backing of the military.

The Act was also innovatory in that it represented the first time in any country in South and South East Asia that legal powers in the implementation of tenurial reforms and the management of irrigation and cultivation at field levels were given to an elected body. The idea that an elected body of semi-educated farmers could take over functions from the government bureaucracy was clearly revolutionary at that time. For example, since the rent payable on a particular field was fixed as one-fourth share of the harvest, how could a distant court know how much the gross harvest of a particular field was? The Act recognized that such factual questions at field level could only be answered at field level. The failure to recognize this and to provide for beneficiary participation in implementing such reforms has been one of the greatest weaknesses of similar programmes in other countries of the region at that time.

The first role of the Cultivation Committees was to help in the implementation of the tenancy provisions of the Act (Sections 8-19). The Committees were also authorized to act as intermediaries between landlord and tenant in the collection of rents, etc., thus reducing the personal hold of landlords over their tenants. The Cultivation Committees were thus expected to play an important socio-psychological role in bolstering the confidence of the tenant-cultivators to actively claim their rights under the law.

Secondly, the Cultivation Committees were given important development functions, with powers for the advancement of paddy cultivation in their areas. They were given access to technical advice in the form of Agricultural Extension Officers and Village Cultivation Officers, who were made ex-officio members of the Committees; but with a right only to speak but not to vote at their meetings. It was hoped that with such technical advice emanating from within, and adopted by the Committees, would enable both paddy production and water-management to be greatly improved by the farmers, acting on their own volition..

A third major innovatory function of the Cultivation Committees was in respect of (irrigation) water management, with the Committees taking over the functions of the Irrigation Headmen (Vel Vidanes) at field level. These functions, among others, included enforcement of rules relating to cultivation dates, clearing of channels, fencing, etc, as well as improving water management. This was in a context where bureaucratic and technical means of water management at field level had already failed. The Paddy Lands Act of 1958 thus predated international recognition of the need for farmer participation in water-management by at least 20 years! In practice, however, the Cultivation Committees under the Act of 1958 never made any progress in this field because they were legally invalidated soon after their formation.

A fourth innovation was in the field of agricultural extension. It was evident then, and more evident now, that agricultural extension systems based on the western models of one extension worker dealing face-to-face with each individual farmer were completely unrealistic in most developing countries with a multitude of small farmers. For example, in Nepal, an extension agent would have to walk one whole day to even reach 50 farmers in remote vellages! No developing country in the world could afford such a system in the context of multiple small farmers, which would require a quadrupling or more of extension workers. Ironically, this has been the recommendation of FAO and the World Bank for decades since the Paddy Lands Act of 1958! It is therefore obvious that a two-stage system or a group system of extension had to be devised, either with the extension agent working through farmer leaders, or through a system of group-extension, as envisaged by the Paddy Lands Act. Thus, the Act’s introduction of such a group extension system with farmer education and participation in the planning and implementation of such self-decided programmes of agricultural development was at least 40 years ahead of its time.

Lastly, the tenurial provisions of the Paddy Lands Act needed to be supported by a broader package of institutional support for smallholder agriculture, in order for the Act itself to be effective. Such a package was provided by the establishment of the multipurpose cooperatives, agricultural credit for smallholders, a fertilizer subsidy, a guaranteed price for paddy and a pilot crop insurance scheme. It is important to recognize that the Green Revolution could not have taken off in Sri Lanka around 1967 if the institutional support structure for small-scale paddy farming had not been laid in the late 1950s, alongside and with the Paddy Lands Act.

While the Act provided for an active role by farmers’ organizations (the Cultivation Committees), it is clear that the latter were not neutral farmer organizations. It was known, for example, that the village cooperatives in most countries of South Asia were under the control of the big landlords. The Paddy Lands Act, therefore, went to great lengths to neutralize the overweening power of the landlords by weighting these Committees heavily in favour of the actual cultivators. The landlords, however, retaliated by getting the Cultivation Committees declared legally invalid. This had the effect of cutting off the implementation structure at the knees, with no feet on the ground, making field level implementation impossible.

Thus one of the main laudatory features of the Act, namely, its provision for beneficiary participation, proved also to be its Achilles heel, leading ultimately to its collapse. Although such local farmers’ associations weighted in favour of the actual tillers succeeded in Japan, Taiwan and South Korea, they were supported by martial law, or by military force. In contrast, our Cultivation Committees were subject to a judicial system under the rule of law in a democracy. In fact, it even allowed a President of a Village Tribunal to famously declare from the bench: “Pillippua Parippua-ge kumburu panatha appete epa” (We do not want lousy Phillip’s Paddy Lands Act!)

The Department of Agrarian Services organized rounds of field-level meetings, trying to encourage the Cultivation Committees to hold fast, promising that legal amendments would soon be forthcoming to remedy their legal incapacity. But in fact, these amendments came too late. They were passed only after the landlords had already evicted their tenants, and only after the Cultivation Committees had been seen to have failed in their cultivation and irrigation duties, thus losing the confidence of the farmers themselves.

It is also necessary to consider the socio-political climate in the villages at that time. There was euphoria among the tenant-cultivators and agricultural workers when the Act was passed, heightened by their participation in the formation of the Cultivation Committees, which they felt would support them against arbitrary eviction and higher rents.

This enthusiasm was reflected in other aspects of cultivation too. Fertilizer consumption doubled in the first year of the formation of the Cultivation Committees, but collapsed in the year following their legal invalidation. This collapse caused great demoralization among the cultivators, since they had gained great socio-psychological support from the Committees in standing up for their rights. With their collapse, many tenants surrendered their rights, accepting their plight as “hidden tenants” with no rights under the law. There was chaos in the paddy fields too, since there was no agent/agency left to ensure that the fields were fenced or the water issued. Hence, by the time the Cultivation Committees were re-legalized by the Paddy Lands (Amendment) Acts of 1961 and 1964, the latter served only to close the stable door after the horse had bolted. The Committees never regained the vigour and vibrancy that accompanied the first flush of their formation under the Act of 1958.

Legal and Administrative Challenges: The Collapse of the Cultivation Committees

It is left only to record the legal arguments that led to the collapse of the Cultivation Committees of 1958 – which provides a lesson in itself of how legal finagling can upset progressive legislation. A Cultivation Committee was to consist of twelve (12) members (Section 29). “Of the prescribed number of elected members of the Committee: (a) not less than three-fourths shall be elected by the qualified cultivators……; and (b) not more than one-fourth shall be elected by the qualified owners….” Clearly the intention was to give greater weight in the Committees to the actual cultivators as opposed to the landlords.

In administrative terms, it was clear that there had to be two separate elections: one for the owners to elect their members, and one for the actual cultivators to elect theirs. This required that separate electoral lists be prepared for the owners and separate ones for the cultivators. Given the predictable opposition from the landlords, every name on every electoral list was liable to be challenged, while the elections themselves could be disputed in law. I had pointed this out to Mr. Phillip Gunawardene in my first and only encounter with him.

But there were even more serious problems. Since the law and relevant regulations stipulated that all Cultivation Committees shall have twelve members, the refusal by landlords to elect their representatives would render most of the Committees invalid. This again was a potential problem that I had brought to the notice of the Minister in my initial and only meeting with him – for which I was chased out by him! Faced with this situation on the ground one year later, we took the position (with the agreement of the Attorney-General) that if the landlords failed to elect their three representatives, the cultivators could elect the full twelve members of the Committee, since they (the cultivators) were entitled to elect a number “not less than three-fourths” of the Committee. The landlords then consulted Mr. H. V. Pereira, the highest legal luminary in the country. His brilliant mathematical argument in the appellate court was that since the landlords were to elect “a number “… “not more than one-fourth”, and since the qualified owners had elected nought representatives, and since nought is not a number, the Cultivation Committees were not legally constituted! On this abtruse mathematical argument, the Court decided that the Cultivation Committees were not legally constituted!

All past and future actions of such Committees were also declared null and void! This ruling encouraged the landlords to boycott the Cultivation Committee elections all over the country, thus rendering them legally invalid and their actions legally void. Thus the implementation machinery of the Act at field level was completely demolished on the basis of this legal argument! Since these Committees had by law taken over important irrigation and cultivation functions (the vel vidanes having been abolished) their invalidation led to a breakdown in the common arrangements for cultivation and irrigation, thus causing complete chaos in the field. And the Minister in charge of its implementation (Mr.C.P. de Silva) was not prepared to pass the needed amendments to plug the legal loopholes.

This placed me, as the implementer, in a professionally unenviable position. On the one hand, my duty was to implement the Act; but on the other, my own Minister who was also supposed to be implementing the Act, seemed intent on making its implementation impossible. Nor was he willing to repeal the Act, since it still had popular appeal. Two Commissioners of the Agrarian Services had been transferred out of the Department because they had agreed to sign the needed amendments to plug the loopholes in the Act. After more than two years of this unequal and unsuccessful struggle, I capitulated and sought a transfer out of the Ministry.

(The writer, a former member of the Ceylon Civil Service, later worked for a long period at the UN’s FAO in Rome).

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Features

Trials-at-Bar in Sri Lanka: Use and abuse

Published

19 hours ago

2026/01/19

Thilina Walpola

It is reported that a Trial-at-Bar is being contemplated in respect of allegations against former President Ranil Wickremesinghe regarding misuse of state resources for a visit to a British university on his return from attending sessions of the United Nations in New York and an official visit to Cuba. If this is correct, it would make legal history in our country, because there has been no previous instance of the procedure of a Trial-at- Bar being invoked against a former Head of State.

In view of the constitutional importance of the issues involved, the attempt is opportune to consider the conceptual and statutory foundations of our law relating to Trials-at-Bar, the boundaries of its application in practice, and the nature of the responsibilities attributed to the principal functionaries with regard to the conduct of these proceedings.

I. The Statutory Framework

A Trial-at-Bar is an extraordinary procedure operating over and above proceedings in regular courts exercising criminal jurisdiction at first instance. Its form is that of three judges of the High Court, sitting usually without a jury, to try an indictable offence. The main provision is contained in Section 12 of the Judicature Act, No. 2 of 1978: “Notwithstanding anything to the contrary in this Act or any other written law, a Trial-at-Bar shall be held by the High Court in accordance with law for offences punishable under the Penal Code and other laws”.

The law of Sri Lanka makes provision for Trials-at-Bar in two different contexts.

(a) Mandatory

The trial of any person for the gravest offences against the State, constituted by Sections 114, 115, and 116 of the Penal Code, must in all circumstances be held before the High Court at Bar by three judges without a jury, despite any other law. This is the effect of Section 450 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, Act No. 15 of 1979.

The gist of offences to which this provision is applicable is conspiracy or preparation to overthrow, by unlawful means, the Government of Sri Lanka. This provision was applied in the case of 24 persons alleged to have attempted a coup d’état against the Government of Prime Minister Sirimavo Bandaranaike, a year after its election in July 1960 (R v. Liyanage).

(b) Discretionary

Outside this category, where recourse to a Trial-at-Bar is compulsory, there are other situations in which, as a matter of discretion, the Chief Justice may order use of this procedure. This course of action may be resorted to “in the interest of justice and based on the nature or circumstances of the offence”.

Trials-at-Bar, which may proceed either on indictment or on an information exhibited by the Attorney-General, are required to be held as speedily as possible, and generally in the manner of a High Court trial without a jury.

The power of appointment of High Court judges conducting a Trial-at-Bar is specifically vested in the Chief Justice. The Court, once appointed, has full authority regarding summoning, custody, and bail, subject to the restriction that bail may usually be granted only with the consent of the Attorney-General.

II. Appropriate Parameters

A useful point of departure, as a means of determining the proper limits of this judicial procedure, is to examine the character of offences which have led in our country throughout the post-Independence era to the constitution of Trials-at-Bar. A classification of the decided cases during this entire span of more than seven decades is attempted here for this purpose.

(1) Murder

Several Trials-at-Bar in Sri Lanka have been concerned with charges of murder, not per se, but invariably combined with circumstances which impart to the offence the added element of exceptional public importance, in terms of grave jeopardy to established institutions, public tranquillity, or seminal values underpinning governance.

The following are examples:

(a) the murder of a High Court judge engaged in the trial of five persons accused of capital offences pertaining to trafficking in drugs (Sarath Ambepitiya);

(b) the murder of a Member of Parliament in the midst of mob violence on a street, in the throes of widespread protests aimed at bringing down the incumbent government (Amarakeerthi Athukorala);

(d) the killing of villagers by Army personnel during a public demonstration (the Rathupaswala case);

(e) the disappearance of a social activist and human rights defender (Prageeth Ekneligoda).

(2) Offences involving State security and possible contravention of International law

* charges pertaining to firearms and ammunition and their use on the high seas (the Avant Garde case).

(3) Alleged gross dereliction of duty by senior government officials, including a former Secretary to the Ministry of Defence and a former Inspector-General of Police, leading to the death of a large number of persons by explosions in public places such as churches and hotels (Easter Sunday Bombing case).

(4) Grave corruption allegations in respect of procurement or other major misdemeanours

* two Trials-at-Bar were appointed to hear cases arising from the Central Bank bond scam in 2016, alleged to involve a former Minister of Finance, a former Governor of the Central Bank, his son-in-law and others (Central Bank bond case);

* charges against a previous Minister of Health, senior officials of the Ministry, and others in connection with the procurement of substandard immunoglobulin vials, leading to deaths and grievous bodily harm (Keheliya Rambukwella);

* charges filed by the Financial Crimes Investigation Division against the Chief of Staff of a former President and a former Chairman of the Sri Lanka Insurance Corporation for alleged large-scale misappropriation of public funds (Gamini Senerath, Priyadasa Kudabalage).

(5) Sedition involving communal overtones and potential disturbance of the public peace (S.J.V. Chelvanayakam and others).

(6) Allegations relating to extra-judicial executions

* the trial of a previous Army Commander for statements made by him regarding unlawful execution of surrendering LTTE cadres (Sarath Fonseka White Flag case).

(7) Criminal defamation in volatile contexts

In 1954, in the earliest of this series of cases, allegedly defamatory remarks were published by the defendant in a newspaper known as Trine. The gist of the allegations was that Sir Oliver Goonetilleke, who had just relinquished the position of Minister of Finance to accept appointment as Governor-General, had engaged in “swindles on an international scale” (R v. Thejawathie Gunawardena).

The heinous character of the offences alleged, and the scope of their potential ramifications in all these settings, are evident at a glance. The distinguishing feature is not merely the gravity of the offence, but imputation of a wider dimension to it, typically in the form of a serious affront to the public wellbeing.

In the Thejawathie Gunawardena case, for instance, where the propriety of recourse to a Trial-at-Bar was vigorously challenged, the Supreme Court held that there was no ground for complaint because of the predominant element of public mischief apparent from the circumstances. This was due to the inflammatory content of the statements published, which could foreseeably “disturb or endanger the government” by igniting public feeling. Gravity of the allegations, from this point of view, and their probable impact on public confidence in the integrity of basic institutions of governance, were the factors relied upon to take the case out of the regular category of defamation litigation and justify use of the Trial-at-Bar procedure.

This characteristic of a high threshold of public importance, accompanied by complexity and volatility of the surrounding circumstances, is the central thread which runs through the diverse situations in which Trials-at-Bar have been constituted in Sri Lanka.

III. The Roles of Pivotal Functionaries

The principal responsibility is that of the Chief Justice and the Attorney-General. The essential nexus between their statutory functions is a salient feature of the law.

(i) The Chief Justice

In Somaratna Rajapaksa v. Attorney-General, it was clearly recognised that the repository of power to constitute a Trial-at-Bar is the Chief Justice, but subject to the requirement that an indictment or information “furnished by the Attorney-General” operates as the material basis for exercise of the Chief Justice’s authority in this regard.

An explicit trajectory is established, linking the initiative by the Attorney-General with the Chief Justice’s decision.

(ii) The Attorney-General

Action by the Attorney-General is located within the overall ambit of prosecutorial discretion vested in him in respect of a wide range of matters, including assessment of the sufficiency and probative value of evidence to warrant institution of criminal proceedings, the decision to indict, and withdrawal of a prosecution by means of the entering of a nolle prosequi. The recommendation in respect of a Trial-at-Bar falls into place within the field of this broad authority.

The crucial attribute of the Attorney-General’s functions in this area is that he acts in a quasi-judicial capacity. A basic anomaly in the role of the Attorney-General in our constitutional system is that he combines, in his office, a variety of functions and responsibilities which entail some degree of conflict with one another. Despite this lack of institutional coherence and consistency, what is beyond doubt in the present condition of the law is that, throughout the whole gamut of prosecutorial decision making, the Attorney-General is required to eschew all political and other extraneous considerations and to arrive at his decisions in a spirit of total objectivity.

This is one of the cornerstones of our system of criminal justice. Although there is a statutory choice or discretion built into the Attorney-General’s responsibility, H.N.G. Fernando C.J. has aptly commented: “Our law has conferred on the Attorney-General powers which have been commonly described as quasi-judicial and traditionally formed an integral part of the system of criminal procedure” (Attorney-General v. Don Sirisena). In similar vein, the Supreme Court, in Victor Ivan v. Sarath N. Silva, Attorney-General, observed: “The Attorney-General’s power is a discretionary power similar to other powers vested in public functionaries, held in trust for the public, and not absolute or unfettered”.

While the purview of prosecutorial discretion residing in the Attorney-General, by virtue of enacted law as well as inveterate tradition, is strikingly extensive, it is not an untrammeled power: it is not beyond the reach of the courts. In a trilogy of progressive decisions by the Court of Appeal, Sobitha Rajakaruna J., (prior to his elevation to the Supreme Court), asserted the principle that the Attorney-General’s decisions, in appropriate circumstances, are amenable to judicial review: Sandresh Ravi Karunanayake v. Attorney -General (CA/Writ/ 441/2021), Duminda Lanka Liyanage v. Attorney-General (CA/Writ/323/2022), Nadun Chinthaka Wickremaratne v. Attorney-General (CA/Writ/523/2024).

In Attorney-General v. Karunanayake, Samayawardhana J ( with the concurrence of Thurairaja and Janak de Silva JJ.) declared: “Politically motivated indictments following regime change pose a serious threat to the rule of law and public confidence in the office of the Attorney-General and the entire justice system. Judicial oversight plays a vital role in ensuring that prosecutorial discretion is exercised independently, fairly, and in compliance with the law”.

The Supreme Court of our country has shown no inhibition in directly addressing the question whether the Attorney-General has properly exercised his discretion in laying the information which served as the basis of a Trial-at-Bar.

In Thejawathie Gunawardena’s case, in proceedings before the Supreme Court, it was strenuously contended on the defendant’s behalf that the Attorney-General had acted ultra vires for a collateral or improper purpose. The submission was that the person allegedly defamed was no longer holding public office, and invocation of the extraordinary procedure associated with a Trial-at-Bar was, therefore, unjustifiable. The Supreme Court, sitting in appeal, having considered the issue in depth, rejected the submission on the ground that his tenure had been very recent, and that the proximity of his connection with the incumbent government gave rise to the likelihood of intensifying public feeling because of the volatility and range of the allegations made against him.

These trends of judicial opinion have the effect that the principle of justiciability of the Attorney-General’s initiative in this regard is firmly embedded in our law.

IV. Conclusion

Trials-at-Bar serve a salutary purpose, but within stringently circumscribed limits. The decided cases in our country, spanning more than 75 years, indicate with exemplary clarity the confines within which this extraordinary procedure has legitimacy. The essential consideration is that there should not be room for the slightest doubt that immaterial factors may have come into play in the exercise of discretion.

This far transcends the entitlement of individuals to due process and impinges upon the health and vitality of procedures central to the administration of justice. My teacher, Professor Sir William Wade, pre-eminent among exponents of administrative law in our time, who had the distinction of holding Chairs of Law successively in the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, told me that if he were asked to identify succinctly, in one sentence, the substance of the common law tradition, he would have no hesitation in replying that it consisted of robust hostility to unbridled discretion in public functionaries. Even the appearance of neglect of this rudimentary principle places in jeopardy the fulfilment of public aspirations about the quality of criminal justice.

By Professor G. L. Peiris ✍️
D. Phil. (Oxford), Ph. D. (Sri Lanka);
Former Minister of Justice, Constitutional Affairs and National Integration;
Quondam Visiting Fellow of the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge and London;
Former Vice-Chancellor and Emeritus Professor of Law of the University of Colombo

Features

Extended mind thesis:A Buddhist perspective

Published

19 hours ago

2026/01/19

Thilina Walpola

After listening to Prof. Charitha Herath deliver his lecture at the World Philosophy Day Conference at the University of Peradeniya and then reading his excellent article, “Buddhist insights into the extended mind thesis – some observations” published in The Island (14.01.2026) I was prompted to write this brief note to comment on the Buddhist concepts he says need to be delved into in this connection. The concepts he mentioned are prapañca, viññāṇasota and ālayaviññāṇa.

Let us look at the Extended Mind Thesis in brief. “The extended mind thesis claims that the cognitive processes that make up the human mind can reach beyond the boundaries of an individual to include as proper parts aspects of the individual’s physical and sociocultural environment” … “Such claims go far beyond the important, but less challenging, assertion that human cognition leans heavily on various forms of external scaffolding and support. Instead, they paint the mind itself (or better, the physical machinery that realises some of our cognitive processes and mental states) as, under humanly attainable conditions, extending beyond the bounds of skin and skull.

Extended cognition in its most general form occurs when internal and external resources become fluently tuned and deeply integrated in such a way as to enable a cognitive agent to solve problems and accomplish their projects, goals, and interests. Consider, for instance, how technological resources such as pens, paper, and personal computers are now so deeply integrated into our everyday lives that we couldn’t accomplish many of our cognitive goals and purposes without them (Kiverstein J, Farina M, Clark A, 2013).

It may be seen from the above that the Extended Mind Thesis is mainly concerned with human cognition. It seems that the tools that humans use to help them in the cognitive process are actually components of the extended mind. This is mentioned in Prof. Herath’s article as well. Though Buddhist theory of cognition does not imply such a relationship that involves the implements utilised in the process of acquiring knowledge, it proposes an inextricable relationship between the cogniser and the cognised. For instance, the eye-consciousness does not arise unless the object of cognition is present.

Reality of the world according to Buddhism is based on the relationship between the cogniser and the cognised. This theory is supported by the way in which Buddhism analyses the complex formed by the human personality and the world, which it does in three systems, expounding the bond between the two. First is the five aggregate analysis, second is the 12 bases (ayatana), and the third is the eighteen elements (dhatu). Whether this kind of entanglement is possible without some means of extending the mind is an interesting question.

According to Buddhism, the mind is not a substance but rather a function that depends on it. There are three terms that are used to refer to mind and possibly these may indicate different functions though they are very often used as near-synonyms. The terms are mano, citta and viññāṇa. The term mano is used to refer to the aspect of mind that functions as one of the six sense-faculties. Mano is responsible for feelings and it also coordinates the functions of the other sense-faculties. Citta generally means consciousness or combinations of consciousness and the other mental-factors, vedanā, saññā, sankāra as seen in the Abhidhamma analyses.

The term Viññāṇa means basic awareness of oneself and it is also used in relation to rebirth or rebecoming. It has a special responsibility in being the condition for the arising of nama-rupa, and reciprocally nama-rupa is the condition for consciousness in the paticcasamuppada formula. Further, the term “consciousness-element” is also used together with five other items; earth-element, water-element, fire-element, air-element and space-element which seem to refer to the most basic factors of the world of experience, indicating its ability to connect with the empirical world (Karunadasa, 2015). In these functions, consciousness may assume some relevance in the Extended Mind Thesis.

Further if we examine the role of consciousness in rebirth we find that a process called the patisandhi-viññāṇa has the ability to transmit an element, perhaps some karmic-force, from the previous birth to the subsequent birth. In these functions the enabling mechanism probably is the viññāṇasota, the stream of consciousness that Prof. Herath mentions, and which apparently has the ability to flow even out of the head and establish links with the external world.

It may be relevant at this juncture to look at the contribution made by Vasubandhu, the 4th Century Indian Buddhist philosopher. Vasubandhu’s interpretation of saṃskārapratyayaṃ vijñānam (consciousness conditioned by volitional actions) treats the stream of consciousness as the mechanism of continuity between lives. He emphasises that this stream continues without a permanent entity migrating from one life to the next. The “stream” manifests as the subject (ego) and object (external world), which are both considered projections of this underlying consciousness, rather than independently existing entities. Vasubandhu also had proposed a kshnavada (theory of moments) to explain the stream of consciousness as consisting of arising and disappearing of consciousness maintaining continuity. These propositions may lend support to the Extended Mind Thesis.

Prof. Herath has mentioned the term prapañca (Pali – papañca) which generally means concepts. In the context of the extended mind thesis it needs to be examined in relation to the Buddhist theory of perception, because the former mainly pertains to cognition. As mentioned by Prof Herath, Ven. Nanananda in his book “Concept and Reality” has discussed this subject emphasising the fact that in Buddhist literature the term papañca is used mainly in the context of sense-perception. He says that “Madhupindika Sutta” (Majjima Nikaya) points to the fact that papañca is essentially connected with the process of sense perception. According to the Buddhist theory of perception the final outcome or the final stage of the process is the formation of papañca. Following the formation of concept there is proliferation of the concept depending on the past experience the individual may have in relation to what is perceived.

This process of perception, as given inthe Madhupindika Sutta, leading to conceptual proliferation is at the beginning impersonal and in the later stages it becomes personal with the involvement of the human personality with its self-ego and craving and finally leading to total bondage. And this bondage is between the human mind and the external world. Whether this entails an extended mind needs to be researched as suggested by Prof. Herath.

The third concept that Prof. Herath referred to in his lecture is the Yogacara idea of ālayaviññāṇa. Yogacara in its analysis of consciousness has added two more types of consciousnesses to the six based on the six senses, which is the classification mentioned in Early Buddhism and the two additional ones are kleshaviññāṇa and ālayaviññāṇa. The latter is called the storehouse-consciousness as it carries the seeds of karma. It is also called the approximating consciousness as it approximates at two levels; in this birth by collection of defilements and in the next birth by carrying them across in rebirth. The latter function may be relevant to the Extended Mind Thesis as it has the ability of projection beyond the body of the present birth and transmit to the body of the next birth.

If one is interested in researching into the concept of ālayaviññāṇa one must be aware that the three masters of Yogacara, i.e. Maithreyanata, Asanga and Vasubhandhu did not agree with each other on the nature of ālayaviññāṇa. While Maithreyanata was loyal to the early Yogacara idea that appeared in Sandhinirmocana Suthra, Asanga modified it to suit his thesis of idealism. Vasubandhu, however, adhered to the views of Early Buddhism and according to Kalupahana (1992) what he in his Trimsathika describes is the transformation of the consciousness and not the eight consciousnesses in the order in which they appear in Yogākāra texts. Here one is tempted to suggest that Asang’s idealism which propounds that the external world is a creation of the mind may lend support to the extended mind thesis. Idealism in Yogacara Buddhism may be another subject that needs to be researched in the context of the extended mind thesis.

Turning to recent research there is theoretical and speculative support from quantum theory for the idea of extended consciousness, but it remains a controversial area of research within physics, neuroscience, and philosophy. Several frameworks suggest that consciousness is not confined to the brain but is a fundamental, non-local phenomenon rooted in quantum processes that may connect minds to each other or the universe at large. (Wagh, M. (2024). “Your Consciousness Can Connect with the Whole Universe, Groundbreaking New Research Suggests”. Popular Mechanics. Retrieved from https://www.popularmechanics.com/scienc)

Finally, while it may not be clear whether the Extended Mind Thesis, as proposed by A. Clark and others (2013), has anything to do with consciousness it may be worthwhile to research into this matter from a Buddhist perspective, which will have to strongly bring into contention the factor of consciousness, which perhaps may have the potential to develop into an Extended Consciousness Thesis.

by Prof. N. A. de S. Amaratunga ✍️
PhD, DSc, DLitt

Features

Why siloed thinking is undermining national problem-solving

Published

19 hours ago

2026/01/19

Thilina Walpola

The world today is marked by paradox. Never before has humanity possessed such extraordinary scientific knowledge, technological capability, and research capacity. Yet never before have we faced such a dense convergence of crises—climate change, biodiversity loss, pandemics, food insecurity, widening inequality, disaster vulnerability, and social fragmentation. These challenges are not isolated events; they are deeply interconnected, mutually reinforcing, and embedded within complex social, ecological, economic, and technological systems. Addressing them effectively demands more than incremental improvements or isolated expertise. It requires a fundamental shift in how we think, research, and act.

At the heart of this shift lies transdisciplinarity: an approach that moves beyond siloed disciplines and engages society itself in the co-creation of knowledge and solutions. As Albert Einstein famously observed, “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.” The persistence of today’s global challenges suggests that our prevailing modes of problem-solving—largely mono-disciplinary and compartmentalised—are no longer adequate.

The limits of siloed knowledge

Over the past few decades, global investment in research and development has grown dramatically. Global R&D expenditure exceeded USD 3 trillion in 2022, and the worldwide scientific workforce has expanded to more than 8.8 million researchers, producing millions of academic papers annually across tens of thousands of journals. Indeed, the number of scientists has grown several times faster than the global population itself. This extraordinary expansion reflects humanity’s faith in science as a driver of progress—but it also sharpens an uncomfortable question about returns on this investment. Millions of scientists across the world produce an ever-expanding body of academic literature, filling tens of thousands of specialised journals. This disciplinary research has undoubtedly driven remarkable advances in medicine, engineering, agriculture, and information technology. The positive contributions of science to human civilisation are beyond dispute. Yet its effectiveness in addressing complex, real-world challenges has often fallen short of expectations, with impacts appearing disproportionate to the vast resources committed. Yet the translation of this vast knowledge base into tangible, scalable solutions to real-world problems remains limited.

The reason lies not in a lack of intelligence or effort, but in the way knowledge is organised. Disciplines are, after all, social constructs, each shaped by its own conceptual, theoretical, philosophical, and methodological traditions. While these traditions enable depth and rigour, they also encourage intellectual compartmentalisation when treated as ends in themselves. Modern academia is structured around disciplines—biology, economics, engineering, sociology, medicine—each with its own language, methods, reward systems, and institutional boundaries. These disciplines are powerful tools for deep analysis, but they also act as intellectual blinders. By focusing narrowly on parts of a problem, they often miss the broader system in which that problem is embedded.

Climate change, for example, is not merely an environmental issue. It is simultaneously an economic, social, political, technological, and ethical challenge. Public health crises are shaped as much by social behaviour, governance, and inequality as by pathogens and medical interventions. Poverty is not simply a matter of income, but of education, health, gender relations, environmental degradation, and political inclusion. Approaching such issues from a single disciplinary lens inevitably leads to partial diagnoses and fragmented solutions.

The systems thinker Donella Meadows captured this dilemma succinctly when she noted, “The problems are not in the world; they are in our models of the world.” When our models are fragmented, our solutions will be fragmented as well.

Wicked problems in a hyper-connected world

Many of today’s challenges fall into what scholars describe as “wicked problems”—issues that are complex, non-linear, and resistant to definitive solutions. They have multiple causes, involve many stakeholders with competing values, and evolve over time. Actions taken to address one aspect of the problem often generate unintended consequences elsewhere.

In a hyper-connected world, these dynamics are amplified. A disruption in one part of the global system—whether a pandemic, a financial shock, or a geopolitical conflict—can cascade rapidly across borders, affecting food systems, energy markets, public health, and social stability. Recent crises have starkly demonstrated how local vulnerabilities are intertwined with global forces.

Despite decades of research aimed at tackling such problems, progress remains uneven and, in many cases, distressingly slow. In some instances, well-intentioned scientific interventions have even generated new problems or unintended consequences. The Green Revolution of the 1960s, for example, dramatically increased cereal yields and reduced hunger in many developing countries, but its heavy dependence on agrochemicals has since contributed to soil degradation, water pollution, and public health concerns. Similarly, plastics—once hailed as miracle materials for their affordability and versatility—have become a pervasive environmental menace, illustrating how narrowly framed solutions can create long-term systemic risks. This gap between knowledge production and societal impact raises a critical question: are we organising our research and institutions in ways that are fit for purpose in an interconnected world?

What is transdisciplinarity?

Transdisciplinarity offers a compelling response to this question. Unlike multidisciplinary approaches, which place disciplines side by side, or interdisciplinary approaches, which integrate methods across disciplines, transdisciplinarity goes a step further. It transcends academic boundaries altogether by bringing together researchers, policymakers, practitioners, industry actors, and communities to jointly define problems and co-create solutions.

At its core, transdisciplinarity is problem-driven rather than discipline-driven. It starts with real-world challenges and asks: what knowledge, perspectives, and forms of expertise are needed to address this issue in a meaningful way? Scientific knowledge remains essential, but it is complemented by experiential, local, and indigenous knowledge—forms of understanding that are often overlooked in conventional research but are crucial for context-sensitive and socially robust solutions.

As C. P. Snow warned in his influential reflections on “The Two Cultures,” divisions within knowledge systems can themselves become barriers to progress. Transdisciplinarity seeks to bridge not only disciplines, but also the persistent gap between knowledge and action.

Learning from nature and society

Nature itself provides a powerful metaphor for transdisciplinary thinking. Ecosystems do not operate in compartments. Soil, water, plants, animals, and climate interact continuously in dynamic, adaptive systems. When one element is disturbed, the effects ripple through the whole. Human societies are no different. Economic systems shape social relations; social norms influence environmental outcomes; technological choices affect governance and equity.

Yet our institutions often behave as if these connections do not exist. Universities are organised into departments with separate budgets and promotion criteria. Research funding is allocated along disciplinary lines. Success is measured through narrow metrics such as journal impact factors and citation counts, rather than societal relevance or long-term impact.

This mismatch between the complexity of real-world problems and the fragmentation of our knowledge systems lies at the heart of many policy failures. While societal challenges have grown exponentially in scale and interdependence, organisational structures and problem-solving approaches have not evolved at the same pace. Attempting to address borderless global issues using rigid, compartmentalised, and outdated frameworks is therefore increasingly counterproductive. As former UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon aptly stated, “We cannot address today’s problems with yesterday’s institutions and mindsets.”

Transdisciplinarity and sustainable development

The United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) offer a vivid illustration of why transdisciplinary approaches are essential. The 17 goals—ranging from poverty eradication and health to climate action and biodiversity—are explicitly interconnected. Progress on one goal often depends on progress in others. Climate action affects food security, health, and livelihoods. Education influences gender equality, economic growth, and environmental stewardship.

Achieving the SDGs therefore requires more than sector-by-sector interventions. It demands integrated, cross-sectoral responses that align research, policy, and practice. Transdisciplinarity provides a framework for such integration by fostering collaboration across disciplines and sectors, and by grounding global goals in local realities.

For countries like Sri Lanka, with complex socio-ecological systems and rich cultural diversity, this approach is particularly relevant. In Sri Lanka, more than 6,000 individuals are engaged in research and development, with over 60 per cent based in universities and other higher education institutions. This places a particular responsibility on academic and institutional leaders to create environments that encourage collaboration across disciplines and with society. Policies, assessment schemes, funding mechanisms, and incentive structures within universities can either reinforce silos or actively nurture a transdisciplinary culture. Sustainable development challenges here are shaped by local contexts—coastal vulnerability, agricultural livelihoods, urbanisation patterns, and social inequalities—while also being influenced by global forces. Transdisciplinary engagement can help bridge this global–local divide, ensuring that policies and innovations are both scientifically sound and socially meaningful.

Why transdisciplinarity is hard?

Despite its promise, transdisciplinarity is not easy to practice or institutionalise. Deeply entrenched disciplinary identities often shape how researchers see themselves and their work. Many academics are trained to excel within narrow fields, and career advancement systems tend to reward disciplinary publications over collaborative, problem-oriented research.

Institutional structures can further reinforce these silos. Departments operate with separate budgets and governance arrangements, making cross-boundary collaboration administratively cumbersome. Funding mechanisms often lack categories for transdisciplinary projects, leaving such initiatives struggling to find support. Time pressures also matter: genuine engagement with communities and stakeholders requires sustained interaction, yet academic workloads rarely recognise this effort.

There are also cultural and ethical challenges. Different disciplines speak different “languages” and operate with distinct assumptions about what counts as valid knowledge. Power imbalances can emerge, with certain forms of expertise dominating others, including the voices of non-academic partners. Without careful attention to trust, equity, and mutual respect, collaboration can become superficial rather than transformative.

The way forward: from aspiration to practice

If transdisciplinarity is to move from rhetoric to reality, deliberate institutional change is required. Sri Lanka, in particular, would benefit from articulating a clear national vision that positions transdisciplinary research as a core mechanism for addressing challenges such as climate resilience, public health, disaster risk, and sustainable development. National research agencies and universities can play a catalytic role by creating dedicated funding streams, establishing transdisciplinary centres, and embedding systems thinking and stakeholder engagement within curricula and research agendas. First, awareness must be built. Universities, research institutes, and funding agencies need to invest in dialogue, training, and pilot projects that demonstrate the value of transdisciplinary approaches in addressing pressing societal challenges.

Second, leadership matters. Institutional leaders play a critical role in signalling that transdisciplinary engagement is not peripheral, but central to the mission of knowledge institutions. This can be done by embedding such approaches in strategic plans, allocating seed funding for collaborative initiatives, and recognising societal impact in promotion and evaluation systems.

Third, structures must evolve. Flexible research centres, shared infrastructure, and streamlined administrative processes can lower the barriers to collaboration. Education also has a role to play. Introducing systems thinking and problem-based learning early in undergraduate and postgraduate programmes can help cultivate a new generation of researchers comfortable working across boundaries.

Finally, ethics and inclusivity must be at the forefront. Transdisciplinarity is not merely a technical methodology; it is an ethical commitment to valuing diverse forms of knowledge and engaging communities as partners rather than passive beneficiaries. In doing so, it strengthens the legitimacy, relevance, and sustainability of solutions.

A collective learning challenge

Peter Senge once observed, “The only sustainable competitive advantage is an organization’s ability to learn faster than the competition.” This insight applies not only to organisations, but to societies as a whole. Our collective ability to learn, unlearn, and relearn—across disciplines and with society—will determine how effectively we navigate the challenges of our time.

The shift from siloed disciplines to transdisciplinary engagement is therefore not a luxury or an academic trend. It is a strategic necessity. In a world of complex, interconnected problems, fragmented knowledge will no longer suffice. What is needed is a new culture of collaboration—one that sees connections rather than compartments, embraces uncertainty, and places societal well-being at the centre of scientific endeavour.

Only by breaking down the walls between disciplines, institutions, and communities can we hope to transform knowledge into action, and action into lasting, equitable change.

A final word to Sri Lankan decision-makers

For Sri Lanka, the message is clear and urgent. Policymakers, university leaders, funding agencies, and development institutions must recognise that many of the country’s most pressing challenges—climate vulnerability, public health risks, food and water security, disaster resilience, and social inequality—cannot be solved within institutional silos. Creating space for transdisciplinary engagement is not a marginal reform; it is a strategic investment in national resilience. By aligning policies, incentives, and funding mechanisms to encourage collaboration across disciplines and with society, Sri Lanka can unlock the full value of its scientific and intellectual capital. The choice before us is stark: continue to manage complexity with fragmented tools, or deliberately build institutions capable of learning, integrating, and responding as a system. The future will favour the latter.

by Emeritus Professor Ranjith Senaratne ✍️
Former Vice-Chancellor, University of Ruhuna,
Former General President, Sri Lanka Association for the Advancement of Science
Former Chairman, National Science Foundation