Features
Mrs. B becomes PM and I the Secretary to the world’s first woman prime minster
Anura bothered about his mother seeing his school report before he did
(Excerpted from Rendering Unto Caesar, by Bradman Weerakoon, Secretary to the Prime Minister)
In 1960, as she rode to power, after a grueling campaign, as the world’s first-ever woman prime minister, Sirima Bandaranaike was making the global headlines and taking Ceylon too into the limelight, which was to last for decades. The world wondered as to how this phenomenon, of a woman being chosen to be prime minister, had occurred in Ceylon. Was it some peculiar provision of dynastic succession by which the wife succeeded to a vacancy caused by the death of a husband Could such a thing occur only in an Asian country? Was it, as uncharitable political opponents would say, a consequence of the enormous wave of sympathy that followed close on the tragic death of a popular leader? Was the phenomenon connected mystically with the primacy of motherhood’ (matar) so central a part of the culture of the Indian subcontinent?
There appeared to be some validity in each of these propositions. It took six years more before Indira Gandhi became India’s first woman prime minister. Then followed Golda Meir of Israel and thereafter several others. The breach had been opened and we had been the first to do it. I was going to have the privilege of being the secretary of the first woman prime minister of the world.
The election of a woman head of government was so unusual, that the newspapers were not sure what to call her. “There will be need for a new word. Presumably, we shall have to call her a Stateswoman,” London’s Evening News wrote stuffily on July 21, 1960. “This is the suffragette’s dream come true,” said another.
She was born Sirimavo Ratwatte on 17 April 1916, in Balangoda at the family home and married Solomon Dias Bandaranaike, then minister of local government and health in the State Council, in 1940. He was seventeen years older than her when they married. She claimed no particular political philosophy herself. Her purpose in coming into politics, as she often said, was to complete the visionary work which her husband had begun.
During the March 1960 election called by W Dahanayake, the SLFP was led by C P de Silva and she did not contest. In support of the party she said, “I am not seeking power but I have come forward to help the SLFP candidates so that the party can continue the policy of my late husband.”
The results of the March 1960 general elections were inconclusive. Under C P de Silva’s leadership the SLFP did tolerably well, winning 44 seats as against the UNP’s 50. What was however lacking in the SLFP campaign effort was the charismatic leadership and negotiating skills, which had brought about the coalition of anti-UNP forces, the Mahajana Eksath Peramuna or MEP under S W R D Bandaranaike.
Dudley Senanayake’s government of that time (March to July 1960) was the shortest in the history of Ceylon and he was forced to call another general election in July of the same year.
As the parties geared up for the polls, Sirimavo was prevailed upon to accept the presidentship of the party on 24 May 24, 1960. It was proclaimed on that occasion that in the event of the SLFP winning, Mrs Bandaranaike would be the prime minister.
For Sirimavo, the eight months that elapsed between the death of her husband and her assumption of the leadership of the Sri Lanka Freedom Party was a period of intense introspection. Where did her principal obligations lie? With her young family of two daughters, Sunethra and Chandrika and son Anura, now bereft of their father’s guidance? Or with his political party, which was now deprived of his leadership?
During the period of mourning she had publicly expressed her distaste for politics. She had seen her husband betrayed and killed. She was once reported to have said that she “would not take the prime ministership even if it was handed to me on a platter!”
But once she realized that without her, the SLFP would never form a stable government, her fighting qualities and determination took over. With the help of her cousin Felix R Dias Bandaranaike, a No-contest Pact with the LSSP and the CP was entered into in May 1960. This was “to permit the widest mobilization of forces to defeat the UNP” and it ensured for Sirimavo an epic victory. She emerged as the first woman prime minister in the world.
The primary motivation that drove her to accept what was, personally for her, an unattractive job, was her conviction that no other person as leader could fulfill the yet unachieved goals set by her late husband. This was manifested in her first message to the nation:
By their verdict the people have clearly affirmed their faith in the democratic socialist policies initiated by my late husband. It was far from my mind to achieve any personal glory for myself when I assumed the leadership of the party at the request of its leaders. I knew that if I did not take this step the forces of reaction would once again begin to oppress the masses for whose salvation my husband sacrificed his very life.
The speech set some important trends in political thinking. Foremost among them was the idea that the ‘forces of reaction’ had done Mr Bandaranaike to death and that Mr Bandaranaike had `sacrificed his life for the masses’. It was a powerful line, which persisted for a long time.
But there were many, including some of her close relatives, who doubted whether the untried widow of a great leader could so easily step into his shoes. How could an eminently respectable Sinhala Buddhist woman, whose life had centered around family and home, handle the manifold challenges of an emerging nation state? P E P Deraniyagala, a cousin of the late S W R D and best-man at the wedding in 1940, reflected this sentiment pithily when he said, “What does she know of politics? In Solla’s (Solomon’s) time Sirima presided over nothing fiercer than the kitchen fire. She’ll end by spoiling her personal reputation and ruining the family name.”‘ He, and others like him, were soon to find themselves in serious error.
The woman who was to be the world’s first prime minister was made of sterner stuff than her detractors envisaged. As she articulated on her role, she was to say:
I feel most strongly that home is a woman’s foremost place of work and influence, and looking after her children and husband are duties of the highest importance. But women also have their vital role in civic life, they owe a duty to their country, a duty which cannot and must not be shirked, and at least some of their time should be devoted to social welfare work.
Yet critics were still to refer to her lack of any outstanding attainments as she entered the highest office. She brought with her no university degree, parliamentary experience or administrative knowledge. But what she had were formidable enough – personal magnetism to draw the masses; ability to command the loyalty and respect of her ministerial colleagues; and the ability to convince the public that she was a woman of good moral character who would be honest in her public dealings.
Her background supported these basic claims for leadership. Sirimavo Bandaranaike hailed from an upper-class Kandyan family with a long feudal background. She had a grooming from childhood for working with people, for people, and social service came naturally to her. It was almost a case of noblesse oblige as in the training of the European nobility in feudal times. She was also the eldest in a family of five boys and two girls and had from early childhood assumed a position of leadership in the family.
Soon after leaving St Bridget’s Convent, a leading Catholic school for girls in Colombo, (although Sirimavo always was a devout Buddhist) she became an active member of the Lanka Mahila Samiti, perhaps the oldest and largest women’s social service association in the country. The Lanka Mahila Samiti was formed in 1931 – the year Sri Lankan women received the right to vote – through the initiative of Dr Mary Rutnam, a Canadian who was inspired by the women’s institutes of Canada. Sirimavo always acknowledged her debt to the Mahila Samiti for giving her the confidence to speak in public and move easily and knowledgeably rural folk.
Sirimavo settled easily into her work schedule as prime minister. She decided to shift into Temple Trees, leaving 65, Rosmead Place its painful memories to be looked after by a caretaker.
The picture (overleaf) is of her first day in office with me by her side. I was thirty years old. The office is the same as that used by the former prime minister – Ranil Wickremesinghe.
With three lively children in the house Temple Trees became, once again after a long period of hibernation, a place not only official work, files, quick movement and hustle and bustle but a place with the added delight of a background of children’s games, laughter, chatter and music. She rarely used her official room in the Fort Office in Senate Square where the prime minister’s main secretariat was located, being quite happy to operate from the guesthouse section of Temple Trees.
This part of the building constructed to accommodate state visitors, housed some modest office space and it was here that the prime minister, the private secretary and myself spent most of our official time. Dr Seevali Ratwatte, the prime minister’s younger brother came in as private secretary initially and he was succeeded in a few months by elder brother Mackie who himself was a medical practitioner.
Mr. Bandaranaike’s personal assistants Amerasinghe, and the ever-smiling Piyadasa were always on hand to help meet constituents from Attanagalla, Mr Bandaranaike’s electorate, and sundry droppers- in at Temple Trees. It was Amerasinghe who was there by Mr Bandaranaike’s side when he lay injured on the floor, and who had telephoned me to announce that, “Lokka has been shot.”
The main part of the prime minister’s office continued in the Fort and most public mail was received there. Dharmasiri Pieries, a young civil service cadet of great promise whom I had chosen, held the position of assistant secretary. He had a table on a side of my room and ably held the ‘fort’, while I spent most of my official time at Temple Trees. The mass of correspondence, which came in daily and did not need to be personally seen by the prime minister, was dealt with expertly and expeditiously by about 15 experienced Subject clerks who knew by long experience exactly what to do to keep business moving.
They were supervised by Francis Samarasinghe MBE, the office assistant, a man who had been inducted by D S Senanayake’s secretary, the meticulous and highly efficient N W Atukorale. He and C. Nadarajah, the chief clerk, ran a tight ship and could be virtually given a free hand. The confidential stenographer to the prime minister, Linus Jayewardene, whom I used almost exclusively since the prime minister did not dictate letters personally, was a character, and a priceless asset. He was one of the quickest and most accurate of stenographers, except on ‘race days’ when he would need to take-off, to place a bet or two with the bookies who operated on the sly, taking ‘all ons’ on the foreign horse races. Linus could always be trusted to have in his drawer a copy of the latest ‘Racing Form’. He was also a keen and appreciative connoisseur of female beauty and would often, and quite unprompted, keep me updated on the current best female form in town.
As a concession to her unfamiliarity with the parry and thrust of parliamentary debate, Sirimavo choose to sit in the Senate during her first five years as prime minister. The Senate, (the Soulbury Constitution provided for a bicameral legislature), consisted of 30 members. Fifteen were appointed by the governor-general on the recommendation of the prime minister and 15 elected by the lower House. One-third of the membership retired every second year so the government and Parliament alike had the opportunity to infuse new blood.
Like the House of Lords in the British Parliament, it had little power of its own and its principal objective was to subject legislation to a second opinion, the approval of both Houses being necessary to secure the passage of legislation. However, at most times it acted only as a rubber stamp, hardly ever amending or refusing its consent to bills sent up from the other House.
Proceedings in the Senate, whose president then was Sir Cyril de Zoysa, a member of the UNP and one time bus-transport magnate, were sedate and unemotional, the members being generally non-politicians, although favoured by the party which put them forward.
The SLFP got one of its senators to resign and Mrs Bandaranaike was duly appointed in his place by the governor-general. Although some cabinet minsters had earlier come from the Senate – the minister of justice invariably being a senator, the prime minister, the chief executive and the head of the government, had never ever before been from the Senate. This led to quite a lot of critical comment especially from the opposition in the Lower House, the House of Representatives. “Who was to reply to questions of policy if the prime minister was in the Senate?” was the constant refrain.
The leader of the House, C P de Silva, would explain the circumstances which had led to Mrs Bandaranaike not contesting the elections, but this was usually countered by the argument that she could as well have asked one of her own members of parliament to resign from the House and come into Parliament by contesting that seat at a by-election. I recall a minister, at an especially heated debate during which the issue was brought up, who was greeted with howls of protest by the LSSP, when he intemperately suggested that the House, considering the way some members behaved, was no place for a lady.
The fact that the prime minister – the fount of power and the harbinger of change – was not present in the House certainly affected the style and content of the administration. The Temple Trees office, where the prime minister held court each day, assumed an importance of its own. Persons who were close to the prime minister – either through being Mr Bandaranaike’s loyalists, or newer ones like Felix and J P Obeyesekera, became the intermediaries who carried the news of parliamentary proceedings and gossip to the prime minister. Inevitably Sirimavo lost that close touch with her parliamentary colleagues which she could have had if she had been a regular member of parliament. As a result, dissension and the formation of cliques could not be effectively countered in time, and various power groups and ‘young turks’ began to manifest themselves shortly thereafter.
The loneliness that the top position generates and which Sirimavo was soon to experience, was moderated to some extent by Felix Bandaranaike who at the age of 29 years and a newcomer to politics and Parliament, held the powerful post of minister of finance and parliamentary secretary to the minister of defence and external affairs. Both Felix and his wife Lakshmi, who was his private secretary, were relatives as well as good friends, and were so close that they were usually on a first-name basis with ‘Sirima’ as they called the prime minister, except in public and official occasions. They were both enormously loyal to Sirimavo, committed to the party and its causes, hard-working and brilliant strategists. They naturally aroused considerable jealousy, especially from the older party stalwarts, and even from close family members, and continued to face, throughout their association with Sirimavo a largely concealed, but nevertheless acute, hostility from many sides.
C P de Silva led the party in the House while Felix Dias represented Sirimavo in the many spirited battles in Parliament. This gave Sirimavo the space to deal, unhindered by the heat of parliamentary debate, with the-many domestic and foreign challenges then emerging. But it had its downside. It eventually led to the creation of wide spaces between her and the rank and file of the party membership and this unfortunate alienation encouraged the formation of cliques and dissenting groups.
For the first time since independence, the prime minister was to be from the Senate. Her seat in the front row of the House of Representatives remained vacant throughout the period of that Parliament. The vacant seat was symbolic of the fact that the prime minister was in the ‘other place’, but that her virtual presence was in the Lower House. In fact what happened was that Felix took on the role of answering questions addressed to her in his capacity as parliamentary secretary to the ministry of defence and external affairs.
It further added to my duties. When the Senate sat, I sat in the Gallery, there being no Officials Box, assisting as necessary with notes to the prime minister from there. When the House of Representatives sat and important Bills were taken up, or at the adjournment debate at the end of the day, I would sit in the Officials Box in the House and monitor what was happening. It added to my work, and my moving around, but it was one way Sirimavo’s great interest in what was going on in Parliament could be assuaged.
The economy and the budget, at the beginning of the sixties, were the sites of the early problems Sirimavo had to face. The worsening of the terms of trade made rationing and import substitution inevitable. There was a shortage of foreign exchange and I recall that travelers abroad were restricted at one point, to a sum of three Sterling pounds and fifty pence as their travel allowance. Visits abroad for education and medical treatment were strictly limited. This raised great problems for Sirimavo when it became time for Sunethra – her elder daughter – to go to Oxford.
The father had always wanted the children to have their final education abroad. So Sunethra, who had been a bright student at St Bridget’s Convent and easily passed the qualifying tests, gained admission to Somerville College. Foreign exchange was a problem, and Sirimavo was not going to bend the rules for her children. Arrangements were made for a relative – Michael Dias, brother of Felix Bandaranaike, who was a lecturer at Cambridge – to help out. The documentation was all in order, the Exchange Control authorities were happy and the entire procedure was very open and straightforward.
However, the press was not going to leave this alone and the usual critical comments about the children of privileged families getting special facilities while the others had to go the `aswa vidyalaya”, etc – a portion of the university being then conducted at the former Grandstand of the race course on Reid Avenue – continued for some time. I remember Sunethra, who hated publicity, being much put out by all the fuss and bother.
Sirimavo always took a great interest in the children’s schooling. Anura who was then 12 or 13 years old and attending Royal College was a constant concern, as he still had not settled down to the grind of study and homework. He would often be playing cricket in the large back lawn or declaiming, very much in the manner of a speaker on a political platform, to his admiring team-mates. When the holidays commenced, after the term tests were over, time of extreme anxiety for Anura. I would see him hovering around the office area in anticipation of the arrival of his school report. He wanted to have a look before the document was seen by the prime minister. I had quite a problem deciding whether I should show it to him first or put it up to the mother.
Features
Quandary of Dengue: Some roving perspectives
Sri Lanka is currently well and truly trapped in the strangling grip of a devastating and severely enhanced dengue outbreak. The numbers alone are staggering; over 44,000 cases have been recorded across the island so far this year, with the highest concentration systematically suffocating the Western, Southern, and Central provinces. Hospitals and healthcare providers are under extreme pressure, but the cold metrics of morbidity do not capture the true implications and dismay of this current wave. What has profoundly shaken the public consciousness and even sent a shudder through the medical community is a grim shift in the implications for the populace.
Dengue has always been quite a threat, looming over our Motherland from time to time. Yet for all that, historically, child deaths due to the virus were relatively rare in Sri Lanka, thanks to scrupulously adhering to robust clinical guidelines, as well as exceptional paediatric monitoring and management. This year, that safety net seems to be straining quite a bit at the edges and among the reported fatalities are a tragic number of children. The virus is moving faster, hitting harder, and exposing a terrifying reality, even stressing that our existing defence mechanisms are perhaps no longer totally sufficient to deal with the problem.
In response, public health authorities have deployed their traditional arsenal. Teams are busy with intensive surveillance, conducting house-to-house inspections, enforcing strict penalties for standing and stagnant water, and sending fogging machinery through the streets to blanket neighbourhoods in chemical mists. Yet, as case counts climb by nearly 50% week over week, an uncomfortable question must be asked: Are these traditional measures sufficient, or are they bordering on an exercise in futility?
The Illusion of the Fog: Why Our Current Strategy May Be Failing?
To understand why Sri Lanka might be in a tight corner, one must look closely at the enemy. Dengue is transmitted primarily by the Aedes aegypti mosquito, a highly adapted, urbanised insect. While Aedes aegypti is widely considered the primary culprit, Aedes albopictus (commonly known as the Asian tiger mosquito) plays a massive, highly dangerous role in Sri Lanka’s dengue transmission as well. In fact, the interplay between these two species is one of the biggest reasons why controlling dengue on the island is so incredibly difficult. These two vectors behave differently, breed in different places, and require distinct strategies to combat their well-recognised roles in the propagation of the disease that is dengue. Understanding how these two mosquito species split the territory could explain why a single controlling method might not always work across the board.
Aedes aegypti mosquitoes are strictly urban and indoor creatures. They live alongside humans inside houses, apartments, and in heavily built-up commercial areas. They rest on dark clothes in closets, under furniture, and behind curtains. They breed in artificial containers, clear, stagnant water in flower vases, plastic cups, concrete sumps, and overhead tanks. They prefer human blood almost exclusively and bite multiple people to get one full meal, thereby spreading the dengue virus rapidly within even a single household.
In contrast, Aedes albopictus is semi-urban and rural, thrives in vegetations, gardens, rubber plantations, and peri-urban areas where green spaces meet houses. The creature rests in shaded bushes, high grass, and low canopy foliage, as well as holes in trees, leaf axils, coconut shells, discarded tyres and trash. The biting behaviour of these mosquitoes is opportunistic. They bite humans but also feed on birds and domestic mammals, indicating that they can survive easily even when human density is low.
The traditional responses we rely on, most notably thermal fogging, are largely cosmetic public relations exercises rather than a totally effective vector control mechanism. Such fogging misses indoor resting sites, drives resistance, and stagnant water elimination fails against cryptic, microscopic breeding sites.
Fogging utilises “adulticides“, chemical sprays meant to kill flying mosquitoes. However, Aedes aegypti is a domestic creature; it rests indoors, hidden in the dark recesses of closets, under beds, and behind curtains. A fogging process achieves very little penetration into these indoor sanctuaries. Furthermore, over-reliance on these pyrethroid-based chemical sprays has accelerated insecticide resistance, effectively rendering the chemicals useless over time.
Similarly, while the National Dengue Control Unit (NDCU), to their eternal credit, aggressively pursues the elimination of visible standing water, the sheer adaptability of the mosquito outpaces manual human labour in trying to eliminate the breeding places of the vectors. Aedes eggs can remain dormant in dry containers for months, hatching the moment a drop of water touches them. In dense, urbanised areas like Colombo and Gampaha, microscopic breeding sites, from the rim of a discarded plastic bottle cap to the base of an indoor potted plant, are impossible to completely police.
If we continue to rely solely on manual cleaning and chemical fogging, we are fighting a twenty-first-century climate-driven crisis with mid-twentieth-century tools. We must look beyond our borders to see how global science is shifting the paradigm of mosquito control.
The Biological Frontier: Insects fighting Mosquitoes
When searching for international alternatives, many look towards the United States, where vector control districts manage complex mosquito populations across diverse ecosystems. A common point of curiosity is the historical use of “mosquito-eating insects.”
In the US, biological control has long featured predatory species. While some point to insects like dragonfly nymphs or giant non-biting mosquito larvae (Toxorhynchites, which actively prey on other mosquito larvae), the most widely used traditional biological agent in American municipal water systems is actually the Gambusia affinis, commonly known as the “mosquitofish.” A single one of these surface-feeding fish can devour hundreds of mosquito larvae a day.
However, American vector management has largely evolved past simply dumping predatory fish into ponds. The true modern frontier in global mosquito control relies on advanced biological and genetic interventions that turn the mosquitoes against themselves.
1. The Wolbachia Revolution
Perhaps the most successful international intervention against dengue is the introduction of Wolbachia-infected mosquitoes. Wolbachia is a naturally occurring bacterium found in up to sixty per cent of all insect species, but crucially, not naturally present in Aedes aegypti.
When scientists introduce Wolbachia into Aedes mosquitoes in a laboratory and release them into the wild, two extraordinary things happen: –
· Viral Suppression: The bacterium competes with viruses like dengue, Zika, and chikungunya inside the mosquito’s body, making it incredibly difficult for the virus to replicate. If the virus cannot replicate, the mosquito cannot transmit it to a human.
· Population Replacement:
Through a mechanism called cytoplasmic incompatibility, when a Wolbachia-carrying male mates with a wild female that does not carry the bacteria, her eggs do not hatch. If a Wolbachia female mates with a wild male, her offspring will carry the bacteria. Over time, the local mosquito population is entirely replaced by harmless, non-transmission-capable mosquitoes.
In comprehensive global trials, such as those conducted by the World Mosquito Programme in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, the introduction of Wolbachia mosquitoes led to a staggering 77% reduction in dengue incidence and an 86% reduction in dengue-related hospitalisations.
2. Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) and Genetic Modifications
Other countries, including parts of the US (such as the Florida Keys) and Brazil, have turned to genetic engineering. Using the Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) or advanced genetic variants (like those developed by Oxitec), millions of bio-engineered male mosquitoes are released into the wild. Because male mosquitoes do not bite humans, and they feed exclusively on nectar, thereby posing zero risk to the public. These males mate with wild females, but pass on a self-limiting gene that causes the female offspring to die in the larval stage before they can ever mature, bite, or transmit disease. This results in a drastic collapse of the localised vector population without the use of even a single drop of toxic chemical pesticide.
Moving beyond the Status Quo: A Blueprint for Sri Lanka
The current dilemma in Sri Lanka is a classical gridlock: we are deploying immense physical effort and economic capital into vector control measures that yield diminishing returns, while our clinical wards fill with critically ill patients. If we are to break this cycle, our public health policy must undergo a rapid structural evolution
We cannot instantly replicate the multimillion-dollar genetic laboratories of the West, but we can modernise our strategy immediately by adopting a highly targeted, multi-tiered approach.
Comprehensive Vector Management Strategy
The following are some thoughts that need to be carefully evaluated in a venture towards getting things under control.
· Shift from Adulticides to Target Microbial Larvicides Immediate Phase
Cease the reliance on sweeping chemical thermal fogging. Instead, deploy specialised microbial larvicides such as Bacillus thuringiensis israelensis (Bti). Bti is a naturally occurring soil bacterium that, when ingested by mosquito larvae, destroys their digestive tracts. It is completely non-toxic to humans, pets, and other aquatic life, and can be distributed via localised backpack sprayers or drones into inaccessible urban sumps.
· Scale Up Localised Wolbachia Trials Intermediate Phase
Sri Lanka has previously initiated small-scale, localised pilot releases of Wolbachia mosquitoes in select urban pockets. Given the severity of the 2026 outbreak, these programmes must be aggressively scaled up into an industrial-level national initiative. Public-private partnerships must be leveraged to establish sustainable, high-capacity mosquito-rearing facilities locally.
· Implement Digital Ovitrap Surveillance Continuous Integration
Replace manual, retroactive searching with predictive digital mapping. Deploy networks of smart “ovitraps” (oviposition traps) across high-burden provinces. These traps monitor egg-laying rates in real-time, allowing automated data systems to predict a spike in the adult mosquito population weeks before an actual clinical outbreak occurs, enabling preventative targeting.
The Cost of Inaction
Maintaining our current trajectory is not a neutral choice; it is an endorsement of escalating mortality. The 2026 outbreak has proven that the ecological dynamics of dengue have changed, fuelled by changing weather patterns and urban density. Our public health response must change with it.
The heart-breaking loss of young lives in this current surge must serve as a stark wake-up call. We must look at the international landscape, embrace the biological innovations that have saved lives across the globe, and transition from a policy of panic-driven reaction to one of scientific eradication. It is no longer just a matter of cleaning our drains; it is a matter of upgrading our science.
Why Aedes albopictus Makes the Sri Lankan Crisis Harder
In Sri Lanka, the geographic landscape transitions quickly from dense concrete cities to lush, tropical vegetation. This creates the perfect environment for both species to thrive simultaneously.
· The Surveillance Blindspot: When health authorities focus heavily on checking indoor water storage and concrete drains in cities, they can completely miss the massive Aedes albopictus populations breeding in the surrounding vegetation, suburban gardens, and rural homesteads of the Southern and Central provinces.
· The Failure of Indoor Fogging:
While indoor residual spraying or targeted indoor fogging might hit Aedes aegypti, it has virtually no effect on Aedes albopictus, which spends its life cycle outdoors in the bushes.
· Climate Resilience:
Aedes albopictus eggs are remarkably tolerant of colder temperatures and varied environments. This allows the vector to push higher into the mountainous terrains of the Central Province, bringing dengue to areas that historically saw very few cases.
To truly bring down the case numbers in a severely enhanced outbreak, public health interventions must be dual-targeted: addressing the indoor, urban threat of Aedes aegypti while simultaneously tackling the outdoor, ecological stronghold of Aedes albopictus. We cannot sit back on our laurels of the past. We need to move forward resolutely.
Features
ANURADHAPURA ANTHEM c.1893
R. W. Ievers, who wrote this poem, was the Government Agent of the North Central Province during 1884, 1886, and 1890. He is the author of the Manual of the North Central Province (1899) and a half dozen published reports on the life and practices in the Province. Before his death, he shared it with his good friend H.C.P. Bell, the Archaeological Commissioner of Ceylon at the time. In 1917, Bell had it published in the Times of Ceylon – Christmas Number. Since then, it remained unknown for 109 years, until Ievers’s great-grandson, Turtle Bunbury, historian and author of Living in Sri Lanka (2006) with James Fennell, tipped me off about its source – H.C.P. Bell: Archaeologist of Ceylon and the Maldives (1993), written by Bell’s granddaughters Bethia N. Bell and Heather M. Bell.
THE ANTHEM
Anuradhapura! City grand and vast,
Lanka’s famous Capital, in ages of the past:
In the Mahawansa the story has been told
Of thy palaces, and temples, and pinnacles of gold.
Hail! then hail! to the worth of a bygone day,
Hail! all hail! to the relics of kingly sway
Hail to thee, Fair City, glorious in decay,
Hail! thrice hail! Forever and for aye!
Si monumentum quaeris
– cast your gaze around
Ruined fanes and dagobas everywhere abound
Alas! for glory faded, for erstwhile beauty sped
For hierarchs and heroes, long numbered with the dead
Hail! then hail!…
Great Ruwanaveli Seya, once fairest of the fair,
The splendour of thy palmy days has melted into air;
And like Imperial Caesar now ‘dead and turned into clay’,
Thy sacred bricks ‘may stop a hole to keep the wind away.’
Note by Tillakaratne:
Since 1873, Bhikku Naranvita Sumanasara has been doing conservation work on this stupa. In 1876, Governor William Gregory, after visiting the work site, wrote that its conservation was not just a religious work but a great National Monument.
See ‘Bayagiri’ massive – ‘Fearless Mount’ forsooth – Centre once of schism rank, from ‘Great Vihara’ truth.
Patched up by prison labour, anew it flaunts on high
A ‘hideous excrescence’ athwart a tranquil sky.
Note by H. C. P. Bell
: T. N. Christie, Planting Member at the time protested in the Legislative Council against the abortive “restoration” by prison labour of the Abhayagiri Dagaba, dubbing its truncated pinnacle, half restored, a “hideous excrescence”.
Jetawanarama, Great Sena’s priestly boon
Comely shape and giddy height will crumble all too soon;
Where forest trees and chequered shade a peaceful picture lend,
From cruel axe and ruthless spade, may gracious Heaven defend.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
Two decades after these poems were written, the surrounding area of the Jetawanarama was still covered in forest, and the Atamasthana Committee conditionally allowed a monk to clear a limited number of trees. But not a tree remained unfelled, contrary to what the monk was authorized to do.
Thuparama graceful, in outline clear and bold,
Begirt with column chaste and slim, a gem in the ring of gold
To thee pertains high honour a pious people gave – The tomb of Sanghamitta, and Prince Mahinda’s grave.
Note by
H. C. P. Bell: The ruins are pointed out, wrongly, as the tradional tombs of Arahat Mahinda and Sanghamitta Theranee.
With bricks and mortar bolstered up, behold the Sacred Bo;
To some – misguided mortals – ‘tis but a ‘bo-gas’ show.
Where humble Mirisveti a monarch’s fad recalls,
Lo! Royal Siam’s silver now builds its futile walls.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
According to Mahawansa, Mirisavetiya was so named after King Dutugemunu’s compunction at forgetting chillies (miris) in his alms giving to monks on one occasion. The restoration work on the Mirisavetiya began under the Ceylon Government, with funds provided by the King of Siam. When the money flow began to cease, work also ceased, and bats began to frequent the holed structure.
- Ruwanveli Seya in the background. Murage in the front c. 1900 From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
- Bhayagriya (Abhayagiriya) c. 1900 From: Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
- Jetawanaramaya c. 1900. From Sacred City of Anuradhapura (1908)
What need to tell of sculptures, of ‘pokunas’ galore,
Of balustrades and Yogi stones and half a hundred more,
Of Brazen Palace spacious, with gilt-roofed storeys dight –
A modern race more ‘brazen’ would desecrate each site.
For midst these sacred ruins of shrines and cloistered hall,
A reckless generation disports with little balls,
Whilst ‘Parliamentary language’ and imprecations deep
Disturb the peaceful solitude where saintly Rahats sleep.
Note by H. C. P. Bell:
After European residents, old city Anuradhapura in the late 19th century, the area still being cleared between Ruwanveli Seya and Thuparama, was used a ‘golf links’. Ievers did not like the area used as a playground:
Iconoclasts and vandals have had their little day;
No more shall ancient pillars to culverts find their way.
No more a watchful Government such sacrilege condones –
One may not meddle with the gods, nor tamper with the stones.
Anuradhapura! Thy glory shall revive;
Yhu [sic] sons shall swarm within thee like bees about a hive.
The effort of the present for past neglect atones;
New breath of life resuscitates this vale of driest bones.
Composed by R. W. Ievers
(1850-1905)
Introduced by Lokubanda Tillakaratne
Features
Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation: Restoring Mobility, Dignity and Hope Across Sri Lanka
For thousands of Sri Lankans living with limb loss and physical disabilities, access to quality rehabilitation services remains a significant challenge. Yet, for more than three decades, our organisation has quietly transformed lives through innovation, compassion and community-based care. The Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited (MRFGL), supported by the Meththa Foundation-UK and in partnership with the Manitha Neyam Trust, the LEBARA Foundation and the Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Jaffna, emerged as one of Sri Lanka’s most effective voluntary rehabilitation service providers, restoring mobility, independence and dignity to some of the country’s most vulnerable citizens.
The Foundation’s roots stretch back to 1994, when a group of expatriate Sri Lankan professionals in the United Kingdom recognised the severe shortage of rehabilitation services available to disabled persons in Sri Lanka. Drawing upon their expertise in rehabilitation medicine and allied healthcare professions, they established the Meththa Foundation-UK with a simple but powerful vision: to provide affordable, high-quality prosthetic and rehabilitation services to those who needed them most.
What began as an effort to recycle and repurpose high-quality prosthetic components donated by the UK’s National Health Service has evolved into a comprehensive rehabilitation network serving communities across the island.
Clinical services commenced in Sri Lanka in 1995 through a mobile outreach programme that initially supported injured soldiers and later expanded to civilians affected by conflict and disability. The majority of them were victims of land mines. In 2010, the Sri Lankan arm of the organisation was formally registered as the Meththa Rehabilitation Foundation Guarantee Limited, strengthening its ability to deliver sustainable services nationwide.
Today, the Foundation operates four modern rehabilitation centres located in Mahawa, Mankulam, Balapitiya and Kilinochchi. These centres provide prosthetic and orthotic services, posture and mobility support, limb repairs, and rehabilitation assistance to patients from diverse social and economic backgrounds.
Recognising that many disabled individuals live in remote areas with limited access to healthcare, Meththa Foundation also established a mobile outreach service in 2011. Through a successful “Hub and Spoke” model, rehabilitation teams travel regularly to underserved communities, ensuring that patients are not denied care simply because of distance or financial hardship.
The scale of the Foundation’s work is impressive. During 2025 alone, the organisation recorded approximately 2,000 patient contacts, including the provision of 350 new artificial limbs, 850 limb repairs and around 800 other rehabilitation devices. For many beneficiaries, these interventions represent far more than medical treatment; they offer a pathway back to employment, education and social participation.
Innovation has become a hallmark of the Foundation’s approach. Through an active research and development programme, MRFGL has developed affordable prosthetic technologies specifically suited to Sri Lankan conditions. Among its achievements is the development of a modular below-knee artificial limb system manufactured largely from locally sourced materials. The Foundation has also designed low-cost prosthetic knee components that significantly reduce the financial burden on patients while maintaining quality and functionality. These developments are funded by generous International Grants facilitated by affluent members of the Meththa Foundation-UK. Service users are encouraged to donate whatever they can but for those who cannot, which is a majority the services are entirely free.
These innovations not only make rehabilitation more affordable but also strengthen local manufacturing capabilities and reduce dependence on imported components.
Equally important is the Foundation’s commitment for building local expertise. Recognising the shortage of trained rehabilitation professionals in Sri Lanka, Meththa Foundation
established an apprentice-based vocational training programme that recruits and trains young people as prosthetists, orthotists and rehabilitation technicians. Several locally trained staff members are now employed across the Foundation’s centres, helping to create a sustainable workforce for the future.
The organisation’s work has attracted growing recognition within the healthcare sector. Discussions have already taken place with health authorities regarding the potential use of Meththa-designed prosthetic components within Government hospitals. Such collaboration could significantly expand access to affordable rehabilitation services throughout the country.
Beyond its clinical achievements, the Foundation’s impact is measured in restored confidence and renewed independence. Surveys conducted among beneficiaries indicate that many educated amputees successfully return to productive lives after receiving rehabilitation support. However, the findings also highlight an ongoing challenge among poorer and less educated amputees, many of whom struggle to access follow-up care due to transportation difficulties and financial constraints.
To address this issue, the organisation hopes to -expand its mobile services and community outreach programmes. Additional funding would allow rehabilitation teams to reach isolated communities more frequently, ensuring that vulnerable patients continue to receive the support they need.
Operating on an annual expenditure of approximately Rs. 30 million in Sri Lanka, supplemented by overseas fundraising and donations, the Foundation remains heavily reliant on the partnership of charitable trusts such as the Manitha Neyam Trust and LEBARA Foundation and generosity of individual well-wishers. Every contribution directly supports the provision of artificial limbs, mobility devices, training programmes and outreach services for those who might otherwise be left behind.
As Sri Lanka continues to strengthen its healthcare and social welfare systems, organisations such as the Meththa Foundation demonstrate how innovation, volunteerism and dedication can create lasting social
By helping individuals regain mobility and independence, the Foundation is not merely providing artificial limbs—it is rebuilding lives and restoring hope.
For many “beneficiaries, every step they take is a testament to the life-changing work of the Meththa foundation
www.meththafoundation-sl-uk.org
Chairman’s WhatsApp contact number +94 77 788 6119
Prof S P Lamabadusurira, Chairman and Dr B Panagamuwa, ✍️
First Trustee
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