Features
Padma Rao Sunderji in Sri Lanka
By Uditha Devapriya
Review of Padma Rao Sunderji’s Sri Lanka:
The New Country
HarperCollins India, 2015, INR 499, 322 pages
What does it mean to be Sri Lankan? Am I Sri Lankan? I’d like to think and say that I am. Yet, to be Sri Lankan is to be many things, often at the same time. In my case, it can also mean being Sinhalese and Buddhist. Similarly, another person can claim another identity. Though helpful in one sense, however, such terms tend to divide. We can debate endlessly about the meaning of these words, but do they add up to an all-embracing identity? Sri Lanka is a land of much potential and promise, a distinct geographic entity that has claimed for itself a place under the sun. How can we all be a part of this entity?
Being Sri Lankan is obviously a matter for thought and speculation. We can debate and discuss. The arguments will probably never end. Yet, deep down inside, there’s no doubt that we are, at the end of the day, one family. Dayan Jayatilleka called it “smart patriotism”: an all-encompassing national identity that could account for exigencies of race and religion. Mervyn de Silva spoke of an “age of identity” in which “ethnicity walks on water.” He could have been writing of any country, from any part of the world. But here he was talking about the land of his birth. Whatever it may be, and however you describe it, it’s inescapable that this country is full of complex identities, and complex people.
Some books are hard to put down. This one certainly is. Published in 2015, a pivotal year if ever there was one for Sri Lanka’s post-independence and post-war history, Sri Lanka: The New Country reflects on the country and its people. It’s not slim, but it’s lucid, and it dwells at considerable length on what Sri Lankans think about being Sri Lankan. Packed with sharp insights and observations, it’s at once travelogue and political narrative. Sunderji does her best to cut to the chase, getting to the heart of the matter wherever she is. That reflects her deeply sincere love for the country, a love she underscores frequently before explaining her connection to an island that seems like her surrogate motherland.
I felt intrigued by the title of the book. For many foreign commentators, post-2009 was an era of much transformation in Sri Lanka, politically and economically. Yet, in the minds of those among them who had dismissed Sri Lanka as a failed state, a nation arising from the ashes of war but incapable of making peace with itself, this new era did not merit a definite article: for them, Sri Lanka after 2009 was just another new country, no different to others that had won wars but lost the peace. Sunderji, however, inserts a definite article: Sri Lanka, for her, is THE new country: unique, hopeful, free of the burdens of the past.
In her preface, Suderji admits that she aims “at affording readers interested in Sri Lanka an opportunity to hear the other side.” What is this other side? “Sri Lanka’s army generals, its president, its new chief minister of the Northern Province, and more importantly, ordinary Sinhalese and Tamil citizens rebuilding their lives.” A not so modest goal, though she herself downplays the scope of her work by calling it “a collection of stories.” The conviction comes through no matter who she’s interviewing and talking to. Not surprisingly perhaps, the best parts of the book are those where she engages with ordinary people and soldiers, instead of the usually motley crew of politicians, governors, and bureaucrats.
The importance of Sunderji’s contribution cannot be understated. Until the publication of this book, most narratives about Sri Lanka and its post-war phase revolved around its failure to clinch peace, its obsession with infrastructural growth, and its consolidation of an ethno- nationalist political consciousness. Sunderji does not, to her credit, downplay or deny these realities. Yet, she points out that Sri Lanka after the war is much, much more than what most commentators prefer to see. Along the way, she criticises foreign correspondents, especially those who report from the confines of a hotel or another country, for propounding false and mischievously erroneous stereotypes about what’s happening in Sri Lanka.
“I knew from previous experiences that many Western journalists – and NGOs – had repeatedly arrived in Sri Lanka as ‘tourists’ and then proceeded to write damning, unsubstantiated reports on the country. Most did so from the veranda of the Galle Face Hotel in balmy Colombo, of course, for setting foot in the north and north-east would have been too conspicuous, given the widespread presence of the army.”
It’s because of these transgressions that Sunderji does everything she can to ensure her independence as an observer in Sri Lanka. Though cautioned against visiting the island, she finds her transit and her travels here a relatively peaceful affair, barring an altercation at a military checkpoint. Elsewhere, be it an interview with the President, a conversation with a Tamil Buddhist evangelist figure in the north, or a Skype chat with someone calling himself the heir to an ancient Jaffna dynasty, the Aryacakravartis, she blends into the world around her. These embolden her to reflect anecdotally on otherwise trivial matters, like the quality of service at military run hotels in the north and north-east.
“The Sandy Bay hotel confirms my reserve about hotels run by the armed forces yet again. Of course, it is peacetime. The armed forces now have time and surplus funds in their pockets. And as long as there are rumbles of separatism, as long as the whereabouts of escaped LTTE cadres are not known, the armed forces will have to stay on in certain vulnerable regions of Sri Lanka. Yet, I find myself wishing again that they would employ the services of professionals from Sri Lanka’s flawless hospitality industry to design these places, run them and lend them a softer, warmer touch.”
Even here, the critique is fair: Sunderji does not vilifying an otherwise heavily vilified outfit, the Sri Lankan army, the way it has been and continues to be by other commentators. It is for this reason that her interviews with soldiers and majors resonate so well: she does not judge or editorialise their replies, but lets them have their say. Offering them the benefit of the doubt, she draws a more complex picture of the relationship between the military, the political system, and the people on the ground in the north and north-east.
Consequently, the conclusions she draws are not only fresh but also unbiased. For instance, she points out clearly that the Channel 4 documentary, Sri Lanka’s Killing Fields, despite how its narrative was accepted everywhere, never substantiated its claim of 40,000 civilians killed by the military towards the end of the war: “it surprised me that the allegations by a solitary television channel were unquestioningly picked up and reproduced.”
The Sri Lanka that emerges from such reports, naturally, are both colourful and colourless: they reduce the island to a bloody teardrop (the teardrop association, not surprisingly, exasperates her: it simplifies an otherwise complicated country and terrain) with the same old, overused, hackneyed, much hyped dichotomies: Sinhala versus Tamil, Buddhist versus Hindu. As Janaka Perera put it in a response to an article by Robert Kaplan in The Atlantic (“Buddha’s Savage Peace”), violence in Sri Lanka was never linked to a religious crisis, since there was much syncretism between Buddhism and Hinduism.
Given the prevalence of such barely concealed simplifications and falsifications, then, is it any wonder that we still come across lies propagated by media reports in globally renowned publications? Such falsifications are not the preserve of foreigners only, since publications have local correspondents based in “balmy Colombo”, who still cave in to the exigencies of Western editors. That is why Sunderji, who willingly describes herself as an “outsider” at several points in her book, attempts to keep up a narrative that neither plays to the gallery nor subsumes the Sri Lankan experience within her own narrow encounters.
What keeps her book alive is her interest in reconciling, rather than differentiating between, the many polarities which have magnified and telescoped in Sri Lanka. Given the country’s size, it comes to little or no surprise that an ethnic crisis should turn into an ethnic conflict within the space of a few years. But perhaps the biggest factor which helped turn that crisis into a conflict were the many mis-comparisons made by foreign observers.
Not even John Pilger, that most prolific of commentators, who has frequently exposed the underside of Western media, can desist from comparing the Sri Lankan separatist conflict to Israel’s occupation of Palestine, forgetting that while Israel and Palestine have significant and sizeable populations in the region and elsewhere, in Sri Lanka the ethnic majority, the Sinhalese, happen to be a global minority, while the “occupied” minority, the Tamil, make up a global majority: a point Dayan Jayatilleka has made in Long War, Cold Peace.
At present, then, what we need is a book that brings together, not keeps apart, differences. As of now, Padma Rao Sunderji’s book fulfils that task beautifully. It is richly detailed, lucid, and not a little evocative: written from the head, as well as the heart.
The writer can be reached at udakdev1@gmail.com
Features
The Digital Underground
Illegal Foreign Exchange, Undiyal, Hawala and Money Laundering, A Four-Part Investigative Series
Forex Platforms, Cryptocurrency, AI and the New Financial Battlefield
THE INVISIBLE FINANCIAL EMPIRE – PART III
The Boyfriend Who Was Never Real
Priya, a 34-year-old professional in Colombo, met “David” on LinkedIn. He claimed to work in fintech in Singapore. For six weeks they exchanged messages daily, about work, about life, about a recent trip he had taken to the Maldives. Eventually, the conversation turned, gently and naturally, to money.
“I’ve been trading on this platform, let me show you,” he said, sharing a screenshot of a sleek trading dashboard showing consistent, impressive returns.
Priya invested a small amount first, $500. Within days, her dashboard showed it had grown to $650. She withdrew $100 successfully, just to test it. It worked. Encouraged, she invested more. Then more. Over two months, she transferred a total of $42,000 into the platform.
When she tried to withdraw her full balance, the platform demanded a “regulatory release fee” of $8,000 before funds could be unlocked. She paid it. Then another fee appeared. Then the platform stopped responding altogether. “David” vanished. The trading dashboard, the customer support chat, the entire brokerage, all of it had never been real.
This is what investigators now call “pig butchering”, and, in 2026, the most disturbing development is not the scam itself, which has existed for years, but what now powers it: artificial intelligence has industrialised the entire operation.
From Manual Fraud to Machine-Generated Deception
For most of the past decade, romance-and-investment scams, like the one that targeted Priya, required enormous manual labour. Scam operations, many of them staffed by trafficked workers held against their will in compounds across Myanmar, Cambodia, and Laos, needed real humans to build relationships with victims over weeks, manage fake trading platforms, and respond convincingly to questions.
That labour-intensive model has now been substantially automated. According to financial-crime researchers tracking this shift through 2026, threat actors are standing up entire AI-generated “brokerage” experiences end-to-end, complete with KYC onboarding, branded customer-service chat, animated portfolio dashboards, and falsified live market data feeds, and operating them at industrial scale against multiple victims simultaneously. Generative-AI relationship managers now front the WhatsApp and Telegram conversations that once required real human scammers. AI-cloned regulator letters are generated on demand to justify the fake “release fees” that drain victims a final time before the platform disappears.
What has changed is not the deception itself, it is the production economics. The cost of running a credible synthetic brokerage against one additional victim has collapsed, meaning a single criminal network can now run hundreds of “Davids” simultaneously, each one indistinguishable from a genuine fintech professional until it is too late. (Figure 01)

Sri Lanka: From Victim Pool to Operating Base
Sri Lanka’s relationship to this global scam economy has shifted in an alarming direction over the past two years. The country is no longer only a source of victims, it has become an operating base for the criminal networks themselves.
In April, 2026, Sri Lankan police raided a five-star hotel property, in Ambakandavila, and arrested 150 individuals, including 133 Chinese nationals, 13 Vietnamese nationals, and one Malaysian national, allegedly running a cyber fraud centre with links to international criminal syndicates, based in Myanmar and Cambodia. Investigators say the operation followed a now-familiar regional pattern: recruiters advertise “online marketing” or “data entry” jobs on social media to lure foreign workers to Sri Lanka, confiscate their passports on arrival, and force them to operate scam campaigns under threat.
The Central Bank of Sri Lanka has formally flagged pig-butchering scams as a “developing threat,” warning that foreign scam networks are increasingly targeting overseas nationals through scam farms operating from Sri Lankan soil. A 2026 United Nations report estimated that at least 300,000 people have been trafficked into scam centres across Southeast Asia.
This is not an abstract international problem. It is unfolding in hotels and rented properties across the country, exploiting the same infrastructure, high-speed internet, affordable accommodation, accessible tourist visas, that Sri Lanka has built to attract legitimate digital businesses and tourists.
Where the Money Actually Goes: The Stablecoin Pipeline
Behind every successful pig-butchering scam sits a laundering pipeline that has been transformed almost as dramatically as the scams themselves, and the transformation has a single dominant feature: stablecoins.
According to the Financial Action Task Force’s March 2026, report, drawing on analysis from blockchain intelligence firms Chainalysis and TRM Labs, stablecoins accounted for 84% of the USD 154 billion in illicit virtual asset transaction volume recorded in 2025, the highest share ever observed, and a dramatic jump from just 15% only a few years earlier. TRM Labs separately found that illicit entities received USD 141 billion in stablecoins, in 2025 alone, the highest level observed in five years. (See Table 01)

The scale of state-level abuse is striking. A Russian sanctions-evasion network built around the ruble-pegged stablecoin A7A5 processed more than USD 72 billion in total volume in 2025.
Fighting Fire with Fire: AI on the Defensive Side
The same artificial intelligence reshaping financial crime is also, out of necessity, reshaping the defence against it. Legacy anti-money laundering systems, built on static, rule-based thresholds, have proven badly outmatched by AI-generated fraud operating at machine speed. Research cited by compliance technology analysts suggests that between 90% and 95% of alerts generated by legacy AML systems are false positives, consuming enormous investigator time while genuinely suspicious activity slips through.
This is not a frictionless transition. AI models are notoriously difficult to explain to regulators and examiners in the way traditional rule-based systems are. The practical compromise emerging across the industry is a hybrid model: AI handles the initial scoring and prioritisation of risk, while documented rule-based logic still governs the final decision that must be defensible to a regulator.
The Regulatory Response: Catching Up to the Digital Frontier
Regulators worldwide have begun moving to close the most dangerous gaps exposed by this digital transformation of financial crime. (See Table 02)

What Comes Next
We have now traced this investigation from the centuries-old mechanics of Hawala and Undiyal, through the three-stage architecture that turns criminal proceeds into apparently legitimate wealth, to the AI-generated frontier of digital financial crime reshaping all of it at machine speed.
In our concluding instalment, Part IV: “Sri Lanka at the Crossroads: Economic Consequences, Organised Crime and the Road Ahead”, we bring this series home. We examine precisely what all of this costs Sri Lanka in hard economic terms: lost remittances, exchange rate pressure, tax revenue forgone, and the 2026 FATF evaluation that will determine whether the country’s institutions can demonstrate, with evidence rather than legislation alone, that they are equal to this challenge. We close with a practical policy roadmap.
(The writer, a senior Chartered Accountant and professional banker, is Professor at SLIIT, Malabe.
Views expressed in this article are personal.)
Features
‘There are no private universities in Sri Lanka’ – some considerations for higher education reform
Academics involved in education policy like to say that there is no such thing as a private university in Sri Lanka. The only ‘universities’ in the country are state universities; anything else offering degrees is a private higher education institution (HEI). This position is technically accurate. Yet, in the discourse and imagination of the public, private universities are very real – people teach in them, students register in them, families pay fees, and such degree holders enter job markets in Sri Lanka and outside.
For decades, activists concerned for public higher education have ignored or resisted looking at private HEIs, as if such scrutiny would taint them. Others have worked in both types of institutions, carrying practices from each to the other. The apex body governing state universities, the UGC, has, meanwhile, ignored the concept of conflict of interest and appointed individuals in private higher education in committees and leadership positions. It is unsurprising then that some of the ideologies informing private higher education appear in reform agendas in the state sector.
This is a good time then to consider the varying types of private HEIs around us, and to take a look at some of the issues within them in the hope that higher education reform agendas will include private, as well as state higher education.
What is a ‘private university’?
First, some clarifications. In the public imaginary, a ‘private university’ is typically an institution that provides a foreign or local degree for which the student makes a payment. But this broad classification encompasses a host of diverse institutions and types of degrees which I detail below.
The Non-State Higher Education Division (NSHE) of the Ministry of Education has recognised 295 degrees by 32 institutions. Most of these are private companies and include a handful of established, well-known private HEIs that are ‘university like’. The degrees are local degrees conferred by the institutions accredited by the NSHE Division. While private HEIs conferring local degrees must be accredited by the NSHE Division, there appears to be no legal consequence for not doing so. In addition, there are several permutations of the private degree that miss the net of this Division and the Standing Committee on Accreditation and Quality Assurance (SCAQA) that assists this Division.
For one, degrees conferred by foreign universities offered, via these same private HEIs, are not vetted by the NSHE Division. Secondly, there is a growing plethora of private HEIs which have either no physical presence locally or only a dubious presence. The University Grants Commission has notified the public, through their website, that foreign universities listed in the Commonwealth Universities Yearbook and the World Higher Education Database are recognised, but refrained from giving any other details – which degrees? Offered by what modes? These details are not known. Some of the foreign universities in the lists may be legitimate entities in their own land but the degrees conferred locally, in their name, may not adhere to curriculum or teaching specifications of the NSHE Division or the UGC.
Another troubling phenomenon is the ‘top up degree’, which appears to work on the same principle as that of a pre-paid mobile connection: if I have a Diploma or an HND of a sort, I am eligible to complete a course of study which provides me with a degree, usually from a foreign university. The idea that someone who does not initially qualify for a degree programme should be able to work their way towards one is a progressive notion. This is the concept that open and distance learning (ODL) was based on initially, but which is now sadly exploited. ODL models are expected to provide opportunity for learning for those who may be excluded from traditional learning institutions. In Sri Lanka, however, we have seen ODL become a marketplace offering easy to obtain, for-fee qualifications by institutions with little commitment to superior teaching and learning.
Finally, a perusal of the many types of private HEIs and their varied degrees bring to mind another question – how should the private degrees, provided by state institutions (that are not educational institutions), be regulated? Who should do so?
All of these create a host of problems for the public – for hopeful students and parents and trusting employers. For the higher education sector, recruitment of academic staff, too, has become difficult due to this plethora of ambiguous higher education qualifications, as I discussed in a previous Kuppi article (‘Recruiting academics to state universities’).
Some issues in private HEIs – a bellwether for change in state universities
In this second part of this article, I will discuss some aspects of work in private HEIs – albeit the more established institutions – given that such issues may appear in reform agendas in future.
Across state universities, all permanent staff of a specific category are paid according to the same criteria. The picture is not so clear when it comes to private HEIs since they are different entities legally, typically companies. Private HEIs have salary scales and financial incentives that are different to each other. The more established private HEIs reportedly have attractive renumeration packages, possibly a reason for academics of state universities migrating eagerly to such institutions during sabbatical years and on retirement. This may not of course be the case with other less established, or improperly registered HEIs of which we know little. Academic staff of these more accepted private HEIs seem to value the high financial remuneration they receive (in comparison to state universities) as something that makes their work rewarding.
Attractive remuneration is important to sustain the good life and is at times seen as the institution’s way of encouraging good work. Yet, this has implications for the future of the institution: to continue to deliver on promised financial packages, institutions must continue to have large profit margins. One strategy has been to enroll multiple cohorts of students per year, even up to three or four intakes per year. This can result in exploitative work conditions, since staff must cater to all these cohorts in that same year. If there is inadequate staff, employees are further burdened. On the other hand, if there is a sudden drop in enrolments (degrees can go out of fashion) unexpected layoffs occur. Similar to other sectors that employ short-term contract staff – including state universities – in private HEIs, too, individual teachers, who are on short term contracts that need regular renewal, can feel pressured to work under difficult or exploitative conditions.
At the same time, even in the more established private HEIs, work norms differ from those of state universities in that they include promotional work that keeps the institution’s name in the eye of the public. The Marketing (or similarly named) unit comes up in conversations as one of the most important departments. It appears to weigh in on decision-making related to the number of staff, the amount of re-sits per exams, and other pedagogically important matters. This is a worrying example of how financial rationales interfere with pedagogically or academically sound processes, resulting in problematic results in the classroom. On the plus side, junior colleagues, who had experience in both state and private HEIs, also felt that they faced less harassment in private HEIs – primarily due to the private HEIs ability to take swift action in reported cases of harassment. This is a real indictment on state institutions and their reluctance to address chronic issues of harassment in our universities.
Yet, while we hear much about problems in state universities, we hardly hear of problems that staff in private HEIs face. One rationale for a lack of public expressions by staff is that expressions of discontent might lead to trouble given the importance of reputation for private HEIs. The worry about reputational damage is a growing concern in state universities, too, as evidenced by social media policies and internal conversations on reputational damage, consequent to negative publicity. Institutional worries of reputational damage are harmful in the long run since these impact not only freedom of expression by student and staff, but also research that is possible in and about the education sector.
Some thoughts at the end…
A close look at the private higher education sector is important given its strong presence in the country. Impending reform needs to regulate this diverse array of higher education offerings in the private sector, as well as the state institutions that offer privately-funded options of higher education (a topic for a separate Kuppi on its own). It is time we carefully considered how to build a whole system of higher education out of this broken mess.
Kaushalya Perera is a senior lecturer at the University of Colombo.
Kuppi is a politics and pedagogy happening on the margins of the lecture hall that parodies, subverts, and simultaneously reaffirms social hierarchies.
Features
Ready for solo spotlight
Singer Nish Peiris is set to take the next big step in her music journey.
The talented vocalist, who has been seen and heard in the scene here for a short while, and was also featured with the now-defunct band, Inner Vision, has announced that she will be fully committing to her solo career, after completing her degree this year.
“I’m finishing my degree this year, and after that I’ll be fully committing to my solo music career,” Nish told The Island.
“I’ve already got a few tours lined up for next year, so I’m really excited for what’s ahead.”
Fans, no doubt, will remember Nish for her smooth voice and stage presence, and the good news is that she is now ready to chart her own path and bring new music to audiences at home and abroad.
With tours already planned for 2027, the year 2026 promises to be an exciting year for the young artiste as she steps into the spotlight on her own.
We wish Nish every success in this new chapter!
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