Features

Rediscovery of Faith

Published

2 months ago

2026/08/9

Thilina Walpola

A photo of College Parliament. i was the Prime Minister in 1967. My brother Gaminie in 1969.

by Jayantha Perera ✍️

I began studying for GCE (Ordinary Level) in 1964 at ‘Prep Arts’, and my class teacher was Mr. G M Fernando. He was a trained English teacher who loved geography as a hobby. He had an extensive collection of world maps, which he brought from home to the class so that we could study them with him. He was kind and known among students as a clever man from whom they could get advice on any subject, including personal matters.

Mr. Milton taught us history, and I was fascinated to learn modern Ceylon history from him and to read the textbook on ‘Portuguese in Ceylon’ by Rev. Father S G Perera. I began to take notes from textbooks. One of my favorite textbooks was the Sinhala translation of Dudley Stamp’s ‘The World ’. It was a bulky textbook. I told my father to buy me a copy. He gladly bought one for me and wrote my name on the front cover. In a month, I read the entire book and claimed that I knew sufficient geography to pass the geography paper at the final examination.

In 1965, I was promoted to the final-year GCE (O/L) class. My class teacher was Mr. Chrysanthus. He was a strict disciplinarian, but a caring teacher. He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of white trousers, accompanied by highly polished black shoes. He came to school in his ‘Hillman’ car, and brought his lunch on a plate wrapped in a large napkin. His wife was a primary school teacher. He taught us catechism, Sinhala, and Civics.

Mr. Chrysanthus once asked who should be the class ‘monitor.’ A monitor is a student assistant to the class teacher. He would bring the attendance register every day from the Director’s Office and return it at the end of the school session. He maintained discipline in the class when a teacher was absent. All my colleagues voted for me, and I was duly appointed the class monitor.

I loved the subjects taught in the class. Geography, civics, Sinhala, English, and arithmetic were my favorite subjects. The teachers were dedicated and wanted us to do well in the final examination. The English teacher was very diligent. He wrote key words from our textbook on the blackboard so that we could memorize them. Once he read an essay I wrote and corrected it heavily.

I went home, rewrote it, and resubmitted it the following day. He eagerly read it and told me that “if I have at least two students like you, my mission as a teacher is more than fulfilled.”

This motivated me to excel in all subjects. My father, who oversaw Advanced Level classes, taught us history. I once asked him why he decided to teach O/L history. He said he loved history and that teaching different courses gave him much pleasure.

At the end of the first-term examination, I got 100% for arithmetic and 75% for Sinhala Literature. My father, who taught me history, thought 45% was a good enough grade for my history paper.

The GCE (O/L) examination was held in December 1965. I got distinctions in Arithmetic and Religious Knowledge, and credit passes for six other subjects.

I sat the Christian Brothers’ Senior Diploma Examination in Religious Knowledge and passed it with a distinction. Brother Cassian was sad that I did not have the vocation to become a priest. He displayed the diploma results on the College Notice Board. Nihal and I were promoted to the Higher School Certificate (HSC) Class. There were four students in the class, including Nihal and me. My father was the class teacher and taught us two subjects – Government and History. Mr. Chrysanthus taught us Pali and Sinhala during the first year. In the final year, my father taught us all four subjects.

My father was a great teacher. Every day, at home, soon after returning from college, he spent about two hours reading textbooks and preparing teaching notes. We did not have electricity at home. He had a small oil lamp with a glass chimney. Early in the morning, he checked the day’s teaching schedule. He never used notes when teaching. His teaching style was to write down several questions on a topic on the blackboard and then give us a summary of the topic. He expected us to tell our views and thoughts on the questions using the summary.

Homework was inevitable, and we had to choose a question from the list he gave us at the beginning of class to write an essay. Once, he told me that he liked my writing style and the way I marshaled the facts to support an argument. It was an enjoyable experience for me to have him as one of my teachers.

My father carried a small briefcase to the college. In the case, he had two pens – one blue and the other red. The red pen was used to ‘correct’ essays and to write comments. Some students spread the rumor that he carried a revolver in the case to protect himself from enemies. Once I checked the briefcase and found no gun, but a book on Latin grammar.

My father began learning Latin to pursue a law degree at Colombo University. He registered as an Ll.B external student at the University and attended weekend tuition classes in Colombo held at Wesley College in Borella. He advised me to do law at the university and to become a criminal lawyer. He thought I could be a good lawyer because I completed my class assignments on time and I was a popular speaker at college events. My father failed twice in his First-in-Law examination. He attempted the test for the third time in 1967 and passed it. But it was too late. He died before the results were published.

Our A/L classroom was by the main thoroughfare that ran through the college premises, connecting Averiwatte Road with the Colombo-Negombo main road. Many girls and their parents used this passage as a ‘shortcut’. There was an ‘order’ from the Brother Director’s Office that boys should not loiter on the passage between 1.30 and 2.30 pm. That was the time girls went home from the convent.

Class teachers did not hesitate to send a boy found in the passage during this time directly to the Director’s Office for a suitable punishment. It was a great challenge for us to be in the passage to tease girls or to talk to them during this ‘prohibited’ hour. One excuse we used was a upset stomach after lunch and the need to use the bathroom. Another excuse was to collect a textbook from a friend in a class far away from our classroom. Thirst and the need to go to the water taps were never accepted as an excuse to leave the class during the prohibited hour.

Our School Parliament was established three years before the establishment of Sri Lanka’s Parliament. The College Parliament was open to all students in grades nine to 12. There was a Prime Minister, Speaker, Cabinet of Ministers, the Leader of the Opposition, and class representatives. All officeholders were elected by secret ballot. I contested and won a seat, and became a ‘regular’ in parliamentary deliberations.

Several teachers attended the sessions as observers. As a junior MP, I took part in a debate on ‘How can we get rid of the Gu Kanda (mountain of feces) from where it is now located?’ The Wattala UC had the bad habit of emptying bowser-loads of fecal matter collected from houses on an elevated land every day between 10 and 11.30 am. As a result, classes closer to the Gu Kanda suffered from a nasty, unbearable stench.

The Parliament passed a resolution to write a letter through the Director to the Chairman of the UC requesting that he relocate the dump elsewhere away from the College. The UC did nothing to relocate the dump. Another topic discussed at the Parliament was the possibility of cultivating some part of the swamp land on the college premises. It began with great enthusiasm, but ultimately, we were unable to tackle the insect attacks on our vegetables. We suspected that virulent insects came from the Gu Kanda.

In my final year at the College (1967), teachers elected me as the Prime Minister of the College Parliament by secret ballot. My opponent was Hilary, a Burgher boy who publicly announced that I got elected because my father was a senior teacher. Brother Director, at the weekly assembly, introduced me as the new Prime Minister and dismissed Hilary’s claim. I appointed a Cabinet of seven members and revealed its work agenda for 1967. Inter-school knowledge competitions, a literary festival, and an agricultural development program were the key items on the agenda.

Nihal continued to be the Speaker, and Gamini, a future Prime Minister, contested and became an MP in 1967. The Parliament hosted a national literary festival and invited several guest speakers. We printed certificates and awarded them to the winners of contests. Several students participated in Radio Ceylon Do You Know and spelling bee competitions. Twice we won competitions.

At the College, I excelled in sports. In 1966, I won the trophy for ‘best junior performance’ at the college sports meet. I broke the college records for putt-short and discus throwing. Although it was a successful year for me, I nearly died in an accident on the college playground. One evening, while practicing how to throw a javelin, a senior boy picked up my javelin and threw it in my direction. The javelin came like an arrow towards me.

I ran away from it, but it landed on my lower back. I fell with excruciating pain. Brother Cassian arranged for an office vehicle to take me to the hospital and sent a junior brother to accompany me. Although I was in pain, I could talk and walk. The Brother took me to a nearby private dispensary to dress the wound first and then took me home to tell my parents what had happened and then to go to the General Hospital in Colombo.

When I went home, my father had already heard the news. He saw me and was very angry and said that he had a premonition that I would get killed. He did not come with me to the hospital. My mother fainted when she saw the large bandage on my back. I could not console her as the vehicle was waiting for me.

I felt terrible, and a strong feeling of guilt engulfed me. My father had warned me to be careful while on the playground. I felt that my disobedience had caused this accident, and I was responsible for the pain it had caused my parents. My father’s style of coping with a difficult situation was to blame my mother. Gamini came with me to the hospital. The doctors at the General Hospital checked the wound, cleaned it, and X-rayed my vital organs. They found that my lungs and kidneys were intact.

The thick sports T-shirt I was wearing in the playground prevented the steel point of the javelin from piercing through flesh. The doctors sutured the wound and allowed me to go home.

Post-recovery was uneventful, and my father took me to a private doctor in Hendala several times. Three weeks later, I contested and won the trophy for ‘junior best performance.’ My father took me to a studio to get a portrait photo of me with sports trophies.

For several months, it bothered me that my father did not accompany me to the hospital. He knew that I was gravely injured and could die from my injury. Instead of accompanying me to the hospital, he tried to hit me and scolded my mother. I thought my father did not love me, although I loved him dearly. My time with him was always my source of enchantment and happiness. But this episode challenged that basic belief and dependence. The episode tormented me for several months.

One day, in an argument with my father, I told him: “I do not think you care for me.” He challenged me to prove my accusation. I told him that he did not come with me to the hospital when I was gravely wounded. I explained to him how miserable I was without him at the hospital. I asked him how he would have felt if I hadn’t accompanied him to the hospital. He told me that he was very sad about my accident. He did not come to the hospital because I did not show any sign of weakness or difficulty in my movements when I came home.

Then I asked him again why he had not come to the hospital. He said, “You should not ask that question because it makes me very sad and unhappy. Yes, I should have come with you to the hospital.” The answer was not very clear, but I gave up arguing with him on this topic when my mother told me how much he sobbed after I went to the General Hospital. The whole family did not have their dinner

and waited for news from the hospital. When I returned at about eleven o’clock at night, everyone was happy, and my mother had reheated the food.

My mother told me that my ‘guardian angel’ saved me, and I believed her. For a year, I was sad for making my parents anxious and worried about my health and future. My mother thought that although the injury on my back was fully healed, in my adult life, I might get some health complications. The trauma of my injury brought back my faith. I realized that I needed external support in the form of a benevolent god or a guardian angel to protect me. This thought of self- protection and self-preservation moved me towards becoming a fully-fledged Catholic again. I went to confession after two years.

I met Father Mique, the French parish priest, and discussed my doubts, worries, and fears with him. He consoled me by saying that occasional loss of faith is quite common and human; what matters is to come back to faith through revelations. He thought my accident was a great revelation, and I should take the signal from it to be a good Catholic. I remember his steel, watery blue eyes through the trellis of the confession box. His breath smelled heavy of cigar smoke. He searched my eyes as if to enter my soul and check the truth of the ‘return’ of a lost son. He told me that I should come for confession at least once a month, and he would like to see me at the church every Sunday.

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Features

Odds and Ends: Horse racing and the business of sports betting – IV

Published

3 hours ago

2026/09/23

Sahan Weerasooriya

by Prof. C. A. Saliya
(The fourth instalment in a five-part series on
the business of gambling, legal and illegal)

Here’s a puzzle worth thinking about. For well over a century, Sri Lankan law has treated a village card game as a criminal offence, punishable by fine or imprisonment. In that same period, it has treated betting on horse racing as a perfectly legitimate, taxable business, one the state has actively collected revenue from for generations, under a Horse Racing Betting Ordinance older than most of the country’s other gambling law. Same basic activity, risking money on an uncertain outcome, one version illegal since 1889, the other legal the entire time.

Why? Follow the money, and the class lines, back to the colonial era. Horse racing arrived in Ceylon as a pastime of the British administrative and planter class, a “sport,” played and watched at clubs and racecourses, with betting bolted on as a respectable, even sophisticated, accompaniment. Card games played by ordinary people in villages, on the other hand, were exactly the kind of activity the same colonial authorities were eager to label a vice and criminalise. It’s the same pattern we saw with casinos in Part 2: gambling done by the wealthy tends to get called a sport, a tradition, or an investment. Gambling done by everyone else tends to get called a crime.

That history matters, but the economics of horse racing betting matter just as much, because once you understand how a bookmaker actually prices a race, you understand something that applies to almost every form of sports betting on Earth, from a Colombo racecourse to a global football sportsbook.

How a bookmaker guarantees a profit

Imagine a simple race with only two horses running, and imagine, just for the sake of the maths, that both horses genuinely have an exactly 50-50 chance of winning. A perfectly fair bookmaker, offering perfectly fair odds, would price both horses at even money: bet 100 rupees, win 100 rupees plus your stake back, on either horse.

No real bookmaker does this. Instead, they’ll price both horses slightly below their true odds, say, offering odds that imply each horse has a 55 percent chance of winning, even though the true chance is only 50 percent. Add those two implied percentages together and you get 110 percent, not 100. That extra 10 percent is called the “overround,” or sometimes the “vig” (short for vigorish), and it is the bookmaker’s guaranteed margin, built directly into the prices on the board before a single horse leaves the starting gate. It doesn’t matter which horse wins. The bookmaker’s overround wins regardless, on every single race, all day, every day.

There’s a second, subtler effect that decades of studying racing data has confirmed again and again, all over the world: bettors as a group are slightly too generous to favourites and slightly too generous to long-shots. Favourites tend to win a bit more often than their odds suggest they should, meaning betting on the favourite loses you money slightly more slowly than average over the long run, while betting on the rank outsider, the 50-to-1 shot that everyone secretly dreams will come in, loses you money considerably faster than average, because the public consistently overpays for that lottery-ticket dream. Bookmakers know this. It’s baked into their pricing, and it has a name: the favourite-longshot bias.

It’s not just horses anymore

Horse racing used to be the flagship product of the entire betting industry. It still matters enormously, including here in Sri Lanka, where it remains one of the very few genuinely legal betting products, but globally, its share of the total betting market has shrunk as sports betting on football, cricket, tennis and everything else has exploded, especially since a landmark 2018 United States Supreme Court ruling opened the door to state-by-state legal sports betting across America.

The newest and, frankly, most dangerous evolution of all this is “in-play” or “live” betting, placing bets not before a match starts, but continuously, in real time, on what happens in the next five minutes: the next corner, the next wicket, the next point. Regulators studying gambling harm consistently find that in-play betting produces worse outcomes fo bettors than traditional pre-match betting, precisely because there are so many more moments to place a bet, so much less time to think between decisions, and so much more opportunity to chase a loss five minutes after you made it.

Where the skill actually is, and isn’t

Now, a confession from this column, which has spent plenty of ink over the years analysing racecards: professional handicapping, studying trainer and jockey form, course and distance records, the draw, the going, the weight a horse is carrying, is a genuinely real skill, and it can meaningfully improve your chances of picking a winner compared to a random guess. That’s not a myth. Good handicapping works, in the narrow sense that it improves your odds of identifying the horse most likely to win any given race.

But “improving your odds of picking a winner” and “beating the house edge” are two completely different things, and this is the single most important distinction in this entire series. Even the sharpest, most statistically literate handicapper in the country is still betting into odds that already have the bookmaker’s overround baked in. Skill can narrow the gap. It essentially never closes it completely over the long run, for the simple reason that the house built the gap on purpose, and prices every race to make sure it stays open.

When the “form” is fake: Virtual meetings

One genuinely strange wrinkle worth flagging here: some betting products dress themselves up in the full costume of horse racing, trainer names, jockey silks, past form lines, even fake race commentary, while actually being nothing more than a random number generator behind the scenes, deciding the winner with no horses, no trainers, and no real race involved at all; just a computer simulation.

These “virtual racing” products exist specifically to borrow the credibility that real handicapping has earned over more than a century, and apply it to something that has no skill element whatsoever, chance and chance alone. It’s worth knowing the difference, because the two products look almost identical on a betting slip, and only one of them rewards the kind of analysis this column has always tried to teach.

Are manipulations possible?

Bookmakers don’t secretly insert horses into races to beat favorites instead they simply publish odds based on form and betting demand. The real risk comes from insiders with knowledge, such as trainers or syndicates, who can exploit undervalued horses to stage betting coups. These events are rare but welldocumented, leaving a lasting mark on regulation. In the past, bookmakers were reactive, allowing coups to succeed before odds adjusted. Today, they are far more proactive, using AI systems and integrity units to detect anomalies quickly. Even so, insider coups still occur, though they are rarer and swiftly investigated. The balance has shifted: bookmakers now lose less often, but punters continue to chase “value” in overlooked horses, keeping the contest alive between house margins and human ingenuity.

Betting Coups: When the Odds Tilt

Horse racing has always carried a mystique of glamour and risk, but behind the silks and starting gates lies a business model designed to ensure bookmakers never lose. As explained earlier, the “overround”, that invisible margin built into every price, guarantees profit before the first horse even breaks stride. Yet history shows that punters, syndicates, and insiders have occasionally turned the tables, staging coups that shook the industry and exposed its vulnerabilities. Timeline of such incidents are shown in the Table.

These stories remind us that while bookmakers build their margins into every race, the human element, ambition, deception, or sheer audacity, can still disrupt the system. Today’s safeguards, from AIdriven monitoring to integrity units, make coups rarer, but not impossible. And that tension between certainty and surprise is precisely what keeps the public fascinated. Horse racing is not just about speed and stamina; it is about the eternal contest between the house edge and human ingenuity.

The road ahead for racing in Sri Lanka

Horse racing’s legal status in Sri Lanka looks set to remain intact under the new Gambling Regulatory Authority, folded alongside casinos and licensed online sports betting operators. What’s new is that offshore online platforms, which have long taken bets from Sri Lankan customers without local approval, are now—at least on paper—being brought under the same regulatory umbrella as the racecourse. Whether this shift results in genuine oversight or simply adds a licence requirement that foreign operators quietly ignore remains an open question, one to be explored in the final instalment of this series as we assess what fair, joinedup gambling regulation would truly require.

Next week:

Part 5, the final instalment, Closing the Book, on what real gambling reform would look like, and whether Sri Lanka’s new law gets us there.

(Prof. C. A. Saliya, is a charted accountant, academic, researcher and former banker. He is the author of SAMAJA GAVESHAKAYA and Springer Publication DOING SOCIAL RESEARCH. He can be contacted at saliya.ca@gmail.com. The views expressed in this article are his own and do not necessarily represent those of the organisations with which he is affiliated.)

Features

When slogans meet scrutiny

Published

3 hours ago

2026/09/23

Sahan Weerasooriya

An unhealthy politics still rents the finished war — and that is why society stays divided

by Mahil Dole
Senior Superintendent of
Police (Retd.)

True national stability requires a transition this country has postponed for seventeen years: from a military victory to civic reforms that penalise divisive actors and build a unified identity. Last week showed, with unusual clarity, why that transition keeps failing. It was not a failure of slogans. It was a failure of consistency. Democracy, in the narrow sense of ballots and benches, is still standing. What is unhealthy is the use to which those ballots and benches are put. An unhealthy politics does not close a war. It rents it.

Three scenes, one week

In Chavakachcheri, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake told a housing gathering that racism would not be tolerated in any form, against Sinhalese, Tamils or Muslims, in the North, South or East. He named the old kindling: heritage sites and religious places still used to ignite tension. He spoke of houses for the displaced and a stadium for children in Jaffna. Those are the right words for a head of State. A country that meant them would be doing the unglamorous work of peace: making the next generation less useful to anyone who needs a quarrel.

In Anuradhapura, on an SLPP stage, a different performance was under way. Jaffna Member of Parliament Archchuna Ramanathan referred to himself as a “Tiger” and to the elected President as a “fox”. The name of a proscribed organisation was spoken in a town that carries the memory of the sacred-city attack. Party figures who have spent years treating any mention of the LTTE as contamination were reported to have cheered. By Monday a civil-society group styling itself the “Joint Opposition” had taken a complaint to the CID. The Police confirmed receipt. Opposition voices had already raised the alarm on Sunday.

Let the record be exact, because the rumour was not. The complaint now on the CID file is that remarks on an SLPP stage, and the cheer that met them, crossed from political insult toward promotion of a banned group. The government, for its part, has said there is no room for LTTE promotion and that remembrance of the dead is another matter. Those are two different files. Mixing them is itself a kind of politics.

A third voice belonged to the same week. Professor Savitri Goonesekere spoke with the clarity that public law, when it is still a discipline and not a campaign colour, can still produce: thoughtful, articulate, addressed to the country rather than to a faction. The speech deserves the praise it has received. The caution it invites is as important as the praise. Worthy slogans, unity, an end to racism, one law for all, are easily hijacked. They are most easily hijacked by those whose own conduct is under scrutiny, and who need the language of virtue more than they need the discipline of it. A speech of that quality raises the standard. It does not lower the duty to watch who picks the slogan up next.

What an unhealthy democracy does

People vote. Governments change. Parliament sits. That is not a failed democracy in the textbook sense. It is also not a healthy one. A healthy system converts a military victory into civic rules that bind the winners as well as the defeated, and that make division expensive. An unhealthy system keeps the war useful. It farms fear. It treats identity as a turnout machine. It issues a guarantee against racism in one district and applauds a banned name in another. That practice is not a lapse of taste. It is a structural reason society remains split.

Duplicity is the method. The same platform that built a career on the defeat of terrorism can, when the arithmetic of a rally requires it, tolerate the self-description of a Tiger. The same voices that demand a ban on LTTE propaganda can discover, the following week, that a rival’s meeting is the real offence. The same guarantee against racism can be issued in the North on one day and left unenforced in the South on the next. Two standards, again — not between Colombo and an overseas capital this time, but between the microphone and the statute book.

The LTTE remains a proscribed organisation. That is law, not a mood. Remembrance of the dead is a human act and must be protected as such. Glorification of the organisation that killed them is not remembrance. A serious State draws that line once, publishes it, and applies it without regard to who is speaking and which party owns the stage. Selective outrage is not law enforcement. It is campaigning.

The same is true of the word “racism”. No President can abolish it by declaring that he will not tolerate it. The declaration is necessary. It is not sufficient. Racism in this country has rarely been only a private vice. It has been a public business model: a way to harvest fear, postpone reform, and keep a constituency enlisted after the guns fell silent. Heritage sites and religious places become kindling because someone lights them. Universities become martyr theatres because someone books the hall. A Member of Parliament can call himself a Tiger on a southern stage because someone calculated that the cheer would be louder than the cost.

Why this divides a people

Division is not produced only by the last war and not only by those who live outside the island. It is produced, week by week, by a politics that cannot address a crowd except through Sinhala, Tamil or Muslim injury. A politics of that kind is not representing a community. It is farming one. The young, who have no memory of the last bunker, inherit the quarrel instead of a country. Serving officers watch the treatment of their predecessors and the theatre of their politicians and draw a rational conclusion about what the country values. Families who lost their own to the LTTE hear “Tiger” cheered and conclude that their dead have been repriced. Families who lost their own to the State hear a pledge against racism and wait to see whether the pledge runs south as well as north.

That is how an interval is mistaken for peace. The guns are silent. The inventory is not. “Tiger” and “traitor”, “racist” and “patriot”, remain stock in trade. So long as those words pay, in applause, in airtime, in a complaint that wounds an opponent, someone will keep them in circulation. Professor Goonesekere’s warning sits exactly there. Leadership means going beyond rhetoric. The law is not written for those who already respect it. It is written for those who violate it. When violation carries no cost, the slogan itself becomes a form of impunity.

What civic reform would actually look like

The work is unglamorous, which is why it is avoided. First, equal enforcement. If the organisation is proscribed, the prohibition travels with the speaker. An SLPP stage in Anuradhapura and a commemoration in the North are not two legal systems. The CID complaint now on the file should be treated as a test of that rule, not as a trophy for whoever lodged it.

Second, an end to ethnic first-identity as an electoral method. A civic identity, Sri Lankan first, faith and language held without being turned into a passport, will not appear by exhortation. It appears when the dividend for division falls and the dividend for competence rises.

Third, a cost for lighting kindling. Heritage sites and religious places are not campaign props. Universities are not martyr calendars. Media that carry a charge must carry the correction. Records that hold an untested allegation must not shadow a working life after the allegation has failed.

Fourth, one standard for those who served the State and those who fought it. Wrongdoers on every side belong in a court, not in a diplomatic weather system and not in a rally chant. Collective punishment of a profession is not accountability. A cheer for a banned name is not unity. A slogan against racism is not a policy until it binds the speaker’s own side.

None of this requires a new brand of commission. It requires a State that stops allowing division to be a career. South Africa’s imperfect bargain at least tried to bind both sides inside one process. Colombia wrote one jurisdiction for guerrillas, paramilitaries and State forces. We have preferred two international ledgers and a third, domestic one on which the war is rented out by the evening. Last week’s scenes, a guarantee in Chavakachcheri, a cheer in Anuradhapura, a serious speech that must not be stolen, are not opposites. They are the same unfinished settlement, spoken in three registers.

The President’s sentence should be kept, and then made expensive to break. Professor Goonesekere’s standard should be kept, and then applied to those who clap for it. Racism will not be defeated by a rally, and a proscribed organisation will not be dissolved by a complaint. They will be reduced only when the State, and the parties that live off the State, stop treating the finished war as inventory. True national stability is not the memory of a victory. It is the construction of a civic order that no longer needs that victory to be refought, in Anuradhapura or in Geneva, in order for someone to remain relevant.

The writer is a retired Senior Superintendent of Police who served in intelligence and counter-terrorism. He is the author of Security Beyond Enforcement: Practical Approaches for a Safer Nation. This column is a stand-alone extension of an earlier argument on two standards in one conflict. Views expressed are his own.

Features

Defend civic space upon which peace is built

Published

1 day ago

2026/09/22

Sahan Weerasooriya

by Jehan Perera

International Peace Day was observed on 21 September. It finds Sri Lanka with a genuine achievement to record and a demanding test to meet. The UN’s theme this year was “Invest in Peace: For Everyone, Everywhere, Every Day.” It also honoured the “everyday architects of peace”—people driving local action and building a lasting peace from the ground up. In the 2026 Global Peace Index, Sri Lanka rose 30 places, from 97th to 67th among 163 countries. Over the same period, global peacefulness declined for the twelfth consecutive year to its lowest level since the index began, and South Asia suffered the sharpest regional deterioration. The test is whether the government will protect the civic space in which those architects of peace work.

Sri Lanka’s improvement is real and deserves acknowledgement. In this year’s review, issued a few weeks ago, the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights acknowledged progress in the form of action against corruption, arrests and investigations linked to political killings, enforced disappearances and the 2019 Easter Sunday attacks, and continued official denunciation of racism. A ranking, however, records conditions at a particular moment. It does not guarantee that they will last. Sustainable peace will depend on three factors. These are whether the government addresses the unresolved causes of conflict, whether it strengthens accountability for past and present abuses, and whether it protects the civic space in which peace is built from below. On the first two the record is incomplete. On the third, the draft NGO law threatens to weaken the very organisations that press for the other two.

What holds Sri Lanka back from a higher place are the same things that fed the war at home and also feed international conflict that rages elsewhere in the world. These are racism or ethnic nationalism that is narrow-focused, corruption and lawlessness. Equality, accountability and the rule of law are their remedies. The present government has committed itself to these, and is a significant improvement over governments of the recent past. But these pillars are not held up by governments alone. Peace is made in villages, workplaces and university campuses. It is made by families who insist on the truth about their disappeared, by journalists and lawyers who expose abuse, and by community organisations that bring Tamils, Muslims and Sinhalese into practical cooperation.

Unfinished Work

The UN High Commissioner’s report to the current Human Rights Council session, covering October 2025 to July 2026, shows how much remains to be done. The Prevention of Terrorism Act is still being applied, producing arbitrary arrests and long detention without charge. The report calls for a moratorium pending repeal and for the release of long-term detainees. Military-occupied land has not been released, memorialisation lacks support, and tensions over land and religious sites persist. The Batticaloa district illustrates how such problems endure. In the past three years, two Presidents, Ranil Wickremesinghe and Anura Kumara Dissanayake, have visited and instructed that the dispute over grazing land in Mailaththamadu and Mathavanai be resolved. It is a dispute between Tamil cattle farmers and outside Sinhala cultivators, and it has not been resolved. When two Presidents issue instructions and nothing changes, the fault lies in the machinery of State. An unresolved dispute does not stand still. It hardens into the next grievance.

Accountability shows the same pattern. The report documents torture and deaths in custody, and surveillance and intimidation of activists, journalists and civil society. Serious cases remain stalled for years, among them the killing of seventeen aid workers of Action Contre la Faim in Muttur two decades ago. Sharper still is the case of the Eastern University refugee camp at Vantharamoolai, where in 1990 the army took away 158 persons in a single day. They were never seen again. The camp’s officer-in-charge, Dr T. Jayasingam, later Vice Chancellor of the university, identified the officers responsible. More than three decades on, those officers have not been questioned. These cases are still remembered because families, survivors and independent witnesses have refused to let them be forgotten. Meanwhile several commissions of inquiry have completed their investigations but nothing further has happened.

What South Africa, Argentina and other post-conflict societies have found indispensable are four pillars of what is called “Transitional Justice” which are truth, accountability, reparations and non-recurrence. In Sri Lanka’s circumstances, truth means credible, independent investigation of what happened to the disappeared, and support for memorialisation. Accountability means prosecuting Muttur, Vantharamoolai and comparable cases, and removing credibly accused persons from senior office. Reparations mean compensation for victims and the return of military-held land. Non-recurrence means repealing the Prevention of Terrorism Act, releasing those held under it in the meantime, and resolving local disputes such as Mailaththamadu before delay hardens them. A country that buries its past does not escape it. The past returns in the next generation.

Civil Society

It is against this background that the draft NGO law is most troubling. The proposed legislation contains sweeping provisions for State oversight and control of civil society organisations. Among these are enforcing a licensing requirement on NGOs, which is to be renewed every three years, and severe penalties for not submitting reports on time, or for spending on emergency flood relief (for instance) when the NGOs mandate is peacebuilding (as an example) with possible sanctions including deregistration and having to shut down. Civil society groups have warned that it would confer excessive discretion over their registration and operations. Officials in Sri Lanka have abused such powers in the past. Additional power without effective checks invites further abuse. Sound regulation would have clear criteria for registration, an independent registrar and a right of appeal to the courts. What cannot be justified is a regime in which registration becomes a licence to be withheld from organisations that scrutinise policy, expose abuses or advocate for the rights of citizens.

Democracy is based on checks and balances. Those who press for accountability are part of those checks. The contradiction is plain. A government that has pledged accountability, equality and the rule of law ought not to be preparing to weaken the very organisations that press for their fulfilment. The organisations most exposed are those working on disappearances, land, memorialisation and reconciliation in the North and East, where the State’s record is weakest and the need for independent witnesses greatest. Silencing them would not remove the grievances they document. It would remove the channel through which those grievances are addressed peacefully. The government appears to be relenting, which is welcome, but a pause is not a withdrawal. The bill should be withdrawn and any replacement drafted in genuine consultation with those it would govern.

Investment in peace as called for by the UN in its International Peace Day theme implies commitment over time, with returns that come slowly. Sri Lanka’s 30-place rise on the Global Peace Index is a first dividend and nothing more. It can be built upon only if the government matches its commitments with action: withdrawing or fundamentally redrafting the NGO law, repealing or suspending the Prevention of Terrorism Act, and bringing Muttur, Vantharamoolai and Mailaththamadu to resolution. A higher place in a global index is not a certificate of success. Sri Lanka’s higher ranking is an encouraging start, but it will endure only if the space in which citizens speak, question and organise is protected. Peace is built from below, and a government that is serious about it will treat civil society as a partner rather than a threat.