Opinion
When crisis comes to classroom:
How Sri Lankan children face natural disasters and economic problems
Sri Lanka has always found ways to survive storms. But during the past ten years, the storms have come more often and with more force. Floods have swallowed villages, landslides have buried homes, droughts have dried wells, and cyclones have pushed families out of their coastal towns. Then came the economic crisis in 2022 and 2023, which felt like an invisible disaster happening quietly inside every home. In the middle of all this were our schoolchildren. Their names rarely appeared in newspapers. Many of their stories were never told. A new study brings these voices together and shows how overlapping crises have reshaped education across the island. It also reveals something important: not all children suffered the same way.
This article tells that story through the experiences of teachers, parents and children. It also explains why some regions, some ethnic communities and some families struggled much more than others.
A decade of disruption
Over the past decade, Sri Lanka’s school system has been hit again and again. Floods in Ratnapura, Kalutara and Galle have become almost yearly events. Landslides in Badulla and Nuwara Eliya have cut off whole communities. Cyclones in Batticaloa and Ampara have damaged classrooms and left children in fear. Long droughts in the North and East have forced families to live with empty wells.
Then the economic crisis arrived. It brought fuel shortages, food shortages, transport problems, high prices and a heavy sense of uncertainty. Teachers stood in long queues just to buy a few litres of petrol. Parents struggled to buy exercise books. School buses stopped running. Many children stayed home. A school principal from the hill country said he could not remember a single year without crisis. “One month we have floods. The next month we have landslides,” he said. “The children keep losing learning time.” These experiences echo earlier concerns raised by Angela Little (2003) and Harsha Aturupane (2014), who showed that rural, estate and conflict-affected areas have always faced extra barriers. The new study suggests that recent disasters have made those old inequalities even wider.
When geography decides a child’s future
Sri Lanka is small, but the risks children face depend heavily on where they live. In the flood-prone river areas, schools often close for long periods. Many become temporary shelters filled with families, mats, cooking pots and clothing. Teachers say it can take weeks to clean and reopen classrooms. In the estate sector, children live high in the hills. When a landslide blocks a single narrow road, school simply stops. A teacher in Badulla said she once walked six kilometres during landslide season just to reach her students. “Some days I held on to tree roots to climb,” she said with a tired smile.
In cyclone-prone districts like Batticaloa and Ampara, fear becomes part of childhood. When the wind changes, parents start to worry. School roofs fly off. Books get soaked. Homes crumble. Recovery takes time, and many families cannot afford repairs.
In the drought-hit North and East, children sometimes miss school because they must help their mothers collect water. Teachers say these children return dusty, tired and unable to focus. Lalith Perera (2015) showed how geospatial tools can identify the highest-risk schools. The new study supports his findings and shows that children in these areas lose far more learning days than children in urban schools.
Ethnicity adds another layer to the struggle
Sri Lanka’s ethnic geography shapes children’s lives in deep ways. Tamil families in the North and East still face the long shadow of war-related poverty and lack of resources, as described by Shanmugaratnam (2015) and Samarasinghe (2020). Many schools in these areas are old, understaffed and in poor condition. When a cyclone or drought hits, recovery becomes slow and difficult. A teacher in Mullaitivu said her classroom lost its roof during a storm. “The children sat under a tree for weeks,” she recalled. “They still came. They did not want to fall behind.”
Muslim communities along the Eastern coast face frequent displacement during cyclonic seasons. When fishing families lose their boats and nets, income disappears. Children often miss school because parents cannot afford uniforms or bus fares.
Estate Tamil communities, studied earlier by Little and Jayaweera, continue to face long-term marginalisation. Many children rely heavily on school meal programmes. When the economic crisis disrupted these meals, teachers saw hunger more clearly than ever. Some children fainted in class.
In all these communities, ethnicity and geography combine to create layers of disadvantage that are hard to escape.
The economic crisis: A silent blow to education
The economic crisis of 2022–2023 affected every Sri Lankan home, but its impact was especially hard on low-income families. Economists like Nisha Arunatilake (2022) and Ramani Gunatilaka (2022) have shown how inflation and job losses pushed households into deep stress. These pressures directly affected children’s education.
With no fuel, many teachers could not travel. They walked long distances or hitchhiked. In some schools, several classes were combined because only a few teachers could come. School supplies became expensive. Parents reused old books or bought cheap, low-quality paper. Uniforms were patched many times. Some children wore slippers because shoes were too costly. Food shortages made everything worse. With rising prices, families reduced meals. In the estate sector, teachers saw hunger growing. Attendance fell.
Gender roles also shifted. Girls in rural areas took on childcare and cooking while parents worked longer hours. Boys were pushed into temporary labour. A mother in Monaragala said her teenage son cut timber to support the family. “He comes home exhausted,” she said. “How can he study after that?” Earlier, Selvy Jayaweera (2014) warned that crises deepen gender inequalities. The new study shows that her warning has come true again.
Schools tried to cope, but not all were ready
During field visits, researchers met principals who showed remarkable leadership. Some created disaster committees, organised awareness programmes and kept strong communication with parents. These schools recovered fast. Communities helped clean classrooms. Teachers volunteered for extra lessons. But many schools struggled. Some had no emergency plans. Others had old buildings damaged from past disasters. Some principals lacked training in crisis response. A few schools did not even have complete first aid boxes.
The difference between prepared and unprepared schools became painfully clear. After a cyclone in Batticaloa, one school restarted within a week. A nearby school stayed closed for nearly a month because debris and broken furniture filled the classrooms. Resilience expert Rajib Shaw (2012) highlighted the importance of strong partnerships between schools and communities. This study confirms that his message still holds true.
Families found ways to cope, but children paid the price
Every Sri Lankan family has its own survival strategies. Some borrow money. Some rely on relatives abroad. Some work extra hours. Some move to other districts. But these strategies often disrupt children’s schooling. When a father leaves home for work in another district, children lose emotional support. When a mother works late at a tea estate, older daughters must care for younger siblings. When a family moves temporarily, children lose teachers, routines and friends. A father in Ratnapura said he felt torn. “I want my daughter to study,” he said. “But how can I think of school when the river rises every year and we lose everything?” Years ago, sociologist K. T. Silva (2010) wrote about how poverty and displacement interrupt education. The new study shows that these patterns continue today.
How crises make old inequalities worse
One strong message from the study is that disasters do not create inequality they deepen what already exists. Rural schools with fewer resources suffer greater damage. Estate children who already face hunger become even more vulnerable. Tamil and Muslim families in hazard-prone areas must deal with both environmental and historical burdens.
Climate disasters also come in cycles. One flood does not end the struggle. Children who lose one month of school every year slowly fall behind. Their confidence drops. Their chances of continuing to higher education shrink. Meanwhile, well-resourced urban schools recover quickly. They have strong buildings, better communication and supportive parents. Their losses are small and temporary. The gap between privileged and vulnerable children grows wider each year.
What Sri Lanka can do now
Sri Lanka stands at a turning point. Climate change will bring more storms and droughts. The economy is still fragile. Schools must be prepared.
Every school needs a clear emergency plan. Preparedness should be part of daily school life safer buildings, evacuation routes, first aid training, and strong communication networks. Vulnerable regions need extra support. Flood-prone river basins, cyclone-hit coasts, drought-affected northern districts and the estate sector require more funding and attention. School meals must be protected. For many children, this meal is the difference between hunger and hope.
Teachers need help with transport and crisis training. Families need social protection so children are not forced into labour or long absences. Most importantly, education policy must place fairness at the centre. As Aturupane (2014) explained, equality cannot be achieved by giving all schools the same amount. Some schools need more because their burdens are heavier.
Stories that should guide policy
The most powerful part of this research is not the statistics. It is the stories:
A boy in Ratnapura losing his schoolbag to the floods.A teacher in Badulla walking through mud for her students.A mother in Batticaloa cooking in a cyclone shelter.A girl in Mullaitivu studying under a tree after her classroom roof blew away.A Muslim family in Ampara sheltering in a mosque during every storm.A Tamil child in Kilinochchi missing school to fetch water during drought.
These are the voices policymakers must listen to.
A future that values every child
Sri Lanka’s future depends on the minds of its children. If classrooms become unstable places, the country’s future becomes uncertain. But there is hope. Many teachers showed deep dedication. Many parents worked tirelessly to keep their children in school. Many communities showed unity and strength. If the government builds on this resilience through better planning, fairer funding and stronger support for vulnerable regions children’s dreams can survive the storms ahead. What we choose today will decide whether the next generation inherits disaster or opportunity.
References
Aturupane, H. (2014). Equity and Access in Sri Lankan Education. World Bank.Arunatilake, N. (2022). Economic Vulnerability and Social Protection in Times of Crisis. Institute of Policy Studies.Fernando, P. (2018). Household Vulnerability and Educational Participation in Rural Sri Lanka. SAGE Publications.Gunatilaka, R. (2022). The Impact of Economic Shocks on Sri Lankan Households. International Labour Organization.Jayaweera, S. (2014). Gender Dimensions of Educational Inequality in Sri Lanka. Centre for Women’s Research.Little, A. W. (2003). Education, Conflict and Social Cohesion in Sri Lanka. UNESCO.Perera, L. (2015). Geospatial Approaches to Educational Planning in Disaster-Prone Regions. Asian Development Bank.Samarasinghe, V. (2020). Regional Inequalities and Social Exclusion in Sri Lanka. Routledge.Shanmugaratnam, N. (2015). Post-War Development and Marginalisation in Northern Sri Lanka. Nordic Asia Press.Shaw, R. (2012). Community-Based Disaster Risk Reduction and School Resilience. Earthscan.Silva, K. T. (2010). Poverty, Displacement, and Educational Access in Sri Lanka. Social Scientists’ Association.UNICEF Sri Lanka. (2018). School Safety and Disaster Preparedness in Sri Lanka.
Opinion
The Cream of the Earth: Why Sri Lanka needs a Fruit Consumers Movement
By Lalin I De Silva
Sri Lanka speaks constantly about hospitals, medicines, food imports, agricultural productivity and the rising cost of living. Yet there is one simple question we rarely ask:
Are we eating enough of the food that our own soil can naturally give us?
Fruit is perhaps one of the finest gifts of the earth to humankind. A ripe mango, banana, papaya, guava or avocado comes to us almost ready to eat. Sunlight, rain, soil, microorganisms, minerals and the labour of a farmer have already done most of the work.
That is why I like to describe fruit as the “cream of the earth.”
This is, of course, not an argument that fruit alone can prevent every disease, or guarantee longevity. Science does not support such exaggerated claims. But there is strong international evidence that regular consumption of fruits and vegetables forms an important part of a healthy diet and is associated with lower risks of several major non-communicable diseases.
Sri Lanka’s own dietary guidance encourages the daily consumption of fruit as part of a balanced diet.
The tragedy is that we live on an island capable of producing an extraordinary variety of fruits, while many families increasingly depend on highly processed foods, sugary drinks and imported snacks.
This deserves national attention.
We Produce — But Do We Connect?
Sri Lanka grows banana, mango, pineapple, papaya, avocado, rambutan, mangosteen, guava, woodapple, beli, pomegranate, durian and many lesser-known indigenous fruits.
Yet our fruit value chain remains fragmented.
The farmer often does not know the final consumer.
The consumer rarely knows the farmer.
Fruit travels through several intermediaries, sometimes suffering poor handling, unnecessary damage and price escalation along the way.
Consumers may not know where a fruit was grown, when it was harvested, whether it was naturally matured or what crop-protection practices were followed.
Meanwhile, a careful farmer, producing exceptional fruit, may receive almost the same farm-gate price as someone producing an inferior product.
That is not value-chain management.
It is precisely this disconnect that a new citizen-led initiative could begin to address.
25 Districts — 25 Consumer Societies
A proposal now emerging is to establish a Pure Sri Lankan Authentic Healthy Fruit Consumers Society in each of Sri Lanka’s 25 districts.
The concept should not become another organisation full of titles, meetings and ceremonial functions.
Its purpose must be practical.
Each district society could bring together consumers, growers, doctors, nutritionists, horticulturists, schools, universities, retailers, hotels, processors and young entrepreneurs.
The first task would be to understand the district itself.
What fruits are grown?
Where are they grown?
When are they available?
Which traditional varieties are disappearing?
Where can consumers purchase genuinely good fruits?
Where are the post-harvest losses?
What do farmers need?
What do consumers actually want?
From this information, each district could eventually develop its own Fruit Map.
Twenty-five district maps could then become a National Fruit Map of Sri Lanka.
From Anonymous Fruit to Traceable Fruit
Imagine buying a mango and scanning a QR code.
You could see the district, grower, variety, approximate harvest date and production information.
You could perhaps even provide feedback on taste.
That may sound futuristic, but the technology already exists.
The problem is not technology.
The problem is that our food system was never designed to connect the person who grows the fruit with the person who eats it.
Traceability could change that.
The principle is simple:
Know your farmer. Know your fruit.
Let the Consumer Lead
For decades, agriculture has largely been driven from the production side.
“How much can we produce?” has been the dominant question.
A healthier agricultural economy should begin with another question:
What does the consumer need, value and trust?
If thousands of consumers deliberately demand fresh, safe, flavorful and traceable Sri Lankan fruit, the message travels backwards through the entire value chain.
Retailers respond.
Farmers respond.
Nurseries respond.
Researchers respond.
Investors respond.
Government eventually has to respond.
That is the real power of an organised consumer movement.
Start With Children
Perhaps the most powerful campaign message could be remarkably simple:
Two Fruits a Day.
Imagine a Sri Lankan child coming home from school and asking:
“What are our fruits today?”
Imagine every school having a small fruit garden.
Imagine children being able to identify 10 Sri Lankan fruits, understand their seasons and know where they are grown.
Such behavioral change cannot be achieved merely by issuing circulars from Colombo.
It must become part of family culture.
Kandy Could Begin
Kandy would be a logical district in which to pilot the concept.
Its climatic diversity, surrounding agricultural communities, educational institutions, hotels, markets and strong plantation heritage provide an excellent testing ground.
A successful Kandy model could then be adapted—not blindly copied—across the other 24 districts.
The objective should ultimately be much larger than selling more fruit.
It is about reconnecting soil, farmer, food, consumer and health.
Sri Lanka does not need to invent every solution from outside.
Sometimes the answer may already be hanging from a tree beside us.
We simply have to recognise its value.
Know Your Farmer. Know Your Fruit. Live Well.
Opinion
‘Outpost of Empire’
Review
by Colleen Figg, Editor
and Reviewer – Amazon, New Voices Publishing
“Fernando echoes Macbeth with the line, “There is judgment here.” It captures the question running through the novel: can anyone participate in corruption and remain untouched by it? Beneath this satire is a dark story about power and the danger of believing, that someone else will always pay the price.”
Shavindra Fernando’s Outpost of Empire is a political novel set in the fictional country of Lackadasia. At its heart is a strong idea: an exploration of world politics, terrorism and the ways in which powerful countries manipulate smaller ones. Fernando is clearly writing about political issues that matter deeply to him.
The names immediately establish the book’s satirical character. Lackadasia, Burgherbugaria and the various Klowns suggest a world in which the people and places are exaggerated, but the issues beneath the exaggeration are recognisable. The playful language allows Fernando to approach terrorism, religious conflict and political corruption from an unusual angle.
Henry Stockwell is a central character: an ambassador who arrives in Lackadasia presenting himself as a friend of the country. He believes he understands how power works and treats the country, its politicians and its people as pawns on his personal chessboard. In his arrogance, he never doubts that he controls events rather than being controlled by them. This confidence makes him a compelling figure and in him, we explore the workings of political influence and the potential traps contained therein.
As the story develops, Fernando reveals a political world where causes are adopted when they are useful, people are exploited and discarded, and the truth becomes whatever those in power need it to be. Ordinary people suffer the consequences of decisions made far beyond their reach or knowledge, while those making those decisions continue to justify their actions. Even the people who help keep this world running may not be as important or as safe as they imagine.
Stockwell brings this idea into focus. He recognises corruption in others and willingly takes part in it himself, yet he cannot see that he might also suffer its consequences. Ultimately, he thinks his position will keep him safe. He is intelligent enough to understand the game, but not insightful enough to grasp the limits of his place within it. This blindness gives the novel a strong sense of irony.
The satirical approach gives Fernando room to criticise political hypocrisy without turning the novel into a direct political argument. By using fictional countries and exaggerated names, he creates some distance from specific governments and events while still making the larger targets of the book clear. The humour does not take away from the seriousness of the subject; instead, it makes the cruelty and self-interest beneath the political performance stand out more sharply.
Near the end, Fernando echoes Macbeth with the line, “There is judgment here.” It captures the question running through the novel: can anyone participate in corruption and remain untouched by it? Beneath this satire is a dark story about power and the danger of believing that someone else will always pay the price.
I came away feeling that Outpost of Empire is a valuable and thought-provoking book, particularly in today’s political and social climate. It has a distinctive voice, and the questions it raises about power, responsibility and foreign interference remain relevant far beyond the fictional borders of Lackadasia.
About the Author
Shavindra Fernando has worked as a reporter. He read English & Classics at the University of Peradeniya in Sri Lanka, and took International Relations & Ethnic Politics as a Reuter Fellow at the University of Oxford in England. The Vague Poetess (1999)was his first novel.
Opinion
Speaker’s dilemma
The Opposition, in its wisdom (or perhaps stupidity), has submitted yet another No-Confidence Motion (NCM) against the Speaker of Parliament. Perhaps it hopes to score some brownie points in the eyes of the public, which is hardly indifferent to such developments. Yet, knowing full well that the motion is unlikely to succeed, the exercise may well prove futile — akin to banging one’s head against a solid rock.
Nevertheless, the nearly fifty allegations levelled against the Speaker, whether justified or mere mudslinging, cannot simply be brushed aside. Such allegations may well have a bearing on the individual concerned, particularly where it matters most — his conscience — and few would dispute that possibility.
From a protocol standpoint, the Speaker occupies one of the highest positions in the country, ranking third in the hierarchy of state. He consequently belongs to the uppermost echelons of public life, with acquaintances and associates extending across a wide spectrum of society, including diplomats and other distinguished personalities. Such a position carries with it not merely prestige and privilege, but also an onerous responsibility to uphold the dignity and integrity of the office.
As the guardian of Parliament, the Speaker is expected to maintain standards of conduct, impartiality and discipline that are beyond reproach.
Whether the allegations are justifiable or not may be of little consequence to members of the ruling party, who will undoubtedly defend their colleague to the hilt. Nevertheless, the stigma arising from such allegations may prove difficult to erase, particularly in the eyes of his family, close associates and, ultimately, the voters who placed their trust in him. Of course, it is common knowledge that politics can be a dirty game and that, as Lord Acton famously observed, “power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Yet, nothing could be more devastating than a person losing his own soul in the process. On the one hand, stepping down could be construed as an admission of responsibility for the allegations levelled against him. On the other, allowing the No-Confidence Motion (NCM) to proceed could expose him to further public scrutiny and potentially inflict lasting damage on his character, dignity and reputation. Thus, he finds himself caught between two unenviable choices, each carrying consequences that may extend far beyond the immediate political fallout.
The Speaker is therefore confronted with a classic Hobson’s choice, with neither option likely to be without consequences. After all, in politics, there are no permanent friends or enemies—only permanent interests.
WILLIAM
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