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Sirisena Cooray: An Epilogue to a Life in Deeds

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Sirisena Cooray

Second death anniversary

by Tisaranee Gunasekara
“Who has known the ocean.”
Rachel Carson (Undersea)

Weddings require invitations. Funerals are open spaces. None are barred; anyone can turn up, even sworn enemies. Lankan politicians make use of this openness as a political tool, thus only so far as they remain in active politics.

Sirisena Cooray never missed a funeral until the day he died (the exceptions being his spells abroad and, of course, pandemic times). The habit persisted even after he gave up politics and retired into private life. For him, going to a funeral, near or far, in a mansion or a council flat, was not a political act or even a social duty, but something as natural as talking.

It was part of who he was, a man who loved books but believed in people. Not The People, lionised and sacralised, but people, individuals flawed by life and living. Those interactions motivated him and energised him, giving him a reason to continue to be societally involved, especially during those long uncrowded years after he lost his leader-friend Ranasinghe Premadasa.

Sirisena Cooray’s house was always open, his phone number a public property. People would call, asking for a job, a house, a way in to some official space closed to ordinary citizens. His means were limited, but within that reduced space he would willingly do whatever possible, not because there was anything to gain from such involvement, but because not making the effort was unthinkable. He had left politics, but the sense of responsibility never left him. Whenever he was able to deliver, he gained a quiet sense of satisfaction. Reading was a hobby, meeting friends and travelling enjoyable. Working with and for people was occupation, vocation, life.

Sirisena Cooray belonged to an era in Lankan politics when leaders were approachable and could be approached. You did not need appointments or contacts; you did not have to go through security barriers, each more daunting than the last. You just walked in to meet parliamentarians, ministers, even prime ministers. If you were lucky, you might get a cup of tea, if you were truly fortunate, a solution to your problem. At Sirisena Cooray’s you invariably got that cup of tea. And a sympathetic ear, a promise that an effort would be made, a promise that was always kept even if the effort failed.

Imprinted by Colombo Central

Colombo Central, even when I got to know it in the mid 1990’s, was a village within a city. People had deep roots there, emotional connections and interconnections, and long memories, some handed down like non-corporeal heirlooms. It was loud and quiet, strange and quotidian, an anomaly that was also a microcosm, a place of multitudes which did not consume the individual.

Sirisena Cooray grew up in this place, and at a time when change was in the air, change from British rule to independence, change from colonial governance to electoral democracy. Man was coming into his own as citizen-voter. Even the poorest had something covetable, the franchise. Individual self-improvement was regarded as a necessary component of the larger societal regeneration the new era demanded. Ranasinghe Premadasa began his Sucharitha Movement in these fermenting times. “We grew up hearing stories about the extraordinary activities of this extraordinary young man,” Sirisena Cooray would recall in President Premadasa and I: Our Story. “Even before we met, he was a role model for me.”

Admiration led to imitation (that expression of sincerest flattery would not have been lost on Ranasinghe Premadasa). When he was 12, Sirisena Cooray and his playmates set up a society modelled on the Sucharitha Movement, called Sri Sucharitha Vaag Vardana Lama Samajaya (Children’s society for the improvement of oratorical skills would be a rough translation). There were discussions, and debates, as well as more formal gatherings with the participation of figures of local and national significance. It was the ideal launching pad for a future politician. It was also the best germinal for a life with people, a life of deeds.

Sirisena Cooray once called Ranasinghe Preamadasa a storehouse of concepts. Sirisena Cooray was a storehouse of stories, a repository of oral history of a place bypassed by historians (he was a superb narrator too, despite being an indifferent platform speaker; public audiences are anonymous; you told stories to a known audience).

One story was about bucket lavatories common in Colombo’s poorer areas then (they would survive into the early 1980’s until replaced with water closets by the Premadasa-Cooray combine); and the community of labourers brought down from India by the British to clean them. Every morning, these men and women emptied the often overflowing receptacles of human effluence into open lorries. In this community, death was celebrated the way other people celebrated births and weddings. The life of these people was so unrelentingly wretched, death came as the only possible release.

It was an experience which made a deep impression on Sirisena Cooray. Contrary to a popular misconception, both he and Ranasinghe Premadasa came from middle class backgrounds. But they were born and spent their formative years in Colombo Central, “one of the poorest, most neglected areas of the City,” the despised habitat the wretched of Lanka. It was also a patchwork of primordial pluralities, where Sinhalese, Tamils, and Muslims lived cheek by jowl, literally. Poverty was the common thread that bound them, a bond reinforced by a shared sense of hopelessness.

“All theory is grey,” wrote Goethe in Faust. Sirisena Cooray (whose copy of that epic rests on one of my bookshelves) agreed. Politics, he would insist during interminable arguments, has to be learned not from books but from people and their lives. And for a young man with an awakening interest in politics, Colombo Central was a good place to get to know society’s abiding socio-economic ills. Not just Poverty, but also poverty, not just Unemployment, but also unemployment, not just Homelessness but also homelessness, the nitty-gritty which adds substance to bare figures, not just statistics, but the lived-in experiences.

This knowledge helped make Ranasinghe Premadasa and Sirisena Cooray different from most other leading politicians. It taught them that grand theories and impressive statistics mattered little if they did not positively touch the lived-in experiences of ordinary people. When the Uda Gam housing programme was initiated, detractors especially on the left (a category I too belonged to) decried it saying that the houses were like chicken coops. But for a family living in a shack which was often rented that ‘chicken coop’ was a home beyond dreams.

In a tenement garden, tens of families might have had to share a single water-closet, but that was preferable infinitely to sharing bucket lavatories. To understand these seminal practical differences, it was not enough to visit the poor during election seasons or read about them in books. One must know their lives, daily and intimately. That knowledge enabled the Premadasa-Cooray duo to do more for the poor than any other leader has done before or since. That knowledge, and the sense of responsibility born of it, would compel Sirisena Cooray to do whatever he could to make a difference in one-life-at-a-time, until the day he died.

Race and Class

In Book II of Odyssey, Telemachus, the young son of Odysseus and Penelope, addresses his father’s subjects to enlist their help in beating back his mother’s unwanted suitors who were denuding his father’s property, and thus his patrimony. But Ithacans don’t respond. They are not interested. In the absence of their king, they had gained a limited and provisional agency to live their lives in the way they want.

French Revolution, with its deposing and beheading of Louis XVI and its institution of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen, opened the door to a political system which turned subjects into citizens with the right to choose their rulers. People, whose historical role had been limited to labouring and soldering entered political centre stage as electors. In response, political leaders began trafficking in identity politics, invoking ethnic, religious, caste or tribal affiliations as a means to political relevance and electoral gains.

Identity politics might be an elixir for the politicians but for a country and its people it is a poisoned chalice, worsening primordial loyalties and sowing the seeds of future conflicts. This, for instance, was the legacy of 1956.

The way conceived by Ranasinghe Premadasa and practiced by Sirisena Cooray was antipodal: winning over the poor of all communities via tangible improvements in their lives. And to achieve this upward socio-economic mobility of the poor without making the rich feel threatened. This fell into the category of (what Amartya Sen called) a ‘good and just’ development model, radical in intent but non-confrontational in style. Located outside the traditional ‘either-or’ gridlock, this model viewed economic strategy as a series of compromises balancing the interests of diverse socio-economic groups, for a common good. And ‘common good’ is no myth, but a truth which makes life liveable, as we realised last year when we lost it to economic and societal collapse.

The absence of such a balanced economic strategy, together with racism, fuelled the second JVP insurgency. Ranasinghe Premadasa wanted a negotiated end to the conflict, but the JVP was uninterested. Sirisena Cooray formed and led the Ops-Combine (it operated out of his home) to halt the country’s slow fall into anarchy. In the colourful parlance of Deepthi Kumara Gunaratne, “Sirisena Cooray was a former Colombo cinema manager. He used a rural youth who had watched western films to destroy the JVP’s rural youth.

Accordingly, Cooray, who was no racist, defeated racism in the 1980’s through Western thinking” (Sirisena Cooray: Beyond Psychology – ). Sirisena Cooray attributed the success of the Ops- Combine to the new approach he brought in – stop the indiscriminate killing of JVP suspects and focus on the leadership. And, as in economics, think outside the box. For example, “I told the security personnel to get hold of the buses in advance and keep them in the army camps with the drivers and the conductors. When a curfew is declared by the JVP, these buses would be put on the roads. This way we had buses running even on the days of JVP curfews” (President Premadasa and I: Our Story).

When the LTTE broke off negotiations and the second Eelam war started, the Premadasa plan was to win back and consolidate in the East before moving up North. Consolidation meant not militarisation but development. As Sirisena Cooray wrote, “carry out development work and political reforms in the areas, giving the people a decent standard of living and a measure of self-government…

There was a presidential mobile in Vavuniya. Several garment factories were in operation as part of the 200 garment factories programme… Immediately after an area is liberated we would move in and build houses for the people in the area. Initially Mr. Premadasa wanted 1,000 houses to be built in three months in the liberated areas. By the time they were completed, he was dead” (ibid).

When Ranasinghe Premadasa was killed, his development model was abandoned by everyone except Sirisena Cooray. But Sirisena Cooray could do nothing much once he left the party, and then politics. Bereft of the space to influence development policy, he still persisted in doing what he could to make a difference, first through the Premadasa Centre, later on his own.

In the accepted political parlance of Sri Lanka, Sirisena Cooray was a reactionary. He was UNP, he was Premadasa’s man, and that meant, ipso facto, reactionary. In this rigid categorisation, his abiding non-racism and all the development work he helped implement counted for nothing.

Sirisena Cooray never saw himself as a progressive or a reactionary. Those labels didn’t matter to him. For him, as for his leader-friend, the work they did was supposed to speak for itself. He didn’t deal with theories, still less slogans. For him, the deed was what counted. Much of the developmental work he did, both as politician and as ex-politician, remain unknown and uncelebrated. That was the way he wanted it. “Don’t talk about me,” was his standing instruction. No pictures either. The singer was immaterial; only the song counted, and the many lives lightened by its melody.



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Federalism and paths to constitutional reform

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Chelvanayakam (R) and S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike shaking hands.

S. J. V. Chelvanayakam: Visionary and Statesman

S. J. V. Chelvanayakam KC Memorial Lecture Delivered at Jaffna Central Collage on Sunday, 26 April, by Professor G. L. Peiris – D. Phil. (Oxford), Ph. D. (Sri Lanka); Rhodes Scholar, Quondam Visiting Fellow of the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge and London; Former Vice-Chancellor and Emeritus Professor of Law of the University of Colombo.

I. Life and Career

Had Mr. Chelvanayakam been with us today, he would no doubt be profoundly unhappy with the state of our country and the world.

Samuel James Velupillai Chelvanayakam was born on 31 March, 1898, in the town of Ipoh, in Malaya. When he was four years of age, he was sent by his father, along with his mother, for the purpose of his education to Tellippalai, a traditional village at the northern tip of Sri Lanka, or Ceylon as the country was then called, in close proximity to the port of Kankesanturai. He attended three schools, Union College in Tellippalai, St John’s College Jaffna and S. Thomas’ College Mount Lavinia, where he was a contemporary of S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike, with whom he was later destined to sign the Bandaranaike-Chelvanayakam Pact.

He graduated in Science as an external student of the University of London, in 1918. In 1927, he married Emily Grace Barr-Kumarakulasinghe, daughter of the Maniyagar, or administrative chief for the area, appointed by the colonial government. He had four sons and a daughter. His son, S. C. Chandrahasan, worked closely with me during my time as Foreign Minister on the subject of repatriation of refugees from India. Chandrahasan’s wife, Nirmala, daughter of Dr. E. M. V. Naganathan, was a colleague of mine on the academic staff of the University of Colombo.

Mr. Chelvanayakam first contested the Kankesanturai constituency at the parliamentary election of 1947. His was a long parliamentary career. He resigned from his parliamentary seat in opposition to the first Republican Constitution of 1972, but was re-elected overwhelmingly at a by-election in 1975. He died on 26 April, 1977.

There are many strong attributes which shine through his life and career.

He consistently showed courage and capacity for endurance. He had no hesitation in resigning from employment, which gave him comfort and security, to look after a younger brother who was seriously ill. As his son-in-law, Professor A.J. Wilson remarked, he learned to move in two worlds: a product of missionary schools, he was a devout Christian who never changed his religion for political gain. He was, quite definitely, a Hindu by culture, and never wished to own a house in Colombo for fear that his children would be alienated from their roots.

Gentle and self-effacing by disposition, he manifested the steel in his character by not flinching from tough decisions. Never giving in to expediency, differences of principle with Mr. G. G. Ponnambalam, the leader of the All Ceylon Tamil Congress, of which Mr. Chelvanayakam was a principal organiser, led him to break away from the Congress and to form a new party, the Ilankai Tamil Arasu Kachchi, or the Federal Party.

During the disturbances in March and April, 1958, he was charged in the Magistrate’s Court in Batticaloa and sentenced to a week’s imprisonment. He was also subject to house arrest, but he never resorted to violence and used satyagraha to make his voice heard. When, in 1961, he was medically advised to travel to the United Kingdom for surgical treatment, he had to be escorted to the airport by the police because he was still under detention. Although physically frail and ailing in health during his final years, he lost none of the indomitable spirit which typified his entire life.

II. Advocacy of Federalism: Origins and Context

At the core of political convictions he held sacrosanct was his unremitting commitment to federalism. A moment of fruition in his life was the formation of the Federal Party, Ilankai Tamil Arasu Kachchi, on 18 December, 1949.

Contrary to popular belief, however, federalism in our country had its origin in issues which were not connected with ethnicity. At its inception, this had to do with the aspirations, not of the Tamils, but of the Kandyan Sinhalese. The Kandyan National Assembly, in its representations to the Donoughmore Commission, in November, 1927, declared: “Ours is not a communal claim or a claim for the aggrandizement of a few. It is the claim of a nation to live its own life and realise its own destiny”.

Mr. S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike, soon after his return from Oxford, as a prominent member of the Ceylon National Congress, was an ardent advocate of federalism. He went so far as to characterise federalism as “the only solution to our political problems”. With Thomas Hobbes in his famous work, The Leviathan, he conceived of liberty as “political power broken into fragments”. Bandaranaike went on to state in a letter published in The Morning Leader on 19 May, 1926: “The two clashing forces of cooperation and individualism, like that thread of golden light which Walter Pater observed in the works of the painters of the Italian Renaissance, run through the fabric of civilisation, sometimes one predominating, sometimes the other. To try and harmonise the two has been the problem of the modern world. The only satisfactory solution yet discovered is the federal system”.

Federalism had a strong ideological appeal, from a Marxist-Leninist perspective. The constitutional proposals, addressed by the Communist Party of Ceylon to the Ceylon National Congress on 18 October, 1944, go very far indeed. They envisioned the Sinhalese and the Tamils as two distinct “nations” or “historically evolved nationalities”. The high watermark of the proposals was the assertion that “Both nationalities have their right to self-determination, including the right, if they so desire, to form their own separate independent state”.

These proposals received further elaboration in a memorandum submitted to the Working Committee of the Ceylon National Congress by two leading members of the Communist Party, Mr. Pieter Keuneman and Mr. A. Vaidialingam. Their premise was set out pithily as follows: “We regard a nation as a historical, as opposed to an ethnographical, concept. It is a historically evolved, stable community of people living in a contiguous territory as their traditional homeland”.

The Soulbury Commission, which arrived in the country in December, 1944, had no hesitation in recognising that “The relations of the minorities – the Ceylon Tamils, the Indian Tamils, Muslims, Burghers and Europeans, with the Sinhalese majority – present the most difficult of the many problems involved in the reform of the Constitution of Ceylon”.

They took fully into account the apprehension expressed by the All Ceylon Tamil Congress that “The near approach of the complete transfer of power and authority from neutral British hands to the people of this country is causing, in the minds of the Tamil people, in common with other minorities, much misgiving and fear”.

III. Constitutional Provisions at Independence

The Souldbury Commission, like the Donoughmore Commission before it, was not friendly to the idea of federalism, principally because of their commitment to the unity of the body politic. Opting for a solution, falling short of federalism, they adopted the approach that, if the underlying fear related to encroachment on seminal rights by capricious legislative action, this anxiety could be convincingly assuaged by enshrining in the Constitution a nucleus of rights placed beyond the reach of the legislature.

The essence of the solution, which commended itself to the Soulbury Commission, was a carefully crafted constitutional limitation on the legislative competence of Parliament, encapsulated in Article 29(2) of the Independence Constitution. The gist of this was incorporation of the principle of non-discrimination against racial or religious communities by explicit acknowledgement of equal protection under the law.

The assumption fortifying this expectation was the attribution of an imaginative role to the judiciary in respect of interpretation. It was lack of fulfillment in this regard that precipitated a setback which time could not heal. Judicial attitudes, including those of the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, which constituted at the time the highest tier of the judicial hierarchy, were timid and diffident.

When the Citizenship Act of 1948, by means of a new definition, sought to deprive Tamils of Indian origin of the suffrage, no protection was forthcoming from the courts on the ground of impermissible discrimination. This refusal of intervention was premised on an implausibly narrow construction of the word “community”, in that, according to the Courts’ reasoning, in the landmark case of Kodakkan Pillai v. Madanayake, Indian Tamils were not identifiable as a community distinct from the larger community of the Tamils of Ceylon. It is hard to disguise the reality that this was, at bottom, a refusal to deal with the substantive issues candidly and frontally.

The resulting vulnerability of minority rights, which judicial evasion laid bare, was a major contributory cause of the erosion of confidence on the part of minority groups. This mood of suspicion and despair, arising from an ostensibly weak method of protection of human rights, presaged ensuing developments.

IV. Further Quest for a Constitutional Solution

Chelvanayakam

The central theme of this lecture, in honour of a statesman who was an epitome of restraint and moderation, is that the deterioration of ethnic relations, which culminated in a war of unrivalled savagery over a span of three decades, was progressive and incremental. There was no inevitability about the denouement. It was gradual and potentially reversible. At several crucial points, there was opportunity to arrest a disastrous trend. These windows of opportunity, however, were not utilised: extremist attitudes asserted themselves, and polarisation became the outcome. This trajectory was, no doubt, met with dismay by far-sighted leaders of the calibre of Mr. Chelvanayakam.

The formation of the Federal Party was a turning point. With Mr. S.J.V. Chelvanayakam, King’s Counsel, as founder-president, and Dr. E.M.V. Naganathan and Mr. V. Navaratnam as joint secretaries, the party embarked on a journey which marked a radical departure from the conventional thinking of the past. This was plain from the text of seven resolutions adopted at the national convention of the party held in Trincomalee in April, 1951. The foundation of these resolutions was the call to establish a Tamil state within the Union of Ceylon, and the uncompromising assertion that no other solution was feasible.

The path was now becoming manifest. The demand up to now had been for substantial power sharing within a unitary state. This was now giving way to a strident demand for the emergence of a federal structure, destined to be expanded in the fullness of time to advocacy of secession.

Although standing out boldly as a landmark in constitutional evolution, the Federal Party resolutions did not carry on their face the hallmark of finality or immutability. The call of the Tamil leadership for secession yet being some years away, the ensuing decades saw further attempts by different governments to resolve the vexed issues around power sharing.

The first of these was the Bandaranaike-Chelvanayakam pact, signed by the Prime Minister and the leader of the Federal Party on 26 July, 1957. There was an air of uneasy compromise surrounding the entire transaction. This was evident from the structure of the pact, which, as one of its integral parts, contained a section not reduced to writing in any form, but consisting of a series of informal understandings.

The essence of the pact was the proposed system of regional councils which were envisaged as an intermediary tier between the central government and local government institutions. This did break new ground. Not only did the pact confer on the people of the North and East a substantial measure of self-governance through these innovative councils, including in such inherently controversial areas as colonisation, irrigation and local management, but territorial units were conceived of as the recipients of devolved powers. Of particular significance, the regional councils were to be invested with some measure of financial autonomy. The blowback, however, was so intense as to compel the government to abrogate the pact.

The next attempt, eight years later, was by the United National Party, which had vehemently opposed the Bandaranaike–Chelvanayakam Pact. This was the Dudley Senanayake–Chelvanayakam Pact, signed between the leader of the United National Party, at the time Leader of the Opposition, and the leader of the Federal Party. It differed from the Bandaranaike–Chelvanayakam Pact, both contextually and substantively.

As to context, it was signed on 24 March, 1965, on the eve of a parliamentary election, to ensure for the United National Party the support of the Federal Party. A disheartening feature was the plainly evident element of duplicity. Once in government, the Prime Minister’s party showed little interest in implementing the pact. Within three years, the Federal Party left the government, and its representative in the cabinet, Mr M. Tiruchelvam QC, Minister of Local Government, relinquished his portfolio.

Substantively, the lynchpin of the pact was a system of district councils, but there was entrenched control of these bodies by the central government, even in regard to action within their vires. This was almost universally seen as a sleight of hand.

Despite the collapse of these efforts, room for resilience and accommodation had by no means disappeared. Nowhere is this better exemplified than in the events which led up to the drafting and adoption of the “autochthonous” Constitution of 1972. This involved the historic task of severing the centuries-old bond with the British Crown and bringing into being the Republic of Sri Lanka.

One of the Basic Resolutions, which eventually found expression as Article 2 of the new Constitution, characterised Sri Lanka as a unitary state. The Federal Party proposed an amendment that the word “federal” should be substituted for “unitary”. Mr. V. Dharmalingam, the spokesman for the party on this subject, in his address to the Constituent Assembly, on 16 March, 1971, showed flexibility by declaring that the powers of the federating units and their relationship to the centre were negotiable, once the principle of federalism was accepted. Indivisibility of the Republic was emphatically articulated, self-determination in its external aspect being firmly ruled out.

There was no reciprocity, however. Mr. Sarath Muttettuwegama, administering a sharp rebuke, declared: “Federalism has become something of a dirty word in the southern parts of this country”. The last opportunity to halt the inexorable march of events was spurned.

The pushback came briskly, and with singular ferocity. This was in the form of the Vaddukoddai Resolution adopted by the Tamil United Liberation Front at its first national convention held on 14 May, 1976. The historic significance of this document is that it set out, for the first time, in the most unambiguous terms, the blueprint for an independent state for the Tamil nation, embracing the merged Northern and Eastern Provinces. The second part of the Resolution contained the nucleus of Tamil Eelam, its scope extending beyond the shores of the Island. The state of Tamil Eelam was to be home not only to the people of the Northern and Eastern Provinces, but to “all Tamil-speaking people living in any part of Ceylon and to Tamils of Eelam origin living in any part of the world who may opt for citizenship of Tamil Eelam”.

The most discouraging element of this sequence of events was the timid and evasive approach adopted by prominent actors at crucial moments. The District Development Councils Act of 1980 presented a unique opportunity. Disappointingly, however, the Presidential Commission, presided over by Mr. Victor Tennekoon QC, a former Chief Justice and Attorney General, lacked the courage even to interpret the terms of reference as permitting allusion to the ethnic conflict. Despite the persevering efforts of Professor A.J. Wilson, son-in-law of Mr. Chelvanayakam, and a confidant of President J.R. Jayewardene, and Dr. Neelan Tiruchelvam, the majority of the members were inclined to adopt a narrow, technical interpretation of the terms of reference. The setting of the legislation was one in which Tamil formations, such as the Tamil United Liberation Front, were struggling to maintain their moderate postures in an increasingly polarised environment, with pressure from radical elements proving almost irresistible.

The whole initiative paled into insignificance in comparison with a series of tragic events, including the burning of the Jaffna library during the run-up to the District Development Council elections in the North and the calamitous events of Black July 1983. Policymakers, at a critical juncture, had, once again, let a limited opportunity slip through their fingers.

The next intervention occurred in the sunset years of the United National Party administration. This was the Parliamentary Select Committee on the ethnic conflict, known after its Chairman as the Mangala Moonesinghe Committee, appointed in August, 1991.

The Majority Report made a detailed proposal which was intended to serve as the basis of a compromise between two schools of thought—one stoutly resisting any idea of merger of the Northern and Eastern Provinces, and the other demanding such merger as the indispensable basis of a viable solution. An imaginative via media was the concept of the Apex Council, which formed the centrepiece of the Majority Report. It adopted as a point of departure two separate Provincial Councils for the North and the East. This dichotomy would characterise the provincial executive as well: each Provincial Council would have an Executive Minister as the head of the Board of Ministers. However, over and above these, the two Provincial Councils together would constitute a Regional Council for the entire North-East region. Although presenting several features of interest, as a pragmatic mediating mechanism, the proposal did not enjoy a sufficiently broad support base for implementation. (To be concluded)

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Procurement cuts, rising burn rates and shipment delays deepen energy threat

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Norochcholai power plant

Coal crisis far worse than first feared

Sri Lanka’s coal supply crisis is significantly deeper than previously understood, with senior engineers and energy analysts warning that a dangerous combination of reduced procurement volumes, rising coal consumption and shipment delays could place national power generation at serious risk.

Information reviewed by The Island shows that Lanka Coal Company (LCC) had originally planned to secure 2.32 million metric tons of coal for the relevant supply period to meet generation requirements at the Lakvijaya coal power complex.

Following procurement discussions, the final arrangement was to obtain 840,000 metric tons from Potencia, including a 10 percent optional quantity, and 1.5 million metric tons from Trident, equivalent to 25 vessels.

However, subsequent decisions resulted in the cancellation of four Potencia shipments, reducing that supplier’s volume to 627,000 metric tons. This brought the total expected procurement down to 2.16 million metric tons, creating an immediate 160,000 metric ton deficit, even before operational demand is considered.

“This is a major shortfall in any generation planning model,” a senior engineer familiar with coal operations said. “When stocks are planned to the margin, a reduction of this scale can have serious consequences.”

Power sector sources said the deficit becomes more critical because coal consumption rates have increased by more than 10 percent, meaning larger volumes are now required to generate the same electricity output.

“In simple terms, the system is burning more coal for less efficiency,” an energy analyst told The Island. “That means the real shortage may be substantially larger than the paper shortage.”

Experts attributed the higher burn rate to ageing equipment, maintenance constraints and operating inefficiencies at the Norochcholai plant.

A third concern has now emerged in the form of shipment delays and possible unloading constraints, raising fears that even contracted supplies may not arrive in time to maintain safe reserve levels.

“If vessel schedules slip or unloading is disrupted, stocks can fall very quickly,” another senior engineer warned. “At that point, the country has little choice but to shift to costly thermal oil generation.”

Such a move would sharply increase electricity generation costs and place additional pressure on public finances.

Analysts said the convergence of three separate risks — procurement reductions, higher-than-expected consumption and delivery uncertainty — had created a serious energy planning challenge.

“This is no longer a routine procurement issue,” one industry observer said. “It has become a national power security issue.”

Calls are growing for authorities to disclose current coal inventories, incoming vessel schedules and contingency measures to reassure the public and industry.

With electricity demand expected to remain high and hydro resources dependent on rainfall, engineers caution that delays in addressing the coal gap could expose the country to avoidable supply disruptions in the months ahead.

By Ifham Nizam

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Lake Gregory boat accidents: Need to regulate water adventure tourism

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Gregory’s Lake

LETTER

The capsizing of two boats in Lake Gregory on 19 April was merely an isolated incident. It has come as a stark and urgent warning that a far more serious tragedy is imminent unless decisive action is taken without delay.

Mayor of Nuwara Eliya, Upali Wanigasekera has publicly stated that stringent measures have been introduced to prevent similar occurrences. However, it must be noted that such measures are unlikely to yield meaningful results in the absence of a comprehensive regulatory framework governing Inland Water Adventure Tourism (IWAT) in Sri Lanka.

For decades, this sector has operated without any regulation. Despite repeated calls for reform, there remains no structured legal mechanism to oversee operational standards, safety compliance, or accountability. Consequently, there is chaos particularly in critical operational aspects of this otherwise vital tourism segment.

The situation in Lake Gregory is not unique. Other prominent inland tourism destinations, such as Kitulgala and Madu Ganga, face similar risks. Without urgent intervention, it is only a matter of time before a major calamity occurs, placing both local and foreign tourists in grave danger.

At present, there appear to be no enforceable legal requirements governing:

*  The fitness for navigation of vessels

*  Mandatory safety standards and equipment

*  Certification and competency of boat operators

The display of permits issued by local authorities is often misleading. These permits function merely as revenue licences and should not be misconstrued as certification of compliance with safety or technical standards.

Furthermore, local authorities themselves appear constrained. The Nuwara Eliya Mayor is reportedly limited in his ability to enforce meaningful improvements due to the absence of legal backing. Compounding this issue is the proliferation of unauthorised operators at Lake Gregory, functioning with minimal oversight.

Disturbingly, there are credible concerns that some boat operators function under the influence of intoxicants, while enforcement authorities appear to maintain a lackadaisical stance. The parallels with the unregulated private transport sector are both evident and alarming.

In the absence of a proper legal framework, any victims of such incidents are left with no recourse but to pursue lengthy and uncertain claims under common law against individual operators.

The Minister of Tourism, this situation demands your immediate and personal intervention.

A robust regulatory framework for Inland Water Adventure Tourism must be urgently introduced and enforced. This should include licensing standards, safety regulations, operator certification, regular inspections, and strict penalties for non-compliance.

Failure to act now will not only endanger lives but also severely damage Sri Lanka’s reputation as a safe and responsible tourist destination.

The time for incremental measures has passed. What is required is decisive policy action.

Athula Ranasinghe
Public-Spirited Citizen

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