• The unrest at the Negombo Prison began much earlier not when it became a national headline
• Why did the system fail in the first place?

 In the late 1960s, an American newsletter popularised a powerful thought often attributed to the great Russian novelist Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky: “The degree of civilisation in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” If we apply that measure to Sri Lanka today, the picture beyond those prison walls is deeply uncomfortable. It is not only a story about inmates, prison officers, or a single tragic incident. It is a story about the state itself, about what it chooses to see, what it chooses to postpone, and what it chooses to forget.

The unrest at the Negombo Prison did not begin on the morning that it became a national headline. It began much earlier. It began inside forgotten files, unanswered recommendations, neglected warnings, and reports that slowly gathered dust. The flames appeared suddenly, but the fuel had been collecting for years. This is how institutional failures often unfold in Sri Lanka. They rarely arrive without warning. They grow quietly in the background until one day they demand attention through a crisis. Then comes the familiar sequence: press conferences, promises, committees, and expressions of concern.

The uncomfortable question remains: why was the same urgency missing when the warning signs first appeared, when solutions were still possible and the cost of action was far lower? Even from the explanation provided by the Justice Minister, attorney Harshana Nanayakkara, to Opposition backbenchers, the familiar pattern emerged: an explanation of what happened rather than a deeper examination of why it happened. There is a difference between explaining an incident and accepting responsibility for a system that allowed such an incident to occur.

A Tamil saying reminds us that a person does not need a mirror to recognise an injury on their own hand. Some wounds are impossible to ignore. The Negombo Prison tragedy is one such wound. It should not be treated simply as an isolated incident. It is a reflection of deeper weaknesses that have existed inside our prison system for decades. Perhaps this moment provides another opportunity to examine the promise of a “beautiful life” and a thriving nation often spoken about by the National People’s Power Government. A fundamental question must be asked: can a country truly become prosperous while its forgotten institutions remain deprived of attention, resources, and reform? A Nation is not defined only by how it responds when a fire breaks out. It is defined by whether it noticed the smoke before the flames appeared.

The fire was sudden, but the fuel was years old

Following the Negombo incident, the response has been rapid. At first glance, it may appear that the system is working exactly as it should. The responsible Minister has accepted political responsibility but has not resigned. The Opposition, including its Leader, continues to demand his resignation. The Prison officer who fired towards inmates from outside the Prison premises has become a subject of public debate, with some attempting to portray his actions as an act of bravery. Meanwhile, the Cabinet of Ministers has announced plans to construct a new Prison complex in the Galle District. A three-member committee has also been appointed to investigate the incident and recommend reforms. From the outside, this may look reassuring. There are statements, investigations, political arguments, and promises of change.

History teaches us to look beyond the immediate reaction. Are we witnessing genuine reform, or are we once again watching the familiar cycle of crisis, outrage, temporary attention, and eventual silence? A committee can investigate a tragedy. A new building can address a physical shortage. A resignation satisfies political demands. But, none of these alone can answer the most important question: why did the system fail in the first place?

When committees become a substitute for reform

Perhaps an old story about Mullah Nasruddin offers a useful lesson. According to the tale, a wealthy governor once prepared a grand feast for the city’s important guests. The palace kitchen was filled with food and activity. But, during the night, a thief entered and stole everything prepared for the celebration. By morning, the palace was in turmoil. The people demanded answers. The governor was furious. Someone had to be blamed. Someone had to show that the authorities were taking action. Under pressure, the chief of police arrested Nasruddin’s young nephew, who happened to have been walking near the palace walls that night. An investigation was announced. The public was told that justice was being delivered. Nasruddin went to the chief of police and asked why the boy had been arrested.

“Does this child have the ability to steal an entire feast?” he questioned. The officer quietly replied: “The governor is angry, and the people want to see action. We need an investigation and someone responsible. Whether he actually committed the crime is another matter. What matters is that the people see the authorities responding.” Nasruddin then walked into the public square and shouted at his nephew:

“You foolish boy! If you ever decide to commit a crime, don’t steal only the food from the kitchen. Steal the entire palace. If you steal the food, they will punish you. But if you steal the palace, perhaps they will appoint you to the committee investigating what happened to the kitchen!” The humour of Nasruddin’s story carries a serious warning. Societies often confuse visible action with meaningful action. The appointment of a committee can create the appearance of movement. Reform begins only when a country is willing to confront uncomfortable truths.

The Negombo tragedy must not become another chapter in Sri Lanka’s familiar cycle: a crisis occurs, public anger rises, committees are appointed, and attention eventually disappears. The real test of reform is not how quickly a system reacts after the walls collapse. The real test is whether it had the wisdom and courage to repair those walls before they fell.

Some may accuse those who question the sustainability of the current reform discussions of being pessimistic. Sri Lanka’s own history provides enough reason for caution. The country has never suffered from a shortage of committees or recommendations on prison reform. Including the committee appointed after the Negombo incident, Sri Lanka has witnessed numerous reform initiatives and expert interventions dealing with prison administration, overcrowding, rehabilitation, prisoner welfare, security, and alternative sentencing. There were reform efforts during the 1990s and 2000s, Justice Ministry-led initiatives, inquiries following the Welikada Prison unrest in 2012, investigations after the Mahara Prison tragedy in 2020, and several expert recommendations over the years. The problem, therefore, is not that Sri Lanka does not understand its prison crisis. The country knows the problems. The reports exist. The recommendations exist.

The world has the answers; SL has the files

The missing ingredient has been the political will and institutional discipline to implement those recommendations before another tragedy forces society to look inside the prison walls. Sri Lanka does not need to invent a completely new prison reform model. The world has already spent decades learning what works and what fails. The United Nations Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners, known as the Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela Rules, provide a globally recognised framework for humane prison management. Named after a man who spent 27 years behind bars, these rules remind the world that prisons are not simply places of punishment; they are institutions where human dignity must survive. Global resources such as the Global Prison Trends report and the World Prison Brief provide extensive evidence on overcrowding, rehabilitation, alternatives to imprisonment, and effective prison management. The Bangkok Rules (United Nations Rules for the Treatment of Women Prisoners and Non-custodial Measures for Women Offenders) provide guidance on the treatment of female prisoners, while international human rights bodies have repeatedly highlighted overcrowding, poor management, and inadequate resources as major challenges facing prison systems worldwide.

The lesson is clear. Sri Lanka does not lack knowledge. It lacks consistency. The country does not need another cycle where every tragedy produces another promise, committee, and forgotten report. There is also another matter that deserves attention: the composition of the committee itself. It reveals a limitation in the way that the problem has been understood. The selection of three members, all from legal backgrounds, suggests that the prison crisis has been viewed primarily as a matter of law, crime, and administration. But, a prison is far more than a legal institution. It is also a social institution. A meaningful reform process requires perspectives beyond legal expertise. Where are the voices of sociologists, political scientists, psychologists, or those who understand the wider social realities that shape crime, punishment, rehabilitation, and reintegration?

Bob Dylan’s “Hurricane”, is a song born out of anger against injustice, wrongful imprisonment, and the failure of institutions to see the human being behind the accusation. Dylan begins with the words, “Here comes the story of the…”, and perhaps every prison has its own unfinished story waiting to be heard. Behind every wall, locked door, there are questions about justice, dignity, and the kind of society that we choose to build. The true measure of a Nation is not only found in how it punishes those who break the law, but in how honestly it confronts its own failures.

The writer is a researcher, elections analyst and civil society advocate specialising in democratic reform and electoral processes. He is the Executive Director of the Institute for Democratic Reforms and Electoral Studies

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The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication