In moments of national tragedy, language matters. Words like ‘rebuilding,’ ‘solidarity,’ and ‘national effort’ carry emotional weight. They appeal to collective memory, shared suffering, and the instinct to help. Yet in Sri Lanka’s long and painful history of disasters, both natural and man-made alike, such language has too often been weaponised to obscure uncomfortable truths.
Given this backdrop, the controversy surrounding the so-called Rebuilding Sri Lanka initiative, launched in the aftermath of Cyclone Ditwah, raises the deeply unsettling question of whether the country is genuinely being rebuilt, or whether it is merely reconstructing the architecture of deception that has haunted its public finances for decades.
At the heart of this controversy lies the simple but devastating revelation that in legal terms, there is no fund called ‘Rebuilding Sri Lanka’. What exists instead is a mechanism through which public donations are routed into the Government’s Consolidated Fund, a vast pool into which all State revenue like taxes, fines, fees, and levies already flows.
Once money enters this pool, it becomes indistinguishable. It cannot be ring-fenced, meaningfully audited for a specific purpose, or traced in a way that allows citizens to know how much was received for a particular disaster and how much was actually spent on relief and reconstruction. This could not have been unknown to the powers that be that initiated the so-called fund. Therefore, in no way can it be termed a technical oversight when in reality it boils down to a fundamental failure of financial governance.
A legally constituted disaster fund is neither novel nor difficult to establish. Sri Lanka already has in place the necessary legislative framework under the Disaster Management Act. Creating a dedicated account, appointing a lawful authority, defining audit mechanisms, and ensuring parliamentary oversight could therefore be accomplished in days, not months. The refusal or reluctance to do so during the past three months since the disaster inevitably raises suspicion. Transparency, after all, is inconvenient to those who prefer discretion over accountability.
The most damning aspect of this episode is not merely administrative confusion but institutional buck-passing. When journalists from BBC News Sinhala had sought clarity through the Right to Information Act, the Ministry of Finance had reportedly disclaimed responsibility for the ‘fund,’ pointing instead to the Presidential Secretariat. The Presidential Secretariat, in turn, conceded that the fund had not been legally established yet, months after public appeals for donations had been launched. Therefore, a fund that exists only in press releases, official announcements, and websites, but not in law, is not a fund for all intents and purposes, and given the dark history with such ‘funds’ in the past, it is bound to raise plenty of red flags.
This contradiction between public messaging and legal reality strikes at the core of democratic and accountable governance. Citizens were encouraged both implicitly and explicitly to donate in good faith, in the expectation that their contributions would be used exclusively for rebuilding communities devastated by Cyclone Ditwah. Yet the State is unable, or unwilling, to provide precise answers to the most basic questions such as how much money was collected, where exactly it is held, who authorises expenditure, and how such expenditure will be audited.
Such opacity is particularly alarming when placed against the scale of the disaster itself. According to estimates by the World Bank, the direct physical damage caused by Cyclone Ditwah amounts to approximately $ 4.1 billion – over Rs. 1.2 trillion. Against this staggering figure, the sums reportedly collected through the Rebuilding Sri Lanka initiative thus far amount to less than 1% of what is required. While the disproportion between need and response is decidedly contrasting, even this modest sum is being obscured by legal ambiguity and administrative fog.
Defenders of the Government argue that intentions matter, that procedural delays are inevitable, and that criticism at such moments undermines national unity. This argument is both familiar and dangerous. Sri Lanka has heard it before, often at moments when scrutiny was most needed. Unity cannot be built on the suspension of accountability. Nor does compassion require silence. On the contrary, the proper handling of public donations demands a higher standard of transparency not only because emotions run high and trust is often fragile, but because this regime, by default, is committed to that higher standard.
Besides, the shadow of history looms heavily over this debate. For many Sri Lankans, any discussion of disaster funds inevitably resurrects memories of the infamous Helping Hambantota episode following the 2004 tsunami. That scandal, centred on a private bank account, became emblematic of how humanitarian catastrophes could be transformed into opportunities for political consolidation and financial impropriety. Although the legal proceedings surrounding that case ended controversially, the damage to public trust was profound and enduring.
It is for this reason that it is important to be precise here. The current Rebuilding Sri Lanka initiative is not identical to Helping Hambantota. There is no evidence that the funds are being mismanaged, nor is there proof of personal enrichment. To conflate the two would be intellectually dishonest. Yet history matters not because it repeats itself, but because it teaches us how patterns emerge. What links these episodes is not the scale of alleged wrongdoing, but the casual disregard for legal form, parliamentary oversight, and public accountability.
Ironically, Sri Lanka demonstrated that a different approach was possible. In the immediate aftermath of the 2004 tsunami, notwithstanding the Helping Hambantota fiasco, then President Chandrika Kumaratunga issued clear instructions prohibiting the opening of multiple or private accounts for disaster relief. All donations were to be channelled into a single, designated account at the People’s Bank, ensuring at least a basic level of traceability and oversight. That directive recognised the simple truth that in times of crisis, clarity is not a luxury but a necessity.
The present controversy suggests that this lesson has been forgotten or deliberately ignored. The confusion surrounding governance structures further deepens concern. Public statements refer alternately to a “management committee” and a “governing board,” each with differing mandates. Initial claims that these bodies possessed authority over fund allocation and expenditure were later diluted in official responses, which now restrict their role to strategic guidance and public relations. This quiet retreat from financial responsibility further raises the question that if no legally empowered body controls the money, who does?
Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the Rebuilding Sri Lanka episode is what it reveals about political culture. This Government came to power promising rupture from what was, not continuity. It pledged to dismantle opaque systems, reject the theatrics of governance, and restore public trust through institutional integrity. Yet the spectacle surrounding this fund, including the glossy website, the corporate-heavy boards, and lofty rhetoric, suggests an unsettling familiarity. It resembles the very governance style that voters were told would be consigned to history.
Disaster response is not a branding exercise. It is not an opportunity for symbolic launches or elite networking, but a test of the state’s moral seriousness. When citizens donate to rebuild homes, schools, and livelihoods, they are not contributing to an abstract national narrative; they are entrusting the state with their compassion. That trust, once broken, is extraordinarily difficult to restore.
The way forward is neither radical nor complex. What is needed is to regularise the fund in accordance with the law, ring-fence all disaster-related donations, and subject the fund to independent auditing and parliamentary oversight. The responsible authority must then publish regular, detailed accounts of income and expenditure. These are not revolutionary demands; they are the minimum requirements of responsible governance. Anything less invites suspicion, cynicism, and disengagement.
Sri Lanka does not merely need to rebuild infrastructure damaged by cyclones and floods; it also desperately needs to rebuild confidence in the institutions that claim to act on behalf of the people. That task begins with honesty. Without it, Rebuilding Sri Lanka risks becoming not a symbol of recovery, but another chapter in a long and dispiriting story of missed opportunities and broken promises.