This week, the politics of Governors began with a letter. A letter written by the Western Province (WP) Governor, Hanif Yusoof to President Anura Kumara Dissanayake. Yusoof was among the first high-profile appointments of the National People's Power (NPP) Government, soon after the President took office. A powerful businessman. A trusted hand. At this point, one is reminded of former Roman Emperor Augustus/Octavian, the ruler who transformed a fragile Roman order into an empire. Before his death in Anno Domini 14, he famously reflected: "I found Rome a City of bricks and left it a City of marble." A sentence of power. Also, of responsibility. But, Yusoof is leaving, having transformed nothing. No marble. Not even a polished brick. The WP remains precisely as he found it, perhaps slightly dustier. Sri Lanka, of course, is not Rome. Nor is President Dissanayake an emperor. Yet, the comparison lingers for a reason. A leader may possess vision. Even political will. But, a vision survives only through those entrusted to govern. When the commanders falter, the promise weakens. Yusoof's letter raises precisely that question. And perhaps no institution captures this tension better than Sri Lanka's Provincial Council (PC) system and the office of the Governor.
A Governor’s exit and an unfinished promise
According to his letter dated 17 May, Yusoof had already informed the President of his willingness to remain in office only until a suitable successor is found. He also made another point. Perhaps the more revealing one. His real ambition, he says, is to attract direct investment to Sri Lanka as a volunteer adviser to the President. Fair enough. One is reminded here of Greek philosopher Socrates: "I know one thing; that I know nothing." There is quiet wisdom in recognising where one truly belongs. Governance may not be his preferred room. Boardrooms may suit him better. This is not a personal criticism of Yusoof. Not at all. The issue lies elsewhere. The office of the Governor is not the same as chairing a multinational enterprise. Provincial governance is slower. Political. Sometimes, painfully so. It demands patience with institutions, bureaucratic labyrinths, local tensions, and constitutional sensitivities. The PC system, for all its considerable flaws, remains an integral pillar of Sri Lanka's governance architecture. It is not a laboratory for administrative experiments. If there was an error, perhaps it was not Yusoof accepting the appointment. Perhaps it was the appointment itself.
The PC in political limbo
Today, the PC system is Sri Lanka's most fragile layer of governance. A structure built on quicksand. Because of this, Governors carry an enormous responsibility. They must hold the ground without shattering public trust. Most lovers of democracy already know that PC Elections have vanished into thin air. And here lies the quiet arithmetic of power. If Elections cannot be won, it is always more convenient for a President to keep compliant Governors in place rather than risk the verdict of voters. Perhaps the NPP Government, including the President himself, is intimately acquainted with that old English proverb: "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't." The PC system was designed create local politicians. To transform them into capable regional leaders who could govern their own backyards. Instead, the Governor has been forced into the role of an unwilling all-rounder. Playing every position on the field. Batting, bowling, and keeping wicket simultaneously. The collapse happened in slow motion. The very first PC to dissolve after its term expired was the Eastern Province. That was exactly eight years, seven months, and 23 days ago. The final domino fell when the Uva Province term automatically expired six years, seven months, and 11 days ago. No elected political authority exists there now. Only the Chairperson remains a solitary figure in an empty room. The other seven Provinces suffered the exact same fate. This massive institutional vacuum must now be managed almost entirely by Governors.
Sri Lanka is a devolved State. The 13th Amendment to the Constitution made it so. Some may refuse to accept this reality, but, refusal does not rewrite constitutional truth. This is precisely why the office of the Governor carries significance far beyond ceremonial duty. As some constitutional experts have observed, this moment provides a valuable window through which to understand the true importance of the Governor’s role: “A Governor is not a ruler. He is a reminder that the Centre is watching, and the region is waiting.” Every Executive President has treated the Governor's office as a personal lever. An instrument of reach. A way to govern Provinces without governing them honestly. The paradox is almost elegant in its cruelty. When the ruling party controls the Province, the Governor becomes a rubber stamp dressed in authority. The Provincial administration must then choose to fall in line with Colombo, or commit political suicide. That is not devolution. That is the architecture of control, wearing devolution as its costume.
The constitutional weight
The constitutional blueprint is worth examining. The office of the Governor is no ceremonial perch. It is a legal fortress, anchored within Article 154B of the 13th Amendment. Under Article 154B (2), a Governor is appointed by the President via a direct warrant. The paper promises a five-year term. The reality is far more precarious. The same Article explicitly notes that a Governor holds office purely "during the pleasure of the President." A fragile tenure. A title that can be stripped away at any given moment, without cause, without ceremony, without so much as a farewell letter, though apparently, some Governors write their own. This makes the Governor the ultimate proxy. The Executive Head of the Province. A direct extension of the Head of State, wielding sweeping powers across the Legislative, Executive, and financial landscape. No statute passed by a PC can breathe life without the Governor's explicit assent. In short, he/she is the landlord. Everyone else is a tenant.
From constitutional guardians to political appointees
The inaugural architect of this system was Junius Richard Jayawardene. As the first Executive President wielding the power of appointment, he set a baseline born entirely out of a Presidential wish list. For the WP, the engine of the State, he chose elite intellect, appointing the freshly retired Chief Justice, Suppiah Sharvananda. For the rest of the country, he drew from a well of seasoned political stalwarts like Dingiri Banda Wijetunga, Edwin Loku Bandara Hurulle, Prema Chandra Imbulana, and Dingiri Banda Welagedera, all United National Party veterans who held the absolute trust of the Centre. The sole exception from the administrative sector was Gamini Vijaya Parakrama Samarasinghe, a highly reputed retired bureaucrat. But, the temporarily merged North and East demanded a different calculus altogether. Facing a volatile security landscape, the President bypassed politicians and sent General Ganegoda Appuhamelage Don Granville Nalin Seneviratne, a commander who arrived carrying the heavy burden of regional security in his briefcase to oversee a historic Provincial Cabinet of Ministers that included figures like Dr. Dayan Jayatilleka under Chief Minister Annamalai Varadaraja Perumal. Had Jayewardene chosen a Governor native to that fragile region back then, our history might have been written differently. Yet, even in those foundational days, there was no objective criteria or institutional template. Decades later, we are still carrying that exact same baggage forward.
The NPP Government, it appears, has not significantly altered the traditional pattern of Gubernatorial appointments. Retired university dons, former administrative officials, and even business tycoons such as Yusoof populate the list. With Yusoof now willing to step aside, the spotlight may increasingly fall on the performance of the remaining appointees, many of whom still have more than half of their tenure ahead of them.
In this context, returning to Yusoof and his letter, one is reminded of the words of English poet Alfred Tennyson: “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Perhaps the same mercy applies here. Better to have Governed briefly and resigned with grace than to have clung to a chair that never quite fitted. The WP will endure. It always has.
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