- SL’s endless crossover story
When Sri Lankans speak of unforgettable songs in stage drama, one melody almost always returns. Made Lagina Tharawun, sung by the late Donna Mercy Nalini Edirisinghe in Raigama Bulathsinghalage Lucian Perera Bulathsinhala’s celebrated play Tharawun Igillethi. Whenever the subject of Parliamentary crossovers emerge, my mind quietly travels back to that song. You may wonder why. Read the following lines:
“Should I bathe a duck that forever delights in mud? What pearl can one expect from a boar’s tusk?”
There is wisdom hidden inside those simple words. A sadness too. Perhaps, even a warning. The National People’s Power (NPP) Government now plans fresh legislation to prevent Parliamentarians from crossing over. For many Sri Lankan voters, this is not merely a legal issue. It is deeply emotional. Parliamentary crossovers have repeatedly bruised our political history. Most were not acts of conscience. Few protected the public interest. More often, they served ambition, survival, and political convenience. At first glance, many citizens may see little fault in this proposal. After all, it was never hidden.
On 26 May 2026, the Cabinet of Ministers approved the drafting of a white paper for legislation aimed at preventing Parliamentary crossovers. Yet, this promise had arrived much earlier. It appeared clearly in the NPP Election manifesto, A Rich Country – A Beautiful Life. Under the section titled A Proud Life – A Strong Country, the commitment was direct: to introduce stringent laws against corrupt crossovers by MPs and elected representatives. President Anura Kumara Dissanayake repeated the same pledge during both Presidential and Parliamentary Election campaigns. Voters heard it. Voters understood it. Many voted knowing that it was part of the political package. Still, this is where the deeper conversation begins. For beneath the public frustration lies a difficult question. Can democracy completely imprison political judgement? More than two centuries ago, one of the great minds of the Westminster tradition, Edmund Burke, offered an answer that still echoes through Parliamentary democracies. Speaking to the Electors of Bristol, England, in 1774, he famously declared: “Your representative owes you, not his/her industry only, but his/her judgement; and he/she betrays, instead of serving you, if he/she sacrifices it to your opinion.”
Those words still matter. Sri Lanka too, inherited the Westminster Parliamentary tradition. That inheritance carries both freedom and contradiction.
The saloon door of Sri Lankan politics
Anyone observing post-Independence Sri Lankan politics can see one uncomfortable truth. Crossovers helped shape it. Voters may dislike them. They may condemn them. Yet, like an old wound that never fully heals, crossovers remain stitched into the country’s political fabric. One of the central figures in this long and controversial story was Solomon West Ridgeway Dias Bandaranaike. He began as a powerful stalwart of the United National Party (UNP), which formed independent Sri Lanka’s first Government after the 1947 Election. Then came one of the most consequential political departures in modern history.
In 1951, Bandaranaike crossed the floor and founded the Sri Lanka Freedom Party. Five years later, he changed the political map of the country and formed a new Government. Even political bloodlines travelled through crossover politics. In 1951, Don Alwin Rajapaksa crossed with Bandaranaike. Decades later, his son, Percy Mahendra Mahinda Rajapaksa, would rise to lead the same political movement and eventually become both President and Prime Minister. Yet, something changed after 1977. Sri Lankan voters slowly lost faith in the romance of political crossing over. Suspicion replaced admiration. To many, crossovers no longer looked like acts of courage or conscience. They began to resemble transactions. Bargains of power. Exchanges of privilege. Sometimes, whispers of money. The Rajapaksa era gave birth to a memorable political phrase: the saloon dora — the saloon door. Like the swinging doors of an old tavern, politicians moved freely in and out. Anyone could enter. Anyone could leave. Behind the language of political freedom however, stood another reality. The aim was often clear. Weaken the Opposition. Build majorities. Secure power. No crossover symbolised this more dramatically than the move led by Karu Jayasuriya. A large faction crossed to support Mahinda Rajapaksa’s Government, redrawing the political landscape almost overnight. This was not merely political movement. It was political engineering.
The law, the Court, and the dilemma
Yet, the NPP Government’s eagerness to introduce fresh anti-defection laws raises an obvious question. Why repair something already written into the Constitution? Article 99(13)(a) of the Second Republican Constitution already speaks clearly. If an MP resigns from a political party, or is expelled from it, the Parliamentary seat becomes vacant after one month. But, there is an important opening. If the expelled MP challenges the decision before the Supreme Court (SC) within that period and proves the expulsion invalid, the seat survives. This safeguard gradually became a revolving political door. One of the most important legal battles emerged in Rambukwella v. UNP and Others in 2006. When Keheliya Rambukwella and several others crossed over to support Rajapaksa’s Government, the UNP swiftly expelled them. The matter reached the SC.
What followed was a remarkable legal contest. President’s Counsel (PC) Kairshasp Nariman Choksy argued that a political party is, in essence, a private association. Those who join it accept its discipline. Under the proportional representation (PR) system, he argued, voters mainly support the party symbol. Therefore, MPs belong to the party structure.
D.S. Wijesinghe PC offered a very different view. A political party, he argued, is not merely a private club. It functions under statutory law. More importantly, voters do not elect symbols alone. They choose personalities. Faces. Individual appeal. Under PR, an MP also carries a personal mandate. The SC eventually sided with Rambukwella. That judgement opened space for MPs to survive expulsions and retain their seats. Yet, history moved again. Nearly two decades later came another landmark ruling. Zainul Abdeen Nazeer Ahamed v. Sri Lanka Muslim Congress (SLMC) and Others changed the direction of the judicial wind. An MP from Batticaloa, Ahamed defied his Party’s instructions and voted in favour of the Government Budget. The SLMC expelled him. Like many before him, he turned to Article 99(13)(a), hoping that the courts would rescue him. This time, the outcome was different.
The SC unanimously upheld his expulsion. His Parliamentary seat vanished. Seyed Ali Zaheer Moulana replaced him. In many ways, that judgement quietly shut the old saloon door. The Court signalled something important. Political opportunism could no longer hide comfortably behind technical legal arguments. Yet, the larger dilemma remains unresolved. A law that entirely prevents crossovers may create another danger. It may turn MPs into obedient instruments of party leaders. Silent hands raised on command. Political puppets instead of representatives with independent judgement. The NPP, of course, comes from a different political culture. Large internal crossovers have been relatively rare within the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna tradition, though figures such as Weerasangilige Wimal Weerawansa and Masteaga Don Nandana Gunathilake remind us that even disciplined movements are not immune to fractures. Still, there is an old Sinhala saying. When a house is about to burn, no one pauses to ask whether the cotton bag is safe. Perhaps, this legislation is also about the future. Perhaps the NPP Government sees storms ahead and wishes to close the door before political turbulence reaches its own house. And so, we return to the song.
Should one bathe a duck that forever loves the mud?
If the political culture itself refuses to change, laws alone may struggle to deliver miracles. Rules matter. Courts matter. Constitutions matter. But perhaps, the greater need of the hour is something less legal and more difficult. A political culture where MPs respect the trust placed in them. Where mandates are honoured. Where loyalty belongs not merely to party leaders, but to the people who stood patiently in long election queues and believed that their vote still meant something. Otherwise, we may only find ourselves singing the same old song again.
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