Policy stability is the lifeblood of economic growth. It gives businesses the confidence to invest, industries the clarity to expand, and citizens the assurance that development will follow a steady course. In Sri Lanka, however, that sense of continuity has rarely survived a change of government. Each new administration seems determined to rewrite the national script, dismantling the policies of its predecessor and launching its own, often without the time or discipline to see them through.
The result is a nation caught in perpetual transition. Economic strategies begin with enthusiasm and end in abandonment. Long-term plans fade before their benefits can be measured. Instead of evolution, Sri Lanka has suffered from disruption disguised as reform.
The country’s tax system is a case study in this dysfunction. One government cuts taxes to stimulate consumption, the next reinstates them to restore lost revenue, and another introduces entirely new levies to satisfy fiscal targets. None of these measures are inherently wrong; the failure is in the absence of continuity. Businesses cannot plan, foreign investors hesitate, and local entrepreneurs are forced to adjust their models every few years to survive policy swings.
Energy, agriculture, and education follow the same pattern. An administration prioritises solar and wind, then its successor reverts to coal and diesel, claiming cost efficiency. Fertiliser subsidies are introduced, removed, and then partially restored. School curricula and university admission policies shift with every ministerial appointment. These are not adjustments guided by data but abrupt changes driven by politics.
Each reversal carries a price. Investors measure risk by uncertainty, and Sri Lanka’s political landscape has made uncertainty a constant. Infrastructure projects are delayed as new governments review old contracts. International lenders demand fresh feasibility studies. Ministries reorganise, merge, and split again, leaving civil servants confused and responsibilities blurred. A country that once spoke proudly of five-year development plans now operates on a five-month attention span.
This inconsistency has weakened institutions and drained public confidence. Policy should outlive politics, yet in Sri Lanka it rarely survives a parliamentary term. Civil servants learn to wait out governments rather than implement their programmes. Businesses prefer short-term gains to long-term commitments. Citizens watch new slogans replace old ones while their daily realities remain unchanged.
What Sri Lanka needs is not a miracle of leadership but a pact of discipline. Political parties must learn to protect certain national priorities from partisan interference, whether in taxation, education, or energy. A small island with limited resources cannot afford to start over every election cycle. National planning should be insulated from political vanity and tied to measurable outcomes, reviewed for improvement rather than discarded for difference.
Countries that escaped similar cycles did so by creating institutions stronger than politics. Singapore’s civil service, Vietnam’s economic commissions, and Mauritius’s investment boards ensured that change meant refinement, not reversal. Sri Lanka has the expertise and administrative structure to do the same, but it requires humility from those in power, the willingness to continue what works, even if credit belongs to a rival.
The greatest obstacle to progress is not the lack of ideas but the refusal to let them mature. Sri Lanka’s story is filled with interrupted beginnings. Until governments learn to build upon rather than replace one another’s work, development will remain a revolving door, spinning, noisy, and forever stationary.