• A personal and intellectual reflection

That fateful May Day in 1993 remains etched in my memory. At noon, I was at the home of my music teacher, the late guru Kandiah Pararajasingham. His house sat just behind the petrol station in Thimbirigasyaya. Around 1.30 p.m., the deafening roar of firecrackers erupted from the junction. We initially thought that a May Day parade was passing by, but then, guru’s landline began to ring incessantly.

"President (Ranasinghe) Premadasa has been killed in a bomb blast".

After that, the phone never rested. Calls flooded in from Jaffna, Melbourne (Australia), India, and Toronto (Canada). Because no one could definitively confirm the death at first, I walked down to the junction. People were hooting, lighting "ali dong" and "thunhulas" crackers in celebration. Understanding the gravity of the moment, I returned home in silence.

I was 31 then, an age where one is brimming with youthful pride and ready to take flight. I told my guru that this death felt like a great relief to me. He looked at me and said, "I however feel a deep sadness for the tragic departure of a man who lived with his feet firmly planted on earth".

Last month (March 2026), I had the opportunity to conduct research for a book being compiled by a professor at the Stanford University in California. My task was to gather information on the service rendered by Premadasa (1989-1993) to the nation’s arts and its artists.

As I dug through various books and documents and spoke with the few elders still alive who knew him closely, I was left in awe. I was amazed at the magnitude of his contribution to the progress of the arts. It dawned on me that the contribution of all other leaders of this country combined could not come close to the impact that he made in this field.

While people hold diverse opinions on the events of his era, and I have my own, I felt that it was my duty to share his commitment to the elevation of art with my countrymen. I write this article on his 33rd death anniversary to commemorate that immense service.

Premadasa firmly believed that true development is not measured by physical infrastructure alone, it requires the nourishment of the human spirit. His philosophy was that a person must be enriched by virtue and a love for the arts. He worked tirelessly to bring cinema, theatre, and music, once reserved for the elite, to the common man.

He hailed from Kehelwatta. Some cruel-tongued politicians used to mockingly call him the "lavariya boy from Kehelwatta". At public gatherings, he would give them a fitting reply: "Yes, it is true. To raise five of us without begging from anyone, that was one of the self-employment ventures that my mother undertook".

Born into a small family in the suburbs, he loved writing poetry, acting in plays, and community work from a young age. He often told his fellow villagers, "One day, when I hold a position in Government, I will extend a hand to artists regardless of their status". From the day that he was elected to Parliament, he dedicated himself to fulfilling that promise.

He took the lead in granting State dignity to street singers, whom society had marginalised as "beggars" by launching a program called Mawathe Geethaya (Song of the Street). He identified talented performers who sang in train carriages and bus stands and gave them a stage at the Gam Udawa festivals. The pinnacle of this effort was securing dedicated airtime for them on national television. It was a revolutionary intervention in our cultural history. Many of these individuals eventually shed the label of "street singer" and became national-level artists.

This program also gave a special place to Tamil and Muslim street singers from the North, East, and the plantations. By singing in both Sinhala and Tamil, they built a cultural bridge between communities. Premadasa ensured that these artists received official State Artist Identity (ID) Cards and financial support. Some were even provided with permanent housing.

The ID card was not just a piece of plastic; it was powerful evidence of "professional dignity" and "State recognition". It gave artists strength when dealing with the Police, banks, or Government offices. Hospitals were instructed to provide them with special care, including free or subsidised access to paying wards during emergencies. When performing in public transport, the card served as a protective shield, proving that they were recognised by the State. He even instructed State banks to accept the ID as collateral for loans and made it the basis for a pension scheme through the Tower Hall Foundation.

Believing that a peaceful mind and body, essential for creativity, required the security of a home, he established the Kalapuraya (Artist's Village) on Templers Road, Mount Lavinia. At its opening, he remarked that an artist is not a recipient of State pity, but one who deserves direct State respect. The Kalapuraya remains the first and largest housing project ever built for artists in this country.

Through the Tower Hall Theatre Foundation Act, No. 1 of 1978, he breathed new life into the Nation's theatre. It was he who renovated the decaying, cobweb-covered Tower Hall, transforming it into a centre for Nurthi and Nadagam. He gave a national stage to vanishing folk plays and local craftsmanship, lifting regional artists to the national spotlight. He introduced a pension scheme for veteran artists and created opportunities for youth to study the craft. This included specific programs to encourage Tamil drama, providing State patronage for productions in both languages.

In his cultural vision, he strove to unite Sinhala, Tamil, and Muslim identities under a common Sri Lankan umbrella. He shared a deep bond with the world-renowned Tamil scholar Professor Karthigesu Sivathamby, whom he called a "living library" of Tamil culture. They discussed at length how the cultural identity of the Tamil people should be recognised nationally. He also maintained close ties with the versatile writer and broadcaster Sillaiyoor Selvarajan and music controller Pararajasingham. These were not mere political associations, but intellectual and cultural exchanges.

Working closely with musicians like Alhaj Kareem Mohideen Baig, he supported the flourishing of the Muslim culture. He provided State funding for the renovation of mosques and cultural centres and sponsored Islamic literary festivals to encourage Arab-Tamil literature and folk arts. His efforts to popularise Islamic devotional songs helped Muslim artists gain high recognition among the Sinhala Buddhist public. He also turned his attention to the traditional Koothu performances of the East, honouring those practitioners as "national artists".

Premadasa was a poet himself, once delivering an anniversary keynote entirely in verse. He authored numerous books and even wrote the story for the film Jeewana Kandulu. He always addressed creators with the respectful term, "My dearest artist".

A powerful theme that emerged from my research was that Premadasa never looked at art through a communal lens. He believed that art could unite all races. He initiated national awards to give value to artistic talent, ensuring that, unlike today, masters from the Sinhala, Tamil, and Muslim communities were equally honoured.

Whatever opinions may exist about him, my research concluded one thing: Premadasa was a character who rendered a monumental service to the progress of the arts.

The writer is a trained linguist and author with over 45 years of experience in translation, technical transcription, and corporate content creation, and expertise in machine translation post-editing

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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