Recharged and discharged, Ranil Wickremesinghe’s exit from the Intensive Care Unit of the National Hospital of Sri Lanka last Friday (29) was far less dramatic than the commotion surrounding his hurried admission there just hours after being remanded by the Magistrate’s Court a week earlier. Yet, as always with Wickremesinghe, there was method in the apparent quietude. The master tactician appears to have used those five days in hospital not merely for convalescence, but for recalibration.
The image he staged on departure, of a frail man clutching a book titled ‘Unleashed,’ its cover deliberately angled for the waiting cameras, was pure Wickremesinghe: subtle, ironic, and yet unmistakable. It was a reminder that, though bruised and battered, he remains a calculating force in Sri Lankan politics. Still Leader of the once-mighty United National Party (UNP), Wickremesinghe is expected to make his first public statement since his arrest on Saturday (6 September). The country waits, knowing that when Wickremesinghe speaks, he rarely does so without an agenda.
Wickremesinghe’s predicament today must be viewed through the longer arc of Sri Lanka’s unresolved past. He, along with other mainstream party leaders, is now confronted by the irony of being hounded by a regime led by the very movement whose violent past they once chose to ignore. Consequently, the National People’s Power (NPP), the latest political incarnation of the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP), has now donned the garb of moral crusaders against corruption. To add insult to injury, most of the arrests being carried out these days happen to be under the Public Property Act, the very same law that was introduced in the ’80s to counter the JVP’s destruction of public property.
To the discredit of leaders’ past, Sri Lanka never conducted a proper reckoning with that dark chapter. There was no full accounting of the murders, the extortion, the destruction of property, or the silencing of dissent that characterised armed insurrections. Instead, successive governments opted for expedience: co-opt the JVP and, by doing so, shield it from scrutiny. This bargain bought short-term gain but at the cost of justice and truth.
Now, as the ‘Red Brigade’ recasts itself as a paragon of virtue, leading the charge against financial mismanagement, one cannot help but notice the irony. Can a movement with so much unaccounted for truly claim the moral high ground? Can it demand accountability for the misuse of State funds while refusing to acknowledge the human and economic wreckage it once unleashed? These questions will only grow louder if the newly energised Opposition seizes the opportunity to demand accountability for past sins in the name of equitable justice.
The Government, once lauded for ushering in a new era of politics, now faces the uncomfortable question of whether it is losing the plot. The weaponisation of justice, a strategy designed to project strength, has instead revealed weakness. The circumstances of Wickremesinghe’s arrest highlight a troubling pattern. The Police failed to verify the authenticity of the document at the centre of the case – an official invitation from a British university – before hauling him before court. As far as public perception is concerned, such a half-baked process reeks less of justice and more of political victimisation.
It is a given that no individual – not even a former executive president – should be above the law. But the process of justice, if it is to earn the respect of the people, must not only be impartial but also be seen to be impartial. Sauce for the goose must also be sauce for the gander. When Opposition figures are pursued with vigour while Government insiders with graver allegations remain untouched, the entire edifice of the anti-corruption drive collapses under the weight of hypocrisy.
The NPP cannot afford this double standard. If it is serious about cleaning up politics, it must begin at home. That means allowing the law to question those within the Government against whom the Mt. Lavinia Magistrate has already issued notice. It means releasing, without delay, the findings of the inquiry into the mysterious release of 323 containers. It means demanding accountability from ministers accused of conflicts of interest, corruption, or worse.
Consider the Energy Minister: previously convicted of fraud, he is now alleged to have manipulated coal tender guidelines to the point that the Chairman of the Lanka Coal Company resigned. Or the Deputy Minister of Defence, whose name has reportedly surfaced in connection with the still unresolved Easter Sunday tragedy. Can a Government that shields such figures lecture others on accountability?
The regime’s backpedalling on transparency only deepens the crisis of trust. When a Right to Information (RTI) request sought details of staff employed by the Presidential Secretariat, the application was summarily rejected despite the fact that an identical request, made during Wickremesinghe’s presidency, had been granted. Indeed, it was none other than the current President, then in Opposition, who triumphantly read that list in Parliament. How can what was good then be bad now?
The same excuse-making has surfaced regarding presidential travel expenses. An RTI application submitted on 4 August was rejected on the grounds of “national security,” citing Section 5(1)(b)(i) of the RTI Act. Citizens were told that revealing the President’s travel costs could somehow endanger his safety. Wickremesinghe too could have hidden behind such excuses but did not. Transparency, once a weapon wielded by the NPP in Opposition, now seems an inconvenience.
Meanwhile, the grand promise that powered the NPP’s rise, the abolition of the executive presidency, has all but vanished from the national conversation. Instead of dismantling the all-powerful office, the regime seems increasingly enamoured with its perks. For voters, it’s betrayal all over again.
What all this has led to is the Opposition’s rediscovered sense of unity. Opposition Leader Sajith Premadasa’s unconditional support for Wickremesinghe was not just politically savvy but necessary for survival. Whether Wickremesinghe would have extended the same courtesy had the roles been reversed is a matter of speculation, but now the burden lies with him. As senior statesman, he must rise above personal grudges and rally his diminished party behind Premadasa, recognising that unity is the only antidote to the Government’s 159-member parliamentary juggernaut. For Premadasa, the challenge is to seize the moment and institutionalise it. Unity must not be a temporary truce born of shared grievance but a durable coalition forged around shared principles. Only then can the Opposition provide the formidable check the Government needs to honour its pledges.
The Wickremesinghe saga has also delivered an unintended consequence: hyper-vigilance. Every move of the NPP’s 159 MPs is now under public scrutiny, smartphones at the ready to document misuse of privilege or abuse of power. The Government, still in the infancy of its term, finds itself under a level of surveillance usually reserved for regimes in their twilight. This is the collateral damage of repression. The Government, if it wishes to salvage credibility, must recalibrate. It must prove that justice is not a weapon but a principle; that transparency is not selective but universal; that promises, especially ones as fundamental as abolishing the executive presidency, are not campaign gimmicks but commitments to be honoured.
As for the Opposition, this is a test of discipline and imagination. If unity holds, the regime will face a credible challenge to its authority. If it fractures, the NPP will be emboldened to intensify repression. Ultimately, the lesson of these turbulent weeks is simple: politics is unforgiving of hypocrisy. A Government that rose on the promise of change cannot afford to mirror the sins of its predecessors. Nor can an Opposition that once turned a blind eye to violence and injustice claim moral superiority without reckoning with its past.
The book Wickremesinghe brandished bore the title ‘Unleashed.’ In truth, what has been unleashed is not merely one man’s political comeback, but a broader reckoning with the contradictions that define Sri Lanka’s political landscape.