Just four years later, the date that shook the foundations of Sri Lanka’s political order has slipped quietly into obscurity. It was the night of 31 March 2022 that marked the historic rupture between the governed and those who governed. That anniversary passed last week without even the faintest acknowledgement from the country’s political leadership – no statements, no reflections, and worse, not a word from civil society or the so-called watchdogs that were aplenty, until recently. Silence, in this case, cannot be discounted as mere forgetfulness but be called what it is: avoidance.
That night in Mirihana was unlike anything Sri Lanka had witnessed in its contemporary history. For the first time, ordinary citizens gathered outside the private residence of a sitting Executive President – the most powerful person in the country – and demanded his immediate resignation. This was not a carefully orchestrated protest led by political parties or trade unions; it was spontaneous, raw, and deeply personal. The individuals who turned up that night in Mirihana were not seasoned activists; they were ordinary people, some in their nightclothes, propelled by desperation rather than ideology. Their defiance was directed at a leader widely perceived as both powerful and unassailable, a man whose past as a wartime Secretary of Defence had cultivated an aura of fear and control.
Yet, that night, fear gave way to anger, and anger gave way to courage. What began as a small, almost unremarkable gathering soon ignited a movement that spread with astonishing speed and intensity. Within days and then weeks, it evolved into the mass uprising opposite the Presidential Secretariat at Galle Face that became known as the ‘Aragalaya’. The rest is history. It was, by any measure, a momentous assertion of people’s power. The fact that the entire process was peaceful and devoid of violence served as a textbook case of people’s power which later formed the basis for similar movements in the region.
But if the events of 31 March 2022 demonstrated the capacity of citizens to challenge authority, the years that followed have revealed something far less inspiring: the extraordinary ability of a nation to forget. Sri Lankans are often described as having short memories, but what is unfolding now suggests something deeper – a selective amnesia that conveniently erases not just events, but the reasons those events occurred in the first place.
The ‘Aragalaya’ was not born out of abstract idealism. It was driven by tangible grievances: economic collapse, shortages of essential goods, and, above all, a deep-seated frustration with corruption, waste, and the absence of accountability. The call was not merely for a change of leadership, but for a transformation of the governance system itself. “System change” became the rallying cry – a promise that the old ways of governance, defined by impunity and excess, would be replaced by transparency and responsibility.
It is within this context that we must examine what is taking place today. The political force that arguably benefited the most from that upheaval was the National People’s Power (NPP), which, having ridden the wave of public anger and expectation, now finds itself well entrenched in power. Initially, there was hope – a belief that this new leadership, unburdened by the baggage of its predecessors, would chart a different course. Yet, as time passes, there is a growing sense that history is not being rewritten, but repeated.
Allegations of corruption, waste, and lack of accountability are once again beginning to dominate the public discourse on a regular basis. Scandals are emerging with increasing frequency, raising uncomfortable questions about whether the much-promised system change was ever more than a mere political slogan. To put that in context, not a word has been spoken about the primary promise of abolishing the executive presidency or the introduction of a new constitution. Instead, what is dominating the agenda are scandals of varying sorts, among which the alleged coal procurement irregularities stand out not only for their financial implications but for their potential to trigger a crisis in the power sector – a scenario that evokes troubling parallels with the economic meltdown of 2022.
Compounding these concerns are visible signs of a widening disconnect between those in power and the public they serve. The recent episode involving a senior Cabinet Minister has become a lightning rod for criticism. For years, the current Minister of Agriculture has cultivated an image of personal austerity, even claiming to lack a proper residence and occupying official quarters in Madiwela for over a decade. Yet, images from a religious almsgiving held at his home last week and attended by the highest office-bearers in the land told a very different story.
The residence on display bore all the hallmarks of affluence: modern amenities, solar installations, a piano, and décor far removed from the modest lifestyle that had been publicly professed. If the Minister possessed the residence all along, then he has to face the allegation of being untruthful about having kept residing in the official quarters. If that is not the case, then serious questions arise as to how he came to own such a palatial house after coming into office.
What was intended, perhaps, as a carefully curated display of simplicity of the top leadership sharing a meal has instead triggered a wave of public scepticism. The questions on social media were immediate and pointed. How did such wealth materialise within a relatively short period in office? How does one reconcile claims of past hardship with present opulence? And how is this consistent with the ethos of accountability?
These questions have not remained confined to social media speculation. Reports indicate that formal complaints have been lodged with the relevant authorities, signalling that public unease is beginning to translate into institutional scrutiny. Yet, the issue extends beyond the personal circumstances of a single individual. It speaks to a broader concern about the transparency of those entrusted with power.
The same incident has also reignited debate over the use – or misuse – of State resources. The presence of top leaders at the event, reportedly using official vehicles, has drawn inevitable comparisons to past controversies involving similar allegations, most notably the one involving former President Ranil Wickremesinghe. The details may differ, and the scale of expenditure may not be identical, but the underlying principle remains unchanged. If the misuse of State resources was unacceptable then, it cannot be defensible now. Consistency is the bedrock of credibility, and without it, claims of moral superiority will ring hollow.
Meanwhile, the Government faces a more immediate political test in the form of a no-confidence motion linked to the ongoing coal controversy. The Minister at the centre of this storm is no stranger to allegations, having previously faced legal scrutiny over a similar matter. This places the administration in a difficult position. To remove him would be to acknowledge the seriousness of the accusations and reaffirm a commitment to accountability. To defend him, on the other hand, risks undermining the very principles on which the Government’s legitimacy was built.
Therefore, the matter is not merely a political calculation but a moral one as well. The decision taken will send a clear signal about whether this administration intends to uphold the standards it demanded of others, or whether it is willing to compromise them for the sake of expediency. There is a growing perception that the gap between promise and practice is widening, that the rhetoric of reform is not being matched by tangible action. If left unaddressed, such perceptions can erode public trust with alarming consequences.
History rarely repeats itself in exactly the same way, but it often echoes. The night of 31 March 2022 was not an isolated event; it was the culmination of years of frustration that finally found expression. The ‘Aragalaya’ was a reminder that power in a democracy ultimately resides with the people. It demonstrated that even the most entrenched authority can be challenged when that power is exercised collectively. But it also carried an implicit lesson: that change achieved through protest must be sustained through governance.
Today, as allegations mount and questions multiply, the risk is not just of political fallout, but of a deeper disillusionment. If the promise of system change is perceived to have been betrayed, the consequences may extend far beyond electoral outcomes and may even shape how citizens engage with the political process itself.
Four years on, the memory of that night in Mirihana may be fading, but its significance endures. It stands as both a testament to the power of collective action and a cautionary tale about the fragility of public trust. Whether those in power choose to heed that lesson or continue to ignore it will determine not just their own future, but also the trajectory of the nation.