For many Sri Lankans, Cyclone Ditwah already feels like yesterday’s news. Another disaster filed away in the collective memory, mentioned briefly in passing conversations before daily life resumes as if nothing happened. This national habit of moving on quickly is often treated with humour, even pride. We tell ourselves we are resilient, that we endure and survive. Yet, beneath this easy optimism lies a dangerous flaw. Our ability to forget is also our greatest weakness.
Sri Lanka is not a country occasionally struck by extreme weather. It is a tropical island shaped by it. The biannual monsoon seasons are not anomalies but certainties. What has changed, and changed dramatically, is their intensity and unpredictability. Rainfall volumes have increased sharply over the past two decades. Landslides, floods, and earth slips are no longer rare events but recurring threats. Each year the damage grows heavier, the losses deeper, the warnings louder.
The traditional rhythm of our climate has been disrupted. The South-West monsoon once arrived between May and September, and the North-East monsoon between November and February, with predictable inter-monsoon periods in between. Today, those patterns no longer hold. Rains arrive early or late, linger longer than expected, or unleash destruction on a scale few anticipated. The devastation caused by recent weather events is no longer within historical norms.
Why this shift has occurred cannot be fully examined in one editorial. Climate change is a central factor, but it is not the only one. High population density on a small island, unchecked construction, the destruction of wetlands, and encroachment into protected forests have all weakened natural buffers that once absorbed heavy rainfall. These realities have been documented repeatedly by scientists, environmentalists, and disaster management experts. Reports have been written, warnings issued, recommendations submitted. What has been missing is sustained political will.
Nonetheless, the most damning feature of every recent disaster is not the force of nature but our lack of preparedness. Time and again, Sri Lanka has been caught reacting rather than anticipating. Emergency responses come after homes are destroyed, roads collapse, and lives are lost. Relief arrives after suffering has already occurred. This cycle repeats with grim regularity.
This failure is even more troubling when viewed in a regional context. Sri Lanka is not alone in facing extreme weather. South Asia is one of the most disaster-prone regions in the world. Yet, several neighbouring countries, despite economic constraints of their own, have invested steadily in preparedness and resilience.
India has built advanced forecasting capabilities through its meteorological department, coupled with satellite monitoring and large-scale disaster risk-mitigation projects. Bangladesh has become a global example in community-based cyclone preparedness, saving countless lives through early warnings, shelters, and public education. Nepal has developed effective early warning systems for floods and landslides, often integrating local communities into monitoring efforts. Bhutan, while smaller in scale, has prioritised climate resilience through strong hydrometeorological services and careful environmental management.
Sri Lanka cannot claim ignorance when these examples exist next door. Nor can it claim isolation. Regional mechanisms such as the SAARC Disaster Management Centre exist precisely to share data, training, and best practices. When neighbouring countries issue warnings that affect the region, they are not distant alerts to be politely acknowledged and ignored. They are urgent signals demanding immediate action.
The lingering instability in the central hills following Cyclone Ditwah is a case in point. Landslide red warnings continue to be issued. Slopes remain saturated, soils weakened, lives at risk. Yet, public attention has already shifted elsewhere. This complacency is not merely careless. It is deadly.
Disaster management is not about dramatic rescue operations after the fact. It is about preparation, coordination, and prevention. It requires investment in early warning systems, land-use planning, enforcement of environmental regulations, and cooperation beyond our borders. Above all, it requires a change in mindset.
Sri Lanka must abandon the illusion that survival equals preparedness. Endurance alone is not a strategy. Each storm we forget becomes the next tragedy we fail to prevent. Action must come before disaster, not after it. If Cyclone Ditwah teaches us nothing, then the real danger is not the next storm, but our refusal to learn.