What a government does in silence often tells the public more about its intentions than what it proclaims loudly from podiums. The gazetting of the Protection of the State from Terrorism Bill in mid-December, quietly uploaded to the Ministry of Justice website during the holiday season, is one such revealing moment. It arrives wrapped in the language of reform and modernisation, but burdened by a history of broken promises, procedural cynicism, and a disconcerting continuity with the very law it claims to replace.
For decades, the Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA) of 1979 has stood as one of the most discredited statutes in Sri Lanka’s legal landscape. Enacted as a ‘temporary’ emergency measure, it became a permanent instrument of abuse, enabling arbitrary detention, torture, prolonged incarceration without trial, and the silencing of dissent. It was used not only during the war but also against journalists, activists, and political opponents long after the guns fell silent.
Few laws have carried such moral and institutional baggage. That is why the promise to abolish the PTA ‘lock, stock, and barrel’ was politically potent, especially coming from a regime whose own political lineage includes being at the receiving end of that same law during the insurrection of the late 1980s.
It is against this backdrop that the Protection of the State from Terrorism Bill must be judged – not merely by its text, but by the manner of its birth. A party that campaigned on transparency, accountability, and people-first governance has chosen to unveil one of the most consequential pieces of legislation in recent memory without public announcement, without explanatory briefings, and at a time when Parliament is in recess, institutions are winding down, and public attention is dulled by the festive season.
The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. It was the previous Wickremesinghe administration that first attempted to bring in the new law but stiff opposition, especially from the JVP and human rights groups, compelled it to shelve it. These groups opposed the proposed new law citing ‘vague and overbroad language’ that could be used to stifle dissent. Thereafter a subsequent roadblock was placed by the Supreme Court which reviewed the draft and issued a special determination in order to bypass the requirement for a two-thirds majority in Parliament followed by a national referendum. It is now assumed that these recommendations have been incorporated in the new draft.
But the optics are inescapable. From bilateral agreements with India and China that remain shielded from public scrutiny, to the opaque handling of progress reports on the Easter Sunday investigations, this regime has demonstrated a recurring instinct for concealment when accountability becomes inconvenient. The quiet gazetting of the new anti-terror law fits neatly into this pattern. It raises the uncomfortable question whether this legislation is genuinely a clean break from the PTA, and if so, why it requires such stealth.
To be clear, there is a legitimate case for updating Sri Lanka’s counterterrorism framework. Terrorism has evolved encompassing cyber domains, transnational financing, and attacks on critical infrastructure. Any modern state requires legal tools to respond to such threats. The problem is not the emergence of a new law, but the character of the law being proposed and the political culture within which it is being advanced.
At the heart of the controversy lies the definition of terrorism itself. Despite revisions prompted by Supreme Court determinations, the draft remains worryingly elastic. Section 3 defines terrorism as any intentional act committed for purposes such as provoking terror, intimidating the public, compelling a government or international organisation to act, or violating sovereignty, provided it causes consequences listed elsewhere in the act. Those consequences range from violence against persons to serious damage to property, obstruction of essential services, interference with information systems, and even theft of State property.
On paper, this may appear comprehensive. In practice, it is precisely this breadth that alarms critics. Sri Lanka’s past experience teaches that vague definitions are not neutral; they are invitations to abuse. “Serious damage to property,” “interference with essential services,” or actions aimed at “compelling the Government” are phrases that can be stretched to encompass protests, strikes, and acts of civil disobedience, particularly in moments of political unrest. The Supreme Court has attempted to erect safeguards, clarifying that peaceful protest and advocacy do not constitute terrorism. Yet laws are not enforced by footnotes; they are enforced by institutions with histories, incentives, and biases.
The punishments attached to these offences further underscore the stakes. Life imprisonment, long terms of rigorous incarceration, and massive fines of up to Rs. 20 million place terrorism in the most severe tier of criminality. When such penalties are married to expansive definitions, the margin for injustice widens dramatically.
The Government points, not without justification, to improvements over the PTA. Confessions made to Police officers are generally inadmissible, aligning the law more closely with ordinary criminal procedure and addressing one of the PTA’s most notorious features. Magistrates are required to conduct monthly visits to places of detention. Suspects are guaranteed access to legal counsel from the moment of arrest. Extensions of detention orders now require judicial approval rather than Executive fiat. These are meaningful reforms and they reflect the impact of sustained pressure from civil society, legal professionals, and international actors.
Yet reform is not simply the accumulation of procedural safeguards. It is also about dismantling the architecture of exceptionalism that allows the State to suspend ordinary rights in the name of security. On this front, the new bill remains deeply disturbing. The continued reliance on detention orders, the allowance for military involvement in holding suspects for up to 24 hours, and the President’s sweeping powers to mandate “rehabilitation” programmes for individuals against whom criminal proceedings are suspended all echo the logic of the PTA rather than repudiating it.
Particularly alarming are provisions related to surveillance and digital communications. Section 55, which empowers the State to intercept electronic communications and demand decryption, has drawn sharp criticism from digital rights advocates. In an era where political organising, journalism, and dissent increasingly occur online, such powers, if insufficiently constrained, can become tools of mass surveillance rather than targeted security measures. Once again, the question is not whether the State should have any surveillance capability, but whether the law meaningfully limits how, when, and against whom those powers may be used.
The political context driving the bill’s urgency cannot be ignored. Sri Lanka is under intense pressure to repeal the PTA as part of its commitments under international human rights conventions and as a condition for retaining GSP+ trade concessions from the European Union. The timeline for enactment, with debate scheduled for January 2026 and certification expected shortly thereafter, aligns neatly with these external imperatives. This creates the uncomfortable impression that the repeal of the PTA is being treated less as a moral reckoning with past abuses and more as a transactional necessity.
This is where the Government’s credibility deficit becomes decisive. A regime that has struggled to deliver on its flagship promises, from abolishing the executive presidency to meaningfully reforming governance, is now asking the public to trust that this new law will not be misused. Trust, however, is not generated by assurances; it is earned through conduct. Sneaking a draft anti-terror law through the holiday season is not the conduct of a Government confident in the righteousness of its reforms.
The deepest irony of all is political. A movement that consistently mobilised mass resistance against the PTA, that understood viscerally how such laws can be weaponised against dissent, is now introducing a successor statute that many argue preserves the same coercive core. History has a way of circling back on those who believe power will always remain in friendly hands. Laws written for today’s enemies inevitably become tools against tomorrow’s critics.
Sri Lanka stands at a crossroads familiar from its past. It can choose to genuinely break from the legal authoritarianism that scarred generations, or it can rebrand it with softer language and procedural tweaks. The Protection of the State from Terrorism Bill, as it stands, suggests an unsettling preference for the latter. If the Government is serious about people-first governance, it must pause, widen the space for public consultation, and confront the substantive fears this bill provokes rather than attempting to outpace them through timing and silence.
The present regime must understand that a counterterrorism law that commands legitimacy cannot be smuggled into law; it must be debated, contested, and ultimately owned by the society it governs. Anything less risks repeating the very cycle of mistrust, abuse, and backlash that made the PTA such a lasting stain on Sri Lanka’s democratic conscience.