The growing fissures within the ruling coalition comprising the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) and its broader political vehicle, the National People’s Power (NPP), are no longer a matter of idle speculation. They have burst into the open with unmistakable clarity, revealing a profound ideological and strategic divergence at the very heart of the administration. Nowhere has this rupture become more evident than in the fallout from the bitter controversy surrounding the proposed education reforms, championed by Prime Minister Harini Amarasuriya.
The Prime Minister’s recent declaration in Parliament that the Opposition need not bring a No-Confidence Motion against her, because she is prepared to “quit and go home” when the people decide that a change is needed, was striking not merely for its candour but for what it revealed about her conception of democratic accountability. It stood in sharp contrast to the rhetoric emanating from other quarters of the ruling coalition, where power is spoken of not as a temporary trust bestowed by the electorate, but as an entitlement to be defended at almost any cost.
This contrast is not incidental. It goes to the very core of the governing philosophy now unfolding before the country. While one strand within the administration appears at least rhetorically committed to democratic consent and the impermanence of power, another speaks a language that is unsettlingly familiar to students of authoritarian politics. When senior figures publicly argue that controlling the Government even with the vast powers of the executive presidency is insufficient, and that what is required is “full control of the State,” alarm bells ought to ring loudly across the political spectrum.
When such assertions are reinforced by threats from party functionaries, including an elected Mayor, who recently claimed that killing “even thousands” could be justified to retain power, these cease to be isolated outbursts and begin to resemble a coherent, if deeply troubling, worldview.
To dismiss such statements as mere bravado or ideological excess would be a grave mistake. Words matter, particularly when they come from those who wield power. History offers no shortage of examples where democracies were eroded not overnight, but incrementally, through a steady normalisation of extremist rhetoric coupled with the gradual hollowing out of independent institutions. The parallels that are now being drawn with one-party states such as North Korea, China, Cuba, or even contemporary Russia may seem exaggerated to some, but they arise not from paranoia, but from observable patterns.
Chief among these patterns is the increasingly brazen blurring of the constitutionally mandated distinction between the government of the day and the permanent institutions of the State. Sri Lanka’s constitutional architecture, flawed though it may be in parts, rests on the fundamental principle that governments are temporary custodians of political power, while the State, embodied in the public service, the Judiciary, and independent commissions, is the enduring custodian of the Republic. This separation exists for a reason. It is meant to ensure that policy is made by elected representatives, but implemented by a professional bureaucracy insulated from partisan interference.
What we are witnessing today is a systematic erosion of that separation. The process of State capture, usually spoken of in theoretical terms, now appears to be well advanced. Party loyalists have already been installed in key positions within the Treasury, the Police, and the Commission to Investigate Allegations of Bribery or Corruption. Now, the Attorney General’s Department, arguably one of the most critical guardians of the rule of law, is perceived to be under sustained pressure to conform to the political priorities of the ruling party.
The failure to appoint an auditor general for nearly eight months has only deepened these concerns. The auditor general is not a ceremonial figure; the office is central to parliamentary oversight of public finance. Its paralysis has had tangible consequences, including the crippling of key parliamentary oversight committees such as COPE and COPA, tasked with scrutinising State expenditure. In an environment where allegations of corruption and financial malpractice have multiplied, the absence of a functioning auditor general is debilitating.
The main Opposition Samagi Jana Balawegaya (SJB) has taken the unusual step of directly alerting the diplomatic community and multilateral institutions to these developments. That such a move was deemed necessary speaks volumes about the gravity of the situation. Their communication points to what many observers have been noting for months: undue pressure on the Attorney General’s Department, attempts to politicise key oversight bodies, and a broader strategy aimed at subordinating independent institutions to the will of the ruling party.
This strategy took a particularly disturbing turn with recent public statements suggesting that the NPP would not hesitate to “hit back” at those it perceives as adversaries, regardless of their social standing or moral authority, whether clad in national dress or saffron robes. Such language, deployed casually and without remorse, is corrosive. It signals a mindset in which dissent is not a democratic necessity, but an enemy to be crushed.
The recent social media campaign targeting Attorney General Parinda Ranasinghe has further intensified these fears. Silent protests outside courts and the Attorney General’s Department, coupled with a barrage of online attacks, have been widely interpreted as part of a coordinated effort to intimidate or discredit the office. The Opposition and sections of civil society have alleged that this campaign is being driven by a network of party operatives, whose task appears to be to apply relentless pressure until compliance is secured.
The Bar Association of Sri Lanka’s intervention in this matter is therefore both timely and significant. Its warning that such social media attacks constitute an unfair interference with the independence of the Attorney General’s office cannot be brushed aside. The attorney general performs a quasi-judicial function, particularly in criminal matters, where decisions to indict or prosecute must be based on evidence, admissibility, and the reasonable prospect of conviction – not on public sentiment or political convenience.
These decisions are subject to judicial review through writs or Fundamental Rights applications. That is the safeguard the Constitution provides. Undermining it through mob pressure or orchestrated campaigns is nothing short of an assault on the rule of law.
The Government’s response to this controversy has been, at best, ambivalent. While the Minister of Justice has stated that there has been no Cabinet discussion regarding the removal or impeachment of the Attorney General, the regime’s conspicuous silence in the face of intensified attacks stands in stark contrast to its vocal outrage when its own members were targeted by social media criticism in the past. This selective indignation has weakened claims of neutrality and reinforced perceptions of tacit approval.
Yet, amid these gathering clouds, there remains a crucial silver lining. Sri Lankans, by and large, cherish their democratic freedoms. The defeat of the Rajapaksa administration in 2015 was not driven solely by economic grievances, but by a collective rejection of corruption, impunity, and the erosion of good governance. History, in this sense, offers both a warning and a lesson.
The current Government was elected on a promise of system change, not State capture. Reforming a corrupt bureaucracy does not require replacing it with a partisan one. Every government since independence has had to work with officials appointed by its predecessors. That is not a flaw in the system; it is a feature designed to ensure continuity and institutional retention. True reform lies in overhauling policies, procedures, and incentives, not in planting loyalists in every strategic post.
Ultimately, the distinction between the State and the Government must be preserved at all costs. A government is a temporary trustee; the State is a permanent institution. Confusing the two, or deliberately collapsing one into the other, is the fastest route to authoritarianism. The rhetoric of ‘capturing the State,’ therefore, betrays a fundamental misunderstanding, or rejection of democratic governance.
These unfolding events have exposed the fault lines between the NPP and the JVP that were long concealed under the rhetoric of unity and change. While the Prime Minister may mock the Opposition’s inability to challenge her administration, it is not the Opposition that ultimately decides a government’s fate: it is the people. And if history is any guide, Sri Lankans are remarkably consistent in their rejection of authoritarianism, no matter how revolutionary its packaging. The joke, the regime may yet discover, was never on the Opposition; it was always on those who mistook power for permanence.