Eleventh July, twenty twenty-five. At 6.12 a.m., the Indian Ocean was so calm it felt like the world had pressed pause. The sun’s first golden rays had already climbed above the eastern horizon of Trincomalee, but even in Colombo, 270 kilometres away, you could feel warmth seeping into your skin. 

A group of gentlemen in their 60s was jogging, and three sets of Policemen and women were doing their morning drills. A few feet away, a young man and a woman were involved in a deeper conversation on the edge of a wooden seat. 

The Chinese-funded Colombo Port City, a mammoth multi-billion-dollar project initiated during the Rajapaksa era, stands to my right. This ambitious venture, aimed at transforming Colombo into a global financial hub, has faced challenges. 

The International Monetary Fund’s (IMF) veto on tax holidays for the Port City has made it difficult to attract investors without preferential tax treatment and legal cushion. Despite this, the project continues without much fanfare and promise. All I can see now are two silent cranes, a few active small establishments, and a jogging track and promises in the thin air. 

I turned around to see the familiar place. The colonial Galle Face Hotel – a witness to decades of trade, war, romance, and betrayal – still stands proud, sharing the skyline with the Indian giant Taj Samudra. Newer structures, such as the towering ITC Ratnadipa and the Shangri-La, rise into the sky, seemingly symbolising the geopolitical power in play. 

The lone Sri Lankan, still standing tall on the Galle Face green, is the former Prime Minister from 1956-1959, S.W.R.D Bandaranaike. His statue gazed out at the Indian Ocean, as if the ocean itself were speaking to him. 

And then, Galle Face Green – not green anymore. The grass has turned brown, as if it, too, has gone into hiding like many Sri Lankans comfortably in an internal exile. Once vibrant political, social, and sports discourses among friends have dried up, much like village wells in a drought. 

As I walked past the Presidential Secretariat that morning, I noticed four statues standing tall and graciously in the garden before it. Sir John Kotelawala, Dudley Senanayake, D.S. Senanayake, and S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike. Former Prime Ministers, once the architects of dreams, now frozen into a lifeless form, standing in a neat line like champions of the old establishment. They stand there as reminders of what was promised, what was achieved, and what was lost.

The aftermath of the battle 

Exactly three years ago, this same Galle Face Green was not silent. It was a battlefield of ideas and protests. It was a battlefield not of bullets and bombs, but of prayers, slogans, and a people’s raw emotions of trembling hope filled by decades of anger. 

There was plenty of criticism of the uprising as well: a conspiracy, a foreign agenda, and a money-making machine for the leaders of the protest. But most of those who participated in the months-long protest were innocent Sri Lankans. 

Approximately 70 people are still fighting legal battles for their participation in the non-violent uprising, which turned ugly on the streets. But undeniably, the 2022 Galle Face protests changed the way Sri Lankans looked at politics, leadership, and governance. 

Riding the wave, incumbent President Anura Kumara Dissanayake and his party captured political power in 2024, promising a new era of governance led by an anti-corruption drive. If at all, for one thing, the Dissanayake administration delivered on the intensity of the anti-corruption drive. 

Indeed, there is fear amongst Opposition political leaders, bureaucrats, and businesspeople. There is fear among the Government’s political leaders, too, who are shying away from taking responsibility for their own decisions. 

But politics, like the Indian Ocean, is never still for long. Seasoned politicians, with decades of tasting victory and defeat, know this too well. Power is impermanent, and today’s king can be tomorrow’s exile. 

President Dissanayake is no stranger to politics, having not only survived the brutal bloodshed but also played the game of politics both within the party and outside. But when you are the numero uno, it’s a whole different power play. His strength today is not his team but the opposing team. 

The Opposition today is like a broken ship lost at sea, with no compass, no captain, and no wind to fill its sails. Scattered, leaderless, and unable to form even a fragile alliance, they watch helplessly as President Dissanayake’s Government manoeuvres over them. 

With an executive presidency, a two-thirds majority in Parliament, and near-total control over local councils, the administration stands like an unshakable fortress. But when you don’t find your enemy outside, your enemy is within you. If others aren’t challenging you, it is time for you to challenge yourself. 

Open palms, not iron fist 

But power, as history teaches us, always attracts shadows. A few Opposition figures and civil rights groups have begun to murmur against the Dissanayake administration, accusing it of the very sin it vowed to destroy: corruption. 

It is a whisper for now, almost lost in the strong winds of public approval. Yet, these are not empty cries. They are echoes from the past, reminders that no government, no matter how popular, is immune to the pull of temptation. 

The aforesaid is the reason that the Dissanayake administration must face these accusations not with an iron fist, but with open palms through debate, legal proceedings, transparency, and clear, timely communication. When a government invites scrutiny rather than silences it, it does not weaken; it becomes stronger, more rooted in the trust of its people. After all, isn’t integrity the only real currency a government can claim when the economic coins run dry? 

Avoiding hard truths has always been the favourite refuge of failing regimes. But the Dissanayake administration has a choice: to confront these truths head-on and prove itself different, or to slip quietly into the same old shadows. When leaders choose openness, they do not just protect their honour; they protect the fragile faith of thousands who once stood under the burning sun of Galle Face, demanding something better.

Irony of Lankan politics 

Four months ago, the Government’s voice carried a sharp edge of arrogance – the kind of overconfidence that comes when the tides of popularity swell high and wild. 

Today, that voice has shifted. It now carries humility, a quieter tone that understands the weight of governing a country still healing from economic collapse and moral exhaustion. Power, once tasted, reveals its authentic flavour: bitter, heavy, and constantly watched by the ghosts of broken promises.

Interestingly, beneath this new humility lies a surprising continuity. The Dissanayake administration has not torn up the old scripts; it has quietly followed in the footsteps of former President Ranil Wickremesinghe. Policies that once sparked street fires and fiery discourse – the same economic blueprints, the same suffocating tax structures – have been kept alive. 

Public anger that once roared against Wickremesinghe’s economic austerity has softened, perhaps numbed, as Dissanayake continued with the same ‘neck strangling’ taxation. If there is a difference from the Wickremesinghe playbook, the Government has failed miserably to differentiate the change. This is why the upcoming November State Budget is key; it requires the stamp of Dissanayake, novel, pragmatic, and prudent. 

This is the silent irony of Sri Lankan politics: leaders change, slogans shift, but the pain and the suffering of people remain like scars beneath a new leather jacket. The question that hovers over Sri Lanka, over every village and every silent household budgeting their next meal, is whether this continuity is a sign of stability or just another chapter in a long book of betrayals. Will Dissanayake dare to break the cycle? Or will he, too, find comfort in the well-worn corridors of old power?

“Change isn’t easy. It’s slow, it’s uncomfortable, but it’s also possible. The Government is trying too many changes without prioritising the key reforms required to grow the economy, create employment, and unite the country. It’s not about a laundry list of things, but about figuring out important things to move the needle on the country’s growth and show results to the public to increase public trust.

“When you try to do a hundred things simultaneously, achieving anything meaningful is challenging. You need brilliant men, women, and loads of money to sustain change, because there will be a massive resistance to change. It’s like going to war; you need generals and soldiers, the right equipment, and they need to be paid. If you don’t have all of the above but still want to fight a war, you need to pick your battles carefully.

“The bigger the shock to the system abruptly, the more devastating the result can be. The existing system is massively interconnected. It’s a human chain most of the time at the top level, a two-degree separation from anything. When you pull a plug from one end, the lights will go out from the other end.

“That is why every leader who tried to make any sense in the first few months of their rule succumbed to this cobweb. This is why Sri Lanka is hard to read. No one knows how this country works. Sri Lankans defy patterns and logic. That is why it requires prioritising, ruthlessly executing plans, and bringing home results.”

Those were my words on 5 January. Today, they echo louder than ever.

Awakening the bureaucrats 

Now, the wheels of bureaucracy are moving more slowly than ever. President Dissanayake and his senior leadership have finally admitted, again and again, that the bureaucracy is failing them. The public servants are trapped in an internal exile of their own making. They show up at their desks, shuffle papers, and nod through meetings, but their minds are elsewhere, locked in a cell of fear. To them, every signature could mean a lifetime of blame or even a prison cell.

While most senior officials cling to inaction, terrified of consequences, there is another breed: those who thrive in this fog, quietly building their little empires. They expand their control, strengthen their networks, and tighten their grip on decision-making, all while the nation waits.

The above is the paradox: bureaucracy always wins. Without it, no political leader can execute even the simplest of plans. Without their hands, the grandest speeches remain just words echoing into the void.

The Government must urgently focus on real, immediate needs. Solve the crippling shortage of medicines, clear the endless delays in project approvals, resolve food security issues without forgetting the local farmer, maintain law and order by curbing gun violence, reduce the high cost of living, generate employment, and finally spend the capital budgets meant to fuel the economy. 

These are not just policy checkboxes; these are lifelines for a people whose patience is bleeding out. Today, the country is in an unusual calmness, but history teaches us that leaders should read the silence of people with respect. 

In a nation as unpredictable as Sri Lanka, prioritisation is not a luxury. It is the only way to cut through the noise, to deliver results, and to remind the people that change, though slow and uncomfortable, is still possible. But to do that, the leaders must first reach into the hearts of their bureaucrats and awaken them from their silent, internal exile.

A people no longer dreaming aloud

Digital discourses today are as fragile as weak minds. People are silent, but not because they lack opinions. The silence is born from fear, the fear of speaking out without knowing who might be listening, what doors might suddenly close, or what invisible red lines they might unknowingly cross. The virtual spaces that once roared with debates and hashtags now feel like deserted streets, echoing only with cautious, half-whispered thoughts.

Quite a lot of journalists have simply stopped writing. Not always out of fear; sometimes, it’s fatigue, a quiet resignation. Many have found more recognition and perhaps more peace of mind writing elsewhere. They have retreated from the battlefield of Sri Lanka to gentler fields, leaving behind a gaping silence where once there was fiery commentary.

Talk to a psychiatrist in Colombo, Kandy, or Galle, and you will hear the real state of the nation, not in economic data or election results but in the trembling voices of patients. The young, lost between the artificial glow of screens and the crushing weight of parental expectations, are fighting invisible wars. Social media pressures, unrealistic success stories, and constant comparisons have become silent prisons. 

Meanwhile, the old battle their demons: work stress that never leaves their pillow, insomnia, fragile relationships buckling under modern-day demands, the crushing burden of new-age parenting, and an endless race towards ‘commercial success.’ It is a nation of minds under siege.

And what about the entrepreneurs, the dreamers who once built small empires from small rooms, enough to fill two tables? Speak to them today, and they will tell you that running a business in Sri Lanka is like stepping onto a battlefield armed with a kitchen knife while the enemy rains down ballistic missiles with precision targeting. 

Heavy taxation cuts at their spirit, strict labour rules tie their hands, and trade union actions threaten to strangle them at any moment. Profit is no longer a goal; survival itself has become the victory.

Meanwhile, job security hangs by a thread. Fear has seeped into office corridors, factory floors, and even the most humble tea stalls. Unemployment is rising like a slow but steady flood, and underemployment, those silently enduring jobs far beneath their skills, is rising at an alarming rate. 

The truth? This country has not generated meaningful employment numbers since October 2018. That’s seven long years of missed chances, of youth quietly ageing into frustration, of potential slipping through the cracks like water through open fingers.

This is the unspoken Sri Lanka: a country where minds are retreating into internal exile, just like its public servants, just like its brown Galle Face grass. The question that remains is hauntingly simple: how long can a nation survive when its people no longer dare to dream aloud?

Waning hopes 

On Wednesday (9), when US President Donald Trump slapped a 30% tariff on Sri Lanka’s exports to the US, the Dissanayake Government seized the moment to claim a victory. In politics, taking credit even in the face of adversity is understandable. It is an old game: reframe the narrative, turn a setback into a supposed triumph. But let’s look closer.

If a reduction from 44% to 30% is celebrated as a victory, what do we call the anticipated 15% tariff widely believed in the upper echelons of society? Late Wednesday night, business moguls running export ventures received a rude shock: a 30% tariff slap. It was terrible news to them, as only the men and women steering the ship in the stormy seas would know that even the Titanic sank, hitting the iceberg. 

Exporters to the US, who represent about 25% of Sri Lanka’s total exports, had pinned their hopes on the Government’s bold promises. They believed in the possibility of a significant tariff reduction that could have boosted their competitiveness and protected thousands of livelihoods. 

Instead, they now face a heavy blow. They face a rude, forced reality. Any reduction of exports in the short and mid term would adversely affect the logistics industry and allied service providers to exporters. The businesses are highly geared and this exposure for the finance industry requires to be mitigated. 

Among them, the apparel manufacturing sector stands on the frontline of this crisis. This industry alone supports over one million people both directly and indirectly. The fear among them is infinite, almost impossible to measure. A 15% tariff would have already broken their backs, but 30%? It is unbearable. 

Everyone talks about the apparel industry, but many forget the rubber, sea food, spice, and soft toys industries. The rubber industry alone protects 150,000 livelihoods. The voices of the respective industries were quick to point out the grave situation they were in. 

The Government communication regarding this matter is dismal and confusing. Four officials responsible for the negotiation, Suriyapperuma, Weerasinghe, Jayantha, and Hulangamuwa, had contradictory statements to make. Why did they not go full throttle, given that this is a life and death situation not only for the industries but for the country as well? It was public knowledge that Trump wanted the best deal, the final offer before he put the hammer down. Sri Lanka was trying to save the beard when the head was to be chopped off. 

The pushback continues, but this is not a private sector play. This is a Government-to-Government negotiation. The apparel sector dominated the narrative, but it was not about a particular industry; it was about protecting the interest of all Sri Lankan businesses. 

For weeks, the US Trade Representative (USTR) team was in India for negotiations and the chances are high that India will strike a better deal than Vietnam. The industry leadership is aware that if India and Vietnam have better deals, Sri Lanka’s struggle will be more than a struggle. These are livelihoods, years of passion for building businesses; these are people who trusted the land of their birth. The fear is crippling everyone alike. 

The years of work to negotiate and implement Free Trade Agreements (FTAs) with friendly countries were scuttled, sabotaged, and toppled by successful Opposition camps; now it’s the turn of the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) to look beyond the protest songs and amplified fiery speeches to the benches. 

Hope is slowly waning, as next year’s GDP growth forecast is sub 3.5% and the Government continuously promises to exit the current IMF agreement by 2027. 

When hope is replaced with fear, a nation begins to wither from within. The Government must understand that ruling by fear, jealousy, or empty slogans cannot carry a country forward. 

Hope is the form of the hour. The people need it like water in a drought. Political leaders, whether seated in the Government or shouting from Opposition benches, must set aside their petty rivalries and come together to heal the deep wounds in society. 

A human moment, not a political one 

The Government consists of more than 20 ministers, and their achievements are hardly known in the public domain. Except for a few ministers, everyone is hiding under President Dissanayake’s personal popularity. Holding a Cabinet ministerial position is a serious job in Sri Lanka and it has nothing to do with fluency in the Queen’s language, university degrees, and family background. 

There were plenty of political leaders emerging from the shadows of rural Sri Lanka, only armed with common sense and purpose. They were with people and worked for the people. Some died poor and some died rich, some made money out of politics and some went bankrupt due to politics. The current day Cabinet ministers need to stand up and work for the people tirelessly and nearly eight months after their election, it’s futile to blame the ills of the previous establishment. 

They must speak to people in a language that recognises their daily struggles: the mother deciding between medicine and milk, the young man debating whether to leave the country for a cleaner future, the small business owner wondering how many more months she can keep the shutters open. Empathy is not about soundbites; it is about kindness and truth. 

Internal exile is everywhere. The brain drain is taking place again. There is a multi-fold increase in placements for overseas education and for work visas. The advertisements for migration are on the increase. Ponzi online lending apps are in high demand; every bank’s and non-banking finance company’s pawning (gold-backed loans) facilities are raking in profits. 

With parate execution in force now, once prospering business owners are now living in fear and not all of them were wilful defaulters. It’s futile to teach them about the importance of parate execution to protect the banking system. Every time a bank glorifies profits, it creates envy among the people who suffer in the hands of the same system. 

Corporate executives, even at the senior-most level, are fighting a battle for survival. On one hand, they need to motivate themselves, and on the other, they are required to motivate and lead a group of people for results. Ask any senior executive on how they feel about their profession and their financial standing now; if you find five happy people, you are in the right circle.

Also, the Government must take serious note of the mental health conditions of children. The innocent children don’t have a voice. They are in between a brutal analogue education system in an artificial intelligence world and lofty aspirations of their own parents who are not thinking straight. The divide between the young and the old is visible and expanding. Neither largely has the ability to see reasoning, rationale, and logic. 

The internal exile lurks behind silent dinner tables, in hesitant conversations, in young eyes that have stopped dreaming. How are you feeling today? Are you still hopeful? If you are, now is the time to hold on, to look after those around you, to extend a hand. Because so many are giving up quietly, slipping away into their shadows.

Leaders should not view it merely as a political or economic moment – it is a human one. In a country that has long learnt to suffer in silence, a single act of kindness, a single voice of hope, can still hold a candle in the darkness. And that, perhaps, is where actual change begins.

It’s too much for any government to handle and I feel for the Dissanayake administration, but it’s way too much for the public to go through. The only way to go through this challenging period is to be brutally honest, to build a national consensus, develop a four-year pain and suffering plan, and ask the world to support without strangling the country and its people further. 

The leadership is not about planning for 20 years in power but to deliver results to the country and its people when it matters.