Columns

The issue of prison overcrowding in Sri Lanka is hardly a secret. It has been talked about in Parliament, reported in the media, and acknowledged by civil society for years. Yet, very little has changed. The country’s prison system, originally designed to house a much smaller number of inmates, is now bursting at the seams—creating severe logistical, administrative, and human rights challenges.

According to officials, our prisons are home to two broad categories of inmates: those in remand custody, and those serving sentences after conviction. This distinction is not merely bureaucratic—it is legal, moral, and ethical. Yet, in terms of the inhumane conditions faced within our prison walls, the difference between a remandee and a convicted felon has become largely academic. 

The misuse and misunderstanding of remand custody

Remand prisoners—those yet to be tried or convicted—are legally presumed innocent. They are held in custody under the supervision of the judiciary, primarily for two reasons: to prevent interference with ongoing investigations or witnesses, and to ensure that those with a history of absconding appear in court. Many are held simply because they cannot afford bail or meet stringent bail conditions imposed by the court. They are not criminals; they are citizens awaiting justice.

Despite this legal and moral standing, remand prisoners in
Sri Lanka are subjected to conditions that closely mirror those serving sentences for crimes proven in a court of law. The case of Parliamentarian Chamara Sampath Dassanayake, who recently made headlines after being denied a mattress despite suffering from a back condition, is but one visible instance of a deeply rooted and widespread problem. His case has attracted attention because of his political profile—but what about the hundreds, if not thousands, of others who suffer in silence?

Why should any remandee—someone not yet found guilty of a crime—be made to sleep on the cold ground and endure deplorable toilet facilities? The very essence of a remand order is temporary, not punitive. And yet, the way our remand system is run, it effectively becomes a punishment unto itself.

Convicted, Not dehumanised

Even those who have been convicted after a fair trial and sentenced to serve time in prison are not to be treated inhumanely. The essence of criminal punishment as imposed by a court is the deprivation of liberty—not the denial of basic human needs. Yet, overcrowding, lack of medical care, poor sanitation, and inadequate food continue to plague the prison system, making incarceration a form of institutionalised cruelty.

The Sri Lankan Prisons Ordinance does make provisions for prisoners sentenced to rigorous imprisonment to be subjected to “hard labour.” However, this should not be confused with general neglect or cruelty. Hard labour is a structured form of punishment administered under regulated conditions—not an excuse for systemic degradation of human dignity.

Overcrowding: The core of the crisis

Overcrowding lies at the heart of nearly every problem in the
Sri Lankan prison system. When prisons operate at two or three times their intended capacity, the strain on resources, personnel, and infrastructure becomes unmanageable. Rehabilitation becomes an afterthought. Hygiene suffers. Violence increases. The mental and physical toll on
both inmates and prison staff becomes unbearable.

The root causes of overcrowding are multiple. A judicial system that overuses remand custody. A bail system that disadvantages the poor. A legal framework that is slow to adopt non-custodial sentences. And a political will that has long ignored the urgency of prison reform.

The inconvenient truth of class and privilege

What becomes most apparent when cases like that of MP Chamara Sampath emerge is the glaring hypocrisy embedded in our reactions. Public outrage is swift when a well-known figure is made to suffer substandard conditions. But the suffering of ordinary citizens—drug addicts, petty thieves, the mentally ill, or even those wrongly accused—seldom elicits the same empathy.

This inconsistency reveals an uncomfortable truth: that we do not see all prisoners as equal. The belief that only certain lives are worthy of humane treatment is not only morally indefensible but also legally unsound. Human rights, by definition, are universal. They do not hinge on fame, fortune, or political standing.

The case for reform

The time is long overdue for comprehensive prison reform in Sri Lanka. The lack of resources is often cited as a justification for the sorry state of our prisons. But this is a false dichotomy. The State cannot absolve itself of the responsibility to uphold the rights of all its citizens—especially those in its custody—by claiming poverty. Resource constraints may explain certain delays or limitations, but they do not excuse negligence or abuse.

Reform must be multidimensional. First, we need judicial reform that ensures remand custody is used sparingly and fairly, not as a default position. Bail conditions must be made more equitable, and alternative sentencing for non-violent offenders must be prioritised. Community service, probation, house arrest, and electronic monitoring are all viable, more humane, and often more cost-effective options.

Second, we must address infrastructure. Prisons must be renovated and expanded to accommodate current populations, with a clear long-term plan to reduce reliance on incarceration as the primary tool for criminal justice. Medical care, sanitation, food, and sleeping arrangements must meet minimum international standards. This is not charity—it is the bare minimum we owe to those deprived of their freedom by the State.

Third, we must tackle the culture of neglect and indifference that has pervaded prison administration for decades. Training for prison staff, independent oversight mechanisms, and increased transparency can help ensure that prisons do not become black holes of human suffering.

A litmus test for a just society

How a nation treats its prisoners is a litmus test of its commitment to justice, equality, and the rule of law. Sri Lanka fails this test today. But it doesn’t have to.

The words painted on the walls of the Welikada Prison—“Prisoners are human beings too”—should not be mere decoration. They should be a guiding principle, echoed in policy, practiced in administration, and upheld by every court, prison officer, and government official.

There are no easy fixes. But there is a path forward—if we choose to take it. A modern, humane, and rights-respecting prison system is not a utopian dream. It is a necessary step toward building a just and civilized society.

The question is no longer whether we need prison reform. The question is: how much longer have we to wait?

(javidyusuf@gmail.com)