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Sri Lanka’s politics has never been calm, but recent events have revealed something more troubling: a crisis of credibility. Three seemingly unrelated developments—the explosive claim by former President Maithripala Sirisena about the Easter Sunday attacks, the silence of Catholic bishops after meeting President Anura Kumara Dissanayake, and the arrest of former President Ranil Wickremesinghe—have converged to expose a political culture where suspicion, selective justice, and deferred truth dominate public life.

Together, these events suggest that Sri Lankan democracy is trapped in a cycle where appearances matter more than substance. The very idea of accountability, meant to anchor good governance, is increasingly reduced to political showmanship.

Sirisena’s explosive claim: Truth known, yet untold

Shockwaves rippled through the country when former President Maithripala Sirisena declared that the “mastermind” behind the 2019 Easter Sunday bombings was already known to intelligence agencies, the military, and successive governments. Coming from the Head of State at the time of the attacks, this was no ordinary statement. It was an indictment of the very system he once led.

Nearly six years have passed since the coordinated suicide bombings killed more than 250 people and devastated the Christian community. Yet, the central questions remain unanswered. Who enabled such an attack? Why were intelligence warnings ignored? And why has justice been endlessly delayed?

By suggesting that the mastermind is shielded by forces too powerful to confront, Sirisena implied that Sri Lanka is less a sovereign state in control of its destiny than a system hemmed in by hidden networks of influence. For victims’ families, this is devastating. It raises the unbearable possibility that justice is denied not out of incompetence, but out of fear, complicity, or the need to preserve political alliances.

Worse still, Sirisena did not reveal the name of the “mastermind”. Instead, he dangled the truth as a political bargaining chip. Such half-disclosures erode public trust in leadership. A matter of life and death was reduced to political theatre, leaving citizens with the chilling realization that even their leaders do not believe full transparency is possible.

This admission suggests something grim: Sri Lankan democracy cannot guarantee transparency even in its darkest moments. Citizens are left feeling unprotected, disempowered, and betrayed.

The Bishops’ silence: A deafening absence

In the wake of Sirisena’s revelations, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s meeting with the Catholic Bishops’ Conference, including Cardinal Malcolm Ranjith, took on new significance. The Catholic Church has been one of the few consistent voices demanding justice for the Easter victims. Cardinal Ranjith in particular has accused successive governments of dragging their feet.

Yet, when the President’s media division released its note on the meeting, it made no mention of any discussion relating to the Easter Sunday investigations. For many Catholics, this silence was deafening.

Two interpretations are possible. Perhaps sensitive discussions occurred behind closed doors, with both sides agreeing on discretion. Or perhaps this was strategic silence, where both Church and State avoid opening a Pandora’s box that could expose uncomfortable truths. Either way, the public perception is one of disappointment.

For a government that came to power promising accountability and trust, avoiding the most emotional and politically charged case in recent memory undermines its credibility. For the Church, which has long carried the mantle of justice for Easter Sunday attack victims, silence risks being mistaken for complicity.

Ranil Wickremesinghe’s arrest:
Justice or show?

If Sirisena’s comments and the bishops’ silence created unease, the arrest of Ranil Wickremesinghe added intrigue. He was charged with misusing public funds—an accusation surprising even to his fiercest critics. For decades Wickremesinghe has been caricatured as aloof and elitist, but rarely or never as corrupt. He was largely criticised on account of—policy missteps, compromises, and unpopular decisions—rather than personal enrichment.

The infamous bond scam, often weaponised in political debates, has at times been unfairly framed as a blemish on Ranil Wickremesinghe’s integrity. In reality, the controversy was not about any financial impropriety on his part, but about the conduct of Arjuna Mahendran, the Central Bank Governor he had trusted as a close friend. Mahendran, entrusted with one of the most sensitive positions in the country, betrayed that confidence by using his authority allegedly in ways that benefited himself or members of his family. Wickremesinghe’s error, if any, lay not in personal gain but in misplaced trust—believing that Mahendran would uphold the responsibilities of office with the same standards of probity that he himself observed. This distinction is crucial: while the scandal exposed lapses in judgment and oversight, it did not implicate Wickremesinghe in corruption or personal enrichment. To conflate the two is to confuse betrayal by a subordinate with misconduct by a leader.

That is why his arrest felt more like theatre than justice. Was it a genuine act of accountability? Or was it designed to show that no one, not even a former President, is beyond the law—conveniently dramatised for political mileage?

The suspicion deepened when a YouTuber publicly predicted his arrest days in advance. This bizarre twist gave the impression that justice was not being pursued independently by law enforcement, but staged according to a political script. When the Minister of National Security, Ananda Wijepala, declared minutes after the arrest that the government had “kept its promise” to bring all wrongdoers to justice it added to such perception.

For many, Wickremesinghe’s arrest looked less like the triumph of accountability than the settling of old scores. Selective enforcement undermines genuine anti-corruption efforts. If justice appears politically motivated, public faith in due process collapses—and accountability itself becomes corrupted.

A pattern of deferred truths

Taken together, these three episodes reveal a disturbing pattern in Sri Lankan politics: truth exists, but is consistently deferred, distorted, or staged. Sirisena admits the mastermind is known, but withholds the name. The Bishops and President meet, but avoid the issue most central to the Catholic community. Wickremesinghe is arrested, but in a way that looks scripted rather than transparent.

The result is a cycle where leaders deploy hints, silences, and spectacles not to resolve problems, but to manage perceptions. Truth becomes a commodity to be released only when politically convenient.

The cost of political theatre

This culture of half-truths and spectacle carries heavy consequences:

1.  Erosion of trust: Each withheld truth makes citizens more cynical. Institutions—courts, intelligence agencies, even the Church—lose credibility, leaving people feeling abandoned.

2.  Weaponised justice: When accountability appears politically timed, it becomes a weapon, not a principle. Genuine anti-corruption drives are tainted by suspicion.

3.  Lingering trauma: For Easter Sunday victims, delays in truth-telling deepen wounds. Justice deferred becomes justice denied, reopening grief instead of healing it.

4.  Weakening democracy: A democracy thrives on transparency. When leaders openly admit to hiding truths or when institutions dodge urgent questions, democracy itself becomes hollow.

5.  Culture of suspicion: The spectacle of a YouTuber predicting a former President’s arrest illustrates how rumour and conspiracy dominate public discourse. Rational debate erodes, governance falters, and divisions deepen.

What Sri Lanka needs

What Sri Lanka desperately needs is a politics of courage and clarity. The Easter Sunday case cannot be endlessly shelved; it demands transparency, however uncomfortable the consequences. Leaders—past and present—must stop trading in half-truths.

The Catholic Church, too, cannot afford silence. To maintain moral authority, it must continue pressing for justice without fear or compromise.

As for accountability, selective arrests and choreographed spectacles only weaken the cause. If this government is serious about corruption, it must show impartiality and due process. The promise of justice cannot be a political slogan; it must be a principle applied consistently, regardless of rank or history.

The strange events of the past week are not isolated curiosities. They are symptoms of a deeper malaise in Sri Lankan politics: a system where truth is known but not told, where meetings skirt central issues, and where arrests seem staged for effect. Such a system cannot inspire trust.

The challenge is stark. Unless Sri Lanka breaks free from its culture of half-truths and political theatre, justice will remain deferred—and with it, the promise of democracy itself.

(javidyusuf@gmail.com)