Columns

At Sri Lanka’s 78th Independence Day celebrations last week, President Anura Kumara Dissanayake once again placed national unity at the centre of his message, reiterating that the country’s future depends on the ability of its people to move beyond division and work collectively towards reconstruction and renewal. In doing so, the President sought to frame independence not as a static historical milestone but as an ongoing process—one that demands reflection, course correction, and political maturity.

In one of the more notable and significant passages of his speech, President Dissanayake observed: “Over the 78 years since independence, we have experienced victories and defeats, successes and failures. We will not hesitate to discard what is harmful, nor will we fear embracing what is good.” This is an important and largely accurate assessment of Sri Lanka’s post-independence journey.  

The country’s history since 1948 cannot be reduced to a single narrative of either triumph or failure. It has been a complex mix of genuine achievements in education, health, and social mobility, alongside profound missteps that culminated in economic collapse, political decay, and a long and devastating civil conflict.

This acknowledgment of complexity is particularly significant because it departs from the sweeping slogan used by the National Peoples Power (NPP) during the last election campaign—that the years since Independence amounted to an unbroken “curse.” While such rhetoric may have served as a mobilising slogan in opposition, governance requires a more nuanced understanding of history.

By recognising both successes and failures, the President seemingly signalled a willingness to build on what worked while decisively abandoning what did not. That shift in tone deserves recognition.

Another welcome aspect of the President’s address was his explicit inclusion of the Leader of the Opposition in the call for national reconstruction. “As President, I, along with the Cabinet, the Leader of the Opposition, the public service and religious institutions, call upon all citizens to come together and commit wholeheartedly to the comprehensive reconstruction of our country,” he stated.

In a political culture accustomed to zero-sum thinking and personalised antagonism, this was a deliberate and constructive gesture. It underscored the idea that national recovery—economic, social, and institutional—cannot be the project of one party or one ideological camp alone.

Predictably, however, the President did not escape criticism. Some of it came from what might be described as the usual quarters. Sri Lanka Podujana Peramuna MP Namal Rajapaksa publicly accused President Dissanayake of lacking the courage to speak about the military victory over the LTTE at a national event of such significance.

Others, including former Parliamentarians Wimal Weerawansa and Udaya Gammanpila, echoed similar sentiments, arguing that the armed forces should have been more explicitly praised for defeating terrorism and that service personnel should be referred to as “war heroes” rather than simply soldiers.

These criticisms rest on a narrow understanding of patriotism. There is no dispute that the armed forces played a decisive role in ending a brutal conflict that inflicted immense suffering on all communities. That contribution is already well established in the national consciousness.

The President’s choice not to foreground military victory in an Independence Day speech focused on unity and future reconstruction does not amount to denial or disrespect. Rather, it reflects a deliberate attempt to shift the national conversation from triumphalism to consolidation.

Moreover, the insistence on labeling all soldiers as “war heroes” risks diluting the very meaning of heroism. If every individual in uniform is automatically elevated to heroic status, there remains no language left to distinguish those who demonstrated extraordinary courage, sacrifice, and moral leadership under the most extreme conditions. Honouring the armed forces does not require rhetorical excess; it requires dignity, restraint, and a clear commitment to ensuring that the tragedies of the past are not repeated.

A more troubling aspect of this year’s Independence Day was not found in Colombo but in the North and East of the country. In several areas, small but vocal sections of the Tamil population chose not to participate in official celebrations and instead observed the day as a “black day.”

For these communities, Independence Day continues to symbolise unaddressed grievances, historical marginalisation, and a sense of exclusion from the national narrative.

It is important to state that the numbers involved in these protests were not large enough to pose any immediate threat to stability. Nevertheless, their symbolic significance should not be dismissed. They reflect a persistent emotional and political distance between sections of the Tamil population and the Sri Lankan state—one that has not been fully bridged even more than a decade after the end of the war.

The Independence Day celebrations themselves, marked by military parades and strong state symbolism, were perceived by these critics as failing to acknowledge the pain and suffering experienced by Tamil communities during and after the conflict. While the President spoke of unity, many felt that their lived experiences were absent from the official narrative. This disconnect highlights a broader challenge: national unity cannot be achieved solely through declarations from the centre. It requires sustained engagement with memories, grievances, and aspirations that differ sharply across regions and communities.

This reality places a significant responsibility on Tamil political leadership. However legitimate their grievances may be, history offers a stark lesson about the consequences of pursuing those grievances through violence. The LTTE’s turn towards militarism brought catastrophic damage to Tamil society itself—destroying lives, brutalising social structures, and stifling the emergence of intellectual and democratic leadership within the community. The space for debate, dissent, and political evolution was suffocated by fear and coercion.

Today, there is an opportunity—indeed an obligation—for Tamil political leaders to chart a different course. Wise leadership can channel frustration and discontent into democratic engagement, policy negotiation, and institutional reform. It can mobilise young people around education, economic participation, and political inclusion rather than grievance alone. Symbolic protests may express pain, but they cannot substitute for a sustained strategy aimed at influencing national policy and shaping the future.

Ultimately, the President’s stated commitment to fostering national unity is both laudable and necessary. Yet unity is not an abstract ideal; it is a process that demands patience, empathy, and political courage from all sides. It requires the ability to listen without defensiveness, to acknowledge uncomfortable truths, and to balance remembrance with reconciliation.

Sri Lanka stands at a fragile moment. Economic recovery remains incomplete, democratic institutions are still in the process of rebuilding trust, and social cohesion has yet to be fully restored. Independence Day should therefore be seen not merely as a celebration of sovereignty but as a reminder of unfinished work.

Achieving unity will not come from slogans, nor from selectively glorifying the past. It will come from mature leadership capable of bringing diverse voices together under a shared national vision—one that recognises difference not as a threat, but as a foundation for a more resilient and inclusive republic.