When the State becomes the Party
By Vox Civis
There are moments in a nation’s life when a warning must be heeded not because of who utters it, but because of what it reveals. It is in this light that one must view the public endorsement of former President Chandrika Kumaratunga concerning the erosion of Sri Lanka’s professional public service, first highlighted in this space, last week.
In a statement issued on her Facebook page, Kumaratunga said she had decided to share extracts from this column’s previous article, “When Justice Becomes Selective,” because the issues it raised struck at the very heart of governance. She described the analysis as thoughtful and well-reasoned, particularly in its emphasis on integrity within the public service.
Her central message was stark and unambiguous: a government cannot function without a professional, efficient and honest public service. Political leaders, she noted, need not possess decades of administrative experience. But they must possess unshakeable integrity and must rely on career public servants to govern effectively. Kumaratunga’s warning that the present administration appears to be dismantling what remains of that professional architecture and replacing it with party loyalists lacking qualifications and experience, should not be dismissed as hyperbole. It reflects a pattern that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Taken individually, many of the National People’s Power (NPP) regime’s new laws, constitutional tinkering, institutional reforms and administrative reshuffles appear benign. They are packaged in the language of accountability, efficiency and system change. In isolation, each measure can be defended. But when one steps back and surveys the totality of these developments, a disconcerting coherence emerges. The pieces fit together, and they fit in ways that point not toward reform, but toward control – total control.
Compromising the right to information
Consider the fate of the Right to Information Commission. The Right to Information Act, enacted during the Yahapalanaya period, was widely hailed as a rare institutional success story in a country not known for them. It gave citizens the power to demand answers from the State. It was internationally commended as a gold standard in transparency. It was not perfect, but it was transformative and of late, an indispensable tool for the media.
The NPP rode to office promising ‘system change’ – loosely understood as putting an end to corruption, opacity and impunity. Yet, from its earliest days in power, the administration has been dogged by allegations of corruption, nepotism, internal and external scandals, and questionable appointments. In such an environment, transparency often tends to become inconvenient. The Right to Information Commission, celebrated as a pillar of accountability, therefore became an obstacle.
What has followed is not an outright abolition but something more insidious: gradual dysfunction. Requests relating to the Presidential Secretariat have reportedly been refused with increasing frequency on flimsy grounds. Delays have multiplied and institutional morale has sagged. A watchdog need not be killed to be neutralized. It can be starved, sidelined or suffocated, which in effect appears to be what is taking place these days.
The politicisation of the State is not confined to one Commission. It appears systemic. The constitutional design of Sri Lanka deliberately separates the State from the government in office, for a reason. Governments change; the State endures. That distinction is not cosmetic; it is the safeguard against majoritarian excess and partisan capture.
Compromising the State apparatus
Yet today, individuals with visible or traceable affiliations to the ruling party appear to have found their way into positions traditionally reserved for career public servants. The Secretary to the Treasury, the Secretary to the Ministry of Public Security, the Head of the Bribery and Corruption Commission, the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department and even the newly appointed Auditor General have all attracted scrutiny for perceived political proximity. Ongoing overtures toward influencing the Attorney General’s Department have also generated unease.
These are not minor posts; they are the spinal cord of governance. When such offices are perceived as extensions of party machinery rather than guardians of the public interest, the damage extends far beyond individual appointments. It erodes the idea of the neutral State, and therefore corrupts constitutional integrity. Sri Lanka has travelled this road before.
In the 1980s and 1990s, key administrative roles from Defence Secretary to Presidential Secretary to Divisional and District Secretaries, were typically filled by seasoned officers of the administrative service. Whatever the political turbulence of the time, there was at least an attempt to preserve professional continuity. However, after 2005, political appointments proliferated. Family-based placements became commonplace. Institutional dignity eroded and the nation witnessed where that regression led: weakened institutions, compromised decision-making and, ultimately, economic catastrophe.
At the center of Sri Lanka’s administrative tradition stands the Sri Lanka Administrative Service (SLAS). Its roots lie in the colonial-era Ceylon Civil Service, established in the 19th century along British lines. After independence in 1948, the need for an indigenized administrative corps culminated in the formal establishment of the SLAS. These officers plan and implement policy, manage ministries and departments, administer districts and divisions, and serve as the operational face of the State.
Through constitutional upheavals every now and then, through insurrections and civil war, through economic crises and reconstruction, the SLAS has been the quiet stabiliser. That is not to suggest that it has been flawless: it has struggled with inefficiency, political pressure and technological adaptation. But it remains indispensable. The Constitution functions not on paper but through people. The public service is its human machinery.
Compromising the Republic
To systematically bypass or undermine that machinery by inserting partisan loyalists into top positions is to weaken the Republic itself. When these loyalists then begin to hound the professionals with litigation that drags the government into controversy, its chilling effect reverberates across the public service. Public servants begin to ask not how to serve the State, but how to survive the politics of the day, and the result – inertia and lethargy.
The abrupt suspension of the Deputy Secretary General of Parliament and the remanding of a former Secretary to the President have triggered both domestic and international discussion. If these actions are perceived as politically motivated rather than legally grounded, the message to the bureaucracy is unmistakable: loyalty to the ruling party trumps loyalty to the Constitution.
Public servants must recognise that silence offers no immunity. If injustice can befall one officer for perceived political association or accidental proximity to personal embarrassments of the powers that be, that same fate can befall another. Collective professional solidarity is therefore not rebellion but self-preservation.
Parallel to this administrative capture is a worrying transformation within law enforcement as well. The police service, long regarded as the backbone of civil administration, appears to be under unprecedented strain. Public discourse notably on social media, increasingly refers to an ‘NPP Police,’ implying partisan control. Whether entirely fair or not, such perceptions are themselves damaging.
As a result, it has been brought to light that low-ranking officers operate under severe physical, mental and economic stress. A broken promotion system and politically favoured appointments to senior posts have reportedly led to frustration, resignations and increased instances of Vacation of Post. Given this scenario, Officers-in-Charge are supposedly struggling to manage routine duties including crime prevention. Making matters worse, police are allegedly deployed for political branding exercises such as “Clean Sri Lanka,” diminishing their professional dignity. As a result, public trust in the department continues to erode.
Compromising law enforcement
The perception of a ‘NPP Police’ operating above or alongside the regular chain of command, whether exaggerated or grounded in reality, appears to have further deepened institutional fractures. It is nothing new that when orders flow from politically empowered actors rather than professional hierarchies, accountability blurs. Sri Lanka has been there and done that before. The consequences have been brutal. It is for this reason that people wanted change. But what the people seem to be getting is more of the same, or worse.
If this were merely a story of politicised appointments, it would be troubling enough, but it is accompanied by legislative initiatives that raise even graver concerns. The draft Protection of the State from Terrorism Act (PSTA) has drawn fierce criticism from across the political spectrum.
Former Minister Prof. G. L. Peiris has described the bill as one of the most dangerous pieces of legislation introduced in the country. He argues that it constitutes a colossal onslaught on democratic freedoms and liberties. His critique is not abstract.
Sri Lanka is a beneficiary of the European Union’s Generalised Scheme of Preferences Plus (GSP+), which grants Sri Lankan exporters tariff and duty-free access to European markets contingent upon adherence to specific international conventions. One of which was the abolition of the controversial Prevention of Terrorism Act, that is credited with an assortment of alleged human rights violations both during and after the three-decade long war. The current regime in this brief period in office, has not shown any aversion to its use or rather abuse, just as much as those of the past.
The regime must understand that GSP+ is not a gift. It is conditional. Jeopardising it through rights-violating legislation would have direct economic consequences. In a fragile economy struggling to stabilise, such recklessness would amount to self-sabotage.
Compromising civil liberties
Peiris has pointed to a fundamental flaw in the PSTA: the absence of a clear, precise definition of terrorism. Thirteen broad categories of terrorist acts are listed, yet the term itself remains vague. Vague criminal definitions are fertile ground for abuse. When offences carry penalties of up to 20 years’ imprisonment and when detention orders can be issued by a Defence Ministry Secretary for up to one year, the potential for misuse is evident.
The bill allows extensive powers of entry, search and seizure by armed forces, police and Coast Guard. It permits the President to proscribe organisations by Gazette notification, effectively banning them from operating, recruiting or holding bank accounts until the order is rescinded. It allows locations to be declared prohibited places, criminalising entry or photography. It authorises the Attorney General to defer prosecution conditional on compliance with tough criteria including rehabilitation programmes.
Sri Lanka’s Prevention of Terrorism Act of 1979 was widely criticised as draconian. Yet the proposed replacement, critics argue, is even more expansive. If enacted in its current form, it would consolidate extraordinary powers in the Executive at a time when institutional checks are already weakened.
While complete control of the State is a project yet in the works, there appear to be other ‘control tools’ being unloaded on the hapless public. Prominent among them is the recently floated rent control draft act, reminiscent, in the eyes of some observers, of policies in heavily centralised economies such as Cuba.
Another such intervention is the controversial methodology for disbursing rural development funds through political appointees designated as chairmen of “Praja Shakthi.” Opposition MP Harsha de Silva has questioned whether delegating spending powers over state funds to political candidates complies with constitutional principles on public finance and delegation of powers.
Each of these measures can be debated on its merits. But together they sketch a specific trajectory: concentration of authority, weakening of independent institutions, politicisation of administration and constriction of dissent. History offers sobering examples. In North Korea, China and Russia, the consolidation of party control over State apparatus did not occur overnight. It unfolded through incremental legal changes, strategic appointments and the marginalisation of professional independence. By the time the architecture of one-party dominance was visible, it was entrenched.
Compromising democracy
Sri Lanka can in no way be lumped together with those countries given its democratic credentials. It has a vibrant civil society, a vocal press and a history of competitive elections. But democracies do not collapse only through coups. They can erode through administrative capture and legal overreach. The ultimate question is not whether the current government believes its actions are justified: most governments do. The question is whether those actions strengthen or weaken the separation between party and State. When that line blurs, accountability fades and what tends to appear on the horizon, is trouble.
The public service must not be romanticized. It requires reform, digital modernisation and performance accountability. But reform is not replacement and modernisation is not politicisation. A government that truly believes in system change should strengthen independent institutions, not neutralise them as being done.
Today, public servants stand at a crossroads. During war, disaster and crisis, they have been the human face of the State. They listen to citizens’ grievances and they implement policy. If they allow professional norms to be replaced by partisan loyalty, they risk becoming instruments rather than servants of the Republic.
Citizens, too, must recognise that the health of institutions affects daily life in ways not immediately visible. A weakened Auditor General means weaker scrutiny of public finance. A politicised police service means compromised law and order. A vague anti-terror law means uncertain civil liberties. An undermined administrative service means poorer delivery of services.
The pattern is discernible, but the question is whether it will be confronted. Sri Lanka’s past is littered with moments when institutions were bent for short-term political gain at long-term national cost. The economic collapse of recent years was not an accident. It was the cumulative result of institutional decay.
If the warnings of figures such as Kumaratunga and Peiris are dismissed as partisan noise, the country risks repeating that cycle. Democracy is not sustained by elections alone. It rests on professional public servants, independent commissions, impartial law enforcement and laws that are precise rather than expansive. The erosion of these pillars rarely feels dramatic at first. It feels administrative. Procedural. Technical. But the cumulative effect is profound.
The collective opposition therefore has its work cut out – to either stay relevant by asserting itself and looking at the big picture in the national interest or continue to chase after the bones thrown away by the regime as part of its diversionary strategy, and risk irrelevance. For the nation’s sake, one can only hope that it will not be the latter.
Sri Lanka stands again at a constitutional crossroads. The choice is not between reform and stagnation. It is between reform that deepens democracy and reform that centralises power in one party. The distinction may appear subtle, but its consequences are not.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect the official position of this publication.
Leave a comment