10 මැයි 2026
May 10, 2026
Sri Lanka Has Stability. But Does It Have A Future?
A fair-use commentary by Lehan Edirisinghe / AngryPages, responding to Harsha Gunasena’s Colombo Telegraph article, “Confused Macroeconomic Policies Of The Government.”
Harsha Gunasena’s article is useful because it separates two things Sri Lanka keeps mixing together: punishment politics and economic repair.
I understand why people want punishment. Sri Lanka was not simply “mismanaged” in some clean academic sense. It was abused, looted, lied to, over-borrowed, over-promised, and then handed a bill ordinary people had to pay. So yes, corruption matters. Justice matters. Political accountability matters.
But corruption cannot be the whole diagnosis. If the country says “corruption caused everything,” then the solution becomes theatre: arrest a few enemies, hold a few press conferences, call it national recovery. That is not enough.
The crisis was built over many years: deficit budgets, weak exports, state-owned losses, energy subsidies, expensive borrowing, bad tax policy, money printing, exchange-rate manipulation, the fertilizer disaster, delayed IMF engagement, and a political culture that preferred slogans to arithmetic. That is the harder truth. It is less emotionally satisfying than blaming one camp, but it is more useful.
The government deserves some credit for not gambling with the IMF programme. After 2022, no serious government had unlimited room for drama. Sri Lanka needed stability first. The IMF itself says recent reforms have supported recovery, with 2025 growth, reserve accumulation, and revenue performance exceeding expectations; but it also stresses the need for continued reform, resilience, and inclusive growth. (IMF)
That is the central point: IMF compliance is not a national development strategy. It is a floor, not a future.
A country can pass fiscal targets and still fail its people. It can stabilise the exchange rate and still have households crushed by food prices. It can show good numbers and still produce too few exports, too few productive jobs, and too little hope for young people.
The World Bank has made a similar warning: Sri Lanka’s recovery remains incomplete, poverty is still elevated, food prices remain high, and many households have not recovered livelihoods lost during the crisis. (World Bank)
That is what macroeconomic debate often misses. People do not experience the economy as a table of indicators. They experience it as school fees, rent, eggs, bus fares, electricity bills, medicine, and whether their child has a reason to stay in the country.
Gunasena is also right to focus on exports and trade. Sri Lanka cannot tax and ration itself into prosperity. We need to earn from the world. That means exports, services, tourism, investment, logistics, digital work, better productivity, and cheaper inputs.
Protectionism is often sold as patriotism, but it can become a tax on poor people. If food, energy, and raw materials are kept expensive to protect narrow interests, then workers need higher wages just to survive, businesses lose competitiveness, and exporters struggle before they even reach the world market. The poor pay first. The productive economy pays next.
The Economic Transformation Act may not be perfect. But its export ambition matters. It set targets for exports of goods and services to reach 25% of GDP by 2025, 40% by 2030, and 60% by 2040, and created trade and investment institutions intended to push the country outward. (Lanka Law) If the government dislikes parts of that framework, it should amend it. But freezing the transformation agenda while meeting only IMF targets is not enough.
Sri Lanka needs an outward-facing economic plan. Not seminars. Not slogans. Not patriotic speeches against imports while everyone secretly wants dollars. A real plan.
The Smile And The Machine
Netiwit Chotiphatphaisal’s article begins in Thailand, but it does not stay there. That is why it hurts.
He writes about a Buddhist country where children are taught prayer, chanting, meditation, merit, compassion and loving-kindness. Then those same children grow up under a state that can pull young men into military service by lottery, pressure, fear, masculinity, and class power. The article describes Thailand’s conscription system, the red-card/black-card lottery, the pressure on boys to join reserve training, and the moral contradiction of monks and Buddhist society living beside compulsory militarism. (Colombo Telegraph)
That is not only Thailand’s mirror.
It is ours too.
Sri Lanka also knows how religion, school, flag, anthem, history, army, fear and national pride can be mixed until people stop noticing the mixture. A society can chant compassion in the morning and rehearse suspicion by evening. It can call itself peaceful while teaching children who to fear. It can speak of civilisation while quietly preparing the next generation to obey the old wounds.
This is the drama of the article.
Not “Buddhism bad.”
Not “soldiers bad.”
Not “country bad.”
The real question is worse:
What happens when a religion of compassion becomes the decoration on a machine of obedience?
The Poor Boy Pays First
One of the sharpest parts of Netiwit’s article is class.
Conscription is never only about patriotism. It is also about who has exits.
The article describes how young men in Thailand face the possibility of military service, while many with money, connections, education or family advantage can find ways around the burden. Netiwit also writes of being told, through his father, that money could help him avoid the system. (Colombo Telegraph)
That is where the moral language cracks.
If military service is sacred national duty, why do the poor carry more of it?
If sacrifice is noble, why is privilege so good at escaping sacrifice?
If obedience is character-building, why do powerful families quietly prefer alternatives for their own sons?
This is not unique to Thailand. Many countries romanticise sacrifice only after deciding whose children will be placed closest to it. The poor boy becomes the body of the nation. The rich boy becomes its future. One is told to endure. The other is told to advance.
That is not Buddhism.
That is class power wearing patriotic perfume.
And it damages the conscript too. The young man in uniform is not always the villain. Often he is another captive of the system. He is told that manhood means obedience. He is told fear is maturity. He is told hesitation is weakness. He is told conscience is cowardice.
A society that does this to its young men is not only preparing for war.
It is manufacturing wounded citizens.
The State Wants Your Conscience
Netiwit’s most powerful idea is not simply that conscription is unfair.
It is that refusal can be moral courage.
He frames conscientious objection as a refusal to let the state define killing as duty, and says he became Thailand’s first conscientious objector even though he may face jail. (Colombo Telegraph)
That is the part authoritarian systems hate.
A state can command the body. It can summon the body. It can number the body. It can dress the body. It can train the body. It can punish the body. It can imprison the body.
But conscience is harder.
Conscience does not salute easily.
That is why the conscientious objector is frightening. He exposes the gap between obedience and truth. He stands in front of the state and says: you may control the paperwork, the court, the uniform, the barracks, the punishment and the prison, but you do not own my moral agreement.
That is a small sentence.
It is also explosive.
Because every violent system needs more than bodies. It needs moral surrender. It needs people to say yes inside themselves. It needs people to believe that whatever the state names as duty has become clean.
The conscientious objector interrupts that ceremony.
He says: no.
Not because he hates his country. Because he refuses to let his country become a machine that eats conscience and calls it service.
Sri Lanka Knows The Mirror
The comments under the Colombo Telegraph piece immediately pulled the article toward Sri Lanka. One commenter compared Thailand’s hostility toward Burmese people with Sri Lankan attitudes toward Tamils; another said he saw parallels to Sri Lankan life. (Colombo Telegraph)
That instinct is correct.
Sri Lanka knows how history can be kept alive as a wound rather than studied as a warning. We know how schoolbook memory can harden into social instinct. We know how ethnic fear can be taught without admitting it is being taught. We know how religion can become national identity, and national identity can become a permit for cruelty.
We also know how quickly grief can be organised.
Public grief can become public obedience. Public trauma can become permanent suspicion. Public insecurity can become a political economy. Once that happens, every generation inherits not only the past but the emotional machinery built from it.
This is why the Thailand article belongs in a Sri Lankan conversation.
Not because the histories are identical.
Because the moral mechanism is familiar.
The enemy is named early. The wound is repeated. The uniform becomes reassurance. The dissenter becomes suspicious. The citizen is told that compassion is beautiful in theory, but dangerous in politics.
That is how societies train themselves to betray their own religion.
Not all at once.
Ceremony by ceremony.
Slogan by slogan. Enemy by enemy.
