-By A Special Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -17.Jan.2025, 11.20 PM) Gotabaya Rajapaksa, Sri Lanka’s one-time president, is back in the news. This time, he isn’t delivering speeches about “patriotic governance” or running away from an angry mob. No, no. He has reportedly been summoned by the Criminal Investigation Department (CID). The CID questioning a former president? This sounds juicier than a midday gossip session with your office colleagues. But the real question is: what on earth will they ask him?
First up, we have the much-discussed MIG deal. The CID might start with this classic icebreaker: “Sir, about those fighter jets we paid for—why were they priced as if they came with a free island and unlimited petrol?” Allegations abound that millions of dollars mysteriously vanished during the purchase of MIG-27s. Perhaps Gotabaya will explain that the jets were imported with a complimentary cloud of corruption.
Next, the CID could delve into the case of journalist Prageeth Ekneligoda, who vanished like my salary on payday. “Any idea what happened to him, Mr. Rajapaksa? Did he take an unannounced vacation to a parallel universe?” This is a sensitive subject, as it ties into allegations of a systematic suppression of dissent during his tenure as Defense Secretary.
Then comes the most relatable topic: his hasty exit during Sri Lanka’s political meltdown. “How much money did you take when you bolted from the President’s house?” It’s the question we’ve all been dying to ask. Was it just a suitcase or a container-load? Surely a man needs some emergency cash when planning a tropical getaway to… anywhere but here.
Ah, the sugar tax concession. The CID might quiz him on why he offered Wilma Holding such a generous tax break. “Was it because you believed in making Sri Lanka sweeter, or because someone handed you a sweeter deal under the table?” The scandal allegedly cost the nation billions, proving that sugar isn’t just bad for teeth—it’s bad for the treasury too.
Here’s a plot twist even Hollywood might reject: a floating armory. Under Gotabaya’s watch, a private company, Avant-Garde, reportedly maintained a ship loaded with weapons off Sri Lanka’s coast. The CID might politely inquire: “Did you think Sri Lanka needed a James Bond villain’s yacht, or was it just a quirky investment idea?”
Remember the COVID-19 pandemic? While most of us were busy sanitizing our groceries, Gotabaya was allegedly awarding quarantine contracts to his inner circle. The CID could ask: “Sir, was Dilith Jayaweera the only friend available for this ‘public health emergency,’ or did you draw names out of a hat?”
Another dark chapter involves the alleged forced eviction of Tamil residents from Colombo. The CID might approach this delicately: “Was it a housing policy, or an ethnic cleansing experiment disguised as urban beautification?” History isn’t kind to such acts, and neither is public memory.
Then there’s the issue of arming Sivanesathurai Chandrakanthan (aka Pillayan), a former militant-turned-politician. “Did you really supply him weapons, or was it just a glorified Amazon Prime delivery?” Such questions could open a Pandora’s box of war-era secrets.
This one’s a whopper. The Easter Sunday bombings remain a scar on the nation’s psyche. Allegations have surfaced about negligence, or worse, complicity in not preventing the attacks. “Did you receive warnings about the bombings and decide to snooze the alarm?” If the CID dares to broach this, it could be explosive (pun intended).
Journalist Lasantha Wickrematunge’s assassination is another skeleton rattling in Gotabaya’s closet. The CID might ask: “Were you aware of any plans to silence him, or did a rogue group take patriotism into their own hands?” His response might rewrite chapters in the grim history of media suppression.
Who could forget the journalist Iqbal Athas, who was reportedly threatened and harassed for exposing defense procurement scandals? The CID might go full Colombo detective mode: “Did you send the thugs, or did they go freelancing in your honor?”
The Lanka-e-News office burning down was more dramatic than any political thriller. The CID might ask: “Did you authorize the fire, or did someone in your circle misinterpret your dislike for critical reporting as a literal ‘burn notice’?”
There’s also the matter of Tamil businessmen who were allegedly abducted during his tenure. “Was this part of a crime-fighting strategy, or a ransom collection drive?” The line between governance and gangsterism seems remarkably blurry here.
Here’s a plot twist fit for international drama: Gotabaya Rajapaksa reportedly held US citizenship while being elected president. The CID might ask: “Did you forget to mention that minor detail, or were you planning to govern Sri Lanka as a tourist?” It’s a constitutional conundrum that could make even the most seasoned legal minds sweat.
Finally, there’s the money trail. Gotabaya is accused of laundering funds received in the US. “Who sent the money? Was it a generous fan, a political donor, or a mysterious briefcase left on your doorstep?” The answers might reveal more than just financial irregularities.
Last but not least, the most bizarre accusation: state funds allegedly given to a fortune teller in Anuradhapura. The CID might casually drop: “Who’s the Akka, and why did she deserve taxpayer money? Did she at least predict the economic crisis?”
All these scandals, mysteries, and conspiracies are fascinating, but they might pale in comparison to the overarching question: how did Sri Lanka end up electing him in the first place? Was it a national experiment in political chaos theory? Or just a bad case of collective amnesia?
Whatever the CID asks, one thing’s for sure: Gotabaya Rajapaksa has more explaining to do than a schoolboy caught with a slingshot near a broken window. Whether or not he provides satisfactory answers, the public is watching—and perhaps, waiting for the next chapter in this surreal political drama.
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by (2025-01-17 17:54:42)
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