-By Political Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -10.April.2025, 11.30 PM) There are skeletons in every political cupboard. But in Sri Lanka, we go the extra mile: we commission a Presidential Inquiry, bind the report in red tape, and then store it so deep in the National Archives that even Indiana Jones would need a backhoe and a Presidential directive to find it.
Such is the fate of the Batalanda Commission Report, that ghostly file which once whispered about torture camps, disappearances, and the strange silence of a state that preferred not to know. But now—like an unwanted ghost at the constitutional dinner table—it’s back.
Leader of the House, Minister Bimal Rathnayake, fresh off his moral high horse and armed with a few well-placed footnotes, declared in Parliament that the government would initiate legal action against former President Ranil Wickremesinghe and others found culpable in the Batalanda Commission report. There was even a cryptic mention of “international support”—though no one clarified whether that meant Interpol or just a well-placed email to Amnesty International.
The House, in a rare show of unity, decided to not finish the debate on the same day. Why ruin a perfectly good scandal by rushing? The second day of the Batalanda Commission debate is scheduled for May 8—giving Parliamentarians enough time to reread the report, Google “Batalanda,” and perhaps rehearse their righteous indignation in front of a mirror.
To rewind: the Batalanda housing scheme, nestled quietly in the suburbs, was reportedly converted into a clandestine detention and torture facility during the 1987–89 JVP insurrection. This wasn’t your average extrajudicial black site—it had bureaucracy, discipline, and even plausible deniability. And, as the Commission’s findings indicate, more than a passing relationship with state forces and political power brokers.
The 1997 Commission, appointed under President Chandrika Bandaranaike, made a series of stunning allegations: illegal detentions, systematic torture, and summary executions. And then it did what every good Commission does—it handed over its findings to a government that nodded gravely, filed it away, and did absolutely nothing. Democracy, after all, is nothing if not decorum.
If the report was the dormant volcano, Ranil Wickremesinghe’s recent appearance on Al Jazeera’s Head to Head with Mehdi Hasan was the tectonic tremor that rumbled it back to life. While the former President attempted his usual masterclass in verbal jujitsu, Mehdi came prepared—with facts, timelines, and the patience of a cobra trainer.
It was not a good look for a statesman once dubbed “Sri Lanka’s Western darling.” When Mehdi pressed him on Batalanda, Ranil stumbled. He looked less like a Prime Minister Emeritus and more like a defendant auditioning for a tribunal. The clip went viral. Justice, once buried under the weight of collective apathy, was suddenly trending.
The million-rupee question is this: can the government really prosecute Ranil Wickremesinghe for his alleged role in Batalanda?
Yes, if the law is followed. But the road is treacherous.
The Batalanda Commission never issued an indictment. It recommended the revocation of civic rights—a polite euphemism in Sri Lanka for “we’d like you to disappear from politics but not literally this time.” It also advised further investigation and possible prosecution. But these were political suggestions, not legal decrees.
To actually prosecute, you’d need:
Fresh evidence or compelling use of the Commission's documentation,
Surviving witnesses, unafraid and uncoerced,
A politically insulated prosecution service, and
A judiciary that won’t blink under pressure or receive mysterious phone calls before verdict day.
It’s a tall order. But not impossible. Especially if the government’s sudden passion for accountability is more than just a pre-election dance routine.
Let’s not pretend this is only about Ranil. The Batalanda episode is merely a symbol of a deeper rot: our national inability to confront political violence with honesty.
Ask anyone who worked with the Commissions of Inquiry into the Disappearances of Persons (COID) in the 1990s. I did. We recorded thousands of cases—from tortured students to vanished journalists. We named names. We even submitted the findings to the President. But nothing happened.
Why? Because the implicated included everyone. From the UNP to the SLFP to uniformed officers who still serve or advise. Every administration, red or blue, has had blood on its books. Which is why the archives are so crowded with untouched commission reports—they are bipartisan monuments to our collective cowardice.
Sri Lanka’s approach to transitional justice has always been performative. We prefer truth commissions without the truth, memorials without memory, and reconciliation without remorse.
When the international community asks for accountability, we form commissions. When the commissions report, we blame political “instability.” And when victims raise their voices, we politely suggest they “move on.” The Batalanda Commission is not a failure of evidence—it is a failure of nerve.
There’s a strange whiff in the air. Maybe it’s the audacity of a new Parliament. Maybe it’s Bimal Rathnayake’s unlikely resolve. Or maybe it’s the ghost of Batalanda refusing to rest.
The government now claims it will act—with or without foreign help. If that is true, and not just moral theatre, it must begin by declassifying the full Commission report. Let every citizen read it. Let the victims’ families speak. Let the evidence stand or fall in court—not in the court of public relations.
And if prosecution is pursued, it must be done by the book, not by political memo. If Ranil Wickremesinghe is innocent, let him be acquitted in open court. But let that court happen.
Justice is not a tool. It is a test.
One must admire Ranil Wickremesinghe’s capacity for political resurrection. He has been defeated more times than a malfunctioning fax machine, and yet, somehow, he becomes President. That kind of survival instinct doesn’t come without a few pacts, compromises, and skeletons in various cupboards—Batalanda possibly being one of them.
But longevity is not impunity. Power is not immunity. Not anymore.
Sri Lanka doesn’t need another Commission. It needs convictions.
The records of the Batalanda Commission, COIDs, and other such inquiries are buried under bureaucratic sediment. Yet, the truth is waiting—restless and stubborn. It speaks from affidavits, from yellowed transcripts, from voices that never got their day in court.
Unbury it.
Let us not forget what Batalanda represents. It is not just a location. It is a legal failure, a moral vacuum, and a case study in political cowardice.
The government has promised legal action. Let us hold them to it—not with cynicism, but with constitutional clarity.
And to those implicated, including the former President: if you believe you are innocent, welcome the trial. Demand it. Clear your name not on talk shows, but in court.
To quote the late Justice Weeramantry: “A nation that forgets justice invites injustice again.” Let this be the year we remember.
-By Political Correspondent
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by (2025-04-10 18:19:34)
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