-By Investigative Reporter
(Lanka-e-News -13.April.2025, 9.25 PM) In a week where irony seems to have put on a tuxedo and taken the mic, former state minister, media baron, and all-around establishment scion Ruwan Wijewardene has decided to become Sri Lanka’s most unexpected tour guide. His chosen attraction? The infamous Batalanda Torture Chamber—rebranded, reimagined, and repackaged as a misunderstood security facility designed not for torture, but for protecting the oil refinery at Sapugaskanda.
You heard it right.
According to Ruwan, the bloodstained floors and chain-laden rooms of Batalanda were, in fact, part of a high-stakes operation to safeguard national energy infrastructure during a turbulent insurgent period. Torture? Not quite. Maybe just some aggressive persuasion to keep the diesel flowing.
If Orwell were alive, he’d sue for copyright infringement.
Appearing recently on a local talk show (where the questions were softer than a bakery sponge cake), Ruwan Wijewardene made what is now being called the “Sapugaskanda Statement.” He claimed that the facility at Batalanda, long denounced by human rights groups as a makeshift black site, was actually “meant to protect the oil refinery from JVP insurgents,” and that detentions were “unfortunate but necessary measures.”
By this logic, it seems every dark chamber in Sri Lankan history could be explained away as part of a broader infrastructure protection plan. The Welikada Prison massacre? An attempt to secure the postal service. The burning of the Jaffna Library? A misunderstood fire drill.
But back to Batalanda.
For decades, it has been a place shrouded in dread—allegedly the site where dozens of political activists were detained, tortured, and made to disappear during the 1988–89 JVP uprising. Even the Batalanda Commission Report, tabled with much legal fanfare and investigative zeal, names Ranil Wickremesinghe—then a powerful minister and later the Prime Minister—as the official politically responsible for the crimes that occurred there.
And now, Ruwan, who also happens to be Ranil’s nephew, has become the latest knight in polished narrative armor to ride out and rescue his uncle’s legacy from the jaws of history.
Let’s not forget that Ruwan Wijewardene isn’t just a politician with a microphone and a misplaced metaphor. He’s also the heir to the Wijeya Newspapers Ltd. empire—one of the largest media houses in the country, owning titles like The Daily Mirror, Lankadeepa, and The Sunday Times.
These are newspapers that have, over the years, been known for breaking tough stories—except when those stories involve the Rajapaksas or the Ranils. In those cases, the headlines suddenly shrink, the stories slide to page 14, and the vocabulary turns suspiciously polite.
Now with Ruwan making statements that can only be described as historical alchemy—trying to turn the lead of torture allegations into the gold of national service—it raises a pressing question:
Has the Wijewardene media empire been subtly (or not-so-subtly) involved in the whitewashing of the Batalanda saga?
Because if your uncle is being named in a torture commission report, and you run half the press in the country, isn’t there a slight conflict of interest when you start talking about oil refinery protection units that suspiciously resemble dungeons?
Here’s where things get even more intriguing. Ruwan Wijewardene was recently appointed the chief organizer for the Biyagama electorate, which, surprise surprise, is the very area where the Batalanda facility is located. Coincidence? Perhaps. But in Sri Lankan politics, coincidences usually come wearing army boots.
Why would a man so fiercely insistent that Batalanda was merely a misunderstood security outpost also be politically responsible for the same geographic area?
It raises suspicions. Is this an attempt at local narrative control? Damage control? Or is it just an uncomfortable twist of fate?
And more importantly—should someone who’s actively attempting to rewrite the historical record be trusted to represent the very people whose families may have been torn apart by what happened at Batalanda?
Let’s talk about the Batalanda Commission, which handed its report to then-President Chandrika Kumaratunga in 1997. It explicitly stated that Ranil Wickremesinghe “bears responsibility” for the operation of the detention center.
This wasn’t a Facebook post or an anonymous blog. It was a state-appointed commission. And yet, not only was no action taken, but the man went on to become Prime Minister multiple times, and later, President.
That’s some serious Avengers-level plot armor.
And now, as international attention grows—fueled recently by a searing episode of Al Jazeera’s “Head to Head”, where Ranil was grilled on Batalanda and failed to convincingly distance himself from the allegations—the country is once again asking: What happened at Batalanda? And who helped cover it up?
If Ruwan's statements are anything to go by, it's becoming clear that the cover-up didn’t just happen in smoke-filled rooms, but perhaps also on polished newspaper pages and televised PR campaigns.
For years, the Batalanda issue simmered quietly beneath the surface—occasionally referenced by activists, mostly ignored by state media. But then came Al Jazeera’s head-to-head moment.
Ranil Wickremesinghe was asked point-blank about his connection to the torture facility. His answers? Evasive at best. Unconvincing at worst.
Since then, public outcry has reached new levels. Social media has exploded. Parliament has formed a special committee to reassess the Batalanda Commission findings. Civil society organizations are demanding renewed criminal investigations. And survivors’ families are starting to speak—bravely, painfully.
Into this volatile mix, Ruwan injects a new twist: “It wasn’t torture, it was refinery protection.”
One might ask: Is this damage control? Or is it the first step in a coordinated media campaign to rewrite the narrative before legal action becomes unavoidable?
Legal experts argue that if Ruwan Wijewardene is using his political and media positions to influence public perception in favor of a known accused, it might amount to obstruction of justice—or at the very least, ethical misconduct of an egregious scale.
If his newspapers deliberately underreport or distort facts related to the Batalanda issue, it’s not just poor journalism—it’s a betrayal of public trust and potentially part of a criminal cover-up.
As calls grow for a special prosecutor to investigate the Batalanda saga afresh, attention must turn not only to those who allegedly ordered the torture—but also to those who may have spent decades burying the story under layers of ink, silence, and strategically placed distractions.
The NPP government now faces a crucial test. Will they:
Launch a full and independent investigation into the Batalanda torture site, its operations, and its political patrons?
Summon Ruwan Wijewardene for questioning on his recent comments and examine whether they amount to interference in an ongoing parliamentary process?
Investigate whether Wijeya Newspapers failed in its duty to report fairly on an issue of national importance due to conflicts of interest?
Finally bring justice to the dozens—possibly hundreds—who were tortured, killed, or disappeared in that facility?
And what of Ranil Wickremesinghe? He may now be reduced to a transitional figure in Sri Lankan politics, but as long as his name remains on that commission report, his legacy remains unfinished—and tainted.
You can hang curtains on a jail cell. You can paint the walls of a dungeon. But at the end of the day, a torture chamber remains a torture chamber.
Ruwan Wijewardene’s attempt to rebrand Batalanda as some kind of misunderstood military outpost is not only historically dishonest—it’s dangerously dismissive of the victims.
If he truly wants to serve the people of Biyagama, he should begin by listening to the cries that echoed through those walls, not whitewashing them.
History is watching. So are we.
-By Investigative Reporter
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by (2025-04-13 15:55:51)
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