By: Roger Srivasan
It would be entirely apposite, perhaps, to dispel the sophism that mere political survival is synonymous with statesmanship. Longevity in office, however vaunted, is no proof of probity; it may just as easily be the residue of expedience, artifice, and the careful cultivation of illusion.
In this evolving political moment, Anura Kumara Dissanayake appears, at least in principle, to function as a linchpin—holding together the fragile architecture of reform and expectation. Yet a linchpin alone does not guarantee stability. What is required is concinnity: a government whose actions, principles, and public conduct are brought into harmonious alignment. Without such concinnity, even the most promising administration risks unravelling into the familiar pattern—fine rhetoric masking hollow intent, and reform dissolving into yet another exercise in political theatre.
Parliament, therefore, must be declared out of bounds to those politicians whose public lives are marred by rapacity, mendacity, and venality—irrespective of party lines. This principle must apply with equal force to the ruling party, for without such restraint, any government risks a swift dégringolade into disrepute and decay.
History—both Western and domestic—offers a sobering catalogue of what unfolds when accountability is either enforced or evaded.
Consider the recent British example of Boris Johnson and the Partygate affair. Here was a Prime Minister brought low not by grand corruption in the classical sense, but by a sustained pattern of rule-breaking and, more fatally, a perceived indifference to truth. The issue was not merely the gatherings themselves, but the erosion of public trust. The dénouement was swift: fines, censure, and ultimately, resignation. In mature democracies, it is often not the crime alone, but the insult to public intelligence that proves fatal.
Go further back and one encounters the extraordinary case of John Stonehouse—a Cabinet Minister who attempted to fake his own death, only to be discovered living under an assumed identity in Australia. His fall from office was not merely precipitous; it was theatrical. Yet it serves as a stark reminder that political office cannot indefinitely shield personal duplicity.
These are not isolated curiosities; they are case studies in accountability. Systems, when functioning as they ought, do not permit the indefinitely mendacious to masquerade as statesmen.
By contrast, we have too often witnessed, in our own political landscape, administrations where the rot was not confined to a few bad apples lurking in the shadows, but where the entire apple cart was laden with decay—save for the rare and honourable exception. It is in this context that names such as Keheliya Rambukwella surface in public discourse, emblematic of the wider crisis of credibility that has plagued governance.
The lesson is clear: where misconduct is suspected—even among a handful—there must be independent investigation and the swift meting out of justice. Anything less invites cynicism; anything delayed invites collapse.
And yet, what is most astonishing is not the misconduct itself, but the afterlife of discredited ambition. Figures whose records are steeped in controversy continue to strut about the political stage, posturing as presidents-in-waiting. One might admire the tailoring; one need not admire the substance. For sartorial elegance, however immaculate, cannot launder a compromised past—nor can it disguise the unmistakable odour of political decay.
Democracy, if it is to endure, must draw a firm line: public office is not a refuge for the rapacious, nor a theatre for the mendacious. It is a trust—fragile, conditional, and revocable.
If that line is not drawn—clearly, consistently, and without fear or favour—then the dégringolade will not merely be personal. It will be institutional. And by the time the applause fades and the illusions dissipate, the republic itself may discover that it has been governed not by statesmen, but by well-dressed impostors.
