Nalinda Indatissa
President’s Counsel

Public outrage over corruption today often finds its loudest expression on social media. Allegations are shared, names are circulated, and images of wealth are dissected in real time. While such discourse may raise awareness, it is important to recognise a fundamental limitation: social media cannot seize, freeze, or forfeit unlawfully acquired assets. That power lies exclusively within the framework of the law, exercised by duly authorised institutions such as the Police and the Bribery Commission under the Anti-Corruption law.

Modern anti-corruption legislation, reinforced by proceeds of crime provisions, has introduced a significant shift in how illicit enrichment is addressed. The law now permits action not only after a criminal conviction, but also in situations where assets are demonstrably disproportionate to lawful income and cannot be satisfactorily explained. In such cases, the focus is not confined to proving criminal guilt beyond reasonable doubt; rather, it extends to examining whether the property itself has a legitimate origin.

Where a public officer or a politician is found to possess substantial wealth that is inconsistent with known sources of income, and fails to provide a credible explanation, the law can be invoked. The Police and the Bribery Commission are empowered to investigate, trace financial flows, and move court to freeze and seize assets at an early stage. This prevents the dissipation or concealment of property while inquiries are ongoing. Thereafter, through due legal process and judicial oversight, such assets may be forfeited if it is established that they are more likely than not derived from unlawful activity.
This is not merely a theoretical construct. The Bribery Commission has already exercised these powers in respect of sitting public officers, demonstrating that the law is both operational and effective when properly utilised. Importantly, the reach of these provisions is not limited to those currently in office. If applied with consistency and impartiality, they are equally capable of being used against retired officials as well as former and sitting politicians. The law draws no distinction based on status or timing; its concern is whether the wealth in question can be lawfully justified.

The contrast with social media is therefore stark. Public commentary, however forceful, cannot substitute for lawful action. Allegations made online do not freeze bank accounts, nor do they result in the recovery of illicit assets. Only structured investigations, supported by evidence and conducted within the legal framework, can achieve that result. This underscores the importance of strong institutions and the responsible exercise of statutory powers.
At the same time, the use of these powers must be guided by fairness and due process. Individuals must be given a proper opportunity to explain their assets, and courts must ensure that enforcement does not become arbitrary or selective. The strength of the law lies not only in its reach, but in its credibility.

Now that the Anti-Corruption law provides a clear pathway for non-conviction based seizure and forfeiture, the responsibility rests with law enforcement agencies to act. Where there is credible evidence of unexplained wealth, the Police and the Bribery Commission have both the authority and the duty to proceed—firmly, fairly, and without fear or favour. In doing so, they affirm a simple but essential principle: public office cannot be used as a gateway to unexplained wealth, and where such wealth exists, the law—not public opinion—will ultimately determine its fate.

By Roger Srivasan

At the outset, it must be stated without equivocation: both the Minister and the personal secretary deserve commendation for taking the correct and honourable course of action. Their decision to step aside while investigations are ongoing is not merely procedurally sound—it is symbolically significant. It reflects, at least in this instance, a willingness to align conduct with principle, to walk the talk in a political culture where such congruence has long been in short supply.

For decades, Sri Lankan public life has been marked by a troubling dissonance between rhetoric and reality. Politicians waxed eloquent on codes of practice, their words often cloaked in a veneer of verisimilitude, yet seldom translated into action. The language of governance was elevated; the practice of it, less so. In such an environment, the act of stepping aside—pending inquiry, without the compulsion of a court order or the finality of proven guilt—was almost unheard of

It is against this historical backdrop that the present resignations assume their full significance.
Predictably, however, a strain of cynicism has emerged in public discourse. Some argue that these resignations were not voluntary, but compelled—forced by pressure, threatened exposure, or the crescendo of public criticism. This line of reasoning, though superficially plausible, does not withstand scrutiny when viewed through the lens of our recent political history.

For in the living memory of this nation, no quantum of criticism—however egregious, sustained, or even justified—has typically succeeded in extracting resignations from those in positions of power. Ministers have weathered storms of scandal, stood firm amid grave allegations, and continued in office with an air of studied indifference. Public outrage, far from being a catalyst for accountability, has often been treated as background noise—loud, perhaps, but ultimately inconsequential.

Indeed, the political tradition we have inherited has too often been characterised by a refusal to yield. Obfuscation, deflection, and denial have formed the first line of defence; contrition, where it appeared at all, was usually belated and reluctant. It would be neither unfair nor imprecise to describe this tradition as one tainted by rapacity, avarice, and a deeply entrenched venality. In such a climate, the notion that mere criticism—even when accompanied by credible allegations—could precipitate a resignation would have been dismissed as fanciful.

That is precisely why the present development must be recognised for what it is: unprecedented.
These resignations mark a subtle yet meaningful departure from an entrenched political instinct—the instinct to cling to office at all costs. They suggest, however tentatively, that a different calculus may be emerging: one in which the preservation of institutional integrity is accorded greater weight than the preservation of personal position.

It is important, however, to properly frame what these resignations do—and do not—signify. Stepping aside pending investigation is not, and should not be construed as, an admission of guilt. Rather, it is an acknowledgment of a higher principle: that the offices of state must remain unsullied by even the appearance of impropriety while due process takes its course.

In mature democracies, this principle is well understood. Public office is not treated as a personal entitlement to be defended at all costs, but as a trust to be relinquished, at least temporarily, when circumstances demand. The legitimacy of governance depends not only on the absence of wrongdoing, but on the perception of integrity. It is this distinction—subtle yet profound—that has often eluded our political culture.
The phrase “walk the talk” captures this ethos with elegant simplicity. It is easy to speak of accountability; far more difficult to embody it. It is one thing to proclaim adherence to democratic norms; quite another to submit oneself to them when they prove inconvenient. The true measure of leadership lies not in the eloquence of its declarations, but in the consistency of its conduct.

Whether these resignations were influenced by internal counsel, political prudence, or an evolving sensitivity to public expectation is, in many respects, secondary. What matters is the precedent they establish. For perhaps the first time in recent memory, stepping aside has been normalised—not as an act of weakness, but as an act of responsibility.

If this precedent takes root, its implications could be far-reaching. It could recalibrate public expectations, redefine political norms, and gradually erode the culture of impunity that has long plagued our institutions. It could signal to future office-holders that accountability is not optional—that the standards to which they will be held are no longer negotiable.

Yet caution is warranted. One swallow does not make a summer, and one instance of accountability does not, in itself, transform a political culture. The durability of this shift will depend on consistency. If such actions are to be more than episodic, they must be replicated—across administrations, across parties, and across circumstances.

For now, however, it would be churlish to dismiss what has occurred. In a nation where resignation has too often been synonymous with defeat, we are witnessing—however modestly—the emergence of a different understanding: that stepping aside, when done in deference to due process, is not a capitulation, but a contribution to the integrity of public life.

In the final analysis, the significance of this moment lies not in the individuals concerned, but in the principle affirmed. For a polity long accustomed to leaders who spoke of virtue while practising expedience, even a single instance of alignment between word and deed carries weight.

It is, in the truest sense, a moment where rhetoric has yielded—however briefly—to responsibility.
And if sustained, it may yet mark the beginning of a political culture where leaders do not merely speak of standards, but live by them—where they do not merely talk the talk, but unmistakably, and without equivocation, walk the talk.

Sri Lanka’s plantation sector is once again facing a looming as global fertiliser supply disruptions triggered by escalating tensions in the Middle East begin to ripple through the local economy.

The Planters’ Association of Ceylon has raised alarm over soaring fertiliser prices and tightening supplies, warning that the situation could significantly undermine agricultural output and economic stability. At the heart of the disruption lies the closure of the Strait of Hormuz—a critical artery through which roughly one-third of global fertiliser raw materials are transported.

Shipping traffic through this strategic route has reportedly plunged by 90%, sending shockwaves across global supply chains. The situation is further compounded by the role of Iran, one of the world’s largest urea suppliers, whose exports have been affected by the regional instability.

For Sri Lanka, which depends heavily on imported fertiliser, the implications are immediate and severe. Plantation crops—tea, rubber, and coconut  require consistent nutrient inputs, and any disruption during the next two to four months could directly impact annual yields. Industry analysts warn that reduced output may translate into lower export earnings, placing additional strain on the country’s already fragile Balance of Payments.

The Government has responded by increasing fertiliser subsidies to as much as Rs. 18,000 for additional crops, a move welcomed by industry stakeholders. However, the Association cautions that such measures may not fully offset the structural challenges posed by global shortages and rising costs.

The crisis also revives painful memories of the 2021 fertiliser ban, which devastated agricultural productivity and took years to recover from. Just as the sector was regaining stability, it now faces a new external shock—this time beyond domestic control.

According to insights linked to the Food and Agriculture Organization, the Gulf region accounts for up to 35% of global urea exports. Continued disruption could push fertiliser prices 15–20% higher in early 2026, with yield impacts extending into 2027.

Already, global urea prices have surged sharply, while major suppliers like China have restricted exports to secure domestic supply. Sri Lanka is now exploring alternative sourcing options, including negotiations with Russia and India, though these nations may prioritise their own food security needs.

At the ground level, Regional Plantation Companies and smallholders are bearing the brunt. Rising input costs, coupled with limited availability, are squeezing margins and threatening livelihoods.

In essence, this fertiliser crisis is not merely an agricultural issue it is an economic one. Without swift and effective mitigation, Sri Lanka risks a chain reaction impacting exports, inflation, and overall economic resilience.