By Roger Srivasan
Long ago, an ancient parable told of two women who stood before a wise king, each claiming a single infant as her own. Their pleas were equally fervent; truth could not be discerned by words alone.
The king therefore ordered his minister to bring a sword and divide the child into two equal halves, granting each woman her share. As the blade was raised, one woman cried out in anguish, begging that the child be spared—even if it meant surrendering him to the other. The second woman remained unmoved.
In that instant, wisdom revealed itself. The king halted the act and returned the child to the woman who had pleaded for his life. Compassion, not possession, had exposed the truth. Those who truly love do not destroy what they claim to protect.
That lesson speaks with striking relevance to a dilemma unfolding today in Sri Lanka’s North.
During the long and traumatic years of civil conflict, many rightful landowners in parts of the Northern Province—particularly in the Jaffna region—were compelled to abandon their homes and livelihoods, fleeing in fear for their lives. These areas were later designated as high-security zones, closed to civilians. In that interregnum, decisions were taken without the presence or consent of the original owners, and a large Buddhist vihara was constructed on land that has since become the subject of dispute.
Today, with peace restored and a new administration seeking to preserve harmony among all Sri Lanka’s communities, the issue has resurfaced. Some locals, supported by the rightful owners, seek the return of the land. The government, conscious of historical grievances and equally mindful of present-day coexistence, finds itself in a genuine catch-22.
In good faith, the state has offered compensation or alternative land elsewhere—an attempt to balance redress with reconciliation. If the terms are unsatisfactory, there is every right to negotiate firmly, constructively, and with dignity. Negotiation is not weakness; it is the proper language of justice in a democratic society.
What must be rejected unequivocally, however, is the wanton destruction of a sacred place of worship. Such an act would be scurrilous, indefensible, and wholly unacceptable in a plural nation. To destroy a vihara in the name of ownership is to raise the sword over the child—an act that betrays the very cause it purports to defend.
Regrettably, a small cohort of hard-line politicians, still captive to grievance politics, are attempting to inflame passions and entice some owners to reject reasonable offers in favour of confrontation. This is not advocacy; it is irresponsibility. It risks reopening old wounds, corroding inter-communal trust, and undermining the fragile reconciliation the nation has worked so hard to achieve.
I therefore urge the Tamils of the North and the political representatives who speak in their name to act in a conciliatory spirit. By all means, negotiate. Seek land of one’s choosing if the current offer is inadequate. But reject, without ambiguity, any call for destruction or desecration. No legitimate grievance is advanced by the annihilation of another community’s sacred space.
True strength lies not in demolition, but in discernment; not in rage, but in restraint. The Tamil community has every right to justice—but justice pursued without wisdom risks destroying its own cause.
Like the true mother in the ancient court, wisdom today lies in the courage to let live. Peace, coexistence, and national prosperity demand restraint even when compromise is painful.
A nation moves forward not when one side prevails, but when all sides choose preservation over destruction—and wisdom over wrath.
