More than a decade and a half after the guns fell silent in May 2009, Sri Lanka remains entangled in an unresolved national dilemma: should the end of the war be glorified as a military triumph, or mourned as a national tragedy that left scars too deep to ignore? Each year, this question re-emerges with painful urgency. For many, the war’s conclusion was not an unambiguous victory but a Pyrrhic one, achieved at an immense cost, both in blood and national unity.
The origins of the conflict are not difficult to trace. Since 1949, successive governments refused to accommodate the Tamil population’s calls for autonomy in the North and East. What began as a political dispute mutated into armed rebellion, eventually dubbed “separatist terrorism.” The result? A decades-long civil war ended through brute force. Both sides the Sri Lankan state, the LTTE, and affiliated paramilitary groups committed egregious violations: extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, torture, and civilian massacres.
The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP), once rebels themselves, threw their weight behind the state’s military campaign. Today, in its evolved form as the National People’s Power (NPP), the movement bears the responsibility of bridging the deep chasm left by war. But slogans alone won’t heal this nation. If the NPP is serious about building peace, it must offer more than rhetoric it must act. Trust must be built across regions: North, East, and South. Empty promises won’t do. The time for performative politics is over.
A glaring truth remains: Sri Lanka is still a house divided. Even today, there are citizens in the South who resist allowing their northern counterparts to mourn the dead. In a land of diverse communities, can one group celebrate while another silently grieves? The answer should be obvious. Yet we persist with memorial parades for one group while bulldozing the cemeteries of another. This contradiction speaks volumes.
The right to mourn should never be partisan. The Tamil community, just like the Sinhalese who suffered during the uprisings of the South, deserves the dignity of remembrance. Many in the North and East still don’t even know the dates their loved ones died. Are we truly at peace if families don’t have closure?
Yes, many are relieved that the war is over. And yes, there is a legitimate space for people to celebrate survival. But amidst the waving flags and gun salutes, uncomfortable questions must be asked. What have these 16 years of militaristic victory parades and denial of mourning achieved? Has suppressing grief brought us reconciliation? Has it helped unify our divided land?
If anything, the current practice has further entrenched division. Instead of unity, we’ve enforced silence. Instead of healing, we’ve deepened the wound. True nation-building demands we confront our past, not whitewash it.
A meaningful way to honour this day is not to glorify the weapons that ended the war, but to reflect on the conditions that created it and to ensure they never return. That means acknowledging wrongs, taking responsibility, and enacting legal reforms that guarantee equality, dignity, and justice for all communities.
At this juncture, the NPP must lead by example. Let the commemorations speak not only of sacrifice, but of learning. Let them be moments of reckoning, not nationalism. For Sri Lanka to move forward, we must finally be brave enough to look back with honesty.
The war might have ended in 2009, but without reconciliation, without truth, and without compassion, we risk fighting a quieter, more corrosive war in the years ahead within our own conscience.
SOURCE :- SRI LANKA GUARDIAN
