As Sri Lanka’s foreign minister hails humiliation as success, critics warn that the nation’s diplomacy has lost direction, squandered credibility, and betrayed both sovereignty and citizens in the eyes of the world.
Sri Lanka’s recent display on the world stage has left many asking whether its foreign policy has descended into farce. Foreign Minister Vijitha Herath’s performance in Parliament, attempting to justify the government’s conduct at the United Nations Human Rights Council in Geneva, has been widely condemned as evidence of a state adrift. His words, framed as defiance, revealed instead the fragility and confusion of a government unable to reconcile its rhetoric with reality.
The minister’s central claim that the resolution against Sri Lanka was passed without a vote and therefore absolves the government of blame was less a defence than an admission of failure. To equate absence from the process with victory is to celebrate irrelevance. In diplomacy, the ability to shape outcomes, to negotiate with foresight and credibility, and to assert moral authority are marks of strength. By boasting about abstention, Herath revealed that the government had lost the leverage to contest the resolution at all. Far from triumph, it was an abdication of responsibility.
Observers in Colombo and abroad note that this is not a minor blunder but a symptom of something deeper: the decay of Sri Lanka’s foreign policy machinery under a government content to substitute passivity for prudence and confusion for strategy. International relations require engagement, however arduous or uncomfortable. To claim savings on travel expenses or to mock past administrations for lobbying abroad is to misunderstand the very purpose of diplomacy. A foreign minister’s duty is not to minimize exposure but to protect the national interest, even when the odds are steep.
Diplomacy has often been described as the art of letting others have your way. By this measure, Sri Lanka’s current posture is no diplomacy at all, but surrender disguised as tact. When the foreign minister insists that the resolution was “passed without a vote,” he overlooks what such procedures usually mean: that a country has lost both the moral standing and the political capital to influence outcomes. Neutrality has been replaced by irrelevance. On the world stage, irrelevance is the gravest humiliation.
In his speech, Herath attempted to shift blame to previous administrations, accusing them of internationalising domestic issues and lying to the global community. Yet his own government has pursued the same course, only with greater incompetence. The so-called Truth and Reconciliation Commission, touted as evidence of reform, has been criticised as a hollow gesture. Without independence, transparency, or the courage to confront hard truths, such commissions serve only as political props, designed to pacify critics while deceiving the public.
The minister’s rhetoric revealed not confidence but insecurity and self-deception. He spoke of “rescuing” the issue from foreign hands, even as his very presence in Geneva contradicted that claim. If, as he suggested, the outcome was already known, why squander public funds on a trip abroad when the proceedings were available via livestream? His performance was not statesmanship but theatre a hollow gesture that embarrassed the nation rather than defended it.
The ancient historian Thucydides observed that “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.” By that measure, Sri Lanka has descended into the ranks of the weak. Its representatives confuse submission for strategy and failure for finesse. True diplomacy is not about bowing to inevitability but about shaping events through vision, credibility, and moral authority. None of these qualities were visible in the foreign minister’s words or actions.
The complacency in Herath’s speech was striking, even dangerous. Critics question whether this submission is born of ignorance or deliberate calculation. When he claimed that “the government’s commitment has been accepted by the Human Rights Council,” the obvious question arises: what commitments were made, and at what cost to sovereignty and truth? To claim victory in such circumstances is to celebrate submission. It raises the disturbing possibility that Sri Lanka’s leadership has willingly traded independence for temporary reprieve.
Once, Sri Lanka commanded respect in international affairs. Its diplomats were known for intellect, dignity, and independence, able to engage even hostile powers with authority. Today, that tradition has been eroded. The foreign service is populated with loyalists and mediocrities clinging to titles they scarcely understand. They mouth platitudes without conviction, incapable of defending the nation’s dignity. The Arthashastra of Kautilya advised rulers to employ ambassadors who are wise, eloquent, and noble in conduct. By that measure, Sri Lanka’s representatives are no ambassadors at all but passengers, drifting while the ship of state takes on water.
Even Machiavelli, cynical as he was, understood the importance of appearing strong. A prince, he wrote, ought to inspire fear if he cannot win love. Yet Sri Lanka’s diplomacy inspires neither love nor fear. It elicits only pity. The world does not hate Sri Lanka; it has simply ceased to care. That indifference is the deepest humiliation of all.
The government’s defenders may call such criticism cynical, but the truth is plain: Sri Lanka has been reduced to a spectator in its own story. Ministers speak of sovereignty while kneeling to expedience. They invoke reconciliation while silencing dissent. They parade patriotism while squandering public funds on vanity trips to Geneva. At home, citizens struggle with inflation, poverty, and instability, even as their leaders waste resources abroad. Hollow promises of “domestic mechanisms” and “new beginnings” echo year after year, convincing no one. Orwell’s words ring true: in times of deceit, telling the truth becomes revolutionary.
The tragedy is not only that Sri Lanka has lost face abroad but that it has lost faith at home. A government that cannot meet the world with dignity cannot expect trust from its own people. Herath’s performance was not diplomacy but damage control, an attempt to mask failure as foresight. The charade fooled no one. His words were the verbal equivalent of a white flag, raised over a foreign ministry that has forgotten its purpose.
If honour remains in the corridors of power, the foreign minister and his team should apologise to the nation—or resign and salvage what little dignity is left. To travel to Geneva, to spend public money, to call surrender success, and then to mock those who question it, is not governance. It is betrayal. Worse, it signals that the government may not have reached the bottom of this pit but is determined to dig deeper.
Sri Lanka’s foreign policy risks becoming a cautionary tale of how nations lose their way. Diplomacy is not the theatre of evasion but the practice of foresight, strength, and responsibility. A state that confuses silence with neutrality, and irrelevance with strategy, risks not only humiliation abroad but collapse of trust at home. For Sri Lanka, the challenge is stark: to restore dignity, rebuild credibility, and rediscover the moral courage to represent its people with honour. Without such change, the circus will continue, and the cost will be borne not by ministers but by citizens left voiceless on the world stage.
