1996 Mullaitivu debacle, missing persons, and accountability

July marks 29 years since the fall of the Mullaitivu garrison in 1996, one of the most devastating military defeats in Sri Lanka’s modern history. Over 1,400 personnel, including members of the Sri Lankan Army, Navy, police, and civilian administrative staff, were stationed at this isolated military compound on the eastern coast. The LTTE launched a well-coordinated and brutal assault, overrunning the base in a matter of days. For the first time, the LTTE succeeded in capturing a major military installation—a grim milestone after previous near-successes at Elephant Pass in 1991 and Pooneryn in 1993.

A relief effort mounted by some of Sri Lanka’s most elite military units, including members of the Special Forces and Commando Regiment, was met with fierce resistance. After nearly two weeks of intense fighting, the mission was aborted. Among those killed were some of the nation’s most capable and dedicated soldiers. What followed was confusion, denial, and a disturbing lack of transparency.

The Government at the time claimed that only 91 soldiers had been killed in action, classifying over 1,200 as “missing in action” (MIA). At least 200 of these missing personnel had surrendered and were subsequently executed by the LTTE—a clear violation of international humanitarian law and a chilling example of enforced disappearance perpetrated by a non-state actor that effectively governed territory and populations.

Today, enforced disappearances are largely discussed in the context of State-perpetrated atrocities. Indeed, the legacy of abductions, secret detentions, and extrajudicial killings committed by Government-affiliated forces must be confronted with sincerity and resolve. However, the silence around Mullaitivu’s missing soldiers is not just a historical oversight; it is a glaring double standard.

Nationalist voices, often quick to reject any form of accountability regarding State actions, have also shown little interest in demanding justice for the security personnel who vanished under the LTTE’s watch. This inconsistency raises troubling questions about the politicisation of victimhood and the selective invocation of justice. If the principle of accountability is to have meaning, it must apply universally—regardless of whether the perpetrator was a state or non-state actor. The LTTE, though militarily defeated in 2009, administered vast areas of the North and East during the conflict and functioned with the trappings of a proto-state. With this came responsibilities under international humanitarian norms, including the humane treatment of prisoners of war. The summary execution of surrendered troops is an absolute war crime.

Sri Lanka’s long and painful history of three internal conflicts have left more than 100,000 people dead and tens of thousands missing. The search for truth and justice must not begin and end with one community or one category of victims. The families of the Mullaitivu MIAs have waited nearly three decades for answers, for dignity, and for closure. Their suffering is no less worthy of redress than that of any other victim of this nation’s wars.

As we grapple with the legacy of war and the challenges of healing, we must commit to a comprehensive and impartial process of accountability. Honouring the memory of the fallen at Mullaitivu means more than remembrance; it demands truth, justice, and above all, a reaffirmation to justice.