Dealing with legacies of censorship

A confident and secure democracy does not fear the written word. It does not tremble before novels, poems, or satire, nor does it empower bureaucrats to act as arbiters of thought. Yet recent events surrounding the detention of four Tamil-language books by author Theepachelvan reveal a troubling instinct within the state to control expression under the vague and overextended banner of “national security.”

Customs officials initially detained the books because they contained images of a separate state in Sri Lanka. Rather than resolving the matter through transparent legal reasoning, the issue was escalated to the Defence Ministry, which recommended continued detention on ‘national security’ grounds, a catch phrase which is usually vague in definition but all-encompassing in practice. Meanwhile, the Culture Ministry had recommended the release of two of the novels.

An archaic legal provision allows customs officers to detain material deemed capable of causing “disaffection” against the Government. Such language is dangerously broad. In practice, it permits subjective interpretation, allowing personal bias or institutional caution to override fundamental freedoms. Laws of this nature belong to another era, one where dissent was equated with disloyalty, and where Governments sought compliance rather than engagement.

In a modern democracy, this approach is untenable. Literature, by its very nature, explores uncomfortable ideas. It questions authority, revisits history, and imagines alternative realities. To interpret such exploration as a threat is to misunderstand both art and governance. If a novel can be construed as a national security risk, then the definition of “security” has been stretched beyond recognition.

The Defence Ministry has yet to clearly explain how fictional works could incite real-world harm. If there is genuine evidence of incitement to violence, it should be presented openly and subjected to judicial scrutiny. The Attorney General’s Department exists precisely for this purpose, to assess and prosecute unlawful conduct within the framework of the law. Bypassing this process in favour of administrative detention undermines both legal integrity and public trust.

What these actions ultimately reflect is not strength, but insecurity. They suggest a belief that citizens cannot be trusted to think critically, that exposure to certain ideas will inevitably lead to unrest. This paternalistic mindset is not only outdated, but counterproductive. Attempts to suppress expression often achieve the opposite effect, drawing attention to otherwise obscure works and amplifying their reach.

Sri Lanka has seen similar overreach in recent years. Artists, poets, and performers have faced detention over their creative expression, only for the state to later retreat, withdraw charges, or issue apologies. Each incident follows a familiar pattern of an initial crackdown including arrests and detention, public backlash, and eventual embarrassment. Yet the cumulative damage, to individuals, to artistic freedom, and to the country’s democratic credentials remains.

Archaic laws that enable such broad censorship must be revisited and repealed. Clear guidelines should replace vague provisions, ensuring that restrictions on expression are narrowly defined, proportionate, and subject to judicial oversight. Most importantly, there must be a cultural shift within institutions that recognises that safeguarding freedom of expression is not a risk, but a responsibility.

The State bureaucracy cannot afford to remain trapped in a mindset shaped by fear and suspicion. To move forward, it must trust its citizens, embrace open dialogue, and allow ideas, however controversial, to be debated rather than suppressed. Only then can it truly call itself a modern democracy.