The right to remember

Seventeen years after the end of the civil war, Sri Lanka continues to struggle not only with the legacy of conflict, but with a deeper and more uncomfortable challenge and its inability to collectively remember. Remembrance remains fragmented, politicised, and selective. Yet without meaningful remembrance, there can be no genuine healing, reconciliation, or assurance that the horrors of the past will not return.

The end of the war in May 2009 brought relief to millions exhausted by decades of bloodshed. For many, it marked the defeat of terrorism and the preservation of the state. But for others, it was also a moment of profound loss of loved ones, homes, livelihoods, and communities. Tens of thousands died during the conflict, while many more disappeared without explanation. Entire generations were shaped by fear, displacement, and trauma. To remember only victory while ignoring suffering is to deny the full truth of our history.

The need for remembrance is not limited to the final stages of the civil war. Since 1971, this country has experienced three major episodes of political violence: the two southern insurrections and the long civil conflict in the North and East. Across these periods, tens of thousands of Sri Lankans were killed or subjected to enforced disappearance. Families continue to search for answers decades later. Yet the country has failed to create meaningful national spaces for remembrance that acknowledge all victims equally and with dignity.

Instead, memory has become deeply polarised. Communities remember their own pain while often dismissing or minimising the suffering of others. Political actors exploit these divisions, reinforcing competing narratives of heroism, victimhood, and betrayal. Such selective remembrance perpetuates mistrust and prevents the emergence of a shared national understanding of the past.

True remembrance demands introspection. Sri Lanka must confront not only the immense human cost of war, but also the conditions that allowed violence to take root and persist for decades. Ethnic discrimination, exclusionary politics, failures of governance, abuse of power, and the dehumanisation of communities all contributed to the cycle of violence. Ignoring these realities in favour of triumphalist or jingoistic narratives risks repeating the same mistakes.

Remembering the dead is an act of humanity. This applies not only to those on the victorious side, but also to those who lost the war and those who were trapped in the middle. Grief cannot be ranked according to ethnicity, political allegiance, or geography.

The responsibility to shape a more inclusive culture of remembrance lies heavily with the State. Governments play a central role in defining national memory. A mature and confident nation does not fear acknowledging suffering in all its forms. Rather, it creates space for all communities to remember with dignity and without suspicion. Such leadership can help bridge divisions that have long undermined social cohesion.

Remembrance should also serve as a warning. It must reinforce the importance of safeguarding democracy, protecting human rights, and addressing grievances before they erupt into violence. Sri Lanka paid a devastating price for political extremism and intolerance. The country lost not only lives, but also decades of development, economic opportunity, and social progress. Entire generations of youth were consumed by war instead of contributing to the nation’s future.

As Sri Lanka marks 17 years since the guns fell silent, remembrance must become more than a symbolic exercise. It must become a national commitment to truth, empathy, and coexistence. Only by remembering honestly and collectively can we move beyond the divisions of the past and build a future where such violence never recurs.