All Governments Targeted Media Under Emergency: Silencing Critics: Emergency Powers & Media Freedom

Even five years after the civil war ended in 2009, the vestiges of this national security state mentality remained deeply embedded in political culture. The machinery of exceptional governance, both legal and psychological, had become too useful, too familiar, to dismantle

President Anura Kumara Dissanayake made a familiar promise to the nation on December 2nd: emergency regulations enacted for disaster reconstruction would not be misused for other purposes. “I assure every citizen that these emergency powers will not be misused,” he declared, explaining that the measures were necessary to provide legal and financial safeguards for efficient reconstruction following severe damage to essential sectors.

Within days, that promise rang hollow. Deputy Minister of Public Security and Parliamentary Affairs Sunil Watagala openly urged law enforcement to weaponise these same emergency regulations against social media users posting allegedly defamatory content about government members. The contradiction could hardly be starker — or more predictable to those familiar with Sri Lanka’s troubled history with exceptional powers.

Not suspects but offenders

Watagala’s December 2 comments at the Malabe Divisional Secretariat represent far more than one minister’s overreach. They exemplify a deeply entrenched pattern in Sri Lankan governance where emergency powers, regardless of their stated purpose, inevitably migrate toward political control. His directive to police officers to treat social media critics “not merely as suspects but as offenders” and to take action under emergency regulations exposes the instrumental use of exceptional powers that has characterised Sri Lankan politics for generations. The Sri Lanka Working Journalists Association and Internet Media Action responded with alarm, reflecting concerns born not from paranoia but from historical experience—a decades-long pattern of emergency powers being deployed for purposes far removed from their original justification.

However, the president pushed back in Parliament on December 5th, explicitly rejecting Watagala’s position. “We will never use emergency regulations to suppress views or opinions,” Dissanayake emphasised, noting that existing laws are sufficient to address defamatory content if needed.

The Historical Foundation of Exceptional Rule

Since independence, Sri Lanka has been governed under states of emergency for much of its existence. The Public Security Ordinance of 1947 became such a routine tool that entire generations grew up socialised into political life under emergency conditions. Armed police with automatic weapons, military checkpoints, administrative detention, and pervasive fear became normalised features of civic life rather than temporary responses to crisis.

This normalisation accelerated dramatically in 1982 when the Prevention of Terrorism Act, originally enacted in 1979 as temporary legislation, was converted into permanent law. Combined with constitutional emergency powers and the omnipotent executive presidency created by the 1978 constitution, these laws created a formidable infrastructure for exceptional governance that persisted long after specific threats subsided.

Even five years after the civil war ended in 2009, the vestiges of this national security state mentality remained deeply embedded in political culture. The machinery of exceptional governance, both legal and psychological, had become too useful, too familiar, to dismantle.

One of the profound ironies of Sri Lankan history is that rule by emergency became far more entrenched after independence than during British colonial rule. While colonial authorities deployed exceptional measures, such as declaring martial law during the 1848 Matale riots, they typically restored normalcy relatively quickly. The republican era tells a different story. When Sri Lanka declared itself a republic on May 22, 1972, a state of emergency was already in effect. 

More remarkably, the left-leaning United Front government had first declared emergency in October 1970 not for security threats, but for currency demonetisation, a routine economic policy. That socialist parties with strong Marxist elements would resort to emergency powers for such mundane purposes reveals much about republican governance culture, especially since these same parties had historically opposed the Public Security Ordinance.

The March 1971 emergency, declared to address the growing JVP insurgency, generated widespread human rights violations including prolonged detention, torture, and disappearances, abuses severe enough to prompt formation of the Civil Rights Movement, Sri Lanka’s first human rights NGO. From the early 1970s until September 2011, states of emergency operated almost continuously, with only brief interruptions.

The Cycle of Violence and Exception

Even when the emergency formally ended in July 2001 because the government lost its parliamentary majority, authorities immediately compensated by introducing regulations under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, ensuring extraordinary powers remained in place. A brief break came with the Norwegian-brokered ceasefire in February 2002, which required that the PTA stop being used. However, emergency was quickly brought back in August 2005 following the assassination of Foreign Minister Lakshman Kadirgamar.

Successive governments justified nearly four decades of continuous emergency by pointing to political violence and uprisings. Emergency powers were also used to crush labour unrest, including President J.R. Jayewardene’s 1980 use of them to break a general strike, resulting in 40,000 workers losing their jobs and marking a turning point in Sri Lankan trade unionism.

The uprisings themselves reflected deep failures in nation-building. The JVP insurgencies mobilised angry Sinhala youth from the majority community, while the northern and eastern uprising, which grew into a 26-year civil war, was started by marginalised Tamil youth. This widespread unrest came from feelings of being left out based on class, caste, and ethnicity, showing the political elite’s failure to create an inclusive nation after independence.

The 1972 Constitution particularly worsened ethnic divisions through its strong majoritarian focus. Rather than addressing complaints through democratic discussion, the state responded to violent opposition with constant rule by exception, creating a vicious cycle where abuses under extraordinary laws made the original complaints worse.

Judicial Resistance and Its Limits

There have been periods of judicial pushback. By the late 1980s, the Supreme Court, particularly under activist justices like the late Justice Mark Fernando, began strictly scrutinising executive use of emergency powers and establishing limits on the restriction of constitutional rights. These fundamental rights judgements represented important attempts to establish rule of law within emergency contexts.

However, this judicial resistance required both greater judicial independence and activist justices, conditions that have not consistently obtained. The effectiveness of checks and balances has varied considerably depending on political climate and judicial composition, offering no reliable bulwark against executive overreach.

Watagala’s statements must be understood against this historical backdrop. His directive to use disaster-related emergency regulations to suppress political criticism is a textbook example of misusing emergency powers, taking measures designed for one purpose and using them for something completely different.

The media organisations’ alarm is justified because they recognise this pattern. Mixing legitimate disaster response with political suppression, assuming guilt rather than innocence, and using sweeping powers to criminalise free speech are all characteristics of how emergency powers have been used in Sri Lanka for decades.

When Internet Media Action called this a “theft of fundamental rights,” they spoke to what history proves: emergency powers, once granted, rarely stay limited to their original purpose. “Criticism is not a crime,” they warned, noting that such threats lead to widespread fear and self-censorship.

Breaking the Cycle

This controversy is not just about one minister’s comments. It’s about whether Sri Lanka can break free from its own history. Without deliberate effort to change course, the country risks continuing a pattern where constitutional rights are always pushed aside for claimed security needs, whether facing actual conflict, economic problems, labour strikes, or simply uncomfortable criticism on social media.

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