Cutting MPs’ pensions - at what cost?

Few political promises generate as much public applause as cutting the privileges of politicians. In a country battered by economic collapse, tax hikes and austerity, any move to trim parliamentary perks appears morally justified. It is more so because the ruling National People’s Power (NPP) has portrayed politicians in a bad light, holding them responsible for all the ills the country is grappling with.  

President Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s decision to cut pensions, duty-free vehicle permits and allowances for MPs taps directly into that sentiment. It is true that MPs or legislators should be held accountable to people.  They should not indulge in corruption or any sort of wrongdoing.

 The deeper question is whether substantially reducing remuneration for MPs will strengthen democracy,  or quietly weaken it over time.

Remuneration of legislators should not be viewed as a favour granted to politicians,  but as an investment in governance. The logic rests on several pillars. First, adequate remuneration reduces the temptation for corruption. When holding public office becomes financially punitive, individuals are either discouraged from entering politics or incentivised to seek alternative — often improper — sources of income. Underpayment does not eliminate corruption; it can, in fact, fertilise it.

Parliamentary work is a full time   engagement though every day is not a sitting day. It involves constituency management, legislative work, committee scrutiny, policy analysis and oversight of the executive — often under intense public and media scrutiny. It involves work under pressure.

 In Sri Lanka, MPs juggle responsibilities both in Colombo and their electorates, frequently travelling long distances while maintaining staff and offices. When pay is insufficient, only the wealthy or those backed by financiers can realistically sustain a political career. That narrows representation. It undermines the very principle that Parliament should reflect the social and economic diversity of the country.

In many countries, compensation structures   are benchmarked against senior civil service or private sector roles. This is not to equate politics with corporate employment, but to ensure that capable professionals do not face an unreasonable financial penalty for entering public life. In India, for instance, MPs receive a basic salary of INR 100,000, with total benefits exceeding INR 300,000, in addition to travel and utility entitlements. Pay revisions are periodically linked to cost-of-living adjustments to protect purchasing power. In Singapore, parliamentary salaries are among the highest globally.

 Sri Lanka’s figures, by contrast, appear modest. An MP’s basic salary stands at Rs. 54,285. With allowances — for attendance, office rent, fuel and other expenses — the total monthly figure rises to around Rs. 300,000. In real terms, particularly after inflation and currency depreciation over the past three years, this does not constitute extraordinary compensation for a national legislator.  Yet,  public anger persists because the debate has focused less on structure and more on optics. Duty-free vehicle permits and pensions have become symbols of privilege disconnected from performance. In this context, the President’s appointment of a committee headed by retired Supreme Court Judge K.T. Chithrasiri to review entitlements is understandable.

There is a compelling case for abolishing opaque perks, tightening expense claims and eliminating benefits that lack a functional justification. There is also merit in differentiating between elected MPs and National List appointees when structuring remuneration. But blunt cuts to overall compensation risk producing unintended consequences.

The long-term danger lies in adverse selection. If remuneration is significantly reduced, politics may become viable primarily for three categories: the independently wealthy, those seeking power for non-financial gains, or individuals reliant on external funding networks. Middle-class professionals, academics, lawyers, doctors and administrators may opt not to enter politics.

Moreover, undercompensation can increase dependence on business donors and interest groups. When personal financial stability is weak, vulnerability to influence grows. In attempting to reduce fiscal burden, the state may inadvertently increase governance risk. None of this suggests that MPs should be insulated from the sacrifices demanded of citizens. In times of crisis, political leadership must signal solidarity. But symbolism cannot substitute for structural reform.

 What Sri Lanka requires is an independent remuneration mechanism — akin to the UK’s model — that benchmarks salaries transparently, links adjustments to objective indicators such as inflation, and strictly regulates expenses. MPs should not determine their own benefits; nor should they be subjected to arbitrary populist cuts driven by public anger.

Democracy has costs. The real question is whether those costs are managed intelligently.