The Denial Variant: How a New Political Virus Infected the Opposition
Political Correspondent
By any measure, Sri Lankan politics has an impressive immune system. It survives scandals, swallows contradictions, and adapts to public outrage with the elegance of a chameleon crossing a colour wheel. Yet every so often, a new strain emerges. This season’s most contagious ailment is not economic amnesia or constitutional fatigue. It is denial. And according to political satirists, the most visible carrier is the leader of the Samagi Jana Balawegaya (SJB), Opposition Leader Sajith Premadasa.
This is not a medical diagnosis, of course. It is a political one. The symptoms are unmistakable: reflexive rejection of allegations, an allergy to inconvenient questions, and a compulsive repetition of a single phrase. We deny it. We deny everything.
The Denial Variant does not discriminate. It spreads across press conferences, social media posts, and carefully staged public meetings. It thrives in echo chambers and finds nourishment in loyal spokespersons who believe that repetition is a substitute for explanation. The result is a peculiar spectacle: a political movement that insists it is transparent while drawing the curtains tighter with every question asked.
Patient Zero: Allegations and Automatic Rejection
Consider the long list of controversies that orbit the SJB leader like stubborn satellites. The Central Cultural Fund allegations? Denied. No documents, no timelines, no accountability. Just denial. Questions about academic credentials, particularly the much-discussed London School of Economics qualification? Denied again, with indignation added for flavour. Critics ask for clarity; supporters respond with outrage that anyone would dare to ask.
Then there is the image problem. The carefully curated persona of a leader who claims intimacy with the struggles of ordinary citizens, followed by photographs and anecdotes that suggest a life lived at a comfortable altitude above the pavement. When critics point out the contrast, the response is not engagement but rejection. Denied. The image is authentic, they say, even as the Range Rover glides past the potholes.
The Hygiene Theatre
One of the more memorable episodes in this ongoing satire is the obsession with cleanliness after public meetings. In a country where voters shake hands, embrace leaders, and expect a degree of human proximity, the repeated ritual of immediate cleansing has taken on symbolic value. Satirists have had a field day. Is it hygiene or habit? Precaution or performance? When asked, the answer is predictable. Denied. There is nothing unusual here, they insist. The people misunderstand.
In Sri Lankan politics, symbols matter. A leader wiping his hands too carefully can undo ten speeches about solidarity. Yet instead of acknowledging the optics, the Denial Variant kicks in. There is no problem, therefore no need to explain.
Whispers, Rumours, and the Politics of Silence
No political career in Sri Lanka escapes rumours, particularly those whispered rather than shouted. Stories involving personal relationships, old acquaintances from the film industry, and dramatic family interventions circulate in gossip columns and tea shops alike. Responsible journalism treats such matters cautiously, framing them as rumours rather than facts. The response from the SJB camp, however, does not distinguish between responsible inquiry and malicious gossip. Everything is denied with equal force.
This approach creates an odd paradox. By refusing to address even the most persistent rumours with measured clarity, the leadership allows them to grow in the shadows. Silence, in this context, is not dignity; it is fertiliser.
The Mill Hill Question
Perhaps the most politically potent question is also the simplest: who paid? When Sajith Premadasa went to study at Mill Hill, a prestigious private school in London, at the age of 17, the fees would have been substantial. The question is not illegal, immoral, or unprecedented. It is a basic inquiry into transparency, particularly for a politician who positions himself as a champion of accountability.
Was it family wealth? Scholarships? Official allowances? The public has asked, politely and repeatedly. The answer, once again, is denial without detail. No documents offered. No clear narrative provided. In a country sensitised by decades of corruption scandals, such evasiveness is not neutral. It is suspicious by default.
Luxury and the Language of the Common Man
Then there is the Range Rover. In isolation, a luxury vehicle proves nothing. Many politicians ride comfortably while preaching austerity. But symbolism is cumulative. A Range Rover with all modern facilities, combined with speeches about the hardships of the ordinary citizen, invites satire as naturally as rain invites umbrellas.
When critics ask whether this image aligns with the party’s rhetoric, the response is not reflection but rejection. Denied. The vehicle is irrelevant, they say. The people care only about policy. This would be more convincing if Sri Lankan politics were not built almost entirely on symbols.
Denial as Strategy
At this point, denial is no longer a reaction. It is a strategy. Every allegation, whether serious or trivial, is treated the same way: reject, repeat, move on. The hope is that fatigue will set in, that the public will tire of asking, and that loyalists will drown out critics with volume rather than substance.
This strategy requires enforcers, and the SJB has them. Spokespersons, social media warriors, and sympathetic commentators who interpret every question as a conspiracy. Among them is a particularly enthusiastic defender, frequently described by critics as disconnected from Sinhala political discourse. His interventions, often well-meaning, reveal a deeper problem: a communication gap between the party’s defenders and the sentiments circulating in the Sinhala political sphere.
Lost in Translation
Sri Lankan politics is multilingual, but it is not always mutually intelligible. Criticism expressed in Sinhala carries cultural nuances that do not always translate neatly into English or Tamil. When defenders of Sajith Premadasa dismiss Sinhala-language criticism as irrelevant or malicious, they expose a dangerous blind spot.
For instance, the backlash against Sajith Premadasa’s support for a no-confidence motion against the Education Minister and Prime Minister Harini Amarasuriya was not merely procedural. It was emotional. Many Sinhala voters perceived it as opportunistic, a political prop rather than a principled stand. This sentiment circulated widely in Sinhala media, yet some defenders seemed oblivious to it.
The Jaffna Episode
The situation worsened after comments attributed to President Anura Kumara Dissanayake in Jaffna, where he questioned why pilgrims travel long distances to attend certain religious ceremonies instead of visiting established sacred sites like Anuradhapura. The remark, nuanced and context-specific, was quickly politicised.
Sajith Premadasa attempted to counter it, positioning himself as a defender of religious sentiment. Instead, the intervention backfired. Many Tamil observers found his response tone-deaf, perceiving it as an attempt to score points rather than understand local sensitivities. The result was a rare achievement: alienating both Sinhala critics and Tamil audiences in a single news cycle.
Once again, the party’s response was denial. There was no misstep, they insisted. The backlash was manufactured. The people misunderstood.
The Chorus of Yes
A leader infected with the Denial Variant does not suffer alone. He is surrounded by a chorus of agreement. Advisors who nod, supporters who applaud, and commentators who explain away every stumble. In this environment, self-correction becomes impossible. Why reflect when denial works, at least in the short term?
Yet Sri Lankan political history offers a cautionary tale. Leaders who confuse loyalty with honesty eventually wake up isolated, wondering why the applause has stopped.
Satire as Diagnosis
Political comedy exists for a reason. It highlights what serious commentary sometimes cannot. By exaggerating denial into a virus, satirists are not trivialising the issues. They are underlining them. Transparency, accountability, and humility are not optional accessories in a democracy. They are the immune system.
When a leader responds to every allegation with denial, he is not protecting his reputation. He is eroding trust. Voters may forgive mistakes. They rarely forgive contempt for their intelligence.
The Cure
The cure for the Denial Variant is not complicated. Answer questions. Provide documents. Acknowledge missteps. Engage critics in good faith. Above all, understand that denial is not strength. It is avoidance dressed as confidence.
Sajith Premadasa remains a significant joker figure in Sri Lankan politics. His party commands loyalty, resources, and visibility. But leadership is not sustained by denying reality. It is sustained by confronting it.
Until that happens, the satire will continue. The questions will persist. And the chorus will keep repeating the same refrain, hoping that if they say it often enough, it will become true.
We deny it. We deny everything.
The electorate, however, is not convinced.