The Rainbow, the Governor, and the Politics of Symbolism: What Exactly Is Ranjith Keerthi Tennakoon Trying to Say?
When a former provincial governor posts a public image of himself overlaid with a rainbow flag, the question is not about colour, nor sexuality, nor identity. It is about intent. In a country like Sri Lanka—where symbolism is rarely accidental and political messaging is often indirect—the act invites scrutiny not because of what the rainbow represents globally, but because of how it is deployed locally.
Ranjith Keerthi Tennakoon, a former governor and long-time political operative, is not a political novice. He is a man who understands optics. Therefore, the sudden appearance of a rainbow-flag image attached to his persona cannot be dismissed as naïve solidarity or personal expression alone. It is a political signal. The real issue is: to whom, and for what purpose?
Mocking a Government—or Recycling an Old Political Code?
Initial interpretations suggested that Tennakoon’s post was aimed at mocking the current political leadership. Yet that reading collapses under closer inspection. The present Sri Lankan administration has not made sexuality, LGBTQ rights, or identity politics a defining ideological pillar. There is no obvious policy trigger that would warrant satire or protest of that nature.
The symbolism, however, becomes more intelligible when viewed through the prism of Sri Lanka’s previous power structure, particularly under former President Ranil Wickremesinghe. For decades, Wickremesinghe has been the subject of rumours, insinuations, and whispered commentary regarding his personal life—rumours that were frequently weaponised by political opponents rather than addressed as matters of privacy.
Whether those rumours were true or false is irrelevant. What matters is that they existed as a political trope, used cynically within Colombo’s elite political circles. The rainbow, in this context, has historically been less about rights and more about ridicule.
This raises an uncomfortable question:
Was Tennakoon mocking the present—or reviving an old code once used against Ranil Wickremesinghe himself?
The Ethics of Turning Sexuality into Political Ammunition
If the rainbow image was intended as political satire, it exposes a deeper ethical failure. Sexuality—real or imagined—is not a policy position. It is not a governance model. It is not a metric of competence or legitimacy.
Sri Lankan politics has a long and troubling tradition of reducing opponents to caricatures, attacking personal identity instead of confronting ideas, policies, or records. When a senior political figure participates in that tradition, it does not reveal courage or wit. It reveals intellectual bankruptcy.
If Tennakoon’s message was indeed aimed at ridiculing someone by invoking LGBTQ symbolism, then the target is not a politician but a community—used instrumentally, without regard for the very real discrimination that community faces in Sri Lanka.
That is not activism. It is exploitation.
Ranjith Keerthi Tennakoon: A Career Built on Proximity to Power
To understand the politics of Tennakoon, one must understand his trajectory. He did not emerge from a grassroots movement or ideological struggle. His career began as a media officer to a politician, advancing steadily through proximity, loyalty, and strategic alignment rather than public mandate.
Over time, he mastered the art of survival in Sri Lanka’s elite political ecosystem—moving laterally across administrations, adapting language and posture to suit whoever occupied power. Such figures rarely represent a coherent ideology. They represent continuity of access.
This makes his sudden foray into symbolic politics all the more suspect. Is this conviction—or repositioning?
USAID, Civil Society, and Selective Silence
The controversy becomes sharper when viewed alongside Tennakoon’s documented associations with USAID-funded initiatives, including public events conducted alongside then-Speaker Karu Jayasuriya.
USAID has, for years, openly funded civil society programmes in Sri Lanka, including initiatives focused on governance reform, minority rights, gender equity, and LGBTQ advocacy. This is not secret. It is stated policy.
If Tennakoon now finds LGBTQ symbolism worthy of mockery or political messaging, a legitimate question arises:
Why has he never publicly criticised the funding structures that promoted those very agendas—structures from which he and his networks benefited?
Silence in that context is not neutrality. It is convenience.
You cannot accept the platform, funding, legitimacy, and international exposure of donor-backed civil society programmes—and later weaponise their symbols for domestic political point-scoring—without exposing a profound lack of ethical consistency.
Is This About Morality—or About Relevance?
The deeper issue may not be ideology at all, but relevance anxiety. As Sri Lanka’s political centre of gravity shifts, many former power intermediaries find themselves displaced. Symbolic provocation becomes a tool to re-enter the conversation.
The rainbow image, then, is not a statement of belief. It is a flare—fired into the public sphere to provoke reaction, reclaim attention, and signal continued relevance to old networks, both local and international.
But provocation without substance is not politics. It is theatre.
The Question That Actually Matters
The real question is not whether Ranjith Keerthi Tennakoon supports or opposes LGBTQ rights. He has never articulated a clear position either way.
The real question is this:
What does he stand for—beyond power adjacency?
What is his moral framework?
What ethical line does he refuse to cross?
What principle would he defend even when it costs him access, funding, or favour?
Thus far, the record suggests flexibility rather than conviction.
When Symbols Are Emptied of Meaning
In a country grappling with economic recovery, institutional reform, and democratic renewal, reducing political discourse to insinuation and symbolism is not just irresponsible—it is regressive.
Sexuality is not a weapon. Identity is not a punchline. And activism cannot be selectively embraced or discarded based on political convenience.
If Ranjith Keerthi Tennakoon wishes to be taken seriously as a political actor rather than a relic of transactional politics, he must answer the question he inadvertently raised himself:
Is his politics about values—or merely about staying visible in the corridors of power?
Until that is answered, the rainbow remains not a sign of progress—but a mirror reflecting the emptiness of Sri Lanka’s old political games.