Ethics as Ammunition: Why Sri Lanka’s Opposition Has Turned Morality into a Political Weapon Against the NPP
By Political Affairs Correspondent
In Sri Lanka’s ever-theatrical political arena, ethics and morality—once the solemn pillars of public life—have increasingly become instruments of tactical warfare. The latest barrage is directed at the ruling National People’s Power (NPP), a movement that built its electoral legitimacy on anti-corruption, transparency, and social justice. Now, paradoxically, it finds itself under sustained moral scrutiny from an opposition long accused of presiding over the very excesses the NPP claims to dismantle.
At the centre of the controversy is Industry Minister Sunil Handunnetti, whose use of a V8 vehicle has triggered a cascade of criticism across opposition platforms and social media ecosystems. The optics, critics argue, are incongruent with the NPP’s austere political messaging. Yet, within the NPP’s internal logic, such resources are framed not as symbols of privilege, but as logistical tools—deployed for party organisation, constituency outreach, and administrative efficiency.
This is not an isolated episode. Energy sector oversight has also come under the microscope, with questions raised about why Power and Energy Minister Kumara Jayakody has not been suspended amid ongoing investigations into alleged irregularities in fertiliser procurement during his prior tenure. The opposition’s argument hinges on procedural integrity: that the mere existence of an investigation necessitates political accountability through temporary removal.
However, NPP insiders counter that such demands risk conflating allegation with culpability—a dangerous precedent in a legal system already vulnerable to politicisation. They argue that due process, not populist pressure, must guide executive decisions, especially in a governance framework that seeks to break from the reactionary tendencies of the past.
The ethical spotlight has widened further with activist Nagananda Kodituwakku questioning the acceptance of vehicle permits by NPP politicians. Similarly, concerns have been raised about the academic and professional declarations of MP Ashoka Ranwala, with critics probing the moral consistency of such disclosures. More controversially, allegations have surfaced regarding K.D. Lalkantha and the use of parliamentary residential facilities—specifically, claims that he occupied accommodation allocated to another MP, in the past.
Individually, these incidents might appear minor—administrative footnotes in the broader machinery of governance. Collectively, however, they are being curated into a narrative: that the NPP, despite its reformist rhetoric, is not immune to ethical compromise.
Yet this narrative invites a deeper interrogation. Are these critiques genuinely rooted in a principled commitment to public ethics? Or do they represent a strategic recalibration by an opposition seeking to regain moral footing in a post-reform political landscape?
Historically, Sri Lankan politics has not been defined by restraint. From the consolidation of executive power under J. R. Jayewardene to the entrenched patronage networks of subsequent administrations, the state has often functioned as an instrument of accumulation rather than service. Public office was routinely leveraged for personal enrichment—through opaque procurement deals, nepotistic appointments, and the erosion of institutional independence.
It is against this backdrop that the NPP’s defenders mount their counterargument. They assert that no credible evidence has emerged to suggest that the current allegations—whether concerning vehicles, permits, or housing—have resulted in personal financial gain. On the contrary, they argue, these resources are being utilised within the narrow confines of political mobilisation and governance delivery.
This distinction—between personal enrichment and institutional use—is not merely semantic. It strikes at the heart of what constitutes ethical governance. If a vehicle is used to coordinate rural outreach programmes, or if official accommodation facilitates parliamentary duties, does this violate moral standards? While the opposition insists it does, the NPP maintains that such usage falls squarely within legitimate operational boundaries.
There is also a historical irony that has not gone unnoticed within NPP circles. During the early years of the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP), the ideological precursor to the NPP, even modest material acquisitions were subjected to ridicule. When its founder Rohana Wijeweera acquired a vehicle, it reportedly drew criticism from President Jayewardene himself. Wijeweera’s response has since become part of political folklore: that organisational necessity—not ideological purity—must dictate resource use, even if it meant acquiring a helicopter.
Today, that same question resurfaces in a different guise. Can a movement committed to egalitarianism operate effectively without engaging the tools of modern governance? And if it does, does that automatically render it hypocritical?
Opposition strategists appear to believe so. By framing every administrative decision as a moral test, they seek to erode the NPP’s core brand: ethical superiority. In doing so, they are not merely critiquing policy—they are contesting identity.
Yet this strategy carries risks. Overreach could expose a credibility gap, particularly if critics fail to subject their own political histories to similar scrutiny. For many voters, memories of systemic corruption—of politicians amassing wealth, manipulating law enforcement, and subverting judicial processes—remain vivid. In comparison, the current allegations may appear, at least to some, as minor infractions rather than existential breaches.
This does not absolve the NPP of responsibility. Ethical governance is not a relative standard; it is an absolute one. If the movement has positioned itself as a corrective force, it must withstand scrutiny at a higher threshold. Transparency cannot be selective, and accountability cannot be deferred.
However, the current discourse suggests that ethics in Sri Lanka is no longer merely a normative framework—it is a political currency. Deployed effectively, it can delegitimise opponents, reshape narratives, and influence public perception.
The critical question, therefore, is not whether ethics should matter—they must—but whether they are being invoked consistently and in good faith. If morality becomes a tool of convenience rather than conviction, it risks losing its very meaning.
For the NPP, the challenge is twofold: to maintain operational efficiency while preserving moral credibility. For the opposition, it is to demonstrate that its newfound ethical vigilance is more than a tactical manoeuvre.
In the final analysis, the electorate will decide which side has treated ethics as a principle—and which has wielded it as a weapon.