Shining Moment for Democracy in Sri Lanka

How the ballot box triumphed to usher in a new order

By MARWAAN MACAN-MARKAR / COLOMBO

Cashing in on the politics of fear had become a stockin-trade for Mahinda Rajapaksa, Sri Lanka’s ruler since his first election as the allpowerful executive president in 2005. So it was hardly surprising that when the phrase “Arab Spring” made an appearance in the political conversation weeks before the Jan. 8 presidential poll, it came with a twist.

Sri Lanka’s 15 million voters were warned that chaos would ensue if an Arab-style uprising took root on the island. There were more dark hints from the Rajapaksa camp that this was what the opposition was seeking.

Other messages of fear popped up as the polling date neared. On Colombo street corners, large billboards appeared evoking images of civilian victims of Tamil Tigers rebels during Sri Lanka’s nearly 30-year ethnic conflict. The spread of similar imagery and ideas had served Mr. Rajapaksa well when he triumphed at the January 2010 poll to secure his second term.

The incumbent appeared to have two intentions in resurrecting a slice of history that is still a raw, unhealed national wound. One was to tap the public’s memory to win votes. After all, he was a war-winning president, whose regime had backed an onslaught by government troops to vanquish the Tigers in May 2009. The second was to serve as a warning to the country about the challengers to his incumbency: a victory for them could see a return to war.

Fortunately, the people did not fall for the fear mongering, or for the image Mr. Rajapaksa had cultivated for himself as the country’s best protector from the bogeys of international pressure, another ethnic conflict or political upheaval. A majority of the impressive 81.5 percent of voters who cast their ballots on Jan. 8 decided that it was a time for change.

In fact, the Sri Lankan autocrat was ousted due to another form of fear— the dread of an unprecedented third term for Mr. Rajapaksa that would last until 2022.

This sense of dread was of Mr. Rajapaksa’s own making. It had reared its head four years earlier, when he began using his military triumph to appear increasingly imperial, cultivating an aura in which HE (His Excellency), rather than the constitution, was the law. That cult of the strongman became a fertile ground of abuse and plunder for his large clan, its cronies and thugs.

Some of this was on the record, such as the state becoming completely overrun by the Rajapaksa family (who by the time of the poll already controlled over 50 percent of the national budget). Other abuses were whispered, about lawlessness, suppression and corruption moving off the scale. Even sports, such as rugby, were not spared, with Rajapaksa princelings, à la the sons of Gadaffi, muscling their way into that sector. No wonder that by the time of the poll some local commentators were saying that the country was on the cusp of becoming a “mafia state.”

This explains why there has been a palpable sense of relief on the streets of Colombo since the Sri Lankan autocrat was ousted. People don’t have to whisper any more when talking in public about the government. Outspoken journalists don’t have to look over their shoulders. The weight of fear has clearly been lifted. And only those who have lived under dictators and autocrats will know what that moment feels like.

How this came about is down to a few reasons. The most obvious was the late surprise pulled off by Mr. Rajapaksa’s opponents in unveiling their candidate, Maithripala Sirisena. The soft-spoken, colorless Mr. Sirisena had, till mid-November, been the health minister in Mr. Rajapaksa’s cabinet and the general-secretary of the incumbent’s Sri Lanka Freedom Party. His defection prompted others from Mr. Rajapaksa’s parliamentary ranks to switch sides, resulting in Mr. Sirisena having the broadest coalition in the country’s history. And this lineup, drawn from political parties for the conservatives, leftists, Buddhist monks and religious minorities, made the “rainbow coalition” a fitting name.

Just as significant were a few clear messages that Mr. Sirisena drove home during the campaign trail of a little more than a month. These all concerned the excesses of the Rajapaksas, and clearly resonated with the 6.2 million voters (51.2 percent) who polled for Mr. Sirisena. The latter also touched a chord with his vision for the future: a country with a much weakened president who is more accountable to the parliament.

So in this age when popular uprisings to overthrow autocrats are still encouraged by some, and when the heady Arab Spring model is still flagged as relevant, the epoch-making moment in Sri Lanka is an occasion for reflection. The principal agent of change was the simple cross the voters put on their paper ballot. It was all done with little fanfare. All it took was a couple of minutes at a polling station.

The restoration of faith in the power of the ballot was possible due to the many unsung heroes who worked for the election commission. They stood their ground in the face of intimidation from the Rajapaksa camp. They listened—as neutral civil servants should do—when poll monitors complained of abuse. It was a turnaround from the past, and it was as if they had discovered their backbone. That sea change was due to the loss of dignity they had endured under the incumbent.

But more importantly, this proud moment for Sri Lankan democracy says much of its enduring roots, going back to 1931, when the British Raj experimented with universal adult franchise in its colony. Ever since, elections have become a sine qua non in the body politic to acquire power and gain legitimacy to rule. Even autocrats see its value. Thus has Sri Lanka been spared military coups, unlike Myanmar, Thailand and Pakistan.