-By Sam Weerasuriya
(Lanka-e-News -14.June.2025, 5.10 PM) The halls of Sri Lanka’s Parliament are no stranger to raised voices or bureaucratic bluster. But when Thilaka Jayasundara, the Secretary to the Ministry of Industries, stormed into a recent COPE (Committee on Public Enterprises) session and publicly rebuked the committee’s line of inquiry, she set off a political firestorm now reverberating far beyond the committee room.
Her conduct—described by one MP as “defiant to the point of insubordination”—has reignited long-standing concerns about an entrenched, corrupt bureaucratic class in Sri Lanka, many of whom are accused of shielding powerful political cronies and enabling the very graft COPE was designed to root out.
The COPE session in question was convened to scrutinise operations at the National Gem and Jewellery Authority (NGJA), which falls under the Ministry of Industries. Chaired by a relatively new but sharp-minded parliamentarian, the committee had summoned Secretary Jayasundara and several senior officials to account for financial discrepancies, alleged procedural violations, and lapses in oversight.
But what unfolded was not a routine audit inquiry.
According to several present, Jayasundara interrupted the Chair mid-sentence, dismissing the committee’s proposed course of action as “impractical” and suggesting that if corruption was suspected, it should be handed directly to the Bribery Commission—not scrutinised by COPE.
“The Secretary was loud, uncooperative, and outright dismissive,” said one MP who attended the session. “It was less a defence and more a declaration of untouchability.”
Her response shocked even seasoned MPs. “It was as though she viewed herself above parliamentary oversight,” said another legislator.
Jayasundara is no stranger to controversy. Within civil service circles, she has a reputation for wielding her post with a hauteur that has alienated colleagues and confounded oversight mechanisms. Critics allege that her aggressive posture is not simply personal—but emblematic of a broader rot in Sri Lanka’s administrative apparatus, where top bureaucrats see themselves as above accountability.
Yet in this case, she may have underestimated her interlocutor.
The COPE Chair—though a parliamentary novice—was well-prepared. Calmly but firmly, he reminded Jayasundara that as the ministry’s chief accounting officer, she bore direct responsibility for malfeasance or irregularities within the agencies under her charge.
If she was unwilling to accept that responsibility, he said, she should submit a formal disclaimer in writing. That line seemed to rattle her—visibly. Observers say she quickly changed gears, softening her tone and attempting to backpedal, but the damage was done.
“She tried to shift from fifth gear to reverse without using the clutch,” quipped a committee member.
The timing of this row is no coincidence. COPE is currently probing a multi-billion rupee scandal involving Chamara Sampath Dassanayake, a controversial politician accused of orchestrating large-scale financial fraud through agencies under the Ministry of Industries. Documents indicate that the National Gem and Jewellery Authority may have been a key vehicle for this alleged misappropriation.
Jayasundara’s attempt to distance herself from those inquiries has raised eyebrows—particularly among MPs who suspect a deeper alliance between senior bureaucrats and tainted politicians.
“She’s part of the same old administrative mafia that has long protected crooks in power,” said a retired Permanent Secretary who requested anonymity. “The faces change, but the loyalties remain with the Rajapaksas, or now Ranil’s inner circle.”
This isn’t an isolated case. A similar confrontation occurred during a COPE session on Sabaragamuwa University, where investigations into university corruption were inexplicably stonewalled by none other than the Ministry Secretary—supposedly there to ensure compliance and transparency.
“The very officials meant to uphold public interest are now the first to defend corruption,” said a visibly frustrated MP from the ruling coalition.
Across ministries—from Health to Transport, from Immigration to Labour—a troubling pattern is emerging: bureaucrats previously embedded in the Rajapaksa–Ranil deep state remain untouched, untransferred, and often emboldened by the culture of impunity.
A government official close to the President lamented: “We replaced the politicians, but forgot to clean out the administrative barnacles.”
Jayasundara’s outburst is just one bead in a growing necklace of scandals strung along Sri Lanka’s bureaucratic elite:
The recent scandal involving the Commissioner General of Prisons, accused of facilitating an illegal prisoner release, was orchestrated with the complicity of top administrative staff.
A Rs. 41 million bribery case in the Motor Traffic Department implicates its former Deputy Director—a senior administrative official.
The Labour Ministry corruption scandal, where over Rs. 1.2 billion was allegedly misappropriated in collusion with former Minister Manusha Nanayakkara, has been linked directly to the ministry’s Secretary.
The Immigration Department remains mired in scandal over fraudulent passport issuances allegedly linked to former Ministers Ranil Wickremesinghe, Sagara Kariyawasam, and Tiran Alles—with administrative officers facilitating the cover-up.
The Health Ministry, under former Minister Keheliya Rambukwella, reportedly misused billions during the COVID procurement process—again with the apparent complicity of senior administrative personnel.
All these cases have a common thread: high-ranking bureaucrats embedded in Sri Lanka's Administrative Service who have repeatedly shielded corruption rather than exposed it.
The crisis isn’t merely legal—it is existential. President Anura Kumara Dissanayake, elected in 2024 with a clear mandate to uproot corruption, now finds himself under fire from civil society groups, trade unions, and even some coalition MPs for failing to reform the bureaucratic core.
“What good is a clean Cabinet when the secretaries are still looting the system?” asked one activist during a protest last week in Galle Face Green. “The President must act—now—or lose the moral high ground.”
Retired public servant and author of this article, Sam Weerasuriya, put it bluntly: “If the President does not decisively dismantle the corrupt administrative networks that have long served political crooks, then the hard-fought victory of the people will turn hollow.”
A growing number of voices are now calling for systematic administrative reform, beginning with an overhaul of how ministry secretaries and department heads are appointed. Critics argue that seniority alone is an insufficient metric, often resulting in appointments based on bureaucratic inertia rather than merit or integrity.
Instead, reformers want a system that factors in:
Proven integrity and independence,
Demonstrated efficiency in prior postings,
A track record of resisting political pressure,
And above all, commitment to public service over personal gain.
“Otherwise,” warns Weerasuriya, “the public will begin to see no difference between the new government and the old guard. And history suggests the people do not forgive easily.”
The government now stands at a fork in the road.
If it cleans house—sacking or reassigning tainted officials, reforming appointment procedures, and empowering watchdog institutions—it may revive public faith in the state.
But if it continues to tolerate bureaucratic insubordination, as evidenced by the Thilaka Jayasundara episode, it may face a legitimacy crisis far deeper than any posed by its political opposition.
As the dust settles on the latest COPE fracas, one thing is clear: Sri Lanka’s democratic accountability cannot be rebuilt on the rotten foundations of administrative impunity.
In the end, reform isn't just a policy choice—it’s a political necessity.
-By Sam Weerasuriya
(Sam Weerasuriya is a retired senior administrative officer and columnist specialising in governance, accountability, and institutional reform.)
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by (2025-06-14 11:39:55)
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