-By LeN Political Affairs Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -28.June.2025, 9.20 AM) In most functioning democracies, the civil service is expected to be the invisible engine of governance – quiet, competent, and dependable. In Sri Lanka, however, that engine appears to have backfired loudly in the middle of Parliament, leaving a trail of smoke, stunned MPs, and a nation wondering if the bureaucrats are asleep at the wheel – or worse, deliberately reversing into a wall.
The most recent Parliamentary Select Committee hearing, chaired by the ever-vocal economist-turned-MP Dr. Harsha de Silva, may go down in history not for any legislative breakthroughs, but for a display of bureaucratic incoherence so staggering, it could be mistaken for political theatre.
At the heart of the commotion was one J.M. Thilaka Jayasundara, Secretary to the Ministry of Industry and Entrepreneurship Development, who was summoned to provide clarity on the ongoing dysfunction of a state-run salt company. What followed, however, was a masterclass in evasion, mumbling, and tragicomic confusion.
The salt issue, by any measure, is no geopolitical minefield. The Parliamentary Committee simply asked: what is going wrong with Sri Lanka's salt production and distribution? Why is a nation surrounded by seawater still struggling to manage something as elemental as sodium chloride?
Mrs. Jayasundara, however, appeared to either not understand the question or not care to answer it, prompting the Chair to repeatedly ask for clarification. Instead of providing basic facts or solutions, the Secretary stumbled through vague references to “ongoing assessments,” “pending proposals,” and the all-time favourite: “we’ll inform later through the proper channel.”
At one point, Dr. de Silva sighed into the microphone and asked, “Madam, do you even know which salt company we’re talking about?”
This single sentence, now circulating on social media with millions of views, sums up the state of Sri Lanka’s once-vaunted Sri Lanka Administrative Service (SLAS) – a legacy institution now regarded by many as an embarrassing relic incapable of answering even the simplest questions, let alone delivering policy results.
It is no secret that SLAS officers enjoy an extraordinary suite of benefits. Taxpayers foot the bill for their generous salaries, vehicle fuel allowances, luxury residences, air-conditioned offices, overseas training programmes, children’s school admissions, festival hampers, and even special chairs that seem more suited to royalty than to public service.
What do citizens get in return? Judging by Mrs. Jayasundara’s performance – a lot of paperwork, no decisions, and “further clarifications in due course.”
In another example earlier this year, a top SLAS officer at the Ministry of Health failed to provide basic data on medical equipment procurement. When pressed by MPs, he declared:
“We are not prepared today, Honourable Members. Please give us three weeks to collect the information.”
Three weeks – to collect invoices that should already be in the Ministry’s system. One might be forgiven for wondering whether the public service now operates on island time, political immunity, or pure inertia.
The SLAS traces its roots back to the British colonial civil service. At its peak, it was admired for its merit-based promotions, regional management efficiency, and its role in bridging the state with rural Sri Lanka. But today’s SLAS looks more like an exclusive club than a system designed to serve the people.
Recruitment remains competitive on paper. But critics argue the system rewards rote-learning and regurgitation of exam notes, not problem-solving, communication, or modern governance skills.
“They may top the Administrative Service exam, but ask them to write a policy brief or speak to Parliament, and it’s like pulling teeth,” said a retired public servant who once trained incoming officers. “It’s all PowerPoint, no power.”
One of the fundamental problems, analysts say, is that Sri Lanka’s civil service is obsessed with process, not results. Departments measure success not by outcomes but by the number of memos circulated, meetings held, and travel claims submitted.
“I once asked a Secretary for a report on housing policy,” an MP recalled. “He sent me a 98-page document about the committee that will decide when to appoint another committee to begin the report.”
It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. With Sri Lanka still grappling with an economic collapse, many taxpayers ask themselves a painful question: Why are we funding this machinery when it barely moves, much less delivers?
What makes matters worse is the way some SLAS officials behave as if they are beyond reproach – accountable to no one but themselves, and certainly not to the public who pay their perks.
Multiple watchdog reports have accused senior officials of:
Using state resources for personal use, including drivers as family chauffeurs.
Skipping committee summonses on flimsy excuses like "prior personal commitments."
Blocking digital reforms that would reduce paperwork and increase transparency.
Recommending their own children or relatives for scholarships, foreign postings, and priority school admissions.
“This is not administration; this is a bureaucracy masquerading as a cartel,” said a constitutional lawyer who has studied the SLAS in comparative context. “They protect each other and punish reformers.”
Amidst this growing disillusionment, political voices across the spectrum – including the ruling NPP government – are calling for a complete structural overhaul of the civil service.
Reform proposals include:
Streamlining ministries to cut duplication and costs.
Reducing perks tied to actual performance outcomes.
Introducing performance-based contracts for top officers.
Digitising government processes to eliminate paper trails and ghost files.
Establishing citizen-feedback mechanisms for public accountability.
Minister of Public Administration Vijitha Herath told Parliament:
“We will not defend incompetence, nor will we allow public servants to treat Parliament like an inconvenience.”
But any such reform would likely face fierce resistance. The SLAS is deeply entrenched in Sri Lanka’s state machinery, and officers have historically used their influence to block major restructuring attempts.
Back at the Parliamentary Select Committee, as Mrs. Jayasundara finished her verbal shuffle and awkward silences, Dr. Harsha de Silva finally concluded with a remark that captured the mood of the nation:
“If this is the quality of our civil service, no wonder we went bankrupt.”
The clip has since gone viral, with viewers wondering how someone who cannot answer basic questions about a salt company can still hold one of the highest public service positions in the country.
The moment was part theatre, part tragedy. But above all, it was a mirror held up to Sri Lanka’s bloated, dysfunctional administrative apparatus.
As the country attempts to claw its way back from debt, poverty, and political turmoil, the question is no longer just about politics. It is about governance, competence, and value for money.
Do Sri Lankan taxpayers deserve a civil service that functions like an elite lodge, or one that serves the people with humility and efficiency?
The time for polite avoidance has passed. The time for bureaucratic theatre is over.
Sri Lanka needs civil servants who can do more than just pass exams. It needs public managers, strategic thinkers, ethical leaders — and above all, people who can speak in Parliament without embarrassing the nation.
Until then, the Sri Lankan civil service will remain exactly what many fear it has become: a national punchline with a pension scheme.
-By LeN Political Affairs Correspondent
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by (2025-06-28 03:49:45)
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