-By LeN Economic Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -30.June.2025, 9.15 AM) In any functioning democracy, public servants are bound by a social contract: serve the public, earn a wage, and uphold the trust vested in them by the taxpayer. But in Sri Lanka—a country wrestling with economic collapse, widespread public dissatisfaction, and deep-seated institutional rot—two professions appear to have carved out a near-sacred immunity from scrutiny.
Government doctors and schoolteachers—ostensibly public servants—are not only allowed but actively enabled to double-dip into private sector earnings while drawing handsome salaries and perks from public coffers. In a country where basic healthcare access and state education standards are in free fall, the public is starting to ask: who really serves whom?
This investigative report delves deep into the troubling two-tier economy of Sri Lanka’s public service, where duty to the state takes a back seat to personal gain—and where regulation has been paralysed by a toxic mix of professional clout, political cowardice, and institutional negligence.
Dr. L., a senior consultant at Colombo General Hospital, earns a monthly salary from the Ministry of Health—paid for, naturally, by Sri Lankan taxpayers. His government role requires full-time service, patient care in public hospitals, administrative participation, and availability for emergencies. Yet walk into any one of Colombo’s upmarket private hospitals—Durdans, Lanka Hospitals, or Nawaloka—and you’ll find Dr. L. neatly seated behind a frosted-glass chamber, charging Rs. 10,000 to Rs. 20,000 per consultation.
No clocking in. No clocking out. No oversight.
And no one seems to know—or care—exactly when Dr. L. is fulfilling his government role.
This isn’t an isolated case. It is the norm.
Under current Sri Lankan law, government doctors are not required to sign in or out. There is no biometric tracking, no mandatory attendance, and no independent audit of how they split their time between the state and private sectors.
Worse, many of them continue to "hold" private practice slots while on fellowships or long-term training abroad. “When they go overseas, they hand over their channeling slots to junior doctors,” explains a senior health ministry official, who requested anonymity. “That slot at Nawaloka or Asiri is seen as a private franchise—it’s marketable. There’s no record, no tax trail.”
It raises the chilling question: How much government-paid time is being siphoned into private earnings?
From BMWs to sprawling suburban mansions in Nugegoda, from luxury foreign education for their children to investments in apartment complexes, the wealth profile of many government-employed medical officers far exceeds the expected lifestyle of a public servant.
According to one audit leaked to Lankaenews from the Inland Revenue Department (IRD), over 3600 government-employed consultants and medical officers reported incomes suspiciously low compared to their observed lifestyles. Cars worth Rs. 60 to 70 million, luxury apartment purchases, overseas property—all allegedly purchased without corresponding income declarations.
The Inland Revenue Department, already beleaguered and under-resourced, rarely prosecutes. “They are politically protected,” says a senior tax investigator. “Try auditing a senior consultant at National Hospital and your phone rings within the hour—from a minister or a union head.”
The solution seems painfully obvious: enforce a sign-in system, require income declarations, and introduce a receipt-based model for all private consultations. And yet, year after year, the Sri Lankan Medical Association (SLMA) and Government Medical Officers’ Association (GMOA) lobby hard against reform.
If the doctors dominate the day, then by dusk, it is the teachers’ turn.
From Kandy to Galle, from Jaffna to Matara, schoolteachers employed by the state—again, on public salaries—run booming private tuition centres. Some charge Rs. 1,500 to Rs. 2,500 per student per month, and many have class sizes upwards of 100 students. Do the math: a high-demand Advanced Level teacher can easily earn Rs. 500,000 or more monthly in cash, untaxed.
And they are doing so while drawing full salaries, pensions, and other state perks.
The irony? Many of these teachers teach the same students during school hours—and then re-teach the same material for a fee after school.
It creates an obvious conflict of interest. Parents have quietly complained that some teachers intentionally underperform in public school settings to create demand for their private sessions. “My daughter’s chemistry teacher simply skips key topics in school and then teaches them in her tuition class,” says Nalini, a mother of two from Maharagama. “We are forced to send our kids to tuition if we want them to pass.”
Government officials, however, continue to look the other way. The teachers' unions are among the most powerful in Sri Lanka, and any attempt to regulate private tutoring has historically resulted in island-wide strikes, work-to-rule actions, and mass protests.
Sri Lanka’s Establishment Code—particularly Chapter XLVIII—clearly outlines that full-time government officers must not engage in “gainful employment” outside the remit of their public duties unless expressly authorised.
And yet, both doctors and teachers claim their private work is exempt under “professional services,” a deliberately vague loophole.
A recent Cabinet proposal to bring both professions under new ethical and revenue oversight was shot down after lobbying by union leaders.
“The moment you touch doctors and teachers, you touch a nerve centre of the Sri Lankan vote bank,” says Dr. Perera, a former Health Ministry advisor. “No politician has the spine to go after them. So we bleed public money into private pockets.”
In the United Kingdom, NHS doctors may undertake private practice—but only under clearly defined conditions. They must not allow private work to interfere with NHS duties, must declare income, and are subject to taxation and audits. There is a strict limit on how many hours consultants may devote to private practice without compromising public service hours.
UK state school teachers, meanwhile, are strictly prohibited from using school premises or materials for private tutoring, and engaging in outside work must not conflict with school responsibilities. Most importantly, there is an auditable paper trail.
By contrast, Sri Lanka’s system is both porous and permissive.
So what can be done?
First, the introduction of biometric attendance systems in all government hospitals and schools must be mandatory. This would allow real-time tracking of duty hours and act as a deterrent to abuse.
Second, all private consultations and tuition sessions must be invoiced, with mandatory receipts. These records should be submitted to the Inland Revenue Department and subject to audit.
Third, the Inland Revenue must be empowered, not undermined. A dedicated unit to investigate unexplained wealth among public servants—particularly doctors and teachers—must be established.
Fourth, any public servant found misusing government-paid time for private profit must be terminated or have their licenses revoked. Public service is not a free-for-all.
Finally, Parliament must consider a bold but necessary step: a ban on full-time public servants engaging in parallel private practice unless approved and accounted for. Exceptions must be rare and transparent.
This is not about vilifying doctors and teachers. Many of them work tirelessly, often without the resources they need, in a broken system.
But it is about fairness.
Fairness to the taxpayer who pays their salaries. Fairness to the patient who waits hours in a government hospital only to be rushed so the same doctor can make it to a private appointment. Fairness to the child in a public school classroom whose education is held hostage by the teacher’s private tuition schedule.
And fairness to the nation itself, which can no longer afford to subsidise elite privileges while ordinary citizens suffer.
Sri Lanka's public sector is vast. But the rot, when it appears, tends to start at the top—and trickle downward. The entrenchment of private profit within public duty, especially among the most revered professionals, is not just a scandal. It is a systemic betrayal.
If the NPP government is serious about reform, this is its test.
Will it finally challenge the sacred cows of the civil service? Or will it, like so many before it, turn a blind eye and call it tradition?
In a country where poverty is rising, debt is ballooning, and public faith in institutions is crumbling, the cost of inaction is far greater than the cost of reform.
The people of Sri Lanka are watching.
And perhaps, for the first time in a long time, they are no longer afraid to demand answers.
-By LeN Economic Correspondent
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by (2025-06-30 03:51:02)
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