-By LeN Political Correspondent - (for the first anniversary of 'Anurella')
(Lanka-e-News - 18.Sep.2025, 10.25 PM)
Sri Lanka’s 2024 presidential election was historic not only for its result but also for how it was fought. For decades, elections in the island nation were defined by posters plastered on walls, buses painted in party colours, and the thunder of rallies that echoed across town squares. But in 2024, the decisive battles were not fought in the streets or in the airwaves of state media. They unfolded instead on smartphone screens, in TikTok reels, on YouTube livestreams, and within the relentless churn of Facebook comment threads.
Anura Kumara Dissanayake—christened “Anurella” by his fervent online base—emerged as the unlikely champion of this new digital politics. His rise was a case study in how a campaign dismissed by the mainstream could turn the tools of the 21st century into the sharpest of political weapons.
Where past candidates sought the endorsement of newspaper editors, Anura sought the creativity of meme-makers. Where rivals outsourced disinformation campaigns to foreign IT firms, the NPP relied on thousands of unpaid digital volunteers. Where state television floundered with staged programming, Anura hijacked hostile debate shows and transformed them into viral clips.
For the first time since independence, an election in Sri Lanka was decided not by controlling the institutions of mass communication but by mastering the art of digital insurgency.
Traditional media in Sri Lanka, like in many developing democracies, has long functioned as a stage where power is both displayed and reinforced. State-owned newspapers such as Lake House, or the privately owned Island and Lankadeepa, have historically leaned toward whichever coalition held the reins of government.
In 2024, the tilt was unmistakable. Then-President Ranil Wickremesinghe, the consummate survivor of Sri Lankan politics, enjoyed favourable coverage across the state press. Sajith Premadasa, leader of the Samagi Jana Balawegaya (SJB), was no less advantaged, receiving extensive attention in the country’s most widely read dailies.
The New People’s Power (NPP), however, was treated with suspicion. Editorials warned of “economic catastrophe” should a Marxist-Leninist inspired party take power. Headlines forecasted the loss of IMF funding, the flight of foreign investors, and the erosion of religious freedoms. Some of these stories were so uniform in their language that diplomats in Colombo privately joked of a “copy-paste newsroom.”
Television, which still commands the trust of middle-aged voters, was hardly neutral. Stations like Derana, Sirasa, and Hiru made space for NPP representatives in debates but often with a pointed tilt: NPP voices were placed on defensive panels, peppered with questions about socialism, authoritarianism, and international isolation.
In the conventional sense, the playing field was not merely tilted—it was stacked.
Faced with scepticism in print and broadcast media, Wickremesinghe and Premadasa turned to a more modern arsenal: outsourced social media campaigns.
According to multiple campaign insiders, Wickremesinghe’s camp contracted an Indian IT firm specialising in election propaganda and a Ukrainian social media outfit that had cut its teeth in Eastern European disinformation wars. Their task was simple: paint the NPP as dangerous radicals, amplify fears about Marxism, and seed doubt over whether Sri Lanka’s fragile bailout arrangements with the IMF would survive an Anura presidency.
The SJB, not to be outdone, allegedly relied on two smaller but equally aggressive digital operations. Their strategy revolved around fake accounts that spread sensational stories: “Under the NPP, temples will be nationalised,” one viral post read. Another declared, “Anura will tear up IMF agreements and take Sri Lanka back to the 1970s.”
The language was rarely original but almost always incendiary. Carefully calibrated to provoke fear among middle-class and urban voters, these posts achieved reach disproportionate to their credibility.
The NPP lacked the funds to hire foreign firms or the clout to bend newspaper editors. What it did have was enthusiasm. Thousands of volunteers, most of them under 30, armed with smartphones and an instinctive understanding of the digital zeitgeist, became the backbone of Anura’s online campaign.
They created content at a dizzying pace: snippets of speeches, behind-the-scenes clips, rally highlights, satirical skits, and memes mocking rival candidates. TikTok in particular became the NPP’s battlefield of choice. Videos of Anura’s fiery retorts at rallies, his sardonic humour during debates, and even his casual interactions with supporters were uploaded within minutes and shared across WhatsApp groups.
This decentralised approach made the campaign resilient. Unlike SJB and UNP operations, which depended on coordinated fake accounts, NPP’s digital ecosystem thrived precisely because it was organic. A volunteer in Jaffna could edit a 30-second TikTok, a teacher in Matara could livestream a rally, and a student in Kandy could write a Facebook post that went viral.
By the campaign’s final month, Anura’s online presence was so dominant that rival strategists privately admitted they had been “outflanked by chaos.”
Foreign diplomats in Colombo, many of whom had dismissed Anura as a protest candidate, found themselves puzzled.
“How did a party with no money, no mainstream press, and no television backing dominate the election conversation?” asked one European ambassador. “We came to study Sri Lanka’s debt restructuring. Instead, we discovered a digital revolution.”
What struck them most was authenticity. While Wickremesinghe’s polished infographics and Premadasa’s slick ads often felt artificial, NPP’s rough-and-ready content felt real. In an age of polished deception, authenticity itself had become a weapon.
Telecom providers reported that 65% of Sri Lankan voters scrolled social media daily during the election campaign. Among those under 35, the figure was closer to 80%.
Statistics compiled by independent analysts revealed a stark truth: while Ranil and Sajith had larger war chests, Anura had more followers, subscribers, and—most critically—engagement. A Facebook live stream of one of Anura’s rallies routinely drew 100,000 viewers; Ranil’s equivalent barely touched 15,000.
In TikTok’s algorithm-driven arena, the disparity was even starker. Anura’s clips were viewed millions of times, often accompanied by trending sounds and captions that spread beyond political audiences into pop culture. Sajith’s carefully choreographed clips, by contrast, were seen as awkward, sometimes even desperate.
It was the digital equivalent of a hundred-metre race. Anura sprinted ahead early and, despite every obstacle thrown his way, finished with the largest crowd at the finish line.
If Anura’s volunteers dominated online, the man himself dominated the televised debates.
On Derana 360°, the hosts pressed him relentlessly about Marxism. Instead of appearing defensive, Anura leaned back, smiled, and delivered a crisp retort: “Marxism is not the enemy. Hunger is.” The clip went viral overnight.
On Sirasa’s Satana, when asked whether an NPP government would scare away foreign investors, Anura turned the question back on his rivals: “What investors stayed when you governed?” The audience erupted. Within hours, the clip was being shared on WhatsApp with captions like, “Our man speaks the truth.”
What was supposed to be a hostile environment became a stage for Anura’s charisma. The debates did not just reach television audiences—they were clipped, memed, and replayed thousands of times, amplifying his reach far beyond what producers intended.
Despite controlling the machinery of state television, Ranil Wickremesinghe failed to capture the public imagination. Internal reports showed that less than 6% of the audience tuned into state-run programming during the campaign’s final weeks.
Older viewers, once loyal to evening news bulletins, had migrated online, consuming live streams, debate highlights, and TikTok reels forwarded by friends and family.
Ranil’s blind spot was assuming that control over state media still equated to control over public opinion. In reality, the harder he squeezed, the more irrelevant state media became.
The 2024 election marked not just a political but a cultural transition. For decades, the morning paper was the starting point of political debate. By 2024, it had been replaced by the morning scroll.
Instead of op-eds, voters shared memes. Instead of columnists, TikTok creators became political influencers. Instead of editorials, WhatsApp voice notes carried the messages that mattered.
The NPP recognised this shift earlier than anyone. Rather than trying to win over hostile editorial boards, they ensured their rallies were filmed with vertical angles perfect for TikTok. Their speeches were peppered with one-liners designed to be clipped and shared. Their candidate understood instinctively that in the age of digital politics, going viral was more valuable than going prime time.
Small online platforms, often dismissed as fringe, played an outsized role in shaping narratives. Talk with Lal, Sudha TV, and Lanka-e-News became digital fortresses, countering mainstream hostility with relentless coverage of NPP rallies and speeches.
They offered live broadcasts when larger channels ignored events. They provided commentary when newspapers editorialised against the NPP. In effect, they created a parallel media ecosystem—one that was raw, partisan, but trusted by NPP’s growing online base.
Unlike outsourced campaigns, NPP’s digital army was unpaid. This gave them credibility. A student making a TikTok about Anura’s speech was seen as genuine, not transactional.
Moreover, the decentralised nature meant there was no single point of failure. Even if one page was banned, dozens of others kept posting. Even if one clip was taken down, it had already been mirrored across platforms.
This made the campaign not just effective but almost impossible to suppress.
The 2024 presidential election was a watershed moment in Sri Lanka’s democratic journey. For the first time, a campaign triumphed not by dominating state media, nor by flattering newspaper editors, but by trusting the chaotic energy of social media.
Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s victory was not merely a personal triumph. It was proof that in the digital age, even the most entrenched bias can be outflanked. That authenticity can overpower manufactured narratives. That memes can matter more than headlines.
Sri Lanka’s future may still be uncertain, its economy fragile, its politics fractious. But one fact is undeniable: the age of the editorial board is over. The age of the scroll has begun.
And in that age, it was Anurella—the candidate who trusted the crowd with smartphones—who ran the race, took the lead, and finished as the president of Sri Lanka.
-By LeN Political Correspondent
Relaed Articles
* 'Anurella'..! How Sri Lanka’s Ballot Box Sparked a Revolution - (Part 1)
* ‘Anurella’: The Presidential Campaign That Changed Sri Lanka - (Part 2)
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