-By A Special Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -12.Nov.2025, 6.00 AM) In a country where journalism has long walked a tightrope between truth and survival, few names have sparked as much debate in recent years as Azzam Ameen. Once celebrated as a promising journalist and a familiar voice for the BBC Sinhala Service, Ameen’s fall from grace came abruptly in 2020, when an audio recording of his private conversation with actor-turned-politician Ranjan Ramanayake surfaced on social media.
What began as an apparent breach of privacy soon evolved into a full-blown national conversation about media ethics, political interference, and journalistic accountability. Was Ameen a manipulator, covertly aligning his reporting with political interests? Or was he a victim—ensnared by a politically motivated leak designed to destroy his career?
Five years later, the questions remain unanswered. But the controversy still casts a long shadow over Sri Lankan journalism—and over Ameen himself, who continues to operate as a media personality through his digital platform.
The leaked call, published in January 2020, just months before the Sri Lankan presidential election, captured a candid exchange between Ameen and Ramanayake. The conversation appeared to show Ameen discussing the political climate, media coverage strategies, and his views on supporting the then-governing party.
To the untrained ear, it might have seemed like casual political gossip. But to those within media circles, the conversation was damning. It hinted at a breach of journalistic impartiality, violating one of the profession’s core tenets: neutrality.
The BBC, known for its strict adherence to editorial independence, swiftly responded. Within weeks, Ameen’s contract was terminated. Officially, the BBC said he was not a full-time employee but a freelance contractor—a distinction that surprised many who had known him publicly as “BBC’s Azzam Ameen.”
The dismissal, though procedural, effectively branded him as compromised. But others argued it was an overreaction, even a politically expedient one.
“BBC’s action sent a message,” said one senior Colombo journalist. “They wanted to protect their image internationally. But locally, it destroyed Azzam’s career and reputation overnight.”
At the heart of the saga lies Ranjan Ramanayake, a maverick politician and self-styled crusader against corruption. His penchant for secretly recording conversations with politicians, judges, and public figures became legendary—until it landed him in jail.
Ramanayake’s recordings exposed the inner workings of Sri Lanka’s political class but also blurred ethical boundaries. When his trove of recordings began leaking to the public, chaos ensued. Among them was the infamous Azzam Ameen tape.
The content was sensational, but the method of exposure raised deeper concerns. Was it ethical—or even legal—for Ramanayake to secretly record and release private conversations?
If Ameen was indeed a victim of an illegal leak, why did he not pursue legal action? “If he truly believed he was wronged,” noted a Colombo-based media lawyer, “he could have sought damages or at least a court order against Ramanayake. The fact that he didn’t leaves room for speculation.”
Was it fear? Political calculation? Or quiet guilt?
Behind the scenes, Ameen’s reputation as a journalist who “knew everyone” had long raised eyebrows. His connections with political figures—particularly within the Samagi Jana Balawegaya (SJB)—fuelled perceptions of bias.
After the 2020 scandal, Ameen’s public appearances with SJB politicians only deepened suspicions. Some within media circles alleged that Ameen had been hoping for a political appointment or advisory role had the party won.
While there is no hard evidence of such ambition, the optics were unfortunate. “A journalist doesn’t need to be neutral in private,” said a former BBC South Asia editor, “but they cannot appear to be politically embedded. Ameen blurred that line.”
In an age when social media amplifies both truth and rumour, perception can be as damaging as proof.
The BBC’s decision to terminate Ameen’s contract was consistent with its editorial guidelines, which demand impartiality, integrity, and independence. The organisation’s internal review reportedly concluded that Ameen’s conduct breached those standards.
Yet some critics saw hypocrisy. “If you look at how Western correspondents have operated in conflict zones,” argued a Sri Lankan academic at the University of London, “there are plenty of examples of journalists who became too close to their sources. Ameen was made a scapegoat to protect institutional branding.”
BBC declined to comment on internal disciplinary matters at the time, citing privacy rules. But insiders hinted that the optics of the recording—more than the content—had sealed Ameen’s fate.
Whether one sees it as accountability or overreach, the case reignited a critical conversation: How far should media organisations go to enforce ethical purity? And who decides what “bias” truly means in a politically volatile society?
In the years since, Ameen has re-emerged with an independent digital platform, www.newswire.lk where he continues to report and comment on current affairs.
But his credibility remains contested. Some diplomats and NGOs still engage him as a media operator; others quietly avoid him. The Sri Lankan Ministry of Media, meanwhile, continues to recognise his press accreditation—despite repeated calls for review.
This raises a broader question: Should a journalist whose ethics were publicly questioned still hold a media license?
In many countries, a journalist found guilty of bias or ethical misconduct might face suspension, retraining, or loss of press privileges. But Sri Lanka’s Media Accreditation Authority has no clear mechanism for disciplinary action.
A senior official, speaking on condition of anonymity, admitted, “We don’t have a code of enforcement. Unless a journalist is convicted of a criminal offence, there’s no provision to revoke credentials. The Ameen case exposed that vacuum.”
Sri Lanka’s media landscape is a paradox. It presents itself as pluralistic—with dozens of outlets and online platforms—but operates under an invisible lattice of political patronage, economic dependency, and intimidation.
For freelance journalists like Ameen, navigating this ecosystem is perilous. To survive, many cultivate political access. Those who refuse are often sidelined, or worse, threatened.
In this context, Ameen’s alleged partiality can be read as a symptom, not a cause. “He played the same game everyone plays,” said one veteran editor. “He just got caught on tape.”
That observation cuts to the heart of Sri Lanka’s journalism crisis. The line between professional survival and ethical compromise has blurred beyond recognition.
If Ameen’s conversation with Ramanayake was illegally recorded, it should have constituted a violation of privacy under Sri Lankan law. Yet no formal investigation ever took place.
Part of the problem is that privacy law remains underdeveloped. There is no equivalent of the UK’s Data Protection Act to protect individuals from unauthorised recording and distribution of private communications.
Moreover, the BBC, though headquartered in London, was under no legal obligation to defend Ameen in a Sri Lankan context. Once his contract was terminated, he was effectively on his own.
Human rights advocates argue that this reflects a double standard. “If the BBC had any genuine concern for journalistic integrity, they should have condemned the leak as much as they condemned Ameen,” said a Colombo-based media freedom activist. “Instead, they washed their hands of the case.”
One of the more perplexing threads in the saga is Ameen’s continued possession of a valid Sri Lankan media accreditation card.
According to media department sources, his credentials were issued when he was still under BBC contract. However, BBC later clarified that Ameen was not a full-time employee—merely a local contractor.
That discrepancy raises a procedural question: did Ameen misrepresent his employment status to obtain the card?
If so, it would amount to a misleading declaration under Sri Lankan media registration laws. To date, no inquiry has been launched to verify this.
“The media department has a duty to review the legitimacy of every cardholder,” said one former government information officer. “If someone falsely claims employment with an international broadcaster, that’s a serious breach. It’s not just about ethics—it’s about credibility of the entire accreditation system.”
Beyond the personal drama, the Ameen episode exposes a broader crisis of credibility within Sri Lanka’s press.
Over the past two decades, journalists have faced political pressure, corporate influence, and social media harassment. Many have fled the country; others have self-censored to survive. Against that backdrop, the Ameen scandal was a convenient distraction—a morality play that allowed political elites to condemn “biased journalism” while perpetuating their own control of the narrative.
The irony, of course, is that those who decry media bias often benefit most from it.
In a country where truth is constantly negotiated, neutrality becomes an illusion. “Azzam Ameen’s story is not just about one journalist,” noted a media studies professor from Peradeniya University. “It’s about a system that forces journalists to choose between silence and survival.”
Curiously, despite the ethical controversy, Ameen continues to appear at official events, press conferences, and even diplomatic receptions, often posing questions to visiting foreign officials.
For some diplomats, this reflects ignorance rather than endorsement—they may not even know the backstory. For others, it’s a matter of access. “He’s persistent, articulate, and knows how to ask sharp questions,” one European envoy admitted privately. “But yes, the controversy follows him everywhere.”
The contradiction is striking: a journalist once dismissed for bias continues to represent himself at the heart of public discourse.
Should he be banned? That’s a question the government and media industry have avoided answering.
Ultimately, Ameen faces a personal crossroads. He can continue operating as an independent journalist, hoping public memory fades—or step back, acknowledging that his credibility has been irreparably damaged.
The more he appears in public, the more his past shadows him. “Once a journalist’s neutrality is compromised,” said a former BBC World Service producer, “there’s no easy redemption. The only honest path is withdrawal.”
Yet Ameen seems unwilling to fade quietly. His website continues to publish, his social media remains active, and his press appearances continue.
It’s as though he’s determined to reclaim legitimacy by sheer persistence—a risky but human instinct.
In the end, Ameen’s story defies easy categorisation. He was both a participant and a casualty of a media-political complex that rewards proximity and punishes exposure.
If he was biased, he was hardly alone. If he was entrapped, he was certainly not the first.
Perhaps the real question is not whether Azzam Ameen was a culprit or victim—but whether Sri Lankan journalism itself can ever be truly free from the political webs that define it.
Until then, Ameen’s case will remain a parable of our times: a reminder that in a world of secret recordings and performative ethics, truth is rarely pure—and never simple.
-By A Special Correspondent
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by (2025-11-12 00:33:22)
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