Dismantle 76-year charade: Rename and celebrate Independence Day as Memorial Day from 2025 onwards

The illusion of civility and humanity in celebrating independence faded as local elites implemented the colonial project of nation-building on the island, primarily through distorting religion, history, archaeology, and national symbols. This approach solidified racist communalism as a means to deny and suppress demands for equal rights and freedom for all. Beneath this façade lies a subtler exclusion: the romanticisation of the nation as ‘mother’ or ‘motherland,’ idealising gendered traits like care, sacrifice, nurturance, and emotional support 

Since its inception on 4 February 1948, Sri Lanka’s Independence Day has served as a poignant emblem of ‘celebration by deprivation,’ unveiling the nation’s escalating loss of freedoms, widening inequalities, and deepening psychological trauma that disproportionately afflict its minorities. Perpetuated by a narrative cleverly spun by self-proclaimed saviours, this dynamic has stifled the emergence of a genuinely multicultural and diverse society. For these reasons, the National People’s Power (NPP) Government’s decision to appoint a committee to reimagine the long-marred Independence Day celebrations is commendable. 

This initiative must begin by forging a nation-building narrative that eschews distorted histories, exclusionary practices, and biases in national symbols while curtailing the lavish squandering of resources, political self-interest, and profiteering that have characterised previous observances. To this end, and for the reasons I explain below, it makes sense to rename Independence Day National Memorial Day to dismantle the false and oppressive narratives of freedom and to honour all who have striven for true liberty across communities—a day to celebrate the authentic experiences and aspirations of all.

The “Motherland Land” – the alien we celebrate

On Independence Day, we celebrate the ‘grand inheritance’ of a unified nation—a British construct, though until then, no politico-territorial entity deserving the name ‘nation’ existed on this island. Instead, a rich mosaic of communities with distinct hybrid identities and deep territorial affinities shaped the landscape. This mosaic was enriched by waves of migrants, languages, and religions ‘foreign’ to the country, along with the forced migration of bonded labourers from British-ruled colonial India. Yet, the narrative of independence celebrations, serving as a symbol of the ensuing communalism taking hold over politics, starkly betrays the island’s claim to celebrate genuine diversity, a cornerstone of a truly free and independent nation.

The real issue lies not with the nation-state per se but with how various elites crafted an exclusive, racialised identity, positioning themselves as the rightful national leaders. Parading as members of ‘good families,’ these elites—dubbed ‘nobodies who became somebodies’ through amassing wealth and power—exploited arrack-renting, mining, and other colonial-aligned extractive industries. They exploited labour along caste lines, seized land, and received colonial accolades for subjugating the local populace. More insidiously, they engineered a racist, ethno-religious nationalism to ‘indigenise’ and legitimise their authority, mirroring their colonial masters in what Frantz Fanon described as a performance of people with ‘Black Skin, White Masks’—a show of nativism that maintained colonial privileges while sidelining subordinate groups.

The illusion of civility and humanity in celebrating independence faded as local elites implemented the colonial project of nation-building on the island, primarily through distorting religion, history, archaeology, and national symbols. This approach solidified racist communalism as a means to deny and suppress demands for equal rights and freedom for all. Beneath this façade lies a subtler exclusion: the romanticisation of the nation as ‘mother’ or ‘motherland,’ idealising gendered traits like care, sacrifice, nurturance, and emotional support. 

This not only cements traditional gender roles—with men cast as protectors—but also perpetuates a gendered nationalism that idealises women’s subservience and legitimises male dominance across all societal domains. Essentially, it exploits manufactured feminine norms to masculinise the narrative of nation-building, obscuring women’s roles in the independence struggle and overlooking the disproportionate impact of violence and communal politics on women, ultimately making a mockery of what we celebrate as independence.

No independence struggle and no father of independence

Sri Lanka etched a curiously triumphant chapter in the annals of global independence movements, gaining independence without a struggle and fittingly celebrating D.S. Senanayake as the ‘father of independence’—a fitting title for someone who rejected independence! He tirelessly suppressed those advocating for genuine freedom to become the country’s first Prime Minister. Since then, the Independence Day celebration of this narrative and its ‘heroes’ has progressively become more distorted, racialised, and entrenched in the country’s political consciousness. A nuanced understanding of this narrative, repeatedly reproduced in independence celebrations, is essential—even at the risk of some oversimplification—to help the public understand why this narrative is repeated, its falsehoods, and its oppressive consequences if we are to understand and support the NPP’s efforts to rethink what true independence is supposed to mean.

Formed in 1919, the Ceylon National Congress (CNC) stood in stark contrast to the Indian National Congress, which pursued complete independence; instead, AE Jayewardene, the father of later President JR Jayewardene, admitted that the CNC was a political movement whose aim was to achieve dominion status. It quickly transformed into a platform dominated by elites, financially backed by D.R. Wijewardena, owner of Ceylon Lakehouse, to promote D.S. Senanayake as the country’s first Prime Minister. Consequently, many progressive minority labour and leftist politicians abandoned the CNC.

At a pivotal meeting in Kelaniya to vote on independence, D.S. Senanayake angrily walked out in protest when the group, including his son Dudley, supported complete independence instead of dominion status. After visits from Gandhi and Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay to Sri Lanka, the Tamil Youth Congress urged the Sinhala Youth Congress to join India’s call for Swaraj (self-rule). However, the Sinhala Youth Congress refused, aligning with those who favoured dominion status over complete independence.

Ample historical evidence suggests that shenanigan elites, often celebrated as national heroes, harboured a curious aversion to independence from British control, fearing threats to their self-interests. The Donoughmore Commission (1927) was sent to explore franchise options and consulted with all groups in the country. However, the elites controlling the CNC proposed a government led by a local Prime Minister. They agreed to leave security, the judiciary, and foreign services under colonial governors’ control, with the legislature accountable to the colonial government. Moreover, they advocated restricting voting rights to those earning over fifty rupees per month—twice the average labourer’s wage, a threshold only a minority could meet. Notably, only a few brave figures like A.E. Gunasinghe, Philip Gunawardana, and the Jaffna Youth Congress opposed this elitist plot and demanded universal franchise for all Sri Lankans. Fortunately, the commission expanded voting rights to everyone, much to the elites’ dismay.

An example of CNC elites’ resistance to full independence unfolded during the 1940 investigation by the State Council and Police Department into the politically charged shooting of estate labourer Govidan at a tea estate in Hewaheta, Central Province. P.D.B. Jayatilleka attempted to delay the police report to ensure it didn’t preempt the State Council’s release and ordered the police not to release their report first. Nevertheless, a defiant police inspector subverted his plans by releasing it early, sparking outrage among council members. The Lanka Sama Samaja Party, led by Philip Gunawardana and Dr. N.M. Perera, along with socialist opponents of D.S. Senanayake, used this as proof of the colonial regime’s unwanted meddling in local affairs and as a platform to call for a mass anti-colonial uprising.

In a panic over his dwindling prime ministerial prospects, the anxious D.S. Senanayake was adamant about maintaining dominion status rather than seeking full independence like other native leaders, possibly to prevent the British from considering such an option. He conspired with the colonial government to use their authority to suppress local dissent and retain control over the island as a strategic base, especially after the British lost control over India. Senanayake and his allies also conspired with the colonial rulers to imprison political adversaries who then escaped to India for five years, thereby stalling their influence in Sri Lanka amid growing anti-colonial sentiment. This situation heightened the colonial powers’ fears of the spread of communism, which influenced their caving into the political interests of Senanayake and his gang. With the colonial governor’s help, they appointed Sir D.B. Jayathilaka, a highly qualified and favoured candidate for Prime Minister, as the Sri Lankan Ambassador to India to further secure Senanayake’s selfish ambitions.

When the Colonial Office requested a draft constitution from the Sri Lankan Government, D.S. Senanayake slyly passed off the constitution drafted by Sir Ivor Jennings as a local effort, fooling almost no one. Minority parties, not easily duped, quickly debunked the façade, leading to its rejection by the Colonial Office. The Colonial Office dispatched the Soulbury Commission to Sri Lanka in December 1947 to solicit minority opinions on the constitution and franchise. Threatened by the risk to his political supremacy and prime ministerial aspirations, Senanayake and his allies deployed crafty manoeuvres to maintain control. Initially boycotting the commission, the Ceylon National Congress later manipulated it covertly. As Kariyawasam notes wryly in his podcast, Senanayake and Oliver Goonetilleke—husband of Phyllis Miller, Secretary of the Soulbury Commission—were not simply socialites at the cultural events they organised but were on a mission to gain insights into the colonial officers’ mindset and influence its outcomes. Their scheming effectively steered Sri Lanka to dominion status and secured Senanayake’s position as prime minister.

The charade of celebrating independence on 4 February 1948, stems from it being merely dominion status; 24 years later, the country became a fully independent republic in 1972. D.S. Senanayake, dubbed the ‘father’ of independence, yet an opponent of full autonomy to serve his political interests, never witnessed complete independence. Until 1956, Britain maintained control of Trincomalee Harbour and Katunayake Airport, strategic points used to fuel aircraft during the Vietnam War. Furthermore, Sri Lankan politicians continued to take oaths under King George VI and later, Elizabeth II, until 1972. By contrast, India gained independence from British rule on 15 August 1947, and transitioned to a republic by 26 January 1950. 

As it evolved, the Sri Lankan narrative of independence has deliberately suppressed the complex realities to justify the distorted account people celebrate. What was portrayed as freedom silenced diverse voices—socialists, communists, peasants, labourers, and women—who resisted colonial and elite dominance in pursuit of true independence. After 1972, when Sri Lanka became a republic, this revisionist history paved the way for the institutionalisation of communalism at all societal levels and racialised the country’s political consciousness, ultimately foreclosing the possibilities for equal freedoms across the nation’s diverse communities.

Deprivation and trauma of national symbols of celebrations

Independence Day flaunts national symbols that cement racialised political consciousness—symbols from which people cannot easily escape, lacking knowledge of their historical evolution, hidden meanings, and lasting impacts. Anthems, flags, and cultural and religious displays during the celebrations reveal the State’s intentional racial content—content embedded at their inception. Moreover, these displays often exploit racial tensions to serve political interests and absolve the planners of celebrations from their misdeeds. This rings especially true as the planners of celebrations internationally purport inclusivity, while merely masking the vast gap between professed respect for diversity and the actual discord among communities.

Politics of drafting and performing the national anthem: The Lanka Gandharva Sabha organised a contest to choose the national anthem, where ‘Namo Matha’ by Samarakoon and ‘Sri Lanka Matha Pala Yasa Mahima’ by P.B. Illangasinghe and Lionel Edirisinghe emerged as notable entries; the latter won despite its creators serving as judges, sparking controversy due to its perceived lack of impartiality and because it was less popular than ‘Namo Matha’ with the public. Notably, ‘Sri Lanka Matha Pala Yasa Mahima’ was not performed at the official Freedom Day in 1948. Meanwhile, M. Nallathamby translated ‘Namo Matha’ into Tamil, preserving its meaning and music. Advocates for diversity continue to push for the anthem to be sung in both Sinhala and Tamil to reflect the nation’s diversity despite inconsistent practices at national events. For instance, at the 1949 Independence Day ceremony, the anthem was sung in both languages, yet there were moments when Sinhala leaders exited in protest when it was performed in Tamil.

The national anthem debacle: The design and layout of Sri Lanka’s national flag is another potent symbol of ethnic exclusion, deceptively packaged as unity. The lion, symbolising the Sinhalese ‘lion race,’ menacingly grips a sword, ostensibly aimed at minorities represented only by secondary colours. The inclusion of bo leaves in the four corners underscores Buddhist supremacy, a design crafted without significant input from other ethnic groups, particularly the Tamils. Premalal Kumarasiri of the Communist Party ominously warned that such a divisive emblem could ignite war within 50 years—a grim prophecy that materialised all too precisely. The lion found a formidable challenger in the tiger—emblazoned on the flag of the Tamil Tigers, who ignited a fierce debate over claims to nationhood among both Sinhalese and Tamils.

Displays and parades – An insidious celebration: Under the Rajapaksa regime, Independence Day displays of national symbols and parades either overlooked or distorted the sacrifices of all communities in the 30-year war, celebrating the very communalism that fuelled the conflict, while stripping minorities of their cultural and economic freedoms and blatantly ignoring Tamil demands for justice. Token gestures, like minority dances and religious figures in festivities, merely papered over entrenched racialised nationalism, rendering them meaningless. The slogan ‘We are all Sri Lankans’ rang hollow as post-war efforts intensified the Sinhalisation of the north and east. This included the racialisation of archaeological sites, the spread of Sinhala Buddhist symbols to assert dominance, and the slow release of seized land while restricting livelihoods—all under the pretext of national security.

Far from healing, the Government’s portrayal of the civil war as a humanitarian mission against terrorism turned post-war independence into a profoundly traumatic experience for minorities while relying on the mystification of the war’s legacy, with racist undertones, to suppress opponents and deceive other communities. The celebrations amounted to rewriting the history of independence, casting the Rajapaksas as its founding heroes.

Denial of freedom: Power and wealth by deprivation

Since its inception in 1948, Independence Day celebrations have devolved into a tragicomic spectacle, echoing the themes of Sophocles’ play, Antigone. What began as a commemoration of freedom became a vehicle for expanding it only for a privileged few, mystifying the root causes of unfreedom—inequality, dispossession, and the consolidation of elite power. Cloaked in nepotism, these festivities glorify a distorted history that legitimises disenfranchisement and violence, disproportionately borne by minorities, while eroding any hope for democratic paths to justice. 

Armed uprisings emerged as seemingly the only viable response in this landscape of denied freedoms. Ironically, the celebrations uphold the so-called pillars of ‘independence’—authoritarianism, racism, sexism, nepotism, state violence, and evasion of accountability. We mark each year enthusiastically because nothing says ‘freedom’ quite like adorning oppression with fireworks.

Politics of language and youth uprisings: The adoption of Sinhala as the official language in 1956 was touted as a patriotic move. This move effectively masked the preservation of English-medium education for the elite, ensuring their children continued to receive instruction in exclusive schools. This policy has left lasting scars, as the government has consistently failed to enforce its language policies, even in official documents. The politics that transpired from this move, coupled with the racialised teaching of the country’s history, exacerbated the country’s polarisation under the guise of religion and national security.

Further compounding the issue was the selective nationalisation of schools, where the elite retained English-medium instruction. The imposition of Sinhala as the medium in higher education highlighted the vast disparities between the masses and the ruling classes, particularly in land ownership, wealth accumulation, and opportunities for upward mobility. These inequities led the youth to embrace Marxist analysis, which was gaining global popularity then. In 1971, the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) launched an insurrection against the UPFA government, which ironically sought British help to quell the uprising, framing it as a lingering colonial threat. 

With British assistance, the rebellion was brutally suppressed. A year later, the same government introduced a republican constitution with the aid of left-wing leaders like Colvin R. de Silva, enshrining Buddhism at its core and thereby racialising religion and further excluding minorities. At the same time, coupled with standardised tests, it also sowed the seeds for subsequent uprisings by Tamil youth, for freedom.

Malayagam Tamils in 200 years of bondage: Regimes since the colonial period have used Indian Tamil plantation workers—the Malayagam Tamil community—as political pawns, continuing their disenfranchisement for over 200 years. Their labour remains crucial for the foreign exchange entering the country, yet it enriches elites who deny them freedom while funding the nation’s free education, healthcare, and infrastructure. Yet, this community faces brutal rejection—stripped of land ownership, denied addresses, and subjected to the poorest infrastructure. As other industries have developed within the plantations and the companies’ desire to maximise profits persists, the plantations are neglected, and oppression intensifies. 

Consequently, these workers are relegated to precarious, low-wage, and racially discriminatory jobs. A glaring symbol of their exploitation is the pervasive practice of recruiting domestic help from plantations, treating these workers as a bottomless pool of cheap labour. Meanwhile, those benefiting from plantation labour portray employing these workers as acts of charity, conveniently earning humanitarian praise and accruing good karma for this life and the next!

Enduring legacy of racism in nation building: Sinhala-dominated political parties have consistently used minorities as political pawns, repeatedly abandoning viable solutions like federalism, regional unions, or a tepidly implemented 13th Amendment. Over the years, minorities have become accustomed to a relentless cycle of election promises followed by post-election betrayals regarding political solutions to the ethnic conflict. With the advent and aftermath of the war, communalism escalated to the extent that no majoritarian political party dared to propose solutions acceptable to minorities. This obstructionism has blocked all paths to equal citizenship for minorities, transforming their legitimate demands for equality into calls for a separate state.

Even Rohana Wijeweera, who once acknowledged Tamils’ rights to self-determination in Jaffna, later failed to politically advocate for these rights or defend the rights of Ceylon Tamils and plantation Tamils—a misstep for which the JVP later apologised. With few exceptions, the political left was complicit, either ignoring the issue, lacking moral courage or reducing communalism to a mere political strategy and narrow class politics. This must be understood in the context of the state’s conditioning of popular consciousness with communalism and propaganda strategies designed to isolate socialists and undermine emerging alliances across ethnic divides.

With JR Jayewardene assuming power in 1977, the country plunged into an era marked by the stark denial of meaningful freedoms, all under the noble yet deceptive guise of renaming it the Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka and promising a just and free society. This renaming, with its hollow pledges, bolstered a racialised interpretation of Sinhala civilisation, centred on the triad of water tanks, temples, and paddy fields, with Jayewardene anointing himself as the reincarnation of the righteous Buddhist King Asoka. The truth behind these policies unravelled as it became clear that Jayewardene’s governance was rooted in divisive, racialised strategies to tighten his grip on power. 

Perhaps the most unhinged figure in modern political theatre, Jayewardene wielded political, communal, and economic tactics to restructure Sri Lanka’s frameworks, suppressing meaningful freedoms and setting the country on a disastrous path toward 30 years of civil war and the 1989 insurgency. His policies worsened an already communalised, morally bankrupt political climate and erected constitutional and legal barriers to meaningful freedom and prosperity.

Misguided economics – intellectual backbone of deprivation: Inclusive and sustainable freedom rests on economic equality. Unless you’re a mainstream economist—a slave to orthodox thinking and narrow indicators, blaming economic failures solely on bad governance while ignoring empirical evidence that racism, sexism, and neoliberal economic outcomes are inseparable—and theoretically conditioned to derive a moral compass from a narrowly defined and inherently unsustainable growth model, believing there is no alternative to capitalism, you’ll recognise that JR Jayewardene’s so-called economic gains were built on dispossession, inequality, and deindustrialisation. 

These policies left the economy dangerously exposed to shocks. These issues were not mere inefficiencies but the result of reckless privatisation, the sellout of national resources to multinationals, and the careless surrender of sovereignty to the IMF, World Bank, WTO, and other geopolitical forces, stripping future leaders of the freedom to shape independent economic policies.

Communalism became Jayewardene’s perfect political decoy—an insidious ploy to obscure the harsh realities of his regime while nurturing division through war and engaging in human rights abuses against all communities to entrench authoritarianism and suppress dissent. His successors, led by the Rajapaksa family, escalated these abuses to unprecedented extremes. Meanwhile, other political opponents, including the UNP, SJB, and PA, turned a blind eye to these divisive strategies despite criticising the regime for corruption, nepotism, and repression.

Peace with oppression – the false calm after the storm: The peace that followed the Civil War—welcomed by all communities as a much-needed respite from violence—was also a triumph for racist nationalism and pseudo-patriots, not a peace characterised by freedom or justice. Over 400,000 Sinhala and Tamil people were killed, executed, or tortured, and countless others—activists, academics, and journalists opposing human rights abuses without political ties—were displaced or disappeared during these uprisings. While the JVP and the military were allowed to honour their fallen comrades, Tamils were denied this right; their graveyards were razed and replaced by government monuments that framed the war as a humanitarian mission, deepening trauma for minorities in the northeast and obstructing reconciliation.

If we are serious about inclusive freedom, we must remember that the Tamil and Sinhala youth uprisings are two sides of the same coin, intrinsically linked despite their differences. Both arose from elite manipulation of communalism, economic hardship, and suppressed freedoms, with similar systemic injustices pushing both groups into conflict. By labelling these youths as ‘terrorists’ and commemorating only military personnel on Independence Days, politicians not only showed a biased view of heroism but also ignored the deprivations, sacrifices, and trauma suffered by all communities, including the military—caused not solely by them but by selfish political interests. This entrenchment plunged the country into cycles of suffering and unresolved conflict. 

In 2004, after defeating the Tamil militants, the Rajapaksa government flaunted racial nationalism during Independence Day celebrations, positioning itself as the guardian of national unity while avoiding accountability for disappearances, human rights abuses, and legal violations, all justified under the guise of ‘national security.

Islamophobia – another manufactured enemy: Even after the war, anti-minority violence persisted, weaponised to tighten control over communities and silence political opposition. While war-torn communities sought justice, the celebrations rewrote history to glorify the Rajapaksas’ victories, shifting focus to a new scapegoat: Muslims. For example, a Muslim doctor was falsely accused of sterilising Sinhala women, and propaganda spread rumours that Muslim-owned restaurants were secretly spiking food with birth control—fabrications designed to stoke fear and division.

The 2019 Easter Sunday bombings, allegedly conspired by some politicians, gave the regime the perfect excuse to escalate communal divisions, turning fear into a reliable political weapon. Against this backdrop, Gotabaya Rajapaksa ascended to the presidency. After his ousting, his successor, Ranil Wickremesinghe, continued the Rajapaksa political culture, shielding them from accountability as his political survival depended on preserving this toxic legacy.

Conclusion: Hope for freedom amid economic crisis and limits to racist nationalism

Meanwhile, communalism’s influence waned as the public recognised that the economic crisis stemmed from regimes’ policies of shady asset sales, bribes, backdoor negotiations, and reckless privatisation—enriching a few while leaving the economy vulnerable to global market forces. Only a privileged minority connected to politicians benefited, while the majority faced severe shortages of necessities, pushing the country toward bankruptcy. Fear of further asset loss and sovereignty grew, with the country becoming a battleground for competing superpowers, presenting a formidable challenge for any party claiming the freedom to govern. These developments inevitably turned so-called patriotic defenders of the nation into traitors who could no longer conceal their failures behind racist nationalism.

The Aragalaya, a people’s movement fuelled by decades of struggle from workers, peasants, teachers, Tamil mothers, Malayagam Tamils, and other civil society groups, exposed the deceit of freedom and the treason of so-called guardians of liberty, paving the way for an unprecedented shift of power to the NPP.

To honour the people’s mandate for systemic change, the NPP must dismantle the 76-year narrative of Independence Day celebrations. The NPP should consider renaming ‘Independence Day’ to ‘Memorial Day’—a day for all communities to honour heroes who championed true freedom and to celebrate their achievements as a culturally diverse, just, and equitable nation.

(The writer is an interdisciplinary social scientist teaching at the Department of Sustainability and Social Justice at Clark University, Worcester, MA, USA. His research and teaching focus on economic development, agroecology, and health issues in South Asia and Haiti.).