Sri Lanka's National People's Power (NPP) government came to power riding a wave of progressive promises, inspiring hope among human rights advocates, civil society groups, and ordinary citizens who had long suffered under authoritarian governance. However, as the administration approaches its second year in office, a troubling pattern has emerged — one where bold rhetoric fails to translate into meaningful policy reform. Nowhere is this contradiction more glaring than in the government's approach to drug policy and the proposed Protection from Organised Crimes Bill, a piece of legislation that legal experts and human rights defenders warn could become a powerful tool for state-sanctioned repression.
Progressive Promises, Regressive Reality
Before assuming power, the NPP presented what many observers described as a refreshingly progressive stance on drug-related issues. Rather than defaulting to the punitive, militarised approaches that had characterised previous administrations, the party signalled openness to health-based and human rights-centred frameworks. Advocates dared to hope that Sri Lanka might finally move away from policies that criminalised addiction and disproportionately targeted vulnerable, marginalised communities.
Those hopes have been systematically disappointed. According to prominent human rights lawyer and former National Human Rights Commissioner Ambika Satkunanthan, the NPP's actions in government have mirrored the very regressive tendencies it once criticised. The Protection from Organised Crimes Bill, rather than representing a modern, rights-respecting approach to combating crime, appears to resurrect and entrench the worst elements of Sri Lanka's historically abusive security apparatus.
What the Bill Proposes — and Why It's Dangerous
The Protection from Organised Crimes Bill is ostensibly designed to combat organised criminal networks, including drug trafficking operations that have long plagued Sri Lanka. On the surface, targeting organised crime appears entirely reasonable and even necessary. However, critics argue that the bill's broad and vague definitions create enormous potential for misuse against political opponents, activists, journalists, and minority communities.
Satkunanthan and other legal analysts have highlighted several deeply concerning provisions within the legislation. The bill reportedly grants sweeping powers to law enforcement agencies with insufficient judicial oversight, allowing for extended detention, surveillance, and asset seizure based on loosely defined criteria. These are precisely the kinds of unchecked powers that have historically been weaponised against Tamil and Muslim minorities in Sri Lanka, as well as against trade unionists, student activists, and government critics.
Furthermore, the bill's framing around "organised crime" is dangerously elastic. In authoritarian contexts worldwide, such terminology has been routinely stretched to encompass peaceful protest movements, community organising, and legitimate political dissent. Sri Lanka's own history provides ample warning — the Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA), originally justified as a temporary emergency measure, became a decades-long instrument of ethnic persecution and political suppression.
A Pattern of Broken Commitments
The Protection from Organised Crimes Bill does not exist in isolation. It reflects a broader pattern of the NPP government abandoning its reform commitments once in office. Satkunanthan's analysis draws attention to how the administration has consistently prioritised political consolidation over genuine structural reform across multiple policy domains.
On the drug issue specifically, rather than investing in rehabilitation infrastructure, harm reduction programmes, or community-based health interventions, the government has continued to rely on enforcement-heavy strategies that fill prisons with low-level users and small-time dealers while leaving powerful trafficking networks largely intact. This approach not only fails on public health grounds but perpetuates cycles of poverty, stigma, and marginalisation that fuel the very social problems the government claims to address.
The Stakes for Civil Society and Minority Communities
For Sri Lanka's Tamil and Muslim communities, who have endured decades of discriminatory legislation and security force abuses, the proposed bill carries particularly ominous implications. Broad anti-crime powers have historically been applied with striking unevenness, falling hardest on already persecuted minorities while shielding politically connected criminal networks from accountability.
Civil society organisations have called for the bill to be withdrawn or fundamentally restructured with robust safeguards, including independent judicial oversight, clear and narrow definitions of prohibited conduct, strong protections against arbitrary detention, and explicit prohibitions on targeting legitimate political or social activity. Without these safeguards, the legislation risks becoming yet another weapon in the state's arsenal against its own citizens.
Accountability Demands Action
Ambika Satkunanthan's critique serves as a vital reminder that progressive governance cannot be measured by campaign rhetoric alone. It must be judged by concrete legislative choices, institutional reforms, and the lived experiences of the most vulnerable citizens. Sri Lanka's Protection from Organised Crimes Bill, as currently conceived, represents a significant step backward for the country's fragile democratic culture.
Civil society, international human rights bodies, and concerned citizens must continue applying pressure to ensure that the NPP government is held accountable to the standards it once championed. The war on organised crime must never become a war on rights — and in Sri Lanka today, that distinction demands urgent, unwavering attention.