By Manjula Gajanayake –

Manjula Gajanayake

There is a popular African (Swahili) proverb: “Mountains don’t meet, but people do” (Milima haikutani, lakini wanadamu hukutana). After several reminders and many WhatsApp messages, I finally found time to sit with Dhamma Dissanayake for a long conversation. Nearly two hours. He was one of the lecturers who taught us at university. Later, he became a Governor and eventually returned to university teaching again. The purpose of the meeting was simple. To share some of my experiences on election campaign strategies.

Mountains Don’t Meet, But Stories Do

We spoke for almost two hours. Yet, strangely enough, we managed to cover only the stories up to my fifteenth year of life. Clearly, another meeting and a few more cups of tea will be needed to finish the remaining chapters. Election campaigns, of course, are expected to move within the boundaries of election law. At least in theory. But politics, like flowing water, often finds small cracks in the wall. Over the years, I have seen many strategies used by candidates. Some cannot be challenged under election law. Yet they leave uncomfortable questions behind. Ethically, not always right. Politically, often very effective. Some methods are so creative that one almost feels guilty for secretly admiring the cleverness behind them. Because in election campaigning, the ultimate goal is not poetry. It is victory.

In countries like Sri Lanka, elections are especially fierce. The Proportional Representation system turns parliamentary contests into crowded races. Sometimes, it feels less like a democratic exercise and more like a carefully dressed rat race. Many of you may already know the old rule often linked to propaganda politics: “If at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie again.” Then comes its mischievous cousin the Muddy-Wall Rule: “If you throw enough mud against a wall, some of it will stick.”

The story I plan to share with Dhamma Dissanayake at our next meeting belongs to the election season of 2020. As usual, the Colombo District was on fire with political heat. I was heading the election observation mission at Centre for Monitoring Election Violence (CMEV). Sixteen political parties and twenty-six independent groups submitted nominations. Altogether, 924 candidates entered the race. But only nineteen seats were available in Parliament. Anyone can imagine the battlefield.

The Name That Appeared Everywhere

Among those contesting was Udaya Prabath Gammanpila. Compared to many others, he already enjoyed substantial popularity. He was also a party leader. His name appeared in the fifth line of the nomination paper submitted by the Sri Lanka Podujana Peramuna. Naturally, every candidate carried their own bag of tricks. Some visible. Some carefully hidden behind the curtain of election law. But as usual, Gammanpila’s strategy travelled on a different road. Alongside his trademark media conferences and carefully timed statements, he appeared to test something new this time. A separate experiment. Quiet. Clever. Difficult to notice at first glance. It involved an independent group contesting in the Colombo District. Independent Group No. 16. Their names are mentioned below.

Nishantha Sanjeewa Gammanpila , Gammanpila Imiyage Don Dharmasena , Gammanpila Imiyage Don Amila Sampath Gammanpila , Gammanpila Imiyage Dona Sandya Manori , Kithsiri Gammampila , Gammanpila Don Kinsey Laksiri , Gammanpila Imiyage Dona Dakshina Janithi , Gammanpila Dona Ramalka Gammanpila , Gammanpila Imiyage Dona Subhashini , Gammampila Don Lakna Gammampila , Gammanpila Imiyage Don Sujith Kumara , Gammanpila Imiyage Don Ajith Kumara , Gammanpila Imiyage Dona Chathuri Udayangani , Gammanpila Imiyage Dona Kalani Thusantha Gothami Gammanpila , Gammanpilage Udara Kanishka Gammanpila , Gammanpilage Ranjith Dayarathne , Nilakshi Niroshana Gammanpila Kodippili , Asanka Aravinda Gammanpila , Gammanpila Don Ruchira , Indika Wimukthi Wimalasena Gammanpila , Charitha Gammanpila , Inoka Gammanpila

Colombo: Where Elections Become a Battlefield

So, were you able to notice something unusual in this nomination list? All twenty-two names either began with Gammanpila or ended with Gammanpila. A coincidence? Sri Lankan politics rarely leaves room for such innocence. So why was this done? Perhaps this was a grand strategy. One that any candidate may dream of using, especially in an election conducted under the Proportional Representation system. Take Colombo District. Nearly 699 square kilometres. A district carrying around 3,549 people per square kilometre, the highest population density in the country. But that number only tells half the story. Then comes Colombo’s floating population. During working hours, the city almost doubles its breathing. Every morning, hundreds of thousands quietly flow into Colombo for work, trade, education, and survival. Some estimates place the number between 500,000 and one million daily commuters. Anyone can now understand the seriousness of the battlefield. At the time, Colombo was the most crowded electoral district in the country. And campaigning here was not a village stroll.

From Crow Island in the north to Moratuwa in the south. From the crowded coastline of Colombo to the distant edges of Seethawaka and Avissawella in the east. Roads, junctions, markets, buses, walls, and faces. A candidate had to travel everywhere and somehow remain memorable. Because in election campaigns, one rule quietly sits above many others. Display your name. At any cost, let voters remember it. That is where what I call The Cheers Rule enters politics: “Politics is a place where you want voters to remember your name.” But election law offers only limited space for a candidate to display that name.

Posters in public places are prohibited. Candidates may display cut-outs or posters with images only at their residence, recognised party offices, electorate and district-level offices, and approved campaign venues. Before a political rally, organisers may inform voters of the date and time with the party symbol. If an image is used, only the party leader’s image is permitted. Even a candidate’s vehicle, moving through streets and junctions, carries its own quiet campaign weight.

Now imagine all twenty-two of them. Each enjoying the same campaign rights as any major candidate. Each entitled to their own office board. Their own rally notices. Their own vehicle on the road. And on every one of those boards, every one of those notices, every one of those vehicles, one word remained constant. Gammanpila. Not always a full name. Sometimes just that. Gammanpila alone was enough.

Picture a voter anywhere in Colombo District. Waiting near a bus halt. Stuck in traffic. Walking to work. Turning a junction. And there it is again. Gammanpila. Another board. Another office. Another banner. Twenty-two campaigns. One name. Like an election song playing on a neighbour’s radio. Whether you liked it or not, the name quietly entered your head. And stayed there. Of course, under election law, there is nothing illegal here. Every citizen has the right to contest an election. Even if all twenty-two candidates belong to the same family. Law, after all, is one thing. Political creativity is another. And if this was indeed his strategy, it appears to have added value. Gammanpila secured 136,331 votes, becoming the second highest vote-getter among the eleven SLPP winners in the Colombo District.

Rs.100, Twenty-Two Gammanpilas, and Other Political Magic

This was not the only strategy Gammanpila used during his campaigns. Back in 2015, he tried something different. Something simple. Something almost impossible to criticise in public. He made an open appeal asking for only Rs.100 from each voter. Just one hundred rupees. To be honest, many of us hand over even larger amounts to a roadside alms-seeker without much hesitation. So, for an ordinary supporter, this hardly felt like a burden. The cleverness was elsewhere. He did not publicly ask wealthy third parties for millions. Nor did he go around searching for giant donors under bright political lights. Instead, he asked for something small. Very small. But politics, like village cooking, sometimes works better with many tiny ingredients than one large pot. By the end of the campaign, he had reportedly raised nearly Rs. 9.9 million. In 2015, that was serious money. At the time, campaign finance laws simply did not exist. Parliament would not finally wake up to pass them until 2023. This convenient regulatory vacuum meant absolutely no one could ask how he spent those ten million rupees. By the cynical logic of the day, it was his money to play with. Back in 2015, he secured his parliamentary seat with a massive 198,818 preferential votes under the UPFA ticket. He was not just a winner in Colombo; he was the grand prize winner in our national lottery of zero accountability.

Even outside peak election seasons, Udaya Gammanpila operates like a master of political misdirection. He is the stage magician of our local airwaves. His everlasting playbook relies on a classic trick: packaging patriotic ideas for a middle class that has always found nationalism an easy and comfortable companion. With the precision of a seasoned showman, he flips public attention overnight. Sometimes he deploys high drama. Sometimes he relies on total surprise. His periodic “revelations” are custom-built to raise eyebrows and hijack the evening news cycle. To hear him tell it, he is doing everything in his power to chase out the current government by hook or by crook. By his own count, the state has tried to arrest him seven distinct times. Yet, he remains comfortably at home. Ready for the next headline. It takes just enough noise to capture the prime-time slot. One does not have to admire the performance to admit that, as a study in Sri Lankan campaign strategy, it is thoroughly unforgettable.

Democracy truly is a beautiful thing. Under our Westminster tradition, we politely prefix every MP’s name with “Honourable.” A mark of respect. A small courtesy extended to those the people have chosen. Yet, just months prior, those same people were simply candidates. And as candidates, the law asked very little of them. It asks where the money came from and where it went, but the monitoring process is like climbing Everest. It is a no-man’s-land to the Election Commission. It did not ask what the twenty-two names on a ballot paper had in common. It simply watched. Quietly. Politely. Win the race by whatever creative means necessary, and overnight, the prefix arrives. Honourable. Indeed. I only hope my former lecturer, Dhamma Dissanayake, won’t be too angry with me for revealing this truth here, before I’ve had the chance to explain myself at our next meeting.