By Vishwamithra –

“To be truly radical is to make hope possible rather than despair convincing.” ~ Raymond Williams

When Anura Kumara Dissanayake and the National People’s Power sought the people’s mandate in 2024, they did not campaign merely to replace one collection of politicians with another. Their appeal rested upon a much more ambitious proposition: that Sri Lanka required a fundamental transformation of its political culture, institutions and constitutional order.

The promise of “system change” was therefore not an ornamental slogan. It was the moral foundation of the NPP’s campaign. At the center of that promise stood a new, people-centered constitution: one that would abolish the executive presidency, strengthen parliamentary democracy, widen fundamental rights, reform the electoral system and distribute political and administrative power more equitably throughout the country.

Yet nearly two years after assuming office, the Government has not established a constitutional commission, published a preliminary framework, initiated a sustained public consultation or announced a credible timetable. More troublingly, Justice Minister Harshana Nanayakkara acknowledged in early 2026 that no timetable had been determined and that the matter had not even received substantive Cabinet consideration. In July, Cabinet spokesman Nalinda Jayatissa went further, saying that the Government had not decided whether it would introduce a new constitution, although it supposedly had sufficient time remaining in office.

That is an extraordinary retreat from an unequivocal electoral commitment.

The question, therefore, is no longer whether constitutional reform has been delayed. The delay is evident. The more important question is why a government possessing an overwhelming parliamentary majority—and elected on perhaps the clearest demand for systemic reform in Sri Lanka’s recent history—appears so reluctant even to begin the process.

To understand the significance of this retreat, one must return to 1978.

The executive presidency introduced under J. R. Jayewardene was designed to provide political stability, decisiveness and continuity in government. Jayewardene wanted an executive insulated from the changing arithmetic and intrigues of Parliament. In practice, however, the new Constitution concentrated an extraordinary amount of authority in one individual and gradually weakened the institutional balance among the presidency, Parliament, the public service and the judiciary.

Every president inherited that concentration of power; almost every serious presidential challenger promised to dismantle it. Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaranatunga came to office in 1994 promising abolition. Mahinda Rajapaksa repeated the commitment before accommodating himself comfortably within the office. Maithripala Sirisena was elected in 2015 on the specific undertaking that he would curtail or abolish the presidency. The Nineteenth Amendment reduced some presidential powers, only for the Twentieth Amendment under Gotabhaya Rajapaksa to restore much of their earlier reach. The Twenty-First Amendment subsequently attempted another partial correction.

Thus, Sri Lanka has spent decades moving the constitutional pendulum backwards and forwards without resolving the central problem. Presidents promise abolition before entering office and discover the virtues of executive authority after arriving there. Constitutional amendments have been used alternately to restrain, restore and rearrange presidential power, depending less upon enduring principles than upon the immediate interests of those governing.

AKD was expected to break that pattern.

The NPP was not burdened by responsibility for creating the 1978 Constitution or for the many opportunistic amendments that followed it. It presented itself as the political force capable of looking upon the entire discredited structure with fresh eyes. Its manifesto expressly promised to abolish the executive presidency, replace it with a non-executive president elected by Parliament, introduce a new parliamentary electoral system and enact a new constitution following public discussion and approval at a referendum. It also promised constitutional equality and devolution of political and administrative power to local, district and provincial levels.

These were not casual observations made at an election rally. They were solemn undertakings contained in the program placed before the people.

Why, then, the present silence?

The most charitable explanation is that the Government has given priority to economic recovery. AKD inherited a country emerging painfully from bankruptcy, constrained by debt restructuring, fiscal pressures and an IMF-supported program. His administration may reasonably argue that restoring financial stability, protecting vulnerable communities, prosecuting corruption and repairing the machinery of government must take precedence over a prolonged constitutional debate.

There is merit in that argument—but only up to a point.

Drafting a constitution does not require the Government to suspend economic management. A constitutional commission can conduct research, consult citizens and prepare proposals while the Treasury attends to the economy. Governments are elected to discharge several responsibilities simultaneously. An administration commanding 159 seats in Parliament cannot convincingly claim that it lacks the political or administrative capacity to begin a process that formed a central part of its mandate.

A second explanation lies in the explosive nature of constitutional reform itself. A new constitution would oblige the NPP to state, with precision, its position on questions that Sri Lankan governments have traditionally preferred to leave wrapped in ambiguity: the unitary State, devolution, the Thirteenth Amendment, the place accorded to Buddhism, minority protections, language rights, the electoral system, judicial review and the division of authority between Parliament and the executive.

“System change” is politically attractive because everyone can attach a different meaning to it. A draft constitution eliminates that luxury. Once words are placed upon paper, ambiguity ends and opposition begins.

The NPP’s electoral coalition is considerably broader than the traditional JVP constituency. It includes urban professionals, rural voters, former supporters of the major parties, young people inspired by the Aragalaya-22 and minority communities seeking equality and institutional protection. The very breadth that enabled the NPP’s triumph may now make agreement upon a constitutional settlement more difficult.

There is also the unavoidable question of political self-interest. AKD now occupies the office his movement promised to abolish. He simultaneously holds responsibility for Defense, Finance, Planning and Digital Economy. The executive presidency gives him unmatched power to direct policy, coordinate institutions and control the tempo of government.

It would be naive to ignore the possibility that the presidency has become convenient.

Power possesses a remarkable capacity to reform the reformer. From outside office, concentrated authority appears dangerous and undemocratic. From within it, the same authority appears necessary for efficiency, discipline and national reconstruction. This does not prove that AKD has abandoned abolition. It does mean, however, that every month of unexplained inactivity deepens the suspicion that the NPP is becoming comfortable inside the constitutional structure it once denounced.

The Government must also contemplate the risks of a referendum. A new constitution cannot be enacted by parliamentary numbers alone. Provisions affecting entrenched constitutional principles would require a two-thirds majority and the approval of the people.

The NPP has the first. It cannot guarantee the second.

A referendum would provide fertile ground for racial, religious and nationalist agitation. Even a carefully balanced proposal could be portrayed as an assault upon Buddhism, an invitation to separatism or a conspiracy to weaken the State. A defeated referendum would inflict grave damage upon AKD’s authority and revive an Opposition that, at present, struggles to establish either coherence or credibility.

But leadership cannot consist solely of avoiding every battle that carries political danger. The NPP sought an exceptional mandate precisely because it claimed the courage to undertake reforms that conventional parties repeatedly evaded.

Instead, the Government appears attracted to piecemeal constitutional alteration. Its controversial Twenty-Second Amendment concerning judicial retirement ages and the number of judges has been justified as necessary to strengthen judicial independence, expand capacity and reduce the backlog of cases.

That raises an obvious question. If constitutional machinery can be mobilized to alter judicial administration, why can it not be mobilized to commence the comprehensive democratic reform promised to the electorate?

The issue is not that a completed constitution must be produced tomorrow. Serious constitutional development requires scholarship, consultation and compromise. The failure lies in not having credibly begun.

The Government should appoint an independent constitutional commission, publish its foundational principles, establish an all-party parliamentary mechanism, conduct consultations throughout every province and announce a timetable leading to a referendum. Such a process would demonstrate that delay is the consequence of care rather than an indication of abandonment.

The NPP’s historic majority is not merely a source of power; it is a rapidly diminishing opportunity. Political goodwill does not remain permanently available. Economic hardship, administrative mistakes and the ordinary disappointments of government will gradually erode it. The longer constitutional reform is postponed, the more difficult it will become.

AKD must also recognize the judgment that history will pass. If his Government uses executive authority temporarily in order to abolish it permanently, he may become the president who liberated Sri Lanka from the presidency. If, however, he completes his term without making a genuine attempt, he will join the long procession of leaders who condemned the office while seeking power and preserved it after obtaining power.

“We still have time” is not an explanation. It is the familiar language of postponement.

The NPP was elected not simply to govern the inherited system more honestly, but to transform it. If it reaches the end of its mandate without attempting full constitutional reform, the conclusion will be inescapable: the Government did not fail to dismantle the old order. Having acquired its commanding heights, it chose to govern from them.

*The writer can be reached at vishwamithra1984@gmail.com