By Mohamed Harees –

Lukman Harees

The scale of the damage caused by Cyclone Ditwah is still unclear, but in a speech on Sunday night, President AKD described it as the “largest and most challenging natural disaster in our history”. Villages across the island were decimated, and many homes, schools and businesses still remain underwater, including across the capital Colombo. According to the country’s Disaster Management Centre, more than 1.1 million people had been affected by the cyclone’s impact. As the country’s emergency and rescue services were overwhelmed, the military was deployed to help rescue efforts..

Sri Lanka is thus facing one of the gravest humanitarian crises in its recent history, with entire communities submerged, families grieving their dead, and hundreds of thousands struggling to access shelter, food, and clean water. Across Sri Lanka, the floods have drawn out a powerful and moving response from ordinary people, cutting straight through the usual lines of race, religion, and politics. Sinhalese, Tamil, and Muslim communities, along with Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims, have cooked together in community kitchens, shared shelter in temples, mosques, churches, and schools, and organised ad hoc volunteer networks to deliver food, water, and medicine to strangers as if they were family.

What stands out is how quickly people stepped in where the state could not reach in time: youth groups using their own vehicles and social media, low-country villagers helping estate workers, urban professionals donating and coordinating supplies for rural areas they had never visited. In a country with a painful history of ethnic tension, this spontaneous solidarity is a quiet but powerful reminder that when disaster strikes, the labels that usually divide Sri Lankans fall away, and what remains is a deep instinct to protect and care for one another. It is this spirit from the ground up, more than any speech, that offers the strongest hope for a more united future.

Yet instead of rising above party lines, sections of the political opposition appear more focused on exploiting the catastrophe for short-term political gain than on helping to save lives and rebuild shattered communities. The result is a deepening sense of public frustration: while ordinary citizens wade through floodwaters, carry sandbags, and organize donation drives, some politicians seem to be wading through talking points, press conferences, and blame games.

Natural disasters brutally expose the strengths and weaknesses of a State. The floods have revealed fragile infrastructure, weak disaster preparedness, and gaps in coordination between central and local authorities. These are legitimate issues that must be debated and fixed. But there is a difference between constructive criticism and opportunistic point-scoring. When opposition figures rush to television studios and social media feeds to apportion blame before rescue operations are even complete, it suggests that the primary concern is not the safety of the people, but the optics of appearing tough on the government. The dead and displaced are turned into background props in a political performance.

This kind of behaviour has several harmful consequences. First, it further erodes public trust in politics as a whole. In fact, Sri Lankans recently voted out a political class, which was corrupt and detached from daily realities. Watching some politicos direct accusations at the government, which is facing many challenges, and while helicopters, boats, and volunteers struggle on the frontlines, reinforces the cynical belief that these politicians care only about elections, not people. When that happens, social cohesion weakens. In a disaster, that loss of faith can be deadly: people may be less likely to follow official instructions, evacuate when told, or cooperate with authorities if they believe everything is being driven by hidden agendas.

Second, constant political sniping distracts from the actual work of crisis management. Disaster response requires clear lines of communication, unified messaging, and rapid decisions about resources: where to send food, where to deploy medical teams, which roads or dams need urgent attention. If opposition leaders are more interested in broadcasting accusations than in sharing data from their constituencies, mobilising local networks, or working with government agencies, valuable time is wasted. The energy that could be spent coordinating relief is instead diverted into rebuttals, press releases, and media spin. In the middle of a catastrophe, this is more than irresponsible; it is dangerous.

Third, politicising tragedy can deepen existing divisions in society. Sri Lanka is already a country with painful memories of ethnic tension, civil conflict, and economic crisis. Disasters should be moments that remind people of their shared vulnerability and shared humanity. When parties use the floods to reinforce narratives of “us versus them” — our supporters versus their supporters, our districts versus their districts — it risks hardening the very lines that need softening. Floodwater does not check party membership before it destroys a home. Disaster politics, however, can deepen feelings of inequality and grievance if some communities feel they are being used rhetorically rather than genuinely helped.

To be fair, President AKD’s response so far has been notably task-oriented, with a clear focus on concrete actions rather than only rhetoric. In the immediate phase of the floods, he moved quickly to unlock funds for relief, authorising over a billion rupees for emergency operations and instructing district secretaries to request additional resources without being blocked by red tape. This emphasis on removing bureaucratic obstacles and instructing officials “no circular should hinder” the use of funds shows a practical, problem-solving mindset rather than a purely ceremonial role.​

He has also framed the crisis in operational terms, publicly outlining a threefold responsibility: managing the emergency, restoring normalcy, and then rebuilding stronger than before. That kind of structured approach is typical of a task-oriented leader, breaking a huge catastrophe into clear phases with specific goals. Dissanayake’s regular crisis meetings with district representatives, security forces, and opposition leaders, as well as his praise and deployment of the military for round-the-clock rescue work, further underscore a hands-on coordination style focused on getting things done on the ground.​

At the international level, his outreach for assistance and close coordination with partners like India, Pakistan, China, Japan, and the West also reflects a results-driven attitude: securing resources, support, and technical help as quickly as possible. The strength of this task-oriented style is that it can cut through paralysis and signal urgency when lives are at stake. The challenge will be whether this same focus on execution carries into the longer, less visible work of reconstruction and reform, such as strengthening disaster preparedness, infrastructure, and governance, once the immediate emergency fades from the headlines.

Besides, none of this means the government in power should be shielded from accountability. On the contrary, major disasters demand tough and honest questions. Were early warnings adequate? Were rivers, canals, and drainage systems properly managed? Were there contingency plans and stockpiles ready? How were risk-prone areas identified, and were vulnerable communities adequately informed? These are all questions that must be asked — but they should be asked with the goal of improving systems, not simply embarrassing a rival on camera. Responsible opposition politics would insist on independent inquiries, transparent reporting, and long-term reforms, rather than soundbites tailored for the next election rally.

A more constructive role for the opposition is both possible and urgently needed. Instead of simply criticising from afar, opposition members can deploy their organisational structures to support relief. They have local branches, youth wings, unions, and grassroots networks that can help identify those who have fallen through the cracks of State assistance. They can coordinate volunteers to help with cleaning, temporary shelters, and the distribution of supplies. In Parliament, they can push for emergency funds to be allocated fairly, for oversight mechanisms to prevent any possible corruption in reconstruction, and for new legislation that strengthens climate resilience, zoning regulations, and disaster management institutions.

There are examples from other countries where opposition parties have temporarily put aside partisan battles to back national recovery plans after earthquakes, tsunamis, or hurricanes. That does not mean giving the government a free pass; it means agreeing that certain core priorities — saving lives, relocating displaced families, rebuilding schools and hospitals, protecting children from disease and exploitation — are above party politics . In Sri Lanka’s current crisis, similar unity is not just desirable; it is morally necessary. The opposition has a chance to show that it can act as a responsible alternative government, not a mere ‘blame’ movement.

Media outlets and civil society also have a role to play in discouraging political gamesmanship. Journalists can choose to highlight stories of cooperation rather than only conflict, to ask politicians what concrete actions they are taking to help flood victims rather than simply amplifying blame. Activists, religious leaders, and professional bodies can publicly call on all parties — government and opposition — to commit to a “disaster ceasefire” in their rhetoric, focusing on solutions and solidarity while the immediate crisis continues. When society rewards seriousness and punishes cheap point-scoring, political incentives can shift.

For ordinary citizens, the contrast between political posturing and grassroots solidarity is stark. Across the country, as stated earlier, people have opened their homes to relatives and strangers, donated food and clothes, and organised community kitchens. Youth groups, mosque committees, church groups, temple networks, and NGOs have mobilised rapidly, often coordinating across ethnic and religious lines with minimal fuss. This is the Sri Lanka that shines in a crisis: resilient, generous, and quietly heroic. When politicians reduce this collective effort to a backdrop for their arguments, they insult the dignity of those doing the real work.

In the long term, the floods should force a serious conversation about climate adaptation, urban planning, and governance. Sri Lanka is not the first country to face extreme weather intensified by climate change, nor will it be the last. It needs robust drainage systems, strictly enforced zoning laws that prevent construction on floodplains and unstable slopes, and early warning systems that reach every village. It needs transparent budgeting so that money allocated for flood mitigation is actually spent on engineering, not patronage projects. Here again, the opposition could play a vital role by proposing detailed, evidence-based plans and working with experts, rather than sticking to slogans.

Ultimately, the tragedy of turning a disaster into a political game is that it wastes pain. Catastrophes, as devastating as they are, can also be catalysts for reform if leaders choose to learn rather than posture. Every life lost, every house washed away, should be a reason to ask, “How do we make sure this never happens on this scale again?” When the conversation instead becomes, “How can we use this to weaken our opponents?” then the suffering of ordinary people is trivialised, and the country stays vulnerable.

Sri Lankans deserve better than that. They deserve a brand of politics which can see beyond the next election cycle and recognise that in the face of rising waters and unstable hillsides, the only meaningful “side” is the people’s side. The opposition has a choice: to continue playing political games amid catastrophe, or to prove that it can be a mature, compassionate force for national recovery. History, and the families huddled in crowded shelters tonight, will remember which path it chose.

In the weeks and months ahead, Sri Lankans will remember not only the scale of the floods, but also how their leaders behaved when the waters rose. An opposition that chooses to treat this catastrophe as a campaign opportunity rather than a call to shared responsibility reveals more about its priorities than any manifesto ever could. If those who claim to represent the people cannot put politics on pause when lives, homes, and futures are being washed away, they risk confirming the public’s deepest fear: that in this country’s darkest hours, its loudest voices are thinking first of the next election, not the next rescue.