The EconomistSeptember 7th 2019 Asia 512
Banyan Forward to the past
T
he front-runnerin Sri Lanka’s
presidential election in November
has a boring message. It is designed to be
wonderfully soothing to those alarmed
by the political chaos of the past couple
of years, as the president and prime
minister have feuded—and indeed to
those for whom the brutal civil war that
ended only a decade ago still casts a
frightening shadow.
Gotabaya Rajapaksa, who declared his
candidacy last month, assures voters
that the future is one of peaceful,
“knowledge-based” development for all.
It will be led by technocrats, and be free
of the curse of politicking. His years as an
army officer, “Gota” says, will ensure
crisp, meritocratic efficiency.
The blandness of Mr Rajapaksa’s
campaign is the message. For there is
another Gotabaya, from under whom Sri
Lanka has already once had to crawl. Ten
years ago a horrendous civil war ended in
a massive government assault on Tamil
rebels on a narrow strip of beach in the
north of the island, overseen by Mr Raja-
paksa, who was secretary of defence at
the time. There, Tamil commanders and
their families were killed by troops
meant to be accepting their surrender,
but not before thousands of civilians
trapped in the fighting had perished too.
A 26-year-old war had ended, with
unspeakable crimes on both sides. But
when the victorious government was
returned in a landslide in 2010, it contin-
ued to see enemies everywhere. It grew
ever more authoritarian as it champi-
oned a Buddhist Sinhalese chauvinism at
the expense of Hindu, Muslim and Chris-
tian minorities. A notable critic, Lasan-
tha Wickrematunge, a newspaper editor,
had been murdered in 2009. Others
began to disappear in Colombo, the
capital, into white vans driven by pro-government goons. The chief justice was
impeached and the rest of the judiciary
brought into line. Meanwhile, Tamils in
the north still lived in fear of the security
forces. It was a huge relief to many when
the government lost power in an electoral
upset in 2015.
All this matters because the ousted
government was a Rajapaksa family busi-
ness. Mr Rajapaksa’s brother, Mahinda,
was president; another brother, Basil,
oversaw the economy; a fourth was speak-
er of parliament. Gota wanted credit for
winning the war, and bridled at claims of
war crimes. He ran the security services
during the era of white-van terror. He had a
foul temper and a threatening tongue.
Both Basil and Mahinda are frank
enough, when asked, to admit that Gota
needs to keep talking about policies, not
the past. Yet again and again he seems
drawn back to that other country in which
part of him still dwells, arguing that his
achievements in ending the war and re-
building the north have never been fully
acknowledged. His greatest regret, he says,
is not being properly understood. Evenreports that he kept sharks in tanks are
unfair: they helped to soothe his nerves
and anyway, he says, stretching out his
hands, they weren’t that big.
There is another worrying aspect to
Gota’s prospective return. It comes with
the full Rajapaksa package. Basil is over-
seeing an efficient, high-tech cam-
paign—dreamt up, he says, while serving
time in prison for corruption. Mahinda,
who sparked a constitutional crisis last
year by attempting to supplant the prime
minister in a parliamentary coup, now
intends to win the post via parliamentary
elections next year.
Should the Rajapaksas make a come-
back, they may suffer from new flaws as
well as old. Although they pooh-pooh the
idea, it seems quite possible that Gota
and Mahinda will fight over every bit of
power at the country’s expense. Ma-
hinda, the oldest brother, is a sun king,
his chair in his meeting room a hand-
span wider than the others. He says the
post of prime minister will be the crucial
one in government. Across town, Gota
argues for a strong executive presidency.
If there is an alternative to Rajapaksa
rule, it is taking an excruciating time to
declare itself. It is in the power of Ranil
Wickremesinghe, the prime minister, as
head of one of the country’s two big
parties, to anoint a challenger. The 70-
year-old seems to have thought of him-
self as the ideal candidate. But after a
dismal term as prime minister, no one in
his party shares his view. He has not yet
come round to endorsing the ally with
the best numbers in the polls, Sajith
Premadasa, son of Sri Lanka’s third presi-
dent. Mr Premadasa’s chief backers
admit that not even the candidate him-
self really knows what he believes in. But
he is popular enough—and, better yet,
his name is not Rajapaksa.An election campaign in Sri Lanka stirs old ghostsing us, the police harass us.” (The authori-
ties deny any discrimination.)
Unlike most Western countries, South
Korea has never outlawed homosexuality.
That is partly because discussing sex has
traditionally been considered shameful.
Many South Koreans used to be loth to ac-
knowledge that homosexuality even exist-
ed, despite the occasional mention of gay
affairs at the royal court in historical docu-
ments. That blinkered stance carries
through to the present: a curriculum for
sex education in schools which was intro-
duced in 2015 makes no mention of it, onthe ground that talking about it would only
encourage it.
Sex between male soldiers is illegal, and
men continue to be sent to jail for it. Many
mainstream politicians are vocal homo-
phobes, which appeals to some Confucian
traditionalists and evangelical Christians.
(Of the 30% of South Koreans who identify
as Christian, more than half are members
of conservative Protestant congregations.)
The leader of the main opposition party re-
cently stressed that he was opposed to ho-
mosexuality and that South Korea needed
to protect its “beautiful family values”.Most South Koreans oppose same-sex
marriage, and the government has no plans
to recognise it. Young people, however, are
more liberal than their elders. More than
half of those in their 20s think gay people
should be allowed to wed, so no doubt they
will be able to some day.
For now, though, gay life in South Korea
can be miserable. “Some of my friends have
killed themselves, others have been forced
into psychiatric wards or conversion thera-
py,” says Kim Hye-yeon, a 20-something
from Busan. “There’s nowhere for us to go,
nobody to protect us.” 7