He has dragged this country down into the gutter and we are all suffering
In the island nation of Sri Lanka, a government built on strongman authority and nationalist promise has arrived at a reckoning long foretold by the logic of its own choices. President Gotabaya Rajapaksa, whose 2019 election seemed to cement a dynasty, now governs a country where hospitals cannot perform surgeries, fuel queues claim lives, and the treasury holds barely enough foreign currency to matter. The crowds at Galle Face are not merely protesting a policy failure — they are demanding a moral accounting, and in doing so, they are asking whether concentrated power can ever be trusted to govern wisely.
- Sri Lanka's foreign reserves have fallen to $150 million — too little to import fuel, medicine, or food — pushing the country toward starvation and medical collapse.
- Rajapaksa's tax cuts, reckless borrowing, money-printing, and a disastrous fertilizer ban compounded COVID losses into a full sovereign default of $51 billion.
- Tens of thousands have flooded Colombo's seafront, refusing to negotiate with the government and escalating their demand from resignation to criminal prosecution.
- The opposition is pursuing a no-confidence vote while courts have seized the passport of the former central bank governor to prevent him from fleeing accountability.
- Protesters and lawmakers alike are now pushing to abolish the executive presidency entirely, seeking structural reform rather than a simple change of faces.
President Gotabaya Rajapaksa, once feared as a military strongman and elected in 2019 on promises of security and prosperity, now faces the largest civilian uprising in Sri Lanka's modern history. At Galle Face, the seafront near his Colombo residence, crowds chant a single demand: "Gota go home" — a phrase that has since hardened into "Gota go to jail."
The collapse was years in the making. After taking office, Rajapaksa abandoned austerity, slashed taxes, ramped up borrowing, and allowed the central bank to print money to cover the deficit. The currency weakened, inflation rose, and Sri Lanka was shut out of international markets. When the pandemic erased tourism income and remittances, the government drew down its last reserves to service foreign debts. A ban on chemical fertilizers left the country unable to feed itself. By April 2022, Sri Lanka announced a default on $51 billion in foreign obligations, with reserves reduced to roughly $150 million — too little to import fuel, medicine, or food. Hospitals began canceling surgeries. Infants went without intubation tubes. Politicians warned that starvation was approaching.
The protesters have refused all dialogue. When the president's brother and prime minister, Mahinda Rajapaksa, sought a meeting with demonstration leaders, they declined, insisting theirs was a leaderless people's movement with one non-negotiable demand: the president's resignation and accountability for the ruin he caused. Opposition economists described the government's monetary policy as driven by "arrogant idiocy," and one MP drew a pointed comparison — a man who robs another faces prison, yet a president who stripped every Sri Lankan of half their wealth remains in office.
Rajapaksa has refused to step down. His cabinet has collapsed, his parliamentary majority is gone, and the courts have seized the passport of the former central bank governor to prevent flight. The opposition is preparing a no-confidence vote, while many protesters and lawmakers push for something more fundamental: the abolition of the executive presidency itself, to ensure no future leader can again concentrate such unchecked power. A 19-year-old demonstrator at Independence Square captured the mood precisely — this, she said, is not about one man or one family, but a systemic failure that Sri Lankans have tolerated for too long.
The man once called "The Terminator" now hears only jeers. President Gotabaya Rajapaksa, who ruled Sri Lanka through fear and military authority, finds himself trapped in a collapsing economy that has turned the country's streets into a stage for the largest civilian uprising in its modern history. The crowds gathering at Galle Face, the seafront stretch near his residence in Colombo, chant a single demand: "Gota go home."
Rajapaksa was elected in 2019 on a wave of nationalist fervor, his reputation built on his role as a military commander during the final years of the civil war. He promised security and prosperity. Instead, over three years, his government presided over what many now describe as criminal financial mismanagement. The economy has entered freefall. Foreign currency reserves have dwindled to roughly $150 million—so depleted that the government cannot afford to import basic necessities. People stand in queues for fuel and watch others collapse. Hospitals have begun canceling surgeries because cancer drugs and intubation tubes for infants have run out. Food shortages are so severe that politicians warn starvation may be imminent. A 47-year-old protester named Dinesh Galgamuwa put it plainly: "He has dragged this country down into the gutter and we are all suffering."
The path to this moment began with policy choices that seemed designed to hollow out the state. When Rajapaksa took office, he abandoned the previous government's austerity measures, introduced tax cuts, and increased spending and international borrowing. The central bank began printing money to cover the growing hole in the treasury, driving inflation upward. As the currency weakened, Sri Lanka was locked out of international markets. Then the pandemic arrived, erasing income from tourism and remittances—the lifeblood of a country dependent on foreign currency. With reserves depleting, the government began drawing down what little it had left to service billions in debt owed to China, Japan, and other creditors. An ill-conceived ban on chemical fertilizers compounded the disaster, leaving the country unable to feed itself. By April 2022, the government announced it was defaulting on $51 billion in foreign debt.
The protesters refuse to negotiate. When Mahinda Rajapaksa, the president's brother and prime minister, requested a meeting with protest leaders, they declined. "This is a people's movement, we have no leader, and we have collectively decided that we don't want to negotiate with the government," said Supan Jayaweera, a lawyer among the demonstrators. "What we are asking from the government is that the president should step down and be held accountable for all the incompetence and corruption that has got this country into such a terrible state."
Opposition figures have been equally unsparing. Harsha de Silva, an opposition MP and economist, described the government's monetary policy as "completely irresponsible. It was driven by stupidity and arrogant idiocy." He drew a stark comparison: "If you rob a man and take his car or his money, the police will lock you up and throw you in jail for 20 years. But this man robbed every person in Sri Lanka of half their wealth and he's still the president." Ranil Wickremesinghe, a former prime minister, warned that the entire private sector could shut down by June if the crisis deepened, and he accused the government of cooking the books while hoping foreign powers would bail them out.
The Rajapaksa family has dominated Sri Lankan politics for more than two decades, and Gotabaya's rise seemed to cement that grip. But the economic collapse has shattered the mythology. The strongman image that once inspired fear now provokes contempt. The call from the streets has evolved from "Gota go home" to "Gota go to jail." This week, Ajith Nivard Cabraal, the former central bank governor who oversaw the money-printing operation, had his passport seized by the courts to prevent him from fleeing. A 52-year-old former provincial governor named Rajith Keerthi Tennakoon, standing among the protesters, said simply: "They put Cabraal in charge of the central bank just to rob the country, to rob the treasury. And that man did his job."
Rajapaksa has shown no willingness to resign. His government now operates without a functioning cabinet, having lost its majority in parliament. The opposition plans a no-confidence vote, hoping to use that leverage to force either his resignation or a reduction of his powers. But many protesters and lawmakers are pushing for something larger: the abolition of the executive presidency itself, a structural change meant to prevent any future leader from wielding such concentrated power. A 19-year-old protester named Serika Siriwardhana, speaking at Independence Square, articulated the deeper demand: "This is not an issue of just one person or one family or one party. It is a systemic issue, it's a cultural issue, and we as Sri Lankans have allowed this to go on for too long. The only way to bring about any change is the resignation of the president. We won't accept anything else."
Time is running out. If Sri Lanka enters a hard default on its foreign loans, it will be locked out of international borrowing for years. The streets remain full. The pressure mounts. And the man who once seemed untouchable watches his world contract.
Notable Quotes
This is a people's movement, we have no leader, and we have collectively decided that we don't want to negotiate with the government. What we are asking from the government is that the president should step down and be held accountable for all the incompetence and corruption.— Supan Jayaweera, lawyer and protest organizer
If you rob a man and take his car or his money, the police will lock you up and throw you in jail for 20 years. But this man robbed every person in Sri Lanka of half their wealth and he's still the president.— Harsha de Silva, opposition MP and economist
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
How did a military strongman with such a fearsome reputation lose control so completely?
He didn't lose control of the machinery—he lost the consent of the people. Rajapaksa was elected because people believed he could deliver security and prosperity. But the economic decisions his government made—the tax cuts, the excessive borrowing, the money printing—those were choices made by people who seemed to believe the rules didn't apply to them. When the currency collapsed and the foreign reserves vanished, there was nowhere left to hide.
The protesters refused to negotiate with his brother. Why was that refusal so important?
Because it signaled that this wasn't a bargaining situation anymore. The protesters understood that negotiation implies compromise, and they'd decided there was nothing left to compromise on. They wanted accountability, not a seat at the table. That's a different kind of power.
What does it mean that people are now calling for the abolition of the executive presidency itself?
It means they're asking whether the problem was Rajapaksa specifically, or whether the system that allowed him to accumulate so much power in one person's hands is the real disease. They're saying: we can't let this happen again. That's a question about the future, not just about him.
The central bank governor had his passport seized. Does that suggest accountability is actually coming?
It's a signal. Whether it leads anywhere depends on whether the courts have the independence to act, and whether the political will holds. Right now it's a gesture. But gestures matter when people are standing in queues for fuel.
What happens if he refuses to resign?
The opposition has the numbers for a no-confidence vote. But if he digs in, the country enters a harder default, and the suffering deepens. At some point the pressure becomes unbearable—for him or for the institutions around him. Something has to give.