Image Courtesy of Sriramachandran Mayutharan
In February 2025, I was invited as a professional with international experience in transitional justice to speak at an event in Matara. The organisers asked me to introduce the participants, mostly small scale farmers, fishermen and community leaders, to the concept of war crime and provide examples from the Sri Lankan context. Noticing in the agenda that a virtual call with a Palestinian movement was scheduled before my intervention, something clicked in my mind.
In November 2024, an article was published by Al Jazeera: “Like Sri Lanka once did, Israel has turned ‘safe zones’ into killing fields”. The article draws a parallel between key events that occurred during the final phase of the Sri Lankan civil war from January to May 2009 and the ongoing situation in Gaza, which can be summarised as follows: attacks on civilians in declared “safe zones”; attacks on humanitarian operations; and attacks on hospitals. The cited cases, considered serious breaches of International Humanitarian Law (IHL), or war crimes, were committed by both Israeli and Sri Lankan military forces and were similarly justified as counter insurgency measures and claims of fighting terrorism.
Building on this parallel, I decided to introduce the audience to the concept of war crimes, particularly analysing the final phase of the Sri Lankan civil war and referencing the war crimes committed by the state. However, when I presented my idea to one of my colleagues, she immediately replied: “Are you sure you want to address this topic in the Southern province?”.
Living in Sri Lanka and working in peacebuilding, I had the opportunity to explore and investigate the complexities of the post-conflict context. The Southern province is largely populated by Sinhalese and has historically aligned with political parties promoting Sinhala-Buddhist national ideology. For this reason, I inferred that my colleague was referring to the potential criticism I might face in the Southern province if I decided to focus on war crimes committed “solely” by the government. Aware of this possibility, I decided to take the risk.
Once in Matara, I was not surprised to see puzzled faces during my presentation and to hear the predictable questions that followed: What about the war crimes perpetrated by the LTTE? More interestingly, some even criticised drawing parallels between the war crimes of the Israeli and Sri Lankan governments. They suggested instead that the crimes perpetrated in Gaza by the Israel Defence Forces (IDF) were more comparable to the atrocities committed by the LTTE, although there is not a strong correlation between the two.
Without delving into the merits of the discussion, the audience’s general hesitation to openly acknowledge the government’s war crimes and their tendency to shift the focus to the opposite party reflects the extreme polarisation of the narrative in the country. This polarisation underscores some current challenges in addressing the past and achieving accountability and reconciliation.
The state led narrative
While the audience’s reaction may not be immediately clear to an outside observer, the participants’ scepticism about the state’s complicity in war crimes is unsurprising in the Sri Lankan context. Indeed, the government has not officially and unequivocally recognised the alleged war crimes committed by its security forces, continuing to promote a disturbing narrative of denial and a culture of impunity.
It seems ironic that the Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission, for example, appointed by President Mahinda Rajapaksa in May 2010, found that the military did not deliberately target civilians. On the contrary, the report stated that the LTTE repeatedly violated international humanitarian law. Thus, it is not surprising that a portion of the civil society also feels justified in denying the state’s complicity in atrocities.
Acknowledging the truth and building a collective memory that transcends the polarisation of victors and the defeated is a crucial process in which the government has failed the people. Nevertheless, memorialisation (or the act of remembering, commemorating, preserving and transmitting experiences) is recognised as a powerful tool for reparation in the form of a national apology and acknowledgment of complicity, which can pave the way for reconciliation, dialogue, understanding and learning from traumatic past events.
Through memorialisation, states can play a critical role in either healing or further dividing communities. Unfortunately, the state practice of memorialisation in Sri Lanka has been selective, celebrating and promoting a specific state led narrative that honours victory without confronting its past horrors or at least not those committed by its armed forces.
It is not uncommon to see in different parts of the country commemorative sites, monuments or cenotaphs dedicated to the government soldiers who died during the war or which celebrate the state’s victory over the LTTE. Commemorating the loss of military personnel is a common practice worldwide. However, governments have not always been welcoming of memory initiatives in all shapes and forms and have suppressed, over the years, counter narratives that challenge official accounts of the “triumphant, heroic past”.
On January 8, 2021 for example, a monument in Jaffna commemorating the death of Tamils during the civil war was destroyed by a bulldozer while students were protesting its removal and then rebuilt. The University Grants Commission cited the monument as a threat to national unity and the Public Security Minister, Sarath Weerasekara, stated that it should not be used to commemorate “dead terrorists”.
In May 2024 four people, including three women, were arbitrarily arrested and detained in Trincomalee for serving kanji, a rice porridge symbolic of the starvation conditions many civilians suffered at the end of the war. On May 18 this year, an event of remembrance at Wellawatte beach was disturbed by a small crowd shouting and yelling against the people who were peacefully gathered to remember the loss of life of thousands of Tamils during the civil war.
On May 10 this year, the inauguration of the Tamil Genocide Monument in Brampton, Canada, sparked a strong objection from the state. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Vijitha Herath, tweeted: “…such actions would hinder and complicate the government’s ongoing efforts to promote national unity, reconciliation, and lasting peace among Sri Lanka’s diverse communities”. In light of the facts, the question of what ongoing efforts the minister exactly refers to remains unanswered.
Since the end of the conflict, threats, harassment and intimidation targeting organisers and participants in commemorative and remembrance events focusing on counter narratives have been a recurring pattern, particularly concerning those held by minorities. This has been notably amplified in May, during the weeks leading up to Remembrance Day (titled Victory Day between 2010 and 2014). This picture reveals a national effort to memorialise selective narratives while denying and obstructing others, highlighting what appears to be a deliberate amnesia on the part of the state, which has had repercussions on civil society.
Looking at the Centre of Policy Alternatives’ 2024 Social Indicator survey on Public Opinion on Reconciliation in Sri Lanka, Sri Lankans’ agreement appears to be divided on remembrance policy. A significant percentage of minority communities agreed that “All ethnic groups should be given the freedom to commemorate those who died as a result of the 30-year-long war”. In contrast, slightly over 50% of the Sinhala community agreed with the same statemen, but with the added requirement: “Subject to government-imposed conditions on the right to commemorate”. However, these government conditions, like the prohibition of glorifying terrorism, have been extended in practice to initiatives commemorating deeply personal losses.
The civil society effort
While a segment of civil society appears to endorse the state’s narrative, another significant portion actively resists it. Three decades of global experience in transitional justice have shown that when states fail to engage in crucial self-reflection and critical analysis regarding their violent past – neglecting multiple narratives and truths – civil society often steps in to fill the gap,sometimes at considerable personal cost. In this regard Sri Lankan society, far from being an exception, actively undertakes this crucial role.
Since the state has not yet provided and promoted initiatives that seek out and incorporate multiple perspectives, I was investigating civil society initiatives dealing with the past when I accidentally stumbled upon the Kilinochchi Peace Gallery Museum. Genuinely surprised to have never heard of it nor being able to find available information online, a group of colleagues and I decided to visit the place in April this year.
In the heart of Kilinochchi, a cubic war memorial monument commemorates the armed forces’ victory. Just a 10 minute walk away, another building rises without attracting attention; no sign indicates its presence: the Kilinochchi Peace Gallery Museum. It is arguably emblematic that these two spaces, both forms of different memorialisation, are situated near each other visually reflecting the polarised narratives within the country.
In 2019 a group of peace practitioners, collaborating with the Chelvanayakam Memorial Trust (CMT), initiated a project to address Sri Lanka’s violent past. Their goal was to engage young people -themselves victims and survivors – in establishing a platform for discussion, dialogue and mutual support. Inspired and guided by the efforts of the Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies (CPCS) in Cambodia and the Cambodian Peace Gallery as a model, the museum evolved from an initial concept discussed in the CMT Auditorium in Jaffna.
As shared by the curators, the Sri Lanka team had the opportunity to visit various museums in Cambodia including the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Cambodian Peace Gallery. These visits were crucial for comparing different visual communication strategies and reflecting on the experience to offer to civil society.
In the case of the Kilinochchi Peace Gallery Museum, the objective was to create narrative experiences, both visual and non-visual, that would not only build understanding of the context’s complexity but also inspire visitors with visions and hopes for a better future. In this way, visitors are transformed from passive observers of past violent events into potential agents of change. Therefore, the Cambodian Peace Gallery, with its purpose of inspiring a future oriented vision for the country, served as the best model.
Furthermore, considering that war survivors might one day visit the museum, the curators wanted to ensure that explicitly violent content would not trigger secondary trauma. One compelling aspect of entering the museum is the notable absence of photographs depicting unspeakable violence. Instead, the photo gallery focuses on images related to the immediate post-war context and the crucial issues to be addressed, concerning both the healing of survivors and the restoration of the territory itself. “We asked ourselves what kind of emotions and message we wanted to evoke and communicate to visitors exploring the museum, especially children and adolescents”, our young guide explained. “Looking only at scenes of violence, what remains if not a deep sense of anguish and bitterness? Our aim in this space is to plant seeds of hope, not despair”.
Thus, a work in progress, the museum, opened in October 2022 with the support of the Swiss Embassy. This was achieved through many small but important steps taken during the last four years as part of the Future of Peace Project implemented by local youth, artists and civil society members. This development was nurtured through workshops on peace, youth leadership, visits to the Cambodia Peace Gallery and various reflection sessions.
The choice to open the museum in Kilinochchi was also instrumental. As the former de facto capital of the LTTE during Sri Lanka’s decades-long civil war, the city carries immense historical and emotional weight and remains a contested space of memory. Many remember Kilinochchi primarily through the lens of intense battles and state military victories. By establishing a Peace Gallery Museum here, the community deliberately challenges the conflict-centric narrative. The museum repurposes the space, not as a relic of war, but as a vibrant testament to community resilience and the ongoing journey towards peace. This initiative transcends the simple act of establishing a museum: it represents a profound act of peacebuilding rooted in spatial and narrative reimagination.
Today, the museum hosts a range of exhibits designed to guide visitors through significant dates in Kilinochchi’s history, the meaning behind local street names, a photographic display of important peace and conflict images from past decades, audio headsets offering survivors’ stories, a video screening area, a poetry display, and an interactive exhibit allowing visitors to explore different Sri Lankan identities. Curators, acting more as facilitators, guide diverse groups of visitors through these exhibits, providing opportunities to process their own stories and strong emotions related to the presented images and narratives.
In the video screening area, for example, the perceptions of a group of young individuals from the Future for Peace Project are presented. In 2019, in the immediate aftermath of the Easter attacks, they met with their Muslim peers in Mullaitivu to share a meal during the month of Ramadan as an act of solidarity. This gathering served as a critical moment for dialogue, mutual exchange, and collective deconstruction of prejudices and discrimination during a sensitive time for the country, which was facing a significant surge in Islamophobia. Notably, among the various affirmative comments, many youth also articulated a clear need for similar interactions with their Sinhalese peers.
The museum also features creative expressions of healing such as the poetry exhibition Beauty from Ashes by the Tamil artist Maureen Ernest. Through this collection of poems, the artist recounts her transformational process from the depths of trauma, including childhood sexual abuse, the civil war and domestic violence, to becoming a blissful and peaceful individual. Her verses not only mirror her journey but also illuminate critical social and cultural issues such as identity, sexuality, caste and class, social exclusion, patriarchy, hierarchy, gender equality and other cultural taboos that society often hesitates to discuss openly
Similar to other museums dedicated to peace or tolerance in countries undergoing transitional justice processes, the museum sets itself apart from traditional history or war museums. Its primary aim extends beyond merely documenting the past and disseminating information. While acknowledging historical truth, the exhibitions strive to create immersive and empathetic experiences that foster reconciliation through victim centred and conflict sensitive approaches. The past is no longer the museum’s end goal but rather a means to achieve healing and move forward toward peace while preserving memory.
The museum, still an ongoing construction site, vividly exemplifies civil society’s efforts to fill the deafening voids generated by the state’s absence in matters such as inclusive memorialisation and reconciliation. Furthermore, the museum is not merely a single community’s attempt to deal with the past and narrate its own truth. Instead, it serves as a collective experience intended to resonate with the entire civil society, celebrating its rich cultural and religious diversity and igniting hope for a comprehensive peace that actively incorporates inclusive memorialisation. However, even if the museum represents a crucial and still unique experience, the state’s unwavering commitment to recognising, acknowledging and apologising for its violent past remains an indispensable – still missing – cornerstone for genuine and lasting reconciliation across the country.