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In Sri Lanka, the Army Is Engaging in a New War on Drugs

Rising criminalization of substance abuse has been heavily criticized in the island nation

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In Sri Lanka, the Army Is Engaging in a New War on Drugs
A motorcyclist is questioned in Colombo during an operation to curb drug trafficking and organized criminal activities in 2023. (Gayan Sameera/Xinhua via Getty Images)

Deep inside Somawathiya National Park in Sri Lanka, surrounded by barbed wire and electric fencing to keep the elephants away, lies the military-operated Kandakadu Drug Rehabilitation Center. Formerly an army camp set up to forcibly reform the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) militants who fought against the government during the 26-year civil war, it has now pivoted to treating drug-dependent people from all over the country.

In June 2022, Anthony Pathmaraja, whose name has been changed to conceal his identity, was being treated at the Kandakadu center for heroin and methamphetamine addiction, when he — along with 600 other inmates — tore down the gates and fled from the center into the jungle. 

Their escape was triggered by the death of a fellow inmate, who, Pathmaraja claimed, had been beaten, waterboarded and ultimately murdered by the soldiers operating the center. “We heard the screams in the next room all night,” Pathmaraja, the son of a migrant worker, told New Lines. “In the morning we protested, demanding they let the media in, but when they refused, we broke out.” 

Pathmaraja hid in the jungle for three days dodging crocodiles and elephants until he finally surrendered to the police after he contracted a painful throat infection from drinking river water. “I was very scared [in the jungle], and I couldn’t swallow once the infection set in, but I didn’t want to return no matter what,” he said.

Fifteen years after the end of the ethnic conflict between Tamil separatists and the Sri Lankan government, which claimed over 100,000 lives, Sri Lanka is dealing with a new crisis and engaging in a new war: a war on drugs. Conflict-ridden areas often struggle with increased substance abuse, partly due to new drug routes that emerge as a result of instability and inadequate rule of law. 

While data on drug-related activities in Sri Lanka is largely limited to arrests, this number has been steadily increasing in the last five years. According to the National Dangerous Drugs Control Board (NDDCB), over 89,000 people were arrested in 2019, compared with around 162,000 people in 2023, and arrests for methamphetamine possession, in particular, skyrocketed during the same period — to nearly 13 times more than the number in 2019.

Along with extrajudicial executions, police raids on low-income neighborhoods and media demonization of addicts, this war against drugs, which has expanded since 2018, includes court-mandated rehabilitation at army-run centers, such as the one in the national park. 

Operated by the Bureau of the Commissioner General of Rehabilitation (BCGR), a military-led agency under the purview of the Ministry of Justice, these centers treated over 40% of Sri Lankans institutionalized for drug addiction in 2023. But their methods have been heavily criticized by members of civil society and human rights organizations, who worry that drug dependency is being treated as a criminal issue rather than a health one. 

Since the civil war ended, the Sri Lankan government has been repurposing its bloated military — which employs over 2.5% of the country’s labor force — to address areas such as disaster management and drug rehabilitation, in addition to steering service members toward employment in the hospitality industry, higher education and agriculture. 

Even though mandatory rehabilitation has been called unethical and ineffective by healthcare experts, the BCGR claims that it has been making improvements in Sri Lanka. In a conversation with New Lines, Maj. Gen. Dharshana Hettiarachchi, the BCGR’s commissioner-general, claimed that the bureau’s policies of only treating first-timers and not taking in more inmates than a facility’s capacity allows have prevented conflicts between inmates and “disruptions” promoted by gangs. (The military often blames escape attempts on seasoned drug dealers, who it says are determined to prevent their customers from recovering.)

We visited two army-run centers located in Kandakadu and Senapura to find out more about the lives of the inmates. 

Discipline was the resounding theme of our tour. With shaved heads and in uniforms, inmates stood up as we walked past with the officers. At the officer’s command, an inmate climbed a tree to pick fruit for us and another served us tea. Whether cooking in the kitchen or bent over and weeding crops, the inmates were silent and always under the watchful eye of a soldier — often armed — supervising their activities. At Kandakadu, we did not see any inmates speak to each other. 

Documents obtained from the BCGR through a request made under the Right to Information Act revealed a 50-item list that governed most aspects of the inmates’ lives, including where they should be at any given time, how they should engage with other inmates and how they should groom themselves. 

The six-month program consisted of counseling, farming, lectures on drug abuse, yoga, meditation, religious activities and vocational training. Treatment was neither personalized nor did it employ evidence-based techniques like cognitive behavioral therapy and peer support groups. As the director of the Kandakadu Drug Rehabilitation Centre, Col. Gamini de Silva put it, “The sick period is a lie, it’s all about the mindset.”

Inmates at Kandakadu Drug Rehabilitation Centre engaged in farming. (Dilushi Wijesinghe)

One of the rules stipulates that inmates cannot share information with family that is “false” or “disruptive to the rehabilitation process.” Former inmates told us that a soldier would always be present during phone calls or monthly family visits. 

The lack of believable information coming out of the centers has left families on edge. “I do not know what is really happening to him, even if he is being beaten,” said a mother of an inmate who is fighting the courts to get her son’s sentence reduced. 

Sixteen inmates handpicked by the army spoke to us under the supervision of de Silva. When we spoke to some inmates in Tamil, he immediately arranged a translator for himself. 

As the colonel watched, the inmates told us that the treatment was “helpful” and the facilities “perfect.” They shared that the soldiers were very kind and friendly with them. But one inmate let slip, “If there were only five or six of us, they could control us with words alone, but that isn’t the case, is it?” — perhaps implying that soldiers also used violent tactics to control the inmates.

Interviews with those who were released suggest that squats, pushups and beatings are liberally meted out as punishment for lagging behind during the day’s schedule, slowing down on morning runs, trying to escape or being caught violating one of the center’s many rules. 

Inmates at the Kandakadu Drug Rehabilitation Centre stand in line. (Dilushi Wijesinghe)

According to Prasanna, who asked that only his first name be used to preserve his anonymity, the purpose of these violent punishments was to spark fear among inmates and maintain authority. He spent a total of two years at these centers (prior to the BCGR’s one-time-only policy). “The first treatment when we get there [Kandakadu] is beatings,” he said. “We were treated like the LTTE.”

However, the BCGR denied using violence and claimed that professional drug dealers disrupt the rehabilitation process by encouraging violence among inmates, as they know that soldiers cannot retaliate. “That was why we decided not to let people in a second time,” said de Silva. “They hold grudges and when they come back they have learned that we cannot touch them or extend their sentence.” De Silva believes that this limitation makes it difficult for soldiers to maintain order. 

Even the positive elements of mandatory rehabilitation such as access to counseling, meditation and vocational training appeared to be exclusionary, as they were conducted only in Sinhala, the language spoken by the ethnic majority, and were not conducted separately in Tamil. 

At Senapura, where inmates seemed freer, roaming the premises in smaller groups and not always with a soldier keeping watch, there was only one Tamil-speaking counselor. Officials acknowledged that this was a major obstacle to recovery.

Inmates at the Kandakadu Drug Rehabilitation Centre in a training session. (Dilushi Wijesinghe)

Perhaps the clearest manifestation of abuse in Sri Lanka’s mandatory drug rehabilitation system has been the cavalier attitude shown by police and the legal system toward the issue. Police typically make an arrest on the basis of “suspicion” of drug use, and in the courts judges often sentence people to drug rehabilitation on the basis of medical reports that rarely contain much more than the name of the drug, said Manesh Wevita, an attorney who regularly handles such cases. 

“The medical report often won’t include the severity of addiction or basis for believing the person requires treatment,” Wiveta said. “And the judges can’t contest it.” Hence, a person who has been using marijuana for a few months winds up undergoing the same treatment as someone with decades of heroin or methamphetamine abuse. 

Once they get court sentences, convicted addicts are kept in remand prisons until a spot opens up at the rehab centers. As they await transfer, many endure the worst of their withdrawal symptoms, such as palpitations, nausea, chills and mood swings. Making matters worse, Sri Lankan prisons are severely overcrowded, holding more than twice the number of people they have capacity for, and also lack sufficient toilets. 

According to the NDDCB, private and public rehab centers only have capacity for 9,000 people, but according to the same agency, more than 500,000 people were dependent on drugs at any given time. So getting a spot at the rehab center often takes months, and inmates end up spending that time in remand prisons. 

A top official at the NDDCB also told New Lines that police sometimes find it easier to arrest a known addict to cool down public sentiments when people in the neighborhood complain about an increase in petty theft or public disturbances. “The local people put pressure,” he said, speaking on the condition of anonymity, “so the police sometimes have no choice but to send them away for some time.” 

By treating rehab centers as short-term prisons for drug users, police officers avoid having to deal with the hassles of a prosecution or trial. This further criminalizes drug-dependent people, because recovering addicts are often at risk for arbitrary arrests, which makes it harder for them to give up drugs. 

Many recovering addicts also claim that it was the police who sold them drugs or used them as currency in exchange for intel — an even more bitter pill to swallow.

Kumar, a former close associate of a drug kingpin in Mannar — a highly militarized coastal district in northern Sri Lanka — told New Lines that his boss would often strike deals with the army, navy and police officers over drinks, and officials would get a cut of drug profits in return for turning a blind eye to smuggling. 

“Getting a police transfer to Mannar is just a chance to make money,” he claimed. “All drugs come in with the support of the authorities and everyone being caught is just the small fry for the optics.”

For those forced into a painful rehabilitation while their well-connected suppliers remain scot-free, the system reeks of injustice. Anger is the prevailing emotion. Pathmaraja returned to his family furious that they had exposed him to the police, which led to his sentence at Kandakadu. 

“The moment I came home I injected heroin in front of my family,” Pathmaraja said. “I was so angry with them, and I wanted to show them it was all for nothing.”


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