Cyclone Ditwah: Voices From the Hills and a Nation’s Questions

Photo courtesy of Thilina Kaluthotage

On the morning of November 30, 2025, a desperate message surfaced from Pattiyagama, Deltota, one of many remote hill country communities devastated by Cyclone Ditwah. The message, typed in haste under failing phone signal, described a level of isolation and fear echoing across the island. “There is no current here and the network is also bad. Roads are still blocked. No one has come yet. Food items cost very high. No one came to see if we are alive or dead. Relatives got caught in the flood and were buried at the spot. Not sure if even this message will go through. No bank facilities either. We can’t even draw water. Everything is broken. We are in an interior place. Government hasn’t come inside yet.”

This cry captures the trauma unfolding in dozens of villages, particularly in the central highlands, where continuous rain triggered landslides, flash floods and river overflows. Cyclone Ditwah, predicted days in advance, has now left Sri Lanka facing one of the country’s gravest natural disasters in recent decades.

A nation awakens to catastrophe

As the magnitude of the disaster becomes clearer, Sri Lanka is confronting staggering human loss. More than 410 people are confirmed dead, with another 336 still missing as of December 2. Entire villages have been submerged, buried or washed away. Roads have collapsed, electricity networks are crippled, communications have failed and access to clean water has evaporated in many isolated communities.

Serious weather warnings were issued as early as mid November, with meteorological authorities cautioning of unusually heavy rainfall and possible landslides. Yet despite this, life carried on with little interruption. Public movement was not restricted, national examinations continued and many vulnerable slope-side communities remained in place, unaware that within days they would face some of the heaviest rainfall ever recorded in the region.

This disconnect between early forecasts and actual preparedness has now become a central question for the country. For many, the tragedy has rekindled painful national memories: Aranayake in 2016, where 75 houses vanished in a landslide that killed 127 andthe countless smaller slope collapses in the Central and Sabaragamuwa Provinces over the years. Sri Lanka has lived through disasters before. The systems and lessons exist. Why then, ask survivors, did so much fail?

Villages buried under mud

The most harrowing stories emerge from the Matale, Badulla, Bandarawela, Rattota, Kandy and Gampola regions where fragile slopes gave way under relentless rain. The worst devastation appears to have struck Rampukkwela Wilanagama, off Akurana, where about 40 houses were buried in the early hours of November 29. Residents say there was little warning of the scale of the danger. Entire families were reportedly asleep when soil loosened and crashed down the mountainside. Local rescuers who managed to reach the site describe an apocalyptic scene, mud, broken beams, uprooted trees and complete silence. “It’s heartbreaking,” one survivor shared by phone. “We believe almost all of them are gone; only 11 bodies were found.”

Many areas already known to be landslide prone were struck again. Communities near Aranayake in Kegalle, still haunted by the 2016 tragedy, suffered new collapses. With rain continuing for days, rescue teams have struggled to reach these pockets of destruction and the death toll keeps climbing.

Warnings issued but no evacuations

Several local geologists and disaster experts have spoken in recent years about the fragility of the central highlands. The soil composition, deforestation and changing rain patterns all contribute to heightened risk. Experts reportedly reiterated these warnings in late November, identifying high risk slopes and urging for decisive evacuation measures. But the standard machinery of government response moved slowly.

The president and ministerial officials interacted publicly with district officers through televised calls, often focusing on immediate problem solving but raising concerns about micromanagement during an emergency. In viral clips, top statesmen were seen phoning subordinates live on air, requesting updates or giving instructions. While intended to project leadership, critics say these scenes revealed confusion, delays, arrogant and a lack of pre-planned coordination.

Adding to the concern, the president declared a state of emergency and appointed a Commissioner General of Essential Services only on November 29, by which time the cyclone had already caused extensive damage.

We saw the Health Minister on November 30 attempting to address issues raised by senior health officials during a meeting that included more than 60 participants online, many of them high level medical administrators from across the country. During the televised disaster relief discussion, senior health officials were visibly frustrated as they pleaded for basic support: water supply, restored communication and assistance for hospitals cut off in the hills and other areas severely affected by the floods. Yet the Health Minister, who was leading the meeting, appeared uncertain and unprepared. Instead of offering concrete solutions, those at the head table spoke among themselves or made phone calls to military heads, seeking explanations and engaging in micromanagement while officials with urgent, life saving responsibilities were left waiting. The president followed a similar pattern in a televised discussion, conducting a meeting in his office filled with officers who were already engaged in emergency operations. This approach revealed inefficiency, mistrust and, most importantly, a troubling degree of unpreparedness at a moment when decisive leadership was desperately needed.

“These disasters are not new to us,” said one civil society leader from North. “The system knows how to act quickly because we have lived through so many tragedies. So why didn’t the system work this time?”

A bureaucracy frozen by fear

More troublingly, accounts from the field describe a climate of administrative fear that hindered rapid action. In at least one Eastern district, a senior official admitted being hesitant to procure urgent supplies ahead of the emergency declaration because he feared facing corruption inquiries for bypassing procurement procedures.

Civil society workers reported similar challenges: government officers reluctant to purchase even basic food items like bread, cooked meals and medicine on credit from local vendors, worried they could later be summoned by investigative commissions.

“These people weren’t negligent,” said a volunteer coordinating relief on the ground. “They were afraid. They didn’t know if emergency decisions would be questioned later. That uncertainty cost valuable hours.”

This procedural paralysis meant that while rainwater filled homes and landslides crushed entire villages, some officials were still waiting for paperwork, approvals or formal emergency declarations.

Transport failures and missed precautions

The Transport Ministry also faced public criticism after failing to halt up country train services earlier despite repeated warnings from local residents that vibrations could destabilise already fragile slopes. Many villagers had pleaded for temporary suspension, fearing the soil holding massive rocks was unusually weak after days of heavy rain.

Around the same time, a bus caught in floodwaters was swept away ner Kala Oya Bridge in Rajanganaya, an incident broadcast live. The nation watched in horror as rescuers struggled to save trapped passengers. The president applauded the bravery of those rescuers. Yet the public response was mixed: people questioned how such catastrophic mismanagement of roads and flood warnings had allowed the situation to reach that point.

Citizens step up where institutions fall short

While state systems hesitated, ordinary Sri Lankans did not.

From fisherfolk who brought boats inland to rescue stranded families to neighbours who carried elderly residents across waistdeep water to youth groups organising ad-hoc relief supply chains and the many youth lined up to donate blood at Narahenpitya blood bank, citizens became the backbone of early response.

Even those whose own homes were underwater worked through the night calling, coordinating and collecting donations. Social media was flooded with posts from volunteers arranging four wheel drive convoys, rescue operating crews, food distribution and medical support.

Tragically, at least one air force officer and five navy personnel lost their lives during rescue operations. Their sacrifice has been acknowledged nationwide even as the public mourns the loss of civilians and entire families buried together in the highlands.

A history of community leadership and a present of centralisation

Sri Lanka’s history shows that communities, civil society organisations and especially women’s groups have played significant roles in disaster response from the 2004 tsunami to the post-war reconstruction periods and most recently during Covid 19 pendamic and economic crisis. These networks often possess local knowledge, trusted relationships and the ability to mobilise quickly.

Yet in the current crisis, the government appears to be centralising decision making, reducing the space for community-led participation. A newly announced national team to manage donations and reconstruction consists entirely of men, including several wellknown corporate figures accused in the past of labour rights violations.

A new circular has instructed that all relief aid from abroad must be addressed to the Ministry of Defence for tax exemption, raising concerns about militarisation and the lack of transparent, civilian involvement and oversight.

For many, this contradicts the values of equality and social inclusion that the governing party campaigned on.

The marginalised bear the heaviest burden

One persistent theme in the unfolding tragedy is its disproportionate impact on historically neglected communities, particularly the Malaiyaha Tamil population of the central hills. Long subject to economic marginalisation, land insecurity and inadequate development, many of these communities live on steep, unstable slopes with very little state support. Their isolation during disasters is not new. But this time, as entire families vanish under mud, the sense of abandonment is deeper.

“The up country has been ignored for centuries with our safety and security always at the bottom of the national priority list,” said an elected local council member from Nuwara Eliya, adding that events like the sudden, uncontrolled release of water from the Kotmale Dam, which could have been managed gradually over days, contributed to the disaster in Gampola town.

Cyclone Ditwah has exposed not only physical vulnerabilities but also the social and political fragilities that continue to define life in rural Sri Lanka.

A call for accountability

As Sri Lanka mourns, the country is also searching for answers.

• Why were evacuation orders not enforced where the risks were clearly identified early on?
• Why did communication networks and emergency logistical support collapse so completely in known high risk districts?
• Why were officials paralysed by fear of procedural repercussions during a life threatening emergency?
• Why did relief, coordination and rescue begin late despite continuous warnings?
• And perhaps most urgently, how many deaths could have been prevented?

These questions demand more than surface level explanations. They require honest assessment, structural reforms and a renewed commitment to protecting vulnerable communities.