The Unending Suffering of the Families of the Forcibly Disappeared
Photo courtesy of Kumanan
Disappearances in Sri Lanka are not just relics of the past. They are a living wound, an absence that defines families’ daily existence. Mothers who have outlived their children, wives who never learned if their husbands died in custody and children who grew up without fathers or mothers – their struggles embody the cost of political violence and state impunity. The phenomenon cuts across ethnic, religious and regional lines: Tamil families in the North and East, Sinhalese families in the South and Muslim families who lost loved ones in contested spaces all remain bound together by a shared experience of silence from those in power.
Families of the Disappeared (FoD) organized a powerful demonstration in Colombo to remember those who have been forcibly disappeared. Hundreds of participants, many elderly, some travelling long distances by bus, gathered with placards, photographs and petitions demanding answers from a state that has too often promised but rarely delivered. For them it was a continuation of decades long struggles to have their pain acknowledged and their demands for truth, justice and reparations heard.
As one placard read “Our loved ones are not numbers. They are lives, and we deserve answers.”
The protest unfolded not only as a call to action but also as a reminder to the world that Sri Lanka’s disappeared are not forgotten even if successive governments have tried to bury their stories beneath bureaucratic silence. Families from across Sri Lanka converged in Colombo. Many of them had travelled through the night, boarding buses from Jaffna, Batticaloa, Hambantota, Kurunegala and Matara with faded photographs of their loved ones clutched to their chests. Their journey symbolised a relentless pursuit of truth that has spanned decades despite exhaustion, poverty and indifference from the authorities.
The placards and chants that filled Colombo’s streets were as much an indictment as they were a plea. Some bore the faces of the missing young men in school uniforms, fathers in faded shirts, daughters taken in their youth while others carried stark demands: “Release the lists of those who surrendered” and “Investigate the mass graves.”
To march through Colombo in this way was itself an act of defiance. For decades, survivors of disappearances faced stigma, intimidation and surveillance when they spoke out. Yet on this day, their collective presence reclaimed public space, turning grief into resistance.
The families gathered outside the Ministry of Justice, the institution legally tasked with addressing disappearances. From there, they walked to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, then onward to the Office of the President and finally submitted petitions to multiple foreign embassies and high commissions including the US, Canada, Germany, the Netherlands, the EU, the UK, Switzerland, Australia and Japan. Each stop was strategic: a reminder that Sri Lanka’s disappearances are not merely a domestic issue but also a matter of international concern and accountability.
Behind every placard and petition was a story that refuses to fade. The testimonies of survivors illustrate the deeply personal toll of enforced disappearances, cutting through statistics to reveal the human faces of absence.
H.P. Somawathri from Kurunegala recalled the night in 1989 when her husband was taken. Four armed men came to their home, asked for his name and upon hearing he was Amarasiri ordered a jeep to take him away for questioning. That was the last time she saw him. “The next day I went to the camp. They said they had not taken anyone by that name. Since then I have not known whether he is alive or dead,” she recounted, her voice trembling. He had been the breadwinner and his absence plunged the family into poverty and despair. Thirty six years later, the uncertainty remains her cruellest companion.
From Hambantota came another voice, that of Premasiri, who bore witness to both the brutality of abduction and the vulnerability of women left behind. She lost her two brothers and her husband in 1989. She herself was detained in a military camp, where she was tortured and subjected to sexual harassment. “They tied my husband, beat him mercilessly and did the same to me,” she said quietly, recalling nights of fear and pain that left scars not only on her body but also on her dignity. Her story is emblematic of the gendered violence often intertwined with enforced disappearances, where women are doubly victimised first through the loss of male relatives and then through direct abuse at the hands of authorities.
These stories, although decades old, retain their immediacy because for the families, time has not moved forward. Without the truth, without recognition, without reparations, they remain suspended in grief. As one protestor said, “We cannot bury memories because we were never allowed to bury our loved ones.”
A petition was presented by FoD to the Ministry of Justice and several international embassies. It encapsulated decades of frustration but also set forth concrete demands. At its core, the petition demanded that the government honour the promises made to families, particularly regarding compensation and transparency.
The document pointed to government allocations in recent years: Rs. 500 million in 2019, followed by Rs. 1,000 million each in 2024 and 2025 earmarked for victim compensation. Yet, according to FoD, only a fraction of these funds reached the families. Many survivors reported receiving nothing more than a onetime allowance of Rs. 100,000 labelled relief rather than proper compensation. For families who had lost breadwinners, this token payment mocked their decades of survival against hardship.
FoD’s demands were straightforward, A fixed reparations system beginning with Rs. 200,000 to 5,000 families by the end of 2025, extension of this scheme to all affected families by 2026, publication of the lists of those who surrendered during the warand transparent investigations into mass graves unearthed in several parts of the island.
The petition also warned against bureaucratic foot dragging. It noted that the government was in danger of returning unspent allocations to the Treasury, an act FoD described as unprecedented cruelty. “If a government can allocate billions but send back unspent funds while families starve, then history will remember them not for their budgets but for their indifference,” the statement declared.
Sri Lanka’s history with disappearances is not only one of violence but also of broken promises. From the 1990s to the present day, successive administrations have pledged truth and reparations, only to retreat into silence once political costs became apparent.
After the JVP uprisings, commissions were established to examine thousands of disappearances in the South. Reports were filed, recommendations made but justice was rarely delivered. During the civil war Tamil communities repeatedly petitioned for information on those who surrendered or were detained by security forces. Even after the war ended, families continued to camp outside military bases or government offices seeking news of their missing often met with threats rather than answers.
The establishment of the Office on Missing Persons (OMP) in 2017 was seen as a milestone. Yet its impact has been limited, hampered by underfunding, lack of political will and mistrust from affected families. Many see it as another symbolic gesture rather than a functioning institution of accountability.
This cycle of inaction has eroded public trust. For the families, each broken promise compounds the original crime. They are not merely fighting for reparations but for recognition that their loved ones existed, that their suffering matters, and that silence is not justice.
Over the years, Sri Lanka has established multiple commissions and bodies to investigate disappearances, each producing reports that generated hope but ultimately ended in disappointment. The Udulagama Commission of the 1990s, for example, documented thousands of cases of abductions and killings during the second JVP insurrection in the South yet prosecutions were rare, leaving families with little more than paper records of their loss. Later, the Paranagama Commission, created in 2013 to examine allegations of war crimes and disappearances during the final years of the civil war, gathered testimonies but quickly became mired in controversy with critics accusing it of serving as a shield against international pressure rather than a genuine search for truth.
The Batalanda Commission, convened in the mid-1990s to investigate atrocities committed at a notorious detention and torture facility, similarly highlighted systemic abuses but stopped short of delivering accountability. The creation of the OMP was hailed as a milestone in the transitional justice process, yet it too has been undermined by lack of funding, weak political will and the deep mistrust of families who view it as yet another symbolic gesture rather than a functional institution. Taken together, these commissions form a long and frustrating history of documentation without justice where evidence was gathered and recommendations were made but the state consistently failed to transform findings into meaningful action. For the families of the disappeared, this cycle has become part of the injustice itself a recurring reminder that while their loved ones were taken from them, the truth continues to be withheld by those in power.
Enforced disappearances devastate families but the burden falls disproportionately on women. Wives, mothers and daughters are left to pick up the pieces economically, emotionally and socially.
Many women became sole breadwinners overnight, forced into precarious labour to sustain children and elderly parents. In rural areas, widows and female-headed households often faced stigma, labelled as political families or ostracised for speaking out. Testimonies also reveal how women endured harassment at military camps, facing sexual violence, intimidation and humiliation when they sought information about their loved ones.
The psychological toll is immense. Mothers continue to sit outside government buildings decades later, clutching faded photographs, refusing to abandon hope. As one elderly woman at the protest said: “If I die without knowing what happened to my son, then my soul will not rest.”
Sri Lanka’s disappearances are not merely a domestic tragedy but a violation of international law. As a signatory to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) and the International Convention for the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearance (ICPPED), the state has obligations to investigate, prosecute and prevent such crimes.
The UN Human Rights Council has repeatedly called on Sri Lanka to implement transitional justice mechanisms, including truth commissions and reparations schemes. Yet progress has been halting at best with governments oscillating between promises abroad and denial at home. International actors from the EU to the US continue to monitor Sri Lanka’s commitments linking them to aid, trade benefits and diplomatic relations.
For families, however, the appeal to international bodies is not about geopolitics but about survival. Having exhausted domestic avenues, they look to the world for solidarity and pressure. Their petitions to embassies in Colombo symbolise this shift a recognition that justice may only come when global voices amplify their demands.
At its core, the issue of disappearances is not only legal or political but deeply moral. It raises the question of what kind of society Sri Lanka wants to be: one that buries the truth or one that confronts its past with honesty and courage.
For the families, reparations are about more than money. They are about recognition, dignity and closure. A permanent reparations package, transparent investigations into mass graves and public acknowledgment of the crimes would go a long way in restoring trust between citizens and the state.
Politically, addressing disappearances is essential for reconciliation. Without confronting this past, Sri Lanka risks perpetuating cycles of resentment and mistrust across communities. As FoD Chair Brito Fernando warned during the protest, “If we delay justice any longer, many of these families will not live to see it. Their hopes will die with them, and history will remember us for our indifference.”
The government’s challenge is not one of resources; billions have already been allocated but of political will. To return unspent funds while families languish in poverty is not only bureaucratic negligence but a profound betrayal of humanity.
Sri Lanka has an opportunity to choose a different path: one of truth, justice and compassion. The time for commissions without consequences is over. The time for silence has long passed. To act now is to affirm that every life lost to disappearance mattered and that those who remain deserve not only remembrance but also justice.
The post The Unending Suffering of the Families of the Forcibly Disappeared first appeared on Groundviews.
