Abstract
One of the key terms to understand the nature of violence and conflicts world over is ‘radicalisation’. Sri Lanka’s case is instructive in understanding the various dimensions of Islamic radicalisation and de-radicalisation, especially in South Asia. Though a small state, Sri Lanka has witnessed three radical movements, the latest being Islamic that got manifested in deadly Easter attacks of April 2019. Eco-space for Islamic radicalisation existed in the island for decades, but the rise of ultra-Sinhala-Buddhist nationalism post the end of Eelam War IV acted as a breaking point. The underlying context is perceived as the feeling of insecurity projected by hardline Sinhala-Buddhist elements. In due course, the primary ‘other’ shifted from Tamils to Sri Lankan Muslims. Apart from inter-communal dissonance, international jihadist network also fostered radicalisation process in the island’s Muslim community. Political instability due to co-habitation issues between the then president and the prime minister was a perfect distraction from the core security and development issues. In response to the violent manifestation of radicalisation, de-radicalisation measures by the successive Sri Lankan governments were mostly military in nature. Socio-economic and political components of Islamic de-radicalisation are at the incipient stage, if not totally missing. The article suggests wide-ranging measures to address the issue of radicalisation in the island state.
Introduction
The concept of ‘radicalisation’ has got international attention especially after 9/11. In the case of Sri Lanka, the notion is not new. The island state has faced every kind of youth radicalisation: majority and minority. In the 1970s and later in the 1980s, a section of the Sinhala youth resorted to insurrection under the banner of Janata Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP). Later, Tamil militancy, dominantly represented by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), gripped Sri Lanka from early 1980s to late 2000s. The most recent one is the Islamic radicalisation that manifested in a violent form through Easter terror attacks of April 2019. The latest spurt of radical violence perpetrated by some Sri Lankan Islamic jihadist groups was shocking and has risen certain fundamental questions: Is the nature of Islam in Sri Lanka, which is known for moderatism, moving towards radicalism? What were the various internal and external drivers of Islamic radicalisation in Sri Lanka? How did the successive Sri Lankan governments respond to the new challenge in the form of de-radicalisation programmes? To what extent these measures have been effective? This study attempts to find answers to these questions with the help of a conceptual framework. The study has adopted qualitative method using both primary and secondary sources of data. Telephonic and email interviews with few experts from Muslim-dominated eastern districts of Ampara and Batticaloa and policymakers were conducted to discern views from the ground.
Conceptual Framework
One of the key terms that has of late gained ascendance in the literature on terrorism and religious extremism is ‘radicalisation’. Understanding this concept is important for adopting appropriate counter- or anti- or de-radicalisation measures. According to the United Nations Development Programme, radicalisation is associated with ‘anti-liberal, anti-democratic and religiously fundamentalist agenda and its links to the use of violence’ (United Nations Development Programme, 2016, p. 17). To some, radicalisation refers ‘to the process by which a person comes to support terrorism and extremist ideologies associated with terrorist groups’ (Government of United Kingdom, 2015). Alex Schmid provides a comprehensive view of the concept:
… radicalization is an individual or collective (group) process whereby, usually in a situation of political polarization, normal practices of dialogue, compromise and tolerance between political actors and groups with diverging interests are abandoned by one or both sides in a conflict dyad in favour of a growing commitment to engage in confrontational tactics of conflict-waging. These can include either (i) the use of (non-violent) pressure and coercion, (ii) various forms of political violence other than terrorism or (iii) acts of violent extremism in the form of terrorism and war crimes. (Schmid, 2013, p. 18)
The European Union (EU) goes a step ahead by distinguishing radicalisation with its violent manifestation. To EU, radicalisation is
a process through which young people start to accept and support changes in society which are against the existing order, while the term ‘violent radicalization’ or ‘radicalization leading to violence’ refers to the process of adopting an extremist belief system – including the intent to use, encourage or facilitate violence – in order to promote an ideology, a political project or a cause as a means of social transformation. (European Union, 2018)
This distinction is crucial in understanding the scope of the concept. Radicalisation also involves positive changes brought in by radical organisations and movements through non-violent means. Radicalisation becomes an issue only when violence or threat of violence is used as a means to achieve parochial political, ideological, economic or social goals. Broadly speaking, radicalisation is typically considered as a movement or transformation from (democratic) normality to (a form of) extremism, where the movement often starts with radical ideas, but does not necessarily end in violent acts like terrorism (Gemmerli, 2015, p. 2). Radicalism need not necessarily be illegal. This is an important aspect that should be taken note of in the understanding loaded concepts like ‘radicalisation’ and ‘de-radicalisation’.
However, it is vital to ask: Is radicalisation a linear process or a dynamic one? Scholars like Fathali M. Moghaddam (2005) offers a staircase model comprising six evolutionary steps: psychological interpretation of living conditions, exploring options to fight against ‘unfair treatments’, identification of an enemy to vent out the feeling of anger and frustration, moral engagement, organisational involvement and, finally, violent action (Moghaddam, 2005, pp. 161–169). On the other hand, increasingly, supported by various cases and evidence, radicalisation is considered as unpredictable dynamics involving various escalations and de-escalations depending on the situations and interventions by the state or non-state actors. As William Costanza (2012) puts it, ‘the path of radicalization is the process or progression which enables to understand how an individual or a given group moves through time towards radical beliefs, in a volatile social environment which is constantly evolving’ (Costanza, 2012). What is ‘radical’ differed at various historical and socio-cultural contexts. Radicalisation is, thus, a complex and contextual process rather than unidirectional.
Various Drivers of Radicalisation
The United Nations Development Programme identifies eight drivers that are responsible for radicalisation: the role and impact of global politics; economic exclusion and limited opportunities for upward mobility; political exclusion and shrinking civic space; inequality, injustice, corruption and the violation of human rights; disenchantment with socio-economic and political systems; rejection of growing diversity in society; weak state capacity and failing security; and a changing global culture and banalisation of violence in media and entertainment (United Nations Development Programme, 2016, p. 17). Of the above drivers, what comes out starkly is that in case of absence of moderatism in every manner, there are high chances for grievance articulation slipping into a violent mode.
Interestingly, the concept of radicalisation and causes for radicalisation are linked. In this regard, it is important to note that an intersection of personal trajectory and enabling environment need to take place for violent manifestation. Perfect ideology–that be religious, ethnic or otherwise–to give a framework for justification for use of violence, to unify and bring commitment to its cadres, to show certain abstract incentives to the perpetrators and even to dehumanise victims, is required (European Commission, 2008). For instance, Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) and Al Qaeda use jihadist, Naxalites use leftist and the LTTE employed linguistic–nationalistic ideological frames to serve the above purposes. A well-networked group with a powerful ideology is a good combination. The network involves funding, arms, propaganda, recruitment and international support. Thus, three significant components of radicalisation are motivational, ideological and organisational (Kruglanski et al., 2014, pp. 69–93). State sponsorship to all the above support networks makes the radicalisation process all the more complicated.
Contextualising De-Radicalisation
In response to the radicalisation process, States usually adopt what is commonly understood as ‘counter-radicalisation’ or ‘de-radicalisation’ or ‘disengagement’. ‘Counter-radicalisation’ refers ‘to a package of social, political, legal, educational and economic programmes specifically designed to deter disaffected individuals from crossing the line and becoming terrorists’ (United Nations, 2008). ‘De-radicalisation’ refers ‘to programmes that are generally directed against individuals who have become radical with the aim of re-integrating them into society or at least dissuading them from violence’ (United Nations, 2008). ‘Disengagement’ implies ‘changes in behaviours by abandoning the association with violent groups and by not using violence’ (International Peace Institute, 2008, p. I). To address the issue of radicalisation, both in short and long terms, all the above concepts are important.
At the same time, it should be noted that any of the above responses could act as a feeder to the radicalisation process if not handled properly. Use of military means to counter radicalisation, especially when it results in gross human rights violations, tends to push the radicalisation process towards violence. Of course, some kind of firm handling of violent extremism is required, but at the same time it should be done with proper safeguards. In this regard, some countries are satisfied if the radicalised individuals just renounce violence. But some countries insist on thorough de-radicalisation. But the choice of pertinent de-radicalisation method depends by-and-large on the priorities of the country concerned keeping in mind political, socio-economic and international contexts. The effectiveness of de-radicalisation in any country lies on careful balancing of these internal and international contexts.
In this regard, it is worth looking at de-radicalisation methods followed by certain key countries. Denmark’s ‘Aarhus Program’ is aimed at societal reintegration of likely jihadists through community outreach programmes like employment, housing and counselling. Germany’s ‘Hayat-Germany’ is focussed on preventing radicalised individuals from committing violence. The model adopted by the United States comprises of mentoring, religious support and strengthening family ties. Saudi Arabian ‘PRAC Model’ (Al-Ha’ir) includes prevention, rehabilitation and aftercare (Soto, 2020). Norway’s system of de-radicalisation extensively uses family network and trained activists. De-radicalisation initiative in Malaysia has two components: re-education (to correct political and religious misconceptions) and rehabilitation (continuous monitoring of militants after their release). Indonesian model focuses on changing the mindset of jihadists from killers and separatists to moderates and patriots. Singapore’s de-radicalisation arrangement aims at counselling the radical elements to bring them back to the mainstream. Though Sri Lanka does not have a separate de-radicalisation model of its own, it has attempted a blend of all the above (especially Singapore’s and Saudi’s).
Islamic Radicalisation in Sri Lanka
Radicalisation is not new to post-independence Sri Lanka. The island state has witnessed three radical movements—Sinhala, Tamil and Islamic—that were primarily youth revolts. Sinhala radicalism was spearheaded by the JVP, first in the early 1970s and later in the late 1980s. Tamil radical movement that initially started in a moderate manner in the 1950s turned militant in the early 1980s, principally led by the LTTE. Islamic radicalism was in a non-violent mode since the 1970s, but got a taste of violence in the 1980s and 1990s in response to the LTTE’s anti-Muslim attacks in the east. But it surprisingly slipped into terrorism in 2019 led by groups like National Thawheedh Jamaath (NTJ) and Jaamiyathul Millathu Ibrahim (JMI) (Subramanian, 2019). Thus, a minute section/groups of Sri Lankan Muslims resorting to violence to protect the community interests in the Eastern Province of Sri Lanka is not new. A basic distinction, however, among these radical movements is while Tamil militancy was ethno-nationalistic, the other two were ideological. Irrespective of nature of these movements, they all rose principally due to the inability of successive Sri Lankan governments to address the socio-cultural, political and economic grievances of the concerned community, perceiving them as just ‘law and order’ problems.
Causes
Islamic radicalisation leading to militancy and ultimately to terror attacks (famously called ‘Easter attacks’) in April 2019 has been gradual. Two broad set of causes could be identified: internal and external.
Internal Factors
Internally, there had been eco-space for Islamic radicalisation in the island even before independence. The famous 1915 riots involving Sinhala Buddhists and Muslims were caused by, in the words of the then Governor of Ceylon Robert Chalmers, a ‘combination of creed and purse’. After independence, both religious and economic factors for Islamic radicalisation remained but lay dormant principally because of the emergence of Tamil ethnic issue and the pre-occupation of Sinhala political entrepreneurs with that conflict. The Sri Lankan Muslim elite also was smart enough to use the inter-ethnic schism between Sinhalese and Tamils to gain concessions for the community from the Sinhala-dominated state. This was misread and projected by the LTTE as Sinhala-Muslim ‘collusion’ against Tamil interests. In what was famously referred to as ‘Black October’, around 70,000 Muslims were evicted abruptly from the Northern Province by the LTTE in a fortnight (15–30 October 1990). The Tigers also were involved in mass killings of Muslims like Kathankudi Mosque killing on 03 August 1990 and at Alanchipothana on 29 April 1992 in the Eastern Province (Parameswaran, 2010). Thus, dispute between Tamils and Muslims, fomented by brutalities committed by the LTTE, acted as a ‘common enemy’ binding factor between Muslims and Sinhalese. Consequently, aided by the state, Muslim Home Guards and informal armed gangs emerged to protect the community from possible LTTE attacks. A spiral of violence ensued as the Muslim Home Guards were also involved in attacking Tamil villages in the East (Amnesty International, 1992). A similar kind of response was resorted to by the Muslim community at a later date when confronted by attacks from Sinhala radical groups.
But what is unique in the present situation is the gyration of ultra-nationalist Sinhala forces against Muslim community in the larger schema of global Islamic jihad. The underlying context for the rise of Sinhala ultra-nationalism after the termination of Eelam War IV is triumphalism mixed with insecurity feeling of the majority Sinhala community. The primary ‘other’ shifted from Sri Lankan Tamils to Sri Lankan Muslims (Subramanian, 2018). The Sinhalese felt insecure when contiguously inhabited Tamils in India (Tamil Nadu) and northern Sri Lanka were seen together as one entity. Similar kind of insecurity feeling was fanned vis-a-vis the Muslim community, but with a different twist bearing local and global contexts.
In the local context, certain Sinhalese hardliners started instilling apprehension by citing the growing population of Sri Lankan Muslims and their economic domination, especially in the eastern parts of the island. The Sinhala ultra-nationalist group Bodu Bala Sena (BBS) argued in one of the propaganda publications titled ‘Encountering the Demise of a Race: An Enquiry into the Population Trends in Sri Lanka’ that Sinhalese ‘are a minority in the global population comprising 0.20% of the total world population’ (Jones, 2015, p. 34). Rumours like ‘fertility jihad’ was rife. Halal labelling process was brought to the fore in 2013 as an issue of disharmony. Globally, the clouds of global war on terror against Islamic jihadist groups and announcement of ‘caliphate’ by ISIS did not fail to infuse Islamophobia in the island, especially among the majority community. Reports of certain Sri Lankan Muslims fighting along with ISIS increased the apprehension (International Crisis Group, 2019). All these resulted in Sinhala-Muslim schisms that in due course started manifesting in the form of inter-community violence since 2012. A cycle of violence and counter violence erupted, led by radical groups from both the communities (Safi & Perera, 2018). One of the main reasons for the availability of space for radical Islamic groups in Sri Lanka was the inability of moderate Sri Lankan Muslim parties to effectively articulate the interests of the community. In the post-Ashraff period, Sri Lankan Muslim politics that was traditionally represented by Sri Lanka Muslim Congress got fragmented and weakened further (Thaheer, 2019). The rise of Sinhala and later Tamil militancy due to failure of moderate politics attest this trend.
Simultaneously, post the end of Eelam War IV, Sinhala hardline groups went into triumphalist mode articulating majoritarianism disregarding ethnic harmony. Some of the key Sinhala-Buddhist nationalist groups at the forefront spearheading inter-ethnic tensions include BBS, Sinhala Rawaya, Mahasohon Balakaya, Jathika Hela Urumaya and Rawana Balaya. They successfully appealed to young Buddhist monks and the Sinhala youth. The core justification was ‘Sri Lanka is a Buddhist nation that must be protected from all threats even if that involves violence’ (Johansson, 2018). Bhikkhus like BBS chief Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara claimed that Sinhala Buddhists are the ‘historical owners’ of Sri Lanka and ‘the guardians of Buddhism for 2,500 years’. One could see the rise of anti-Muslim attacks coincided with the rise of such groups. Notably, some of the Sinhala-Buddhist groups established links with a Myanmarese anti-Muslim group ‘969’ and in fact invited Ashin Wirathu, a Myanmarese Buddhist monk, known for his anti-Islamic stance, to sustain the campaign of ‘protect Buddhism’ (Beech, 2019).
External Factors
Externally, an increase in the number of attacks from Sinhala-Buddhists hardline groups and the helplessness of the successive Sri Lankan Governments made at least a section of Sri Lankan Muslims to look elsewhere for help. The then Justice Minister, Rauf Hakeem, in this regard, perceptively warned way back in 2014: ‘A community pushed against the wall like this will suddenly become a fertile ground for outside forces’ (Aneez & Sirila, 2014). For Sri Lankan Tamils, there was India to look for; but for Sri Lankan Muslims, there were no external state actors to reach out. Some of the expatriates returning from the West Asian countries could have been responsible for ‘Arabising’ themselves and others in the community. When al Qaeda was at its peak, Osama bin Laden’s ‘translated version of speeches were distributed in some mosques of the island’ (Interview, 2020a). Gradually radical groups like National Thawheedh Jamaath (NTJ) and JMI gained upper hand due to Sri Lankan state’s lethargy in bringing to book those responsible for anti-Muslim riots or at times conniving with radical Buddhist groups for political reasons (Johansson, 2019). It was exactly around this time ISIS was gaining prominence in Islamic jihadist circles with an appeal for ‘Islamic caliphate’. A perfect match between the jihadist groups operating at global and local levels with similar ideologies and motives emerged. Some of the local Sri Lankan Muslims belonging to groups like NTJ, who travelled to Syria to train and fight with the ISIS, came back with immense experience and motivation (Izzuddin & Attanayake, 2019).
NTJ was formed by a faction that broke away from Sri Lanka Thawheedh Jamaath. Led by Zahran Hashim, NTJ advocated strict implementation of sharia law and preached puritanical proselytisation processes. It advocated violence against local fellow Muslim mystics and Sufis who held different ideological beliefs. Zahran used his family network effectively for the radicalisation process and even won over the support from some factions of his villagers for their vigilantism among Sri Lankan Muslims. The group widely used social media tools like Facebook, WhatsApp and Instagram to call for attacking ‘non-Muslim’ targets. Videos on Facebook were especially utilised to spread message of revenge against Buddhist hardliners. Messages like: ‘Non-Muslims and people who don’t accept Muslims can be killed along with women and children’ and ‘We can kill women and children with bombs. It is right’, attributed to Zahran Hashim, were widely circulated (Purnell, 2019). Such messages resembled ISIS’ style of sermon in the cyberspace. In action, the NTJ vandalised some Buddhist statues in 2018 and even attacked moderate Sufis. Then on, the group gradually increased the pace and intensity of attacks on Sinhala-Buddhist targets. The JMI, on the other hand, was a Colombo-based group led by Ibrahim brothers—Ilham Ibrahim and Inshaf Ibrahim—who took care of funding for the group as well. Both NTJ and JMI had good logistics network that enabled them to execute the serial bombings. It should be noted that some of the cadres of the NTJ and JMI were from well-off and educated family backgrounds (Ethirajan, 2019).
Going by the actual radicalisation causal factors, primary targets of NTJ and JMI should have been Buddhist targets like viharas or monasteries. Then, why did the Easter attacks involve churches and prominent hotels flocked by foreigners? This is where the international jihadist links emerge. Both NTJ and JMI basically wanted more publicity and wished to project themselves as larger than size groups capable of striking deadly. Eight coordinated attacks were made on three churches and three prominent hotels across the country (Colombo, Negombo and Batticaloa) involving 10 suicide bombers. The attacks killed around 300 persons, apart from hundreds injured. Surprisingly, the date chosen happened to be an Easter Sunday.
Ironically, credible intelligence inputs from India in early April 2019 on the imminent attacks from jihadists groups were not taken seriously by the Sri Lankan security establishment. Sri Lanka completely underestimated the intensity of jihadist network and its viability to strike in a violent form. Although Sri Lanka is not new to suicide bombing, coming from local Islamic jihadist groups were unexpected. Perhaps also for this reason, a dry run by the perpetrators five days before the attack went completely off the radar (BBC, 2019). Political bickering and the lack of coordination between the then President Maithripala Sirisena and Prime Minister Ranil Wickremasinghe added to the existing governance woes in the form of absence of routine security confabulations. Moreover, the island’s security institutions perhaps were also preoccupied with constant monitoring of a possible re-emergence of the LTTE in some form or the other.
Sri Lankan Islamic radical groups have strong international network on three aspects: funding, ideological and subversive. Interestingly, all these networks work at different levels, but converged to aid the radicalisation process. Funding from sources based in West Asian countries like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Qatar have been abounding to the Muslim-dominated eastern Sri Lanka. Funding, especially from Saudi-based Sheikh Ali Abdullah Al Juffali Foundation to Hira Foundation led by Muhammad Hizbullah, a businessman–politician based in Eastern Sri Lanka amounts to millions of dollars (Ulmer & Rajarathnam, 2019). These donations, however, were used largely to finance education and building mosques and there was no evidence to terror links. There are reports of drug money involved in the operational sustenance of Islamic radical groups in the island (Chaudhury & Tripathi, 2019). But more concrete information on this is yet to emanate.
Ideologically, the NTJ was drawn towards Salafist ISIS. This was evident by some from the group travelling to Syria to fight alongside the ISIS and carrying back the logistical and technical support required for conducting suicide bombing with utmost precision. They in fact called themselves as ‘ISIS in Sri Lanka’, and the ISIS called the Sri Lankan jihadists as ‘Islamic State fighters’ (US Department of Justice, 2021). Not surprisingly, the ISIS issued statement eulogising the Easter attacks: ‘You brothers in Sri Lanka have pleased the monotheists by their commando operations that unsettled the Crusaders [including some Americans and Europeans] in their Easter celebration to avenge their brothers in Baghuz’ (Karmon, 2019). Links with like-minded radical Islamic groups based in India, especially in the southern states of Kerala and Tamil Nadu, and Pakistan and Bangladesh were also evident. According to India’s National Investigation Agency, the NTJ modelled itself ideologically on Tamil Nadu Thowheed Jamath, though violence is not propagated by the latter. The NTJ leaders were also reported to have been linked to Kasargod IS module of Kerala and Coimbatore module of Tamil Nadu (PTI, 2019). Affiliates of pan-Islamic groups like ISIS and al Qaeda in South Asia aided in bringing the like-mindedness.
At a subversive level, the involvement of Pakistan intelligence organisation—Inter-Services Intelligence—was also seen at around the same time. This is not to suggest that Sri Lanka was conniving with Pakistan against India, but to say that the island state was being used as a base by the Inter-Services Intelligence for two reasons (Krishnan, 2021).
First, given the proximity and similarity of language and appearance, both Sri Lankan Tamils and Sri Lankan Muslims, who also speak Tamil, would not find it difficult to reach Tamil Nadu and mix-up with the local population. According to the Sri Lankan Defence Chief, the mastermind of Easter bombing, Zahran Hashmi, had ‘transited Tamil Nadu’ without being noticed (Srinivasan & Haidar, 2019). Presence of large number of Sri Lankan refugees is yet another facilitating aspect.
Second, Pakistan’s activities in Sri Lanka have not been seen with suspicion by the security establishment of the island state (ANI, 2016). Sri Lanka–Pakistan relations have been good without any irritants. Sri Lanka is ever grateful to Pakistan for all the military and diplomatic support during and after the Eelam War.
De-Radicalisation Measures
In general, response from the successive Sri Lankan governments towards radical movements were predominantly military in nature. The government crushed both the JVP revolts ruthlessly by military force. LTTE was defeated in Eelam War IV in May 2009 and was completely decimated. Islamic radical groups were also dealt with in a similar fashion. The articulation of ‘grievances were simply viewed as “law and order” and national security problem than plain recognition of problem of governance and accommodation’ (Uyangoda, 2000, p. 114). Military measures to tackle all the three radical manifestations include the following:
Proscribing the radical militant groups using stringent emergency provisions of the Constitution and other special laws to stall support systems and also to create ‘moral condemnation’. Creating ‘high security zones’ to protect government infrastructure from militant attacks. Preventive detention measures. Installing ‘checkpoints’ to check on the movement of militants and to increase surveillance. Economic blockade to weaken the militant groups and their support systems and also as a tool of punishment.
But to be fair to the Sri Lankan state, there were also political and socio-economic responses. However, they came in only as next layers of military response. The successive non-military responses depended on numerous considerations: strength of the radical groups, confidence of the then existing security establishment, internal political pressures and external diplomatic dimensions. Military and non-military responses were also not consistent, but came in waves depending on the kind of regime in Colombo.
Countering Islamic Radicalisation
As far as the Islamic radicalisation is concerned, it was met mostly with military measures. Immediately after the attacks, a series of emergency regulations were issued giving extra powers to the security forces. Raids across the island, especially the east, were conducted; several arrests were made; hidden arms were unearthed; night-time curfews were imposed; face coverings for women were banned on security grounds; social media sites were blocked; and new checkpoints were erected in the Muslim-dominated areas. The Sri Lankan Government proscribed three organisations—National Thawheedh Jamaath, JMI and Willayath As Seylani—suspected to be involved in the attacks under the Prevention of Terrorism (Proscription of Extremist Organisations) Regulations No. 1 of 2019 (Government of Sri Lanka, 2019a). Another legal provision, Prevention of Terrorism (De-radicalisation from holding violent extremist religious ideology) Regulations No. 01 of 2021, was brought in March 2021
… to ensure, that any person who surrenders or is taken into custody on suspicion of being a person who by words either spoken or intended to be read or by signs or by visible representations or otherwise, causes or intends to cause commission of acts of violence or religious, racial or communal disharmony or feelings of ill will or hostility between different communities or racial or religious groups after the coming into operation of these regulations is dealt with in accordance with the provisions of the Act, and that persons who have surrendered or have been taken into custody in terms of any emergency regulation which was in force at any time prior to coming into operation of these regulations, continue in terms of these regulations, to enjoy the same care and protection which they were previously enjoying. (Government of Sri Lanka, 2021)
Though mainly meant for de-radicalisation/rehabilitation of arrested or surrendered militants, the regulations have been criticised for ‘vagueness and overbroad nature’ leading ‘to situations of abuse’ and a ‘chilling impact on civil liberties and the rule of law in Sri Lanka’ (Balachandran, 2021).
Unfortunately, such military responses from the government have been one-sided. What the government did not do diligently was to prevent community backlash against innocent Muslims that were in the form of businesses and social boycott, attacks on mosques and shops, harassments and eviction of Muslim tenants from houses by landlords. Watching the trend, one of the Tamil leaders remarked
If people do not think that the government and the security forces are able or willing to protect them, they will be forced to defend themselves. We appeal to the government: do not let yet another community in Sri Lanka feel that in order to survive in this country, it must fight for itself. (Khan, 2019)
In a similar vein, UN Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion or Belief, observed: ‘Failure by the State to take action to address incitement to hatred and violence will allow extremism to escalate and pose serious challenges to peacebuilding. The ethno-religious tension must not be treated as mere sporadic incidents …’ (United Nations, 2019). Such de-radicalisation measures, in the form of omission or commission, is important to note because of the radicalisation loop they create. Just like antidote becoming the disease.
The Sri Lankan Government also reached out to the international community to address the radicalisation issue in the island that has garnered international attention in the wake of Easter attacks. Realising the importance of support from other countries, Colombo sought to harness international expertise on de-radicalisation programmes, funding for de-radicalisation projects and intelligence sharing. In September 2019, Sri Lankan Government tied-up with the Global Community Engagement and Resilience Fund, a Geneva-based public–private partnership organisation, which ‘supports local, community-level initiatives aimed at strengthening resilience against violent extremism’ (Government of Sri Lanka, 2019b). But the impact of such international collaboration is yet to reflect on the ground perhaps due to COVID-19 interruption.
The attacks would have been prevented had the Sri Lankan Government coordinated effectively on information sharing with other countries. Two months before the attacks, Indian Intelligence agencies passed on credible and actionable information on impending attacks in the island causing ‘maximum damage’. The inputs were based on the investigations of arrested members of an ISIS module in Tamil Nadu that had connections with NTJ leader Zahran Hashmi (Das, 2019). However, the information was not given due credence and, as a result, not acted upon. Unfortunately, even ‘signals that emanated from within the Muslim community on the radicalization process was not taken seriously’ (Haniffa, 2019).
Significantly, the attacks made the government to look at the de-radicalisation programme in a new light; there is an acknowledgement that de-radicalisation programmes need to be ‘tailor made’ to suit each radicalised group and the community. One size does not fit all. The ‘tools and programmes that worked for the former JVP and LTTE cadres would not work for Islamic jihadist groups’ (Interview, 2020b). To put it briefly, in the case of JVP insurrection of 1971, the then Sirimavo Bandaranaike government introduced ‘Standardisation Policy’ that favoured Sinhala students for professional courses. During 1987–1989 JVP insurrection, the military followed ‘hearts and minds’ policy to wean popular support away from JVP radicals. The governments also established Criminal Justice Commission to try and rehabilitate JVP cadres and to ‘mainstream’ them (Moore, 1993, p. 593). Vis-a-vis LTTE, three non-military means were adopted by various Sri Lankan Governments: rehabilitation of captured/surrendered Tamil militants, political accommodation on the ethnic issue and ethnic reconciliation. Although rehabilitation of Tamils militants was not new, after the end of Eelam War IV, ‘6+1 Rehabilitation Model’ was introduced exclusively for LTTE cadres. While the six areas include education, vocational training, spiritual growth, recreational activities, psycho-social counselling and exposure to society, culture and family, the ‘+1’ component includes preparing the wider community to accept and assist in aftercare, to prevent re-radicalisation and marginalisation (Sri Lanka Army, 2014). This can otherwise be called as ‘reintegration’ to ‘minimize the risk of socio-economic marginalization and increase employability of ex-cadres among other things’ (Hettiarachchi, 2018, p. 270). Interestingly, various ministries are involved in the exercise: Defence, Justice, Health, Women’s Affairs, Foreign Employment, Vocational Training, Labour, National Integration and Social Services. Unfortunately, in the case of Islamic radicalisation, ‘non-military aspects of deradicalization are yet to take place in a formalised manner’ (Interview, 2021).
It is interesting to look at the outcomes of de-radicalisation programmes in Sri Lanka in comparative perspective. As a result of both military and non-military measures, the JVP turned into a political party since the early 1990s. However, appeasement elements in the de-radicalisation programmes meant for Sinhala youth went on to deny opportunities for Tamil youth and in turn radicalising the latter. The most notable measure was ‘Standardisation Policy’, brought in as ‘affirmative measure’, denied opportunities for Tamils in professional education and government employment (Wickramasinghe, 2012, p. 84). That, in turn, radicalised Tamil youth in 1970s. Post Eelam War IV, slack progress in the reconciliation process with the Tamil community made certain aggrieved Muslims to believe in a radical approach to push for their interests that ranged from economic marginalisation to political underrepresentation. The ‘military nature of deradicalization of Islamic radicalism has not addressed the issue but has the potential for further aggravation in the future’ (Interview, 2021). This is important to note: nature of de-radicalisation measure of one community should not end up radicalising another. The government of the day ‘has to balance out keeping in mind the interests of all communities’ (Interview, 2020b).
In this regard, role of civil society in the entire de-radicalisation process has to be taken into serious consideration. Its role ranges from building societal resilience to the effects of violent manifestations of radicalisation, acceptance of those de-radicalised elements in the mainstream without stigma and, most importantly, prevailing on the causes and manifestations of radicalisations either by the state or non-state actors. Civil society, in short, is the intervening variable that moderates between the state and the radical groups in terms of ‘direct interventions’. It also should be in a position to bring counter-narratives against hate campaigns and jingoistic stances. And precisely because of this reason civil society needs to be objective and neutral (Steadman, 2019). Unfortunately, the Sri Lankan civil society is not united in each of the radicalisation/de-radicalisation cases. Political parties, media, non-governmental organisations and other civil society groups tend not to have a national perspective on issues pertaining to the concerned ethnic community. Muslims, who are predominantly into business, feeling sense of boycott by the majority. Even within each community, civil society is divided on the stand to be taken on community issues (Orjuela, 2020, p. 137). The State’s unfriendly attitude towards the civil society has also made their voices feeble. As a result, funding for these groups from international agencies have also dried up. This does not auger well for the de-radicalisation process in the island.
Conclusion
Understanding the concept and scope of ‘radicalisation’ has become important. It is not appropriate to think that ‘radicalisation’ is wrong and tuck it under the carpet. Rather, it is crucial to take note of the nuances and understand the signals conveyed by the radicalisation process and its manifestations and make appropriate corrective measures. De-radicalisation programmes, both at the country and global levels, have to be instituted based such nuanced understanding of the very process of radicalisation and their contexts.
Sri Lanka is a classic case of witnessing radical movements both from the majority and minority groups since the 1970s: Sinhala, Tamils and Muslims. All three cases of radicalisation in the island state clearly suggest that lack of moderate political parties to articulate interest of the communities at right point in time led to the rise of radical groups to fill the vacuum. It is an important lesson in the understanding of the radicalisation process in any community: it is vital to encourage moderate politics to articulate grievances; suppression of the same would give rise to radicalism. Communities at large should get the confidence that their grievances articulated through moderate means are being heard and addressed.
Although radicalisation was evident and manifested in a violent form in all three communities, one common denominator remains: the way in which the Sri Lankan State handled the issue. Military means of handling radicalisations would trigger a cycle of violence and counter-violence. Crucially, the present trend of militarisation of institutions does not auger well for inter-ethnic harmony in the long run. There is a need to adopt socio-economic and political measures as well. In the process, it is important that de-radicalisation measures put in place for one community should not end-up radicalising the others. The State machinery should not be perceived as biased towards or against any community.
Radicalisation in Sri Lanka is not going to stop with Eelam Wars or Easter attacks. Demonisation of Muslims after the attacks and instituting more restrictions in the name of security is going to further radicalise a section of the minority community resulting once again in a cycle of violence and counter-violence. History suggests that any nation-building process that is exclusivist in nature at the cost of ignoring the sentiments of minority communities are doomed to be a failure. Playing to the gallery of Buddhist hardliners is not going to help in the long run. It will push the country back to decades as it did during the Eelam Wars. Yet another community should not pick-up arms. Now, one community that is left untouched by violent radicalisation is the Plantation Tamil community.
Sri Lanka should be in a position to adopt success stories of de-radicalisation, especially reconciliation among the ethnic communities, and heal the wounds. In this regard, role of civil society groups is significant. Governments should be in a position to recognise their unique contribution and rope them in the radicalisation process instead of hindering their activities. Most importantly, religious leaders could play a key role of reconciliation through interfaith dialogue. Sri Lankan case also suggests the importance of developing what Ray Oldenburg calls ‘third places’ for building relations at the community level. The government could consider periodic orientation of those reintegrated ex-militants to make sure that they do not slip away from the right path.
Role of external actors in the radicalisation and de-radicalisation process comes out clearly in the Sri Lankan case. The involvement of external actors and networks, especially in the case of Tamil and Muslim radicalisations, has made the issue more complex. The external actors have their own interests and dynamics that tend to exploit internal faultlines for their own advantage. This is what is happening to Sri Lanka as well. This external factor has to be addressed in the entire radicalisation/de-radicalisation process. Instead of going alone, Colombo should be in a position to build cooperative networks at bilateral, regional and global levels to counter radicalisation and violent extremism. Only through such cooperation at all three levels, support networks to radical groups could be stifled. Countries could also learn from each other’s success stories.
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.