Che Ran

Che Ran

The Government, the Spy Chief, and the Danger of Hunting Monsters

The Government, the Spy Chief, and the Danger of Hunting Monsters

By Che Ran There is a particular smell to Colombo politics after rain: diesel, wet dust, sea salt, old files, new lies, and that faint colonial rot of a state that has never really confessed to itself. The ministries dry out. The uniforms return to their posts. The priests keep waiting. The widows keep waiting. The politicians, of course, discover justice exactly when it becomes useful. Into this humidity walks the case of Suresh Sallay — soldier, intelligence man, Rajapaksa insider, spymaste
Guest Column June 2026
Che Ran

Che Ran
May 18: The Day the Clowns Come Out

May 18: The Day the Clowns Come Out

By Che Ran Every year, on May 18, Tamils remember Mullivaikkal. And every year, like clockwork, the circus arrives. From Sri Lanka, we get the professional denialists — men who look at bombed hospitals, mass graves, disappeared families, surrendered civilians who never came home, and say, with the confidence of a man selling fake Rolexes in Pettah, “No, no, no. Nothing happened.” From India, we get the bargain-bin patriots — politicians who hear “Tamil civilian massacre” and immediatel
Guest Column May 2026
Che Ran

Che Ran
The Boy We Never Answered For

The Boy We Never Answered For

By Che Ran Sri Lanka has a strange relationship with accountability. We adore the theatre of justice. The press conference. The dramatic raid. The minister standing behind a microphone, sleeves metaphorically rolled up, promising to finally hunt down the untouchables. Every election, another government arrives carrying a moral broom the size of Adam’s Peak, vowing to sweep corruption out of the republic. And every few years, we discover the same depressing truth. The truly powerful rarely g
Guest Column May 2026
Che Ran

Che Ran
Blood, Spice, and St George’s Cross
Blood, Spice, and St George’s Cross

Blood, Spice, and St George’s Cross

By Che Ran There’s a smell to fear when it stalks a neighbourhood. It isn’t always gunpowder or petrol bombs. Sometimes it’s vinegar-soaked chips from the corner chippy, gone cold in a greasy paper bag carried by men who march with the St George’s Cross. A flag that, to some, means football and cheap lager; to others, a symbol that says: you don’t belong here. The red cross on white cloth has always carried more than patriotic cheer. Its origins lie in the Crusades of the twelfth century, when
Opinion September 2025
Che Ran

Che Ran