Let me say something at the outset. I respect Shanakiyan Rasamanickam. I respect him because, in my estimation, while many of our so-called leaders are busy merely talking, he is one of the few Tamil political leaders who has demonstrated the ability to deliver results. That was very much evident in the last parliamentary election.
At the last parliamentary election, when the political tide across much of the North and East shifted dramatically, many Tamil voters were drawn toward the National People's Power (NPP), a Sinhala-majority party. While almost all other electoral districts in the North and East were won by the NPP, Batticaloa stood alone and was retained by the Ilankai Tamil Arasu Kachchi (ITAK).
I wanted to understand this better, so I spoke with many people from the Batticaloa District — many of them, of course, from different parties or from different factions within the ITAK. But they all told me the same thing: Shanakiyan — living up to the strategic reputation his name evokes — played a critical role in organising the campaign, shaping the electoral strategy, and, more importantly, rebuilding the party from the grassroots level in Batticaloa District.
His efforts, they said, were instrumental in ensuring that ITAK retained Batticaloa at a time when Tamil political representation elsewhere in the North and East seemed to have little idea of what was happening.
In that sense, many believe Shanakiyan helped spare Sri Lankan Tamils a lasting embarrassment — the possibility that, less than 15 years after the end of the war, and after the sacrifice of thousands of Tamil youths and civilians, every Tamil-majority district could have fallen politically to the sugar-coated words of a Sinhala-majority party without any meaningful political settlement to the Tamil question.
In Tamil Nadu, the Indian National Congress — once a powerful national party — lost political control of the state in 1967, when the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) came to power. Since then, no national party has been able to independently capture political power in Tamil Nadu, where regional Dravidian parties have dominated politics for nearly six decades.
Yet in Sri Lanka’s North and East, there was a growing notion that an ethnic community which had lost nearly 10 percent of its population to war and another 25 percent to migration had politically settled for a Sinhala-majority party, without any meaningful devolution of power or substantive political settlement. That notion, however, was defeated in Batticaloa District, I am told, largely due to Shanakiyan's efforts.
I also do not accept the argument that Shanakiyan should be permanently judged for his past association with Mahinda Rajapaksa’s Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP).
Politics is full of misjudgments and shifting alliances. Many politicians, especially at a young age, begin their careers in places they later leave behind. If Shanakiyan made a mistake by associating with the SLFP in his early political years, it is worth remembering that he was very young at the time and that this period dates back more than a decade.
It is therefore difficult to argue that this single chapter should define his entire political identity.
More importantly, many of those who criticise him on these grounds do not necessarily stand on stronger moral ground themselves.
I do not believe that other political leaders have the moral right to criticise him for that. Sritharan himself began his political career through the Eelam People's Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF), an organisation that was responsible for the killing of many innocent Tamil youths. Moreover, many of our so-called Tamil nationalist leaders were once part of militant movements, carrying guns and ordering ruthless killings.
My answer to those from militant backgrounds who criticise Shanakiyan for his past association with the SLFP is simple: at least he did not order brutal killings — unlike some of the very leaders who now claim the moral authority to judge him.
But for those who have no militant background whatsoever and still criticise him for his past association with the SLFP, my answer is simple: he should be judged and criticised for what he is doing now, not for what he did when he was very young.
And whether he is married or unmarried, whether his wife is Sinhala or Tamil, or whether his mother is Sinhala — none of that is anyone’s business. These are deeply personal matters, and dragging them into political debate only exposes the intellectual bankruptcy of those who have no serious political arguments left.
Yet the issue I am writing about today is not Shanakiyan’s past. It is about his present actions.
And here lies the troubling irony — or perhaps the political contradiction of Shanakiyan.
Let me paint you a picture. Imagine this: on 24 January 2024, Shanakiyan delivered a thundering speech in Parliament opposing the draconian Online Safety Act (Sri Lanka). Like a thoughtful Tamil leader, he warned about the dangers of the law.
He reminded Parliament that many laws enacted in Sri Lanka over the past 30 to 40 years had been used to suppress and control Tamils. He warned that even peaceful political actions — such as organising a hartal in the North and East to protest oppression — could become targets of legal action under such legislation. He also passionately cautioned that mothers who have been protesting for years to learn the truth about their disappeared relatives could face legal consequences under this law.
In short, Shanakiyan — speaking as a representative of the minority Tamil community — warned that the Online Safety Act could, and likely would, become a tool to suppress Tamil political expression.
Around two years later, the very same law that he and his party had vehemently opposed was used against Tamils, not by a Sinhala-majority government, but by Shanakiyan himself.
The Case
In mid-February 2026, Shanakiyan filed an application before the Colombo Magistrate’s Court invoking the very law that he and his party had vehemently opposed. The complaint was directed against a group of Tamil individuals and media outlets from the North and East who had posted or shared content critical of him on social media.
Among those named in the complaints are members and supporters of his own party, supporters of his rival ITAK MP Eliyathamby Srinath and S. Sritharan, as well as members of other Tamil political movements. The list even includes six members of the Tamil Makkal Viduthalai Pulikal (TMVP), ITAK’s principal rival in Batticaloa.
Many of the screenshots cited by Shanakiyan under the Online Safety Act against TMVP members appear to be little more than counter-arguments made in the course of political debate. I do not find any clear personal defamation in them.
He has also invoked the law against several ITAK members — many of them long-time grassroots workers of the party. In several cases, the social-media posts he found objectionable were not even directed at him but at ITAK’s acting general secretary, M. A. Sumanthiran. While some of the language used may have been in poor taste and should indeed be condemned, that alone hardly justifies invoking a law as sweeping and controversial as the Online Safety Act.
In my view, by doing so, Shanakiyan appears to be attempting to silence dissent against both himself and Mr. Sumanthiran by subjecting critics to legal intimidation. How can such a course of action be justified?
To make matters worse, Shanakiyan has even invoked the Online Safety Act against Kireshkumar, the brother of Kausalyan, the former LTTE political commissar for the Batticaloa and Amparai districts, who was killed by the Karuna faction. Kireshkumar recently won the Kokkadicholai Pradeshiya Sabha as part of an independent group.
Yet his alleged offence appears to be nothing more than sharing another person’s post — one that, in my view, did not defame Shanakiyan in any meaningful way. Why, then, was a case filed against him? Because Kireshkumar is new to politics, and perhaps such legal pressure is expected to weaken or end his political career. What other reasonable explanation could there be?
The case does not stop with individuals. Tamil media outlets such as IBC Tamil, Tamilwin, and Lankasri have also been named, along with journalists and programme presenters associated with those platforms.
It is true that many of these outlets often display a clear bias against Shanakiyan and M. A. Sumanthiran. In several instances, the content they produce stretches the boundaries of what could reasonably be described as journalism. Some critics — including myself — would argue that parts of it amount to little more than personal mudslinging and propaganda masquerading as journalism.
But politics, by its very nature, invites brutal criticism and, at times, unfair attacks. Politics is, after all, a kind of war. As the legendary Tamil comedian Vadivelu once quipped in a famous line: “சண்டையில கிழியாத சட்டை எங்க இருக்கு?” — “In a fight, whose shirt has never been torn?” In other words, those who enter the arena of politics must expect their clothes to get torn.
Those who choose public life must therefore be prepared for that reality. If one cannot tolerate a few torn shirts, perhaps politics is not the most comfortable profession to be in.
The answer to biased reporting or false narratives is not to invoke a draconian law such as the Online Safety Act. Rather, the answer is to confront criticism through debate, evidence, and political engagement — and by building a capable media team that can respond effectively. If these outlets can construct narratives, why should you not be able to counter them with facts and evidence?
Shanakiyan, I also want to remind you of something. Amid all this mudslinging and opposition, you still received 33,332 votes in the last parliamentary election. Were they able to stop you? No.
Despite all the criticism, you still won the confidence of the people. So why give so much attention to those who criticize you? Did their attacks prevent your victory? Clearly not.
Then why give them such importance now — unless the intention is to silence them unfairly?
Summons in Sinhala, Complainant Abroad
There is another troubling detail. The legal documents served on many of those summoned were issued only in Sinhala, forcing Tamil respondents from the North and East — brought before a Colombo court in a case filed by a Tamil MP — to first seek copies in a language they could actually read.
And then came a familiar political manoeuvre.
On the first hearing date, Shanakiyan himself did not appear in court; he was reportedly abroad. The case was simply postponed to the 25th. The consequence is that nearly 50 respondents, who had travelled long distances from the North and East to Colombo, must now make the journey all over again — losing time, money, and peace of mind.
The Law
The Online Safety Act (Sri Lanka), passed by Parliament in January 2024 under the administration of Ranil Wickremesinghe, allows individuals to seek court orders against what the law broadly defines as “prohibited statements” made online.
In theory, the law was introduced to address harmful digital content such as harassment, child abuse, fraud, and misinformation. In practice, it creates a fast-moving legal mechanism capable of restricting speech far beyond those stated aims. Under Section 24, a complainant can petition a Magistrate to order the removal or blocking of online content, and failure to comply can lead to criminal penalties, including imprisonment.
Civil liberties groups have warned that the law’s broad definitions, criminal sanctions, and powers to compel platforms to reveal users' identities make it particularly dangerous for political dissent. Critics argue that such laws rarely remain confined to their original purpose; once enacted, they tend to be used against those who speak inconvenient political truths.
In that sense, the danger of the Online Safety Act lies not only in how it is used, but in the power it gives the state, and others, to silence dissent with the force of law.
The Double Standard
This is where the political contradiction becomes difficult to ignore.
ITAK publicly opposed the Online Safety Act. Its leaders criticised the legislation in Parliament and raised concerns that the law could be used to suppress dissent and restrict freedom of expression.
Yet one of its own MPs has now invoked that very law against Tamil critics from the North and East — including individuals who are members or supporters of his own party.
A party cannot argue that a law poses dangers to civil liberties and political expression, and then rely on the same law to pursue action against its own critics.
If the Online Safety Act is indeed considered dangerous, its use should not depend on political convenience.
The Boomerang
There is a lesson that Tamil political history teaches with uncomfortable regularity: repressive legal instruments rarely remain obedient to the intentions of those who first deploy them.
When a Tamil politician invokes the Online Safety Act against Tamil critics — against people from the very communities whose rights that politician claims to represent — something more consequential than a legal complaint is being filed. A precedent is being created. A threshold is being lowered. And the message sent to future governments, political rivals, and state actors seeking tools to silence Tamil dissent is unmistakable: your own leaders have already demonstrated how it can be done.
This is the cruel logic of repressive law. The weapon rarely remains in the hand that first throws it. It travels. It returns. And when it does, it seldom distinguishes between the original thrower and those who once stood beside them.
On His Genuine Grievance — and Its Limits
Shanakiyan says that he and his family were brutally targeted — that photographs of his family were circulated online with abusive commentary, and that the attacks went beyond political criticism into personal vilification.
We believe him. This kind of abuse is real; it is cowardly and indefensible. No political figure — regardless of party or position — should have their family members turned into targets in political combat. At the same time, it must also be said that not everyone against whom he has filed cases appears to have engaged in such behaviour. Perhaps a few may have dragged his family and personal life into the debate, but many others did not.
At the same time, it is worth remembering that Shanakiyan himself has, by his own political trajectory, been one of the more combative and confrontational voices in Tamil political discourse. He has delivered sharp attacks on political opponents, attracted equally sharp responses, and has long understood the rough terrain in which political battles are fought.
There are public videos, for example, in which he himself uses harsh language against Sivanesathurai Chandrakanthan (Pillayan), the leader of the TMVP, describing him as uneducated and using other derogatory terms.
What Must Happen
We call on Shanakiyan to withdraw this case. For the sake of the future, he should not set a precedent that could one day be used by a Sinhala-majority government against Tamil voices and political expression.
We believe Shanakiyan is capable of better judgment than the course he has chosen now.
We also call on the leadership of the ITAK to issue a clear public statement clarifying whether the party supports his actions, even as it continues to warn about the draconian nature of the Online Safety Act.
A party cannot credibly criticise a law as dangerous while remaining silent when one of its own members invokes that same law.
In other words, ITAK can no longer continue the same brand of politics it has practiced for decades while expecting unquestioned trust from the Tamil people. Many would argue that the failures of Sri Lankan Tamil politics are closely tied to the political choices made by its traditional party, ITAK.
That debate may continue. But at the very least, no Tamil political party should set a precedent today that could one day be used by a Sinhala-majority government against Tamils in the future.
