The refusal to release of four books authored by Tamil writer Theepachelvan Pradeepan by Sri Lanka Customs in recent weeks has generated significant public debate. What initially appeared to be a routine administrative dispute over imported publications has evolved into something far more troubling: a revealing glimpse into how censorship continues to operate in Sri Lanka despite repeated promises of democratic renewal, reconciliation, and free expressions.
The controversy has unfolded at a particularly sensitive moment. The current NPP government has frequently presented itself as a break from the authoritarian tendencies of previous governments. Yet the treatment of Theepachelvan’s books, together with the recent arrest of Ganesh Kumar Sankeethan, a young Tamil musician under the Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA), raises uncomfortable questions about whether the state’s relationship with dissenting and minority voices has fundamentally changed?
A Contradiction at the State
The controversy began when Sri Lanka Customs withheld four books written by Theepachelvan. Following public criticism and intervention by the Sri Lanka Arts Council, and the State Panel of Literature, two books, Bayangaravaathi and Cynide, were eventually released. However, two others, Elluttal Nan Yuttam Ceykiren and Ippothum Inge Irandu Thesangalthaan, remained withheld in Custom.
The official explanation offered by Sri Lanka Customs appeared straightforward. In a letter dated 20 April 2026, Customs stated that the decision had been taken on the basis of recommendations received from the Sri Lanka Arts Council, the State Panel of Literature and the Ministry of Defence respectively. Customs further claimed that the remaining two books could not be released because their contents were fallen within section 120 of the Penal Code, a provision dealing with sedition and the incitement of disaffection against the state.
Yet an RTI request submitted to the Sri Lanka Arts Council by this author produced a radically different account. When asked whether it had recommended that the two books should not be released, the Arts Council responded with a simple answer: “No.” When asked whether it had recommended that the books violated Section 120 of the Penal Code or any provision of the Customs Ordinance, the answer was again: “No.”
The contradiction here is impossible to ignore. If Customs relied upon recommendations from the Arts Council, why does the Arts Council deny making those recommendations? If the Arts Council played no role, on what basis did Customs conclude that the books were objectionable? More importantly, if neither institution accepts responsibility for the decision, who is accountable for restricting a writer’s right to publish and circulate his work?
These questions remain unanswered.
Censorship without Censors
The significance of this case lies not merely in the detention of two books but in what it reveals about contemporary censorship. Traditional censorship is easy to identify. A government bans a book, prohibits a film, or criminalises a publication. Responsibility is clear. Modern censorship often operates differently. Decisions emerge through overlapping bureaucracies, security agencies, administrative procedures, and informal institutional practices. Responsibility becomes fragmented. No single actor appears willing to acknowledge ownership of the final decision.
The result is a system in which restrictions exist but accountability disappears. The RTI response from the Arts Council adds another troubling dimension. When asked whether the books had been read and critically assessed in Tamil, the Council reportedly answered that the question was “not applicable.”
This response raises a fundamental concern. If a literary work is being prevented from entering the country because it allegedly violates the law, should there not be some evidence that the work has actually been read, assessed, and evaluated by competent authorities?
Instead, what emerges is a process characterized by opacity rather than transparency, and by institutional denial rather than accountability.
When Art Becomes a Security Threat
The debate surrounding Theepachelvan’s books did not occur in isolation. On 2 June, Ganesh Kumar Sankeethan, a young Tamil musician from Chavakachcheri was arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act after performing a song commemorating relatives and loved ones killed during the war. Regardless of one’s view of the song itself, the arrest is significant because it demonstrates how quickly artistic expression can become entangled with national security laws.
This is not a new phenomenon in Sri Lanka. For decades, expressions of grief, memory, and political identity in the North and East have frequently been viewed through a security lens. Artistic expression that would be regarded as cultural or political speech elsewhere is often interpreted as a potential threat to public order. The continued use of the PTA in such contexts reinforces concerns that the law remains a tool not merely for combating terrorism but for regulating expression itself.
The Long Shadow of the PTA
The Prevention of Terrorism Act has long been one of the most controversial laws in Sri Lanka’s legal framework.Introduced as a temporary measure in 1979, it remains in force nearly five decades later. Its broad powers of arrest, detention, and investigation have repeatedly been criticised by domestic and international human rights organisations.
The law’s impact on freedom of expression is also well documented. Poet Ahnaf Jazeem was detained for more than a year under the PTA following allegations relating to his poetry collection Navarasam. Journalist Murugupillai Kokulathasan was arrested after social media posts commemorating deceased relatives connected to the LTTE. Student activist Wasantha Mudalige spent months in detention before courts ultimately found the PTA charges against him unsustainable.
Each case differs in its facts. Yet together they reveal a consistent pattern: laws intended to address security concerns are repeatedly used against writers, artists, journalists, students, and activists.The consequences extend beyond those directly targeted. The possibility of arrest itself creates a chilling effect. Writers begin to self-censor. Artists avoid sensitive subjects. Journalists become more cautious in their reporting. In fact, Freedom of expression is restricted not only through punishment but through fear.
Old Laws, New Restrictions
The concerns raised by the Theepachelvan controversy also highlight the continuing relevance of Section 120 of the Penal Code. Originally designed to address sedition, the provision criminalises attempts to excite disaffection against the government. Critics have long argued that its language is vague and susceptible to broad interpretation.
The concern is not theoretical. Throughout Sri Lanka’s history, sedition-related provisions have periodically been invoked against political dissenters, activists, and critics of government policy. At the same time, the legal environment governing expression is becoming increasingly complex. The Online Safety Act, enacted in 2024, grants significant powers to regulate online content and remove prohibited statements. Critics have warned that vague terminology and broad enforcement powers could facilitate arbitrary restrictions on digital speech.
The Contempt of Court Act and proposed regulatory reforms affecting broadcasting and digital communications have generated similar concerns. While each law is justified in terms of public order, online safety, or institutional integrity, together they contribute to an expanding framework of regulation that increasingly touches upon expressive freedoms.
The Unequal Burden on Minority Voices
Perhaps the most important aspect of the Theepachelvan case is what it reveals about the experience of minority communities. Tamil writers, journalists, artists, and activists continue to encounter heightened scrutiny when addressing issues relating to memory, war, identity, and political grievances. Expressions that might be regarded as legitimate political speech in other contexts are frequently viewed through a lens of suspicion.
The detention of Tamil-language books and the arrest of a Tamil musician within the span of a few weeks inevitably reinforce concerns that minority expression remains particularly vulnerable to state intervention. Whether intentional or not, such actions contribute to perceptions that certain forms of speech are treated differently depending on who is speaking and what historical experiences they seek to express.
Beyond the Rhetoric of Renewal
Sri Lanka’s Constitution guarantees freedom of speech and expression. Yet rights are tested not by constitutional text alone but by institutional practice.The controversy surrounding Theepachelvan’s books ultimately raises a simple but important question: can a democracy genuinely claim to protect freedom of expression when books are detained, artists are arrested, and state institutions cannot explain who made the relevant decisions?
The deeper concern is not merely censorship itself. It is the emergence of a system in which censorship can occur without any institution accepting responsibility for it. Such a system is difficult to challenge precisely because it is difficult to identify. Decisions emerge from opaque processes, accountability becomes fragmented, and those affected are left navigating a maze of bureaucratic contradictions.
For a government that has repeatedly spoken of democratic renewal, this should be cause for reflection. Freedom of expression cannot be measured solely by the absence of formal bans. It must also be measured by whether writers, artists, journalists, and ordinary citizens can express themselves without fear of arbitrary restriction, detention, or bureaucratic suppression.