SHREEN ABDUL SAROO
COLOMBO : On the morning of November 30, 2025, a desperate message surfaced from Pattiyagama, Deltota, one of many remote hill-country communities devastated by Cyclone Ditwah.
Typed under a failing phone signal, it described isolation, fear, and despair: “There is no current here and the network is also bad. Roads are still blocked. No one has come yet. Food items cost very high. No one came to see if we are alive or dead. Relatives got caught in the flood and were buried at the spot. Not sure if even this message will go through. No bank facilities either. We can’t even draw water. Everything is broken. We are in an interior place. Government hasn’t come inside yet.”
This cry captures the trauma unfolding in dozens of villages across the central highlands, where continuous rain triggered landslides, flash floods, and swollen rivers, leaving Sri Lanka confronting one of its gravest natural disasters in recent decades.
As the scale of the disaster became clearer, the country faced staggering human loss. By December 3, more than 470 people had been confirmed dead, with nearly 350 missing. Entire villages were submerged, buried, or washed away. Roads collapsed, electricity networks failed, communications broke down, and access to clean water disappeared in isolated communities. Serious weather warnings had been issued as early as mid-November, with meteorological authorities cautioning about unusually heavy rainfall and possible landslides. Yet life continued largely uninterrupted. Public movement was not restricted, national examinations went ahead, and many slope-side communities remained in place, unaware that within days they would face some of the heaviest rainfall ever recorded in the region. The disconnect between early forecasts and preparation has become a central question: Sri Lanka has experienced disasters before, from the Aranayake landslide in 2016 that killed 127, to countless smaller slope collapses in the Central and Sabaragamuwa Provinces. The systems and lessons exist, so why did we fail so much this time?
The most harrowing stories emerged from the Mathale, Badulla, Bandarawela, Rattota, Kandy, and Gampola regions, where fragile slopes gave way under relentless rain. Rambuk-ela Vilanagama, off Akurana, suffered the worst devastation, with approximately 40 houses buried in the early hours of November 29. Residents said there was little warning of the danger. Entire families were asleep when soil loosened and cascaded down the mountainside. Local rescuers described apocalyptic scenes of mud, broken beams, uprooted trees, and eerie silence. “It’s heartbreaking,” one survivor shared by phone. “We believe almost all of them are gone and only 11 bodies were found.” Many areas already known to be landslide-prone were struck again. Communities near Aranayake in Kegalle, still haunted by the 2016 tragedy, suffered new collapses. With rain continuing for days, rescue teams struggled to reach pockets of destruction, and the death toll kept climbing.
Several local geologists and disaster experts had long warned about the fragility of Sri Lanka’s central highlands. Soil composition, deforestation, and changing rain patterns all contribute to heightened risk. In late November, experts reportedly reiterated warnings about high-risk slopes, urging decisive evacuation measures. Yet the machinery of state response moved slowly. President and ministerial officials interacted with district officers through televised calls, often focusing on immediate problem-solving but raising concerns about micromanagement. In viral clips, top statesmen were seen phoning subordinates live on-air, requesting updates or giving instructions. While intended to project leadership, critics said these scenes revealed confusion, delays, arrogance, and a lack of pre-planned coordination. The President declared a state of emergency and appointed a Commissioner General of Essential Services only on November 29, by which time Cyclone Ditwah had already wrought widespread damage. Civil society leaders questioned why, despite previous experience with disasters, the system had failed now. “These disasters are not new to us,” said one leader from the North. “The system knows how to act quickly because we have lived through so many tragedies. So why didn’t the system work this time?”
Accounts from the field also describe a culture of administrative fear that hindered rapid action. In one eastern district, a senior official admitted hesitating to procure urgent supplies ahead of the emergency declaration because he feared corruption inquiries for bypassing procurement procedures. Civil society workers reported similar challenges: officers were reluctant to purchase even basic food items or medicine on credit from local vendors, worried they could later face investigations. “These people weren’t negligent,” said a volunteer coordinating relief. “They were afraid. They didn’t know if emergency decisions would be questioned later. That uncertainty cost valuable hours.” This procedural paralysis meant that while rainwater filled homes and landslides crushed entire villages, officials were still waiting for paperwork, approvals, or formal emergency declarations.
Transport failures added to public anger. The transport ministry faced criticism for not halting up-country train services earlier, despite repeated warnings from residents that vibrations could destabilize already fragile slopes. Villagers had pleaded for temporary suspension, fearing weakened soil could give way. Around the same time, a bus caught in floodwaters near Kala Oya Bridge in Rajanganaya was swept away in an incident broadcast live. Rescuers struggled to save passengers while the nation watched. Though the President applauded their bravery, public sentiment was mixed, questioning how such mismanagement of roads and flood warnings had allowed the situation to escalate.
While state systems hesitated, ordinary Sri Lankans stepped forward. Fisherfolk brought boats inland to rescue stranded families, neighbors carried the elderly through waist-deep water, and youth groups organized ad-hoc relief supply chains. Social media became a hub for coordinating four-wheel-drive convoys, medical support, and cooked meal distribution. Even those whose homes were submerged worked through the night calling, organizing, and collecting donations. Tragically, at least one Air Force officer and five Navy personnel lost their lives during rescue operations. Their sacrifice has been acknowledged nationwide, even as civilians and entire families mourned together in the highlands.
Sri Lanka’s history shows that communities, civil society organisations, and particularly women’s groups have played crucial roles in disaster response, from the 2004 tsunami and post-war reconstruction to the Covid-19 pandemic and the recent economic crisis, drawing on local knowledge, trusted relationships, and the ability to mobilise quickly. Yet, in the current crisis, the government is centralising decision-making, limiting community-led participation. A newly announced national team to manage donations and reconstruction is composed entirely of men, including several corporate figures previously accused of labour-rights violations. At the same time, a circular requires that all relief aid from abroad be addressed to the Ministry of Defence for tax exemption, raising concerns about militarisation and the lack of transparent civilian oversight. For many, these developments contradict the values of equality and social inclusion the governing party had campaigned on.
The cyclone’s impact was especially severe on historically marginalized communities, particularly the Malaiyaha Tamil population of the central hills. Long subjected to economic neglect, land insecurity, and inadequate development, many live on steep, unstable slopes with little state support. Their isolation during disasters is not new, but this time entire families were buried, intensifying a sense of abandonment. “The up-country has been ignored for centuries, with our safety and security always at the bottom of the national priority list,” said an elected council member from Nuwara Eliya, adding that events like the sudden, uncontrolled release of water from the Kotmale Dam, which could have been managed gradually over days, apparently contributed to the disaster in Gampola town.
Cyclone Ditwah exposed not only physical vulnerabilities but also social and political fragilities that continue to define life in rural Sri Lanka.
As the nation mourns, Sri Lankans are searching for answers. Why were evacuation orders not enforced in clearly identified high-risk areas? Why did communication networks and emergency logistics collapse in vulnerable districts? Why were officials paralyzed by fear of procedural repercussions during a life-threatening emergency? Why did relief, coordination, and rescue begin late despite repeated warnings? Most urgently, how many deaths could have been prevented? These questions demand more than surface-level explanations, they require honest assessment, structural reform, and a renewed commitment to protecting vulnerable communities.
Cyclone Ditwah has revealed both the resilience of ordinary citizens and the failings of institutional systems. While communities and volunteers mobilized rapidly, bureaucratic paralysis, mismanagement, and centralization worsened the disaster’s impact. The loss of life, displacement, and destruction of property underscore the need for decisive leadership, proactive planning, and inclusive governance. Sri Lanka now faces a reckoning, not only with the cyclone itself but with systemic weaknesses that magnified its toll. How the nation responds in the coming weeks and months will determine whether future disasters are met with preparedness, speed, and equity, or if the cycle of vulnerability and neglect continues.
