1 September 2024, NIICE Commentary 9477
Asanga Abeyagoonasekera
In the turbulent landscapes of Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, the ideas of Adam Tooze and Gene Sharp reverberate, pulling us into a world where crises collide, and the people rise. Tooze’s concept of a “polycrisis“—a tangled web of economic, political, and social turmoil—unfolds as a dark prophecy realized, with nations crumbling under the weight of pandemic, war, and environmental collapse. Tooze foresaw what many did not: that crises do not exist in isolation; they merge, entangle, and relentlessly press against the fragile fabric of society.
Amidst this chaos, Gene Sharp’s teachings on nonviolent resistance gain renewed relevance, their power amplified by the omnipresent smartphone. Sri Lanka became the crucible where collective will, guided by Sharp’s principles and Tooze’s polycrisis, dismantled a regime once thought invincible.
Ambassador Shivshankar Menon, a seasoned observer of South Asian politics, sees in Bangladesh a renegotiation of social and political contracts. He suggests that this struggle transcends the nation, signaling a regional reckoning as South Asia grapples with the inequalities and transformations Tooze predicted. While Menon perceives the heart of the crisis, others remain blind to the fragility of their own governments, lost in the illusion of centralized power and oblivious to the looming collapse.
When the military sides with the protesters, as it did in Sri Lanka and now in Bangladesh, it reveals the rulers’ vulnerabilities. In both countries, desperate citizens breached the strongholds of power, their fury toppling leaders whose reigns were marked by brutality and failure. The sight of ordinary people overrunning presidential palaces, dethroning leaders they once feared, is a chilling testament to the era we inhabit. In Bangladesh, the statue of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the nation’s founder, was toppled, echoing the fall of Gotabaya’s father’s statue in Sri Lanka. Protesters attacked symbols of their oppression, dragging their nations into poverty while a privileged few, entwined with political power, plundered their wealth—a relentless narrative of inequality and despair.
When I asked President Gotabaya Rajapaksa, ousted by the uprising in Sri Lanka, why he refrained from crushing the protests with force, he replied, “I am a democratic leader. I don’t want to be a dictator.” His words dripped with irony as he blamed foreign powers, particularly the US, for his downfall—a bitter accusation from a man who sought refuge in the West even as he condemned it.
Similarly, in Bangladesh, Prime Minister Hasina deflected blame onto the West following her contested election. “The offer came from a white-skinned man,” she sneered, dismissing criticisms as foreign interference, especially regarding the proposed airbase on Saint Martin’s Island. Her contempt for foreign criticism mirrored Rajapaksa’s, and the parallels between the two nations were stark: autocratic rule, deep corruption, and a populace suffocating under economic strain, all entwined in the geopolitics of military bases. Hasina’s geopolitical maneuvers, such as the Pekua submarine base for the Chinese, unleashed a flood of insecurity not from afar but from neighboring India. Gotabaya’s alignment with China reflected the same fear, his failure to grasp the broader geopolitical landscape encapsulated in his admission, “My advisors misled me.” Both ousted leaders found solace in India. Gotabaya praised India’s National Security Advisor, Ajit Doval, as a “wonderful human being” who had aided him, while Hasina was received by Doval at Hindon Airbase near Delhi, underscoring India’s focus on the security of ousted leaders. Ali Riaz, writing in Atlantic Council, noted that many Bangladeshis feel Indian policy since 2009 has deprived them of the right to choose their leaders freely, fueling the India Out campaign. In India, this was portrayed as an Islamist surge toppling the regime rather than a rejection of autocratic rule. Riaz suggests that the Indian establishment would be wise to reassess its Bangladesh policy. In Sri Lanka, India did revisit its approach, offering economic assistance and infrastructure investments, stepping into a role usually occupied by China. Once again, the IMF emerged as the lender of last resort in both Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, its influence reinforcing undemocratic norms. Just as in Sri Lanka, an IMF-led Governance Diagnostic is anticipated in Bangladesh, drawing recommendations for the government.
In Dhaka, when I spoke with officials in August 2023 about the possibility of an uprising, they dismissed it outright, convinced that Bangladesh was immune to such disruptions. “It’s not possible, not in Bangladesh,” one official asserted. Another added, “There is no specific place,” referencing the absence of a symbolic protest ground like Sri Lanka’s Gota Go Gama. Yet, the conditions were disturbingly similar—an autocratic regime, rampant corruption, and a populace crushed by economic hardship. In a conversation with an Indian defense scholar and a Bangladeshi Major General, the General’s assurance that the election results were predetermined was a chilling reminder of the regime’s deep entrenchment. The opposition was silenced, its leaders imprisoned, and the institutions meant to safeguard democracy subjugated.
The student-led protests in Bangladesh, sparked by anger over job quotas, swelled into a nationwide movement. Meanwhile, Sri Lanka’s energy crisis, marked by blackouts and shortages, culminated in the dramatic ousting of a president once buoyed by popular support. In both nations, the leaders fled under military protection—Rajapaksa to the Maldives, Hasina to India. But their fates diverged.
In Sri Lanka, the caretaker president preserved continuity by striking a deal with the Rajapaksa regime, delaying elections, and perpetuating the descent by shielding the corrupt. Some cases against Rajapaksa were acquitted, paving the way for the Rajapaksa family member to run for office once more, while the IMF, in discussions with this author, who served as a technical advisor for Governance Diagnostic, scrutinized the corruption scandals that had driven the nation to the brink of bankruptcy. In contrast, Bangladesh witnessed the rise of Nobel laureate Mohammad Yunus as caretaker prime minister, who swiftly distanced himself from the previous regime and set the stage for elections within 90 days. The contrast between Yunus and Wickremasinghe, Sri Lanka’s caretaker, was stark: one motivated by a genuine desire to uplift his people, the other by political expediency.
Gotabaya Rajapaksa once confided in me his reasoning for appointing Wickremasinghe. “My first choice was the opposition leader, but he refused,” he said. With no other option, he turned to Wickremasinghe, who eagerly seized the opportunity. “When I called Wickremasinghe, he was at my doorstep the next minute,” Gotabaya added with a smile, perhaps recognizing just how desperate Wickremasinghe was to seize power. The decision laid bare the deep compromises and the intricate, volatile nature of Sri Lankan politics, where power is often about who stands ready at the right moment.
In Sri Lanka, the revolt was suppressed, delaying the reformist agenda through immediate democratic elections until September 21st, 2024. This suppression bears its own risks, as the anger it quells now may reemerge at the ballot box, leading the opposition to victory. In Bangladesh, the reformist agenda may progress with elections in a few months, though the opposition seems poised to take power with relative ease. These tales from South Asia are not merely about individual nations; they reflect a world ensnared in Tooze’s polycrisis, where the forces of Sharp’s nonviolent action continue to shape the destiny of an entire region.
Asanga Abeyagoonasekera is Visiting Fellow at NIICE.
