Sri Lanka now stands at a threshold it never imagined. A threshold where temples are no longer safe simply because they are temples, where monks are not judged by Vinaya but by the political backing or foreign funding that props them up, where the robe is worn as a disguise and not as a discipline. A Parliament caucus has already confirmed that twelve groups are actively distorting the Dhamma, and eighty-five individuals walk among us not to preach liberation (In Ceylon Buddhist liberation were Nirvana.), but to bury it. What we face is not religious difference it is doctrinal sabotage. It is an engineered campaign against the soul of the Sinhala Buddhist civilization, using NGOs, INGOs, “human rights” cloaks, and foreign-backed psychological warfare against the most sacred thread of this land — the Buddha Sāsana.
The greatest betrayal is not external. It is internal: when the State, constitutionally bound, spiritually entrusted, and historically obligated, chooses inaction over defense. Article 9 of our Constitution is not a ceremonial relic — it is a legal sword. It does not say “may protect” or “ought to foster” — it says the State shall give to Buddhism the foremost place, and shall protect and foster the Buddha Sāsana. The verbs are mandatory, not decorative. And this protection is not vague — it includes safeguarding the Sangha’s Vinaya rulings, prosecuting imposters, shielding sacred lands, and stopping the economic pipelines through which spiritual distortion is laundered as charity. If Article 9 is not enforced in action, it becomes a beautiful lie. To fail in this duty is not just negligence — it is constitutional failure.
Article 9 is not an invention of modern jurisprudence. It is the constitutional embodiment of a duty that has guided this land since the time of King Pandukabhaya, who reigned over 2,400 years ago. From his era onward, monarchs of this island — not out of political necessity, but moral conviction — upheld the Buddha Sāsana as the civilizational spine of the nation. That legacy was not born in 1978. It was merely inscribed into writing. The duty itself is older than any statute, deeper than any court — and what we now call Article 9 is nothing more than its legal heir, echoing a thousand-year covenant between governance and Dhamma that has bound every ruler, from stone chronicle to printed Constitution.
We already possess the legislative backbone. The Buddhist Temporalities Ordinance, enacted in 1931 and amended thereafter, still stands. It governs temple property, trustee appointments, and the legal safeguarding of sacred sites such as Dalada Maligawa, Srī Pāda, and Atamasthāna. It gives the State both authority and responsibility — not just to administer, but to protect. Yet what use is authority without the will to use it? Foreign NGOs have already infiltrated Dayaka committees, placed puppet trustees, and even backed rogue monks in legal claims over temple lands. If the Ordinance is not enforced, it becomes another forgotten tool, rusted by indifference.
At the heart of this cultural warfare is funding. Evangelical organizations masked as “development NGOs,” Gulf-backed networks operating under welfare labels, and Western foundations disguised as interfaith platforms — all pouring money into psychological conversion campaigns, fake meditation centers, and social media propaganda. Fake monks and some of fake civil mediator have become religious influencers. True monks are smeared as outdated or “too traditional.” Meanwhile, Nirāgamaika narratives are fed to our youth, claiming Sri Lanka should be religionless when in truth, such a vision means cultureless, rootless, andvulnerable. What we are seeing is not accidental. It is organized erosion — financial, symbolic, and spiritual.
In response, the State must fulfill its supreme duty — not for political mileage, but for civilizational continuity. It must audit every foreign-funded NGO operating in Buddhist regions. It must reclassify those receiving foreign government grants as foreign agents, not neutral civil society. It must invoke anti-money laundering and anti-terror laws when covert funds are linked to spiritual subversion. It must empower the Sangha’s disciplinary rulings with State enforcement, and educate the laity in identifying true Theravāda conduct from theatrical imposture. No more hiding behind administrative paralysis. This is a national duty.
And beyond all written law, we must now invoke Diliktha Nīthiya ; let us now turn to another vital dimension through this lens. For even when statutes remain silent, the damage done to the Sāsana by distortion, negligence, or cowardice is not invisible. It is civil harm. Moral injury. A breach not only of constitutional duty, but of conscience. Through the eyes of Diliktha Nīthiya, we see that the failure to act when sacred institutions are infiltrated, when monks are impersonated, and when temples are manipulated, becomes a form of wrongful inaction. The State, even if it avoids criminal culpability, incurs a civic liability a delict by allowing deliberate injury to the spiritual fabric of the nation.
Let us not confuse legal silence with ethical neutrality. When the robe is misused to deceive, when sacred land is stolen under bureaucratic excuses, when the Sangha is publicly weakened and foreign-funded subversion is tolerated Diliktha Nīthiya reminds us that such omissions are not blameless. They are acts of harm. And in a nation whose majority identity flows through the Sāsana, this harm is not private — it is public. Thus, under Diliktha Nīthiya, the Buddha Sāsana must be recognized not only as a religious body, but as a legal and moral stakeholder entitled to protection, compensation, and intervention when injured. The State cannot claim neutrality where duty is derelict.
This is why the final wall must now be built not out of hatred, but out of heritage. Not to divide, but to defend. The robe is not a symbol it is a legacy. The Dhamma is not a sermon it is a civilization. The Buddha Sāsana is not a charity it is our compass. A government that forgets this is not merely secular. It is lost.
I/We/I am, do not write these words in anger. We write them in remembrance. Because a nation that forgets its Sāsana forgets itself. And when the final wall falls, there will be no flag left to wave. Let it not come to that. Not now. Not under our watch.
By Palitha Ariyarathna