WHEN POLITICS TOOK MY FATHER’S JOB: A RESEARCHER WAS BORN
I remember the exact moment my childhood shifted. I was enjoying my little hour of happiness, playing Tiki Farm on our old computer, when my brother appeared at the doorway. His voice wasn’t angry—just unusually heavy. “Thaththa (Father) lost his job… so from now on we must save as much as we can.” I was twelve. Far too young to understand how a decision made in some distant office could reach into our home and rearrange our lives. All I cared about in that moment was that it was still my turn on the computer. But the look on my brother’s face told me everything: something had broken in our world.
My father had worked for over 28 years at Associated Newspapers of Ceylon Limited (ANCL), better known as Lake House—a major semi-government print media institution in Sri Lanka. His dismissal was not about performance, skill, or conduct. It was political.
My father sought legal help after losing his job to political retaliation, but we were never powerful enough to fight the government. All that happened was that we spent our savings on lawyers who made empty promises—promises they could never fulfill against a system designed to protect itself. In the end, we received only half of what he was legally entitled to. The remaining claims are still “under process” in Parliament. This happened in 2008. Seventeen years have passed, and it remains unresolved.
This pattern has continued for years. Every time a new party wins, they replace existing employees with their own loyalists to tighten control. Those who supported the opposing side often lose their jobs overnight. My father was just one among countless people who faced this injustice. Accusing the government of engaging in a campaign of political revenge, Opposition Leader Sajith Premadasa called for clarification regarding thousands of alleged politically motivated dismissals in the state sector. According to Premadasa, by 2020 more than 6,000 government employees had lost their jobs due to dismissals or cancellations of appointments made under the previous administration.
Since childhood, I dreamed of becoming a politician. My classmates even called me “Miss President” because of an essay I once wrote about who I wanted to be when I grew up. But that dream slowly cracked. How could I step into a world where power was used not to serve people, but to break them? I then thought of becoming a lawyer—but that hope also faded each time I watched how the legal system exploited vulnerable people like my father.
For a long time, I carried anger, confusion, and disappointment. I stopped believing in politics. I stopped believing in justice.
Years later, I found a new direction.
Thanks to the Computational Social Science program at Linköping University, I finally understand another way to fight back—through knowledge, evidence, and research. I discovered that social change does not always require holding a political seat or wearing a lawyer’s badge. Change can begin by writing the truth, proving it with data, and opening people’s eyes to the silent injustices embedded in systems.
This is why I now dedicate myself to become a researcher: to bring visibility to inequality, to give voice to people whose stories are never told, and to challenge structures that continue to disadvantage individuals because of politics, ethnicity, class, gender, or immigrant background.
I may not have become a politician—but perhaps this path is even stronger. Because evidence cannot be silence, cannot be erased and justice begins with awareness.
I am deeply grateful to everyone who stood by our family during our hardest days—especially Gamage Uncle, who trusted us enough to give my parents empty cheques when we had nothing, and Ajith Senvirathna Uncle, who made sure we always had food on the table. Without their kindness, my brother and I would not be where we are today.