A retired army major and attorney who spent more than three years inside Sri Lanka’s largest prison has offered a rare firsthand account of life behind bars, days after the country’s deadliest prison riot in more than a decade left 28 people dead and renewed scrutiny of chronic failures in the nation’s correctional system.
Ajith Prasanna, released earlier this year after serving a contempt‑of‑court sentence, published his account on Facebook following the July 5–6 violence at Negombo Prison. The clashes, which killed 28 people — including eight prison officers — marked Sri Lanka’s worst prison bloodshed since the 2012 Welikada massacre.
Prasanna wrote that several of the officers killed at Negombo had left Welikada Prison on temporary deployment on the morning the violence erupted. Welikada is the same facility where he spent three and a half years until his release.
Although his account has not been independently verified, it aligns closely with concerns raised for years by prison reform advocates, human rights groups and government officials. Chronic overcrowding, inadequate medical care, understaffing and deteriorating infrastructure have long plagued Sri Lanka’s prison system, which houses more than double its intended capacity.
When former lawyer Ajith Prasanna entered Welikada Prison on February 24, 2023, he carried not only the weight of a four-year Supreme Court sentence for contempt of court but also the burden of a system he would soon come to understand intimately. His crime: publicly criticizing judicial decisions during media discussions.
Within months, additional rulings from the Court of Appeal and Colombo High Court extended his sentence to five years. What followed was a journey through Sri Lanka’s most notorious prison — a journey that revealed the stark realities of incarceration, poverty, and human resilience.
Life Behind the Walls
Prasanna’s first stop was Ward H, a cramped cell block where prisoners are locked in at 5:30 p.m. and released around 6 a.m. “At night, we couldn’t even go to the toilet,” he recalls. “We had to use tins.”
After five months, he was transferred to Ward M, a large hall with toilets accessible at any time — a rare privilege. Later, he moved between H and K wards, living among hundreds of inmates in conditions that tested both body and spirit.
Meals were sparse and flavorless. “You line up for food — watery curries, little coconut milk, almost no spice,” he says. Prisoners wear white shorts and shirts, keep hair cropped short, and work daily from 7:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. in carpentry, masonry, soap-making, or sewing. Prasanna worked in the sewing section.
Moments of Humanity
Despite the harshness, there were glimpses of humanity. Families could visit only five days a year — on Prisoners’ Day, Christmas, Independence Day, New Year, and Vesak. “On Prisoners’ Day, three family members can sit on mats, share a meal, and talk for three hours,” he says.
Those moments sustained him through years of reflection. “I lived a simple life — thinking about my mistakes, my foolishness, and what I could do better,” he writes. As a psychological counselor, he offered guidance to inmates struggling mentally, earning their trust and respect.
A System Without Rehabilitation
Prasanna’s account paints a grim picture of Sri Lanka’s prison system — overcrowded, underfunded, and devoid of rehabilitation. “There’s no system to examine prisoners’ problems or provide relief,” he says. “Many die inside without proper medical care.”
He describes strip searches at the gate, where new arrivals are forced to undress and bend naked to check for drugs — a practice he calls a human rights violation. “I protested, but later had to go through it myself,” he recalls.
He met prisoners who had been inside for over 30 years, serving life sentences with no hope of release. “They grow old, fall sick, and die behind bars. It’s inhumane.”
Poverty and Injustice
According to Prasanna, poverty is the root cause of incarceration for most inmates. “Out of 44,000 prisoners, 30,000 are here because of poverty,” he says. “In countries like Norway and Sweden, prisons are closing — ours are overflowing.”
He criticizes the bail system, noting that courts often deny bail despite the law stating it should be granted whenever possible. “Granting bail is the rule; refusal is the exception,” he quotes.
He also points to corruption among prison officers, who allegedly profit by providing phones, drugs, and comforts to wealthy inmates. “Poor prisoners suffer; rich ones live comfortably,” he says.
A Call for Reform
Prasanna’s testimony ends not in bitterness but in resolve. He vows to dedicate his life to freeing prisoners and improving the welfare of their families. “If poverty is the crime, is imprisonment the solution?” he asks.
On a recent morning, he cycled 15 kilometers from home to take a selfie — a symbol of endurance and hope. “Don’t mind the tired face,” he writes. “I’m still standing for the voiceless.”
His words echo beyond Welikada’s walls — a plea for compassion, justice, and reform in a system that has long forgotten its humanity.