The day that Ambika Samuel strode into the hallowed chambers of the Parliament of Sri Lanka, she carried more than her own personal triumph—she carried the hopes of the Tamil plantation community, the voices of the voiceless, and a signal that something in the island’s gendered political script might finally be shifting. Samuel’s election in late 2024 as the first Indian Tamil woman (a “Malayāga Tamil” in Tamil, மலை மக்கள்) to the national legislature marked a watershed moment.
Sri Lanka’s journey of women in politics is at once inspiring and deeply unfinished. Back in 1960, the world watched as Sirimavo Bandaranaike became the first female prime minister of any country—her ascent from widow of the slain prime minister S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike to Prime Minister of Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) shocked patriarchal expectations. Her daughter, Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga, would later become the island’s first female president. In some ways, however, that early triumph proved an anomaly rather than the start of a profound shift: women still account for only a small share of seats in parliament—and they battle structural, cultural and informal barriers that keep them on the margins.
Culture, language and ethnicity layer the story. In Sinhala-speaking (“සිංහල”) and Tamil-speaking (“தமிழ்”) communities alike, women’s roles have often been framed as “good wives” and “good mothers,” the custodians of family and tradition, the “panca kalyāni” ideal (five-fold excellence: fair skin, long hair, youthful appearance, attractive body, beautiful teeth) that still echoes in social expectations. So when someone like Samuel emerges—an Indian Tamil woman from a tea-estate background, challenging plantation-owner power structures, becoming a legislator—it challenges not just party lists but longstanding cultural scripts.
According to a recent examination, women have served in the Sri Lankan parliament since 1931, and yet their share of seats remains disproportionately low—despite making up over half the electorate. The report by the The 2024 general election (beta.parliament.lk) altered that slightly: some 21 women were elected, representing a new high for female representation in the Sri Lankan parliament. Among them were plantation-community Tamil women like Samuel and fellow newcomers; this signalled both progress and the continued urgency of change.
But what good is representation if the rules of the game remain skewed? In the digital age, women politicians face a particular set of threats—social media smear campaigns, gender-based harassment, discrimination cloaked as critique, all of which are detailed in recent reporting from Sri Lanka. For Tamil-speaking women and minority-ethnic female politicians, the burden is double: misogyny plus ethnicised or religiously coded attacks. In the words of a campaigning Tamil woman, “Tamil-speaking women often show solidarity … but when the roles are reversed, some Sinhala-speaking women say they didn’t understand because the attack was in Tamil and leave it at that.”
Within this context Samuel’s election takes on multiple meanings: she is not only a woman stepping into the national legislature, but also a first from a historically marginalised ethnic-linguistic community in Sri Lanka’s political culture. She represents a “mālaiyāka” (மலையக) or estate-Tamil background—traditionally under-represented in decision-making. Her presence reframes the question: not only how many women, but which women and how they are included. The Island article on “When women lead, nations change” argues that what’s needed is not just more women in office, but support systems, training, recognition—so that leadership does not become a solo sprint but a sustained presence. island.lk
Looking ahead, Sri Lanka’s delicate post-crisis (the political and economic turmoil since 2022) moment offers both opportunity and risk. With sweeping change underway in party structures, electoral dynamics and civil society, the opening for women to claim space is wider — yet without institutional reform, tokenism can persist. The quota mechanisms at local government level (25 per cent since 2016) show some promise—but at the national level the lack of enforceable quota remains a major hurdle.
In Sinhala you might say “adsahas naḷā” (අධර්ශ නළා) meaning “shattered glass ceiling,” and in Tamil “kaḻikaḷ rēti” (கழிகள்ரேதி) meaning “women’s expansion,” to capture what is at stake. Samuel and her female colleagues are testing the possibility of shifting the frame, of turning isolated precedent into predictable practice. Yet shifting culture, practices and structures takes more than one landmark election—it takes persistence, solidarity, reform and vigilance. For Sri Lanka’s women in politics, the journey continues.
Sri Lanka — land of lush hills, endless cups of tea, and centuries of underpaid female labor brewed into every fragrant sip. Spicy Auntie remembers walking through the misty slopes of Nuwara Eliya and Hatton, where Tamil women — mālaiyāka makkaḷ (மலையக மக்கள், “hill country people”) — bent under sacks of leaves heavier than their wages, smiled at her with tired eyes. They are the invisible backbone of an industry that keeps the island fragrant and export-rich, yet they themselves live in small tin-roofed huts, with rationed electricity and little hope of advancement.
Let’s be clear: when we talk about “women’s empowerment” in Sri Lanka, we can’t talk only about the well-educated ladies of Colombo in white sarees giving speeches about quotas. We must talk about these plantation women, whose dark skins and Tamil accents have long marked them as second-class citizens — not only to the Sinhala-majority state but often within their own gender. Their struggle sits at the crossroads of gender, ethnicity, and class. They are women, yes, but also minorities, laborers, and descendants of indentured workers brought from India in the 19th century.
Spicy Auntie sat with a group of them once, sipping sweet milk tea while listening to stories that could curdle your stomach faster than lemon juice. They spoke of wages so low they can’t afford the very tea they pluck. Of male supervisors who harass them, of political parties who appear before elections and vanish after. And of their daughters, still leaving school early because “that’s how it’s always been.” Some laughed when Auntie mentioned “feminism.” “We don’t need slogans,” one woman said, “we need water and respect.”
Intersectionality — big academic word, small daily reality. For these women, oppression is layered like the tea terraces they climb: one step for patriarchy, one for caste, one for ethnicity, and another for economic injustice. When Ambika Samuel, a Tamil woman from a plantation background, entered Parliament, Auntie wanted to dance in her red dress. Because finally, one of their own made it past the gates. But one woman’s ascent won’t dismantle a century of inequality.
The revolution won’t come from token seats or hashtags — it will come when the women who pick our tea get to decide their wages, their futures, and their dignity. Until then, every cup you drink carries the flavor of their struggle. And Auntie? She’ll keep it unsweetened.