Sri Lankan actor and musician GK Reginold steers a motorised fishing boat through the watery maze of Colombo’s flood-stricken suburbs, carrying crates of food and bottled water. Entire neighbourhoods have been submerged for days, leaving families stranded on rooftops and upper floors. Many among them have not received help since Cyclone Ditwah barrelled across the island last week, unleashing one of the worst natural disasters in Sri Lanka’s recent history.
“The main reason why I wanted to do this is to at least help them have one meal,” Reginold told the BBC as he navigated his boat through still-rising floodwaters. “I was so happy I was able to do that.”
Cyclone Ditwah’s wrath has been catastrophic: more than 460 people killed, hundreds still missing, and nearly 30,000 homes damaged or destroyed. Landslides cut off entire regions, and floodwaters rose with such speed that many families were trapped before they could escape. More than one million people have been affected nationwide, prompting President Anura Kumara Dissanayake to declare a state of emergency and describe the crisis as the “most challenging natural disaster” Sri Lanka has ever faced.
As military helicopters ferry stranded survivors to higher ground and humanitarian aid begins to flow in from foreign governments and NGOs, Sri Lankans at home are filling crucial gaps, driven by a powerful sense of solidarity and shared trauma. The massive grassroots mobilisation has become a defining element of the cyclone response.
In Colombo’s Wijerama neighbourhood, the spirit of civic activism that once toppled a president has transformed into a lifeline for flood-hit families. Activists who played a central role in the 2022 “Aragalaya” protests—an unprecedented public uprising that ousted former president Gotabaya Rajapaksa—have revived their networks to organise a community kitchen distributing hot meals to affected areas.
“Some volunteers came after work, some took turns, and some even took leave to be there,” said Sasindu Sahan Tharaka, a social media activist deeply involved in the kitchen’s operations. “We reactivated the group as soon as we heard what was happening last Thursday.”
For Sahan, the mobilization evokes memories of 2016, when severe flooding killed 250 people and volunteers scrambled to deliver food and supplies across the island. This time, the response is faster and more coordinated. Volunteers have compiled hundreds of requests for aid, forwarded them to authorities, and dispatched food and essentials to residents in some of the hardest-hit communities.
“Whatever we asked for, we got more than enough in response from the community,” Sahan said, describing an overwhelming surge of public generosity.
Across Sri Lanka, people have opened their wallets, kitchens, and homes. Private companies have launched donation drives. Local television channels are broadcasting continuous appeals for soap, toothbrushes, dry rations, and clothing. Religious groups have transformed temples, mosques, and churches into temporary shelters.
Online, the energy is just as intense. A volunteer-run public database lists verified victims’ requests, maps out flooded areas, and directs donors to the nearest relief drop-off points. Another website—built overnight by a group of young tech professionals—matches people willing to donate with relief camps and identifies what supplies are urgently needed in different districts.
While communities rally on the ground, the political landscape in Colombo has grown tense. The government is facing sharp criticism for its handling of the cyclone, particularly its preparation and response to early weather warnings.
Opposition politicians accuse authorities of failing to act swiftly despite forecasts predicting significant rainfall and flooding. They argue that delayed evacuations and inadequate public advisories may have worsened the scale of destruction.
On Monday, opposition lawmakers staged a dramatic walkout in parliament, alleging that the ruling party was attempting to limit debate on the disaster. They demanded accountability for what they described as “systemic neglect”.
President Dissanayake, in a national address, urged Sri Lankans to “set aside all political differences” and come together to rebuild the nation. He insisted that government agencies were working “around the clock” and promised an independent review of the disaster response once immediate rescue operations conclude.
Despite political friction, the atmosphere on the ground reflects a powerful sense of unity. Those coordinating relief distribution say the devastation is immense, but so is the public resolve to help.
“In the end, the joy of helping someone else to save lives makes that tiredness fade,” Sahan wrote in a Facebook post after working long hours at relief sites.
For volunteers like Reginold, the crisis has revealed both the fragility and resilience of Sri Lankan society. “Disasters are not new to us,” Sahan added. “But the empathy and capacity of our hearts is greater than the destruction that occurs during a disaster.”
