Mangala’s Legacy

Mangala understands that genuine growth is born not from creating shadows of oneself but from fostering the conditions for others to find their own path.

by Mathalee

“He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.” – Lao Tzu

It has been three years since Mangala’s passing, and still, the echoes of his life linger. Many have spoken of him, and many more will continue to do so. The curiosity of future generations will undoubtedly lead them to the same stories, as Mangala’s legacy is inexhaustible. He was not just a politician; he was a force of nature who refused to conform to the traditional, stagnant role of creating a ‘second line.’ For too long, I, like others, clung to the illusion that a leader’s duty was to cultivate successors. But what folly that is. Leadership is not about replication—it is about transformation.

Mangala Samaraweera [File Photo]

A true leader, like Mangala, understands that genuine growth is born not from creating shadows of oneself but from fostering the conditions for others to find their own path. He did not raise a second line because he understood that freedom comes from self-discovery, not blind allegiance. He nurtured the freedom of the individual to make meaning of their life, and that path to liberty is not paved with comfort. Often, it is lined with suffering, with the discomfort of confronting one’s limits.

In the tawdry theatre of everyday politics, what we often see instead are tyrannical jesters who exalt their leader not out of respect, but out of dependence. These cowards, fawning over their chosen idols, eventually rise to power themselves. But when clowns assume the throne, the palace is no longer a seat of wisdom; it becomes a circus tent. And under such a regime, the decay of the state is inevitable. Mangala stood fiercely opposed to this grotesque parody of leadership, and he did so with a grace that few could match. Yet, one cannot help but wonder: did Mangala, too, fall prey to the very vicissitudes of power that he despised? That question haunts the mind and is born from deep reflection.

Mangala was a singular man—someone who revelled in the richness of human experience and lived his desires unapologetically. He was more than just a man; he was a brand, a symbol of living life at its highest quality. Some say he died when the country needed him most. But isn’t that the nature of loss? We grieve not just for the person, but for our own helplessness in facing the aftermath of their absence. It’s a natural reaction, one that exposes our collective and individual inability to face what comes next—to embrace the so-called ‘new normal.’

This inability to cope is a failure not only of the individual but also of the collective. It is the responsibility of each of us to adapt, to grow, and to reconstruct after loss. This is not just a personal challenge but one that applies to the state itself. Every crisis—whether it be the departure of British imperialists, the horrors of the ’83 genocide, the devastation of the tsunami, the end of the war, or the Covid pandemic—offers the state a choice: to rebuild or to collapse. The aftermath of Mangala’s death presents us with the same dilemma. And that is why it matters little whether he had lived longer or not. The onus is on us to ensure that the legacy, the opportunity for rebirth, does not slip through our hands.

Mangala embodied the profound truth of Lao Tzu’s words: “He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.” In a world where most leaders strive for external power, Mangala’s strength came not from the subjugation of others, but from the mastery of his own spirit. He did not seek validation in dominion or control; his triumph was over the inner tyrants of ego, fear, and ambition. This self-conquest elevated him beyond the transient victories of politics, granting him the rare freedom to be authentic in a landscape of falsehoods. He moved through the world unchained by the need to please or be revered, for he understood that true leadership lies not in ruling others but in mastering oneself. Mangala’s greatness was not in what he took from the world, but in the courage to shape his own soul, to forge a legacy not from power, but from purpose. Mangala’s death, like the crises that came before, is a test for us all. Will we build anew, or will we allow the clowns to overrun the palace once more?