You only have to look away for one moment and they run away
In the quiet outskirts of Colombo, a fire consumed an unregistered nursing home one June evening, killing thirteen people with mental health conditions who had been placed there by families, courts, and the state itself. The facility held nearly five times its intended capacity, and at least one resident perished while chained — a detail that illuminated not just one institution's failures, but the vast, shadowed space between society's most vulnerable people and the systems meant to protect them. What burned was not only a building, but the pretense that informal care, however well-intentioned, can substitute for accountability.
- A fire tore through an overcrowded, unregistered nursing home in Anguruwatota, Sri Lanka, killing thirteen residents — including one who was chained and could not escape.
- Seventy-one people were crammed into a facility built for fifteen, yet government hospitals, courts, and police had all been sending patients there for years.
- Staff defended chaining residents as a safety measure for vulnerable psychiatric patients prone to wandering, while the director now faces detention on negligence charges.
- Investigators are probing how an unregistered facility became so deeply embedded in the public mental health system, and whether government referrals carried any funding or oversight.
- Fifty survivors were rescued by neighbours, firefighters, and police; twenty-one were transferred to another facility run by the same management — itself also unregistered.
Thirteen people died when fire swept through an unregistered nursing home in Anguruwatota, western Sri Lanka, on a Wednesday evening in June. The facility, roughly 55 kilometres from Colombo, housed residents with mental health conditions in conditions that would draw immediate and intense scrutiny. Among the dead was a patient who had been chained at the time the flames spread.
Of the 71 people living there when the fire broke out, 50 were rescued by neighbours, firefighters, and police. Eight were injured, and seven remained hospitalised days later. A staff member later explained that two residents had been restrained — one was freed and survived, the other did not. He defended the practice, describing patients who would wander away in moments of inattention, recounting one who dragged a chair he was tied to until he became caught in barbed wire. "Our intention was not to harm them," he said.
The home operated without official registration, yet it had become quietly woven into Sri Lanka's public mental health system. Residents had been referred from the state's main psychiatric hospital, from courts, and from police. Government doctors visited to provide care. The facility was run by Amala Rajapaksa, who said she had managed the homes for 22 years. Her stepson, Isuru Anushka Perera, had more recently taken over as director and built a social media following under the name Loku Ayya — older brother — posting videos of residents singing, dancing, and performing martial arts. The presence attracted donors and volunteers. Perera is now in detention on negligence charges.
The overcrowding was stark. The building had capacity for around 15 people. On the night of the fire, 71 were living there. Officials confirmed the home had been warned to comply with registration requirements; Rajapaksa said the process was underway at the time of the disaster. Staff believed the fire began with an electrical fault near a water pump, which ignited a pile of mattresses and spread rapidly.
By Friday, the building had been abandoned — medicines, glasses cases, and reclining chairs scattered through the charred remains. At the local hospital morgue, a victim's father waited in silence for an autopsy to be completed. Elsewhere, a mother in her seventies explained why she had placed her 45-year-old son in one of Perera's other homes: she was old, unwell, and had no other option. She had heard about it by phone.
The fire exposed a gap that had long existed in plain sight — unregistered facilities caring for society's most vulnerable, quietly sustained by the very institutions meant to regulate them, until the night the building burned.
Thirteen people died in a fire that swept through an unregistered nursing home in western Sri Lanka on a Wednesday evening in June. The facility, located in Anguruwatota about 55 kilometres southeast of Colombo, housed residents with mental health conditions in conditions that would soon draw intense scrutiny. Among the dead was a patient who had been chained—a detail that would crystallize public anger over how the home's residents were treated.
Of the 71 people living at the facility when the fire broke out, 50 were rescued by neighbours, firefighters, and police. Eight others were injured. Seven remained hospitalised by Friday. The building itself became a burned-out shell, its charred furniture and equipment visible in footage that circulated widely. A staff member, Danuja Chathuranga, later explained that two residents had been chained. One was freed and rescued; the other perished in the flames. He defended the practice by describing the vulnerability of the patients in their care. "You only have to take your eyes away for one moment and they run away," he said, recounting incidents where residents had wandered away—one dragging a chair he was tied to until he became entangled in barbed wire, another found in a muddy field with sores on his legs. "Our intention was not to harm them," Chathuranga insisted. "They were patients receiving psychiatric treatment."
The nursing home operated without official registration, yet it had become intertwined with Sri Lanka's public mental health system. Residents had been referred from the state's main mental hospital, from courts, and from police. Government doctors visited to provide treatment. The facility was run by Amala Rajapaksa, who said she had managed the homes for 22 years, continuing work her late husband had begun in memory of his father. A few years earlier, her stepson, Isuru Anushka Perera, had become director and transformed the operation through social media. Known online as Loku Ayya—older brother—Perera posted videos of residents performing martial arts, singing, and dancing. The social media presence attracted volunteers and donors, allowing the home to expand its work. Some families paid for their relatives' care; others could not afford to but were accepted anyway. Perera is now in detention on negligence charges.
The overcrowding was severe. The facility had beds for approximately 15 people. On the night of the fire, 71 residents were living there. Chatura Mihudum, director of Sri Lanka's National Secretariat for Elders, confirmed the home was not registered and had been warned to comply with laws and guidelines. Rajapaksa said the institution was in the process of being registered at the time of the fire.
Staff believed the fire started from an electrical short circuit in wiring connected to a water pump. The flames caught a pile of mattresses and pillows and spread rapidly through the building. By Friday, the home had been abandoned. Glasses cases, medicines, and reclining chairs lay scattered across the burned structure. Authorities transferred 21 survivors to another nearby facility run by the same management.
On Friday, a victim's family waited at the local hospital morgue for an autopsy to be completed so they could claim the remains. The father declined to speak about the home's conditions. Another mother, Dolawatta Mudiyanselage Chandra Rajapaksa, whose 45-year-old son lived in a different home operated by Perera, explained why she had placed him there despite her own age and health struggles. "He is a mental patient. It's difficult for me to look after him. I am old and in my 70s and a patient myself," she said. She had learned about the home "on the phone" and had no other option.
The fire exposed the gap between what the homes provided and what regulation required. Three nursing facilities run by the same management operated without registration, yet government officials and institutions had worked with them. How much funding the organisation received and how it was used remained unclear. The incident raised urgent questions about oversight of unregistered facilities caring for some of the most vulnerable people in society—people with nowhere else to go.
Citações Notáveis
Our intention was not to harm them. They were patients receiving psychiatric treatment.— Danuja Chathuranga, nursing home staff member, defending the use of restraints
He is a mental patient. It's difficult for me to look after him. I am old and in my 70s and a patient myself.— Dolawatta Mudiyanselage Chandra Rajapaksa, mother of a resident at another facility run by the same management
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why were residents chained at all? What was the actual safety concern?
The staff member said it was about preventing residents from wandering away and getting hurt—falling into pits, getting hit by vehicles, getting lost. But the justification reveals the bind: they were running a facility for 71 people in a space meant for 15, with limited resources and no formal oversight. Restraint became their tool.
How did a place like this operate without registration for so long?
It had government backing. Doctors visited. Courts and police sent people there. The state's mental hospital referred patients. So even though it wasn't officially registered, it was woven into the system. Nobody seemed to be asking hard questions about capacity or conditions.
The director used TikTok to promote it. That's unusual for a psychiatric facility.
It worked. The videos showed residents dancing, performing—it looked hopeful, humane even. That's how he attracted volunteers and donors. But it also masked what was actually happening. Social media gave the place legitimacy it didn't have.
What about the families? Did they know what they were sending their relatives into?
Some paid for care. Others couldn't afford anywhere else. One mother in her 70s, dealing with her own health problems, said she had no choice. She learned about the place over the phone. There's a desperation there—families exhausted, facilities overwhelmed, and nowhere safe to turn.
So the fire killed 13 people in a place that shouldn't have existed as it did.
Exactly. Overcrowded, unregistered, chaining patients, no real safety infrastructure. And yet it was part of the official system. The fire didn't create the problem—it just exposed it.