Tragedy in the Highlands: A Family’s Century of Tea Country Heritage Lost in Historic Sri Lankan Landslide

A Century of Heritage Swept Away in Minutes

The mist hangs heavy over the verdant hills of Sri Lanka’s central highlands, where tea plantations carve emerald terraces into steep slopes that have sustained generations of workers. For the Ratnayake family, these hills represented more than just livelihood—they were home for over a century, where three generations had built their lives amidst the tea bushes that define the region’s landscape and economy. Last month, as unprecedented monsoon rains pounded the Hatton region, the soil that had nurtured their existence for decades finally gave way. In what local meteorologists are calling the worst storm in nearly 40 years, a catastrophic landslide obliterated the small hamlet where the Ratnayakes and seven other families had established their community. “My grandfather came here as a young man in the 1920s,” recounted Sunil Ratnayake, the family’s 67-year-old patriarch, his eyes fixed on the mud-covered expanse where his home once stood. “He planted these tea bushes with his bare hands, built the first house with timber he carried on his back. Now there is nothing left to show for a century of our family’s history.”

The disaster struck in the pre-dawn hours when most residents were asleep, giving them little chance to escape as tons of saturated soil and debris cascaded down the mountain. The Ratnayakes’ hamlet, nestled in a valley between two tea-covered slopes, took the full force of the landslide. Seventeen residents lost their lives, including four members of the Ratnayake family. Among them was Sunil’s youngest son Mahesh, who had recently renovated his grandfather’s original home to preserve the family’s connection to their past. Climate experts point to this tragedy as part of a troubling pattern emerging across Sri Lanka’s highlands, where changing weather patterns have intensified seasonal monsoons. “What we’re witnessing is not just a natural disaster but the intersection of climate change, land use practices, and economic vulnerability,” explained Dr. Amali Perera, a geologist specializing in landslide risk assessment at the University of Colombo. “These highland communities are on the frontlines of our changing climate, despite having contributed minimally to the factors driving these changes.”

The Human Cost Behind Sri Lanka’s Famous Ceylon Tea

The disaster casts a sobering light on the precarious existence of families like the Ratnayakes who form the backbone of Sri Lanka’s world-famous tea industry. The highlands that produce the sought-after Ceylon tea have historically been places of both opportunity and hardship. The Ratnayake family’s story began when Sunil’s grandfather, Ananda, traveled from the coastal lowlands to the central highlands seeking work in the British-established tea plantations. What started as temporary employment evolved into permanent settlement as he saved enough to purchase a small plot near the estate where he worked. “My grandfather told stories of carrying tea baskets that weighed more than he did,” Sunil recalled during an interview in a temporary shelter established for survivors. “He would say that every perfect cup of Ceylon tea contained drops of our family’s sweat.”

Over decades, the family expanded their holdings modestly, building three homes clustered together on their land while continuing to work on the surrounding estates. The middle generation—Sunil and his wife Kumari—witnessed Sri Lanka’s independence and the nationalization of the tea industry, adapting to each change while maintaining their family’s foothold in the highlands. Their children represented the first generation to receive formal education, with their eldest daughter becoming a teacher at the local school and their sons introducing modern agricultural techniques to improve their small tea plot’s productivity. “We were never wealthy, but we had something more valuable—stability and continuity,” explained Kumari Ratnayake, who lost her youngest son and two grandchildren in the landslide. “Three generations under the same patch of sky, knowing exactly who we were and where we belonged.” This multigenerational stability, rare in communities often characterized by economic migration, made the Ratnayakes informal leaders in their hamlet. The family had helped establish a community center, organized festivals celebrating both Buddhist and Hindu traditions, and shared their knowledge of tea cultivation with newcomers to the area.

Warning Signs Ignored: A Preventable Catastrophe?

Environmental experts and community advocates have raised uncomfortable questions about whether this tragedy could have been prevented. Government geological surveys conducted in 2018 had identified the area as having “elevated landslide risk,” but residents claim they were never properly informed or offered relocation assistance. “We noticed more erosion in recent years, especially after heavy rains,” said Lakshman Perera, a neighbor of the Ratnayakes who lost his home but escaped with his family. “When we reported cracks appearing on the hillside last year, officials came, took photographs, and promised to return with engineers. They never did.” Documents obtained from the National Building Research Organization confirm that the hamlet had been classified as a “moderate-to-high risk zone,” with recommendations for drainage improvements and potential relocation of the most vulnerable households.

The intensification of rainfall patterns has accelerated erosion throughout the highlands, creating dangerous conditions that traditional knowledge no longer adequately addresses. Many families like the Ratnayakes had developed their own systems for monitoring conditions—observing water flow patterns, noting changes in vegetation, listening for subtle sounds from the earth. But these traditional warning systems proved insufficient against the sheer intensity of the recent storm, which dumped over 300 millimeters of rain in a 24-hour period. “This wasn’t just heavy rain—it was a rainfall event beyond local memory or record,” explained meteorologist Dinesh Gunawardena from the Department of Meteorology. “We’re seeing these extreme events with increasing frequency across the central highlands, creating conditions that traditional infrastructure and knowledge systems weren’t designed to handle.” The Ratnayakes’ hamlet had implemented some protective measures, including drainage channels and retaining walls, but these modest defenses were overwhelmed by the volume of water and destabilized soil during the record-breaking downpour.

Rebuilding Lives: The Challenging Road Ahead

For survivors like Sunil and Kumari Ratnayake, the path forward is shrouded in uncertainty. Having lost their homes, livelihoods, family members, and the physical connections to their heritage, they face rebuilding in a context fundamentally altered by both personal tragedy and environmental reality. “We can’t go back to that place—it’s not just destroyed; it’s become a graveyard,” Sunil said, his voice breaking as he described the decision not to attempt rebuilding on the same land. “But moving away means leaving behind everything our family built over three generations.” The government has proposed relocating survivors to a housing development approximately 15 kilometers away—far from their traditional livelihoods and community connections. While offering safety, this solution presents its own challenges, particularly for elderly residents whose identities are inextricably linked to the highlands’ landscapes and ways of life.

The tea industry that supported the Ratnayakes and thousands of other families faces its own existential questions as climate change alters the conditions that make Ceylon tea distinctive. The precise combination of elevation, temperature, rainfall, and soil that produces the region’s characteristic flavor profile is increasingly under threat. “These aren’t just homes being lost; this is the potential unraveling of an entire cultural and economic ecosystem,” observed Dr. Jayanthi Kuruppu, an anthropologist documenting the human dimensions of environmental change in Sri Lanka’s highlands. “When a family like the Ratnayakes loses their foothold, we’re witnessing the erosion of living knowledge about tea cultivation that spans generations.” Despite these overwhelming challenges, resilience remains a defining characteristic of highland communities. At the temporary shelter where the Ratnayakes now reside, discussions have already begun about forming a cooperative among displaced families to collectively purchase new land where they might rebuild as a community rather than dispersing to government-provided individual housing units. “We’ve lost our homes, but we haven’t lost who we are,” Kumari insisted. “Three generations taught us how to endure. Now we must show the fourth generation how to begin again.”

A Climate Warning Written in Mud and Memory

The destruction of the Ratnayakes’ hamlet represents more than a localized tragedy—it serves as a stark illustration of how climate change disproportionately affects those who have contributed least to the problem. Sri Lanka’s highland communities have maintained relatively low-carbon lifestyles while producing a commodity enjoyed worldwide. The bitter irony is not lost on survivors. “People in Europe and America drink our tea every morning without knowing that the families who grow it are now being washed away by their changing climate,” reflected Vimala, the Ratnayakes’ eldest daughter who had moved to Colombo years earlier but returned after the disaster. Environmental justice advocates have pointed to the Hatton landslide as emblematic of wider inequities in climate vulnerability and response. While wealthy nations debate emission targets for future decades, communities like the Ratnayakes’ are already experiencing life-altering consequences.

As Sri Lanka enters another monsoon season with rainfall patterns increasingly diverging from historical norms, the urgency of developing effective adaptation strategies becomes evident. The government has announced plans to conduct comprehensive new geological surveys of highland settlements and implement an early warning system for landslide-prone areas. Critics note, however, that similar promises followed previous disasters with limited follow-through. For the surviving Ratnayakes, these policy discussions feel distant from their immediate reality of grief and displacement. “Three generations of our family built something that was washed away in minutes,” Sunil observed, watching his grandchildren play in the shelter courtyard. “We don’t want charity—we want the chance to build something that will last for the next three generations. But first, we need to know the ground beneath us won’t disappear again.” As they contemplate what comes next, the Ratnayakes carry with them intangible inheritances that no landslide could wash away: their knowledge of tea cultivation, their cultural traditions, and their demonstrated capacity for adaptation across changing times. These assets, rather than physical property, may prove most valuable as they face the challenge of reimagining their future in a landscape transformed by both tragedy and the continuing forces of environmental change.