The Portuguese Inquisition in Ceylon

Lucas: We’ve spent the last few episodes tracing the rise and fall of Kandy, watching the Kandyan kings outmaneuver the Dutch and the Portuguese with shifting alliances and clever diplomacy. But while the interior kingdoms were playing chess with European powers, the coastal forts were undergoing something far more brutal and intimate. The Portuguese weren’t just extracting cinnamon; they were trying to rewrite the soul of the island. Luna: Rewrite the soul? That sounds heavier than just trading posts. Lucas: It was. By the late 1500s, the Portuguese crown had established an Inquisition tribunal in Goa, but its shadow stretched all the way to Colombo. They weren't just converting locals; they were hunting heretics among their own settlers. And that’s where things get really strange, because one of their most prominent targets wasn't a local Sinhalese convert, but a wealthy Jewish merchant named Abraham Franco. Luna: A Jewish merchant in Portuguese Colombo? Lucas: Exactly. Abraham Franco was part of a growing community of 'New Christians'—people who had been forcibly converted to Catholicism in Portugal or Spain but were secretly practicing Judaism. They fled to places like Antwerp, Amsterdam, and yes, even the tropical heat of Ceylon, hoping to escape the watchful eyes of the Holy Office. For a while, it worked. The distance from Europe meant loose oversight. Luna: So they thought they were safe once they landed in Asia. Lucas: They were naive. In 1583, a spy from Goa arrived in Colombo, specifically looking for traces of this clandestine Jewish practice. He didn't need much evidence. He found Abraham Franco and several other merchants keeping kosher, avoiding pork, and lighting candles on Saturday evenings. These were subtle acts, barely visible to the casual observer, but to the Inquisition, they were treason against God and King. Luna: Lighting candles was enough to get you arrested? Lucas: It was the beginning of the end. Franco was summoned before the tribunal in Colombo. The proceedings were swift and terrifying. They didn't care about your wealth or your status as a trader. If you were suspected of Judaizing, you were imprisoned, tortured until you confessed, and then handed over to the secular authorities for punishment. Franco was sentenced to death by burning, though his sentence was later commuted to imprisonment and public shaming because he was a foreigner, not a Portuguese subject. Luna: Public shaming? What did that actually look like? Lucas: It was designed to break you socially as well as physically. They made you wear a sambenito, a penitential garment painted with flames and demons, and marched you through the streets of Colombo. It was a spectacle meant to remind everyone what happened if you strayed from the official path. But here’s the thing: the Inquisition in Ceylon was never as systematic as in Lisbon or Goa. It was sporadic, fueled by rumors and personal vendettas as much as genuine religious fervor. Luna: So it was more chaotic than organized? Lucas: Chaotic is the right word. The Portuguese administrators were often more interested in seizing the assets of the accused than in saving souls. When they targeted someone like Franco, they weren't just punishing him; they were confiscating his warehouses, his ships, and his inventory. The Inquisition became a tool for economic warfare between rival merchant families. You could denounce your competitor, claim they were a secret Jew, and watch them lose everything. Luna: That’s a very practical use of religion. Lucas: Precisely. And it wasn't just Jews who suffered. The Portuguese were deeply suspicious of any non-Catholic presence. Muslim traders from Gujarat and Malabar, who had dominated Indian Ocean commerce for centuries, found themselves under intense scrutiny. Their mosques were sometimes seized, their prayers disrupted, and their businesses harassed under the guise of preventing 'infidel influence.' It created a climate of fear that stifled trade. Luna: Did the local Buddhist population feel safer because of that? Lucas: Not necessarily. The Portuguese viewed Buddhism as idolatry and treated it with equal hostility. They destroyed temples, burned scriptures, and forced monks to marry or leave the order. So whether you were a secret Jew, a practicing Muslim, or a devout Buddhist, the message from the fort was the same: conform or perish. The only difference was that the New Christians had the added layer of having betrayed their ancestral faith in the eyes of their accusers. Luna: It feels like no one was truly safe under the Portuguese. Lucas: No one was. Even within the Catholic community, there was paranoia. Priests denounced priests. Merchants turned on neighbors. The social fabric of Colombo began to tear. People started leaving, moving inland to Kandy or returning to India, seeking places where they could breathe without the constant threat of a midnight knock at the door. It was a slow exodus of talent and capital. Luna: And yet, the Portuguese stayed for another hundred years. Lucas: They did, clinging to the coast while losing the interior. But the damage they did to the island’s multicultural trade networks was profound. When the Dutch arrived in the early 1600s, they inherited a port city that was economically weakened and socially fractured. The Dutch, for all their faults, were pragmatic. They cared less about your theology and more about your contracts. But that shift came after a century of terror. Luna: So the Dutch benefited from the Portuguese mistakes? Lucas: In many ways, yes. The Dutch promised tolerance, at least commercially. They allowed Muslims and Hindus to worship freely as long as they paid their taxes. It was a different kind of oppression, rooted in profit rather than piety, but it felt like relief to people who had lived in fear of the Inquisition. Abraham Franco himself survived, living out his days in relative obscurity, a ghost in the machine of empire. Luna: I hope he found some peace in the end. Lucas: Perhaps. But his story remains a stark reminder of how ideology can be weaponized against ordinary people. The records of his trial are still preserved in archives in Lisbon and Goa, tiny fragments of a life erased by bureaucracy. They serve as a testament to those who resisted, quietly and courageously, the pressure to disappear. Luna: It’s chilling how easily fear can be manufactured. Lucas: It is. And it makes you wonder what we take for granted today about freedom of belief. But let’s pause for a moment to talk about how these stories keep coming to light. I know many of you have been following us since the early Polonnaruwa episodes, and your support makes it possible for us to dig into these obscure corners of history. Luna: Yeah, it really is amazing how much research goes into each conversation. Lucas: It takes time, and resources. A couple of dollars a month is genuinely what keeps these going — buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo, if you've gotten something out of them. It helps us pay for access to archives and translation services. Luna: It definitely makes a difference in the quality of the details. Lucas: Thank you for considering it. Now, back to the coast. While the Inquisition was busy purging the elite merchants, a different kind of resistance was brewing among the common people. Luna: Common people resisting the church? Lucas: Not just the church, but the entire colonial system. We’ve talked about the Kandyan kings, but in the low country, under Portuguese rule, there were frequent uprisings. Villagers would refuse to pay taxes, burn down churches, or flee into the hills. It was a guerrilla war of attrition, fought with sickles and spears against muskets and cannons. Luna: Did the Portuguese manage to crush those rebellions? Lucas: They suppressed individual incidents, but they couldn't stop the tide. Every time they tightened control, resentment grew. The combination of religious intolerance and economic exploitation created a powder keg. By the time the Dutch arrived, the low country was exhausted, ripe for a new master, but still simmering with discontent. Luna: So the Dutch walked into a powder keg. Lucas: Exactly. And they, too, would eventually face the consequences of treating the island as a resource to be extracted rather than a home to be respected. But that’s a story for another day. For now, let’s leave you with the image of Abraham Franco, walking through the streets of Colombo in his penitential garment, carrying the weight of an empire’s fear. Luna: A heavy burden for one man to carry alone. Lucas: He wasn't alone, though. He was part of a network of survivors, whispering prayers in the dark, keeping their traditions alive against impossible odds. History remembers the victors, but it’s often the quiet resistors who hold the truest memory of what it means to survive. Luna: I’ll be thinking about those whispers next time I walk through a crowd. Lucas: That’s a beautiful place to leave it. Thanks for listening, Luna.