There are moments in the life of a nation when its greatest dangers are not immediately visible.
Such dangers do not arrive in the form of bombs from the air, or tanks on the streets, or constitutions torn apart. They do not announce themselves dramatically. They enter far more quietly. They emerge through habit, practice, or a gradual reshaping of institutions that once stood as safeguards of liberty.
That is how democracies weaken. Not in explosions. But in slow erosion, and slow motion. It is this kind of erosion that Sri Lanka must now confront.
At first glance, nothing appears fundamentally broken. The Executive continues to govern. Courts continue to sit. Judges continue to hear cases. Police continue to investigate. Prosecutors continue to indict. Parliament continues to debate. The machinery of government remains intact, and the outward form of constitutional democracy appears undisturbed. Yet anyone who studies institutions carefully knowthat constitutional strength cannot be measured by appearances alone.
A law and order system is not judged merely by whether it functions, but by how it functions. It is not enough that arrests are made. It matters how they are made. It is not enough that investigations commence. It matters against whom they commence. It is not enough that prosecutions are filed. It matters whether similar conduct is treated similarly.
Above all, it is not enough that courts remain open. It matters whether the citizen continues to believe that justice within those courts is impartial. That belief is the true foundation of the Rule of Law.
More than a century ago, A. V. Dicey, in his seminal work “Introduction to the Study of the Law of the Constitution” (1885), described the “Rule of Law” as the essential absence of arbitrary power. Its central promise was elegantly simple: that no person, however powerful, should stand above the law, and equally, no citizen, however vulnerable, should be denied its equal protection.
That principle lies at the heart of modern democracy. It is also the principle most easily damaged. Not because governments sometimes openly reject it, but because inequality in law rarely appears openly. It arrives camouflaged as procedure. It hides within discretion. It wears the clothing of legality. This is why the erosion of justice is so difficult to detect. For the law may remain in place even as justice begins to depart.
Sri Lanka’s Constitution itself reflects these principles with admirable clarity. Article 12 promises equality before the law. Article 13 protects against arbitrary arrest and punishment. Article 4(c) vests judicial power in the People. These are not ornamental provisions. They are the moral spine of the Republic. Yet constitutional guarantees are only as strong as the conduct of those entrusted to uphold them. That is where the present concern lies.
Over the past several years, Sri Lanka has witnessed a pattern of legal and institutional conduct that has caused growing unease among citizens, lawyers, academics, journalists and public observers alike. Some of these concerns are visible; others are structural. Some may be explainable; others remain deeply troubling.
What links them together is not necessarily illegality. It is inconsistency. Inconsistency in justice is often the first signal of deeper institutional strain.
One of the most striking features of this modern landscape has been the rise of what may be described as the public spectacle of law enforcement.
There was a time when arrest was treated as a solemn and restrained legal act. It represented the beginning of an inquiry, not the conclusion of guilt. It was an exercise of state power that carried great responsibility with it, because the liberty and reputation of a citizen were at stake. That understanding appears to be changing.Increasingly, high-profile arrests have taken on the character of a theatrical performance. The pattern is now familiar. A residence is surrounded at dawn. Cameras appear, often before the public even knows what has occurred. The individual is bundled into vehicles under heavy public attention. Within hours, images spread through television, online media, and social platforms. Commentators discuss guilt. Political interpretations multiply. By nightfall, the individual has already been judged in the court of public opinion. The legal process has barely begun. Yet the punishment has already commenced.
The arrest of the son of prominent politician in January 2016 in connection with Sports Network investigation remains one of the earliest and clearest illustrations of this phenomenon. The investigation, was heavily publicized and became a major political event. Whatever the eventual merits of the case, the public choreography surrounding the arrest itself became part of the punishment. Years later, the arrest of a prominent Minister over the alleged procurement of substandard medicine raised similar questions. Here too, media coverage was immediate and extensive.
The issue is not whether either of the two arrests was lawful. The issue is whether all comparable cases attract similar urgency, similar visibility and similar institutional determination. The issue is also not whether those arrests were justified. That is for the courts to decide. The issue is whether such methods are uniformly applied. Would every person accused of comparable conduct be subjected to the same urgency, the same publicity, the same spectacle? That is the question constitutionalism requires an answer.
Justice is not measured only by what is done. It is also measured by whether it is done equally. This principle becomes even more fragile when investigations begin on the basis of allegations made by compromised actors. Criminal law has long accepted the use of tainted witnesses. Accomplices, informants, political detractors, even convicted offenders may make accusation. That is not unusual.
But law has always recognized the danger in such evidence. It must be acknowledged that a compromised witness always carries compromised incentives. He may speak to save himself. He may accuse to reduce punishment. He may fabricate to gain favour.He may exaggerate to get a political advantage. He may lie to settle scores.
Sri Lanka’s recent criminal investigations have increasingly relied on information emanating from underworld figures and narcotics traffickers, including known mass murderers whose names have frequently surfaced in law enforcement narratives. The problem is not that such persons may possess useful information. Indeed, criminal networks are often best exposed by insiders. But where their allegations trigger high-level prosecutions or political consequences without visible corroboration, public confidence is placed under strain. Justice may use dirty hands to uncover crime. But justice itself must remain clean.
When serious public investigations increasingly begin on allegations attributed to underworld figures, narcotics offenders or fugitives, and when those allegations trigger immediate (but selective) state action, the public naturally begins to ask whether the threshold for intervention has shifted. This concern does not arise because such witnesses are inherently worthless. It arises because institutional credibility depends on visible restraint.
That old equitable principle that “he who comes to equity must come with clean hands” contains a broad truth. It reminds us that process matters as much as outcome.A dirty process cannot reliably produce clean justice. This problem is magnified when evidence itself begins to leave the courtroom and enter the public arena.
The release of the recorded conversations involving a prominent actor cum politician remains one of the most extraordinary examples of this in Sri Lanka’s legal history.Thousands of private conversations, many involving judges, lawyers and police officers, entered public circulation before judicial examination. The country became absorbed by them. But the deeper question was not merely what was continued in those recordings. The deeper question was how they were released. Who controlled the recordings? Who selected what should become public? Who determined the timing?Who benefited from their disclosure?
These questions matter because selective disclosure is itself a form of power. It shapes narrative. It frames public perception. Once perception hardens, judicial neutrality faces immense pressure. A courtroom may still function. But it now functions inside a public climate already contaminated by partial information.
Time and again, Governments have demonstrated how swiftly the machinery of investigation can move when there is a Government will. Commissions can beappointed, parliamentary inquiries can commence, media scrutiny can intensify, the required narrative can be promoted, and prosecutions can be quickly followed.Whatever may be a person’s view of the merits, the State has the ability to displayspeed, focus and determination. That fact is important, because it establishes capacity.Nevertheless, the gravest institutional danger is not what is pursued. It is what is ignored. Selective prosecution is visible, but selective silence is invisible, and therefore harder to challenge.
That is why inconsistency becomes more difficult to justify. Repeated reports of the Auditor General have documented irregularities, losses, procurement concerns and administrative failures across multiple sectors. Many of these reports carry serious implications. Yet comparatively few appear to produce the same urgency seen in politically charged cases. This is where public suspicion takes root. Not in law itself, but in its uneven activation. The citizen begins to notice patterns, and once patterns become visible, trust is the casualty.
Institutional trust also depends on who occupies positions of influence and power. In any democracy, appointments matter. Not simply because of competence, but because of perception. A retired police officer appointed to a strategic enforcement role may be entirely qualified. A former judicial officer appointed to an anti-corruption institution may be entirely capable. But when such appointments repeatedly align with political loyalties and expectation, public confidence weakens.
This is not because misconduct has been proven. It is because proximity to influence and power creates doubt, and doubt is sufficient to weaken institutional legitimacy.Institutions require independence. But they also require visible independence. Without that visibility, even honest institutions will struggle to maintain public trust and confidence.
The judiciary occupies an even more delicate position. Judges do not command armies. They do not control budgets. Their authority rests almost entirely on the confidence of the citizens. The citizen obeys a judicial order because he believes it emerged from impartial reasoning. That belief is precious, but is easily damaged. This is why delays in judicial appointments are not merely administrative matters. Where promotions remain pending, vacancies remain open, and executive action appears paralyzed, an invisible architecture of dependency emerges. No direct interference is required. No instruction need be given. The structure itself creates tension.
Judges awaiting promotion continue to hear politically sensitive cases. The Executive retains the power of providing the elevation to the Judges. If such promotions are delayed and the allowed to accumulate, the public may begin to wonder. Such a perception may be claimed to be unfair, but, it is constitutionally significant. Justice must not only be done. It must appear to be done as well.
This is not a uniquely Sri Lankan concern. Across the world legal institutions have shown how gradual politicization can hollow out constitutional order without any formal constitutional change. The lesson is universal. Democracy does not die only through illegality. It can die through tolerated selectivity. Sri Lanka must recognize this universal truth while there is still time.
What then must be done? The answer is not institutional destruction. It is institutional restoration. The law must recover visible equality.
Investigations must proceed by evidence. Not convenience, nor fear, nor favour. Major complaints must be acted upon with consistency. Evidence must remain within judicial process until lawfully tested. The use of criminal informants must be subjected to strong corroborative standards. Judicial appointments must be time-bound and timely.Strategic appointments to enforcement bodies must be transparent.
None of the above conditions are radical or extraordinary. They are simply the common-sense disciplines of functioning democracies. Perhaps that is the deepest irony. What is required to restore trust is not innovation. It is discipline.
The discipline to prosecute fairly. The discipline to investigate equally. The disciplineto appoint independently. The discipline to acknowledge that the law belongs to the People, not to governments. That is the constitutional promise, it is a promise worth defending.
Once a citizen is pushed to believe that justice depends on who he is, whom he knows, or whether he is useful to power, the Republic begins to weaken. Not loudly. Not suddenly. But steadily. That is how institutions die.
That is why this moment matters. Sri Lanka stands today at one of those quiet turning points in history. The choice before it is simple, though its consequences are profound.To preserve law as principle, or to permit it to become theatre.
Remember, when law becomes theatre, the audience may cheer. But, justice has already exited the stage.