-By A Staff Writer
(Lanka-e-News -19.May.2025, 11.20 PM) In the annals of judicial scandal, there are tales of corrupt judges, disappearing files, bribery in courtrooms, and even the odd gavel going missing. But few cases have managed to achieve the holy trinity of public outrage, titillation, and sheer absurdity quite like the recent happenings in the Kaduwela Magistrate’s Court.
Yes, dear reader. Sri Lanka’s legal fraternity, those men and women in black coats who never blush and always object, have finally delivered a performance so risqué that the bar has been, quite literally, lowered.
At the centre of the storm is a grainy video clip that’s been circulating on Sri Lankan social media faster than a bribe at a customs checkpoint. The footage — reportedly recorded by a staff member in the court complex — allegedly shows a female magistrate engaging in an, shall we say, intimate exchange with a male lawyer inside what is presumed to be her judicial chambers. Whether the setting was a room marked “Chambers” or “Chamber of Secrets” is up for debate, but what transpired has set the island ablaze with scandal.
And so, with the sound of Sri Lanka’s collective jaw hitting the floor, in waltzed the Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL) — an organisation tasked with upholding the dignity of the legal profession — wearing not just black coats, but blindfolds too.
Like a headmaster caught defending a teacher found spooning a student in the janitor’s closet, the BASL issued a statement of high indignation — not at the misconduct, mind you, but at those who dared to talk about it. According to them, social media commentary and online articles about the incident were “unethical” and “highly damaging to the image of the judiciary.”
Cue laughter from every tea shop in Kaduwela to Kalmunai.
Let’s be clear: what happened in that court was not just unethical, it was unlawful. In a country where citizens are jailed for holding protests, fined for breaking curfew, and insulted for simply wearing jeans to temple, one might think a judge spreading her judicial powers a bit too liberally inside her own chamber might warrant a bit more than a frown from the BASL. But no — instead, the Bar has taken it upon itself to play both public relations officer and moral nanny, as if they alone possess the keys to the kingdom of decency.
The most telling part of the BASL’s statement is what it doesn't say. Not once does it condemn the act itself. Not once does it acknowledge the betrayal of public trust. Not once does it remind the judiciary that while black robes may cover much, they cannot shield against public scrutiny when misused for… extracurricular purposes.
Instead, the statement’s true fury is reserved for the Sri Lankan public — for the bloggers, tweeters, meme-makers and Sunday columnists who dared to highlight the scandal. Apparently, the public has no business pointing fingers at those who rule from the bench. How dare they expect accountability from judges? How dare they assume that magistrates are not entitled to court-sponsored foreplay?
In essence, the BASL’s position appears to be: “Yes, something happened. No, you can’t talk about it.”
Sri Lanka is, by every metric, a country teetering on the edge of social exhaustion. It has endured economic collapse, fuel queues, and a president fleeing in the middle of the night. Amid all this, the judiciary has styled itself as the last line of integrity. Judges and lawyers are seen not merely as professionals but as symbols of moral correctness.
So, when a magistrate turns her official chambers into a private boudoir, it’s more than just salacious gossip — it’s a betrayal of the very institution she represents. The robe, the gavel, the solemn bench — these are not costumes for playacting. They are instruments of justice. And if one chooses to trade the Rule of Law for a Rule of Lust, there must be consequences.
And yet, here we are. The chamber in question has been sealed by the Judicial Services Commission (presumably to air it out), and an inquiry is said to be underway. But nowhere — absolutely nowhere — has the BASL acknowledged the possibility that one of its own members may be complicit in the misconduct.
Instead, it continues to grandstand, issuing pompous statements about “protecting the dignity of the profession,” which is rather rich coming from an organisation currently acting like a silk-clad spin doctor.
Let us not forget: lawyers in Sri Lanka are not an elite born from golden wombs. They attend law college on government-subsidised fees, use publicly funded universities, and in many cases, practice with the assistance of public confidence. That confidence is a contract — an unspoken understanding that in exchange for social respect and judicial autonomy, the profession will uphold the highest standards of ethical conduct.
When lawyers or judges — no matter how junior or senior — violate that contract, they must be held accountable just like anyone else. There is no clause in the Sri Lankan Constitution that allows members of the judiciary to perform acrobatics behind locked doors and still be treated like saints.
This scandal isn’t merely legal. It’s cultural.
In a country where the majority population is deeply Buddhist, where modesty and decorum are still held in high regard (even if sometimes hypocritically), the sight — or even the rumour — of a judge opening her legs in a court chamber is a psychological body blow. This isn’t some uptight prudery — it’s about the sanctity of space. The courtroom, like the temple, is sacred. When that space is desecrated by its own custodians, the fallout is spiritual as much as legal.
It’s also a gendered issue. Female judges in Sri Lanka have worked hard to earn their positions in a traditionally male-dominated legal system. Their credibility rests on competence, integrity, and poise. For one magistrate to treat her post like a casual Tinder tryst is not only an embarrassment to her profession — it’s an insult to the many women who climbed the judicial ladder the hard way.
The BASL must be reminded — loudly — that it is not a church. It is not a Vatican conclave with divine rights to absolve sins and hide the misdeeds of its flock. Its purpose is not to whitewash scandal but to ensure that justice, both inside and outside the courtroom, is respected.
By issuing a statement that seems more concerned about the coverage of the incident than the act itself, the BASL has shown where its true loyalty lies: not with the public, not with justice, but with preserving the illusion of legal infallibility.
Let’s call a spade a gavel. The BASL owes the Sri Lankan public an apology — not for the scandal itself, but for treating us like children unfit to discuss it. Its members are not immune from public accountability. They are civil servants paid, educated, and employed with public money. If they misbehave, they must be disciplined — and not in private, but with full transparency.
This isn’t about lynch mobs or witch hunts. This is about credibility. If the legal profession wants to be treated with respect, it must behave respectably. If it wants to silence public opinion, it must earn public trust.
And trust, once broken by the sound of a courtroom door clicking shut behind a misbehaving pair, takes a lot more than a statement to rebuild.
Sri Lanka has had enough of elite cover-ups. Whether it’s in Parliament or the courtrooms, people want to see accountability — not apologies wrapped in condescension.
So to the Bar Association: take off the blindfold. Stop playing dumb. Admit what happened, commit to real transparency, and let the chips (or undergarments) fall where they may.
Because if the law cannot police itself, don’t be surprised when the people start doing it for you — one meme, one tweet, and one scandal at a time.
-By A Staff Writer
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by (2025-05-19 22:09:39)
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