-By LeN Legal Affairs Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -22.May.2025, 11.00 PM) They may wear wigs, speak in Latin, and quote dusty tomes of jurisprudence—but Sri Lanka’s lawyers are fast discovering that their biggest battle isn’t in court. It’s out in the real world, where the very independence of their profession now finds itself in the legal crosshairs of an increasingly emboldened state machinery.
In a sharply worded statement that resembled more of a courtroom cross-examination than a press release, the Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL) has fired a legal broadside against what it describes as a creeping threat to the sanctity of the legal profession. The charge? That law enforcement agencies and prosecutorial bodies are unceremoniously prying into the affairs of legal practitioners—undermining both attorney-client privilege and the rule of law.
“Lawyers must be able to discharge their professional duties without any fear or limitation,” thundered the BASL, wagging its collective legal finger in the face of those who believe subpoena power extends into the chambers of privileged confidentiality.
And if that sounds dramatic, consider the implications. What’s at stake here isn’t just the quiet dignity of a Colombo law firm—it’s the foundational premise that every citizen, no matter how notorious or misunderstood, is entitled to a fair defence.
At the heart of the Bar Association’s indignation is a troubling trend: reports that law enforcement officers, emboldened by vague mandates and perhaps embittered by slow-moving trials, are attempting to compel lawyers to disclose sensitive communications with their clients.
It’s the kind of scenario one might expect in a courtroom drama set in a banana republic. But this isn’t fiction—and it isn’t far from the truth.
“These actions risk violating ethical standards and compromising the independence of the legal profession,” the BASL warned, in language only a lawyer could make sound both elegant and menacing.
Their concern is not without precedent. Over the past year, at least three high-profile attorneys have been summoned by investigating agencies to “clarify” statements made by their clients—or worse, to divulge correspondence and notes that are legally protected under professional privilege.
One defence counsel, speaking anonymously for fear of reprisals (yes, that’s where we are now), described receiving “friendly reminders” from an intelligence officer urging him to be “patriotic” and hand over his client’s case file.
“It’s a polite word for intimidation,” he said. “Today, they ask for notes. Tomorrow, they’ll want the passwords to our email.”
To the uninitiated, legal privilege may sound like a professional perk—akin to free coffee in the breakroom. In reality, it’s the bedrock of legal integrity. Without the assurance of confidentiality, clients cannot speak freely, and lawyers cannot build defences without second-guessing who might be listening.
“Privilege is not for the lawyer’s benefit,” explains Justice (Retd.) Nihal Senaratne, a former judge of the Court of Appeal. “It’s for the citizen’s protection. If lawyers are forced to become witnesses against their own clients, the justice system collapses.”
The BASL’s statement points squarely to the Supreme Court Rules and Sri Lanka’s own Evidence Ordinance, both of which enshrine the principle of legal confidentiality. The rules are clear: communications between lawyer and client are sacrosanct, save for two exceptions—express client consent or specific statutory requirement.
What law enforcement agencies appear to be doing, however, is attempting to blur the lines—suggesting that the ‘national interest’ or ‘state security’ might override this ancient covenant.
But as any decent barrister would reply: where in the statute does it say so?
The Bar Association’s frustration also touches a deeper nerve. In recent years, the legal profession has been caught in the political crossfire of post-conflict justice, corruption trials, and a public increasingly impatient with legal delays.
The result? A temptation to paint lawyers not as defenders of rights, but as obstructionists—people who “get criminals off the hook,” as one politician recently quipped, seemingly forgetting that he himself was once a client of said professionals.
It’s the oldest trick in the authoritarian playbook: if you can’t attack the court, attack the people who appear in it.
The BASL isn’t amused.
“Any limitation imposed on Attorneys-at-Law to discharge their professional duties toward a client will curtail the right of citizens to have due and proper access to justice,” the association stated. “This is an indispensable element in the justice system.”
Translated from legalese: interfere with lawyers, and you interfere with everyone’s rights.
The image of the lawyer as an agent of the state, rather than its challenger, is deeply at odds with the Sri Lankan legal tradition. Even during the darkest years of political turmoil, lawyers—however flawed or flamboyant—have remained stubbornly independent.
That independence is now under siege.
Whether it’s defence attorneys representing political dissidents, human rights lawyers protecting marginalised communities, or corporate lawyers challenging regulatory overreach, the profession’s job has always been to ask uncomfortable questions—and sometimes, to defend uncomfortable clients.
“Do not mistake representation for endorsement,” says Aruni Pathirana, a prominent human rights lawyer. “We don’t choose our clients’ morals. We defend their rights.”
And those rights, she notes, don’t vanish just because the client happens to be unpopular, unkempt, or unfashionably anti-government.
Historically, the legal fraternity in Sri Lanka has shown itself capable of more than just legalese. On more than one occasion, the black coats have taken to the streets.
The 2022 constitutional crisis, for instance, saw hundreds of lawyers descend on Hulftsdorp in silent protest, demanding the reinstatement of democratic norms. During the Aragalaya protests, BASL members served as both legal watchdogs and street-level human rights monitors.
It’s a profession that, despite its Victorian affectations, has proven time and again that it is unafraid to shout in unison when silence becomes complicity.
The BASL’s current warning may not come with placards or megaphones, but its implications are just as serious.
So what has led to this sudden appetite for attorney disclosures?
Sources suggest that prosecutorial bodies, frustrated by weak cases or thwarted investigations, are now attempting to use lawyers as evidentiary shortcuts. “They want the lawyer to become the informant,” said one senior counsel, who has represented both political activists and controversial businessmen.
Another theory is less legal, more Orwellian: that parts of the state’s intelligence apparatus have grown accustomed to extra-legal behaviour—monitoring, intercepting, and influencing—and now seek to extend their reach into the most private sanctums of legal communication.
A senior BASL figure, speaking off the record, compared it to “planting bugs in a confession box.”
“The moment lawyers become government informers, justice is not only delayed—it is defiled.”
Sri Lanka’s Constitution—whatever its faults—guarantees under Article 14(1)(g) the freedom to engage in any lawful profession, occupation, trade, or business. That includes the legal profession. Interfering with lawyers, therefore, isn’t just bad ethics—it’s bad constitutional law.
And yet, enforcement agencies appear to be playing fast and loose with these protections.
Some within the legal fraternity believe it’s only a matter of time before the matter escalates into a full-blown constitutional crisis—one in which the courts will be asked to decide whether the state can compel a lawyer to breach their sacred oath of confidentiality.
Until then, the BASL has made its position clear: enough is enough.
In conclusion, the BASL’s statement should not be read as the defensive mewling of a professional guild—but as a principled stand against a culture of intimidation that threatens the legal system at its core.
If lawyers cannot act without fear, clients cannot speak without fear. If clients cannot speak, justice cannot be done.
So the next time a lawyer is criticised for defending a scoundrel, or for refusing to ‘cooperate’ with an investigation, remember: the rule of law is not a convenience. It is a covenant. And in Sri Lanka, it is once again under attack—not from revolutionaries or militants, but from the very institutions sworn to uphold it.
The robe may be black, the language arcane, and the profession occasionally pompous—but make no mistake: without fearless lawyers, there can be no fearless justice.
And if they come for the lawyers today, it may well be the citizens who stand defenceless tomorrow.
-By LeN Legal Affairs Correspondent
---------------------------
by (2025-05-22 18:50:29)
Read 10296 Times
Leave a Reply
0 discussion on this news