-By LeN Legal Affairs Editor
(Lanka-e-News -24.May.2025, 11.10 PM) Yesterday in the Matara courthouse, the absence of one of Sri Lanka’s most elusive political acrobats—Basil Rajapaksa—was more conspicuous than a red passport at Bandaranaike Airport.
According to a medical certificate presented to court by Basil’s lawyer, Mr. Anil Silva PC, the former minister couldn’t appear in person because—brace yourselves—he fell off a chair and sprained his neck.
That’s right. A man who once chaired entire ministries and allegedly moved billions across offshore havens was, this week, tragically undone by... a chair.
As for what kind of chair could humble a Rajapaksa? Was it a flimsy Ikea knock-off? A rogue rocking chair? Or perhaps a literal “throne” collapsing under the metaphysical weight of karma? The nation remains curious.
But what really stole the legal limelight was not Basil’s chiropractic misfortune—but the verbal somersaults his lawyer performed in open court.
When the Additional Solicitor General, Ms. Girihagama, challenged the legitimacy of the medical certificate, Mr. Silva—never one to shy away from the dramatic—thundered:
“There are no fraudulent doctors in America like the ones we have in Sri Lanka!”
Yes, you read that right. In his effort to defend a client accused of corruption and absenteeism, Mr. Silva casually carpet-bombed the reputations of the entire Sri Lankan medical profession.
Now, we’ve heard of deflecting criticism. We’ve heard of blaming the media, NGOs, foreign conspiracies, and even the weather. But blaming every Sri Lankan doctor to cover for a political client with a bruised ego (and neck)? That’s a new level of performance.
One might call it… jurisprudential jazz.
The irony, of course, is monumental. Here is a lawyer defending a man accused of pilfering public wealth—shielded by a medical certificate presumably signed by one of the very “fraudulent doctors” he just insulted.
One could argue that Mr. Silva’s claim was less a legal argument and more a stand-up routine. If so, he’s auditioning for a spot somewhere between Parliament and Punchi Theatre.
But behind the punchlines lie real questions. Is it defamatory to brand an entire medical fraternity as dishonest in open court? Is it legal? Is it ethical? Or has Sri Lanka’s courtroom become a confessional booth for lawyers with Tourette's?
The Government Medical Officers’ Association (GMOA)—usually known for instantly calling strikes over everything from pen ink quality to lunch packets—has so far been suspiciously quiet.
No outraged pressers. No protest marches. Not even a strongly-worded WhatsApp chain message.
Why the silence, GOMA? Cat got your collective tongue? Or did Anil Silva's medical mic drop leave even you too stunned to draft a letter?
Let’s be honest: if a trade union leader had insulted doctors in such broad, unsparing terms, the GMOA would have shut down the OPD, chained themselves to the Health Ministry gates, and demanded an apology, a pay raise, and possibly a diplomatic passport.
But now? Not even a whisper. Could it be that lawyers—especially the silk-swathed, politically affiliated kind—get a special pass in the land of professional egos?
More importantly: will any medical association have the courage to sue Mr. Silva for defamation on behalf of all licensed physicians whose honour was casually slandered in open court?
Or is legal immunity now a Rajapaksa family plan add-on?
There was a time when courtrooms were seen as theatres of truth, with justice blindfolded and balanced. Today, they seem more like badly scripted reality shows where the plot twists come not from evidence, but from elbows on chairs and egos in suits.
The press, meanwhile, has been abuzz with reports that a member of the Bar Association recently proposed removing the Commissioner of the Bribery Commission—a former Supreme Court Justice, no less—for daring to summon someone “important.”
You heard that correctly.
Apparently, even the very mechanisms of accountability are being faulted for functioning. In any other country, this would be called governance. In Sri Lanka, it’s called insubordination.
And now, thanks to Mr. Silva’s outburst, we have a new national debate: Can Sri Lanka’s medical professionals sue a lawyer for what he said in open court?
Or must they swallow the insult like expired Panadol and move on?
The legal profession, always the loudest defender of decorum when someone else missteps, has suddenly developed a case of convenient laryngitis. No formal rebuke. No statement. Not even an angry tweet.
It’s as if the unwritten rule in Colombo’s legal and medical circles is this: “Don’t call out the people who attend the same cocktail parties as you.”
Even legal Twitter—usually a firestorm of indignation over everything from dress codes to judicial decorum—has responded with mild chuckles and meme-sharing.
Perhaps justice isn’t just blind—it’s also deaf when the bar speaks.
Meanwhile, back to Basil’s fabled fall. If this mysterious chair had a voice, it might say, “I did what the judiciary could not—I brought down a Rajapaksa.”
Indeed, in the annals of courtroom absences, this one deserves its own exhibit in the Museum of Political Excuses.
Forget heart palpitations, overseas conferences, or “unavoidable commitments.” Falling off a chair? That’s performance art.
One suspects this chair may soon receive a State literary award for “Best Supporting Role in a Corruption Trial.”
Towards the end of Mr. Silva’s courtroom monologue, he reportedly said he was “open to dialogue” regarding the comments he made about Sri Lankan doctors.
Lovely. Perhaps he could hold a town hall at the National Hospital cafeteria? Or better yet, a TED Talk titled: How to Undermine an Entire Profession in Under 10 Seconds.
Maybe he’ll follow up with a book: Chairs, Chiropractors, and Courtroom Calamities: The Basil Rajapaksa Files.
Or perhaps it’s time for the nation to acknowledge what this whole fiasco really reveals: a collapsing trust in institutions where accountability is a prop, not a principle.
There was a time when lawyers were admired for their eloquence and doctors for their integrity. Today, both professions seem to be pulled into a circus where loyalty matters more than ethics, and chairs are more dangerous than subpoenas.
Basil may have avoided a courtroom. But what the nation couldn’t avoid was a fresh reminder that in Sri Lanka’s tragicomedy of justice, the punchlines keep writing themselves.
And now, with lawyers insulting doctors, doctors staying silent, and chairs claiming political casualties—one must ask:
When will someone finally fall off the high horse?
-By LeN Legal Affairs Editor
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by (2025-05-24 23:48:34)
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