-By LeN Judicial Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -09.July.2025, 9.20 PM) On a weekday morning, as traffic snarls around the congested heart of Colombo, a curious sight unfolds outside the hulking colonial façade of the Hulftsdorp Courts. A High Court judge—dressed in crisp black robes and carrying a stack of case files—steps out of a modest Toyota, parks at the public lot, and walks unaided past tea stalls and idling tuk-tuks into court. No escort, no security cordon, no police jeep tailing him.
He is alone.
In any functioning democracy, such a scene might suggest humility, judicial restraint, even populist optics. But in Sri Lanka—where this judge could be presiding over drug cartel indictments, politically explosive corruption cases, or multi-billion-rupee money laundering trials—it represents something else entirely: a failure of state protection.
Under the recently elected National People's Power (NPP) government, a quiet revolution is underway in Sri Lanka’s judiciary. Gone are the VIP escorts. Gone are the police bodyguards, the tinted convoys, and the pomp. Judges, it appears, have chosen a path of simplicity, humility—even austerity.
There is nobility in this. But there is also danger.
Because Sri Lankan judges today are not merely arbitrators of contract disputes or civil claims. They are sitting in judgment of men who have held power, trafficked narcotics, laundered billions, and built empires on the bones of the rule of law. Some of these trials involve former cabinet ministers, underworld mafias with transnational reach, and syndicates tied to terrorism and global narcotics routes stretching from Karachi to Kuala Lumpur.
Yet these judges now drive themselves to court—alone, unguarded, and exposed.
Until recently, it was standard for Sri Lankan High Court and Supreme Court judges to be accompanied by two to three armed police officers, particularly when dealing with high-risk criminal cases. That practice, reportedly, has been discontinued across several districts under the NPP administration, in a wider drive to reduce state privilege and “restore the dignity of simplicity.”
But the idea that simplicity equals safety is a dangerous illusion.
Multiple criminal defence lawyers, speaking on condition of anonymity, acknowledge that their clients know where judges live, shop, and worship. In the age of digital surveillance, social media, and law enforcement leaks, it is perilously easy for a judge’s routines to be mapped.
“All it takes is one rogue element in a drug gang—or one political handler with something to hide,” said a former intelligence official now working as a private security consultant in Colombo. “And what you get is not just the death of a judge. You get the death of judicial independence.”
In recent years, several Sri Lankan judges have faced death threats, surveillance, and anonymous intimidation, particularly in cases relating to narcotics, paramilitary crimes, and grand political corruption. The most sensitive cases involve:
Drug trafficking syndicates with regional connections to Dubai, India, and Pakistan.
Money laundering networks tied to shell companies and offshore accounts.
Former politicians and ministers accused of looting billions in state contracts and development funds.
Complex land-grab cases in the Northern and Eastern Provinces involving armed actors.
“Every single judge hearing these cases is a potential target,” said one magistrate in a coastal city. “And if even one of us is attacked, a chilling message will go across the entire judiciary: don't go after the powerful.”
Legal scholars and human rights advocates warn of the psychological cost of leaving judges exposed. The absence of institutional protection does not just risk physical harm—it breeds caution, delay, and avoidance.
“Judges are human. If they feel the state will not shield them, they may unconsciously start recusing themselves, giving lenient bail, or dragging cases,” said a legal academic at the University of Colombo. “That weakens the entire system.”
In Sri Lanka, delays in high-profile corruption trials are already the norm. Cases involving alleged thefts of Rs 1 billion or more by ex-MPs have languished in procedural limbo for years. Witnesses vanish, case files ‘go missing’, and forensic reports get mysteriously redacted. But the judiciary was always seen as the last line of defence—now that line is dangerously thin.
The NPP government swept to power on a wave of public frustration with Sri Lanka’s corrupt political establishment. Their rise was built on the promise of egalitarianism, transparency, and dismantling the elite privileges of a bloated and cynical state.
They have been lauded for eliminating excessive perks for ministers, for removing unnecessary convoys, and for refusing private helicopters.
But applying the same ethos to the judiciary, critics argue, is a fundamental category error.
Judges are not elected officials. They do not have public platforms or political allies. They are meant to be protected by the state so that they can stand against criminals and corrupt officials without fear or favour.
To treat judicial protection as a “privilege” is to misunderstand the very idea of state security, say senior lawyers.
“This is not about luxury. This is about deterrence,” said a retired Supreme Court Justice. “Security sends a signal: that harming a judge is not only criminal—it is suicidal.”
Sri Lanka’s Constitution guarantees judicial independence, but not judicial immunity from violence. That burden lies with the Executive—currently held by the NPP. Legal analysts say the government must not only restore security details for at-risk judges, but also:
Create a dedicated Judicial Protection Unit within the Ministry of Justice or Public Security.
Conduct threat assessments for all judges hearing sensitive criminal or political cases.
Provide secure transport and surveillance equipment for vulnerable court locations.
Establish emergency response protocols in the event of attempted attacks or intimidation.
The judiciary is not asking for special treatment. But when their role involves confronting entrenched power, political fraud, and armed criminality, protection is not optional. It is existential.
To leave judges vulnerable is to invite disaster. Sri Lanka does not need another killing of a public servant to understand the stakes. The chilling memory of Lasantha Wickrematunge, the editor assassinated for his investigative journalism, looms large. Judges, like journalists, make enemies by exposing truth.
“The first bullet doesn’t just kill a judge,” said a human rights advocate in Colombo. “It kills dozens of cases behind him. It kills evidence. It kills morale.”
Once fear is seeded in the judiciary, it spreads. Young judges begin to avoid controversial assignments. Prosecutors become reluctant to file charges. Witnesses refuse to testify. And criminal empires—fattened by silence—grow stronger.
Despite the grim backdrop, there remains widespread public support for judges in Sri Lanka. Unlike politicians, many judges are seen as honest, austere, and dedicated—men and women who rise before dawn to read files, refuse bribes, and uphold the law in defiance of pressure.
Surveys conducted last year showed that the judiciary enjoys higher public trust than Parliament, police, or even the military.
Taxpayers, said one business owner in Kandy, “don’t mind paying for security if it means justice will be done.”
Indeed, for a nation that has lost so much to corruption—port deals gone awry, state banks looted, public land siphoned to cronies—the judiciary remains the last hope.
The NPP must tread carefully. Their anti-elitist message has struck a chord. But revolutionary simplicity cannot come at the expense of judicial safety.
There is bravery in judges refusing convoys. But there is greater bravery in a government admitting that simplicity must be balanced with responsibility.
For if Sri Lanka is to emerge from its history of impunity, it must protect the very people trying to cleanse its future.
Without them, justice is not only blind. It is endangered.
-By LeN Judicial Correspondent
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by (2025-07-09 15:52:21)
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