-By LeN Political Correspondent
(Lanka-e-News -26.Aug.2025,11.30 PM) Sri Lankans are used to bitter divisions in their politics: left against right, dynastic clans against reformists, Colombo elites against rural populists. But what unfolded last week outside the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) in Colombo caught even the most hardened political watchers by surprise.
Three politicians long seen as measured, credible and, above all, moderate—Rauff Hakim, Patali Champika Ranawaka, and Mano Ganesan—found themselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Rajapaksa camp, loudly condemning the arrest of former president Ranil Wickremesinghe.
Ranil, ousted from power and hounded by accusations of squandering public money on personal indulgences, was arrested by the CID for allegedly misappropriating state funds to bankroll a private trip to Wolverhampton in the UK, where his wife received an honorary award. It was the first time in Sri Lankan history that a former president had been arrested under provisions of the Public Property Act—a statute with a zero-tolerance reputation.
And yet, instead of joining the chorus of relief from taxpayers weary of elite impunity, Hakim, Champika and Ganesan spoke of “witch hunts,” “overreach,” and “political vengeance.” Their words—echoing the lines of Namal Rajapaksa, G. L. Peiris and Nimal Siripala de Silva—have left the public baffled, angry, and demanding answers.
The arrest itself was dramatic. On a humid morning in Colombo, CID officers arrived at Ranil Wickremesinghe’s residence with a warrant citing Section 386 and 388 of the Penal Code (criminal misappropriation and breach of trust) alongside Section 5(1) of the Public Property Act.
For many Sri Lankans, the symbolism was almost cathartic. Here was a man who had ruled for decades—sometimes as prime minister, briefly as president, often as the “eternal opposition leader”—finally being held accountable in a way that countless others had escaped.
Crowds gathered, not to defend him, but to watch history unfold. The arrest was compared to the downfall of disgraced leaders in South Korea, Taiwan and Malaysia. For a public long accustomed to corruption being brushed under the rug, the message was clear: even Ranil was not above the law.
Which is why the intervention of Hakim, Champika and Ganesan was so jarring.
Rauff Hakim: The Lawyer Who Knows Better
Hakim, leader of the Sri Lanka Muslim Congress and a former Justice Minister, is one of the few Sri Lankan politicians with a legal background and an aura of restraint. He has, in the past, spoken eloquently about judicial independence, the sanctity of public funds, and the rule of law.
But last week he was not talking about law; he was talking about persecution. Standing before television cameras, Hakim warned that Ranil’s arrest “would set a dangerous precedent of criminalising governance decisions.” The remark triggered outrage among lawyers who pointed out that diverting state money to fund a private family trip was no “governance decision.”
For a man who built his career as a defender of minority rights and constitutional propriety, Hakim’s stance looked less like legal reasoning and more like political opportunism.
If Hakim’s defence was disappointing, Champika Ranawaka’s was bewildering.
Here was the engineer-turned-politician who once thundered against waste, who fashioned himself as the torchbearer of good governance after the bond scam scandal, and who railed against dynastic corruption. Ranawaka had once been the voice of the “angry middle class” demanding transparency.
Yet, in the hours after Ranil’s detention, Champika stood with Namal Rajapaksa and accused the NPP government of a vendetta. “This is not justice, this is political theatre,” he said, sounding eerily like the men he once denounced.
On social media, hashtags like #ChampikaBetrayedUs began trending. Commentators asked: If even Champika defends misuse of public funds, who is left to fight corruption?
Perhaps the most curious defence came from Mano Ganesan, the leader of the Democratic People’s Front, often regarded as a bridge-builder between communities. Known for his soft-spoken manner and focus on minority inclusion, Ganesan stunned audiences when he dismissed the case as “a political witch hunt.”
In one interview he went further, arguing that as president, Ranil had “no boundaries between public and private expenditure” because “the office itself carried sovereign privilege.”
The remark was instantly derided as nonsense. Constitutional scholars reminded him that Sri Lanka is not an absolute monarchy, and presidents do not enjoy carte blanche to raid the treasury.
Ganesan’s comments were also met with anger from within his own voter base. Critics reminded him that as the descendant of Indian Tamil labourers brought to the plantations, his political career rested on promises of dignity and accountability—values he now seemed to have abandoned in order to shield an elite Colombo politician.
The question haunting Colombo salons and tea shops alike is simple: Why?
Why would three men with reputations for moderation risk it all to defend Ranil?
One explanation is political calculation. With the NPP government gaining strength, opposition figures see Ranil’s arrest as an opportunity to frame the administration as authoritarian. By banding together—even with the Rajapaksas—they hope to weaken the government’s reformist image.
Another is personal loyalty. Each of the three owes some part of their career to alliances with Ranil. Hakim served in his cabinets. Champika was once a coalition partner. Ganesan enjoyed Ranil’s patronage in Colombo’s minority politics. Old debts, it seems, die hard.
A darker theory, whispered among activists, is self-preservation. If Ranil can be arrested under the Public Property Act, so can many others. By casting doubt on the process, these politicians may be trying to inoculate themselves against future probes.
The reaction on the ground has been fierce. Across Colombo and Kandy, protest banners have appeared asking:
“Hakim, where is your justice now?”
“Champika, did you sell your anti-corruption soul?”
“Mano, whose side are you on—the people or the privileged?”
Editorials in Sinhala and Tamil papers were scathing. Even the usually cautious Bar Association of Sri Lanka hinted that Hakim’s arguments were disingenuous. Civil society groups warned that defending Ranil sent the message that corruption is excusable if the culprit is part of the elite club.
Social media was even harsher. Memes depicted Hakim as “Ranil’s lawyer, not the people’s representative,” Champika as a chameleon changing colours, and Ganesan as a “colonial apologist.”
The controversy comes at a delicate moment. The NPP government, elected on a wave of anti-corruption anger, has staked its legitimacy on cleaning up politics. The Ranil arrest, far from a sideshow, is central to its claim that “no one is above the law.”
For decades, Sri Lanka’s political class has closed ranks whenever accountability threatened. From the Rajapaksa family’s scandals to the infamous bond scam, elite impunity has been the norm. Breaking that pattern was always going to provoke backlash.
But the surprise is not that Rajapaksa loyalists cried foul; it is that moderates joined them. By aligning themselves with the discredited old guard, Hakim, Champika and Ganesan may have inadvertently given the NPP a gift: proof that it stands alone against a united front of entrenched privilege.
At stake is more than Ranil’s fate. The case is a test of whether Sri Lankan democracy has matured enough to withstand elite pressure.
If the judiciary pursues the case without flinching, it will mark a turning point akin to South Korea’s imprisonment of former presidents. If it caves, it will be another chapter in Sri Lanka’s long saga of impunity.
For Hakim, Champika and Ganesan, the cost may be personal. They built reputations on credibility. By choosing Ranil over the people, they risk being remembered not as moderates but as men who, when faced with the choice between principle and privilege, chose the latter.
The people’s questions are simple:
Why did Hakim, a lawyer and former justice minister, defend what is clearly a misuse of funds?
Why did Champika, the anti-corruption crusader, stand beside the Rajapaksas he once denounced?
Why did Ganesan, the voice of inclusion, argue that presidents are above the law?
Until those questions are answered, their credibility will remain in tatters.
In the meantime, the arrest of Ranil Wickremesinghe has cracked open the façade of unity among Sri Lanka’s opposition. It has revealed the lengths to which even respected figures will go to protect the old order. And it has reminded the public that, in the battle between taxpayers and the political elite, solidarity is rarely found where it should be.
For now, the mood across the island is less forgiving than ever. As one protester outside Hulftsdorp put it bluntly: “We don’t care if it’s Rajapaksa, Ranil, or anyone else. If you steal from us, you belong in prison. And if you defend the thief, you are no better.”
-By LeN Political Correspondent
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by (2025-08-26 18:02:30)
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