By Udara Soysa –

Udara Soysa

The National People’s Power (NPP) government has undeniably taken meaningful steps to strengthen the rule of law in Sri Lanka. For decades, the words “rule of law” have often been reduced to hollow rhetoric, invoked selectively while power remained in the hands of the privileged few. In the last year, however, Sri Lanka has begun to experience something different. Investigations that were once politically unthinkable have been allowed to proceed, agencies previously paralysed by fear or political interference have begun to show spine, and the rhetoric of equality before the law has been supported by visible institutional reforms. For this, the NPP government deserves genuine recognition. The rule of law is not merely a principle written in textbooks; it is the everyday protection of the citizen against arbitrary power, the guarantee that the weak and the powerful alike are bound by the same rules. The strengthening of that shield has been one of the most hopeful developments in recent years.

Yet there remains one area where this progress falters, and where the legacy of inequality stubbornly persists: the menace of VIP motorcades and their police outriders. On September 30th, at around 4.48 p.m., a so-called VIP convoy tore through Athurugiriya – Hokandara – Thalawathugoda traffic with blaring sirens and an outrider motorcycle escorts. The convoy ignored red lights, carved through lanes of traffic, and compelled ordinary drivers to brake and swerve in panic. I witnessed the incident and captured a photograph, which is attached with this article. This was no isolated occurrence. Such convoys remain an almost daily reminder that while ordinary Sri Lankans are expected to inch forward patiently in congestion, a select few glide through by converting public roads into private expressways, guarded by the state itself.

Photo of the September 30, 4.48 p.m. incident

The contradiction is stark. At the very moment when the government asserts that the law applies equally to all, these convoys enact the opposite—rules for some, risks for the rest. Article 12(1) of the Constitution of Sri Lanka explicitly proclaims that all persons are equal before the law and are entitled to the equal protection of the law. This is not ornamental language; it is the foundation upon which legitimacy is built. The Supreme Court has repeatedly affirmed that equality must be taken seriously. In Wickremabandu v. Herath (1990), the Court held the police accountable for violating fundamental rights and made clear that state authority is always constrained by constitutional norms. In the famous Jana Ghosha case, Amaratunge v. Sirimal, the Court ruled against police attempts to suppress peaceful protest, emphasising that the convenience of officials or their dislike of dissent could never justify trampling on citizens’ rights. In the Waters Edge and Galle Face Green cases, the Court articulated the doctrine of the public trust, insisting that public resources cannot be diverted or misused for private gain. Each of these rulings underscores the same principle: the law binds everyone, and public power must serve public ends.

Against this jurisprudential backdrop, the spectacle of VIP convoys is indefensible. The Motor Traffic Act and its regulations do allow for certain emergency service vehicles, and the 2009 amendments even created special endorsements for those authorised to drive them. But those provisions are about competence and necessity, not carte blanche to flout the rules of the road. The Police Ordinance, too, grants powers to regulate traffic for safety and order, but nowhere does it allow police to break the very rules they are sworn to enforce simply to suit a politician’s timetable. The law contemplates exceptional use in cases of emergency or security threats, not routine lane-clearing for the privileged. To use public roads and public police time for the mere convenience of a select few is nothing short of state-subsidised recklessness.

Comparative jurisdictions offer useful lessons. India grappled with the same malaise: a culture of red beacons, sirens, and cavalcades that conveyed entitlement rather than necessity. The Indian Supreme Court’s 2013 decision in Abhay Singh v. State of U.P. cracked down on the misuse of red lights and sirens, declaring them unlawful for anyone not specifically authorised and emphasising that roads are shared public spaces, not platforms for displaying privilege. Similarly, the landmark Prakash Singh v. Union of India case in 2006 set in motion police reforms intended to free policing from political control and ensure accountability. These rulings illustrate the judicial recognition that public confidence in equality is undermined when convoys transform public resources into symbols of hierarchy.

The Hokandara incident of September 30 raises the only question that truly matters: what public interest was served? Was there a credible and immediate threat to life that justified the disruption? Was there a time-sensitive duty of state that could not be achieved otherwise? Or was it simply that someone important was late? If the last explanation is true, then the entire operation was an abuse of power: a performance of privilege masquerading as security, paid for by taxpayers, endured by citizens, and rationalised by habit.

Supporters of such practices often fall back on the word “security.” Sri Lanka’s violent history makes this a serious consideration. Yet genuine threats can be addressed through narrowly tailored measures. What is required is a transparent framework that distinguishes necessity from convenience. India demonstrated that it is possible to abolish the symbolic excesses of sirens and beacons while retaining legitimate protective measures. The balance lies in clear criteria, periodic review of who qualifies for escorts, and a culture of accountability where every convoy must be justified by reference to public safety, not private schedules.

The economics of the practice should not be ignored either. Every outrider, every siren, every overtime allowance is funded by the public purse. Citizens who pay taxes, often through indirect levies on essentials, find themselves financing the luxury of others’ punctuality. The doctrine of the public trust articulated by our Supreme Court in land cases must surely extend to the use of public resources such as police time and public roads. To commandeer them for private benefit is to betray that trust.

Culture, however, is as important as law. For too long, VIP movement has been treated as an entitlement, a display of status. If the NPP government truly wishes to entrench the rule of law, it must confront this culture head-on. The rule of law is not fully vindicated by prosecuting corruption or reforming institutions alone. It must be seen and felt in the everyday experience of citizens. When a pedestrian waits at a red light, he or she must know that the same rules restrain the powerful. When an ordinary driver gives way to an ambulance, he or she must believe that the siren means life-saving urgency, not the vanity of someone important.

The time has come to end the theatre of the VIP motorcade. Protective escorts should be reserved for genuine emergencies and defined threats. Otherwise, those in high office should do what every citizen does: leave earlier. That is the simplest and most honest answer. The rule of law requires no less.

The NPP has made progress in restoring faith in justice. But every time a convoy blasts through traffic, the message is undermined. You cannot preach equality in the courtroom while performing inequality on the street. Rule of law is not just a constitutional phrase; it is lived or betrayed at the traffic signal, in the queue, and on the road. If the government is serious about transforming Sri Lanka into a nation where law rules over privilege, then it must begin here. End the VIP road menace. Let equality be visible in the rear-view mirror as much as in the statute book. On September 30, at 4.48 p.m., Sri Lankans once again saw the old contradiction roar past them in blue lights and sirens. The government must ensure that such scenes finally become relics of the past, not features of the present. Because rule of law means only one thing: all must be equal.

*Udara Soysa is a practicing attorney at law and a law lecturer with a focus on human rights