By Udara Soysa –

Udara Soysa

In Sri Lanka, outrage itself has become a crime. The story of Senior Lawyer Gunaratne Wanninayake is now being rewritten by those who wish to silence discomfort: a man who reacted to the sight of a colleague assaulted within a court is being portrayed not as a witness to violence but as the villain of the scene. The government’s declaration that legal action will be taken against him for obstructing police duties and threatening a police constable is more than a charge sheet — it is a mirror of how power in this country punishes conscience when it becomes inconvenient.

The events are by now familiar. On 10 October 2025, within the precincts of the Mount Lavinia Court, a police constable allegedly assaulted a junior lawyer over a dispute concerning the parking of a vehicle. The assault occurred in broad daylight, in a space that should have embodied the rule of law. Shockingly, the young lawyer’s colleagues were present — among them Gunaratne Wanninayake, a seasoned practitioner of decades’ standing. The incident prompted immediate outrage. The constable in question was arrested and remanded until the 13th, and even the Inspector-General of Police, Priyantha Weerasooriya, publicly acknowledged that the Police Department would represent the remanded constable in the ensuing proceedings.

Interestingly within days, the conversation changed. Rather than sustaining the focus on the assault and the officer’s conduct, official statements began to highlight the behaviour of Gunaratne Wanninayake from a viral video which captured part of the interaction leaked to social media while recorded in the court premises. Interestingly, legality of such recording itself in court premises without permission of the court should be questioned let alone leaking selective parts to social media. The Public Security Minister, Ananda Wijepala, announced that the senior lawyer would face legal action for obstructing the duties of the police and threatening a constable mostly due to the language used by Gunaratne Wanninayake in the selective leaked video— allegations which, if proven, fall under Sections 183 and 186 of the Penal Code, both minor offences but symbolically potent. The story, in other words, was inverted: the assaulted lawyer faded from headlines, while the man who had rushed to defend him was reframed as the offender.

To anyone familiar with Sri Lankan legal history, the inversion feels chillingly familiar. When citizens challenge abuse, the State’s reflex is not accountability but accusation. Decades of jurisprudence reveal the same pattern. In Velmurugu v Attorney-General (1981 1 Sri LR 406), the Supreme Court stressed that the right to protection from cruel and degrading treatment under Article 11 of the Constitution is absolute. Later, in Gerald Mervin Perera v Suraweera (2003 1 Sri LR 245), the Court found that the petitioner had been tortured by officers and granted relief, noting that the state cannot claim immunity for unlawful force. In Sriyani Silva v Iddamalgoda (SC FR 471/2000), it went further, recognising that custodial violence which causes death violates not only Article 11 but also the constitutional guarantee of security of person under Article 13.

These cases, like so many others, established a moral constant: the use of physical violence by agents of the State is never lawful unless strictly necessary, and its justification must be scrutinised by the courts. Yet outside the courtroom, the culture of impunity continues. Each generation of lawyers knows of colleagues harassed, threatened, or abused by authorities when representing unpopular causes or speaking against the police. The same moral pattern repeats itself: outrage is criminalised, while official misconduct is rationalised.

Within this historical backdrop, Wanninayake’s conduct must be understood not through the sterile language of a charge sheet based on questionable choice of his words but through the human reality of that moment. He witnessed a junior colleague — unarmed, defenceless, and standing within the court compound — being struck by a uniformed officer. The instinct to intervene, to raise one’s voice, again although in questionable choice of language, even to challenge the perpetrator directly, is not rebellion but humanity. To interpret that reaction as “obstruction” is to demand that lawyers, when confronted with unlawful violence, remain silent observers — a demand incompatible with both ethics and dignity.

The offence of obstructing a public servant, under Section 183 of the Penal Code, requires that the act be voluntary and that it actually prevent the official from lawfully performing his duty. But the law is not blind to context. If the “duty” being performed is itself unlawful — such as assaulting a citizen or exceeding authority — then opposition to it cannot be criminal obstruction. Similarly, Section 186, which penalises threats to a public servant, presupposes a genuine intention to intimidate the officer into dereliction of duty. A passionate objection in the heat of witnessing a beating is not a criminal threat; it is moral protest.

The constitutional framework reinforces this logic. Article 11 protects every individual — lawyer, citizen, or even accused person — from cruel or degrading treatment. Article 14(1)(a) guarantees freedom of expression, while Article 14(1)(h) protects the right of peaceful assembly and association. Together, they affirm that the expression of outrage at official misconduct, even in emotional terms, falls within the sphere of protected speech. The Convention Against Torture Act No. 22 of 1994 further criminalises torture and ill-treatment by public officers, aligning domestic law with the UN Convention Against Torture. The obligation of lawyers, especially senior members of the Bar, to uphold these principles is both professional and moral. The Code of Conduct for Attorneys-at-Law reminds practitioners that their first duty is to the administration of justice — not to placate authority, but to preserve integrity.

Seen through this lens, the prosecution of Wanninayake is not a neutral act of law enforcement; it is the continuation of a historical pattern in which the State protects its instruments before it protects justice. When the Minister of Public Security himself goes on record announcing legal action against a private lawyer before any independent review of evidence but rather off public pressure due to viral social media clip, it creates the perception — if not the reality — of political interference. When the police visit the lawyer’s home while he awaits advice from the Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL), it sends a message to the wider legal community: dissent has consequences.

The wider implications are alarming. If the State can criminalise a lawyer’s immediate reaction to the assault of a colleague, it can criminalise any defence of the citizenry against official abuse. It can make silence the safest professional strategy. This is precisely what the courts in Gerald Perera and Sriyani Silva warned against — a society where those who challenge the unlawful acts of the State risk becoming the accused themselves.

The Bar Association of Sri Lanka (BASL) has long stood as the foremost guardian of the legal profession, unwavering in its duty to protect lawyers and uphold the rule of law. Throughout its history, the Association has risen in moments of crisis to defend those who serve in the courts and to preserve the dignity of the justice system itself. Under the leadership of President Rajeev Amarasuriya—and before him President’s Counsel Saliya Pieris—the BASL has continued this proud tradition with renewed vigour, confronting abuses, demanding accountability, and speaking without hesitation whenever the independence of the Bar or the safety of its members has been challenged.

To the ordinary citizen, this incident may appear to be a quarrel between lawyers and police. But it is not. It is a microcosm of a deeper national illness — the casual normalisation of state violence, and the vilification of anyone who refuses to accept it. The assault of a lawyer within a courthouse area is not merely a breach of decorum; it is a symbolic assault on the rule of law itself. To prosecute those who express indignation at that spectacle is to turn justice inside out.

Gunaratne Wanninayake’s name may now appear in social media gossip headlines accompanied by the word “foul mouthed.” But history will judge him by another measure — that when he saw the law violated in the house of law, he refused to avert his eyes. His reaction was not obstruction; it was conscience although his choice of the words will never be the choice of the words of mine. And if conscience is now a crime, it is not the lawyer who stands accused, but the Republic itself.

*Udara Soysa is a practicing attorney at law and also a lecturer in law.