Crocodile Tears and Constitutional Theatre: Ali Sabry’s Sudden Conversion to Judicial Purism
In Sri Lanka’s political theatre, outrage is rarely spontaneous. It is curated, rehearsed, and deployed with the precision of a closing submission before a weary bench. The latest performance comes courtesy of Ali Sabry—lawyer, worked as a junior, low-grade- Foreign Ministry worker at Jeddah Sri Lankan Mission, then became the former Justice Minister, one-time Foreign Minister, and now an unexpectedly fervent defender of judicial independence.
His provocation? A May Day address by Anura Kumara Dissanayake, who declared that the year ahead would see long-delayed corruption cases concluded, and those responsible brought to justice. It was a political statement, certainly—aspirational, even prosecutorial in tone—but hardly unprecedented in a country where public frustration over stalled justice has reached a near-boiling point.
Yet Sabry’s response was swift and indignant. He warned, in effect, that such rhetoric risked undermining the independence of the judiciary. The implication: that even suggesting an acceleration of justice might amount to executive encroachment.
A curious argument—particularly from a man who has not always been so fastidious about constitutional boundaries.
The Selective Sanctity of Judicial Independence
Judicial independence, in its orthodox sense, is not a decorative principle to be invoked when politically convenient. It is a structural safeguard, ensuring that adjudication is insulated from executive pressure, legislative overreach, and public hysteria alike. Courts are not instruments of popular will; they are arbiters of law.
But Sabry’s critique elides an important distinction: between directing outcomes and expressing expectations. President Dissanayake did not purport to instruct courts how to decide cases; he signalled, rather, that the machinery of justice—long accused of inertia—would begin to function with urgency.
Ali Sabry's Amnesia
It is a peculiar amnesia that now afflicts Ali Sabry, who speaks with sudden reverence about judicial independence—as though the recent past were an inconvenient rumour rather than a documented reality. One is compelled to ask whether he has forgotten his own tenure as Justice Minister under Gotabaya Rajapaksa, a period marked not by the strengthening of institutional autonomy but by its steady erosion. During those years, the judiciary did not merely face pressure; it operated under the looming shadow of executive overreach, where appointments, transfers, and subtle intimidation blurred the constitutional separation of powers. For Sabry to now posture as a guardian of judicial sanctity is not just ironic—it borders on revisionism, raising serious questions about political accountability and the selective memory of those who once stood at the very centre of power.
In jurisdictions with chronic delay, such statements are not uncommon. They reflect a political mandate to restore confidence in institutions that have, for years, been perceived as lethargic or compromised.
So the question becomes: is Sabry defending a principle, or preserving a status quo?
Credentials, Competence, and the Politics of Legitimacy
Sabry’s intervention has also revived a more personal line of inquiry—one that circulates persistently in Colombo’s legal circles. What precisely are the foundations of his legal authority?
Unlike many of his contemporaries, Sabry is not widely known to hold an LLB from a conventional university pathway. His qualification as an Attorney-at-Law—perfectly legitimate within Sri Lanka’s dual-track legal education system—has nonetheless been used by critics to question the depth of his academic grounding. Such critiques may be elitist, but they are politically potent.
More pointed, however, is the manner of his elevation to President’s Counsel (PC), a designation intended to recognise excellence and distinction at the Bar. The opacity of that appointment process has, in Sabry’s case, attracted scrutiny. Were established criteria applied? Was merit the sole determinant? Or did proximity to power play a role?
These are not idle questions. They go to the credibility of those who now claim custodianship of constitutional norms.
The Rajapaksa Question
Any serious assessment of Sabry’s record must confront his association with Gotabaya Rajapaksa, particularly during the 2019 presidential election.
At issue is the controversy surrounding Rajapaksa’s citizenship status at the time of nomination. Allegations persisted that he retained dual citizenship, including that of the United States, which would have rendered him ineligible under Sri Lankan law unless properly renounced.
Sabry, acting as legal counsel, publicly asserted that Rajapaksa was not a US citizen at the relevant time. Critics now ask: was that assertion made with full knowledge of the facts? If not, what due diligence was undertaken? If so, what explains the lingering ambiguity?
These questions have never been conclusively resolved. Yet they linger—uncomfortably—whenever Sabry adopts the mantle of legal rectitude.
Cambridge, Costs, and Public Accountability
Then there is the matter of Sabry’s visit to Cambridge Union Society during his tenure as Foreign Minister. The optics were, on the surface, benign: a Sri Lankan dignitary addressing a prestigious student forum.
But the underlying details remain opaque. Was the այց official or private? If official, were standard diplomatic protocols observed? And crucially, were public funds used to finance what was, in effect, a speaking engagement at a student society?
In an era of fiscal austerity—where Sri Lankan taxpayers have borne the brunt of economic mismanagement—such questions are not trivial. They speak to a broader culture of entitlement within political elites.
Economic Literacy and Ministerial Competence
Sabry’s tenure in the Foreign Ministry also invites scrutiny on substantive grounds. Diplomacy today is inseparable from economics: trade negotiations, debt restructuring, and investment flows require a sophisticated grasp of financial systems.
What, then, was Sabry’s contribution in this domain? Beyond ceremonial diplomacy, is there evidence of strategic economic engagement? Or did his role remain largely administrative, echoing earlier criticisms that his experience resembled that of a mid-tier consular officer rather than a principal architect of foreign policy?
Again, these are not personal attacks. They are questions of competence—questions that any public official must be prepared to answer.
The Judiciary and the “Heartbeat of the People”
Perhaps the most contentious element of this debate is the notion—implicit in the President’s remarks—that the judiciary should be responsive to the “heartbeat of the people.”
To purists, this is heresy. Courts are not plebiscitary bodies; they do not calibrate verdicts to public sentiment. The rule of law demands consistency, not popularity.
And yet, there is a counterpoint. When judicial processes become so protracted, so inaccessible, and so detached from lived realities that citizens begin to question their very utility, the legitimacy of the system itself is at risk.
Sri Lanka’s backlog of corruption cases, many stretching over a decade, has eroded public trust. In that context, a call for efficiency is not an attack on independence—it is a demand for functionality.
A Final Question for Ali Sabry
Which brings us back to Sabry’s indignation.
If, as the President suggested, courts begin to conclude long-pending cases and—where evidence supports it—convict those who have looted public resources, what precisely is the objection?
Is the concern that justice might be done too quickly? Or that it might, at last, be done at all?
Until Sabry addresses the unresolved questions surrounding his own record—on citizenship claims, public expenditure, professional elevation, and ministerial competence—his defence of judicial independence risks sounding less like principle and more like performance.
And in Sri Lanka’s crowded political stage, the public has grown adept at distinguishing between the two.