Sri Lanka wants to fight organised crime. Will it weaken justice in the process?

 Sri Lanka’s recurring political disappointment is not simply that governments fail to fulfil campaign promises, but that the demands of exercising and preserving authority can gradually displace the principles through which that authority was obtained. Reform often requires governments to relinquish powers they may find politically useful, making it considerably more difficult than promising change during an election. For the NPP, the organised crime Bill consequently represents more than a question of criminal justice policy; it tests whether the Government understands institutional transformation as a genuine redistribution of authority away from political control

The proposed organised crime law exposes a fundamental contradiction in Sri Lanka’s reform agenda: a government elected promising independent institutions and freedom from political interference is seeking extraordinary powers over detention, evidence and surveillance. The question is whether it will break the country’s cycle of concentrated authority or preserve it under another name

Sri Lanka has spent decades expanding the powers of the state without necessarily improving its capacity to deliver justice. From emergency regulations to counterterrorism legislation, successive governments have responded to threats against public security through exceptional legal authority, often without sufficiently addressing the institutional weaknesses that undermine investigations and prosecutions. The threats have frequently been genuine, but the assumption that greater coercive power necessarily produces more effective law enforcement deserves scrutiny. The Prevention of Organised Crimes Bill, gazetted on 6 October 2026, now exposes a deeper paradox: can a country repair its criminal justice institutions by relaxing the safeguards designed to hold them accountable?

Organised crime demands a serious response. Criminal networks exploit intimidation, illicit finance, corruption and weaknesses in prosecution, making stronger investigative coordination and international cooperation legitimate priorities. Yet the proposed legislation extends beyond these objectives, authorising prolonged executive detention, altering evidentiary protections and expanding investigative discretion. The concern is not simply that such powers could be abused, but that extraordinary authority may become a substitute for institutional competence, enabling greater control over suspects without necessarily improving the state’s ability to establish criminal responsibility. For the National People’s Power government, the legislation also presents a test of political consistency: whether its commitment to independent institutions extends to restricting the powers available to itself.

A promise of independence, an expansion of authority

The NPP’s 2024 legal reform program promised an independent, transparent and accountable judiciary, acknowledging that political interference and ineffective implementation had damaged public confidence in justice. The government subsequently advanced proposals for an independent public prosecutor and measures to strengthen judicial independence, suggesting an understanding that meaningful reform depends upon institutions capable of operating independently of political authority. Yet the organised crime Bill raises questions about how those commitments can be reconciled with the expansion of executive powers within the criminal justice system.

Clause 20 generally permits suspects to remain in police custody for up to 72 hours before being produced before a Magistrate, subject to statutory qualifications, while clause 21 empowers the Secretary to the Ministry responsible for the police to authorise renewable detention orders potentially extending to one year, with High Court supervision of subsequent extensions. More consequentially, clause 20 requires a Magistrate presented with an initial detention order to give effect to it, raising questions about the substantive independence of judicial scrutiny over restrictions on personal liberty. Judicial independence cannot be understood merely as the absence of politicians instructing judges how to decide cases; it must also encompass the courts’ authority to independently examine executive decisions affecting fundamental rights. Although these provisions do not establish political interference, their allocation of authority warrants scrutiny.

The timing sharpens the contradiction. The NPP promised to repeal the Prevention of Terrorism Act, whose history includes prolonged detention, allegations of torture and coerced confessions, yet the organised crime Bill contains comparable forms of exceptional detention and evidentiary departure. The two laws are not identical, but repealing a controversial statute while preserving similar mechanisms elsewhere raises questions about whether institutional reform changes the underlying distribution of power or merely rearranges the legal instruments through which it is exercised. A government’s commitment to institutional independence cannot be measured solely by the powers it abolishes, but also by those it declines to acquire.

When criminal procedure becomes an investigative shortcut

The PTA, introduced in 1979, offers a historical warning about exceptional legal powers becoming embedded in ordinary governance. The consequences are not merely historical: in June 2025, Sri Lanka’s Supreme Court ordered two police officers to personally pay Rs. 2 million in compensation to a man unlawfully arrested, detained and tortured during a 2019 investigation. Although the judgment concerned existing law rather than the proposed Bill, it demonstrates why custodial coercion cannot be dismissed as hypothetical, particularly when legislative changes would make police-recorded statements more consequential in criminal proceedings.

Clauses 46 and 47 display sections 25, 26 and 30 of the Evidence Ordinance and permit certain signed statements, including confessions made to sufficiently senior police officers, to become admissible. The Bill provides safeguards concerning legal advice and audiovisual recording, but these protections do not entirely resolve the unequal relationship between interrogator and detainee, particularly where prolonged custody is permitted. Clause 48 also allows certain Magistrate-recorded statements from unavailable witnesses to be admitted without cross-examination, while clause 23 restricts bail in specified circumstances, although it provides for release on bail where remand reaches one year without indictment. These qualifications matter, but their cumulative interaction with extended detention and exceptional evidentiary rules requires careful examination.

Clause 25 introduces an additional mechanism through which an individual already held on remand may be transferred back into police custody, potentially in isolation, for periods cumulatively extending to six months. Although the provision requires an Attorney General’s application, a High Court inquiry, judicial review every 14 days and notification to the Human Rights Commission, returning an individual from judicial remand to investigative custody raises concerns about custodial pressure and the practical ability to exercise legal rights. The issue is not whether further investigation can ever justify additional custody, but whether such prolonged restrictions on liberty remain necessary and proportionate when less intrusive alternatives may exist. Article 13 of the Constitution protects against arbitrary arrest, guarantees fair-trial rights and recognises the presumption of innocence, principles that must remain central to any assessment of the Bill. A capable criminal justice system should make evidence more reliable, not merely easier to admit.

Powers, protections and the accountability deficit

The institutional tension extends to clause 59, which provides protection against civil or criminal proceedings for lawful acts undertaken in good faith under the legislation, including purported acts performed pursuant to its provisions. Such protections are not inherently illegitimate, since officers performing lawful investigative duties should not face vexatious proceedings simply because their actions are controversial, and the clause does not expressly immunise torture or unlawful violence. Nevertheless, its wording raises questions about how effectively citizens can challenge claims of good faith and whether meaningful remedies remain available when officials exceed their lawful authority.

This concern becomes more consequential when considered alongside the Bill’s wider investigative powers. Clauses 44 and 45 establish mechanisms for obtaining communications information and accessing encrypted data, while clause 14 restricts publication concerning specified criminal proceedings. These measures may serve legitimate objectives, including protecting victims and investigating complex criminal networks, but privacy, freedom of expression and public scrutiny cannot become incidental considerations. The principle of proportionality requires that intrusive measures be demonstrably necessary and subject to independent oversight. Where exceptional detention, altered evidentiary protections and safeguards for officials operate within the same legislative framework, the question is whether accountability expands alongside authority or becomes increasingly difficult to enforce.

When accountability risks appearing as vengeance

The concentration of extraordinary criminal powers also creates the risk of politically selective enforcement, or at least the public perception of it, particularly where detention decisions originate within the executive and politically sensitive prosecutions are involved. This does not establish that the NPP intends political revenge, nor should legitimate investigations into former political figures automatically be characterised as vindictive. Accountability requires impartial investigations based on evidence, while vengeance begins when political identity becomes more important than criminal responsibility. The greater the discretion afforded to officials, the more important it becomes to establish institutional safeguards capable of demonstrating that prosecutions are independent of political interests.

Sri Lanka’s political history makes this distinction particularly important. Successive governments have promised to confront corruption, patronage and interference in state institutions, yet the temptation to preserve powers previously criticised has remained a recurring concern. The JVP, a principal constituent of the NPP, has a history that includes armed insurrections in 1971 and 1987–89, although the contemporary NPP is a broader democratic coalition and cannot be reduced to that past. Its transition into government nevertheless presents an opportunity to demonstrate that political change can mean institutional restraint rather than another transfer of concentrated authority. Nelson Mandela’s approach to South Africa’s transition offers a limited parallel in distinguishing accountability from retaliation, although reconciliation there remained imperfect. The relevant principle is that durable democratic change requires institutions capable of administering justice independently of those who exercise political power.

International obligations are not unlimited authority

The government’s justification deserves serious consideration. Organised criminal networks operate across borders, conceal illicit proceeds and intimidate witnesses, creating genuine difficulties for conventional law enforcement. However, identifying such difficulties does not establish the necessity of every extraordinary power proposed. The United Nations Convention against Transnational Organised Crime promotes criminalisation, confiscation of illicit assets, witness protection and international cooperation, but it does not require year-long executive detention or police-admissible confessions. Article 20 expressly recognises that special investigative techniques must operate within the basic principles of domestic legal systems.

International comparisons illustrate alternative institutional priorities. Italy’s anti-mafia framework combines specialised investigations, financial intelligence and judicial mechanisms targeting criminal assets, while Britain’s unexplained wealth order regime requires applications to the High Court before authorities may compel explanations concerning certain suspiciously acquired property. Neither framework is without controversy, but both demonstrate methods of confronting the economic and organisational foundations of criminal networks without treating prolonged detention as the principal measure of investigative effectiveness.

Sri Lanka should therefore establish which existing investigative powers have proved inadequate, what evidence demonstrates that prolonged executive detention improves prosecution outcomes and why narrower, judicially supervised alternatives would be insufficient. Stronger financial intelligence, forensic investigation, witness protection, independent custody monitoring and enforceable access to counsel would address institutional weaknesses more directly. The Centre for Policy Alternatives has warned that the Bill risks creating a parallel detention framework and undermining ordinary criminal-law protections, concerns that deserve substantive parliamentary consideration rather than dismissal as opposition to public security.

An opportunity to break the cycle

Sri Lanka’s recurring political disappointment is not simply that governments fail to fulfil campaign promises, but that the demands of exercising and preserving authority can gradually displace the principles through which that authority was obtained. Reform often requires governments to relinquish powers they may find politically useful, making it considerably more difficult than promising change during an election. For the NPP, the organised crime Bill consequently represents more than a question of criminal justice policy; it tests whether the government understands institutional transformation as a genuine redistribution of authority away from political control.

The administration still has an opportunity to address legal criticism, narrow unnecessarily broad powers and establish stronger safeguards without abandoning its responsibility to confront organised crime. Such revisions would not demonstrate weakness, but a recognition that effective enforcement depends on the independence and competence of institutions rather than the accumulation of executive discretion. Laws endure beyond individual governments, and powers introduced today may eventually be exercised by administrations with different priorities and standards of accountability. Constitutional safeguards exist precisely because the protection of liberty cannot depend on the goodwill of those temporarily entrusted with authority.

Sri Lanka needs institutions capable of confronting organised crime decisively, but their strength must be measured by reliable investigations, independent courts and credible convictions rather than the breadth of their authority to detain, interrogate or surveil. The danger is not merely that Sri Lanka may give weak criminal justice institutions too much power, but that doing so could diminish the pressure to make them stronger. The NPP’s opportunity to break with the past lies not in acquiring the extraordinary authority sought by previous governments, but in demonstrating that effective justice can be achieved without depending upon it.

(The author is an International Relations student at Monash University whose writing explores politics, governance, and international affairs)