No one should be above the law – not even Presidents

Last week, former French President Nicolas Sarkozy began serving a five-year prison sentence after being convicted of conspiring to illegally raise campaign funds from Libya. Sarkozy, who led France from 2007 to 2012, is the first former French head of state in modern times to serve a custodial sentence. His conviction sends a powerful message that no one, not even a president, is above the law. It is a reminder that justice, when applied impartially, strengthens democracy rather than weakens it.

For Sri Lanka, this should be an uncomfortable yet necessary moment of reflection. Our own record of holding leaders accountable for corruption, abuse of power, and grave human rights violations is abysmal. Despite overwhelming evidence of wrongdoing, not a single president of Sri Lanka has ever faced justice for their alleged crimes. The impunity enjoyed by those who have held the country’s highest office continues to corrode public trust in the judiciary, the rule of law, and democracy itself.

This culture of immunity did not begin or end with the Rajapaksas. Every former president has skeletons in their political closets. The much-discussed Chemmani mass grave, uncovered during President Chandrika Bandaranaike Kumaratunga’s tenure, remains a stark example of how justice has been silenced. The mass grave, discovered in the late 1990s, contained the remains of civilians allegedly killed by the military during the conflict in Jaffna. Yet, investigations were abruptly halted in 1998 after only a few bodies were unearthed. No inquiry has ever been conducted into the command responsibility of this atrocity. Two decades later, justice remains buried alongside the victims.

President Mahinda Rajapaksa’s time in office was marred by multiple allegations of corruption and abuse of power, from the “Helping Hambantota” scandal to election-related payments reportedly made to the LTTE, a designated terrorist organisation. His administration stands accused of widespread human rights violations, war crimes during the final stages of the civil war, and systematic intimidation of journalists and political opponents. His brother, Gotabaya Rajapaksa, who later ascended to the presidency, has likewise been accused of involvement in extrajudicial killings, including that of journalist Lasantha Wickrematunge, and of overseeing brutal wartime atrocities.

Maithripala Sirisena, hailed briefly as a reformer, faces accusations of negligence over the 2019 Easter Sunday attacks, negligence that cost hundreds of innocent lives. Reports of corruption involving his family further tarnish his tenure. President Ranil Wickremesinghe, for his part, has long faced accusations of misusing public funds and protecting those implicated in the Central Bank bond scam, a financial scandal that shook the country’s confidence in its political leadership.

Yet through all of this, Sri Lanka’s justice system has remained silent, paralysed by political interference and fear. The law’s reach stops conveniently short of the Presidential Secretariat. Investigations are stalled, files go missing, commissions of inquiry are reduced to theatre, and victims are denied even the hope of accountability. It is a system that punishes the powerless while protecting the powerful.

As Nicolas Sarkozy begins his prison term, Sri Lanka must confront its own moral and legal failures. Our presidents, past and present, must face the same standard of justice as any citizen. This is particularly ironic given that Sri Lanka’s Executive Presidency was modelled in part on the French system, a system that has just proven its ability to hold even its former head of state to account. France’s judiciary has shown courage where ours has shown complicity. The contrast could not be more glaring.