(Text of Editorial Appearing in the “Sunday Mrning”of 15th February 2026 under the heading “A nation on trial”)

The verdict delivered on Wednesday (11) by the Gampaha High Court Trial-at-Bar in the murder of former Parliamentarian Amarakeerthi Athukorala marks one of the most consequential judicial moments in post-‘Aragalaya’ Sri Lanka. Twelve individuals have been sentenced to death for the killing of Athukorala and his Police security officer. Four others received suspended sentences. Twenty-three were acquitted for lack of evidence. It is, by any measure, a historic judgment.

Yet, history tends to speak in layers – of law and politics, of justice and vengeance, of mob fury and institutional failure. This verdict forces Sri Lanka to confront not merely the brutality of one afternoon in Nittambuwa, but the combustible political culture that made such an afternoon possible. No one disputes that what occurred was savage. A Member of Parliament was beaten to death by a mob. His security officer was killed. Video footage and testimony revealed chaos. The court noted that the MP and his guard had initially opened fire on the crowd, injuring several people, before being chased into a building and assaulted. The facts are grim and irreversible.

For many, the judgment is a necessary assertion that mob justice cannot replace the rule of law. Sri Lanka cannot claim to be a democracy if elected representatives can be hunted down and killed in the street. Supporters of the verdict argue that deterrence demands severity. If a line is not drawn here, when will it ever be?

Yet immediately outside the courthouse, another image obscured that moral clarity. Parents of the 12 young men sentenced to death wept and wailed, insisting their sons were innocent, or at least not masterminds but pawns. Their grief was raw, unfiltered, and impossible to dismiss. They asked a question that echoes far beyond their personal tragedy: who truly orchestrated the rage that consumed 9 May 2022?

To understand this verdict, one must revisit that day, when what began as a protest movement styled as the ‘Aragalaya’ evolved into something darker. Supporters aligned with the then ruling party marched from Temple Trees towards Galle Face in an attempt to dismantle the protest site. As expected, violence erupted. The attackers became the attacked. Retaliation spiralled. Ruling party supporters were beaten and flung into the polluted waters of Beira Lake. Buses were torched. Ministers’ homes were burnt one after another across the country. The nation seemed suspended between insurrection and anarchy.

It was in this inferno that Athukorala encountered a furious crowd in Nittambuwa. Cornered, he and his security officer fired. A man died. The crowd’s anger turned into homicidal rage. The unlawful assembly became a mob. The three-judge bench dissected that transformation carefully. Two of the judges appear to have considered the gathering unlawful only from the moment the security officer opened fire, a legal interpretation that the Attorney General has indicated will be challenged on appeal. The distinction is not academic. It speaks to how courts define the threshold at which protest becomes criminal conspiracy.

The appeal will likely scrutinise the application of ‘common intention’ under Section 32 of the Penal Code, the doctrine that allowed 12 individuals to be sentenced for the same murderous act. The Bar Association of Sri Lanka has, commendably, adopted a measured tone, emphasising due process and warning against trial by media. Even in cases that stir public outrage, the integrity of legal standards must remain intact.

Civil society, however, is divided. Some see the verdict as a triumph of accountability over mob violence. Others view it as disproportionate in a context where cases of State-sponsored violence against peaceful protesters from the same period remain stalled. That disparity in speed and severity has fuelled suspicion whether justice is being applied selectively.

This question becomes sharper when one considers the role of political instigation. There is widely circulated video footage from that volatile period showing senior political figures of the current regime urging crowds that had already overrun the Presidential Secretariat, President’s House, and Prime Minister’s Office to march on Parliament and “finish the job”. Incitement to violence is not protected speech: it is a crime. Yet to date, there has been no comparable urgency in pursuing those who egged on the crowds.

If young men are to hang for actions committed in the heat of collective fury, what of those who cultivated that fury? The artists, YouTubers, political activists, and party leaders who amplified anger, demonised opponents, and framed confrontation as virtue – are they merely commentators? Or are they, morally if not legally, accessories to tragedy?

The murder of Athukorala did not occur in isolation. Opposition Leader Sajith Premadasa narrowly escaped what could have been a fatal assault when he attempted to visit Galle Face. He was attacked with stones and clubs before security personnel forced him into a damaged vehicle. By contrast, the JVP Leader received a warm welcome that same day at the protest site. The optics were unmistakable.

None of this diminishes the brutality of Athukorala’s killing. But it does situate it within a broader choreography of political mobilisation. Movements that begin as spontaneous eruptions of citizen frustration can, and often do, become vehicles for calculated political gain. The moral capital of the ‘Aragalaya’ was immense at its inception. Over time, it was diluted by factional dominance, paving the way for it to be hijacked by one political entity.

The deeper issue is accountability across the spectrum. The subsequent administration led by Ranil Wickremesinghe had ample opportunity to pursue instigators of violence through lawful means. That opportunity was not seized. Today, those who stood at protest barricades occupy ministerial office, while the former President faces his own legal battles. While the wheel has turned, the pattern persists: prosecution often appears contingent on power. If the law is to be equal to all, it must reach upwards as well as downwards. It must address those who incited the burning of property and the attempted storming of Parliament with the same seriousness applied to those who threw stones or wielded clubs. Failure to do so will inevitably corrode public faith and deepen cynicism among the young.

Meanwhile, appeals loom. Activists are preparing clemency petitions to the President should the convictions be upheld. Small protests have already taken place in Nittambuwa and Gampaha, with families describing the sentences as extreme, given the chaos of that day. The possibility that a future administration might revive executions adds another layer of uncertainty.
Sri Lanka stands, once again, at a crossroads between retribution and reflection. The death sentences may satisfy a collective demand for closure, but closure without introspection is fragile. If the nation confines responsibility to 12 young men while ignoring the ecosystem of hatred that incubated their actions, it will have learnt little.

This verdict sends the unmistakable warning that participation in mob violence carries the gravest consequences. That message is necessary. But it must be accompanied by another: leaders who incite, manipulate, and abandon the young to face those consequences will not escape scrutiny. Therefore, if Sri Lanka wishes to move beyond cycles of rage, it must institutionalise equal justice. That may require a future commission of inquiry into the events of 9 May and their political orchestration. It will certainly require courage – the courage to investigate allies as well as adversaries.

For the youth of this country, the lesson is blunt. Those who urge them to burn, attack, or ‘finish the job’ will not be around when they find themselves in the dock. When the fury fades, it is the foot soldier, not the firebrand, who pays. Justice must not only be firm, but also comprehensive. It is only when Sri Lanka demonstrates that incitement, whether by street agitator or cabinet minister, carries equal consequence will the promise of the rule of law feel real rather than rhetorical. Until then, the tears outside the courthouse and the cheers within it will remain two sides of the same unresolved national story.

CourtesY;Sunday Morning