(The following are excerpts of the speech made by Supreme Court Justice S. Thurairajah at his farewell ceremony held on 19th March 2026)

Before I proceed, let me begin with one remarkable symmetry on this day. When I first took my oaths as an Attorney-at-Law before this Honourable Court, I did so before Hon. Chief Justice Parinda Ranasinghe. Today, as I bid farewell from this Court, I do so in the presence of his son, the Honourable Attorney General, Parinda Ranasinghe Jr.

Public life rarely offers such full circles, and I do not pass over this one lightly. Before I say anything of myself, let me borrow from an over 2000 year old lamp that has enlightened minds for centuries: the ‘Thirukkural’.

I begin with a verse from the chapter “Oppurawarithal” (Duty to Society/Knowing the Way of the World): which says in two lines what public life tries to teach us across decades: ‘The raincloud does not bargain with the earth; it gives, because giving is its nature.’

That image has long shaped my understanding of duty: to serve with steadiness, to do the work without keeping an account of gratitude—and, when the time comes, to step away quietly and let the work speak for itself.

I rise today with a grateful heart.

I have sat on this Bench through difficult cases, constitutional moments, human tragedies, questions of liberty, power, accountability, and justice. I have, on many occasions, spoken through judgments. Today, however, I must speak not through a judgment, but as a man taking leave of a great institution that has shaped the best years of his life.

When I first entered this profession, I did not imagine that my journey would one day bring me to this Court, to this moment, and to this farewell. Like many who begin life far from the centres of influence, I began with little except conviction, work, and hope. I did not come from comfort. I did not come from privilege.

I have often reflected that I belong to what may fairly be called a minority within a minority. I am a Tamil from a smaller, more vulnerable stream within a larger story. Those who grow up in such circumstances learn early that identity can become either a wound or a source of quiet strength. For me, it became both.

There is sometimes an assumption — spoken or implied — that belonging to a minority makes advancement easier, as though opportunity were a concession rather than something earned. My own life taught me otherwise.

So I learned very early that if others could afford ordinary effort, I could not. One had to work harder to be noticed, harder to be trusted, and harder still to prove that one stood there not by favour, but by merit. I had to give ten times that effort—not out of resentment, but out of discipline and determination.

Even my own elevation to the Supreme Court was made to pass through its own trial. Though the Constitutional Council had recommended my appointment to the Supreme Court, some in power thought otherwise.

There were times in our public life when even a name could become a burden, when a name entered wrongly in a register could signal more than a clerical mistake. But I learned not to carry bitterness. I learned to carry resolve.

My generation lived through years that tested this country’s conscience. The memories of 1968, 1975, 1977, 1979 and 1983, and the many upheavals that scarred our national life do not belong only to history books. They live in human beings. They live in memory, in caution, in grief, and sometimes in silence.

Those years taught some of us that institutions matter because even when society trembles, institutions must not. In rough seas, a lighthouse does not argue with the storm; it simply keeps the lamp steady. When fear spreads, institutions must remain fair. And when majorities become impatient, the law must still protect the vulnerable. That lesson never left me.

I used to say that the fire seems to love me too much. It has followed me more than once. But perhaps that is not entirely a misfortune. Fire has a way of revealing what is durable. It burns away vanity. It removes excess. It leaves one with essentials. But we in this land know that fire does not only take roof and stone. At times, it has devoured books, memory, and the gathered inheritance of a people, leaving behind not only ruins, but a silence that can echo for generations.

If I may say so with complete honesty, I have always believed in dreaming very big — not arrogantly, not foolishly, but with moral courage.

The child who is told that certain rooms are not for him must learn to enter them not in anger, but in excellence. I had no interest in being merely present; I wanted to deserve every seat I occupied. And because I knew what it meant to stand outside, I learned this too: rise, yes — but take others with you. There is no greatness in solitary ascent.

My years at the Attorney General’s Department were foundational. They did not merely train me in law; they trained me in seriousness. That institution taught me the dignity of preparation, the discipline of responsibility, and the ethics of public duty. It taught me that a lawyer in public service does not have the luxury of laziness, indifference, or vanity. One is there to work.

One is there to think. One is there to carry the burden of the State without forgetting the rights of the citizen. Even now, after all these years, I remain grateful to that institution for giving me not only opportunities, but standards.

Later, when I came to the Bench, first in Fiji and then in Sri Lanka, I carried with me the lessons of the Bar, the anxieties of litigants, the frustrations of victims, the burdens of investigators, and the hopes of young lawyers. I did not arrive on the Bench imagining that the robe transforms the human being. It does not. It only enlarges the responsibility. A robe is not a costume. It is a commitment—heavy enough to humble you, wide enough to shelter the vulnerable. The robe does not make one wiser. It only makes one more accountable.

I have always believed what Justice Holmes said: “The life of the law has not been logic: it has been experience.” Law is not a cold diagram; it lives among people. But experience must still be governed by principle. The discipline of judging lies in holding that balance: to remain human without becoming sentimental, principled without becoming mechanical, and courageous without becoming theatrical.

When I addressed the Court on earlier ceremonial occasions, I spoke of responsibility. I humbly hope I did not use that word lightly. I came to the Bench with a few promises to myself: that I would work, that I would not compromise on integrity, that fear or fashion would not decide what only law and conscience should decide, and that I would finish my work. In public life excuses are always available. The work must still be done.

I have sometimes been told—and not always quietly! —that I can be a frightening judge.I am well aware of that reputation!

Over the years I have heard myself described as stern, exacting, and, with some creativity, as the “Terminator”!

But let me say this plainly: whatever strictness I displayed was never for vanity, and never to magnify the office at the expense of others. A court is not a theatre for performance or a waiting room for unpreparedness. Every unnecessary delay has a Human Cost.

And yet sternness is only one room in the house. There are other rooms too—of affection, humour, gratitude, and tenderness. A judge who cannot smile, or laugh at himself, is in danger of becoming a monument before his time.

If there is one value I would leave with younger lawyers, it is Integrity. Talent is valuable. Intelligence is admirable. Eloquence can be impressive. But without integrity, all of them become dangerous. In our profession, a reputation for integrity is not an ornament. It is infrastructure.
Discipline is integrity in action. It is arriving prepared when no one is watching, reading what must be read, finishing what must be finished, and mastering one’s tongue, temper, ego, and laziness. And do not reduce success to visibility. The loudest lawyer is not always the ablest. Lasting reputations in law are built not on display, but on depth and dependable work.

And to those who wish to reform institutions, let me borrow a thought from Learned Hand, former Judge of the U.S., in one of the most beautiful reflections ever offered on liberty, where he reminded us that, I quote:
“Liberty lives first in the hearts of men and women, and that when it dies there, no constitution, no law, and no court can save it.” I unquote.

That insight humbles every judge. Courts matter greatly, but they cannot carry a civilisation alone. Families, teachers, communities, lawyers, journalists, public servants, and citizens all share in the moral labour of freedom.

The judiciary can defend liberty; it cannot manufacture it from nothing.

Justice must be rooted in public confidence. A judgment may be correct in law, but if institutions behave in ways that cause right-minded people to doubt fairness, something precious is lost. Confidence does not grow from public relations. It grows from conduct, impartiality, transparency, restraint, and visible honesty.

In courts, too, opacity can become a form of injustice. Reasons matter. Process matters. Openness matters. Citizens are more willing to accept outcomes, even painful ones, when they are treated with procedural fairness and intellectual respect.

My judicial journey has also allowed me the privilege of engaging with colleagues beyond our shores. We have received much support from the members of the Supreme Court of India, from training our Court staff to sharing with us their technical know-how. I acknowledge with respect the acquaintance & friendship of the Honourable Chief Justice of India, Justice Shri Suriya Kant, together with Hon. Attorney General Shri R. Venkataramani and Hon. Solicitor General Shri Tushar Mehta. Such exchanges remind us that while jurisdictions may differ, the deeper commitments of the rule of law remain universal.

We are now reminded daily, by rising international tensions, that the rule of law itself can come under strain. This is a time in which international order is being questioned, and with it, the value of international law itself, which is not a distant language to Sri Lanka. It speaks to the seas that surround us, the trade that passes us, the peace of our region, the condition of our shared ocean, and the dignity of peoples beyond our shores.

And our own history has already shown that this country can produce jurists capable of speaking the language of international justice at the highest level. I am proud and privileged to have walked the same halls as such greats.

My own journey in the judiciary and experiences connected with matters of international and comparative law, only reinforced in me one simple conviction: the most respected judges are not those who are most impressed by their own office, but those most faithful to fairness. Systems differ. Traditions vary. But integrity travels well. Fairness travels well. Human dignity travels well.

I have tried, in whatever office I held, to be fair. Not fashionable. Not convenient. Fair.

Fairness is a deceptively simple word, but it demands much: that one hears fully before deciding, understand context without surrendering principle, resist tribal instinct, and remember that even those with whom one disagrees are entitled to lawful treatment. It is sometimes quiet, sometimes costly, and often lonely. But it remains the centre of justice.
I also wish to say something to seniors in the profession.
Those who have standing must use it responsibly. Mentor your juniors without insecurity. Correct them without humiliating. Open doors without calculating return. The profession becomes smaller every time a senior uses knowledge as a weapon against the young rather than as a lamp for them to see what is ahead. We often speak of legacy. Legacy is not what people say about us after we leave.

Legacy is not what is said of us after we leave; it is found in those who stand a little taller, walk a little steadier, and see a little further, because we were here.

My legacy owes many debts.

I owe a debt to my teachers, who saw possibility before the world had any reason to. I owe a debt to colleagues in the Attorney General’s Department, from whom I learned not only law but duty.

I owe a debt to brother and sister judges whose lessons, patience, and friendship accompanied me through difficult years. And to my brothers and sisters, and other indispensable officials, with whom I served in the Judicial Services Commission and the Council of Legal Education.

I would be remiss if I did not thank the Minister of Justice, the Secretary to the Ministry and its officials for their commitment towards upholding the integrity of this institution.

I also owe a debt to members of the Bar who argued with courage, rigour, and sometimes admirable persistence even in the face of my less-than-gentle interventions.

No judicial career is carried by one person alone. Every robe is quietly stitched together by many working pieces and adorned by the sacrifices of others. As I take leave today, I do not do so with sadness alone, but with gratitude, memory, and peace.

Public office is never ours to keep. We are only temporary custodians. We enter, we serve, we do what we can, and then we leave the institution to those who must continue the labour. The Court is greater than any judge. The Constitution than any court. And justice stays above it all.

When my years on the Bench are remembered, if it may be said that I worked hard, remained faithful to principle and the people of this Republic, did not bend where I should not bend, helped some others rise, and tried to leave the institution stronger than I found it—I shall be content.
Permit me to end where I began—with the wisdom of the Thirukkural.
“Discipline alone gives true dignity; therefore one must guard one’s conduct even more carefully than one’s own life.”

Courtesy;Sunday Times