By: Roger Srivasan
History has an unforgiving memory. Dictators may rule by fear, deception, and brute force, but time has an unerring habit of lifting the veil. The illusion of invincibility dissolves; the record remains. From Latin America to the Balkans—and yes, closer to home—the rise and fall of despots offers a singular, immutable lesson: crime never pays—if not before men, then before history itself.
Let us revisit three notorious figures whose ascent was swift, whose cruelty was systemic, and whose downfall was inexorable.
Manuel Noriega — The Proxy Who Outlived His Usefulness
Manuel Noriega’s rise was forged in the murky corridors of Cold War expediency. Groomed as an intelligence asset, he ascended Panama’s military hierarchy to become the country’s de facto ruler in the 1980s—a strongman shielded by usefulness.
Yet power corrupted absolutely. Torture, disappearances, and political assassinations became routine, while narcotics trafficking and money laundering flourished behind the mask of authority. Elections were subverted; dissent was crushed. When Noriega ceased to be convenient and dared to defy his patrons, the shield vanished.
In 1989, foreign troops entered Panama. Noriega was captured, tried abroad, and imprisoned. His story is a brutal reminder: those who rule as proxies are ultimately expendable.
Augusto Pinochet — Order Built on Terror
Augusto Pinochet seized power amid ideological hysteria, promising order and stability after the overthrow of a democratically elected government. What followed was not order, but institutionalised terror.
Thousands were executed or “disappeared.” Tens of thousands endured torture, exile, and psychological ruin. For years, Pinochet believed constitutional immunity and distance would protect him.
Then came 1998. Arrested in London under the principle of universal jurisdiction, he learned a sobering truth: borders do not shield crimes against humanity. Though he died before final judgment, the myth of eternal impunity died first.
Slobodan Milošević — Nationalism as a Weapon
Slobodan Milošević weaponised grievance. In the chaos following Yugoslavia’s collapse, he inflamed ethnic nationalism, portraying brutality as patriotism and conquest as defence.
The consequences were catastrophic: ethnic cleansing, mass displacement, and crimes that scarred Europe anew. Milošević ruled as if sovereignty were a permanent shield.
It was not. Overthrown by his own people and extradited to The Hague, he became the first sitting head of state tried for war crimes. He died in custody—his legacy sealed not by monuments, but by indictments.
A Mirror Held Up to Sri Lanka
Sri Lanka, too, was not devoid of its own home-grown dictators, if we are honest enough to trawl back through the troubled chapters of our once battered and bruised nation. Power here was often personalised; institutions hollowed out; dissent suppressed. The state was bent to serve narrow political dynasties, while fear and patronage masqueraded as governance.
Those years left scars—economic, social, and moral. They fractured trust and fractured identity, teaching citizens to see the state not as a guardian, but as a predator.
Yet today, there is a rare and remarkable reprieve.
Under the new administration led by Anura Kumara Dissanayake, governance has begun—carefully, deliberately—to speak the language of probity, restraint, and accountability rather than entitlement. What is most striking is not merely a change of leadership, but a change of national mood.
For the first time in our post-independence history, people are beginning to feel Sri Lankan together—not divided by ethnicity, class, or political lineage, but united by a shared stake in the future of Sri Lanka.
Cynicism is slowly yielding to civic pride; fear to participation; resignation to responsibility.
This moment does not demand blind adulation. It demands vigilance. But it does deserve recognition. After decades of authoritarian drift and moral exhaustion, Sri Lanka appears—at last—to be relearning the art of collective self-respect.
A Stern Warning—and a Hopeful Coda
To the tyrants still ruling by repression, propaganda, and violence: the ledger is being kept.
Big Brother may not knock today.
Justice may not arrive tomorrow.
But history never forgets—and when the reckoning comes, it arrives without mercy.
Call it international law, collective memory, or—if one prefers—divine justice. The name is immaterial. The outcome is not.
Crime does not pay. Not in the end.
And Sri Lanka’s tentative renewal stands as living proof that even nations once bruised by authoritarianism can reclaim dignity—when power is humbled, and people rediscover themselves not as subjects, but as citizens.
The post When Power Forgets Justice: A Warning from History’s Fallen Strongmen appeared first on LNW Lanka News Web.
