CHARLES MATSEKE | Paul O’Sullivan and the architecture of elite impunity in SA

South Africa is a constitutional democracy built on a simple promise: that no one is above the law. Yet the lived reality of the country’s criminal justice system tells a more unsettling story. One in which accountability is unevenly distributed, enforcement is selective and proximity to power often functions as a shield rather than a liability.

The unfolding confrontation between forensic investigator Paul O’Sullivan, Parliament’s ad hoc committee and the Madlanga Commission is not merely a dispute about personal safety or procedural logistics. It is a revealing case study in elite impunity. How power, access, reputation and accumulated leverage can place certain individuals beyond the reach of institutions that routinely discipline the poor, the marginalised and the politically expendable.

At stake is not whether O’Sullivan has contributed to exposing corruption in South Africa, he undoubtedly has, but whether any individual, regardless of past service or perceived moral authority, may unilaterally exempt themselves from democratic oversight.

South Africa’s criminal justice system operates with ruthless efficiency when it comes to minor offences, poverty-driven crime, or politically isolated individuals. For millions of South Africans, appearing before police, prosecutors or parliamentary structures is not a matter of negotiation. It is compulsory, often humiliating and frequently ferocious.

Yet the same system appears far more accommodating when confronted with figures embedded within elite networks, particularly those with deep ties to the security cluster, prosecutorial bodies and political leadership. In such cases, accountability becomes conditional, procedural demands become negotiable, and compliance is reframed as a matter of personal discretion.

O’Sullivan’s repeated refusal to appear in person before Parliament, insisting instead on virtual testimony or none at all crystallises this asymmetry. Parliament has made clear that testimony must occur physically, on the record, and under oath. O’Sullivan has rejected this authority outright, citing security risks, alleged threats and distrust of certain political parties represented on the committee.

For ordinary South Africans, such refusal would likely result in immediate legal consequences. For O’Sullivan, it has instead triggered prolonged negotiation, public debate and institutional hesitation.

O’Sullivan’s public persona has long been that of an anti-corruption crusader, a figure operating, often heroically, against a compromised State. But hero narratives, while politically useful, can obscure a more uncomfortable truth: power accumulated outside formal democratic accountability can become power beyond accountability altogether.

Over decades, O’Sullivan has cultivated relationships across the South African Police Service (SAPS), the Independent Police Investigative Directorate (IPID), the Hawks, prosecutorial structures and elements of the intelligence community. This proximity has afforded him extraordinary influence not merely as a whistle-blower, but as an actor embedded within the very machinery he claims to monitor.

Testimony before Parliament has already raised concerns about undue influence, informal networks and what some witnesses have described as “rogue” configurations operating within investigative structures. Whether these claims are ultimately substantiated is less important than the fact that they demand scrutiny. Scrutiny that cannot occur if a central figure refuses to submit to the authority of Parliament itself.

This is where the moral ambiguity becomes glaring. One cannot credibly position oneself as a champion of the rule of law while selectively rejecting its procedures.

O’Sullivan’s posture toward Parliament is underpinned by a powerful and troubling implication: that he possesses information so dangerous, so compromising, that appearing in person places his life at risk. The invocation of threats, intelligence warnings and the murder of a Madlanga Commission witness is not incidental. It functions as a form of political leverage.

This dynamic mirrors a broader pathology within South Africa’s security architecture: knowledge as protection, kompromat as currency and fear as insulation from accountability. When individuals are perceived to “know too much” about too many powerful actors, institutions begin to tread carefully not out of principle, but out of self-preservation.

The result is paralysis. Oversight bodies hesitate. Parliament negotiates with witnesses rather than compelling them. The constitutional hierarchy quietly inverts itself.

The O’Sullivan saga should not be read in isolation. It fits into a wider pattern of elite impunity across the security cluster, from SAPS to IPID, from the Hawks to the intelligence services, and increasingly, the South African National Defence Force (SANDF).

The recent Iran war games controversy offers a telling parallel.

Despite a reported presidential instruction excluding Iran, the exercise appears to have proceeded regardless, raising serious questions about civilian control of the military and the ability or willingness of political leadership to enforce its authority over powerful security elites.

Whether in policing, intelligence or defence, a consistent theme emerges: orders apply downward, not upward.

Perhaps the most corrosive idea underpinning elite impunity is the belief that some actors are “exceptions” that their intentions, history or enemies justify exemption from oversight. This logic is fatal to constitutional democracy.

The rule of law does not survive on moral distinctions between “good” and “bad” elites. It survives on procedure, consistency and institutional supremacy. Once individuals are allowed to opt out of accountability because they are deemed useful, the system ceases to be democratic and becomes factional.

If O’Sullivan is credible, then he should not fear appearing before Parliament, placing his claims on the record and submitting to scrutiny like any other citizen. If he is not, then his immunity becomes even more alarming.

South Africa has already confronted this question before. Former statesman Jacob Zuma’s refusal to appear before the Zondo Commission despite his political stature and deep networks of protection ultimately resulted in imprisonment. That episode affirmed a foundational constitutional principle: no individual, regardless of status, history, or political leverage, may unilaterally exempt themselves from lawful process.

That precedent matters. O’Sullivan, notwithstanding his prominence, connections, or claims of protection rooted in elite impunity and enduring racial privilege, cannot be treated as an exception. The credibility of Parliament, commissions of inquiry, and the criminal justice system itself depends on the consistent application of the law without fear, favour or selective enforcement.

If accountability is to mean anything in South Africa, then it must apply upward as well as downward. The law must be allowed to take its course, not because of who O’Sullivan is, but precisely because who he is should not matter at all.