ASIANS are more likely to die from Covid-19 compared with other ethnic groups, yet according to the Royal Society for Public Health (RSPH), only 57 per cent of people from black, Asian and minority ethnic (BAME) backgrounds are presently likely to accept a vaccine.
Compared to 79 per cent of white respondents; confidence was lowest in Asians, with 55 per cent likely to agree to take the jab, RSPH data showed.
Ethnic minorities also distrusted previous vaccines – the human papilloma virus (HPV) vaccine and the flu jab had much lower take-up among ethnic minorities. Influenza vaccination rates across the whole of Asia are low, compared to the west.
The media speculation as to why there is such widespread ‘vaccine hesitancy’ in Asians, seems to centre on a supposed tendency for those from ethnic minority backgrounds to favour more alternative or herbal remedies, from their traditional backgrounds, and so reject western medicine.
But the vaccine scepticism of Asians is also be a symptom of a deeper more fundamental mindset difference about trust in general. Ethnic minorities have been shown again and again in various scientific studies of western societies to have much less confidence in others, including institutions and other people, significantly less than the majority ethnic group, or white people.
Asians don’t just trust vaccines less; they have less trust in practically everything.
Trust is about the belief that you can count on others, particularly in predicaments where betrayal is possible. The rise of CCTV coverage, for example, means we increasingly rely on the chances of being caught on camera persuading our community to behave, as opposed to believing them to do the right thing even if they could shaft us.
Studies keep finding that trust is in inexorable decline in western societies over time, averaging a decline of 0.5 percentage points annually, which means that over 50 years, trust in each other has dropped by a quarter.
Sandra Susan Smith, a professor of criminal justice, at Harvard University, recently showed in her research that the three most powerful determinants of trust are education level: the more educated tend to trust more; age: older people tend to trust more; and race. Of all of these, race is the most powerful of all in determining how much you trust others as explained in her study entitled Race and Trust and published in the Annual Review of Sociology. Ethnic minorities trust less.
Just how powerful race is in explaining trust levels is the finding that in the US, trust among the wealthiest black people was similar to levels of trust expressed by the poorest whites.
Ethnic minorities are believed to trust so little in comparison with whites because of the bruising and repeated experience of discrimination. This makes it difficult for them to have faith in others, but they do tend to trust members of their community more.
This tendency to be somewhat mistrusting may have been transformed into a secret strength in the community. Asian children outperformed other ethnic groups educationally because their parents pushed them with the threat that to get a job in a prejudiced society, they would have to be significantly better than the competition.
Asians also often choose to be entrepreneurs and run their own businesses rather than work for others, as they placed little confidence in working their way up through office politics. There wasn’t going to be fair treatment or promotion from managers not of their ethnicity.
Now, however, the problem is that this lack of trust may be coming back to haunt the Asian community – if widespread distrust of the vaccine leads to poor take up and therefore continued higher mortality rates.
The inherent problem of being suspicious of the outside world and as a result remaining insular and self-contained, is that it deprives you of learning opportunities to figure out who and when to trust. If you only ever work for yourself or go for job interviews with far and away the best qualifications, you never find out if you could have trusted the outside world, so mistrust becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy which never gets dispelled.
So, for instance, if you never lend anyone money, because you just assume no one is ever going to pay you back as you don’t trust anyone, then you never learn who you can lend to, and who you can’t.
Trusting is a journey in which from time to time you will get burnt, but as a result you’ll learn more about how to navigate the murky waters of trust. It is only by dipping your toe in the choppy waters of intimate relationships, for example, you learn who is trustworthy and who isn’t.
This is possibly why older people trust more – it’s just that they have learned through hard experience under what conditions to trust reliably. If you never believe in anyone, you never grasp who to trust. Then you remain within a very insular circumscribed world as a result. Many Asians, despite having made the UK their home, remain surprisingly cut off from it, because of this deep tendency to be suspicious of outsiders.
If mistrust means you never take the first step into the unknown then how to break this cycle?
The company which pioneered the Pfizer vaccine, BioNTech, has as its CEO, Dr Ugur Sahin, who was born in Turkey and immigrated to Germany, where he is professor of experimental oncology, and now one of the country’s top 100 wealthiest people, worth more than $5 billion. His wife, Ozlem Tureci, co-founder and chief medical officer of BioNTech, was born in Germany, but from Turkish parents. This tendency to marry others from the same ethnic background in first generation immigrants may have something to do with mistrust of the host community.
As an Asian if you don’t trust much, you may at least believe in the excellence and hard work that could lie behind these two exemplars of immigrant success. You just took part in an informal psychology experiment – so now that you know the origin of this vaccine has something to do with immigrants, has that changed how much you trust the jab?
Dr Raj Persaud is a consultant psychiatrist and Emeritus visiting Gresham professor for public understanding of psychiatry.
I met Fauja Singh twice, once when we hiked Snowdon and I was in awe he was wearing shoes, not trainers and walking like a pro, no fear, just smiling away. I was struggling to do the hike with trainers. I remember my mum saying “what an inspiration”. He was a very humble and kind human being. The second time I met him was when I was at an event, and again, he just had such a radiant energy about him. He’s one of a kind and I’m blessed to have met him.
He wasn’t just a runner. He was a symbol. A living contradiction to everything we’re taught about age, limits, and when to stop dreaming. And now that he’s gone, it feels like a light has gone out—not just in Punjab or east London, but in the hearts of everyone who saw a bit of themselves in his journey.
I first came across Fauja Singh years ago, scrolling through news headlines: “100-year-old man completes marathon.” I paused. Read the article. Then read it again. I was in awe—not because of the number next to his name, but because of the calm dignity in his photos. The twinkle in his eyes. The unshakable stillness behind the movement. He inspired my father, known as the Skipping Sikh, to continue running.
Over the years, I followed his story. The marathons. The Olympic torch. The homemade pinnis. The way he carried his turban with pride, his heritage like a second spine. In him, I saw the echo of my own elders—quiet, steady, devout. People who didn’t ask to be admired, but who lived in a way that made you admire them anyway.
Fauja Singh reminded me that it’s never too late to begin again. After losing his wife and a son, he could have given in to grief. But, instead, he found healing through movement. At an age when the world expects us to fade, he chose to shine. He encouraged me to continue running even when inside you feel broken and alone; his motivation to run is something that keeps me going.
What I admired most was not just that he ran—but why he ran. He didn’t do it for records or fame. He ran with god in his heart, sewa (service) in his soul, and hope in every step. He ran for the joy of it. For the simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other, even when the world was heavy.
Minreet Kaur
Now, in his absence, I find myself thinking about the legacy he leaves behind. Not medals or endorsements—but a mindset. That discipline is spiritual. That a life lived with purpose, simplicity, and community can echo far beyond the physical body. I hope I can follow this in my running journey and continue to do something that others say you can’t. He never gave up, he showed the community in Punjab and his doctor that he could do more than just walking. He’s an example to many people in this world of what we should all do, believe in ourselves even if others don’t believe in you.
His death feels impossibly unfair—a man who survived over a century, taken by a road accident. But I don’t want to remember Fauja Singh for how he died. I want to remember him for how he lived. How he rose each day with faith, put on his trainers, and chose motion over despair.
In a world that moves fast and forgets faster, Fauja Singh slowed us down long enough to remind us what really matters: discipline, humility, and doing what you love with integrity.
I carry him with me every time I feel tired. Every time I think I’ve missed my chance. Every time I wonder if it’s too late. It isn’t.
Fauja Singh proved that.
My parents and I will continue to remember his legacy; it will remain in our heart and every step we take we will remember god.
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I was five years old when my parents first signed me up for a mini marathon. They were both keen runners and wanted me to follow in their footsteps. At the time, I hated it. Running felt like punishment — exhausting, uncomfortable, and something I never imagined I’d do by choice.
But one moment changed everything. I was 12, attending a gymnastics competition, and had gone to the car alone to grab my hula hoop. As I walked back, a group of men started shouting at me. They moved closer. I didn’t wait to hear what they had to say — I ran. Fast. My heart was pounding. It was the first time I felt afraid simply for existing in public as a young girl. I never told anyone. But I remember feeling thankful, strangely, that my parents had taught me how to run.
That was my first experience of harassment. Sadly, it wouldn’t be my last.
In school, I was a fast runner. I even won races. But I gave it up — until lockdown. My mum encouraged me to start again. We went for walks, and one day I had to jog to catch up with her. That simple moment reminded me that running didn’t have to be painful. It could be freeing. It could be joyful.
But that joy was short-lived. The more I ran, the more I noticed the dangers. As a south Asian woman, I was reminded that public spaces are not always made for us.
When I ran with my mum or friends, I felt safe. Alone, I felt exposed. On quiet canal paths, I’ve been catcalled — told to “go on, sexy,” or had comments made about my body. I’ve had racist abuse shouted at me from passing cars: “Go back home, p***.” Some men — including from within our own community — have rolled down their windows to yell disgusting things in Punjabi, honk their horns, or make obscene gestures. I’ve been called a “b****” just for running past someone, and told to “get out of the way, b****.” The verbal violence is constant, and always unprovoked.
It’s exhausting. It makes you hyperaware of every step, every corner, every man you see.
Yet, in places like the Isle of Skye, I experienced what running should feel like. People greeted you with smiles. Drivers slowed down and waved. There were no shouts, no stares. Just peace.
Running is supposed to be my outlet. As a full-time carer for my mum, it’s the one thing that helps me manage stress and anxiety. But now, running itself causes stress. I drive 20 to 30 minutes to find a busy park where I might feel safe — and even then, I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.
I've lost count of the number of times I’ve stopped mid-run just because a group of men were approaching. I cross the road. I walk. I pretend to check my phone. It’s not paranoia — it’s self-preservation.
I’ve been hit by a drink thrown from a bus. I’ve been called “sexy legs” for wearing shorts. I’ve had to stop wearing certain clothes, change my routes, avoid specific times of day — all because men can’t keep their comments to themselves.
And I’ve started carrying personal protection. Something no woman should have to do — but many of us do, silently. I truly believe we should be allowed to carry pepper spray. If we’re not being protected by the system, we should be able to protect ourselves.
Even when I’ve gone out with mum for a walk or a run, men driving past whistle and blow their horn. I’ve seen men stare at mum and one even blew a kiss at her; it’s shocking and disturbing to experience.
This is not just my experience. It’s far too common. When I created Asian Women Run, I wanted to build a safe space where south Asian women could run together and feel empowered. But even in our group, women share their fears. Some won’t run outdoors at all because of how unsafe they feel. It’s heart-breaking. Running — a sport that supports mental and physical health — has become inaccessible for so many because of harassment.
Why is it that in countries like Singapore or the UAE, women can run freely, but in the UK — a country that prides itself on equality — we still feel afraid?
This isn’t just about running. It’s about ownership of public space. It’s about safety. It’s about respect. And it’s about change.
We need more than hashtags. We need action — from local councils, from police, from community leaders, and from men. We need more well-lit areas, safer routes, education in schools, and stronger consequences for street harassment. We need cultural change, and it starts by listening to women when we say: this is happening.
I don’t want to give up something I love. I want to keep running. I want to feel the wind on my face without fear. I want to wear what’s comfortable, not what’s “safe.” I want to stop looking over my shoulder.
I want to run — just like anyone else.
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Heehs’s biography is grounded in extensive archival research across France, England, India and Israel
My friend and colleague, the American historian Peter Heehs, who has lived in Pondicherry, India, for decades, recently published a compelling new biography, The Mother: A Life of Sri Aurobindo’s Collaborator (2025). Heehs previously authored The Lives of Sri Aurobindo (2008), which remains one of the most balanced and scholarly accounts of Aurobindo’s life.
According to Heehs, most previous biographies of the Mother were written for devotees and relied on secondary sources, often presenting her as a divine incarnation without critical engagement. “Such biographies are fine for those who see the Mother as a divine being,” Heehs said, “but they can be off-putting for readers who simply want to understand her life – as an artist, writer, spiritual teacher, and founder of the Ashram and Auroville.”
Heehs’s biography is grounded in extensive archival research across France, England, India and Israel, along with digital collections of historical newspapers and journals. He examined all of her published works in both French and English, even uncovering essays written under a pseudonym that had not been seen since 1905. He traces her early life within the vibrant world of Belle Époque Paris (1871–1914), where she moved in artistic and esoteric circles.
Heehs describes two principal approaches to biographyAMG
Born in 1878 into a moderately wealthy Sephardic Jewish family – her father was Turkish-Egyptian, her mother Egyptian-Jewish – Mirra Alfassa grew up in an intellectually rich and cosmopolitan environment. Tutored at home, she later studied painting at the prestigious Académie Julian and exhibited at the Paris Salon. Her first husband, Henri Morisset, was a painter of the Intimist school, more traditional than contemporaries like Henri Matisse, Édouard Vuillard and Pierre Bonnard. Though he never gained their level of fame, he moved in similar artistic circles, and Mirra herself knew and associated with figures like Auguste Rodin.
At the same time, she was deeply engaged in the French occult revival, serving as managing editor of the Revue Cosmique, an esoteric journal. Her spiritual journey intensified when she encountered the Bhagavad Gita under the guidance of Indian lecturer G N Chakravarty and later engaged with eastern spiritual teachers such as Inayat Khan and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.
In 1910, her second husband, Paul Richard, travelled to Pondicherry and met Sri Aurobindo. In 1914, Mirra joined him in India, and together with Aurobindo, they launched the monthly review Arya, which published most of Aurobindo’s major writings. The First World War forced their return to France, followed by a sojourn in Japan. They returned to Pondicherry in 1920, after which Paul Richard departed. Mirra remained and became Aurobindo’s closest spiritual collaborator.
Heehs describes two principal approaches to biography. The first – the contingent approach – follows the subject’s life chronologically, attending closely to verifiable facts. The second – the teleological approach – interprets the subject’s life as an inevitable progression towards a destined goal. “I took the contingent approach when dealing with the Mother’s early life,” Heehs explained, “and continued to do so even after Sri Aurobindo declared her to be an incarnation of the divine Shakti. As a historian, my role is not to make theological pronouncements but to present the facts of her outer and inner life, insofar as she spoke about them.”
When asked about the Mother’s lasting contributions, Heehs emphasised: “She established the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, founded its school – the Sri Aurobindo International Centre of Education – and launched the international utopian city of Auroville. At the same time, she oversaw both the inner and outer lives of the ashram’s members.”
Aurobindo Ackroyd Ghosh – the polymath Indian philosopher, freedom fighter and revolutionary yogi – was educated in England at St Paul’s School and King’s College, Cambridge, where he was trained in the Classics. Long before the term “Asian century” became popular, Aurobindo had already envisioned Asia’s re-emergence on the world stage. Today, countless volumes have been written about his extraordinary life and complex philosophical legacy.
Although it may sound like a modern geopolitical thesis, Aurobindo proclaimed in 1918: “Asia is once more rising; she is throwing off the torpor of centuries. She is recovering the pride of her past and the faith in her future... It is through the recovery of the deeper self of Asia that the world will find its balance.”
His collaborator, Mirra Alfassa, widely known as the Mother, dedicated her life to actualising this prophetic vision.
Last week, I had the privilege of speaking at the Circles of Connections event hosted by the Society of Jainism and Entrepreneurship at Imperial College London. The event was organised by Yash Shah and Hrutika S., and generously sponsored by Koolesh Shah and the London Town Group, with support from Nikhil Shah, Priyanka Mehta, and Ambika Mehta.
The experience reminded me that leadership isn’t just about vision or results — it’s about how you show up, and why you do what you do.
During my talk, I shared stories from my journey in business and reflected on how the principles of Jainism have quietly shaped the way I lead. I’m not a strict Jain, but I deeply respect the values passed down to me by my grandfather and father. Three in particular — Ahimsa (non-violence), Satya (truth and transparency), and Dana (charity through entrepreneurial spirit) — have become anchors in how I make decisions, lead teams, build culture, and, most importantly, how I treat people.
These values don’t just influence your actions. They define your identity — and over time, they shape how others experience your leadership.
It was energising to connect with students, emerging entrepreneurs, and peers — each on their own journey, yet all driven by purpose and values.
Leadership and legacy are not separate tracks. The strongest leaders carry both — and pass them forward.
(This reflection was originally shared on LinkedIn by Hatul Shah, CEO of Sigma Pharmaceuticals.)
Delighted to pause and look back on a pioneering partnership project, which saw our Randal Charitable Foundation, Leicestershire Police and the Centre for Social Justice (CSJ) support pupils, from 5 Leicester schools, tour London and the Houses of Parliament with the aim to help raise aspirations and demonstrate possible future career paths.
With more young people than ever struggling to stay in education, find employment and track down career opportunities, I’ve reflected on the importance of collaborations like this one, which model just one way in that small interventions could reap rewards in the life course of youngsters.
New data released by the Department for Education showed over a quarter of a million school suspensions in Spring 2024 – a 12% increase on the previous year. Other studies including by the Centre for Social Justice show devastating statistics, including that there’s almost 1 million 16–24-year-olds in the UK who are Not in Education, Employment or Training – that’s 1 in 7 who are economically inactive and not looking for work. The need for creative interventions is real – and pressing.
Our visit was organised in the summer of 2023, with a simple aim - to help inspire underprivileged young people to gain the opportunities and motivations to reach their full potential. They travelled to London by coach for a briefing at the CSJ’s offices in Smith Square – after which they walked along the Embankment to the Houses of Parliament & Lords, for a guided tour.
Inspired by the trip, our partners have recently reported that a number of the young people have begun following their dreams and finding their passions. One pupil who took part, a 'looked after child', has now completed school with impressive exam results and reportedly frequently mentioned the experience and how much they enjoyed the visit throughout their final year.
Another has blossomed into what teachers describe as a 'superstar' at school, maintaining strong attendance and being a positive influence on fellow pupils. And perhaps the most touching story of all comes from a pupil who, despite facing significant challenges at home, has developed a passionate interest in politics and is now thriving academically, with aspirations towards public service.
I believe key moments in the lives of young people can be turning points, for good and for bad. This trip alone didn’t change lives, of course. But it did allow a moment in time to explore possibilities - and create some curiosity about different futures, which I’m delighted to see now being translated.
Investment by our Foundation, expert community outreach by Leicestershire Police, through their Mini Police programme and specialist support from CSJ colleagues all made this moment in time possible. We built on the growing positive relationships between police, schools and young people – to make a difference together for a few young people – in that moment.
A precious moment indeed.
Dr Nik Kotecha OBE DL is the chairman of the Randal Charitable Foundation
Asian trust issues ‘much wider than just vaccine’