Brexit hostility in contrast to welcome for those fleeing chinese crackdown
By SUNDER KATWALA, Director of British FutureFeb 07, 2024
THIS was a tale of two anniversaries.
As Big Ben chimed 11pm on January 31, 2020, the United Kingdom had formally left the European Union. Yet the fourth anniversary of that moment passed without a great deal of fanfare last week. The media sparring between the remnants of the referendum tribes of Leavers and Remainers has taken on an increasingly ritualistic feel.
Yet January 31 now marks another anniversary too – of the third year since the British National (Overseas) visa route was introduced to allow Hong Kongers to come to Britain.
The security minister, Tom Tugendhat, believes this is one of the most important things the government has done. “184,000 Hong Kongers have chosen to make the UK their home. I could not be prouder of the difference that you are making,” he told the many BN(O) visa holders who had gathered at the Lunar New Year reception hosted by the Welcoming Committee for Hong Kongers to mark the anniversary.
Tugendhat’s pride in their contribution reflected how he had himself been first to propose inviting Hong Kongers to Britain in an article for The Atlantic in the summer of 2019.
He was a free-thinking backbencher, chairing the Commons Foreign Affairs Committee. The appetite within government – focused almost entirely on the Brexit stalemate – was unclear. Once the general election resolved the question of Brexit, and as China’s crackdown on democratic expression in Hong Kong intensified, prime minister Boris Johnson’s government made a much broader offer to Hong Kongers than many had anticipated.
The visa route was a response to a new wave of repression in Hong Kong, though Tugendhat’s argument was that this should right a historic wrong – the downgrading of the Hong Kong Chinese to a new “second class citizenship” status of overseas citizens in 1981.
Lord Paddy Ashdown
One thing that has been forgotten about Norman Tebbit’s infamous “cricket test” intervention, in a Los Angeles Times interview in April 1990, was that the timing was motivated by Tebbit’s campaign against allowing Hong Kongers to come to Britain as the 1997 handover of Hong Kong to China loomed. Former Liberal Democrat leader Paddy Ashdown was the most prominent advocate of admitting Hong Kongers – but the political and public splits over this issue ran deep.
There is a dramatic contrast to how Hong Kongers have been welcomed in this generation. There has been unanimous support for the new Hong Kong visa in the House of Commons. Not a single MP spoke publicly against it. That breadth of support is striking, since the Hong Kong visa represents one of the largest voluntary expansions of immigration to the UK in recent decades.
Indeed, the anniversary dates coincide because the government – perhaps as much by coincidence as design – chose to mark the first anniversary of Brexit by opening up immigration in this way.
“Rue Brittania” was the Evening Standard’s Brexit anniversary front-page headline, reporting its polling showing that just 13 per cent of people feel that Brexit has been a success, while 57 per cent see it as a failure.
Immigration is one area where people debate whether anything has changed. Yet, Brexit did lead to the most significant overhaul of the UK immigration rules for decades. Freedom of movement ended. That ‘red line’ ruled out forms of Brexit, such as keeping single market membership in the European Economic Area, that would have maintained it. The new post-Brexit system no longer offered preferential treatment to European neighbours over those coming from the rest of the world.
Patterns of immigration changed dramatically, too. Seven out of ten migrants to the UK were coming from the EU up to June 2016. That has fallen to one in ten now.
But, overall immigration levels did not fall – because of the choices that governments made about making immigration from outside the European Union more open.
Johnson’s more liberal approach to post-study work visas for recent graduates, for NHS and social care visas, and the emergency response to the Ukraine war as well as the Hong Kong visa – commanded cross-party consensus even as they increased immigration to Britain.
Now both major parties say they agree the resulting peak levels of immigration are too high. Immigration looks set to provide one of the most rhetorically polarising issues of the election year. There is a substantive clash of both principle and policy over asylum and the Rwanda scheme.
On immigration visas, it remains rare to find any major substantive point of policy on which the Conservatives and Labour disagree. Home secretary James Cleverly was this week outlining more details of the government’s package of measures to reduce net migration, but there have been few cross-party clashes to date over specific proposals.
What this tale of two anniversaries illustrates is the dilemmas of control. A government that wants to bring immigration down remains proud of many of the choices that it made to increase it.
THE headline in the Daily Telegraph read: An 18-year-old with a higher IQ than Stephen Hawking has passed 23 A-levels.
The gushing piece went on to report that Mahnoor Cheema, whose family originate from Pakistan, had also received an unconditional offer from Oxford University to read medicine.
She was quoted in the newspaper as declaring: ‘I was absolutely set on it (studying medicine at Oxford). There was not a world in my mind where I would not get in. That is not cocky but that was my determined life path. If I did not get in I would have reapplied,’
She clearly didn’t need quite so many A-levels to fulfil her ambition, but I suggest there is something psychological about the possible role of an Asian mind-set, which may partly explain the impressive phenomenon that is Mahnoor Cheema.
According to a recent study, rates of Higher Education participation stood at 45 per cent for black British young people, 50 per cent for British south Asians, and 68 per cent for British Chinese, compared to just 30 per cent for the white British ethnic group.
Until recently, however, the same study reported that black British, British Pakistani and British Bangladeshi students have been substantially under-represented at the UK’s most academically selective universities. Research also reveals that BAME applicants to highly selective colleges have been less likely to be offered places than their comparably qualified white British peers.
In response to race discrimination, some opt for complaining, and campaigning, to change the system.
I venture to suggest that perhaps, instead, the Asian way is to keep your head down, stay out of politics, and away from getting grumpy, and instead, get so many A-levels that Oxford University made this young Asian girl, an unconditional offer of a place, a full year before she even finished getting all her A-levels.
In response to her famous school, Henrietta Barnett, objecting to her missing lessons in order to take all these extra exams, she reportedly left, and studied from home.
So this younger generation of Asians, may be more rebellious than their parents.
This can only be a positive signpost for their ability to take the rightful place in society, a position which reflects their hard work and talent. Especially if we see this defiance in girls.
South Asian girls, in my experience, have traditionally been somewhat suppressed by a male dominated family structure, leading to some surveys finding higher rates of mental illness and selfharm. I would, however, like to counsel Mahnoor Cheema, that although she clearly worked hard to understand the rules of the game in terms of academic success, and getting into a highly selective university degree programme, this doesn’t mean the same rulebook applies to success, after you leave the academy.
In the cloistered environment of an elite academic establishment, being smart and signalling your smartness are key. But when you venture out into the wild world, different considerations start to compete.
At an interview to get into a top medical school, the professor grilling you will only be too pleased at the prospect of the intellectual challenge of teaching someone who they suspect may be as talented as themselves.
But when you vacate the academic world and start applying for jobs, beware of appearing too clever, as then your boss and colleagues may feel threatened. A new currency starts to be the key exchange, and this becomes likeability.
There is even a word for it among the old-school elite in the UK, ‘clubbable’. Many a time I have found myself in conversations with the eminent fellow members at The Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall, famously described as the ‘brainy club’ because of its enviable list of Nobel Prize winners who are, or were, members, or even The Reform Club (more politics than prizes), also in Pall Mall, where that characterisation has been deployed to explain why some talented applicant is being excluded from some social, or academic, or professional circle.
Indeed, in my experience, one of the particular issues in British culture that outsiders find difficult to grasp, is that likeability may even count for more than competence. I learned from competing in debating and public speaking competitions, while at school, that deploying the strongest and best researched argument was not nearly as effective as just being funny.
I am sure that Mahnoor is shrewd enough to realise that in the future, instead of declaring that studying medicine at Oxford was her ambition, and she was prepared to be relentless in her efforts at securing a place there, charming though she was in her honesty, a more socially astute move might be, instead to declare how pleasantly surprised she was to have been awarded a place, and to give thanks that she ‘got lucky on the day’.
Also, how she was so busy playing tennis, golf, shooting clay pigeons, going night-clubbing, saving dolphins and painting her nails, that she barely had time to study.
Indeed, she didn’t.
Most of the time.
Because naked ambition is something a bit embarrassing in Britain today. Also, if she didn’t get into Oxford, she would accept the decision of the panel, and she declares she would re-train as a paediatric nurse.
Because she loves the uniform.
And children.
But the Asian mind-set is so impressed by hard work, talent and achievement, it forgets what’s actually needed to survive in Britain, where the rules of how to be socially and professionally accepted are the hardest, compared to anywhere else in the world, to figure out.
Particularly if you were not born into the aristocracy.
But in my clinical private practice in Harley Street, I see many members of the ruling class, and so I have had the rules of their game patiently explained to me, by those who write the rulebooks. These instructions include that after you turn up at Lord’s cricket ground and score a hundred, you apologise at the subsequent press conference that you are still hung-over from pulling an ‘all-nighter’, celebrating with your old regiment who had just returned from a posting overseas.
The members in the MCC pavilion will then raise a glass to you and confirm, you are indeed a jolly good chap.
So let me boil it down for you, particularly for all those pushy Asian parents who just don’t get it.
Sometimes, the smartest move to make in life is ... to know when to play dumb.
Peter Searle
Dr Raj Persaud is a consultant psychiatrist in Harley Street London and is author of the only guide on how to survive in a post covid world – the Mental Vaccine for Covid 19 published by Amberley Publishing
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Jay Singh Sohal on Mandalay Hill in Burma at the position once held by Sikh machine gunners who fought to liberate the area
ACROSS the Asian subcontinent 80 years ago, the guns finally fell silent on August 15, the Second World War had truly ended.
Yet, in Britain, what became known as VJ Day often remains a distant afterthought, overshadowed by Victory in Europe against the Nazis, which is marked three months earlier.
That oversight does a disservice to the millions who fought, died, and suffered in Asia and the Far East. Among them were the staunch Indian Army soldiers Britain had drawn from the sub-continent to form the backbone of the Allied ground forces in the Asia-Pacific theatre of war.
A significant majority of Allied troops who fought against Japan in southeast Asia were from Commonwealth nations, the largest contingent came from modern day India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal. These brave men represented every faith and culture, every region, and stepped forward to do their righteous duty.
They were met with some of the fiercest fighting of the war in the harshest conditions, from searing jungles, through monsoons and horrific diseases. Their sacrifices were immense and their example inspiring, but their heroism has never been as prominent in popular narratives on the Second World War as those who fought equally bravery for our freedom in Europe.
It is high time that was addressed, and during this 80th anniversary year of VJ Day, we are changing it.
As a trustee of the Commonwealth War Graves Foundation and a veteran deeply invested in commemoration, I’m proud that we are using this moment to go beyond the act of commemoration to educate and redress historical disparity. Our For Evermore Tour shines a light on the diverse global forces from across the Commonwealth who helped secure victory in Asia. We’re hosting education and community events in Hong Kong, Kenya, Singapore, and Thailand, nations whose people fought and fell under the Southeast Asia Command banner. We are sharing their stories as central chapters of our shared history.
The reasons why this part of the story has been oft neglected are complex. The war in Asia was longer and more complicated than its European counterpart. It lacked a singular turning point like D-Day or the liberation of Paris. And many of the soldiers who fought there came from colonial armies. After all, the Second World War was an imperial conflict in which extant empires mobilised global resources to fight. The heroism of brown and black men did not fit neatly into Britain’s post-war narrative and the subsequent movement for independence across many of her colonies.
And, at Rangoon War Cemetery paying respects to those who fought to free Burma
That disconnect is still keenly felt today, with Savanta polling showing that half of those identifying as Asian agree greater education is needed on war zones outside Europe.
But the narrative is being challenged. As a migrant community, the start of our story, and contribution to Britain, is not fresh off the boat in the 1950s and 60s, but rather on farflung battlefields where our forebears spilt blood in the name of King and this country.
The Indian Army under the British was the largest volunteer force the world had ever seen. By 1945, more than 2.5 million people from the subcontinent were in uniform. They fought across the globe, from North Africa to Italy, but their role in Asia was pivotal. Be it Kohima or Imphal, Mandalay or Rangoon, Malaya or Hong Kong.
One such brave was 29-year-old Naik Nand Singh, a Sikh from Mansa, Punjab, who in March 1944 led a section near Maungdaw up a steep ridge under heavy machine gun fire to capture a trench. Despite sustaining injuries, including to his face, he crawled alone to capture a second and third.
Another is 23-year-old Naik Fazal Din, a Punjabi Muslim from Hoshiarpur, whose unit came under attack in Meiktila in March 1945. Despite being stabbed by a Japanese sword, the mortally wounded soldier fought on to subdue several enemy combatants while rallying his men.
And who could forget Subadar Netra Bahadur Thapa of the 5th Royal Gurkha Rifles? In June 1944, with his post under siege, he led his men through the night and refused to retreat despite being wounded. At dawn, with only two men left alive, he charged the enemy and died in handto-hand combat. But he delayed the enemy long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
All three received the Victoria Cross, joining 18 other VC recipients from the Indian Army; men who are commemorated on the Rangoon Memorial, which I had the privilege of paying my respects at on a visit to the battlefields of Burma a decade ago.
These are but a mere glimpse of tales of individual gallantry, which alongside many thousands more stories of the brave weave together to form a tapestry of devotion to duty, discipline and sacrifice.
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) works tirelessly to ensure their legacy is not lost to time. It maintains the graves and memorials of more than 580,000 Commonwealth service personnel who died during the Second World War, including over 15,000 between VE and VJ Day. It also commemorates 68,000 civilians, whose deaths remind us that the cost of war extends far beyond the battlefield.
Through the charitable arm of the Foundation, we are expanding education, digitising archives, and working with communities to uncover forgotten stories. In Kenya, one project helps veterans share memories of fighting alongside Indian units in Burma, while another brings British schoolchildren face-to-face with the legacy of war through digital storytelling and site visits. Earlier this year, I was privileged to witness the unveiling of a new memorial in Cape Town dedicated to the South African Labour Corps. Many more initiatives to remember the forgotten are planned.
These efforts matter. Two out of five people (42 per cent) who identify as Asian say learning about the human cost of war through personal and veterans’ stories worldwide has more impact than reading history books or watching films. That is why the CWGC is investing in storytelling – not only to inform, but also to move and connect.
For me, commemoration is personal. As a British Army veteran and founder of the UK’s first national Sikh war memorial at the National Memorial Arboretum – created to ensure my community’s sacrifices in the First World War are recognised far and wide – I volunteer with the CWGC to ensure all who served are remembered equally, whatever their background, faith, or rank. That matters more now than ever. In an age of identity debates and fragmented politics, commemoration highlights our shared heritage and values in the face of oppression, and has the power to unify.
This VJ Day, let us tell the whole story. Let us honour those from across the Commonwealth who served, fought, and sacrificed for our freedoms. Let us share and teach their stories, and reflect on where we would be without their contribution 80 years ago. They helped shape modern Britain and deserve to be remembered in all their glory – for evermore.
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The causes of judicial stress are multifaceted, and their effects go far beyond individual well-being
Judicial well-being has long been a taboo subject, despite the untold toll it has taken on judges who must grapple daily with the problems and traumas of others. Research shows that judicial stress is more pronounced among magistrates and trial judges, who routinely face intense caseloads and are exposed to distressing material. The causes of judicial stress are multifaceted, and their effects go far beyond individual well-being. They ultimately affect the integrity of the institution and the quality of justice delivered. This is why judicial well-being requires serious recognition and priority.
As early as 1981, American clinical psychologist Isaiah M. Zimmerman presented one of the first and most comprehensive analyses of the impact of stress on judges. He identified a collection of stressors, including overwhelming caseloads, isolation, the pressure to maintain a strong public image, and the loneliness of the judicial role. He also highlighted deeply personal challenges such as midlife transitions, marital strain, and diminishing career satisfaction, all of which quietly but persistently erode judicial well-being.
Four decades later, in 2024, judicial officers and experts from across the world came together in an unprecedented initiative to draft the Nauru Declaration on Judicial Well-being. It was followed by a landmark act of global recognition when the United Nations formally proclaimed an International Day for Judicial Well-being.
I would like to share the story behind this journey. Back in 2014, when I was appointed Secretary of the Judicial Service Association (JSA) in Sri Lanka, it was the first time I was able to address judicial stress in a pragmatic way for the benefit of my colleagues. By then, I had already witnessed the stress and emotional struggles my colleagues faced. Magistrates and District Judges were burdened with relentless workloads and institutional demands. I had seen some fall ill, likely due to the pressure they endured. As Secretary, I felt a strong responsibility to act.
I initiated a program for judges to participate in monthly performing arts workshops as a way to relieve stress and promote a balanced mind. At first, many, including my colleagues, were sceptical. After all, it was unusual to imagine judges engaging in performing arts. Judges are traditionally expected to embody authority, composure, and solemnity, and for years, they had only attended formal, work-related judicial workshops. However, when I explained that the purpose of the initiative was to help alleviate stress, the Chief Justice was receptive and offered his support.
We moved forward, and the program eventually became one of the most anticipated activities among judges. Recognising that collegiality is also vital to well-being, I organised an outbound trust-building camp, something judges had never previously imagined doing. Such activities were typically associated with the corporate sector. The judiciary, by contrast, had long upheld a conservative image, where judges were expected to be impervious to stress and always maintain a composed exterior. The camp, however, proved to be a powerful catalyst for strengthening collegial bonds and mutual trust. At that time, I referred to these early initiatives collectively as efforts in promoting a balanced mind.
The following year, I moved to Australia as I started serving in Fiji. In May 2021, I came across an Australian radio interview featuring Dr. Carly Schrever. Hearing her speak about judicial stress was enlightening. I immediately reached out to her on LinkedIn. I wanted to organise Dr Schrever to do a presentation in Fiji on judicial well-being, but it was a long shot as I wasn’t holding a leadership role. So, long story short, I wasn’t able to organise that presentation on judicial well-being due to number of challenges.
Later that year, during the Commonwealth Magistrates’ and Judges’ Association (CMJA) Conference, which was held virtually due to the pandemic, I listened to Judge Kaly Kaul from the UK share her powerful story of the challenges she faced at work. Her story moved me deeply. I was inspired to do something impactful. Later, I met her in Cardiff at a CMJA conference, and I told her that we would do something lasting for the benefit of judges around the world. I was convinced of what I had long suspected. Judicial stress is universal, cutting across jurisdictions, resources, and roles.
In 2023, I pitched the idea of convening a conference on judicial well-being and drafting an international declaration to Marie Cauchois, the UNODC’s Anti-Corruption Advisor in the Pacific. She readily supported it. I reached out to Chief Justices, senior judges, and global experts, and soon a drafting committee was formed. I prepared a concept note outlining the roadmap and objectives.
Drafting the Declaration virtually, was not easy. Time zones and geography posed challenges, but the commitment of the committee members was extraordinary. Some even attended meetings at midnight or early in the morning. Everyone felt this was an issue that needed to be addressed as a matter of urgency after all these years. In the end, we finalised seven foundational principles, and the Nauru Declaration on Judicial Well-being was formally adopted on 25 July 2024, at the Judicial Integrity and Well-being Conference in Nauru, with the support of the UNODC.
I knew, however, that a declaration alone would not keep the momentum going. In many parts of the world, judicial well-being is still seen as peripheral or even entirely irrelevant. We needed an annual global observance to remind institutions of their responsibility. I proposed this idea to Hon. Lionel Aingimea MP, Minister for Justice of Nauru. He embraced the proposal wholeheartedly.
I then worked with Nauru’s Permanent Mission in New York to draft the UN resolution. On 4 March 2025, the United Nations General Assembly adopted the resolution by a vote of 160 in favour, 1 against, and 3 abstentions. I specifically proposed 25 July—the day the Nauru Declaration was adopted—as the date to be commemorated annually. I was fortunate to witness the culmination of our efforts while sitting in the UN General Assembly Hall, where the United Nations formally acknowledged judicial well-being as a matter of global significance. The resolution was co-sponsored by 70 Member States, including Australia.
I am proud that Australia is among the countries leading the way in promoting judicial well-being. The research and advocacy of Dr. Carly Schrever, along with the efforts of many judicial leaders and the institutional support systems within Australia’s courts, offer valuable examples for the world. However, even in Australia, the journey has not been easy.
It was Justice Michael Kirby who was among the first to speak openly about judicial stress back in 1995, referring to it as "the unmentionable topic." He faced criticism—even from within the judiciary. Justice Kirby later reflected on this resistance, noting that Justice Thomas of the Supreme Court of Queensland “regarded my paper as one that wrongly portrayed judges as ‘victims’ and as ‘looking for sympathy.’ I was accused of jumping on the ‘stress bandwagon’ in a way likely to ‘release howls of derision.’” This reaction highlights how deep the stigma once ran and how it still does in many places.
Fortunately, the tide is turning. The Nauru Declaration, supported by global research such as the UNODC’s “Exploring the Links between Judicial Well-being and Judicial Integrity” to studies from Australia, the UK, the USA, and other countries has helped bring unprecedented legitimacy to this conversation.
We must not forget that discussions about judicial well-being have often surfaced in the aftermath of tragic events, when judicial officers have taken their own lives due to unbearable stress, such as Victorian Magistrate Stephen Myall and Federal Circuit Court Judge Guy Andrew, as well as the silent stories of many others. This global movement is also a tribute to them and a call to action to ensure that such tragedies are never repeated.
With the first observance of the International Day for Judicial Well-being on 25 July, I am hopeful that judicial stress will no longer be a neglected or taboo subject. It is time for judicial well-being to be prioritised in justice systems around the world, not as a private concern for individual judges, but as a core institutional responsibility.
References:
· M Kirby, ‘Judicial stress and judicial bullying ‘ (2014) 14(1) . Queensland University of Technology Law Review (Special Edition: Wellness for Law) 1–14.
· I. M. Zimmerman, ‘Stress: What it does to judges and how it can be lessened’ (1981) 20(4) Judges’ Journal 5–8.
· ‘Coronial findings into suicide of magistrate Stephen Myall found compassionate judge was overworked and stressed’ ABC New (Australian Broadcasting Service, 2020, August 8) <https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-08-08/victorian-m...>.
· ‘Judge Guy Andrew's death a reminder of 'crushing and relentless' workload facing judiciary, Bar Association says’ ABC New (Australian Broadcasting Service, 2020, October 9) <https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-10-09/guy-andrew-...>.
(Justice Rangajeeva Wimalasena is the president of Nauru Court of Appeal and adjunct professor at Australian Catholic University)
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.
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.
Hong Kong visa exposes immigration dichotomy
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