‘Ministers must unveil vision for bridging societal divides’
Strategy needed to prevent recurrence of summer violence, says expert
(From left) Professor Ted Cantle,
Sunder Katwala, Sara Khan and John Denham at the event
By Sunder KatwalaNov 28, 2024
“SOCIAL cohesion is not the absence of riots.”
John Denham put that central point pithily at the ‘After the Riots’ cohesion summit last week.
Rather, the test of a more cohesive society would be one where most people have a stake, feel that their voice counts equally with others, and are confident that Britain is a nation which can handle differences through dialogue, the former communities secretary proposed.
Britain is a more divided, more fractious and more anxious society than that. If most of us would agree that more social cohesion would be valuable, how would we go about trying to get more of it?
That was the challenge for policymakers and practitioners at the summit, jointly convened by British Future, the Belong network and the Together coalition, hosted by the Quakers at Friends House in London.
Those six days of rioting this summer tested a brand new government, whose focus on visible policing and rapid prosecutions quelled the violence quickly. Having been tough on disorder, could the government get tough on the causes of disorder too? There were one-off grants – totalling £15 million – to towns and cities affected by the disorder, while a new cabinet committee considered the many cohesion challenges which cut across departmental lines.
The central policy conundrum for government is to identify its own role. Social cohesion cannot be delivered from Whitehall or Westminster. It happens – or becomes frayed – in the places where people live.
But local goodwill is unlikely to have a sufficient, consistent or sustained impact on cohesion without being embedded in a strategy that identifies, articulates and implements the key national foundations that facilitate local ownership and action.
That was an argument accepted by faith minister, Lord Khan of Burnley, in critiquing the policy history of successive governments as involving too much “muddling through”.
There had, he noted, been a pattern of serious disorder recurring about once a decade. “Without a sustained focus on community cohesion – to address the “root causes of division and discontent” – we will fail to break the cycle”, the minister warned.
What those root causes are, which to prioritise and how to address them, are politically contested questions. The foundations of a future cohesion strategy depend in large part on how a government answers it.
The absence of further violence cannot be guaranteed. Southport MP Patrick Hurley spoke soberly of the risks of learning too little from the summer, “a dangerous and combustible time”, with future flashpoints to navigate. Unfounded rumours are again swirling around – largely unchecked – on major social media platforms. Hotels housing asylum seekers remain potential targets.
So one missing pillar of an effective national approach would be effective tension monitoring. Former counterextremism commissioner Sara Khan argued that governments should have anticipated the disorder, but lack a strategic approach to cohesion and resilience risks. A police van was set on fire six months earlier outside an asylum hotel in Knowsley. A report into the Leicester disorder of September 2022 is expected imminently – after some reluctance to explore the causes and lessons even after the event.
A cohesion strategy needs to be an “everywhere” agenda. Southport would not have been on anybody’s priority list of cohesion risks prior to July’s tragedy. Yet, only a small number of councils have long-term plans or programmes to address fraying social cohesion. The psychological impact of this summer’s racist violence spread fear far beyond those towns where violence did break out.
The government has several policy challenges – it needs to update strategies on extremism, on hate crime, on its engagement with faith and belief – while putting in place the missing foundations of a strategy to take antiMuslim prejudice seriously. Can it also offer an account of how these strands fit together?
The new government – now five months old – is clear about how it does not want to talk about identity. It hopes to reduce the volume and temperature. It may be beyond its power to “call off” the so-called culture wars, but it hopes not to fuel them. It is wary of offering its own narrative, governing in an era of low trust where there is scepticism of grand visions.
Yet, a successful agenda for social cohesion does depend on telling a story about the future of this country – to ground an account of the respective roles and responsibilities of government and other civic partners.
2025 will be the year that decides whether sustained action on cohesion in this parliament digs deeper than responding to future flashpoints. Next July, the government marks a year in office – with the anniversary of the 2024 riots hot on its heels.
The cohesion test for the government at that point cannot be the mere absence of violence – but how far it has filled the cohesion policy gap with a practicable roadmap for sustained change.
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)
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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.
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.)
‘Ministers must unveil vision for bridging societal divides’
Strategy needed to prevent recurrence of summer violence, says expert