Sailesh Mehta: Judiciary will improve when 'it reflects the diverse society it serves'
By SAILESH MEHTA Apr 08, 2022
THE Law Society of England and Wales, which represents 140,000 solicitors in the country, recently stated that there is virtually no chance of achieving a judiciary that mirrors diverse Britain, because the very recruitment process that claims to deliver that goal has failed.
The first black president of the Law Society expressed her frustration at a judicial appointments system that appears to have achieved little in ensuring diversity among judges.
In the senior courts, where the most important and law-defining decisions are made, only 29 per cent of judges are women and only four per cent are black, Asian or from ethnic minorities.
In the highest court in the UK, the Supreme Court, there has never been a black or Asian judge. It is likely to remain that way for some time to come, even though the recently appointed president of the Supreme Court, Lord Reed, said in his first interview that the lack of diversity in the court was a situation which would be “shameful if it persists”.
A report 13 years ago by the Judicial Appointments Commission, chaired by Lady Prashar, recognised that the statistics relating to the number of women and ethnic minority judges were worrying.
Twelve years ago, the Neuberger Report, commissioned by the government, made 50 recommendations and spanned 112 pages. It concluded that the lack of diversity among judges was affecting the experience of people who use the courts and was limiting judicial perspectives on critical legal issues.
It was launched with a fanfare of promises to achieve a measure of equality among judges.
Sailesh Mehta
The report confirmed, and the politicians accepted, that many barriers to greater judicial diversity were systemic – the talent was there, but the system prevented it from being appointed.
The legal profession, crusty and conservative, is slower to change than most. It has been buffeted by allegations of racism and sexism in the past three decades. Numerous BAME judges have expressed frustration at a lack of progress, a climate of bullying and the slow pace of change.
BAME lawyers and judges continue to face everyday racism in and out of court. Some have taken their complaints to employment tribunals. Others have simply resigned from the job.
Eastern Eye’s campaigning journalism has exposed the depth of the problem. Of those occupying senior judicial positions, the majority are privately educated and have been to Oxford or Cambridge university.
Elite barristers’ chambers or “Magic Circle” law firms draw them in, before the conveyor belt propels them onto the bench. This has been at the root of a self-perpetuating ruling class.
The Eton/Rugby/Oxbridge factory churns out identical judges, politicians and business leaders generation after generation, who then appoint others in their own image. It takes time and effort to change such a well-oiled machine.
The problem with the judge-producing machine is that it creates judges with very similar backgrounds and very similar views. In the most important court cases, judges are not just interpreting the law, they are creating new law.
They are required to bring their judgment to a knotty mix of legal, ethical and political problems.
The most important cases would have been decided differently 100 years ago because society thinks and lives differently now, and judicial thinking reflects the change.
This is because judges bring their world view to the problem – a view which is formed by their upbringing, education, and the people they grow up with.
But if they all have white, middle-class parents, have been to the same five public schools, the same two universities, the same 10 barristers’ chambers, then their judgments are likely to be skewed compared to the rest of society.
There is then a danger that their judgments are out of touch with, or even worse, antagonistic to the society they serve. So where does one go from here?
The starting point is to look at the composition of the Judicial Appointments Commission (JAC). While it has some done some good in the past 10 years, it has not delivered sufficiently on the promise of a diverse judiciary.
A new chair and new members not chosen from the usual “good and great” stable would be a start.
The JAC needs fresh ideas and fresh blood. It needs to acknowledge its failings. The system of “secret soundings” has been discredited and must be abolished from every appointment process.
The mounting cases of complaints of unequal treatment by BAME judges needs to be dealt with quickly and sympathetically before the discontent mushrooms and infects the whole system.
There is a wealth of talented lawyers who could be appointed if the appointments process was improved and unfair hurdles removed. Within the judiciary, there is a small but growing group of extremely talented and qualified individuals.
They should move up the ranks sooner rather than later – the more visible their progress, the more this will drive others to apply.
It is in our interest that the very best in their profession should be appointed to become judges.
The bar should remain high. There is a wealth of talent among black and Asian communities which is being overlooked. Our judiciary will improve when it better reflects the society it serves.
Sailesh Mehta is a barrister at Red Lion Chambers. He was appointed a recorder (part-time judge) of the crown court in 2009. He is a former chair and founding member of the Society of Asian Lawyers, as well as a founding member of the Bar Human Rights Committee.
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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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.)
Sailesh Mehta: Judiciary will improve when 'it reflects the diverse society it serves'