‘We must speak out about the judicial system’s faults’
Ex-judge Gilham discusses whistleblowing and new ‘restrictive’ guide
By CLAIRE GILHAMSep 06, 2023
IN 2019, in the Supreme Court, I won whistle-blowing rights for judges. Rights which are guaranteed under human rights law, but were denied to me by the Ministry of Justice (MoJ).
I had whistleblown about courts being made unsafe working environments, which was traceable to budget cuts in the recession. I had been made ill and was forcibly retired in that process, which was again unlawful and which the MoJ was obliged to reverse so I could go back to work until retiring last year.
I have always maintained that anybody has a right to whistle-blow where they discover a public harm. I also believe that it is my duty as a judge not to talk about the cases before me and that protecting the integrity of the judicial system doesn't extend to covering up its errors or concealing its faults.
I believe the public also expects judges to be fearless in identifying wrong, and that the public supports real judicial independence.
The financial costs for me were on a ruinous scale. Since then, Judge Kaly Kaul has also sacrificed her financial security in her own legal case to force the judiciary to acknowledge it has a duty of care for the welfare of judges.
Between us we have gained legal protection for health and safety for judges which other workers could take for granted. Our cases have led to improvements. There are now safety standards for courtrooms, a whistle-blowing policy, albeit weak. Disability is better protected and diversity is beginning to be seen as an issue.
Thanks to campaigning work by Eastern Eye, and a hearing by the justice select committee, the lord chief justice has moved from a flat denial that bullying is even a thing, to acknowledging that 10 per cent of judges experience bullying at work.
Unfortunately, photo shoots and events staged by the centre are preferred responses to engaging and changing. Privileged education, personal characteristics, professional connections and, yes, even family relationships remain the best predictor of appointment and promotion.
Other judges, finding internal investigations biased, are litigating their complaints, and more are prepared to speak out. Cases which in the past would have been settled in private with hush money, are being reported in the legal press. What is emerging is a picture of failure to adhere to regulations and of collusive secrecy between agencies set up by parliament to act independently.
Want to be a lord chief justice [LCJ]? Then you will have to have served in the chief executive's office at the "independent" Judicial Appointment Commission [JAC]. When you are LCJ, then you will appoint the senior judiciary - the single most complained about group in terms of bullying and singularly non-diverse. Deputy director of the Judicial Office whose role is to support the LCJ? Then you will also be head of the "independent" Judicial Conduct Investigations Office which has to investigate complaints about the judges.
The two factors which make it very difficult for judges to take their own cases through the courts (once one sets fears of a biased tribunal to one side) are that:
1. secrecy is baked into the judicial system, for example, by statute allowing unsuccessful candidates to be led to believe that they have failed to pass tests rather than that someone doesn't approve of them.
2. legal costs are no object to the ministry who tactically litigate to exhaust the individual.
UN guarantees of judicial independence to which we are bound by treaty should be safeguarded by judges in each country making rules for themselves.
Not so in England and Wales. Here, a nominated handful of judges and civil servants have just issued a Guide to Judicial Conduct which is singularly unbalanced in attempting to impose silence on judges with no consideration at all of any duty to speak out.
This guide has been produced without asking if this meets judicial consensus and without public consultation. The Judicial Support Network understands that this erosion of judicial independence is a reaction to bad press which may explain why it seeks to be so restrictive. Judges respect parties' privacy once cases are over, and self-censor – first, to protect the integrity of the individual decision and second, to maintain the integrity of the system. The latter means avoiding unnecessary open criticism of the executive and its policies.
Judges, though, are not civil servants, and the public expects that they will not be inhibited by fear for their own careers and reputations from speaking plainly about the system's faults. It is the faults that damage the system, not the act of acknowledging them. Silence can be collusive.
This guide says judges must speak to the civil servants at the media office; speak and, by implication, gain the consent of their leadership judges before speaking out or they may be brought up on a disciplinary charge. If a case in front of them exposes a serious issue requiring public attention, then they must approach the one person the LCJ has chosen to be the official mouthpiece of the judiciary’s view on the subject who may then say something or nothing about it. Judges are being told they cannot contribute freely to academic or professional debate.
This is not how we made the common law, and it will hamper the adaptability of law.
Since the current judicial system was set up in 2005 there has been a marked loss of responsiveness and legal development to deal with the ordinary person's problems because of hierarchy. We have stratification of priorities where what is at the top is important and what is at the bottom gets no attention. Family courts have real problems and consumer fraud is just not being addressed through the courts. Reform – the programme of digitisation – supports administrators, but impedes the work of front-line judges but is pushed though because of its uninformed top-down design.
Claire Gilham is a former district judge who won a seven-year battle against the Ministry of Justice to blow the whistle on bullying and racism in the judiciary. She retired in October 2022 and co-founded the Judicial Support Network in 2021 with her colleague, Judge Kaly Kaul KC
IN MY entrepreneurial journey, I have noticed that crises happen out of the blue. In fact, global crises are more than not, unpredicted. Sadly, the same is true in one’s personal and family life, where everything can turn on a dime.
On December 23, last year, at 2:15 am, our 26-year daughter Zara fell off the terrace outside her first-floor bedroom at our house in Cape Town. It was a freak accident, and it happens, her younger brother and sister were awake and saw her fall.
We all rushed down and she was lifeless. We thought she had died.
I was tempted to pick her up and rush her to the hospital in our car, but our nephew – who is trained in first aid – said to not touch her.
This probably saved her life.
Two ambulances arrived within 15 minutes, and they got no response from her. I went with her in the ambulance.
We rushed her to one hospital, who turned her away saying it was too serious, and then to the Vincent Pallotti, a level one trauma hospital, which took her in.
Scans showed she had broken her neck seriously, with a shattered vertebra, and damaged her spinal cord.
As luck would have it, Dr David Welsh, one of the leading neurosurgeons in Cape Town and in South Africa, happened to be on duty that day. He said he had to perform an emergency operation within 12 hours of the accident and wanted permission to administer a controversial drug. He went ahead and said there was no prediction of the outcome.
Lord Karan Bilimoria with his daughter Zara
Zara, of course, was emotionally distraught. Naturally, it was a question of “why me?”, when in the past few years she had had two near death experiences, contracting bacterial meningitis, followed a few years later to sepsis in London.
She said in tears, “Daddy, surely this is the third time and the last time”. In the ICU, I said to her, “we will get through this together.” I did not leave Zara’s side from that moment until two months later.
In the ICU, the miracle of the South African physiotherapists and occupational therapists started to take place. They forcibly moved her limbs which were completely paralysed.
She could not use her thumbs, or hold anything, nor could she turn in bed. It was a pathetic sight, we had no idea what the outcome would be.
I would cry in the bathroom, so she would not see me, and I would cry all the way home late at night after she had gone to sleep, returning early in the morning before the staff on duty changed. Zara left the ICU after eight days. We were told that normally after an accident such as hers, patients are in the unit for 40 days.
I checked her into residential rehab near our home, where they told me she would be there for three months. We had to leave her on New Year’s Eve, in tears, as no visitors were allowed after 7 pm.
Nine days later, Zara walked out of the residential rehab unaided and continued the rehab thereafter as an outpatient. Her attitude throughout this was one of determination, resilience and going the extra mile. Every time she was asked to do certain exercises; she would do two or three extra repetitions.
We took her to see the surgeon who performed her operation, three weeks after her accident.
When she walked into his consulting rooms, he said, “You are one of my Christmas miracles”, and told me and my wife that normally patients do not walk again after such an injury. My wife spontaneously burst into tears, and I felt like I had been punched in the chest.
Zara returned home at the end of February and a month later, on April 1, started work initially from home, building up to today — back at work full time.
From the time of the accident, prayers were said for her all over the world. In Parsi fire temples in Hyderabad, my home city, in Delhi, in Udvada by one of the Parsi high priests in India, in Mumbai, in Iran by the Zoroastrian head priest, in Sikh gurdwaras, in Hindu temples, in Christian churches, in the UK and in India.
My mother would quote Alfred Lord Tennyson, “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of”.
Through those early days, no surgeon I consulted in South Africa, in the UK, in India, and in the United States, could give me any hope except one, the famous UK based neurosurgeon Dr Alagappan Sivaraman (known as Siva), who was introduced to me by our family friend in Hyderabad, Dr Rashna Chenoy.
Siva told me within a few days of the accident, when Zara was showing signs of some improvement, “Please have faith, she will be running within three months”. He ended up being right.
When no one offers hope, and you are staring into the abyss, not knowing whether your daughter might be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, and one person gives you hope – it means more than I could ever express.
Our family has been through a living nightmare, and to hell and back.
However, the stars aligning, the serendipity, the luck, the good fortune, starting with Zara falling and her head missing the stone corner of the veranda by literally an inch, to our nephew stopping me from picking her up which could have severed her spinal cord completely, to Dr Welsh being on duty that morning, performing the emergency operation in time and decompressing her spinal cord, it has all been remarkable, it has truly been a miracle. God is great.
Zara’s attitude and spirit throughout, and her determination, is an inspiration to us all.
What these past nine months have highlighted more than ever, is that your family is the most important thing by far; everything else comes second, by a long way. Looking at Zara now, it is as if nothing had ever happened.
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Higher education participation is 50 per cent for British south Asian students
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.
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