Dr Krish Kandiah

20 MAR 26

19 MAR 26

18 MAR 26

17 MAR 26

16 MAR 26

14 MAR 26

Good morning. When societies argue about definitions, it can sound technical, the sort of debate lawyers or policymakers care about. But definitions are about something deeper. They show what a society is prepared to recognise, and what it refuses to ignore. This week the government introduced a non-statutory definition of anti-Muslim hostility. Predictably, the conversation has turned to questions of free speech and its limits. Those are important questions. But definitions of prejudice carry another purpose. They tell us whose dignity we are prepared to defend. As a rabbi, I hear these debates with particular sensitivity. Jewish history contains long periods when hostility towards Jews was so normal it barely needed a name. The word antisemitism only entered common language in the nineteenth century, though the prejudice itself was far older. Naming something does not solve it. But it does change the silence around it. I was thinking about that while sharing an Iftar meal during Ramadan. Around the table were Muslims, Jews and others, gathered to break the fast together. Among them was Maoz Inon, an Israeli peace activist whose story carries immense grief. On October 7th his parents were killed when Hamas attacked their home in southern Israel. Many people in his position might understandably turn inward. Instead Maoz has chosen something more demanding: continuing to work for a shared future between Israelis and Palestinians, insisting humanity must survive even deep violence .What struck me that evening was the atmosphere in the room. Everyone arrived with a strong sense of who they were, Muslim, Jewish, secular. No one was asked to soften their identity in order to sit together. In Jewish tradition there is a phrase, b’tzelem Elohim, that every human being is created in the image of God. If every person carries that divine imprint, dignity is not something we negotiate depending on who we agree with. It becomes something we are bound to protect in one another. The debate about anti-Muslim hatred is therefore not only about Muslims. It is about the kind of country we are still trying to become. A Britain confident enough to protect open debate, but serious enough to recognise when prejudice corrodes our common life. Around that Iftar table it felt possible to glimpse that Britain. Not one where difference disappears, but one where faith and identity are brought honestly into the room. Because perhaps the real contribution of religion in public life is this: the insistence that dignity is not a limited resource. And that a confident Britain will be built not by setting identities aside, but by bringing the best of them into the same room.

12 MAR 26

Good morning. Justice delayed is justice denied. But justice rushed is no bowl of cherries either. In July, Lord Leveson warned that "fundamental" reforms to the jury system in England and Wales were needed to "reduce the risk of total system collapse." But yesterday, a leading barrister argued the judiciary is not diverse and is unrepresentative of the communities it serves, which can be intimidating to victims, witnesses and defendants. On the surface the debate looks like a face-off. There’s pragmatism, which says, ‘Forget juries for sentences under three years, and realise complex fraud trials are beyond a jury’s comprehension’; and then there’s principle, which says, ‘The jury system is foundational to our whole understanding of justice.’ But in reality, principled opponents of change point out that, according to a think tank, only 2 percent of cases may be affected while pragmatic proponents say justice is about more than a set-piece trial. Beneath the surface lie further dynamics like the nature of a legal career and the lack of people wanting to become judges. Above the Old Bailey stands a bronze statue of Lady Justice. Personifying justice implies it’s an absolute – that justice can definitively be arrived at, whereupon other blessings will follow. But justice is not an abstract goal – it’s a set of conventions, arrived at through striving for social order and well-being. Pure justice is an idol; there’s very little that’s pure about human relations gone so badly wrong as to involve the courts. Justice is a system, not an ideal; a best attempt, not perfection. Establishing good conventions is the heart of justice. Those conventions, far from being luminous and eternal, are always in need of updating. But that moment of refining is a very sensitive one. Because conventions, whether in law or in any other institution or relationship, rest on something more fundamental. And that fundamental quality is trust. Criminal cases arise when the trust that underpins all civilised society has broken down, and it seems a person has acted in a way that undermines the confidence we place in one another to function and interact together. Justice is a process by which that trust can be restored, involving a balance of accountability, judgement, punishment, mercy and rehabilitation. When the psalmist says, ‘Oh, how I love your law! It is my meditation all day long,’ he’s saying well-being lies in a balance of giving each their due, which in his case includes giving God God’s due. But to create new conventions, that work for victims as well as authorities, means recognising that justice is about restoring trust, in the system – and in one another.

Good morning. This week sees in the Sikh New Year, and I find myself reflecting on the nature of new beginnings and fresh starts. For me and my husband, this is particularly apt, as we have been blessed with the recent arrival of our baby daughter. Before we got married, my husband and I paid our respects at a gurdwara near Amritsar dedicated to Baba Buddha Ji, one of the most venerated figures in Sikh history. According to legend, those who go with a deep faith will have their prayers for a child answered, just as the 5th Guru’s wife did when she visited Baba Buddha Ji’s home some four centuries earlier. Now it’s finally happened for us. As a married gay Sikh man, it’s somewhat of an understatement to say that the journey was neither simple nor straightforward. Her birth was only possible through the extraordinary generosity of a surrogate, someone who’s become a dear friend to us and whose compassion allowed us to become parents. She wanted to make our dream come true, and in doing so, changed our lives. Surrogacy remains controversial for some. There can be fears about it being exploitative or ethically dubious, and it can involve large amounts of money in some parts of the world, creating an imbalance of power. In the UK however, surrogacy has to be altruistic from a legal perspective, with only reasonable expenses being allowed to be paid. The Sikh faith teaches that sewa, or selfless service, lies at the heart of a righteous life. It’s the quiet act of giving without expectation, of sharing what one has for the benefit of others. Even though she isn’t Sikh herself, from my own approach to the faith, I can see that our surrogate embodied that spirit perfectly. She gave of herself, physically and emotionally, so that we could have a child. For my husband and I, her sewa has become the bridge between hope and reality. In the scriptures of the Guru Granth Sahib, the 5th Sikh Guru says “Whoever has good destiny inscribed on their forehead, applies themselves to selfless service”. The opportunity to help others is seen as good fortune, something that one should actively seek out, and not as an obligation to carry out begrudgingly. For some, that service could be making food in the langar kitchens at a gurdwara. For others, it can involve humanitarian work internationally. All important and meaningful tasks, all forms of worship in their own ways. So as the Sikh New Year gets underway, we begin our new chapter as parents, and our own parents begin their journey as grandparents. We will forever be grateful to the sewa given by our surrogate, without whom none of this would have happened. Despite the odds, hope and love has still managed to find a way to shine through.