Why I oppose ‘assisted dying’: A South Asian psychiatrist’s perspective

As someone who has worked as a psychiatrist in the NHS for almost three decades, I’ve sat with hundreds of people struggling with emotional turmoil, suicidal thoughts, and overwhelming despair. Many have felt, in their darkest moments, that their lives were not worth living. Some have even made serious attempts to end their lives.

That’s why I find the current push to legalise assisted dying so troubling. I believe the term ‘assisted dying’ is a misnomer. It sanitises what is, in reality, an ‘assisted suicide’ Bill.

At its core, this proposal ignores the reality of what people in deep emotional distress are going through. Those who express a wish to die often don’t need help to end their lives – they need compassion, presence, and hope. What they truly want is for someone to walk with them through their suffering, not validate it by offering them the means to end their existence.

What makes this debate particularly personal for me is not only my professional background but also my heritage. I come from a South Asian background where life is considered sacred, even in the midst of pain and suffering. In many South Asian cultures, respect for elders and care for the vulnerable are deeply embedded values. The idea that a person’s life could be ended – legally and with state approval – because they feel they are a burden or have lost their sense of usefulness runs contrary to everything I’ve been taught about dignity and community.

We must ask ourselves: What message does this Bill send to those who are weak, disabled, or simply having a crisis of meaning and purpose? If passed, the law would effectively say, ‘Yes, we agree with your moment of despair. We affirm your sense of hopelessness. And now, with state backing, we will help you end your life.’ That is not compassion. That is abandonment.

I am deeply concerned that the loudest voices advocating for this Bill are often those who are confident, articulate, and intent on framing their position as one of personal autonomy. But the price of that autonomy will be paid by those who are silent, voiceless, and vulnerable – people who may feel pressure, whether internal or external, to end their lives rather than ‘burden’ others.

This is especially concerning in minority communities, where access to mental health care is already fraught with stigma, misunderstanding, and barriers to entry. If a person from a South Asian background – someone who might already feel isolated or unsupported – finds themselves battling a terminal illness or severe disability, will they feel subtly coerced to see assisted suicide as their only option? Especially in cultures that value family honour and sacrifice, the emotional and social dynamics can be incredibly complex. Legalising assisted suicide would only add to this pressure, validating feelings of worthlessness instead of challenging them.

Over the years, I’ve witnessed people come back from the brink – patients who once insisted they had no reason to go on, who today live rich, meaningful lives. What they needed wasn’t a legal escape route. They needed to be heard. They needed time. They needed hope.

One of the most disturbing aspects of the Bill is its reliance on a person’s feelings at a particular moment in time. Feelings change. Despair is often temporary. People who feel hopeless today can, with support and care, rediscover meaning tomorrow. But if we offer them a fast track to end their lives, we cut off the very possibility of that transformation.

This debate goes beyond individual autonomy. It is about the kind of society we want to be. Do we want to be a society that says, ‘Your life is valuable only when you feel strong, useful, and independent’? Or do we want to affirm the intrinsic worth of every person, even when they are at their weakest?

I implore our legislators and fellow citizens: do not confuse the legalisation of assisted suicide with compassion. True compassion listens. It stays. It suffers alongside. It looks for ways to bring light into darkness, not to extinguish the light entirely.

Let us not disguise cruelty as kindness. Let us not turn the most vulnerable into a category of people for whom death is offered more readily than care.

Kill the Bill. Don’t kill people in the name of compassion.