Seòmar agus comataidhean

Good morning, and welcome to the 12th meeting in 2025, in session 6, of the Equalities, Human Rights and Civil Justice Committee. We have received apologies from Maggie Chapman and Evelyn Tweed. Clare Adamson is joining us in place of Evelyn Tweed.

Our first agenda item is a decision on whether to take in private agenda item 4, which provides an opportunity for the committee to consider its work programme. Do we agree to take that item in private?

Members indicated agreement.

I will bring in Aaliya Seyal, who, I should say, is representing the Scottish Association of Law Centres.

We move on to questions from Pam Gosal.

If members are content that they have asked all their questions, I thank the witnesses once again for their participation this morning. We will now suspend briefly for a changeover of witnesses.

I, too, commend Liam McArthur and members of the Health, Social Care and Sport Committee for their work on the bill. This has not been an easy subject to debate, nor should it be. Today, we are speaking about death, a subject that is often unspoken and avoided, but which touches each and every one of us. We are facing it not in the abstract, which is the usual way, but with reality.

As someone who was once of faith and who looked towards the next life with certainty and peace, I had no fear of what was to come. I saw death as a doorway. I accepted that, like birth, it might be painful, but that, ultimately, it was necessary and sacred. I share that not just as a personal reflection, but to make this point: I understand the views of people of faith who have contacted me to ask me to oppose the bill. I once stood where they stand. I do not for a second dismiss their views—I respect them. However, for me, this vote is not about views but about rights: the right to choose, and the right to have dignity and control over what happens to our own bodies at the very end of our lives.

I thank everyone who has shared with me their experiences of loss. It is clear how profoundly the deaths of those we love shape us. I, too, have walked alongside friends and family in their final days. Some passed away peacefully. Their last moments were quiet, dignified and even beautiful, and they left behind memories that felt like tying a wee bow around a life that had been well lived.

However, I have also witnessed moments that are hard to speak about. I have seen people’s anguish stretch out for months and have watched despair take hold of them as they writhed in agony. I have heard them say words that no one should have to say—“I wouldn’t let my dog suffer like this”—while their loved ones looked on. Their helplessness was overwhelming. At its heart, the bill is not about telling anyone what they must do; it is about allowing a very small group of terminally ill adults the right to choose how their final chapter unfolds. In the same way that we speak of the right to live with dignity, we must now speak of the right to die with dignity.

Much has been said about palliative care, and rightly so. It is a vital form of care that must be improved. However, assisted dying and palliative care are not mutually exclusive concepts. For some people, palliative care is not enough. For others, it is not what they want, and that choice should be theirs.

We hear people express concerns about coercion, and I take those seriously. There must be strong safeguards. However, I ask this: is it not a form of coercion to force someone to endure pain that they do not want and to deny them peace when their death is already certain? My inbox has been filled with messages from constituents who have pleaded for the bill to be passed, and who have shared stories of parents, partners and siblings who died in a way that was not what they wanted. Some of their loved ones had begged for release, and many of those remaining have been left with guilt and trauma over their refusal to help. They have also shared their fears about what might lie ahead for them after those experiences.

That is not to say that other people have no concerns. I want to be absolutely clear that I also hear the views of those who oppose the bill. Whether their position is rooted in ethics, faith or caution, I hold space for them. Every voice matters, and every feeling expressed in this debate is real and deserving of respect.

I recognise, too, that we are only at stage 1. If the bill proceeds to stage 2, there will be amendments and further scrutiny, as is right. We must take the time to get the proposed legislation absolutely right to ensure that the process is safe, clear and compassionate. If we pass a law that is careful, robust and rooted in humanity, we will give people something powerful: not a directive or an expectation, but choice. I respect the fact that, in this life, many people do not have choice. However, is that a reason to take choice from others? Not everyone will want it or use it but, for those who do—for those who face the certainty of death and the reality of suffering—it could mean peace. To me, that is what humanity and autonomy look like. I will vote for the bill today, because it is not about views but about rights.

Eighty years ago, the world exhaled when the guns across Europe fell silent, because VE day marked not just victory but our survival—a freedom reclaimed and a future made possible.

This day always brings me back to my grandfather—my Pa—who fought in the war. When I was a wee girl, he would tell me stories of his time as a soldier, although I realise now that the stories were very heavily filtered for my young mind. He was a great storyteller, and it seemed to me that war was his great adventure—racing from exploding bridges, laughing with his soldier pals and falling in love with my gran through letters passed across their worlds.

For my young mind, he made it all into a Hollywood movie version. There is one particular story that he told that has stuck with me, and I have grown to understand and find deeper meaning in it. He told me that, when the soldiers were lined up for religious observance, names were called out of particular religions—Catholic, Baptist, Church of England—but my Pa would be left standing, so he would be asked, “Well, what religion are you?” He would straighten his shoulders, with his chin up, and proudly exclaim, “Church of Scotland, sir”. That always made us giggle as a family when I was little, but as I have grown up, I can see that there was more to it than just a wee funny story. In that moment, he was telling us about a deep sense of identity—a sense of belonging—that mattered very much to him. He was there proudly fighting for his country and for his people back home in Scotland.

When he was stationed in Italy, my gran was serving here at home as a firewoman, and their love story spanned war zones. I still have the love letters that they exchanged, which are filled with words of longing and hope and with plenty of the word “darling”. They dreamed of being reunited and of their future together, and thanks to VE day, they got that chance.

My dad and I are compiling those stories so that we do not lose them to time, but when I recall them now, with my adult mind, I can see the parts that my grandfather had omitted—the fear, the horror and those soldier pals who did not make it home. That is a reality that he chose to shield me from.

We must mark VE day not just as a celebration but as a solemn reminder. We are here today because our relatives survived, but many never came home. From Scotland alone, 57,000 armed forces personnel lost their lives, and millions more lives were lost across the world. They sacrificed not just their lives but their future posterity.

As we honour the efforts of Royal British Legion Scotland and Poppyscotland, which have beautifully marked this 80th anniversary with Scotland’s salute to VE day, it is important that we also acknowledge the deeper meaning behind those tributes. The concerts, the gatherings and the red poppies are not just about looking back with pride but about carrying forward a warning. Remembrance is not passive. It is a deep responsibility that rests on the shoulders of posterity, of those who survived.

At a time when war once again rages in parts of Europe, when hatred is on the rise and democracy and peace feel very fragile, we must learn from the past. Those people fought for a world for us to build, not to destroy. We must remember how we got into that war in the first place and what it cost, but we must also remember how we came back from it.

VE day should never have to be repeated. We should let it remain a celebration of hard-won peace and protect that with everything that we have. For the futures that ended too soon, and for those who never got to be, let us mark this 80th anniversary not only with words but with purpose, and let it be a thank you, but also a promise.

Can the cabinet secretary outline how the programme for government that the First Minister announced this week will support children and young people with ASN as they navigate an ever-changing school environment?

In light of this being deaf awareness week, what is the Scottish Government doing to support deaf people in Scotland?

We do not want to skip over her question.

Tess White would like to come in and then—