“They’ve reached Delhi!” one of the women shouted with great joy.

For weeks, the residents of Delhi’s Widow Colony had been following the news as farmers from Punjab made their way across the country, en route to the capital to protest the recently announced farming bills.

Preeto had solemnly watched as images of the fierce Nihang warriors marching on horseback like they had during the times of the Gurus blazed across every news channel. While others were excited and eager to discuss what would happen next, Preeto remained silent, something she had become accustomed to. Many years ago, she had come to the conclusion that keeping quiet made what her life had become seem less painful.

As the chatter around her grew, Preeto closed her eyes and let herself drift back in time, back to when things were much different – back to when she used to be happy.

She thought back to her cozy home above her husband’s small shop, in a suburb of the bustling metropolis and sea of humanity that Delhi was and still remains. Her husband would open up the shop every day at 8:00 am, six days a week. He would begin his day by waking up every morning before dawn. Soon thereafter, the house would fill with the sound of his voice reciting morning prayers, along with the comforting smell of incense. Slowly, the sweet aroma would make its way through their modest home and into Preeto’s nostrils, serving as her alarm clock to rise and join her husband in prayer. The couple had a five year-old son, as bright as could be, and the apple of his parents’ eyes.

They weren’t rich by any means, but by the grace of God, they were content. Unfortunately, all of that changed in a matter of hours.

Preeto listened in horror as the radio broadcaster announced that the Prime Minister had been assassinated. News quickly spread that her assassins were her Sikh bodyguards, and not soon thereafter, mayhem erupted.

Her husband rushed upstairs and told her to lock all of the windows and doors. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by one of fear and panic, something that filled Preeto with dread.

Over the next eight hours, they huddled in front of their radio, listening to the scarce news of what was happening across the city without uttering a word. Those hours were a blur after all these years, but Preeto did recall the occasional slogan of “The revenge for blood is blood!” being chanted in the streets outside their home.

A sense that something extremely bad was about to happen overwhelmed Preeto; she tried to calm her mind with silent prayers

“Why is no one coming to help us?” thought Preeto desperately as she took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

A few times, people tried breaking into their shop, but the metal shutters proved to be too much work. Frustrated, they would move on, looking for easier prey.

Just as the thought that they might be safe entered Preeto’s mind, she heard something that made her heart feel as though it was pierced by an arrow of ice.

“This is a Sikh’s tea shop – I come here all the time! He lives upstairs with his wife and kid! I bet they are hiding up there!

Preeto recognized the voice immediately – it belonged to a man who lived a few blocks away, the one who stopped by every morning to buy tea from her husband, greeting her with a big smile and calling her “sister” out of respect every time they crossed paths.

Whereas the previous hours were a blur, no matter how hard she tried and no matter how quiet she stayed, Preeto could never forget what happened next.

It was as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday.

She heard the shutters of the shop being ripped open, the sickening sound of metal twisting and creaking making her heart jump out of her chest. Next, she heard excited shouts and hurried footsteps as people rushed up the stairs. Finally the deafening sound of the doors separating their home from the shop shattering as they were kicked open with violent force filled her ears.

In an instant, four of them leapt onto her husband, beating him mercilessly, while the other two took hold of her. She fought back with the ferocity of a lioness, but just as the mightiest lioness can be overpowered by a pack of rabid hyenas, she was pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds.

They didn’t stand a chance.

As one of them held her down, the one who had called her sister so many times ripped away her clothing. She begged him to stop, reminding him that he was like a brother to her, but all she saw in his eyes was an animalistic rage, as a manic smile spread across his face. She screamed for her husband to help her, but as she turned to look at him, she saw his face was a bloody pulp. The turban he wore like a crown lay on the floor under the foot of one of the men holding him down, and his hair was scattered across his disfigured face.

They took turns, each of them forcing her to look into his eyes. The others held her husband down, forcing him to watch his wife being assaulted. Preeto closed her eyes shut as tight as she could, praying that this was just a terrible nightmare, waiting for the familiar smell of incense to wake her from her slumber so she could join her husband for morning prayers.

Instead, Preeto’s nostrils were assaulted with vile smells that reminded that what was happening wasn’t a bad dream, but a very gruesome reality.

Alcohol.

Tobacco.

Sweat.

As she lay motionless while being attacked, Preeto again repeatedly thought with sadness, “Why is no one coming to help us?”

Still praying for that comforting smell of incense, Preeto smelled yet another odour, one that made her open her eyes in horror to frantically look for its source.

It was kerosene.

As the last of her attackers finished doing as he pleased to her, she turned her head to see her husband being doused with the gas. They dragged him downstairs and into the street as he begged for his life to be spared. Continuing to beat him and ignoring his cries, they placed a tire around his neck and poured more kerosene over him. Helplessly, she watched from her window as one of them flung a lit match at her husband, his screams of agony and the stench of his burning flesh filling the street.

“Why is no one coming to help us?” the voice screamed inside her head.

As she turned her back to the window and let out a deafening wail of anguish, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Her son, who had been hiding behind a cabinet, came out and covered his mother’s naked body with her bloody blouse.

Although he never said a word, she was certain he had witnessed it all.

“Why is no one coming to help us?” thought Preeto over and over as she hugged her son tight and cried until she had no more tears.

The next morning, a group of men came to her home and took Preeto to a hospital for treatment. The doctors were shocked at how horrifically she had been abused, and told her it was a miracle she hadn’t died from the amount of blood she had lost. With no other relatives in the city, her son stayed by his mother’s bedside for the entire time she recovered.

Preeto gave a statement about what had happened, ensuring she communicated everything she knew about the man who had called her “sister” so many times, including where he lived. She was told she would be contacted for more information in the coming days, but no one ever came to speak with her again. She tried following up multiple times over the days, weeks and years to come, but never received an answer as to whether those who had done this to her and her family had ever been punished for their deeds.

When she saw the man out shopping with this family at a local bazaar fifteen years later, she stopped trying to seek justice.

Once she was deemed fit enough to be released from the hospital, she asked that she and her son be taken home, to which she was informed that her home and shop had been burned to the ground. Dumbfounded, she asked that the ashes of her husband be returned to her so that she and her son could perform his last rites as per their faith. To her shock, she was told that her husband’s ashes had already been disposed of; she was reassured that he was given a proper funeral.

Despite exhausting every avenue, she never found out what happened to her husband’s remains, and consoled herself with prayer and hymn anytime the thought of his final moments ever crossed her mind.

Preeto and her son were placed in what became to be known as “The Widow Colony”, a place for women such as her to try to put what remained of their lives back together. Preeto was able to find a job to support them, but her earnings were only enough to make ends meet. With barely enough money for food, she had to make the difficult decision as to whether to feed her son or pay for his school fees. She convinced herself that she would be able to homeschool him.

Every morning, Preeto would set off for work, leaving her son with an elderly widow whom she paid a small amount to watch him for the day. The ancient babysitter, with failing eyesight and hearing, was unable to pay the little boy much attention. He was left to his own devices and ended up roaming the streets with other children whose families had suffered a similar fate.

By age ten, he was addicted to drugs.

Preeto tried her best to keep him in line, but to no avail. He would steal whatever money she had hidden around the house to feed his habit. A day before his fifteenth birthday, Preeto came home from work to find his lifeless body on the floor of their shack.

As she stared at the cold corpse that was once her beautiful little boy, Preeto thought again with extreme sadness, “Why is no one coming to help us?”

“PREETO! This is no time for a nap! Open your eyes! The farmers are on the streets of Delhi! The entire world is watching! This is what we have all been praying for!”

Preeto slowly opened her eyes, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek. She was almost seventy years old now, and the medication she had been taking for so many years to combat the diseases her attackers had passed onto almost four decades earlier had taken an immense toll on her. As she forced herself out of her chair and began to make her way back to her flat, she turned back and looked at her friend with a sad smile of defeat and resignation, uttering slowly under her breath…

“They’re too late.”

Artwork: “Vidva II” – Anoop Caur

In a few days, Britain’s longest-reigning Monarch’s earthly remains will be laid to rest on the grounds of Windsor Castle, in an elaborate ceremony befitting her royal status. As many across the world mourn, my thoughts turned to another royal whose final resting place is in the same country, but one whom not many may know about.

Duleep Singh was the youngest of Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s sons. Ranjit Singh ruled over the mighty kingdom of Punjab, one of the richest and most powerful states in India. He was a brilliant and powerful leader, so much so that the ever ambitious East India Company didn’t dare to attempt to quarrel with them in their quest for expansion in the resource-rich Indian subcontinent.

In 1839, the great king died, and not soon thereafter, mayhem ensued. After after a series of assassinations and betrayals, all of his heirs lost their lives.

All but one, that is: Prince Duleep Singh, his youngest son.

In 1843, he was crowned the Maharaja of Punjab, with his mother ruling as Queen Regent on his behalf.

He was 5 years old.

Seeing opportunity in the instability of Punjab, the British fought two successful wars against the young Maharaja, the eventual outcome of which was the annexation of the kingdom and the removal of Maharaja Duleep Singh as its sovereign. Separated from his mother, who was exiled to Nepal, the young king became a prisoner of the British. Eventually, Duleep Singh was put into the care of a Christian missionary.

He was 10 years old.

Under close watch by the British, access to young Duleep Singh was strictly controlled and monitored. Cut off from his people, language and his culture, he was completely alone, with strangers. He was made to study Christianity, and converted shortly before being exiled to England.

He was 15 years old.

In England, Queen Victoria became quite fond of the young king. He lived the life of an English gentleman, and was commonly known as “The Black Prince” by the upper echelons of British society. In a grand ceremony, the Kohinoor Diamond, considered the largest diamond to ever be discovered, was presented to Queen Victoria by the young Maharaja as a gift. Many argue this was all just a show, for Duleep Singh really had no choice – he was essentially a captive of the British and was dependent on them. Tragically, this beautiful treasure was then cut down to make it more appealing to European standards. A portion of this magnificent jewel now sits in the late Queen Mother’s crown – the crown that will soon be worn by England’s new Queen Consort.

Maharaja Duleep Singh was given a generous allowance by Queen Victoria, and eventually provided an estate in Suffolk. There, the Maharaja lived with his family, having multiple children.

Unfortunately, none of his lineage survives today.

Despite living a life of relative luxury, something in Duleep Singh still longed for his former life. He made several attempts at re-connecting with his exiled mother, all which were denied by the British.

Eventually, when she was no longer deemed a threat, the British allowed Duleep Singh to travel to Nepal to bring his mother back to England.

Duleep Singh attempted to return to India multiple times, all of which were also thwarted by the British.

Throughout his lifetime, he was only allowed two strict visits to the land of his birth, the first being to transit to retrieve his mother from Nepal, and the second being to return her ashes after her death. On both occasions, he was not permitted to enter Punjab, the land of his forefathers.

He tried desperately to take back his kingdom, but it was all in vain. Whereas the Queen passed surrounded by family and the world’s best physicians, he died a lonely death in a rundown hotel in Paris.

He was 55 years old.

Whereas Queen Elizabeth’s final resting place will be on the grounds of one of her mighty castles, Maharaja Duleep Singh, the ruler of a once mighty kingdom is buried in the small cemetery of Elveden Church, hidden in the English countryside – thousands of miles from his true home.

Whereas his father and other great royals throughout history have elaborate mausoleums and temples to commemorate their final resting places, he has a simple tombstone.

Whereas the world mourns the loss of a Queen, very few were impacted by or even aware of his death.

On a visit to England in 2018, I had the great privilege of visiting the graveyard at Elveden Church to pay my respects. As I stood before Maharaja Duleep Singh’s grave, I couldn’t help but think of the tragic life this man had lived. He was a king, my king, and the rightful heir to a mighty empire, yet here he was, buried so many thousands of miles from where he truly belonged.

As the world mourns the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, I can’t shake the thought of that lonely tombstone in the English countryside.

This young king was failed by so many people. He became a pawn and lived a life of lies, all by no choice of his own. To put it simply, it’s sad, it’s unfair and it’s tragic – but it’s also a part of our history, and makes us who we are today.

As we watch and perhaps even participate in the events, tributes and memorials that will be taking place in the coming days, I think it’s also important to take a moment to say a prayer for and pay tribute to our last Maharaja as well, because if we forget him, we forget a part of ourselves.

Photograph: Ian Burt

East Indian.

I’ve heard this term many times before, and have even used it to describe myself in the past. In recent years, however, it has started to really bother me.

As far as I can figure out, the term was created to differentiate between “Indians” from India and “Indians” from North America who, as we all know, were mistakenly labelled after Columbus thought he had landed on the shores of India. As a brown kid growing up in Canada trying to fit into a place that constantly reminded me I was different, I just accepted it without a second thought. I was an “East Indian” and there was no reason to argue or question it.

I firmly believe there is an inherent desire within all of us to fully understand who we are and where we come from. Proof of this is everywhere, from ancestry websites to DNA tests that will tell people exactly what their genetic makeup is. It’s a multi-billion dollar industry that caters to this urge to understand our own personal histories. When this urge grows strong enough, we start asking questions and looking for answers.

When I reached this point, I dove down the rabbit-hole of the history of the Indian subcontinent to try to understand what it is that makes me who I am. I’ve spent countless hours with my head buried in books, trying to comprehend who and what went into me coming into existence.

Although at the personal level it’s different for each of us, I share this here because on a broader level, the histories of those who have been mistakenly identified as “East Indians” in Canada are very similar. Recent numbers released by Statistics Canada show that Punjabi is now the fourth most spoken language in Canada, up 49% since the last census. The vast majority of my fellow “East Indians” trace their roots back to Punjab like I do, therefore to a certain extent, we have a shared history and therefore, a shared identity.

On the 15th of August, India marked the 75th anniversary of becoming a nation, celebrating the gaining of independence from British rule. To prepare for their departure, the British had appointed a lawyer named Cyril Radcliffe to decide on borders to create Hindu and Muslim majority countries – India and Pakistan. Mr. Radcliffe had never visited the land he had been assigned to divide, nor did he have any knowledge of its culture, history and traditions.

It took him just five weeks to reach a decision, one that would forever change millions of lives, both at the time, as well as for generations to come. The Radcliffe Line divided Punjab between India and Pakistan, and thus the horrors of the event called “Partition” began.

Hindus and Sikhs scrambled to get to the Indian side of the Radcliffe Line, while Muslims scrambled to get to the Pakistani side. This was at the time and still remains the largest mass migration of people the world has seen, with approximately 20 million being displaced.

Communal violence broke out everywhere, but was felt with extreme intensity in Punjab, where it is estimated up to 2 million people died in the chaos that ensued.

As the realities of the Radcliffe Line began to set in, families who had lived side by side in peace and harmony for decades were suddenly out each other’s blood.

People were forced to abandon homes, lands and businesses which had been in their families for generations. In some cases, they were forced to set off on a dangerous journey with nothing but the clothing on their backs.

Trains arrived into stations full of corpses on both sides of the newly formed border.

Women were abducted and subject to unspeakable horrors. Many decided taking their own lives was a better option than what awaited them if the mobs got a hold of them, jumping into wells or stabbing themselves.

Fathers, rather than have their daughters abused in the most vicious of ways, killed them when they realized what the alternative would be.

In short, it was one of the most horrific and tragic events in modern human history, yet it receives such little attention in our schoolbooks, nor do we ourselves as a community talk about it as much as we should.

I was astonished to find out there was a Punjab in Pakistan when I was younger. I had always thought of Pakistan as a far off place that India didn’t get along with. When I made my first Pakistani-Punjabi friends, I marveled at our similarities. They spoke the same language, enjoyed the same music and ate the same food. The only thing that was different were our faiths, and that had been the one thing used to divide us and enforce upon us that we were different.

In looking deeper into the history of Punjab, I began learning about Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the ruler of Punjab who was admired, despised and feared by the British. I learned how his court had Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims in positions of power, and how he united the vast majority of Punjab into a formidable fighting force.

I could go on and on about what I learned, but instead, I’ll share what I realized instead.

I realized a great injustice was done to the people of Punjab.

I realized how many had suffered and died.

I realized how little I knew, and how little I still know.

I realized no one is going to teach me about any of this, and that it’s up to me learn my history and try preserve and pass it on to future generations.

Going back to the whole purpose of this piece, I realized I wasn’t “East Indian”.

The land of Punjab has one of the richest histories in the world. It’s the land of poets, revolutionaries, trailblazers, saints and warriors. It is also a place that has seen an abundance of violence, hate and division.

Both of these sides of Punjab go into making us who we are, as does understanding the history of Punjab before Radcliffe drew his line.

Marcus Garvey once said,

”A person without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.”

I believe it’s important for each of us to understand our pasts, because if we don’t, we will end up like the tree without roots that Marcus Garvey mentions; a few gusts of wind and our identities will be toppled over and forgotten. We will become what people tell us we are, which for me at least, is a terrifying notion.

“A generation which ignores history has no past – and no future.”

These are the words of Robert Heinlein, and there is perhaps no better sentence to describe the choice we have to make. We can continue to let ourselves be misidentified as “East Indian”, or we can take it upon ourselves to educate ourselves and those around us about who we truly are, before it’s too late.

If that happens, being mislabeled as “East Indian” won’t matter anymore, because we ourselves won’t know the truth.

Artwork: The Ghost Trains (of 1947) by Ruby C. Tut

If I have learned anything from the events of the last few weeks, it’s that our culture and heritage are at risk of being completely forgotten within a few generations if we don’t start doing something about it.

As the child of immigrants, I tried extremely hard not to draw attention to myself; I desperately wanted to be like everyone else around me. I learned at a very early age that although I couldn’t change the color of my skin, the image I put forward to the world was entirely up to me.

With this in mind, I did everything I could not to stand out or be different. As an adult, I have realized that I have done such a good job at hiding who I am that I myself have started to forget.

As a parent, this thought is terrifying. If we don’t pass on our rich history to our children, we are doing them a massive disservice, one for which they will resent us for when they are adults.

Maya Angelou once said,

“It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.”

If we don’t pass on the knowledge of where we come from to our kids, we are robbing them of the ability to absorb the beauty of their culture, as well as the ability to draw not only strength from knowing who they are, but also inspiration when they need it most.

We all need to do our part to keep our history from fading away, therefore it is time we became fiercely unapologetic for being who we are.

It was an absolute honor to participate in the Shaheed Bhagat Singh Annual Run today with my good friend Bob and our sons. It was with great pride that we were able to tell our boys who Bhagat Singh was and what he stood for, and why they should consider it a privilege to belong to the same community he does. I look forward to more events like this one, in which my family and I can not only have fun, but also embrace our amazing culture and share its magnificence with the world.

Imagine waking your kids up for school, not knowing it is the last time you will get to do so.

Imagine serving them breakfast, not knowing it will be the last of their lives.

Imagine dropping your kids off at school, not knowing they will never come home.

Imagine hearing the news that there has been a shooting at your child’s school.

Imagine a sick feeling taking root in your stomach as you hope and pray for the news that your child is safe.

Imagine the ache in your heart when you hear that your child was one of those who lost their lives.

Imagine the emptiness of having to make funeral preparations for your little one.

Imagine the pain you will feel for the rest of your life as different moments trigger that inevitable thought of what your child didn’t get to experience, or what they would have felt if they did.

Imagine.
Imagine.
Imagine.

Fortunately for you and I, we only have to imagine such a horrendous situation; for many families, this became a devastating reality yesterday.

This should never happen once, let alone repeatedly.

I was in the twelfth grade when Columbine happened. I thought a bit about how some of those kids that were killed were my age, but in the excitement of grad coming up, I quickly went back to my life without ever giving it much thought unless it came up on the news over the years.

Sandy Hook occurred in December of 2012. Just like many of my friends, I was a new parent at the time, and although I discussed the shooting and how scary it was to think about now that I had a kid of my own, I also reminded myself something like this was so horrific that it was still just a one-off. Just like with Columbine, I went back to my normal life soon thereafter.

In May 2022, 19 children and 2 teachers were killed in Texas. From what I’ve heard so far, they were in the fourth grade, just like my son.

Since I first heard about this devastating tragedy, I’ve been constantly running those “imagine” scenarios I mentioned earlier through my head. As a parent, it is hard not to, but like I also said earlier, you and I don’t have to…this isn’t happening to us.

We have the ability to show our support via social media. We will read articles, share the ones that resonate, hug our families tight for a few days and swear to never to take another day for granted, and then go back to our normal lives.

After thinking about it now, I think that’s precisely why things aren’t changing, it’s why this keeps happening over and over and over again.

We keep going back to our normal lives.

There was outrage after Columbine, but most of us were too wrapped up dreaming of our futures to keep up with it. After Sandy Hook, lots of people spoke up, but many quietened as time inevitably moved forward. It happens every time a horror such as this occurs – we get mad, we voice our outrage, and then, for lack of a better word, we forget. Things don’t change much because we revert back to our normal lives.

I think we will all agree that serious change is needed, not just in the United States, but in our global society as a whole. It’s not an easy task, but it’s one that must be undertaken.

I won’t even begin to try to figure out how that process unfolds, but I think I might know where we can start:

We can make a promise to not only ourselves, but also those innocent victims that we will never go back to our normal lives again.

Image: Last Lockdown Sculpture (Manuel Oliver)

I recently had the privilege of watching a fantastic play called “Himmat” at The Cultch, and was blown away by how phenomenal the production was.

It centers around an ailing father recounting his life story to his young daughter, and will surely strike a chord with anyone who grew up as the child of Punjabi immigrants. It explores topics such as addiction and its impact on not only the addict, but also those in their lives. It also highlights the struggles our parents faced as newcomers to this country, including the pain they felt leaving the land they loved to start a new life.

I found myself nodding in agreement and nostalgia throughout the play, but a scene that really struck home for me was a racist encounter a young Punjabi couple experiences that leaves them both very shaken.

For several days now, I’ve been reflecting on this particular scene and replaying it in my head over and over again.

When I was really young, we lived in Delta, BC. Like the couple in the play, our family also experienced racism in the form of verbal abuse, in addition to regular vandalism. One of my most vivid memories from that period is having a rock come through our front window, narrowly missing my head one night.

A few years ago, my nephew found a news article from The Vancouver Sun, written six months before I was born. In it, the reporter writes about how a Punjabi immigrant family’s home was fire bombed in Delta. The Punjabi community in the Lower Mainland was small at the time, so an act like this brought everyone together to offer support, including my family. To my surprise, the reporter actually spoke to my dad, and writes that he shared that our family had also been victims of racist attacks, with the windows of our house being broken and vehicles damaged.

There are a few gems from him in this article that illustrate what Punjabi immigrants went through when they first got here back then, but since my nephew is the one who found it, I’ll let him be the one that will share it when he’s ready. One of the things I will share is a quote from my dad that really resonated with me:

“Hara said he is not frightened.”

I think this quote sums up the collective mindset of Punjabi immigrants in the Lower Mainland at the time.

Despite being constantly reminded that they weren’t welcome, they didn’t bend. Instead, they worked hard, stood their ground, and overcame. They displayed an immense of amount of resilience, refusing to accept racism as a fact of life.

Since I’ve watched the play, I’ve been thinking about how hard it must have been for people like my parents to leave Punjab and travel halfway across the world to a place where their arrival was met with such hatred and intolerance. It makes me look at my own life and appreciate what those who came before me had to go through.

After the show, we went to the Coal Harbour Cactus Club in Vancouver for dinner. From where we were seated, I had a perfect view of the harbour, including the Chevron gas station in the middle of it. I’ve heard somewhere that the gas station is roughly in the same spot that the Komagata Maru stood for two months before being turned away from Canada in 1914.

Of the 376 passengers on board, one was a man named Deva Singh, who hailed from the same village in Punjab from which my family comes from. As I looked out at the dark waters of the harbour, I pictured the massive ship sitting patiently where the gas station now stands. I imagined those aboard the Komagata Maru waiting to hear the decision on their fate with eagerness and uncertainty. I pictured Deva Singh standing on its deck, perhaps looking out at the very spot the restaurant I was sitting in is now. I could feel his hope and excitement at the prospect of a new life. I could also feel his disappointment when he heard the news that the passengers of the Komagata Maru would not be allowed to come ashore, and as a result, be forced to return back to India. I pictured him looking back at Vancouver one last time before it disappeared from view as the ship made its way back to open water, knowing he would never see this land again.

Since watching the play, I wish I could go back in time and tell Baba Deva Singh that one day, things would change. I wish I could tell him that 67 years after he was turned away from this beautiful country, a man from his village would stand on the ground he and his fellow passengers had tried so valiantly to set foot upon and defiantly proclaim to those who where trying to intimidate him and his community that he wasn’t frightened. I wish I could tell him that 108 years after he last saw Coal Harbour, a man from his village would attend a play that made him reflect on all those who dared to stand up to intolerance and racism, and then have dinner looking out at the very spot where he had stood.

Above all, I wish I could tell him how much we appreciate the himmat, which translates to courage – he and his fellow passengers showed. They inspired thousands of immigrants like my parents to never give up hope and never let their himmat waver.

In closing, I’d like to thank those who put this beautiful production together. It was a great reminder of the sacrifices, trials and tribulations those who came before us made and went through so that we can live the lives we do – a fact we are all guilty of forgetting sometimes.

To put it simply, we are forever grateful.

“It is in the roots, not the branches, that a tree’s greatest strength lies.” – Matshona Dhliwa

I’ve been following the “Freedom Convoy” over the weekend, and I’ve found myself getting increasingly frustrated with the use of the word “freedom” by those who are a part of it or support it.

First and foremost, I’m supportive of everyone’s right to protest against what they feel is wrong or unjust. It’s one of the many reasons this country is one of the most beautiful places to call home, and why I count my blessings for having been born here.

Second, I’ve come to the realization that not everyone is going to get the vaccine. I’ve heard outrageous claims by some who don’t want to get it, but I’ve also heard logical arguments from people I respect and call my friends. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is something I need to accept and respect, regardless of whether or not I agree with it.

Back to “freedom” though.

It’s a word that’s been used a lot in recent days, and it’s become abundantly evident that it means different things for different people.

Ask the little girl in Afghanistan who dared to go to school and is now in hiding for fear of her life what freedom is.

Ask the African man who was abducted and was forced into slavery on a plantation, thousands of miles away from his native land what freedom is.

Ask the women across the globe who are forced into selling their bodies multiple times a day what freedom is.

Ask Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. what freedom is as he organized marches and demonstrations to fight for basic human rights.

Ask Nelson Mandela what freedom is as he sat in a jail cell for 27 years for daring to oppose the evil of apartheid.

To state these protests are for freedom just isn’t right.

It’s a privilege to travel.

It’s a privilege to have the ability to eat at a restaurant.

It’s a privilege to go to a bar for drinks with friends.

We Canadians are arguably some of the freest of the free on this planet, which is why the use of the word “freedom” isn’t fitting. It’s not right to pretend as though we are oppressed and living in some sort of alternate universe that somehow compares to the examples listed above and so many more throughout the pages of human history when it comes to freedom.

To put it simply, to continue to use the word freedom to describe this protest is an insult to those who have fought for and died for it.

Speaking of which, I’ve found it indescribably disturbing to view images of swastikas and confederate flags at these protests. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on with regards to the mandates the government has implemented, one would be hard pressed to justify why these symbols of hate were allowed and tolerated in a protest that was for freedom.

Also, the video of the woman standing on The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is one that’s been seared into my mind. For those that don’t know, that tomb contains the remains of an unknown Canadian soldier who died fighting in WWI for the exact thing the person desecrating his grave claims to be fighting for….freedom.

Add the images of urine in the snow on the National War Memorial (a monument meant to honor those who died fighting for our freedoms) and you’ll begin to hopefully understand some of the frustration I’m so desperately trying to express.

I’m not even going to attempt to put into words my bewilderment at the fact that I’ve heard many of the organizers of this event are active members of various hate groups. How can people who hate me for the color of my skin and my religious beliefs claim to be fighting for my freedom?

It’s preposterous.

I’ve heard upwards of $7 million dollars has been raised to support this protest. There’s no doubt that’s impressive, but if those involved with this group truly believe this is about freedom, perhaps a substantial amount of that money should go towards figuring out who the perpetrators of the above mentioned acts of disgust were?

The bottom line is, if you’re truly passionate about these mandates and want them to be lifted, then all the power to you. Protest and express yourself – it’s your right as Canadians, but speak up when people like those mentioned above rear their hate-filled heads and use this as an opportunity to promote their agendas.

Use the millions you raised to oust the divisive scum who are so entrenched in your ranks.

Do what you need to do, but please, don’t refer to this as a protest for freedom, because that is a word which shouldn’t be used so lightly.

Picture: Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (Remembrance Day 2017) – Benoit Rochon

552 years ago today, in a village in modern-day Pakistan, a child who would grow up to introduce the world to a revolutionary way of life was born.

His teachings were simple, yet beautiful:

• Keep Oneness in your heart, always.
• Work hard, with discipline and focus.
• Be a part of a community, sharing your blessings with all.

Five and a half centuries after his birth, determined farmers in India began to protest laws which threatened their livelihoods, leaving their homes to march hundreds of kilometers to the capital, vowing not to return until said laws were repealed. Perhaps they didn’t know it then, but they were about to personify his teachings for the world to see.

Farmers from different parts of India, with different ways of life, languages, customs and religions banded together, with the international community also showing their support…

Oneness.

As they braved a cold winter, a sweltering summer, rain, smog, and unsanitary conditions, they held strong. They stood firm in their beliefs and didn’t give up….

Hard work, with discipline and focus.

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, strangers became family. Men and women of all faiths prayed together, even feeding the poor in and around New Delhi…

A community, in which blessings are shared with all.

Today, after almost a year away from their homes, these farmers proved how true his teachings are.

They showed the world that when we unite on the side of truth and stand together as One, even the mightiest of walls will crumble.

They proved what honesty, determination and resolve can accomplish.

They showed the value of community, and how even in dire circumstances, humanity and compassion can never be abandoned.

In case you haven’t heard, the laws these men and women were protesting were repealed today, and even the most skeptical amongst us would be hard-pressed to argue that the teachings of that magnificent soul, born 552 years ago today, didn’t play an integral part.

Art: Diljit Dosanjh Album

I saw something a few days ago that read:

“As we watch our children grow up, they’re also watching us grow up.”

I’ve never really looked at it that way before, and I’ve been trying to make sense of it since.

The prevailing thought seems to be that as parents, we need to be the ones who have all the answers and know right from wrong. After all, we’re the ones who’ve gained immense amounts of knowledge via valuable life experience. We’re the ones that are going to explain how this life and world work, right?

Wrong.

Socrates once said,

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”

There’s no better statement to sum up being a parent.

I look back to when my first child was born and how utterly unprepared I was for fatherhood, despite what I thought was significant preparation. Like countless others before me, I thought I had it all figured out, and like all of them, I too proved Socrates right by quickly coming to the sobering realization that I knew absolutely nothing.

Author Roy T. Bennett wrote that change begins at the end of one’s comfort zone. If we take this statement as fact, then becoming a parent for the first time is not just the end of our comfort zone, it’s well beyond it.

As we stumble through parenthood, we quickly learn that children are mirrors. They bring to light painful flaws in our personalities which we know exist, but refuse to acknowledge. They keep pushing us further and further from that edge of comfort Bennet mentions, forcing us to make a very important decision:

Are we going to grow up with them, or simply watch them grow up alone?

To some people, this may come as a no-brainer, but for many, it’s a tough choice. Sure, some changes may be easy, but others are extremely hard. There are decisions that need to be made and priorities that need to be re-assessed and adjusted, if not discarded completely.

Sometimes, it means having to re-examine one’s entire life and doing some very serious soul-searching.

In short, it isn’t easy, and it’s a choice many, if not all parents have struggled with time and time again.

Dad and Mom aren’t titles, they’re badges that need to be earned through hard work and dedication. They take sacrifice. Becoming a father or mother is a matter of biology; becoming a Mom or Dad is a matter of choosing to grow up alongside your children.

With each breath, every living thing in the world inches closer to the end. It may sound morbid, but it’s an undeniable truth, and one each of us needs to come to terms with. One day, our time will run out. For those of us who are parents, it means leaving our kids behind.

When these thoughts are on the mind, one can’t help but picture our kids looking back and thinking about us as parents. If we’ve done it right, when our kids travel down Memory Lane, instead of being filled with sadness at watching us age, they’ll also be filled with a warm sense of love and appreciation at the fact that as they grew up, we tried our best to grow up alongside them…albeit sometimes tripping along the way.

So, when I think back to the caption that captivated me a few days ago, I realized why I’ve been thinking about it so much:

It’s wrong.

As our children grow up, they’re watching us AGE. Each of us must decide whether they will also get to watch us grow up.

Art: Thomas-Jules Massard

 

As is the case with most people, the recent events that have unfolded in Afghanistan have weighed heavily on my mind for the past few days. I’ve been trying to put the feelings I’m experiencing into words, but haven’t been able to do so in a manner that does them justice.

All that changed, however, when I walked in the door today and was greeted by my seven year old daughter, smiling ear-to-ear because she had learned to tie her own belt for jiu jitsu. As I looked down at her beautiful little face beaming with joy at her accomplishment, I started to feel that same feeling again in the pit of my stomach.

All of a sudden, it hit me:

The feeling I was experiencing was guilt.

As I gave her a hug, my mind wandered to the fact that girls as young as twelve are now being forced into marriages in some areas of Afghanistan.

12.

My daughter will be twelve in less than five years. Imagine raising a little girl in circumstances such as these, where you know some man much older than her will take her as a prize and treat her like property.

Imagine the feeling as a parent, knowing there is nothing you can do to prevent it.

It’s heartbreaking.

I find myself wondering what I would do if I was forced to endure these circumstances, but quickly snap myself out of it, reminding myself I’m not there. I’ve realized that this is precisely when the guilt kicks in.

I’m not there.

I don’t have to experience the horrors the men, women and children of Afghanistan are facing. I have the luxury of living in a country where I know my kids have the ability to reach for the stars. I don’t have to explain to my daughter why she’s no longer allowed to go school.

I’m not forced to tell her that she can’t do jiu jitsu anymore, along with all of the other activities she loves.

I don’t have to prepare her to become a bride in a few years, with assurances she’ll be ok, knowing full-well she won’t. My son won’t be raised to look at women as inferior and weak, and won’t be handed a semi-automatic weapon and trained to kill.

In short, I have it pretty good, which is exactly why I feel guilty.

Here we are, living relatively easy lives. Sure, we all have our issues and hurdles to overcome, but they pale in comparison to those which the people of Afghanistan are facing. I read a post somewhere today that said where we are born is a game of chance. Fortunately for us, we came up on the winning side of the game.

Unfortunately, those now facing very grim futures in Afghanistan didn’t.

Obviously, none of us had control over said game, so why the guilt? After racking my brain, I think I’ve figured it out, at least for myself.

Like most people, I’m outraged at what’s happening.

I’m looking for answers. I’m desperate to know the latest. I want to help. The problem is, these feelings are going to begin to fade in a while. The news outlets will focus on something else, and I’ll begin to slowly go back to my relatively comfortable life, accepting the fact that what happened in Afghanistan is what it is, and there’s not much I can do about it.

I believe that preventing this is the key to eradicating the guilt. None of us had the power to stop what happened, but we can each do our best to try to help those forced to live this nightmare. The following words from Viktor Frankl sum up the importance of doing so perfectly:

“For the world is in a bad state, but everything will become still worse unless each of us does his best.”

The people of Afghanistan are facing an extremely difficult future. Things are bad, and if the past is a predictor of the future, then they’re going to get a lot worse. This is why each of us needs to do our best to help. If for you, this means a monetary donation, then donate. If it means giving your old clothing to refugees coming out of Afghanistan, then find a way to get it to them. If it means writing a letter to a prominent member of our community to urge them to act, then start writing. If you’re a person of faith, include the people of Afghanistan in your prayers everyday. Do whatever you can to help them.

Do.
Your.
Best.

As human beings, this is a sacred duty we all must honor. If our humanity and empathy for our fellow humans wavers at times like this, then the already prominent evil in this world will only get worse. As Frankl said, our best is what is required – nothing less will do.

Inevitably, there will come a time when you sense yourself caring less and forgetting about what’s happening and what’s at stake. When that time comes, look into the faces of the little girls in your life and picture them having to face the horrors mentioned above.

If that doesn’t motivate you to do your best, nothing will.

Image: Shamsia Hassani