A Pause on the Road

One slight correction. Only two of us were in Delhi. The third, the mother/grandmother was in Canada.

We do not believe that our stories are at all unusual. There was much courage and heroism in this Battle that has gone completely unreported, as far as we can tell. There seems to be a great glee in reporting Sikhs as victims, not heroes. We have all three heard other stories from survivors of the shaheeds appearing, especially where Guru Ji was present. We have also heard of Guru Gobind Singh Ji himself appearing. These stories need to be told when those who experienced them are recovered enough to expose themselves as we have. We were no stronger, braver or more heroic than many, many others. And none of us were all that devout.

The only differences between us and these others are:

• we have chosen to share our stories with whoever cares to read them
• we have the education to write about our experiences and, fortunately, one of us is a professional writer
• we have the access to the Internet
• we have been able to recover physically and psychologically to the point that we can communicate about this and that has taken a long time

We are not saints. One of us, in particular, strayed far from the Khalsa Panth in the intervening years, but is now trying to come home.

We would like to make an appeal to the Sangat worldwide:

PLEASE STOP CALLING THIS A MASSACRE,

A POGROM,

RIOTS.

CALL IT BY ITS PROPER NAME:

A BATTLE!!

LET IT GO DOWN IN HISTORY AS 'THE BATTLE OF DELHI, 1984'

WE WERE UNJUSTLY ATTACKED AS A COMMUNITY

WE FOUGHT, WE WERE OUTNUMBERED, MANY DIED

LET US GO DOWN IN HISTORY AS

VALIANT FIGHTERS

HEROIC MARTYRS

NOT HELPLESS VICTIMS.

We need also to give great financial, psychological and spiritual aid to the survivors, especially the widows and their children in India who are today living in squalor. These are real, live human beings who have not had the chance to recover that we have had as Canadians.

Our stories have been on the Internet for some months. No one knew of them until Google Alerts picked up 'Khalistan' in this new blog. Please, those of you who have these experiences, blog them, put in words that will be picked up, so they will be read. We need to tell our own stories. Otherwise, believe me, our enemies will.

We were asked, are these stories of ours true. The short answer is: Yes.

The long answer is: Yes, unfortunately.

And would someone please teach this spellcheck that 'Khalistan' is a correctly spelled word.

A Radical's Evolution - Part II

Our second stop on the road to Khalistan

I/We have received several personal responses to the previous post, as well as a comment.

PLEASE

I/We do not want to incite anyone to anything. We are simply three Sikh women who have decided we want to tell our stories in this forum.

This type of thing has happened to many other people, but their stories remain untold. It is our fervent wish that others, many others, would also blog their stories so that when anyone went blog surfing, they would run into us and would not be able to ignore what happened.

Unfortunately, it is still not without some personal danger to speak up.

But as followers of the Gurus, and especially of Waheguru, we abhor actions done from spite or malice or anger or hatred or fear. Violence is acceptable only to protect oneself or to right a grave injustice, and then, only if all other means have failed.

I/We make the assumption that anyone making the effort to read this understands the significance of the words

WITHOUT FEAR
WITHOUT ANGER...

This is how we endeavour to live our lives.

However, as they say, those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.

I/We are now going to post SUNI'S STORY, the second part of this account. It takes place during the Battle of Delhi.

These two entries are from another personal blog, but we have decided that they belong here, as well.

SUNI'S STORY

Mai thinks this is just hysteria or an overactive imagination, but I know what I saw. I was about to go into labour with Hope when Mrs. Gandhi was executed and everything fell apart.


Being nine months pregnant, I didn't feel up to running with the others, so I stayed in the house with Mai and our men. We all knew that if our house was targeted, we would all probably be killed. Since everyone knew we were Sikh, we knew we would be targeted. The boys, Balbir and Sandeep, both insisted that if they were to be martyred as Sikhs, they had the right and obligation to take Amrit. After some discussion, mostly with Mani, who was our leader, it was agreed. We had everything necessary, so the ceremony went ahead. It should have been a happier occasion, but it was really a sweet sadness for all of us. All of us, especially, I think, we two mothers, were proud of our boys, who we agreed had earned the right to be called men. I remember Mani's admonishment to them, 'You realise this is a lifelong commitment, however long or short that might be? If you survive, you're stuck with it.' They both answered emphatically and solemnly, 'Yes!'

Afterwards we all bathed again and changed into our 'battle' dress. I'm not sure where all the blue cholas came from; Mohan must have stored them away without my knowledge. We all had saffron turbans, too. I'd never worn a man's turban before and it made me giggly. Get Mai to tell the story of Mani's turban; it's really nice. (Mai: Aw, shucks!)

WE LOOKED HOT in full bana. I'm not sure how, but they even managed to make Mai, wiry and six months pregnant, look like a boy. If we were going down, we were going down in style and with some class. We took some snaps and then put the film down the front of my clothes.

Then we sang songs, a really odd variety of kirtans and popular songs, and waited. Then some people came in silently, without opening the door. They were dressed as we were, but they had very long swords. Some men, some women, I don't know how many. I was the only one who reacted to them. I told the others, 'It won't be long now. The shaheeds are here.' They laughed nervously at me, everyone thinking that this pregnant lady had gone nuts.

Before long, we heard the mob outside. Guru Ji, properly wrapped had been sitting on his stand. Someone handed him to me and told me to protect him. So to do that and witness everything was my job, since I obviously couldn't fight.

They burst in and all hell broke loose. Someone immediately hit Sandeep, Mai's son, from behind with a metal bar, I think breaking his neck. He went down first. As each of us went down,a group of shaheeds went and stood beside him. Some of the shaheeds were surrounding me and giving me protection. Mai has said not to get gruesome, so I'll leave out the details. My poor Mohan knew less about fighting than a child. They killed him next, then Bert, Mai's brother, then Balbir, my son, and Eddie, Mai's brother. Finally, Mai and Mani were the only ones left standing.

Then everything stopped. I was not hallucinating and I am not making this up. Mai grew very big and black and her eyes were fire. She and the [male person] who had killed Sandeep were the only ones moving. Even the shaheeds just stood and watched. She calmly walked up to him and cut his throat. The blood spurted out all over her. She threw back her head and laughed. He had a look of terror that you couldn't imagine as he fell at her feet. I am a Sikh and, of course, I don't believe in such things as goddesses, but for that moment, my cousin looked like pictures I have seen of Ma Kali.

She became my cousin Mai again and time resumed. What followed looked more like a Chinese martial arts movie than anything that could really happen.

Both of them fought unbelievably. You can't imagine it. Finally Mani went down and Mai stood and stared for a moment, then she fell. The others were dead, but she wasn't. They beat her and beat her. Finally they left.

The shaheeds stayed gathered around her through all this, but didn't interfere. Several of the shaheeds came over and looked at me holding the Guru and bowed. After a time, Mai sat up and then kind of drug herself toward Mani. I could not believe she was still alive.

Then HE groaned. She crawled to him and sat up. The shaheeds withdrew some distance from them. Mani and Mai talked for a while. Then Mani smiled and shouted, slowly and clearly and deliberately, 'Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa!' The shaheeds all gathered around him. 'Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh!' The room lit up and something happened. I have no way to describe it, so I won't try. Then, one by one, they came over and bowed down to Guru Ji and left.

Mai did her thing cleaning up the bodies. She got some pictures of the Gurus from me to show them what had happened. She gave the pictures back to me and then collapsed across Mani's body.

Shortly thereafter, some people came to rescue us. We can't get their permission to talk about that part, so this will be sketchy. They tried to pull Mai off Mani's body. They thought some sort of reflex kept her gripping him tightly. I know her, though, and I know exactly what was going on. She wasn't going to leave him, no matter what! She knew very well the house would be burnt and she'd burn with it and his body if she didn't get out. Our rescuers could believe she was unconscious; I didn't. I had to convince her to let go. But I was still clutching Guru Ji and still hardly able to walk. All I could do was scream at her that sati was totally unacceptable to a Sikh, even more so to a Khalsa and she had to let go and get out of there!

Finally, they pried her loose and carried her and helped me walk out. They took her to safety and I stood nearby, totally numb, still with a tight grip on guru Ji, and watched the house burn, while our rescuers stayed by me for my protection. At least our men's bodies were properly creamated intact and undefiled.

I tried to pray, but all I could do was picture some Gurmukhi words. Mai was dead, no heartbeat, no breathing, but they managed to revive her. Some time later we were put on a private plane that eventually landed us in Montreal. Mai was in a coma for four weeks, but, as you know, eventually recovered.

I gave birth to Hope in Montreal without incident.

Now, please do not try to tell me that I didn't see what I saw! I know what happened to other women in my situation. I was not molested or harmed; the mob seemed to be totally unaware of my presence. The shaheeds protected me and guarded over all of us, believe what you want.That is my story. Mai has promised to post it even though she thinks it didn't happen.

And whoever reads this, don't believe those libelous stories that say we were just slaughtered. Some of us fought, and fought well. I know. I was there. I saw it.

_________________________________________________________________

It has just occurred to me that both of us report manifestations beyond the ordinary in these two stops on the road. I wonder if this is the norm? I think it can't be unusual as we are ordinary Khalsa women (if anyone can actually call any Khalsa ordinary) caught up in these events I have heard vague stories of nihangs appearing and the like during other violent events in Sikh history. Had it not happened to me, I would have found it hard to believe.

If anyone else would like to post something similar here, please contact us. Of course, it would be great for you to start your own blog. It's easy to do and the more blogs we have, the greater chance that someone will actually read it. Or if you would be willing to list your relevant website or blog here, we'd love it.

DKK

A Radical's Evolution - Part I

Our first stop on the road.


I long thought the whole idea of Khalistan was ridiculous. The in 1984 some things happened to me, first in Amritsar, then in Delhi.

Here is the first part of the story.

This is another story I had not intended to tell publicly, but the family have prevailed upon me because, they say, it's a great story, and might actually give someone some encouragement someday. So here goes.I have cleaned up the story and the language considerably, since I want to keep my blog at a PG-13 rating. It was a lot rougher than I have actually written it. [Maman read what I had written and said, 'Cleaning up is one thing. Whitewashing is another. Mani wrote me about what he saw and you've left out almost everything. If this is to be any kind of a record, you need to add at least some of that.' OK, I'll try to add some. The new stuff will be written like this.]

June 5, 1984. We had been in Amritsar since mid-May, visiting relatives, of which we have many in that area. The date, for those of you who don't recognise it, was the beginning of Operation Blue Star or more properly, Ghallughara, when the Indian army stormed the Harimandir Sahib (Golden Temple), looking for 'terrorists.' They found thousands of people there commemorating the anniversary of the shaheedi of Guru Arjun Dev Ji. They opened fire on the whole complex, and killed, who knows how many. Fortunately, we were at a cousin's house when it all started and thus were safe, or so it seemed.

No such luck. Two days later, the police barged in and took us all. Fortunately, as it turned out, the three of us had our passports on us. I'm not sure exactly where we were taken, a police station somewhere. They separated the men and the women; I was afraid that that was last I'd see of my men.Then they put each of us women in different rooms.

And I waited.

For the first time in my life, I was really scared. After a time, a very young policeman came in. Although my hands were bound behind me, I managed to pull out my Canadian passport.

He was not impressed.'Are you Sikh?' Expressionless.

'Yes.' Calmly.

'Wrong answer.' He slapped me across the face.

'Are you Sikh?' Expressionless.

'Yes.' Calmly.

'Wrong answer.' He slapped me HARD across the face.

'Are you Sikh?' Expressionless.

'Yes.' Calmly.

'Wrong answer. And you're also really stupid.' He doubled up his fist and slugged me in the mouth.

'Are you Sikh?'

Smiling slightly.'Yes. I'm Khalsa.' Blood was coming out of my mouth. I wish I could say I was unafraid, but that would be a lie. A BIG lie. I have, to this day, never been so terrified in my life. But I managed to keep my voice steady.

He reached over to me and tore my shirt off. Then he pulled out my kirpan. 'The little Saint Soldier has her little knife, I see.' In a sarcastic voice. He drew the blade across my throat. I laughed nervously. A strange reaction.Unlike most Sikhs, I usually do not carry a blunt kirpan. I know, I know. A kirpan is a religious article, not a weapon. I'm sorry if I offend anyone here, and I know I will, but I have never believed that our father Guru Gobind Singh Ji intended us to be unarmed. I usually carried a razor-sharp two-edged medieval French war dagger that had belonged to a lady ancestor of mine. I suppose it couldn't really be called a kirpan, but it was what I carried. I'm not sure why that day, I didn't have HT, my dagger, on me. If I had, I would be dead. So I laughed nervously.

That seemed to infuriate him and he pulled my pants down. At this point a second cop came in. The first one started pulling at my hair. 'You Khalsa have a real fetish about this, don't you? Is it true that you'll die before letting it be cut?'

I nodded. 'Yes.'

'Stupid. '

The second cop handed him a big pair a scissors. He pointed them at my hair. 'I'm going to use these. The choice is yours: here,' pointing at my hair, 'or here?' He cut the top of my kechera, so they fell down. pointed at the scissors my crotch. [He laughed and laughed.]

Paralysed with terror, I said nothing, but inside I screamed with every fibre of my being, 'GOBIND!!!!' No 'Guru,' no 'Singh,' no 'Ji.' Just, ' GOBIND!!!!'The result was instantaneous. I was not afraid. I was not in pain. I don't know how I knew they wouldn't dare cut my hair; I couldn't care less what else they might do to me. My dad's words came to me: 'No one can humiliate me without my consent.'

I laughed. 'I'm Khalsa.'

I looked at the mirror across the room. I'm not a complete idiot. I know mirrors in interrogation rooms are one way glass. And I was certain that the cops were forcing my son and husband to watch this. Sadistic f*cking bastards! I nodded to my unseen men and smiled.

He slugged me in the stomach. It didn't hurt. He slugged me like that several more times until he finally knocked me off my feet and I fell to the floor. I have never felt so calm and complete, as strange as that sounds. I was completely unafraid.He stood over me and stared at me, now completely naked, lying on the floor. He kicked me in the head repeatedly. Then, he pulled me up by my hair and with the help of his colleague sat me in a chair. He cut open a hot chili and rubbed it all over my face, up my nose and into my eyes. I didn't react at all.

[He opened my legs and rubbed the chili all over my vaginal area. The second one pulled me forward to my feet, while the first one shoved it up my anus. He pulled it out and stuffed it into my mouth. The whole time, he was trying to taunt me by saying all sorts of insulting things. None of it got through to me at all. I will not record what he said, partly because it was mostly in colloquial Punjabi, of which I understood little, and partly because it would serve no purpose beyond teaching someone how to be insulting.]

After he finished with the chili, he started with the scissors, which turned out to be very sharp. Little cuts, not big ones, all over my breasts, then my stomach. When I didn't react to that, the bottoms of my feet. By this time, he was completely livid. I thought he was going to maybe cut my throat or gouge my eyes.

Again he grabbed me by the hair and threw me on the ground, and opened my legs. He raised the scissors over my crotch, clearly intending to use them as a weapon of rape. He stopped, clearly savouring the moment.

At exactly that instance, the door opened and someone burst through, yelling. 'Stop!! We have orders not to mess with the Canadians.

'He glared at me, with pure hatred. But he stopped. The second cop untied my wrists.

I stood up, pulled up my kechera, then my pants. My shirt was torn beyond any usefulness, though. My mouth was still full of blood. which I spat on the floor at his feet. He spoke, very softly, so only I could hear,'If I ever see you again, you'll be sorry I didn't finish with you today.'

[So what was going on in me, while he was torturing me? (I believe this does qualify as torture.) I could see, hear and feel everything that was going on. But I felt no pain, either physically or psychologically, then or later. Instead, I was aware of various voices singing the Mool Mantar, over and over. It was the most beautiful thing you could imagine. It completely transported my being to another level where pain simply doesn't exist. This was the second time something like this had happened to me in this life - and it has not been repeated since.

[I was operating in two completely different states of being. All of my senses seemed to be in overdrive. My hearing was enhanced. Colours were vivid and alive. I was fully, completely conscious and aware. I want to emphasize that I was not being brave or strong or heroic. And I am not masochistic. I was as calmly joyful as I could ever imagine being. It simply made no difference to me what they were doing. Why do I think this happened to me? Because I relied on a promise made by one who was a father to me. There is nothing special about me in this. Any Khalsa in this position has the right, perhaps even the obligation to do the same. No special, secret words, no silly rituals, just the total intention.

[I'd like to make a couple of aside comments here. First, there are still a few things I have left out, for the sake of decency. I was not raped., if rape is vaginal penetration. Please notice that it takes nothing fancy to torture someone, no special equipment, in this case, just a chili, a pair of scissors and something to tie my hands. Also, very little imagination.

[I have not mentioned that, at this time, I was in my first trimester of pregnancy. They, of course, had no way of knowing that. Not that it would have made any difference to them! Why I didn't lose the babies then and there I can only ascribe to the fact that I was being protected by my Guru in some fashion.]

I just kept smiling. "I'd like my kirpan back, please.' The second cop handed it to me, along with my passport.

They took me, still half naked and bleeding, to a hallway, where I was reunited with Mani and Sandeep. With great dignity, my son took off his shirt and helped me put it on. 'Here, Mom.' His voice was shaking a bit. I looked at them. They had been roughed up a bit, and normally neither would have ever tied a turban so sloppily. We would discuss all that later. I evidently got the worst treatment, physically.

Later we discussed the incident. Mani looked in my eyes. 'There for a moment, I thought you might break.'

I met his gaze. 'So did I'

'I could see you change. All of a sudden, it was like you became someone else. What happened?'

I told him.

He turned to our son. (Of course, all this happened 22 years ago, so all the quotes have been approximations, except this, which I remember verbatim.) 'Your mother is a magnificent person. You won't find another like her, but I hope when you get married, you'll marry a woman you can love and admire as much as I do my wife.' What woman could possibly forget such praise from her husband? (It goes both ways. A man could not forget such praise from his wife, either.)

Sandeep looked at me, and said, in a whisper, 'Mom, you were so lucky they got stopped when they did.'

Both of us said, in unison, 'Luck had nothing to do with it.'

I will leave the story there, only noting that it was not my strength and courage that made me strong; it was a gift from my father Guru. The only part I can really take any credit for is crying out for help when I needed it.

[We could not get back to our family home that day, but fortunately, some good people saw us right outside the police station and took us in.

[Although some of the city's water was cut off, where our host family lived, it was running. I felt incredibly dirty. Thank God for a good shower! Mani helped me clean up, washed and conditioned my hair - which, against all odds, was intact - and combed it out for me. He couldn't believe I could walk on those lacerated feet, but even afterward, while I was healing, I was in no pain. I have a few scars left, my hearing was slightly damaged, but nothing too important. Mani, being a physician, thoroughly examined me, but even with the beating I had taken, there were no major injuries.]

[Our hosts, who were Hindus, gave us clean clothes, some really good food, comfortable beds and a feeling that there were still some decent people in Amritsar. We burned our old clothes, except I kept the shirt Sandeep had given to me. Our family in Amritsar is still keeping it today, as a remembrance.]

There is much more I could write about Amritsar at this time, the smell, the heat, the noxious insects, the sacred sarovar filled with blood and dead bodies, but that can be found elsewhere on the net. I'm trying to record only my personal experiences.[Now, Maman has read the new version and is almost satisfied with it , so I will leave it as it is.]
For more information, try Googling or Yahooing on 'Operation Blue Star.'
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This is the kind of crap I read all the time. One hundred dead. More like hundreds or even thousands. Tell the truth at least a little bit, guys? And terrorists? I don't think so.

Temple Seizure, June 5, 1984: Sikh terrorists seized the Golden Temple inAmritsar, India. One hundred people died ?????when Indian security forcesretook the Sikh holy shrine.

Assassination of Indian Prime Minister, October 31, 1984: Premier IndiraGandhi was shot to death by members of her security force.u2r2h blog - http://u2r2h.blogspot.com

'WHAT DOES NOT DESTROY ME MAKES ME STRONGER'

MAP - THE REPUBLIC OF KHALISTAN

This is the British map of the Punjab, dated 1909, before the illegal, immoral, disastrous partition brought about by the perfidy of Mohandas K. Gandhi