WHY KHALISTAN?

I have again been asked the perennial question, Is Khalistan really necessary? This time it was in a Facebook group, Sikhism(English Language).  The person who posted it seems to have removed it.  I think it deserves an answer and, anyway, I have taken the time to write it and my time is valuable.  Here is the exchange:

His question (completely unedited ):

Mai Harinder Kaur ji , I can understand the state which you went through in the past . But cannot understand why you are still supporting Khalistan ? Past is Past . The new generation here in India does not want to listen to the Khalistan stories . With time , people are moving ahead . Looking for Justice is a separate thing and Dreaming of Khalistan is a separate thing .Many teenagers who were not even born 25 years ago , get into debates of Khalistan - Khalistan here in this Virtual World . The age which is meant to make career , look for life partner is spent in hatred and criticism debates regarding Khalistan . As a human , we all want Justice . But With Khalistan tales , we are again creating hatred and criticism among new generation people . Isn't it so ?

Indian Princely States

My response:

No, it isn't so.  Hatred is not being created.  Injustice exists.  That creates a certain amount of negative emotion all on its own.  Criticism is necessary and justified.  Any system will be and should be critically examined.  That includes the system that is called The Republic of India.  Has India treated Sikhs with respect in the past?  If not, how can we expect India to treat us fairly in the future?

This statement is most interesting:  "The new generation here in India does not want to listen to the Khalistan stories."  If this is true, the solution is simple.  Don't listen.  No one is forcing you to listen or read or watch videos about Khalistan.  The writings and videos are there;  it is your choice to pay attention or ignore them.  I have found, however, that many young Indian Sikhs are very interested.  Also your statement that "the age which is meant to make career, look for life partner is spent in hatred and criticism debates regarding Khalistan" implies that one cannot make a career and look for a life partner while debating Khalistan.  That is simply not true.  Career and marriage, and working toward Khalistan are not mutually exclusive at all.  In fact, Khalistan will need educated workers and stable families in order to exist and thrive.

Are we Sikhs a people?  Yes, I believe we are, both spiritually and physically.    We have a history, a language, a culture and an ancestral homeland, as well as a religion.  We have the right and the need to preserve all this.  All people long for their own autonomy.  In India, we Sikhs will always be a thorn in the side of the ruling elite because we don't accept their self-claimed right to rule over us.  Because of promises such as M. K. Gandhi's assurance, " No Constitution would be acceptable to the Congress which did not satisfy the Sikhs." (Collected works of M K Gandhi Vol.58. p. 192), the Sikhs threw their support to Congress only to be betrayed when Independence was achieved.   The Constitution of India (which accepts us only as Hindus) has never been accepted by us and will certainly never satisfy us.  With such disrespect shown to us at the highest levels, how can we ever enjoy safety in our homes and businesses?

If you think the need for Khalistan is rooted in hatred, you are completely wrong.  It is rooted in the love we have for our Sikh sisters and brothers, in our love of Sikhi and in our love for the highest Khalsa ideals.  If you read my writings carefully, you will find that I have never advocated violence to establish Khalistan.  I have always said that Khalistan will become a physical reality when it is the Hukam of Vaheguru.  I expect eventually that India - a legal fiction created by the British for their own convenience - will fall to pieces. People from Andhra Pradesh, Maharashrta,  Gurjarat are foreigners when it comes to history, language and culture.   There has been no point in time in the last 3000 years when Kashmir, Tamilnadu, Bengal and Punjab were under the same administrative unit.  Again, India was created by the British for their administrative convenience.  It was Gandhi/Nehru foolishness that a person from Jalandhar or Ludhiana needs a visa to travel to Lahore but doesn't need a visa to travel to Mumbai, Hyderabad and Bangalore.  It's simply absurd.  Creation of Khalistan is a means to end this absurdity.

When India disintegrates, it is our right and responsibility to be prepared to govern Punjab and whatever other parts of Balkanised India choose to join us. 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY - A Young Singh in Hoshiarpur District, Punjab

 

Photograph courtesy of Gurcharan Singh Laddi

Used with permission

A GOAT MAKES A LION SHEEPISH

For the last few months, my creative endeavours have been mostly concerned with visual arts instead of writing. I’ve been working with Photoshop and gif and, most recently, with Windows Movie Maker. I have also been teaching myself to knit Estonian lace, an accomplishment for those with two usable hands. 

My writing has kind of fallen into the bin of things I just don’t make the time for. A couple of dear friends have really been pestering me to write something, anything. Today, there is a heavy rain and I feel like a change, so I will write about an incident on our lovely little farm many, many years ago when life was simple and generally a lot of fun.

I’m not sure I can write this. It’s about the funniest thing that ever happened to me and even thinking about it I can’t stop laughing. It concerns a grumpy, cantankerous nanny goat – they are all grumpy and cantankerous, but this one seemed to have some special chip on her goat shoulders – and a strong, dignified, self-possessed Khalsa lion who was always in control of himself and never let anything discombobulate him.

A lovely Saturday summer’s day on the farm. Mani had decided that I needed a break from my usual routine and that he would milk the goats. I admit I wasn’t too sure that that was a good idea. Mani was a great doctor and very good at doing almost everything, but he was a city boy right down to his cellular structure and the farm was an alien environment to him. I was, of course, raised in the city, but parts of our summers in India had been spent on the family farm, always a welcome relief from the filth of the city. I sort of caught the farming bug then and felt at home on our little farm.

Back to milking the goats. Mani, of course, looked perfect. He had decided to play nihang, I guess, and was wearing a blue chola and a perfectly tied turban. I knew the goats wouldn’t be impressed, but, to be honest, I was. He always – almost always – impressed me. So he took the milking bucket and all 6’ 3” (191 cm) of himself out to the barn.

 

I sat down in the kitchen to work on my knitting and enjoy a cup of tea and some homemade bread and jam.

For a time all was peaceful. I could hear the happy little birds chirping and the sound of Sandeep and Rosa’s kids playing happily in the back ground when—

Mani came running full speed into the kitchen, screaming as I had never heard him scream before, in a complete panic – (Sorry, I have to stop for a laugh time) – “Shut the door! Shut the door!”

[Freeze frame] Before I continue with the action, I must describe my thoroughly discombobulated husband. His chola had somehow come completely open, his turban was loose and disheveled and goat milk – my wonderful goat milk – was dribbling from his drenched beard. What milk had managed to make it into the bucket was slopping and spilling all over the floor.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t shut the door. All I could do was laugh helplessly. Normally I am a kind person who wouldn’t just laugh at someone in such panicked distress, but this was my imperturbable Mani, the always calm, always perfect Mani Singh with goat milk dribbling down his beard onto his naked hairy chest.

[Resume action] Immediately behind him ran one very determined nanny goat. Determined to catch him and do God-only-knows-what to him. Needless to say, I could not close the door. I was laughing too hard. I think ROFL had not yet been invented, but I was laughing so hard that I was bent over double, unable even to breathe, and actually fell out of the chair onto the floor. ROFL. So there I was, helplessly laughing on the floor – which by now was slippery with goat milk, my husband first glaring down at me and then at the goat and one nanny goat standing, smiling triumphantly at the whole scene.









“If you can stop laughing long enough, get that damned beast out of our kitchen!” Poor Mani just didn’t see the humour of the situation yet. (He would later, of course.) I struggled to my feet and slid over to the goat while Mani made his way to one of the chairs. He was almost there to safety when he slipped and that whole big body crashed to the floor. He grabbed at the table and managed just to catch the end of the tablecloth, pulling jam and bread and tea onto his prostrate body. I am sure that someday, in some remote corner of hell, I will pay for this, but I couldn’t resist saying, “Lo, how the mighty are fallen,” as I picked myself up. The goat meanwhile had started nibbling at a flower pot on the counter and had pooped on the floor. I managed to get her out of the kitchen and back to the barn. She liked me well enough and I suppose that she was content to return home, having had her triumph. 

Still barely in control of myself, I quickly ran back to our house, to the kitchen, hoping to get to a camera before Mani regained his senses. I was too late. He had already run off to the shower. Not before disposing of the goat poop, though.

I started to clean up the mess, leaving him to nurse his wounded pride. After a time, he returned, looking again like Mani, calm, self-possessed and all that, although he was very, very red from blushing embarrassment. Rather sheepishly, he insisted on finishing cleaning up the kitchen, which was very sweet of him. I made another pot of tea and ate my jam and bread and knitted and burst out laughing every time I even glanced at him.

Two things I learned from this:

1. Bana is not appropriate attire for milking goats.
   
2. Goats do not belong in my kitchen.

Mani never offered to milk the goats again. 

THANK YOU, JACK LAYTON

Take a good look at this picture.  This is what a friend of the Sikh people looks like.  Mr. Jack Layton, Leader of the NDP.

In the midst of this time of remembrance, we have gotten a gift of sorts from Jack LayTon, Leader of Canada's New Democratic Party - NDP (my party, if anyone's interested).  I am reproducing his statement below, courtesy of SAN (Sikh Activist Network).


I ask all my Canadian readers to please call him at 416-405-8914 to thank him for taking this bold, courageous step on our behalf.  Even if you aren't Canadian, I think a Thank you would be most appropriate. 


I also suggest you consider joining the NDP.  That is a "Thank you that would be most appreciated.

CALL JACK LAYTON AND THANK HIM NOW!
Phone #: 

 

 

416-405-8914

 

Other contact information\

Email Address
LaytoJ@parl.gc.ca

 

Mailing Address - Parliament Hill Office
Jack Layton, M.P.
Leader of the NDP
House of Commons
Ottawa, ON
Canada
K1A 0A6

Here ios a transcript of the statement which can be copy/pasted if anyone wishes to do so:

November 3, 2010

Statement by New Democrat Party Leader Jack Layton on the tragedy of November 1984
It is with great sorrow that I extend my sympathies on the 26th anniversary of the tragic pogroms of 1984 that targeted Sikh men, women and children.

The New Democratic Party of Canada stands in solidarity with the Sikh community, demands justice for the survivors and an explanation for why and how this community was targeted by organized mobs and government officials.

The victims and survivors of 1984 cannot sit idly by, waiting for the Indian government to recognize their plight and frustration.  Rehabilitation and support for the broken
families, especially the widows, must be prioritized.  The negligence of the police must be examined.  The truth and those guilty must be brought to justice.

These are not demands - these are obligations of a democratic government to its citizens.

Remembrance is the tie that binds us to our past as it guides us  for
the challenges of the future.

Lest we forget.

DELHI POGROM TRIBUTE 2010

I made this video to acknowledge the events of early November 1984 and to commemorate our beloved shaheeds.



My dear friend (and little sister, Kamal Kaur (Badyal) gifts us with the soundtrack.

One Dead Singh Reprise

I sat down a few days ago to write my November Pogrom piece for this year.  Rereading last year's, I realised that I couldn't write a better piece than this.  This is quite possibly the best thing I've ever written.

If you haven't read about what happened to us personally in Delhi during those first few days of November 1984, please go to the link in the sidebar.  I very much want to make this real to my readers by telling individual histories of this time.  This holocaust did not happen only to the Sikh people, it happened to individual Sikhs.  Like me.

ONE DEAD SINGH

Who is he? Who is this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son is he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Is someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that will never come?

Where is he from? Does he live in Delhi or is he just visiting? Where was he born? What is his pind? When was he born? How old is he?

What is his occupation? Is he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or is he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What are his politics? Is he an Akali or a member of Congress? Is he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or is he political at all? Is he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why is he keshdhari? Is it just habit, following family custom? Or is it deeply meaningful to him? Does he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or are those just incidentals that have fallen by the wayside of his life? Where is his turban? How does he feel as it is ripped from his head and his kesh is exposed?

How does he feel as he realises the mob is coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What goes on in his brain as the petrol is poured on him and set alight? What is he thinking as his body burns? Or is he beyond thought? Is he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What is his last awareness as he dies alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

Questions without answers. Whoever he is, he deserves to be remembered. I doubt he had even a death certificate, so I have made him one.

(Click to enlarge)

There is something so very final about the certificate. And, of course, I realise that all I have written is wrong and must be rewritten to reflect the truth of 25 26 years later...

Who was he? Who was this Singh? I have spent countless hours staring at this photograph asking myself questions. Whose son was he? Whose husband, whose dad, whose brother, whose uncle, cousin, friend? Was someone waiting anxiously at home for him, waiting for a footfall that never came?

Where was he from? Did he live in Delhi or was he just visiting? Where was he born? What was his pind? When was he born? How old was he?

What was his occupation? Was he an engineer, a doctor, a professor? Or was he a taxi driver or a trucker?

What were his politics? Was he an Akali or a member of Congress? Was he a Khalistani or a Bharata Mata lover? Or was he political at all? Was he just trying to live his life and not really concerned about the niceties of the larger world.

Why was he keshdhari? Was it just habit, following family custom? Or was it deeply meaningful to him? Did he pray each day, do naam jap, love Vaheguru? Or were those just incidentals that had fallen by the wayside of his life? Where was his turban? How did he feel as it was ripped from his head and his kesh was exposed?

How did he feel as he realised the mob was coming for him, chasing him down the street or dragging him from his home or his car or from the bus? What went on in his brain as the petrol was poured on him and set alight? What was he thinking as his body burned? Or was he beyond thought? Was he aware of the laughing jeering mob around him, enjoying watching his final agonising moments of life on this earth?

What was his last awareness as he died alone, surrounded by merciless thugs?

He was our brother and he was one single human being, one Sikh among the thousands murdered during the madness of those days in 1984.

He is our brother and he deserves justice.

One final, unanswered question: When?