In Canada, Sikhs make up 2.1% of the population—over 770,000 people, according to Statistics Canada. It’s the largest Sikh population outside India.

In cities like Brampton and Surrey, Sikh identity isn’t peripheral—it’s foundational.

And yet, step into Canadian media, and that reality fades quickly.

A recent survey by the Canadian Association of Journalists found that 77% of journalists are white, with most newsrooms lacking diverse leadership. The implication is simple: Sikh stories in Canada are still often told about the community, not by it.

South of the border, the gap widens.

In the United States of America, Sikh representation has largely been confined to post-9/11 narratives, misidentification, or token diversity roles. Authentic, everyday Sikh presence in mainstream television remains rare.

Diljit Dosanjh, featured as a guest and performing on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon for the second time, felt different.

Not because a Sikh artist appeared, but because he didn’t dilute himself to be there.

He spoke English for the first time on a TV Show. He performed Punjabi music. And, crucially, he referenced the Komagata Maru incident—a moment when Sikh migrants were denied entry into Canada under racist exclusion laws.

Then he drew a line across time: from rejection in 1914 to 55,000 people cheering him in Vancouver today.

That number isn’t symbolic. It reflects sold-out stadium shows in Vancouver—proof that Sikh cultural presence has scaled beyond anything mainstream media anticipated.

The shift didn’t originate on television. It came from elsewhere: diaspora communities, digital platforms and Punjabi music’s global rise.

That rise has been powered not just by artists like Diljit, but also by figures like Sidhu Moose Wala.

With the release of “Eyes On Me,” Moose Wala’s voice continues to dominate even posthumously—pulling massive global attention within hours. His music has consistently carried a different energy: political, confrontational and rooted in identity without compromise.

Together, they represent two sides of the same shift:

• Diljit makes Sikh identity visible in mainstream spaces

• Moose Wala ensures that visibility doesn’t come at the cost of truth

Meanwhile, the lived reality remains complex. Reports from groups like the World Sikh Organization of Canada show that a majority of Canadian Sikhs report experiencing hate, with most incidents going unreported.

So while Punjabi music fills arenas and reaches late-night television, many Sikhs still navigate misrepresentation and exclusion in everyday life—and in the media meant to reflect it.

That contradiction defines this moment.

Sikh visibility in 2026 is no longer dependent on institutional approval. It’s being driven from the outside in—by artists, audiences, and a generation unwilling to shrink itself for acceptance.

From a ship turned away in 1914…
to a global stage in 2026…

This isn’t about being included anymore.

It’s about being impossible to ignore.

In Canada, alcohol remains the most commonly used substance: Statistics Canada reports that nearly four in five Canadians aged 15 and older consumed alcohol in the past year, and harmful use remains widespread despite public health warnings.

These national figures matter because Punjabi Sikh communities are not insulated from broader patterns — yet cultural silence often prevents problems from being identified early.

In diaspora households, alcohol is normalized at weddings, celebrations and social gatherings, even as Sikh religious teachings explicitly prohibit intoxicants. The contradiction creates a space where heavy use is visible, but accountability is absent.

Research on Punjabi drinking cultures consistently shows that alcohol use is closely tied to masculinity, migration stress and social bonding, particularly among men.

Drinking is often framed as a reward for hard work or a coping mechanism for financial pressure, racism and isolation. Within families, this framing discourages intervention; concern is dismissed as an overreaction and dependency is minimized until it reaches a crisis point.

For women and gender-diverse people, substance use is even more hidden, surrounded by intensified shame and surveillance. The result is not lower risk, but deeper invisibility.

Mental Health Services That Stop Short

In recent years, Punjabi-focused mental health organizations such as Punjabi Community Health Services (PCHS) and Soch Mental Health have played an important role in increasing awareness around depression, anxiety and therapy within South Asian communities.

Counselling in Punjabi, culturally responsive care and public education have helped reduce stigma around emotional distress. However, a critical gap remains: substance use is rarely addressed as a central mental health issue, despite overwhelming evidence that the two are inseparable.

Statistics Canada data show that people who report poor or fair mental health are significantly more likely to use substances, including illegal drugs, compared to those reporting good mental health. Yet many community mental health programs continue to treat addiction as a separate issue — something to be referred out, addressed later, or avoided altogether.

This separation mirrors cultural discomfort more than clinical reality. When substance use is excluded from mental health conversations, families are left without tools to recognize dependency and individuals are forced to navigate fragmented systems that fail to reflect how addiction actually manifests in their lives.

International Students at the Intersection of Risk

Nowhere is this fragmentation more visible than among international students from Punjab, who occupy a uniquely vulnerable position within the diaspora. These students often arrive in Canada or the United States under intense pressure — to succeed academically, send money home and justify the financial sacrifices their families have made.

Many work long hours in low-wage or precarious jobs while studying full-time, with little room for rest or social connection. Isolation, housing insecurity and fear of immigration consequences further compound stress.

National data show that young adults in Canada have some of the highest rates of heavy episodic drinking and post-secondary students report significant exposure to both alcohol and drugs. For international students, access to culturally competent support is limited and fear of stigma or institutional consequences discourages help-seeking.

Substance use can begin as a coping mechanism and quickly escalate, particularly in environments where overdose risks are rising. Without harm-reduction education or culturally safe outreach, intervention often comes too late.

Why Initiatives Like Team SOUDA Matter

Against this backdrop, Team SOUDA (Students Overcoming Substance Use Disorder & Addictions) represents a critical shift in how Sikh Punjabi communities can respond.

As a Sikh-led nonprofit initiative, SOUDA directly addresses substance use and overdose risk rather than sidestepping it. Its work centers on community outreach, overdose prevention and response and education around substance use without shame — approaches grounded in public health evidence rather than moral judgment.

Supported by @southasianmentalhealth, SOUDA explicitly recognizes what many families and institutions avoid naming: substance use and mental health cannot be separated. Harm reduction, often misunderstood in South Asian communities, is not about encouraging use but about preventing death, reducing risk and creating pathways to recovery. In Sikh ethical terms, it aligns with seva and sarbat da bhala — collective responsibility for wellbeing — far more closely than silence or punishment ever could.

Statistics Canada data show that drug-related harms and offences have increased in recent years, reflecting broader shifts in the availability and potency of substances.

Ignoring these trends does not protect communities; it leaves them unprepared. Addressing addiction openly, funding culturally competent harm-reduction initiatives, and integrating substance use into mental health care are no longer optional — they are necessary.

Harm Reduction: What is it?

In many Punjabi families, conversations about alcohol or drugs are often shut down quickly, driven by fear that speaking openly will somehow make the situation worse. Harm reduction offers a different approach. At its core, harm reduction is about keeping people safe and alive, even when they are struggling. It does not encourage substance use, nor does it excuse harmful behaviour. Instead, it recognizes reality and responds with care rather than silence.

Harm reduction starts from a simple understanding: some people will use alcohol or drugs regardless of rules, warnings, or shame. The real question families face is not whether substance use exists, but how much harm it causes. When families refuse to talk about it, people are more likely to hide their use, take risks alone and avoid asking for help. Harm reduction keeps communication open and prioritizes safety first, because a person who is alive and connected has a chance to heal.

Within Punjabi households, silence and stigma often feel like protection, but research and lived experience show they can increase danger. Shame pushes people into isolation, where overdoses and medical emergencies are more likely to happen unnoticed. Harm reduction works in the opposite direction. When someone knows they will not be immediately punished, disowned, or humiliated for being honest, they are more likely to accept support, reduce risky behaviour, or seek treatment when they are ready.

Practical harm-reduction tools are simple and lifesaving. Naloxone kits, which reverse opioid overdoses, are free in many communities and can be used by anyone. Knowing the signs of overdose or alcohol poisoning allows families to act quickly before it is too late. Basic education about avoiding mixing substances, understanding tolerance, or not using alone can dramatically reduce fatal risk. These tools exist because prevention works — and because emergencies do not wait for perfection.

Some families worry that harm reduction conflicts with Sikh values, but this belief misunderstands both. Sikh teachings emphasize compassion, responsibility and care for the well-being of all. Saving a life is not approval of harm; it is an act of seva. Supporting someone without judgment is not weakness — it is collective strength. Harm reduction does not replace recovery or abstinence; it creates the conditions that make recovery possible.

For families, harm reduction can begin with small steps: learning about local resources, keeping emergency numbers accessible, asking honest questions without accusation and acknowledging the pressures people face instead of denying them. Supporting initiatives like Team SOUDA, which focus on education, overdose prevention and dignity, helps build safer communities for everyone.

Silence has never protected Punjabi families. Knowledge, compassion and connection do. Harm reduction is not about lowering values — it is about protecting life long enough for healing to happen.

Breaking the silence around alcohol and drug use in Sikh Punjabi households requires confronting deeply held ideas about honour, masculinity and respectability. But silence has already proven costly. If diaspora communities are serious about wellbeing across generations, then mental health conversations must expand to include addiction — honestly, compassionately and without shame.

Every April, the same headlines return. Vaisakhi is often described as a “spring harvest festival” or referred to as the “Sikh New Year.”

Coverage typically focuses on parades, food, and vibrant colours—safe and familiar topics that are easy to package.

However, year after year, major outlets like CBC News and CTV News miss the core story of Vaisakhi. This isn't due to a lack of information but rather because the narrative is oversimplified. This simplification comes at a high cost.

What Vaisakhi actually marks

In 1699, at Anandpur Sahib, Guru Gobind Singh Ji called for a massive gathering.

He then did something unexpected: he asked the crowd for a head. Five individuals stepped forward, becoming the Panj Pyare—the first members of the Khalsa.

What followed was the creation of a new collective identity—one that rejected caste, abolished inherited hierarchy, and demanded a life rooted in both spiritual discipline and the defence of justice.

This moment, known as the birth of the Khalsa, is what Vaisakhi commemorates for Sikhs; it is not a harvest festival or the start of a new year, but rather a revolution.

The “Sikh New Year” Myth

To be clear, Vaisakhi is not the Sikh New Year. The Sikh calendar, known as the Nanakshahi calendar, begins on 1 Chet (around March 14). Vaisakhi, observed in mid-April, carries historical and spiritual significance but does not mark the beginning of the year.

Yet, the label "Sikh New Year" persists, indicating a deeper issue: Sikh history is often interpreted through generalizations rather than precise interpretations.

Culture is not the whole story

Bhangra performances, bright colours, and community kitchens are frequently the focal points of coverage—and while they are significant, they are merely expressions, not the foundation. Bhangra is a Punjabi folk dance, not a Sikh religious practice. Langar, often framed as “free food,” represents something much deeper: a radical, enforced equality where everyone, regardless of status, sits and eats together. When coverage leans heavily on visuals, it turns Vaisakhi into a cultural spectacle rather than a moment of historical and political significance.

A Story About Power — and Resistance

The creation of the Khalsa did not occur in isolation. It emerged during a time of political repression and social stratification.

The response was not retreat but transformation. The Khalsa introduced the concept of the Saint-Soldier: someone committed not only to personal spirituality but also to actively resisting injustice and protecting others.

This was a direct challenge to systems of power, and that context matters. Without it, Vaisakhi becomes unintelligible.

Why This Matters in Canada

In April 2019, Canada formally recognized Sikh Heritage Month, building on earlier provincial legislation, such as Ontario’s 2013 act.

The intention behind this recognition was not merely to celebrate but to educate. Yet, much of the public's understanding of Vaisakhi remains superficial.

This lack of depth is not just a missed opportunity; it is a disservice to a community whose history is deeply intertwined with the questions of equity, pluralism, and justice that Canada is still grappling with today.

When media coverage reduces Vaisakhi to mere aesthetics, it sidelines those critical conversations.

Raising the Standard

This discussion is not about policing language; it’s about accuracy and respect. The media has the resources to tell this story properly.

This means:

- Moving beyond shorthand explanations

- Engaging with historians and community voices

- Distinguishing between cultural practices and religious significance

It also requires recognizing that not all celebrations are interchangeable and that traditions cannot be collapsed into a single narrative.

The Bottom Line

Vaisakhi is more than just a festival. It marks the creation of a community built on courage, equality, and accountability.

It signifies a refusal to accept injustice and a commitment to confront it. Reducing Vaisakhi to a mere harvest celebration does not just miss the point; it erases it.

In a country that prides itself on its multicultural understanding, we should expect better.

Introduction

Sikhs are a vibrant, diverse, and globally dispersed community, yet their stories are often misrepresented, oversimplified, or overlooked in mainstream media.

Reporting on Sikhs is frequently influenced by colonial-era frameworks, orientalist stereotypes, and misunderstandings of their religious and cultural identities. These misrepresentations can perpetuate social prejudice, reduce this dynamic community to mere symbols or tropes, and erase the richness of their lived experiences.

This guide seeks to decolonize reporting on Sikhs by emphasizing Sikhi—the living spiritual, ethical, and social framework of the Sikh tradition—as opposed to reducing it to a static religion.

Sikhi is a way of life that centers on equality, social justice, selfless service, and devotion to the One Creator.

Understanding these principles is crucial for producing journalism that is both accurate and transformative.

This guide is designed for journalists, editors, content creators, and media professionals who want to report on Sikhs respectfully, thoughtfully, and meaningfully.

It draws on historical scholarship, contemporary practice, and the insights of Sikh communities worldwide.

By following this guide, media professionals can amplify authentic Sikh voices, challenge colonial narratives, and provide audiences with a nuanced understanding of Sikh identity, practices, and contributions.

Section 1: Who Are Sikhs?

Overview of Sikhism

• Origin: Sikhi was founded over 500 years ago in Punjab (modern-day India and Pakistan) by Guru Nanak Dev Ji.

• Guru Nanak’s teachings emphasized universal unconditional love, equality, justice, and devotion to the One Creator, rejecting hierarchical social structures, ritualistic domination, and exclusionary practices.

  Core Beliefs:

  • Oneness of God: Sikhs believe in one universal creator, referred to as "Waheguru."

  • Equality: Sikhism rejects caste distinctions and affirms the equality of all genders and communities.

  • Seva (Selfless Service): A cornerstone of Sikh life, exemplified through community service initiatives like langar (free community kitchens).

  • Chardikala: A principle of eternal optimism and resilience.

• Key Text: The Guru Granth Sahib, considered a living Guru, contains spiritual teachings that guide Sikh life.

Sikh Identity

• The Five Articles of Faith (5Ks):

  • Kesh: Uncut hair, representing respect for God’s creation.

  • Kara: A steel bracelet symbolizing unity and self-discipline.

  • Kanga: A wooden comb for cleanliness and order.

  • Kachera: Cotton undergarments symbolizing modesty and control.

  • Kirpan: A ceremonial sword signifying the duty to protect and promote justice.

• Turban (Dastar): Worn by many Sikhs as a symbol of faith, responsibility, and equality, it is central to their identity and commitment to social justice.

Global Presence

Sikhi is the fifth-largest faith tradition globally, with approximately 30 million adherents.

• With an estimated 30 million Sikhs worldwide, Sikhism is the fifth-largest religion globally.

• Major Sikh populations exist in India, Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Australia, and Kenya.

Section 2: Common Misconceptions

Misconceptions about Sikhs are widespread in global media and often stem from colonial frameworks, racial profiling, and a lack of engagement with Sikh voices.

Journalists play a critical role in either reinforcing or dismantling these narratives. The following misconceptions are among the most common—and the most harmful—when reporting on Sikhs.

1. Sikhs Are Muslims, Arabs, or Hindus

Sikhs are frequently misidentified due to turbans, beards, or brown skin. This erasure of Sikh identity collapses distinct religious, cultural, and historical communities into a single stereotype. Accurate identification matters not only for factual correctness but for respecting the autonomy of each community. Misidentification has also led to real-world violence against Sikhs, particularly in the post-9/11 era.

2. Sikhi is “Sikhism.”

Referring to Sikhi as “Sikhism” reflects a colonial tendency to frame non-Western traditions through rigid, institutionalized religious categories. Sikhi is a living, evolving way of life encompassing spirituality, ethics, community responsibility, and resistance to injustice.

Using the term Sikhi honours the community’s self-definition and worldview.

3. The Kirpan Is a Weapon

The kirpan is often described in the media as a knife or weapon, especially in stories involving schools, airports, or legal disputes. In Sikhi, the kirpan is a spiritual article of faith symbolizing the duty to uphold justice and protect the vulnerable.

Sensationalized language fuels fear and criminalization of Sikh bodies.

4. All Sikhs Look the Same

Media coverage often portrays Sikhs as uniformly male, turbaned, and bearded. In reality, Sikhs vary widely in gender expression, dress, age, race, ability, and levels of religious observance. Sikh women wear turbans, many Sikhs do not wear turbans, and outward appearance does not determine the faith.

There are a few different types of Sikhs:

Amritdhari (Khalsa): Are initiated into the Khalsa group, follow the Five Ks, the strict Sikh code of conduct, and wear a turban.

Sahajdhari - Are not initiated, may cut hair, believe in Sikh teachings, participate in Sikh life.

Keshdhari - Keeps uncut hair, may wear a turban, not initiated
Nihang - Warrior Sikhs, blue attire, martial tradition, strictly Amritdhari

Namdhari - White clothing, vegetarian, meditation-focused, believes in living Guru after Guru Gobind Singh

Udasi - Ascetic, monk-like, focus on renunciation and meditation, not Khalsa discipline

5. Sikhs Are a Monolithic Community

Sikhs are often presented as a single, unified group with identical beliefs and political views. Sikh communities span continents, generations, languages, and ideological perspectives. No single Sikh individual or organization can represent the entirety of the Sikh experience.

6. Sikh Identity Is Only Religious

Media reporting frequently treats Sikh identity as purely religious, ignoring its cultural, political, and historical dimensions. Sikh identity is shaped by migration, colonialism, resistance movements, labour histories, and activism. Reducing Sikh identity to religion alone erases these lived realities.

7. Sikhs Are Only Relevant in Stories About Hate Crimes

While reporting on hate crimes against Sikhs is critical, limiting coverage to victimhood narratives flattens the community’s identity. Sikhs are artists, farmers, educators, healthcare workers, athletes, lawmakers, and organizers whose stories extend far beyond trauma.

8. Langar Is Just “Free Food.”

Langar is often described casually as a charity meal or soup kitchen. In Sikhi, langar is a radical practice of equality, dismantling caste, class, and religious hierarchies by requiring all to sit together and eat the same food.

It is a spiritual, social, and political act, but also a way for the community to get together and serve anyone in need.

9. All Punjabis Are Sikhs, and All Sikhs Are Punjabi

Punjabi identity is frequently conflated with Sikh identity. Not all Punjabis are Sikhs, and not all Sikhs are Punjabi. Sikhs exist across linguistic, ethnic, and national backgrounds, including but not limited to Punjabi heritage.

10. Sikhs Are a New Immigrant Community

Sikhs are often portrayed as recent arrivals in Western countries. In reality, Sikh migration dates back over a century, including early settlers, labourers, and soldiers. Sikh soldiers fought in World Wars I and II, and Sikh communities have existed in Canada, the UK, East Africa, and the United States since the early 1900s.

11. Sikh History Begins and Ends in India

Media coverage frequently confines Sikh history to India, overlooking the global Sikh diaspora and transnational identity. Sikh histories are deeply connected to colonial borders, displacement, labour migration, and global resistance movements.

12. The Turban Is Optional or Merely Cultural

The Sikh turban is sometimes framed as a fashion choice or cultural accessory. For many Sikhs, the turban is a sacred commitment tied to dignity, equality, discipline, and accountability. Treating it casually or dismissively undermines its spiritual and ethical significance.

Key Takeaway for Journalists

• Misconceptions do not exist in isolation.

• They shape public perception, policy decisions, and everyday treatment of Sikh communities.

• Responsible reporting requires journalists to question inherited narratives, center Sikh voices, provide historical and cultural context, and avoid colonial shortcuts in language and framing.

• Correcting misconceptions is not about political correctness; it is about accuracy, ethics, and respect.

Section 3: Guidelines for Accurate Reporting

Understanding Sikhi and Key Terminology

Language shapes how communities are understood. Many terms associated with Sikhs have been filtered through colonial, academic, or outsider frameworks that flatten meaning or impose inaccurate equivalents. Using terminology rooted in Sikhi respects how Sikhs understand themselves and ensures more precise reporting.

Sikhi (Not “Sikhism”)

Sikhi refers to the lived spiritual, ethical, and social path articulated by the Sikh Gurus. While “Sikhism” is commonly used in Western discourse, it reflects a colonial tendency to categorize non-Western traditions into rigid religious systems. Sikhi is not limited to belief or ritual; it is a way of life that integrates spirituality, justice, community responsibility, and resistance to oppression.

Best practice for journalists:
Use Sikhi where possible. When “Sikhism” must be used for audience familiarity, clarify that Sikhi is a lived tradition rather than a static religion.

Sikh

A Sikh is a learner or seeker of truth who follows the teachings of the Sikh Gurus. The term comes from the Punjabi word sikhna, meaning “to learn.” Being Sikh is not defined solely by appearance, ethnicity, or nationality.

Pronunciation: sik-kh (not “seek”).

Guru

In Sikhi, a Guru is more than just a teacher; it is a source of divine wisdom and guidance. The ten human Gurus shaped Sikh beliefs, values, and institutions. Today, the Guru Granth Sahib functions as the living Guru, providing spiritual and moral guidance to Sikhs.

Reporting note: Avoid describing Sikh Gurus as “founders” or “prophets,” as these terms do not fully align with Sikh understanding.

Guru Granth Sahib

The Guru Granth Sahib is the central sacred scripture of Sikhi and is regarded as the eternal, living Guru. It contains devotional poetry and teachings not only from Sikh Gurus but also from saints of different backgrounds, reinforcing Sikhi’s commitment to inclusivity and equality.

Best practice:
Avoid calling it a “holy book.” When referencing it, acknowledge its living status within Sikh practice.

Gurdwara

A gurdwara is a Sikh place of worship and community gathering. The term means “gateway to the Guru.” Gurdwaras are open to people of all faiths and backgrounds and often function as community hubs offering meals, education, and social services.

Visual and reporting note:
Always seek permission before filming or photographing inside a gurdwara, particularly near the Guru Granth Sahib.

Langar

Langar refers to the free community kitchen present in every gurdwara. More than charity, langar is a radical expression of equality, dismantling hierarchies of caste, class, gender, and religion by ensuring all people eat together as equals.

Avoid: Describing langar solely as a “soup kitchen” or “free food program.”

Khalsa

The Khalsa is the collective body of Sikhs who have formally committed to living according to the principles of Sikhi. Established in 1699 by Guru Gobind Singh Ji, the Khalsa represents spiritual discipline, justice, and responsibility to the wider community.

The Five Articles of Faith (5Ks)

Often referred to as the “Five Ks,” these are physical symbols worn by initiated Sikhs as expressions of ethical and spiritual commitment:

• Kesh: Uncut hair

• Kara: Steel bracelet

• Kanga: Wooden comb

• Kachera: Cotton undergarments

• Kirpan: Ceremonial sword symbolizing justice

Important: These are articles of faith, not cultural accessories.

Kirpan

The kirpan symbolizes a Sikh’s duty to stand against injustice and protect the vulnerable. It is governed by strict ethical guidelines and is not intended for harm.

Reporting caution: Avoid describing the kirpan as a weapon without context.

Dastar (Turban)

The dastar, or Sikh turban, represents dignity, equality, discipline, and spiritual responsibility. For many Sikhs, it is a visible commitment to ethical living and accountability.

Avoid: Referring to it as a hat, costume, or headwrap.

Waheguru

Waheguru is the term Sikhs use for the One Creator. It is not a personal god in the human sense but a formless, eternal presence permeating all of existence.

Seva

Seva means selfless service performed without expectation of reward. It is a foundational principle of Sikhi and informs Sikh engagement in humanitarian, social justice, and community work worldwide.

Chardikala

Chardikala refers to a state of high spirits, resilience, and optimism, even in the face of hardship or oppression. It reflects the Sikh commitment to hope, courage, and collective well-being.

Key Takeaway for Media Professionals

Using accurate terminology rooted in Sikhi is not a matter of preference—it is a matter of journalistic precision and ethical responsibility.

When reporters adopt language that reflects how Sikhs understand their own tradition, they help dismantle colonial narratives and produce more truthful, respectful storytelling.

Dos

1. Use Precise Language:

   • Refer to the turban as a "dastar" or "Sikh turban," not a "hat" or "headwrap."

   • Clearly explain the kirpan’s spiritual significance when referencing it in stories.

2. Seek Sikh Voices:

   • Amplify Sikh perspectives by including quotes and input from community members.

3. Provide Context:

   • Historical or cultural context is essential when reporting on Sikh events or challenges, such as Vaisakhi or the 1984 anti-Sikh pogroms.

4. Verify Facts:

   • Collaborate with Sikh scholars, activists, or credible organizations to ensure accuracy.

Don’ts

1. Avoid Stereotypes:

   • Don’t reduce Sikhs to victims of hate crimes or tokenize their representation.

2. Don’t Tokenize:

   • Representation should be meaningful, not symbolic.

3. Avoid Assumptions:

   • Not all Punjabis are Sikhs, and not all Sikhs are Punjabi.

Section 4: Story Ideas for Reporting on Sikhs

1. Community Contributions:

   • Highlight Sikh efforts in global humanitarian initiatives, such as langar services during natural disasters.

2. Representation in Media:

   • Analyze how Sikhs are depicted in films, TV, and literature, addressing stereotypes and successes.

3. Global Diaspora:

   • Explore Sikh identity and integration in countries like Canada, the UK, and the US.

4. Historical Perspectives:

   • Investigate Sikh contributions to historical events, such as the World Wars and the Komagata Maru incident.

5. Social Justice and Advocacy:

   • Report on Sikh activism in issues ranging from farmers’ protests to anti-racism movements.

Section 5: Visual Representation

Visuals are often the first—and sometimes only—way audiences encounter Sikh communities. Images, video, and graphics can either reinforce stereotypes or offer nuanced, humanizing representations. Ethical visual reporting on Sikhs requires intention, context, and respect for how Sikhs understand themselves and their sacred spaces.

1. Prioritize Authenticity Over Symbolism

Avoid reducing Sikh identity to a single visual marker such as the turban, beard, or kirpan. While these are meaningful symbols, over-reliance on them can flatten Sikh identity into a visual shorthand.

Best practices include:

• Showing Sikhs in everyday settings: workplaces, schools, homes, and public life

• Representing a range of ages, genders, abilities, and styles of dress

• Capturing Sikhs as active participants rather than passive subjects

Ask: Does this image tell a fuller story, or does it rely on visual clichés?

2. Represent the Full Diversity of Sikh Life

Sikh communities are not uniform. Visual storytelling should reflect internal diversity rather than perpetuating a single, stereotypical image of who Sikhs are.

Consider including:

• Sikh women, including those who wear turbans and those who do not

• Youth, elders, and intergenerational interactions

• Sikhs of different racial and ethnic backgrounds

• Sikhs with disabilities and in varied socioeconomic contexts

Avoid presenting a single look or individual as representative of the entire community.

3. Avoid Exoticism and “Othering.”

Exoticizing imagery frames Sikhs as foreign, unusual, or visually striking rather than as people living ordinary lives.

Avoid:

• Overuse of close-ups that isolate turbans or beards without context

• Dramatic lighting or colour grading that emphasizes “difference.”

• Framing Sikhs as spectacles rather than subjects

Instead, place Sikhs within familiar, relatable environments that reflect their lived realities.

4. Sacred Spaces Require Care and Consent

Gurdwaras are not just architectural spaces; they are active sites of worship and community life. Visual coverage must respect spiritual protocols.

Best practices include:

• Always ask for permission before filming or photographing inside a gurdwara

• Removing shoes and covering one’s head when required

• Avoiding images of the Guru Granth Sahib without explicit consent

• Refraining from intrusive close-ups during prayer or meditation

When in doubt, consult gurdwara leadership or community members.

5. Context Matters as Much as the Image

Images of Sikh ceremonies, protests, or religious articles can be misunderstood without explanation.

Ensure:

• Captions clearly identify what is being shown and why it matters

• Religious articles (e.g., kirpan, kara) are explained accurately

• Images are not cropped or framed in ways that distort meaning

A powerful image without context can unintentionally mislead.

6. Avoid Crisis-Only Visual Narratives

Media coverage often visually associates Sikhs with hate crimes, protests, or conflict. While these stories are important, they should not dominate visual representation.

Balance coverage by including:

• Joy, celebration, and community life

• Achievement, leadership, and creativity

• Everyday moments that humanize rather than sensationalize

Audiences need to see Sikhs as whole people, not only as victims or symbols of struggle.

7. Be Mindful of Power and Positionality

Visual storytelling involves power: who holds the camera, who chooses the frame, and who decides what is shown.

Reflect on:

• Whether Sikh subjects have agency in how they are portrayed

• If consent is informed and ongoing

• How images might circulate beyond their original context

Whenever possible, collaborate with Sikh photographers, videographers, and visual editors.

8. Stock Images and Archival Footage

Stock imagery often relies on outdated or stereotypical visuals of Sikhs.

Before using stock images:

• Assess whether they reinforce clichés

• Check captions and metadata for accuracy

• Avoid repeatedly using the same images to represent all Sikh stories

Consider commissioning original visuals or working with community-based creators.

9. Protest and Political Imagery

Images of Sikh activism are sometimes framed as aggressive or threatening, especially when religious symbols are visible.

Best practices include:

• Avoiding language and framing that criminalizes protest

• Showing the broader context and motivations behind activism

• Ensuring visuals do not imply violence where none exists

Contextual captions are essential.

10. Accessibility and Ethical Editing

Ensure visual content is accessible and ethically edited.

This includes:

• Providing alt text and captions that are accurate and respectful

• Avoiding manipulative edits or misleading cropping

• Ensuring colour correction and effects do not distort reality

Ethical visuals uphold both truth and dignity.

Editorial Rule of Thumb

If an image would feel exploitative, misleading, or disrespectful if it were of your own community, it should not be published.

Key Takeaway for Visual Storytellers

Ethical visual representation of Sikhs requires more than visual diversity—it demands cultural literacy, consent, and care. When journalists commit to authentic, contextual, and collaborative visual storytelling, they move beyond stereotypes and contribute to a media landscape that reflects Sikh life with accuracy and respect.

Section 6: Additional Resources

Accurate and respectful reporting on Sikhs requires engagement with Sikh-led institutions, scholars, journalists, educators, and community organizations.

The following resources provide historical context, contemporary analysis, media guidance, and direct access to Sikh voices.

Journalists are encouraged to consult multiple sources and avoid relying on a single organization or spokesperson.

• Organizations:

  • Sikh Coalition (USA)

  • World Sikh Organization (Canada)

  • Sikh Press Association (UK)

  • Khalsa Aid

  • Experience Sikhi (Canada)

  • Sikh Research Institute

  • Sikh National Archives

  • SALDEF

  • United Sikhs (USA)

  • Jakara Movement

  • Ensaaf

  • SAADA

  • Guru Nanak Institute of Global Studies

  • Sikh Studies Department across universities

• Books:

  • "Who Are the Sikhs?" by Gian Singh Sandhu

  • "The Sikhs" by Khushwant Singh

  • "Sikhism: A Very Short Introduction" by Eleanor Nesbitt

• Websites:

  • SikhNet

  • Basics of Sikhi

  • Baaz News

Conclusion

Reporting on Sikhs through a decolonized lens involves more than accuracy—it demands respect, context, and a sense of ethical responsibility.

Misrepresentation not only harms the community but also perpetuates historical narratives that silence voices of resilience, activism, and spiritual insight.

By centring Sikhi in its fullness—as a living tradition committed to justice, equality, and compassion—journalists can:

• Challenge stereotypes and colonial frameworks.

• Amplify authentic Sikh narratives.

• Celebrate contributions to society, culture, and social justice.

Thoughtful reporting fosters understanding and inclusivity, enriching public discourse while honouring a community that has historically resisted marginalization.

By engaging with Sikh voices, scholarship, and lived experiences, media professionals can produce work that is both accurate and transformative, helping audiences see Sikhs not as abstractions but as real people shaping the world.

Rupi Kaur is receiving the Independent Achievement Award at the 2026 Departure Honours, presented by Ticketmaster. The ceremony will take place on Thursday, May 7, 2026, at Koerner Hall.

For those who may not know, Rupi Kaur is a poet, author, performer, and artist who has inspired millions around the world. She writes about topics like family, migration, identity, trauma, healing, and love.

She began her career by self-publishing her poetry, sharing her work directly with readers instead of waiting for traditional publishers to notice her.

Her books have sold millions of copies and reached readers in dozens of languages, showing the global power of independent voices.

This award is significant not only for Rupi Kaur but for Sikh Punjabi communities. Our stories have long been ignored, left out of textbooks, and underrepresented in media. Representation is not just about being on a stage—it’s about what you do with that stage. It’s about telling your story fully, honestly, and without apology.

We don’t need to justify our stories.

Our history, culture, and experiences are important and deserve to be shared.

Much of Sikh Punjabi history has been left out of what we are taught in schools—our migrations, our struggles, the lives of ordinary people, and the experiences of women in our community.

When we get the chance to speak, whether through poetry, storytelling, journalism, or everyday conversation, we must use it. Platforms for our stories aren’t just for visibility—they are for preserving our history and shaping how the world understands us.

Rupi Kaur shows that independent voices can reach the world while staying true to their culture. But her success should not be the only example.

As a community, we need to step up, support each other, and create spaces for Sikh Punjabi voices to be heard—whether in writing, journalism, art, or storytelling.

We also need more equity, diversity, and inclusion in journalism. We need BIPOC journalists reporting on the issues that matter to their own communities. I dream of living in a country where I feel safe, where I belong, and where I can live with dignity.

Media and newsrooms should play a role in making that possible—but they must reflect the people they serve.

Representation is not only about seeing people on a stage or in the news. It’s about having the ability to tell our stories out loud—in sakhis, conversations, poetry, or journalism.

Our stories matter only if they are heard. We as a community must step forward, create those spaces, and support each other so that our voices are never silenced again.

Rupi Kaur receiving the Independent Achievement Award is an important milestone.

But the bigger question remains: how will we use our own voices and spaces to make sure our stories are told?

They bend. They endure. They swallow.

From a young age, Punjabi boys are taught—sometimes gently, often harshly—that emotion is a liability. Tears are a weakness. Anxiety is drama. Depression is laziness. If something hurts, you work harder. If life feels heavy, you keep quiet. If your mind is wandering, distract yourself with a task.

This is not cruelty in the obvious sense. It is a tradition to wear the clothes of survival.

In many Sikh and Punjabi households, there is a deep-rooted expectation placed on men: you must endure. You must be strong. You must not break. From an early age, boys are taught that emotion is weakness, that “real men” don’t cry, and that suffering goes unspoken. This silence—often framed as resilience—is a hidden crisis, one that destroys from within.

For generations, the mental health of men has not just been sidelined—it has been dismissed. If a man in a Punjabi family feels overwhelmed, anxious, or depressed, the response is often, “What do you have to be depressed about?” Gratitude is weaponized to invalidate pain, and mental distress becomes a moral failure rather than a medical reality. This attitude doesn’t just hurt individuals—it hurts families, marriages, and entire communities.

Men end up expressing suffering in ways that are misread or ignored: explosive anger, addiction, emotional numbness, sudden health crises, or, in the worst cases, suicide. We mourn families after tragedy, but rarely question why these men didn’t feel safe to speak before it was too late.

Strength, Silence, and Survival

In Sikh history, resilience is sacred. Values like seva, sacrifice, and perseverance are foundational. But somewhere along the way, emotional suppression became confused with emotional discipline.

Punjabi men are expected to be providers before they are people, protectors before they are partners. Their worth is measured in output—income, stability, obedience—not inner wellbeing. When men struggle, they are often told to work harder, pray more, or stay silent.

For immigrant families, this silence once functioned as survival. Parents endured racism, financial instability, and cultural displacement by focusing forward and minimizing pain. But survival strategies do not automatically become healthy traditions.

What once protected families is now harming them.

Men grow up emotionally illiterate—not because they lack depth, but because they were never given language. Sadness becomes anger. Anxiety becomes control. Depression becomes exhaustion. Trauma becomes silence.

Emotional Suppression as a Survival Skill

For immigrant Sikh and Punjabi families in particular, suppression was once necessary. Parents endured racism, economic instability, and cultural displacement. Survival required focus, discipline, and sacrifice. Emotional expression felt like a luxury.

But survival strategies do not automatically become healthy traditions.

What once protected families is now harming them.

Men grow up emotionally illiterate—not because they lack depth, but because they were never given language. Sadness becomes irritation. Anxiety becomes control. Depression becomes exhaustion. Trauma becomes silence.

Many Punjabi men do not know how to say “I’m not okay.” They only know how to withdraw, explode, or numb themselves.

“What Do You Have to Be Depressed About?”

This question has done immeasurable harm.

It assumes that suffering must be justified by visible hardship. It turns gratitude into a weapon and comparison into a form of gaslighting.

Men begin to doubt their own experiences. They minimize their pain. They tell themselves others have it worse, so their feelings must be illegitimate.

Over time, this internal invalidation becomes more damaging than external stigma.

Depression becomes a personal failure instead of a health issue. Anxiety becomes a character flaw instead of a nervous system response. Therapy becomes shameful instead of supportive.

And so men don’t seek help—until the consequences are unavoidable.

How the Pain Actually Shows Up

Punjabi and Sikh men may not speak openly about mental health, but they express it in other ways:

• unexplained anger and emotional volatility

• substance use that is normalized or ignored

• emotional absence in marriages and parenting

• chronic stress-related health issues

• sudden breakdowns later in life

• suicides that families describe only as “pressure” or “stress.”

We mourn these losses quietly. We avoid uncomfortable conversations. We move on without changing the conditions that produced the pain.

Why Acknowledging Men’s Mental Health Feels Threatening

For many families, allowing men to be emotionally vulnerable feels like a threat to order.

There is fear that:

• Authority will be undermined

• Respect will be lost

• Families will become unstable

But emotional suppression does not create strong families—it creates fragile ones.

Strength without expression leads to resentment. Responsibility without support leads to burnout. Faith without emotional honesty leads to spiritual bypassing.

Caring about men’s mental health does not weaken Sikh or Punjabi culture. It makes its values livable.

Chardikala misunderstood

One of the most misunderstood Sikh concepts in conversations about mental health is chardi kala.

Historically, chardi kala meant spiritual resilience in full awareness of suffering. Sikh history does not deny pain—our Gurus spoke from within it.

What many men experience today, however, is not chardi kala but toxic positivity:

• “Stay positive” instead of “tell me how much this hurts.”

• “Have faith” instead of “you sound overwhelmed.”

True chardi kala allows space for grief, fear, and rest. Toxic positivity erases them. When spirituality is used to silence pain, it stops healing and starts harming.

The Cost of Silence

The impact of this silence is measurable. In Canada, men account for roughly three‑quarters of suicide deaths, and suicide remains one of the leading causes of death for men under 50.

Men are significantly less likely to seek therapy and far more likely to cope through substances.

In Sikh and Punjabi communities, this intersects dangerously with the fentanyl and toxic drug crisis. Substance use is often framed as moral failure rather than a response to untreated trauma and isolation. Alcohol and drugs become socially acceptable outlets for pain when emotional expression is not.

This silence is not neutral. It is deadly.

Community Action in Practice

There are organizations actively confronting this reality.

Many mental health organizations, such as Punjabi Community Health Services (PCHS) and Soch Mental Health, often fail to address the critical issue of overcoming substance use, which is closely linked to mental health.

Then there is Team SOUDA (Students Overcoming Substance Use Disorder & Addictions), a Sikh–led nonprofit initiative addressing substance use and overdose risk head-on.

SOUDA focuses on:

• community outreach

• overdose response and prevention

• education around substance use without shame

As an initiative supported by @southasianmentalhealth, SOUDA recognizes what many families avoid naming: substance use and mental health are inseparable.

By meeting people where they are—without judgment—SOUDA challenges the idea that silence keeps communities safe. In reality, silence only protects stigma.

Breaking the Cycle

Many Sikh and Punjabi men today are quietly doing revolutionary work. They are naming their pain, going to therapy, setting boundaries, and learning emotional language that was never taught to them.

They are not weak for this.

They are interrupting a cycle of inherited silence.

If we want truly strong men, we must allow men to be whole.

Men who feel don’t abandon responsibility—they sustain it.
Men who are supported don’t collapse in isolation—they stay.

And that may be the strongest legacy Sikh and Punjabi families can choose to leave behind.

A Call to Action for Sikh and Punjabi Communities

This issue cannot be solved by individuals alone. It requires collective accountability.

1. Normalize Emotional Language

Boys need permission to cry. Men need permission to say “I’m struggling” without being dismissed or corrected. Conversations about mental health should be as normal as conversations about career and marriage.

2. Use Community Institutions Responsibly

Gurdwaras, community centres, youth programs, and media platforms must actively address mental health. This includes workshops, panels, sermons, and written pieces in Punjabi and English that name the issue directly.

3. Stop Treating Therapy as Failure

Therapy is not a rejection of faith or culture. It is maintenance. Just as we seek doctors for the body, we must normalize care for the mind.

4. Support Culturally Responsive Services

Mental health support must understand language, family dynamics, migration trauma, and faith. Communities should invest in and promote services that meet men where they are.

5. Leaders Must Speak First

Journalists, educators, Gurdwara leaders, parents, and elders must model openness. Change will not come from silence at the top.

A Direct Message to Elders and Institutions

To elders, community leaders, and institutions that shape Sikh and Punjabi life—this moment requires courage.

Respect is not maintained by silence. Authority is not strengthened by dismissal. And tradition is not protected by ignoring suffering.

If men in our communities are dying quietly—by suicide, addiction, or preventable illness—then something in our collective approach is broken.

Elders must move beyond asking men to endure and begin asking how they are actually coping. Institutions must stop treating mental health as an individual weakness and start addressing it as a communal responsibility. Gurdwaras, schools, media platforms, and family systems must create space for honest conversations—even when they are uncomfortable.

Listening will not dismantle culture.

It will actually save lives.

The next generation is watching how seriously you take this. They will either inherit silence—or safety.

If this piece resonates with you, share it. Talk about it. Use it as a starting point. Silence has been normalized—but it does not have to be permanent.

We’ve heard of Kesari, not the 1984 genocide.

We might know “Punjabiyan Di Shaan Wakhri” from TikTok, but not what happened in 1947 when Punjab was ripped apart during Partition.

We watched 9/11 unfold as kids, but most of us have no idea that Sikhs were murdered in hate crimes right after, mistaken for terrorists because of their turbans & beards.

And when the world’s largest peaceful protest — the Farmers' Protest — was led by mostly Sikh farmers in 2020– Present, the mainstream media and Bollywood barely blinked until it became a photo op.

How did we get here?

And why does it seem like Bollywood and the mainstream media only care about Sikh stories when there’s money, nationalism, or awards involved?

The Real History We’re Not Taught

• 1947: During the Partition, Punjab was the epicentre.

  Sikhs lost everything — land, families, culture — in one of the bloodiest and most traumatic displacements in history.

• 1984: After PM Indira Gandhi was assassinated, thousands of Sikhs were butchered in state-backed pogroms.

  It wasn’t a riot. It was a massacre.

  And it’s still not formally recognized as a genocide.

• Post-9/11: Sikhs in the diaspora — especially in the US and Canada — were attacked in hate crimes.

  The first person murdered in “revenge” after 9/11 was a Sikh gas station owner in Arizona.

• Farmers’ Protest: Over 700 lives lost. Hundreds arrested, elderly tear-gassed and beaten.

  All this was aimed at fighting against the corporate takeover of agriculture, but most of India ignored it until it made international headlines.

And now?

Punjab, once called the breadbasket of India — one of the richest and proudest states — is now among the poorest: addiction, unemployment, and environmental collapse.

Why?

Decades of state neglect, failed policies, and systemic erasure.

But none of that matters to Bollywood unless there’s a plot that sells or a song that trends.

The truth is ugly

Bollywood doesn’t give a damn about real Sikh stories. Not the trauma, not the politics, not the pain.

They want Sikh soldiers, not Sikh revolutionaries. They’ll show you turbans, not teachings. And they’ll never show you dissent—unless it’s watered down.

Meanwhile, real Sikh voices — especially in the diaspora — are being surveilled, threatened, and silenced.

Canadian officials revealed that India is using organized crime networks to carry out arsons, assassinations, and threats — all to suppress Sikh voices abroad.

Let that sink in.

So, Where Do We Go From Here?

This isn’t just about representation anymore.

It’s about survival. It’s about truth. It’s about reclaiming our history from those who continually try to repackage it for profit.

If Bollywood won’t tell the story right, we will.

If the media won’t cover it, we will record it.

If schools won’t teach it, we’ll pass it on ourselves — through music, poetry, film, social media, and most importantly, through each other.

Because Sikh history is not a costume.

It’s a legacy of resistance.

And the world deserves to hear it — you need to be unfiltered, unwashed, and unapologetically a Sikh.

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I watched Zohran Mamdani’s mayoral inauguration from Canada, but emotionally, I was in New York — a city that has always loomed large in the Sikh imagination. For work. For migration. For survival. For struggle. For aspiration. And this time, for something else: recognition.

What struck me almost immediately — even through livestreams, photos, and shared clips — was the sheer number of Sikhs present. Not just present, but visible. In the crowd, on the steps, woven throughout the ceremony. Turbans of different colours. Beards worn without apology. Families, elders, artists, activists. It didn’t feel accidental. It felt like people understood the weight of the moment and chose to show up for it.

On stage, that visibility was unmistakable. Tandeep Kaur stood during the interfaith moment, calm and grounded, representing the Sikh presence not as an explanation or outreach exercise, but as a matter of belonging. Babu closed the ceremony, his performance echoing through City Hall as confetti fell — Punjabi lyrics filling a space that has historically symbolized state power.

And then, in the crowd, I noticed faces many Sikhs recognize immediately: Simar Jeet Singh, Vishavjeet Singh, and Waris Ahluwalia. Writers, artists, and cultural figures whose public lives have unfolded alongside — and often in resistance to — the post-9/11 racial climate in New York. Seeing them there wasn’t incidental. It told a story about continuity.

As a Sikh journalist, I don’t experience moments like this as isolated wins. I experience them as interventions — into memory, into history, into power.

To understand why this inauguration felt so heavy with meaning, you have to remember what New York was like for Sikhs after September 11, 2001. This city became one of the epicentres of racial backlash, surveillance, and state-sanctioned suspicion. Punjabi Sikhs — many of them recent immigrants, working as taxi drivers, construction workers, shop owners — were among the first targets of hate crimes.

Sikh men were beaten in the streets. Turbans were ripped off. Gurdwaras received threats. Taxi drivers were assaulted. Some were killed. None of this happened in isolation — it was part of a broader system that collapsed brownness, Islam, and foreignness into a single threat. Sikhs paid the price for a war narrative they had no part in creating.

Systemic racism followed the violence. Surveillance programs, policing practices, and media narratives reinforced the idea that Sikh and Muslim bodies were inherently suspicious. We were questioned at the borders.

Followed in airports. Treated as problems to be managed rather than communities to be protected. Visibility became dangerous. In many cases, survival meant shrinking.

That history doesn’t disappear just because time passes.

Which is why Zohran Mamdani’s election already felt significant. A Muslim mayor of Indian-Ugandan descent, shaped by immigrant life, anti-surveillance politics, and organizing among working-class communities, now leads New York City. For people long treated as security risks rather than political authors, that alone signals a shift in who is trusted with power.

But the inauguration went further.

During the interfaith segment, Tandeep Kaur’s presence carried weight precisely because it wasn’t defensive. She wasn’t there to explain Sikhism, condemn violence, or reassure anyone of our harmlessness. She stood there as part of the city’s moral and civic fabric — untranslatable, unapologetic, steady.

As a Sikh, that mattered deeply to me.

Too often, Sikh inclusion in public life comes with conditions. We are welcomed when we provide service, when we respond to hate, and when we perform gratitude. Rarely are we invited simply to exist — especially in moments tied to celebration and power. That’s what made this interfaith moment feel different. It wasn’t asking for acceptance. It assumed belonging.

Then Babu took the stage.

His performance didn’t sanitize Punjabi culture or flatten it for comfort. It carried humour, bravado, confidence — the same energy that has fueled the Punjabi-Canadian music scene from Brampton basements to global charts. When he reworked Gaddi Red Challenger to name New York, it wasn’t a gimmick. It was a declaration: we move through cities now, and the cities move with us.

When cameras caught Simar Jeet Singh, Vishavjeet Singh, and Waris Ahluwalia in the crowd — men who have each endured post-9/11 profiling, media stereotyping, and institutional resistance — the generational arc became clear. This wasn’t just about one artist or one mayor. It was about survival turning into authorship.

From a journalistic perspective, what struck me most was how unforced it all felt. The performance wasn’t hidden at the margins. It closed the ceremony. Sikh presence wasn’t explained or justified. It simply existed.

That ease is rare for a community whose public visibility has so often been shaped by fear, racism, and the threat of violence.

As someone who carries both a kirpan and a notebook — faith and responsibility — I felt pride, but also weight. Representation is never neutral. When one of us steps onto a global stage, they carry a community that has learned to be cautious about being seen.

Repping the community, to me, isn’t about being perfect. It’s about refusing to shrink in spaces that once demanded our silence.

Zohran Mamdani’s role in all of this is central. His election represents a city willing to confront — not erase — its racial history. A city that once policed Sikh and Muslim bodies now entrusts leadership to someone shaped by those histories of exclusion.

From Canada, that contrast is uncomfortable.

We celebrate multiculturalism, yet our civic rituals remain cautious. Faith is accommodated, not integrated. Diaspora culture is welcomed at festivals, not entrusted with narrative power. We like diversity — as long as it doesn’t unsettle.

New York, in this moment, allowed itself to be unsettled — and looked stronger for it.

This inauguration didn’t erase systemic racism. It didn’t undo hate crimes. It didn’t guarantee safety tomorrow. But it did something essential: it changed what the center of power looked and sounded like.

For young Sikhs watching — in New York, in Brampton, in Surrey — seeing Tandeep Kaur and Babu on stage, and Simar Jeet Singh, Vishavjeet Singh, and Waris Ahluwalia in the crowd, expands what feels possible.

As a Sikh journalist, I believe representation matters most when it doesn’t ask for applause — when it simply exists, confidently, in spaces that once excluded us.

On January 1, 2026, New York offered a glimpse of that future.

Not as a spectacle.
Not as tokenism.
But as a city finally comfortable enough to let its people tell the story together.

Sidhu Moosewala’s rise was not created in studios or polished boardrooms; it was born from the soil of Moosa village and propelled by the genuine faith of the people. His emergence on platforms like YouTube felt almost revolutionary.  

Songs such as “So High” and “Issa Jatt” were not merely chart-toppers; they were bold declarations. They played from tractor trolleys in Punjab, blared from car speakers on Canadian highways, and echoed in hostel rooms where Punjabi youth searched for identity and pride.

What set Moosewala apart was not just his voice but his fearless originality. He blended Punjabi folk—characterized by its dhol-heavy bravado and poetic defiance—with contemporary hip-hop and drill influences.

The result was a sound that felt both ancient and futuristic. For a generation tired of dilution and imitation, Moosewala felt authentic. He didn’t seek acceptance—he demanded it.

Moosewala didn’t just enter the Punjabi music industry; he reshaped it in ways that continue to unfold today. His fearless storytelling and unfiltered lyrics painted an honest, often uncomfortable portrait of Punjab, transforming songs into statements and music into movements.

Albums like No Name felt prophetic in hindsight—defiant artistic declarations that rejected labels and warned of the consequences of speaking truth in an unforgiving system.

Even after his untimely death, Moosewala’s voice has not faded. Carefully released posthumous tracks continue to emerge, not as mere commercial afterthoughts but as deliberate efforts to preserve his message and keep his legacy alive for the generations that grew up with him.

That legacy has now entered new territory, with a global hologram tour set for the coming year. This tour will feature a stunt double on stage, allowing fans worldwide to once again experience his presence.

In an industry that moves quickly and forgets even faster, Sidhu Moosewala remains a living influence, proving that some voices are simply too powerful to be silenced.

Courage to Speak the Truth

Sidhu Moosewala never pretended that life was simple, and he never softened his words to make others comfortable. His lyrics were mirrors—sometimes uncomfortable ones—reflecting the realities of Punjab’s youth: ambition, anger, love, caste pride, systemic injustice, state violence, and the weight of history.

Songs like “295,” “SYL,” and “Punjab” were not casual releases. They were political, historical, and deeply emotional statements.

He spoke about religious hurt, unresolved wounds, water disputes, censorship, and the silencing of voices. In doing so, he crossed an invisible line that many artists fear to approach. Moosewala understood the risks—but chose truth anyway.

That courage earned him fierce loyalty from fans and equal resistance from authorities. He was criticized, targeted, and watched closely.

Yet he remained unapologetic.

For Moosewala, music was not just entertainment—it was a responsibility.

Sikhi at the Core of His Identity

At the heart of Sidhu Moosewala’s identity was Sikhi.

In an industry where image often bends to trends, Moosewala stood firm. He never removed his turban, never diluted his appearance, never distanced himself from his faith to gain wider acceptance. For countless Sikh youth—especially those growing up in the diaspora—this mattered more than words could express.

He made it clear: you don’t need to abandon who you are to be powerful.

Through his visibility, Moosewala inspired a new generation of Sikhs to wear their dastar with pride, to see it not as a limitation but as a crown. His music videos, public appearances, and global performances carried that message silently but powerfully. He normalized Sikh identity in global hip-hop spaces where it was once absent.

His connection to Sikhi was not performative—it was lived. It showed in his respect for shaheeds, his references to history, and his refusal to bow to pressure.

Global Icon, Local Hero

As his fame expanded, Moosewala never detached himself from his roots. Even while collaborating with international artists and performing across continents, he remained firmly grounded in Punjab. He carried the Moosa village with him wherever he went.

For the Punjabi diaspora, he became a bridge to home. For those who had never set foot in Punjab, he became a teacher—introducing them to its pain, pride, and poetry. He didn’t just export music; he exported culture.

Sidhu Moosewala wasn’t just representing Punjab—he was defending it on global stages.

A Tragic Loss, A Wound That Never Fully Healed

In 2022, the unthinkable happened.

Sidhu Moosewala’s death sent shockwaves far beyond the music industry. It felt personal. For many, it felt like losing a brother, a voice, a protector. The silence he left behind was deafening.

His passing forced uncomfortable conversations—about freedom of expression, artist safety, political hostility, and the cost of speaking truth in an unforgiving system. While many factors surrounded the tragedy, one reality remains painfully clear: Moosewala refused to stay silent, and silence has often been safer.

His Parents in 2026: Living With Absence, Carrying the Legacy

As of 2026, Moosewala’s parents continue to live with a grief that time has not softened. A parent is never meant to outlive their child—and yet they have carried that unimaginable weight with dignity and strength.

Their lives have become a quiet testament to Sidhu’s impact. Through remembrance, public presence, and continued engagement with his legacy, they ensure that their son is not reduced to a headline or a statistic. They speak when they can, remain silent when words fail, and hold onto the love of millions who still see Sidhu as their own.

Their pain is private—but their pride is visible.

Remembering Moosewala’s Spirit

Sidhu Moosewala was never “just a singer or rapper.”

He was a storyteller, a truth-teller, and for many, a symbol of fearless selfhood. He showed that music could challenge power, preserve identity, and still move hearts. His voice continues to echo—not only through unreleased tracks or streaming numbers, but through conversations, protests, memories, and pride.

In an era where voices are often filtered and softened, Moosewala’s legacy reminds us of the power of being unapologetically yourself.

His journey was cut short—but his influence is far from over.

Sidhu Moosewala didn’t just make music.
He made history.

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There’s something quietly special about Plant Matter Kitchen in London, Ontario. Maybe it’s the smell of roasted garlic and fresh coffee drifting through the air, or the hum of conversation under warm, welcoming light.

Maybe it’s the ease of the space — or the familiar smiles of the front-of-house team, the kind that make you feel remembered, even on your first visit.

But more than any single moment, it’s the intention behind every plate that makes this place unforgettable.

A Kitchen Built on Intention

Founded by Glenn Whitehead, Plant Matter Kitchen has grown into a cornerstone of London’s plant-based dining scene — not because it follows trends, but because it stays grounded in purpose.

From day one, PMK has focused on doing things the right way: cooking from scratch, using real, nourishing ingredients, and building menus inspired by global flavours and seasonal produce. There’s a sense that every dish exists for a reason — not to impress, but to comfort, satisfy, and bring people together.

This is a kitchen guided by care rather than ego, where collaboration shapes the menu, and food is treated as both craft and conversation.

That spirit is in every bite.

The Soul Behind the Stove

When you meet Chef Oliver Thomas, there’s no ego — just an easy laugh and a deep love for the craft. He’s part chef, part storyteller, and part quiet revolutionary.

He talks about vegan food not as a restriction, but as freedom:

“It’s about giving people options that are better for them, for animals, and for the planet — without losing the joy of food.”

That, right there, is the heart of Plant Matter Kitchen. It’s vegan food that doesn’t feel like a statement — it feels like a celebration.

And the food itself?

Made fresh every single time, by hand, by heart.

No shortcuts, no bulk prepping, no compromise. Oliver believes freshness is flavour — and you can taste it.

The Dishes That Tell the Story

Across a few visits — first in October 2025, then twice again in November 2025 (on our way to and from Windsor) — we tried almost everything that caught our eye. Every dish came out beautifully plated, and every one carried that unmistakable made-fresh energy — hot, crisp, fragrant, alive.

We started with coffee and Blue Delta Lemonade, a striking blue herbal-citrus drink that looks like art in a glass. Then came a spread of small plates that could have been a full meal in themselves.

• Antojitos

• Jamaican Patties

• Spinach & Artichoke Dip

• Heirloom Tomato Tart

Each one brought a different memory to the table — from cozy comfort to tropical spice — but what stood out was how balanced they were. Flavours that were once heavy or indulgent now felt light, clean, and energizing.

Then came the mains:

• Mushroom Flatbread

• Chick’n & Mushroom Pot Pie

• RubyStack Burger (served with crispy wedges and that addictive garlic mayo)

• Soup of the Day, which changed with each visit — always hearty, always thoughtful.

And for the perfect ending:

• Chocolate Fudge cake with some hot chocolate

Every dish felt personal, intentional — as if the chef had cooked it just for us. Because, truthfully, he kind of had.

A Restaurant That Feeds More Than Hunger

The mission at Plant Matter Kitchen is simple but powerful: serve organic, whole, plant-based meals, free from GMOs, chemicals, or processed shortcuts.

They don’t just serve food — they serve values.

And yet, nothing about it feels self-righteous. The music is upbeat, the décor modern but cozy, and the service is warm without being overbearing. This is not a restaurant that tries to “convert” you — it simply invites you to enjoy.

Even the plates feel alive with colour, care, and confidence. It’s the kind of place where you look around the room and notice everyone smiling — not because they’re proud of eating vegan, but because the food just makes them happy.

Rethinking What “Vegan” Means

Let’s be honest — for years, veganism came with stereotypes. People imagined bland salads, overpriced smoothies, or a kind of moral superiority that made dining awkward. But that image is fading fast.

Plant-based eating has never been more accessible — or more delicious.

Science backs it, sustainability demands it, and chefs like Oliver are making it irresistible. Whether it’s about reducing one’s carbon footprint, avoiding GMOs, or simply choosing organic whole foods, the shift toward plant-based living is no longer fringe — it’s part of the modern food story.

And yet, as we sat at Plant Matter Kitchen over a RubyStack burger and that unforgettable Blue Delta Lemonade, the conversation didn’t turn to ethics or labels. It was about enjoyment. About comfort. About how good food brings people together.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t “vegan food.” It was just really good food. Period.

Food, Identity, and the Space Between

Food is never just about ingredients — it’s about identity.

As someone raised Sikh and Punjabi, I’ll be the first to admit: going fully vegan isn’t easy. There’s something deeply cultural about cha (tea with milk), paneer, lassi, and yes — good old cheese. These foods aren’t just sustenance; they’re ritual. They’re comfort, connection, and memory all wrapped into one bite.

So, no — I’m not ready to give up my morning chai or a late-night paneer tikka. I grew up with those flavours, and they’re a part of who I am.

But visiting Plant Matter Kitchen reminded me that being vegan — or even leaning that way — doesn’t have to mean giving up.

It can mean adding on.

Expanding what we enjoy.

Finding joy in new flavours while still honouring where we come from.

Maybe being vegan isn’t about perfection.
Maybe it’s about intention.

And if that intention includes a warm cup of coffee, a beet burger that makes you smile, and a team that serves with genuine care — then that’s a pretty good start.

📍 Plant Matter Kitchen
162 Wortley Road, London, Ontario
🌱 plantmatterkitchen.com

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Professionally, I started off 2025 by writing a piece for Baaz News, “Ontario’s First Sikh-Punjabi Long-Term Care Home Coming To Brampton,” which goes into Brampton getting its first Punjabi long-term care centre.

I had the privilege of working as a Digital Content Editor at Bell Media, producing and publishing video content for CTV News and CP24, writing live captions, and creating original thumbnails and social content.

Later, as a Communications & Social Media Associate with Next Campaign, I helped build digital presence, produce graphics and short-form videos, and support PR initiatives.

Both roles pushed me to adapt, collaborate, and show up consistently, even during fast-paced, high-pressure moments.

But 2025 wasn’t just about work—it was about giving back and showing up for my community.

I helped Khalsa Aid with their annual 5K run, contributed to Seva Spark Tank, a first-of-its-kind pitch competition for Sikhs, organized a Sahibzada Toy Drive, and supported Experience Sikhi with their Downtown Seva Initiative, handling media and outreach. Each experience reminded me that seva isn’t just about action—it’s about heart, connection, and presence.

On a personal level, this year has been about growth, reflection, and resilience. I’ve made new friends, learned valuable lessons, and embraced a growth mindset.

I’m learning to accept Waheguru’s hukam, including the grief I carry from losing my grandfather in October 2024, and to move forward on my own timeline. I’m learning to face challenges without overthinking, to be gentle with myself, and to trust that growth often comes in small, quiet steps.

As I step into 2026, I carry these lessons with me. I’m ready to work harder, laugh louder, and let go of what I cannot control. I choose growth, good energy, and showing up even on messy days. I choose gratitude, faith, and trust in the path laid out before me.

And I want to challenge anyone reading this to do the same: find one way this year to show up for your community, for yourself, and for the people who matter.

Take small steps, embrace growth, and trust the journey.

Onward and upward.

Happy New Year ✨🙏🏽

I’m Kuwarjeet Singh, and I’m excited to launch The Byline Singh — a podcast about identity, culture, ambition, and the quiet moments that shape how we live and think.

This podcast is a space for honest reflection, conversations that matter, and stories that often sit between the headlines. Some episodes will feature dialogues with individuals shaping their fields, while others will have me unpacking ideas, experiences, and perspectives drawn from my own life as a Sikh, journalist, and storyteller.

Expect discussions that are thoughtful, grounded, and occasionally candid. The Byline Singh isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about asking better questions, exploring nuance, and giving a platform to voices and ideas that often go unheard.

Episodes will be available on Sikh Journalist.

Whether you’re navigating your own identity, curious about the world, or just looking for a space to think aloud, this podcast is for you.

New year.

New voice.

New byline.

Welcome to The Byline Singh.

Every December, the Sikh community gathers in deep remembrance — honouring the Chaar Sahibzaade, the four young sons of Guru Gobind Singh Ji, whose courage in the face of unimaginable brutality became a guiding light for generations.

This year, as I revisit their history, I find myself thinking of another group of children: those spending their holidays in hospital beds at SickKids. Children fighting battles of their own — quiet, painful, exhausting ones — battles I know far too well.

December carries a particular weight for Sikhs. It is a month not only to remember sacrifice, but to reflect on the values that shape our lives: courage, faith, resilience, and Chardikala — the spirit of relentless optimism even in the face of suffering. The Sahibzaade teach us that courage has no age, that principles can outweigh fear, and that love for humanity can endure even in moments of tragedy.

It is this spirit that connects history to our present. Just as the Sahibzaade faced impossible trials with unshakable strength, children in hospitals today face battles few can fully understand — yet their courage shines just as brightly.

Growing up between two worlds

My journey with leukemia began as a child at the Post Graduate Institute of Medical Education & Research (PGI Chandigarh). I remember the first time I realized that needles, blood tests, and long hospital stays would define my life. Chemotherapy became routine — not just treatment, but the rhythm of my childhood.

It left me weak, nauseous, sometimes too tired to sit up. Yet I learned to find small victories in the smallest moments: a good blood count, a nurse’s smile, a short visit from home, a flicker of laughter. Steroids reshaped my body and my moods; radiation drained energy but brought hope — the faint promise that I could survive.

Days blurred together: machines beeping, fluorescent lights, endless bloodwork, waiting for results that could change everything. Fear became familiar. So did bravery.

But I was never alone.

My mom sat beside me through every needle, every scan, every long night. My dad watched over me quietly. My older sister slipped in between treatments with jokes, hugs, and the kind of love only a sibling can offer. My grandparents visited with the warmth only they could give.

After-treatment Therapy

After returning home from PGI, my grandfather became my quiet refuge. I slept beside him, enveloped in the rhythm of his breathing, the soft creak of his chair beside the bed. Even after long days caring for my great-grandfather, he stayed up with me — never rushing, never weary.

He shared his life as a 1947 Punjab Partition survivor, teaching resilience through stories of rebuilding, survival, and hope. But it wasn’t just his stories. It was the games.

Phabhi, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, chess, cards — these simple diversions became our playground. For a few hours, I wasn’t a patient hooked to IV poles. I was a kid laughing with my grandfather. Those moments stitched warmth into some of the coldest, most isolating nights of my life.

My grandpa passed away last October. I am now writing a memoir dedicated to him and my story, because some bonds deserve to live forever. His influence still guides me — and fuels my commitment to bring joy to children facing what I once faced.

Immigrant life in Canada and SickKids

After immigrating to Canada, SickKids became my new long-term medical home. Surviving cancer didn’t end with finishing treatment; it became a lifelong journey. Regular scans, blood tests, and check-ups reminded me that survivorship is not a single victory, but a process of patience, vigilance, and gratitude.

Over time, the hospital walls became familiar to me. I learned the rhythm of beeping monitors, the quiet hum of hallways, and the subtle gestures of care from nurses who knew exactly when to offer reassurance. Doctors explained treatments patiently; staff provided small comforts — a tucked blanket, a joke, a quiet word — that made the hardest days lighter.

Even as an adult attending follow-ups at a different hospital, I cannot forget the people who shaped my journey at SickKids. Their dedication taught me that hope is often quiet, consistent, and unwavering.

So when I see a child today at SickKids — anxious, tired, clinging to courage they shouldn’t have to summon alone — I see my younger self. I know the echo of the Sahibzaade: children facing unimaginable trials with unimaginable strength.

A Serendipitous Connection

They say the universe works in mysterious ways. Whether by chance or something greater, I found myself involved with the Sahibzaade Toy Drive.

A chance encounter on social media led me to connect with the organizer of the drive. I had met Guneet Kaur, a Khalsa Aid volunteer and healthcare professional, at a Khalsa Aid event. When she reached out, she was looking for someone to help manage the drive’s social media. Unknowingly, she tapped into my own personal connection to the cause. I accepted her invitation to help without hesitation.

Seva has always been part of my life. Helping this drive felt natural — to lend my voice, my skills, and my energy to bring joy to children in need.

Weeks into the project, during a Zoom call, a story was shared about a “Code Blue,” a hospital emergency. Her words — the urgency, the courage, the quiet humanity — transported me back to nights in hospital rooms, IVs in my arms, waiting for results that could change everything. The fear, the uncertainty, the exhaustion — it all came rushing back.

I decided to share my story with the team. And in that moment, having dived headfirst into this project without second thought, I realized how deeply my personal connection had become my driving force for this cause, and for these kids.

The universe had connected me perfectly. From that day on, volunteer work became personal, sacred, and deeply meaningful.

Every post, story, and campaign update became a way to honour the courage of children at SickKids, the lessons of the Sahibzaade, and the values that have carried me through life: resilience, compassion, and faith in the power of service.

The Sahibzaade Legacy

Guru Gobind Singh’s four sons, the Chaar Sahibzaade, showed the world that courage and determination have no age. Baba Ajit Singh Ji and Baba Jujhar Singh Ji rode into the Battle of Chamkaur Sahib, vastly outnumbered but fearless. Baba Zoravar Singh Ji and Baba Fateh Singh Ji, 9 and 7, refused wealth and safety in Sirhind, choosing faith and principles over life itself.

Their courage reminds us to hold our heads high in adversity, remain steadfast in our values, and extend warmth and hope to those who need it most. The Sahibzaade Toy Drive carries forward that spirit — turning remembrance into action, compassion into service, and history into hope for children navigating their own battles.

I remember my own hospital room clearly: small, muted walls, a tiny TV flickering in the corner, and an IV hooked to my arm. Hours stretched endlessly, but a toy, a book, or a small game transformed the space. It became a place where I could laugh, imagine, and still be a child.

That is why this Toy Drive matters — every child deserves that spark of joy, a momentary escape, and a reminder that they are still allowed to be kids.

If you can give, even a little, please give.

Donate a toy.

Share the campaign.

Tell a friend.

Spread the word.

Show a child fighting for their life that the world has not forgotten them.

A toy will not cure an illness. But a moment of joy can carry a child through some of their darkest hours.

🎁 Donate a NEW, unwrapped toy to any official drop-off location across the Greater Toronto Area.
📧 For high-value or bulk donations: sahibzaadatoydrive@gmail.com
💛 Follow the Toy Drive: @sahibzaadatoydrive

Together, we can carry forward the courage, compassion, and resilience of the Sahibzaade — turning remembrance into action, and history into hope.

Share your thoughts, tell your story, and join us in turning remembrance into action.

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People worldwide are standing up for their rights. In Gaza and the West Bank, activists protest against injustice. The Black Lives Matter movement continues to challenge systemic racism in North America and beyond. LGBTQ+ communities are demanding equality in cities from New York to Delhi, while farmers in India advocate for fair treatment and protection of their livelihoods.

Citizens in Myanmar, Belarus, and Sudan risk their lives to oppose authoritarian regimes. The global call for dignity, freedom, and justice is evident in climate strikes, Indigenous land defence, refugee rights advocacy, and anti-racism protests.

The phrase “human rights” feels timeless, yet it is a relatively recent linguistic invention. The vocabulary only entered common use in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and it assumed its full modern form after the Second World War. The turning point came in 1948, when the United Nations adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights — the first comprehensive effort to define dignity, equality, and freedom as universal entitlements belonging to all people. A Canadian, John Humphrey, played a pivotal role as its principal drafter, giving Canada a foundational place in the global human rights landscape.

This international movement profoundly shaped Canadian law. Over time, Canada ratified core UN human rights treaties — including the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. These commitments drove domestic reforms, culminating in 1982 with the adoption of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Beneath the Charter lies a network of federal, provincial, and territorial human rights codes that prohibit discrimination in housing, employment, services, and public life — together forming Canada’s modern architecture of rights protection.

Yet the story is far from perfect. Enslavement persisted in early Canada until the 1833 Abolition Act. Segregation, race-based immigration bans, and wartime internments targeted Black, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, German, Ukrainian, and South Asian communities. Women were denied full citizenship rights well into the twentieth century, and Indigenous peoples were stripped of land, culture, language, and autonomy through forced assimilation and the Indian Act.

The struggle for rights in Canada continues despite new legal protections, focusing on equal pay, disability justice, 2SLGBTQ+ rights, Indigenous sovereignty, language rights, and freedom from racial profiling. Human rights are often viewed as a “living tree,” constantly evolving and facing challenges. Courts balance free expression with hate speech, religious freedom with secular policies, and national security with civil liberties. International law further advances rights for Indigenous peoples, persons with disabilities, and those facing socio-economic barriers.

It is only by understanding this complex and often painful evolution that we can fully appreciate the brilliance of Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji’s example — a moral light from centuries earlier that continues to illuminate the path humanity still struggles to walk.

A Legacy of Courage Long Before “Human Rights” Had a Name

Today marks Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji’s Gurpurab — a day not only of remembrance, but deep reflection. He lived in a world with no constitutions, no international courts, and no legal protections for universal freedoms.

Yet he recognized and embodied principles that lie at the very core of today’s human rights discourse.

Historical records from Sikh and non‑Sikh sources reveal the context of his martyrdom. When Kashmiri Pandits faced persecution under Mughal rule, they travelled to Anandpur Sahib to seek his help — not for political support, but to defend their right to practise their faith freely. Contemporary Persian accounts, archival Bhat Vahis, and historians such as Fauja Singh and HR Gupta corroborate these events, confirming that Guru Ji stood firmly against forced conversion and oppression.

Imprisoned and ultimately executed by Aurangzeb, he remained unshaken. His courage demonstrated a truth we still struggle to live today: that the defence of human rights does not depend on legal systems — it depends on conscience. Even the jailer Khwaja Abdulla recognized his righteousness and assisted him, illustrating the deep reverence his moral clarity inspired across communities.

In 1675, Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji made an astonishing choice even by today’s standards: he offered his life to defend the rights of a community outside his own tradition. The Kashmiri Pandits were not Sikhs, nor his followers.

They had nothing material to offer. His stand was not strategic or sectarian — it was purely ethical. It declared, centuries ahead of its time, that the freedom of conscience is a universal human right.

Modern institutions describe this using legal vocabulary — freedom of religion, protection from coercion, minority rights, and inherent human dignity. But Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji needed no such frameworks.

He understood that harm to one community imperils justice for all. His martyrdom remains one of the earliest recorded instances in world history of a leader sacrificing himself not for his own people, but to protect the freedoms of others.

It is a moral clarity that today’s global human rights system often fails to meet.

If Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji Were Alive Today

If he were here now, he would recognize the power of today’s human rights tools — the Charter, UN treaties, international courts — yet he would also see their limits. He would remind us that laws are only as strong as the courage behind them.

He would urge Canada to confront the inequalities still faced by Indigenous peoples, refugees, religious minorities, and racialized communities.

He would speak out against forced assimilation anywhere in the world, condemn state‑sponsored oppression, and stand beside those persecuted for their beliefs — whether Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Jewish, atheist, or otherwise. He would defend the dignity of the marginalized who lack political influence. And he would insist on a universal ethic: rights must apply to everyone, especially those unlike ourselves.

His message remains the same as it was in 1675: principles mean nothing unless we act on them.

A Call to Action: Human Rights Today — Beyond Courts and Institutions

The modern world believes it invented human rights, yet Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji lived them long before they had a vocabulary. His life challenges us to do something that institutions alone cannot:

To build communities of courage that can withstand injustice, corruption, and modern forms of tyranny.

Human rights organizations, governments, and advocacy institutions today do important work — but many are underfunded, politicized, or influenced by those in power. Corruption, complacency, and bureaucratic caution often blunt their impact. Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji would remind us that justice cannot rely solely on institutions that are themselves vulnerable to pressure.

So what do we do?
We build strong, principled communities. We speak up when others are silent. We show up for groups facing discrimination even when we don’t belong to them. We educate, organize, protest peacefully, protect each other, and refuse to normalize injustice — whether it targets Indigenous land defenders, refugees at borders, religious minorities abroad, or racialized communities at home.

The Guru’s example teaches us that tyranny is never overthrown by institutions alone. It is overthrown when ordinary people unite across differences, grounded in conscience, courage, and a commitment to universal freedom.

The term “human rights” may be modern, but the spirit behind it is ancient. And few in human history embodied that spirit as profoundly as Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji.

On this Gurpurab, his legacy challenges us to move beyond admiration into action — to defend dignity wherever it is threatened, and to become the guardians of the rights we often take for granted.

Centuries ago, Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji sacrificed his life for the freedom of others and stood up against injustice, even when it wasn't directed at him. In light of this, what are we willing to risk today to defend the rights of those whose voices are silenced, whose freedoms are under threat, and whose dignity is denied again and again?

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Spend a few minutes browsing online, and it's clear: the internet is often louder, angrier, and more hostile than many recognize.

Outrage headlines.
Comment wars.
Troll armies.
Harassment.

For immigrants and marginalized communities, it’s a battlefield.

Research confirms what feels obvious: negativity spreads faster than positivity. A 2024 MIT Media Lab study found that posts carrying negative emotions travelled twice as fast as neutral content. Similarly, an analysis of over 100,000 headlines in Nature Human Behaviour revealed that every additional negative word increased click-through rates by 2.3 percent. Neutral, constructive, or positive voices are often drowned out.

Constant exposure to hostility isn’t just background noise; it affects mental health. Experiments show that hostile online comments increase anxiety and lower mood, particularly among younger adults. Algorithms may be neutral, but their consequences are very real.

For immigrants, online negativity is disproportionately directed. In Canada, the Dais “Survey of Online Harms 2024” found that 61 percent of White respondents reported seeing hate speech online, compared with 71 percent of visible minorities. For Middle Eastern respondents, exposure soared to 92 percent. Platforms, which could be lifelines for connection to family, culture, or diaspora networks, often function as spaces of hostility, forcing many immigrants to self-censor just to survive online.

Globally, platforms reward engagement — and outrage is the most profitable form. Anger drives clicks. Clicks feed algorithms. Algorithms amplify outrage further. Positive engagement rarely reaches the same visibility. The internet doesn’t merely reflect society; it magnifies its worst tendencies.

This hostility has intensified even as immigrants rise to visibility and power.

From the new mayor of New York City to a Sikh mayor breaking barriers in North America, immigrant leaders are shaping politics and public life. Yet with this visibility comes vulnerability.

Hate has escalated — from death threats and impersonation campaigns to misinformation and campaigns attempting to erase immigrant stories. For visible minorities with intersectional identities, harassment can be relentless, weaponizing race, religion, gender, and sexuality simultaneously.

This online hate mirrors recent real-world events. On September 13, 2025, anti-immigrant demonstrators attempted a “mass deportation” rally at Christie Pits Park in Toronto. According to TorontoToday, the participants were “surrounded by hundreds of counter-protesters” and ultimately “fled their initial meeting point,” outnumbered at least ten to one. Rally organizers claimed they were “putting Canadians first,” but experts noted that the term “remigration” in their messaging is “synonymous with ethnic cleansing,” according to Evan Balgord, executive director of the Canadian Anti-Hate Network (TorontoToday, 2025).

Even when anti-immigrant sentiment is framed as concern over crime or employment, evidence contradicts it. Immigrants are “much less involved in criminal activity than Canadian-born citizens,” and research from the American Immigration Council found that immigrants can actually strengthen public safety (TorontoToday, 2025). Yet fear and misinformation continue to fuel harassment both online and offline.

As a Sikh and a journalist, I see this directly. Anti-Indian and anti-Sikh hate is surging online, from memes mocking cultural practices to misinformation campaigns targeting entire communities. The Local reported videos circulating of immigrant-dense suburbs like Brampton, captioned “Is this Toronto or India?” and food-service workers labelled “Singh Hortons” (Bhandari, The Local, 2025). These narratives transform everyday life into a spectacle — hypervisible yet vilified.

Immigrant youth, students, and workers — many paying international tuition or contributing essential labour — are blamed for systemic issues like housing shortages, rising costs, or unemployment. The South Asian Legal Clinic of Ontario reported receiving calls from temporary residents experiencing racial slurs and threats while seeking housing or work (Bhandari, The Local, 2025). Social media amplifies these attacks without consequence: “Social media has allowed people to say pretty hateful things without any repercussions,” the clinic’s executive director, Shalini Konanur, told The Local (Bhandari, The Local, 2025).

Yet there is resilience. The thousands who counter-protested at Christie Pits show that public resistance can blunt hate in real-world spaces. Catherine Crockett, a counter-protester, said she was thrilled the demonstrators were “chased off,” adding, “I feel like we’ve achieved victory” (TorontoToday, 2025). These acts of solidarity remind us that while the online world amplifies hate, the offline world still allows communities to reclaim space and challenge injustice.

Solutions exist online, too. Platforms could provide transparency about hate-speech metrics, empower community-driven moderation, and design features that encourage positive engagement. Immigrants and minorities can curate feeds, mute toxic content, and seek safe spaces online — but structural change is essential to prevent harassment from being normalized.

The internet mirrors us in our loudest, angriest, and most ruthless moments. When we reward anger, anger dominates. When we reward empathy, understanding can flourish. For immigrants and marginalized communities, this is not theoretical — it is a daily reality.

Every post, comment, and share is a choice: contribute to the noise, or help build a digital and public world worth inhabiting.

I want to live in a country where immigrants are celebrated, not vilified. Where differences are a source of strength, not suspicion. Where our children can walk down the street or scroll online without fear of hate.

This isn’t just idealism — it’s a call to action.

Speak up against online harassment.

Stand in solidarity offline.

Vote for policies that protect newcomers.

Challenge misinformation when you see it.

Together, we can choose empathy over anger, connection over exclusion, and build a Canada — and a world — that is truly worthy of its people.

As the world celebrates Guru Nanak Dev Ji Gurpurab, we pause to reflect on the teachings of a spiritual leader who changed the course of history — not just for Sikhs, but for all humanity. Over five centuries ago, Guru Nanak Dev Ji preached a message of equality, compassion, courage, and unity.

Yet, in a time of social media overload, rising divisions, and global unrest, his words feel made for today.

Here are some timeless lessons from Guru Nanak Dev Ji that every one of us — especially this generation — can live by.

Langar: Equality in Action

Before hashtags like #EqualityForAll existed, Guru Nanak Dev Ji created Langar, a free community kitchen where everyone sits together and eats the same food — kings, farmers, women, the poor, the rich — no labels, no hierarchy.

In 2025, when privilege and status still divide people, Langar is the original social equalizer. It’s more than just food — it’s a mindset.
It reminds us that true spirituality isn’t about what we believe, but how we treat others.

Lesson for us: Don’t just talk about inclusion — live it. Invite people in. Share what you have. Serve without expecting anything back.

Speak Up Against Oppression

Guru Nanak Dev Ji didn’t stay silent when he saw injustice — whether it was social, political, or spiritual. He called out hypocrisy and stood up for truth, even when it meant challenging the most powerful.

In our world today, silence can often feel easier. But staying quiet in the face of wrong is not neutrality — it’s surrender. Whether it’s discrimination, inequality, or hate, Sikhi calls us to speak truth to power.

Lesson for us: Use your voice. Post with purpose. Stand for those who can’t. Be the generation that doesn’t look away.

Fearless Yet Humble

Guru Nanak Dev Ji embodied fearlessness with humility — a balance that’s rare but deeply needed. He never bowed to ego or power, yet his heart was filled with compassion for all.

In a world obsessed with clout, being humble is a quiet rebellion. True strength doesn’t roar — it serves.

Lesson for us: Be confident in truth, but carry it gently. Be brave enough to lead, humble enough to listen.

The Modern Takeaway

Celebrating Guru Nanak Dev Ji Gurpurab isn’t only about rituals — it’s about reflection and action. His message asks us to be changemakers:

• Serve selflessly, not selfishly.

• Speak out, don’t stand by.

• Be fearless, but never arrogant.

• See humanity as one family.

As we mark this Gurpurab, let’s make a promise — to live the values Guru Nanak Dev Ji taught, not just preach them. Volunteer at a Langar, stand up for equality, and spread kindness both online and offline.

“Naam Japo, Kirat Karo, Vand Chhako.”

Meditate on God’s Name, earn an honest living, and share what you have.

That’s not just ancient wisdom — that’s a blueprint for a better, kinder world today.

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The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) is one of the largest and most influential film festivals in the world. Every year, it brings together filmmakers, critics, and audiences from around the globe to celebrate cinema, premiere new films, and spark important conversations. TIFF isn’t just about movies — it’s about who gets to tell stories and whose voices are heard.

I initially attended TIFF for the first time in 2022 through the Media Inclusion Initiative. I was greenlit on air, excited, and chasing a film that meant something personal: Punjab ’95, the story of human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra. I never got to see it.

Back then, I thought I just missed the screening. This year, I understand why. Punjab ’95 didn’t just disappear — it was pulled and suppressed under pressure from the Indian government. The same government that doesn’t want the story of Khalra — a Sikh man who exposed the mass cremation of thousands of disappeared people in Punjab — to be told to audiences in India or abroad. His story challenges state power. So his story was censored.

This is why TIFF matters. Not just because it’s one of the biggest film festivals in the world, but because it becomes a battleground for who gets to be remembered, and who gets to be erased. As a Sikh journalist, standing in that space with a turban, beard, and mic — I’m not just asking questions about cinema. I’m bearing witness.

In 2023, I watched Dear Jassi, a powerful film about Jassi Sidhu, a young Punjabi Canadian woman murdered in an honour killing orchestrated by her own family after she married for love. Her story, too, had been long buried in silence, especially within diaspora communities. Watching that film in a TIFF theatre, surrounded by other South Asians — many quietly wiping their eyes in the dark — I felt something shift. These stories aren’t just films. They’re reckonings.

Now, heading into TIFF 2025 — my third year — I’ve been officially accredited with a Press Pass. That access means something. I’m no longer on the outside looking in. I’m not just lucky to be here. I’m here because I’ve earned my place. And I’m here to ask better, harder questions.

There’s a pride I carry walking into these spaces. A quiet confidence. The guy with the turban and the mic. You’ve probably seen me in line with a camera slung over my shoulder, or standing near the red carpet, asking someone about their latest performance, or who gets to own a story. I bring my full self into every room — not just my questions, but my context.

Because these aren’t just films to me. They’re political. Cultural. Diasporic. They’re linked to real people and real histories — stories that get erased unless we insist they stay visible. People like Jaswant Singh Khalra. Like Jassi Sidhu. Like the thousands of unnamed Sikh victims of state violence whose names are never in the credits.

I’m still learning, still writing, chasing films I may never get to see. Maybe I’ll never see Punjab ’95 the way it was meant to be seen. But I’ll keep showing up. And I’ll keep asking questions about what gets shown, what gets hidden, and who gets silenced in the process.

TIFF 50 is a milestone. But for me, it’s personal. I’m not just here to celebrate film — I’m here to push the conversation forward. For my people. For the stories that get pulled. For the ones we’re still brave enough to tell.

So if you see a guy with a turban, a beard, and a mic walking the TIFF red carpet this year, asking the questions no one else is — that’s me. Kuwarjeet Singh.

And I’m just getting started.

Baba Fauja Singh's story goes beyond just marathons; it embodies the essence of living with purpose. At the age of 114, his journey ended in the same place where it began—Beas village in Punjab—when a tragic road accident claimed his life. However, the legacy he left behind will resonate through generations, particularly for Sikhs and young people around the world who seek strength, identity, and meaning in an ever-changing world.

He wasn't always known as the Turbaned Tornado. Born in 1911, he was a fragile child who couldn’t walk until the age of five. People believed he was crippled, but he quietly worked on improving himself, took to farming, and led a simple life. There was no intention of seeking fame. It was the pain of life that propelled him toward greatness.

After losing both his wife and then his son, Fauja Singh turned to running in his late 80s—not to win medals, but to cope with his grief. From that point forward, he redefined what aging means, what endurance looks like, and how discipline and simplicity can carry a person through countries, milestones, and decades.

What made his story powerful wasn’t just that he ran marathons in his 90s and even at 100. It was that he carried his identity—his turban, his values, and his calm presence—with pride on every global platform he stepped onto. He didn’t need loud words or grand speeches; his silence carried more weight than most voices.

Young people today live in a world filled with distractions, and their sense of identity can often feel unclear. From Fauja Singh, they can learn that it is possible to stay rooted while still rising. Your past does not limit your potential, starting late does not mean you are beginning wrong, and physical strength is worthless without mental and emotional strength to support it.

In every race, he demonstrated that success comes not from competing with others, but from consistently pushing your own limits. He didn't seek fame; rather, his dedication, humility, and resilience made him a global figure. He proved that living with integrity can be transformative. He never took shortcuts, never boasted about his achievements, and never allowed success to change who he was.

His story illustrates a broader truth: your pain can become your strength if you harness it correctly. Fauja Singh ran not to flee from his loss but to honour it. His strides were dedicated to the memories of loved ones, his community, and the causes he believed in. He raised money for charity, fought against drug abuse, and helped remind people—both young and old—that your body can continue to move forward as long as your spirit remains strong.

For future generations, particularly Sikh youth, Fauja Singh serves as a powerful reminder that faith and modern life can coexist. It is possible to progress in the world while remaining true to your roots. You can wear your turban in stadiums, feature it on billboards, and carry the Olympic torch, all while earning respect, not despite your identity, but because you stay authentic to it.

Fauja Singh's life teaches us that it doesn't matter how quickly you begin or how far you've fallen behind. What truly matters is the direction you're facing and the courage it takes to take the next step forward.

The finish line didn’t define his journey; rather, it was shaped by the effort, values, and quiet strength he exhibited with each step. Although he may have departed from this world, his story now serves as an inspiration for the future.

He is no longer here to run. But the path he paved will guide countless others to stand up, start late, stay strong, and never stop moving.

“If it bleeds, it leads.”

Anyone who’s worked in news knows that phrase all too well. Headlines often lean dark—conflict, crisis, catastrophe—because that’s what grabs attention. However, for journalists, editors, and media professionals, this constant exposure to negativity can take a toll.

So how do you stay positive when your job—and the world—seem so negative?

As a Sikh journalist, I’ve grappled with this tension personally. The profession demands we face the worst of humanity every day, yet my faith teaches resilience, compassion, and hope even in hardship. Here’s how I navigate that balance.

1. Separate Reality from Narrative

The news focuses on the urgent, the shocking, the painful. But that’s a selective lens, not the full reality.

For every story of violence or disaster, countless acts of kindness, courage, and progress go unreported.

Sikhi reminds us to practice bibek—discernment.

This means not letting the headlines dictate how we see the world. It’s about choosing to acknowledge pain without losing sight of goodness.

The world is messy, but it is also full of light. Holding onto that balance keeps me grounded.

2. Don’t Internalize Every Story

We naturally empathize with the suffering we report on, but as journalists, we can’t carry every burden alone.

Sikh teachings of Hukam—accepting Divine Will—help me recognize the limits of my control. I can work to expose injustice and amplify truth, but I cannot fix everything.

This mindset allows me to care deeply without being crushed by despair. I permit myself to step back, meditate briefly—sometimes repeating Waheguru silently—and reset my emotional compass.

3. Find Meaning in Your Work

It’s easy to feel cynical when negativity dominates headlines.

But I remind myself that truthful journalism is a form of seva—selfless service. By telling stories that matter, we uphold Sikh values of justice and equality.

There are moments when a story sparks change or gives voice to the unheard, and those moments fuel my chardi kala, meaning rising spirits — also my spirit’s resilience. Staying connected to purpose makes the work more than just a job; it becomes a mission.

4. Balance Your Life Outside the Newsroom

The world can feel overwhelmingly heavy, so it’s critical to nurture yourself outside work. For me, that means spending time with loved ones, enjoying nature, and engaging in creative or spiritual practices.

Sikhi emphasizes the importance of the sangat—community—and that support system is vital.

When the news cycle drags me down, I lean on friends, family, and my faith community. This balanced life isn’t optional; it’s essential for staying positive.

5. Talk About It and Build Support

Burnout and emotional fatigue thrive in silence. Being open with colleagues and friends about what the work feels like has been a lifeline.

We share stories, vent frustrations, and encourage each other.

This honest communication is part of seva, too—serving each other by holding space and understanding. It’s a reminder we’re not alone in facing the world’s darkness.

Final Thought: Positivity as a Practice, Not a Feeling

The news is often negative, but positivity isn’t about ignoring that reality. It’s about choosing to be a light in the darkness, anchored by faith, purpose, and community.

Sikhism teaches us to live with chardi kala—an ever-rising spirit—even in adversity. For me, that means embracing the challenge, nurturing my spirit with Waheguru’s remembrance, and believing in the power of truth and compassion to change the world.

If you’re in the news, or just struggling with negativity around you, know this: staying positive is hard, but it’s also a powerful act of resistance. And it’s a practice we can cultivate every day.

Before Jaswant Singh Khalra was abducted and murdered in 1995 for uncovering the extrajudicial killings of thousands of Sikhs in Punjab, he shared a Punjabi folktale.

I’ve turned to that story many times when hope felt fragile, when truth was under siege, and when the night seemed too long. And I turned to it again in 2023, standing outside a theatre at the Toronto International Film Festival—waiting to see Punjab ’95.

The film never screened. Not because it wasn’t ready, but because it wasn’t allowed.

“There is an old tale about when the sun was first setting...” Khalra once said.
As the sun neared the horizon, light faded, and darkness crept in. People were afraid: Would this be the end of light? Would darkness rule forever?

But in a tiny hut, far across the land, a small lantern lifted its wick and said, “I challenge the darkness. In my small corner, I will not let it settle.”

One by one, others lifted their wicks. Lanterns glowed across the land. The darkness could not win.

Khalra didn’t just tell this story—he lived it. He exposed the mass disappearance and secret cremation of over 25,000 Sikhs during Punjab’s insurgency. For this, he was abducted in broad daylight. His body was never recovered. But his light refuses to go out.

In 2023, I travelled to TIFF with one purpose: to see Punjab ’95, a film that finally told Khalra’s story. It was officially selected. There was buzz. There was anticipation. But then, at the last minute, it vanished from the program. Quietly.

We later learned why: political pressure from the Indian government. TIFF, a major international festival, had been forced to step back. Even they were not immune.

The same pressure continues today. After making over 20 cuts demanded by Indian censors—including renaming the protagonist, deleting scenes about police atrocities, and removing references to the national flag—filmmakers were hit with 100 more cuts. The film, now in legal limbo, remains unreleased in India.

This is not an artistic debate. This is authoritarian fear. It’s not about sensitivity—it’s about silence.

And it’s working.

I still haven’t seen Punjab ’95. Not because it doesn’t exist, but because too many powers want it not to.

A Living Legacy: The Jaswant Singh Khalra Khalsa School

But darkness is not going unanswered. In Brampton, Ontario, a school is being built—brick by brick, value by value—around the spirit of Khalra’s message.

The Jaswant Singh Khalra Khalsa School, opening its doors in September 2025, is more than an academic institution—it’s a sanctuary of conscience. Named in honour of the man who stood against state violence with only truth as his shield, the school’s mission is to cultivate ethical, confident, and future-ready Sikh leaders.

“We challenge the darkness,” reads their founding ethos.
“If nothing else, then at least around ourselves—we will not let it settle.”

Here, education goes hand-in-hand with spiritual and cultural grounding. Students will engage in:

• Mandatory trilingual learning in Punjabi, English, and French

• Daily Path and Gurbani, alongside Kavishri, Tanti Saaj, Keertan & Shastar Vidhya

• AI and coding from Grade 3, proving modern education can go hand-in-hand with Sikh tradition

• A leadership development program rooted in Khalra’s legacy of integrity, courage, and service

And it’s not just about curriculum. It’s about identity. Pride. Dastar. Bana. Speaking the truth in public. These children are not just being taught to pass tests—they’re being raised to stand up, even when it costs something.

In The Valiant: Jaswant Singh Khalra, author Gurmeet Kaur captures the same message as Khalra’s lantern tale: justice begins with one person willing to speak.

That’s what this film was meant to do. And that’s what this moment calls us to do, too.

The question is not whether darkness will come. It always does.
The question is: what will we do when it does?

A CALL TO ACTION

• Demand an international, uncut release of Punjab ’95 — email distributors, tag festivals, and amplify the filmmakers' voices.

• Share this story. Share the folktale. Share the truth of Jaswant Singh Khalra.

• And if you work in media, education, or programming, consider hosting a private screening or teach-in to keep the light alive.

Let this be more than just a story remembered.
Let it be a spark passed on.

So now I ask you, just as Khalra asked us all:

How might you shine your light?
What will you do to challenge the darkness?