My Third Year at the Toronto International Film Festival

My journey at TIFF reflects the importance of telling stories that often go unheard.

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.