Part 1/3 : My Father’s Keeper
“They’re killing us, the city is under attack, we need to do something!,” my father’s best friend panted. He had furiously biked over from the neighboring village to warn my father, and in the sweltering Punjab summer, the young men pondered their next move.
“The factory.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Burn it. We’ll burn it down. They can’t ignore us then.”
…
These harrowing moments took place on June 4th, 1984, in a small village outside of Amritsar, a historically and spiritually significant city in Punjab. My father, 20 years old at the time, bore witness to the devastation of his city and his people. At the time, there was a media blackout where citizens all over Punjab were in the vise grip of the army and were not allowed to leave their cities, let alone communicate with one another. The egregious attacks on Sikhs by the Indian government came shortly afterwards, and the ensuing brutality has become a defining scar on the face of Punjab’s intergenerational trauma.
On June 1st, 1984, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, acting on a media frenzy accusing Sikhs of harboring terrorists, ordered an armed military and central reserve police force to surround the Harminder Sahib Complex. In the days to follow, they relentlessly laid siege to Sikhi’s holiest place with machine guns and cannons. An estimated 12,000 Sikhs, including my paternal grandfather, were in the complex during the attacks. He had gone to say prayers in homage to our second Guru, and instead spent his day hiding behind a pillar, narrowly avoiding slaughter.
…
I slipped on my Nike slides and caught up to my father, who was hurrying out the door for his evening walk. The breeze was crisp against my skin, and the setting sun left the sky a canvas of red, pink and orange. I stuck my hands in my pockets as we walked in our quiet neighborhood, leaves crunching under our feet. Initiating conversation with him could be nerve wracking, as he had never been one to engage in small talks or unproductive conversations. If he did speak, he would choose his words carefully, and with conviction and significance. My favorite question to ask was, “Papa, what do you miss about your life in Punjab?” Oftentimes the answer was about farming, the joy of watching crops thrive, and how he and his brother collaborated to triple their family income by the use of innovative farming techniques. He wistfully spoke about how those ancestral lands were gifts from his grandfathers and their labor. On other, graver evenings, he would talk about his friends and relatives, some of whom he lost in ’84. One day, he spoke about visiting the Harminder Sahib complex on June 19th, 13 days after the army had taken away the corpses in a halfhearted attempt to clean the blood of all the victims they had murdered.
“The silence was deafening. The few that were there were quiet. A place I had come to for salvation and comfort was a graveyard. Blood was splattered on the walls and bullets were still strewn across the floor. The air was pungent with death. No one was praying. Even God was silent that day.”
…
But when was the inception of Punjab’s plight? History has shown us that the greatest atrocities are often a series of choices — moments of stolen agency and white lies for the “greater good.” Prior to Indian Independence, under British rule, India suffered famines that killed millions. Shortly after the revolution, Lal Bahadur Shastri–the prime minister of India– promoted the Green Revolution in 1965. International media misled farmers to believe that the Green Revolution was a series of technologically advanced policies that called on them to serve their country, and public relations officials coined the slogan “Jai Jewan, Jai Kisan” (Hail the soldier, Hail the farmer.) Farmers from Punjab and Haryana were summoned to mass produce crops and protect their people, in the spirit of seva (servitude) and selflessness.
By the early 1970’s, farmers were aware of their dire predicament. The prohibitive costs of the Green Revolution were now evident, and as farmers’ income decreased, the cost of farming increased. The cost of buying water and suitable equipment far outweighed profits, and in turn, the farmers wanted fair pricing for their resources. Those bold enough to make public pleas were immediately labeled as religiously-motivated separatists. Baseless claims spread like wildfire to delegitimize farmers’ demands and sow discord between Sikhs and Hindus. Tensions grew and as the media continued demonizing Sikhs, they were now labeled as terrorists, separatists, and troublemakers for the grave offense of demanding rights and representation. Many were prosecuted and punished for protesting, and often faced the same charges and punishments as those who conspired against the Indian nation and those who committed mutiny.
The subsequent killing of Indira Gandhi by her two Sikh bodyguards instigated pogroms in cities all over India. Hindu nationalist mobs hunted innocent Sikh men and women. In the streets of Delhi, Sikh women were gang raped while their fathers and brothers were forced to watch. Their screams of agony echoed through the darkest corridors of the cities, matched only by their own families’ humiliation at being unable to protect them. Sikh men were dragged from their homes, brutally beaten, tortured and killed. Although many had turned their backs on Sikhs, some Hindu and Muslim allies hid survivors in their homes, while others worked to get them to refugee camps in the city. However, the wounds of loss and grief scarred the hearts of so many, who often had nowhere to turn after the destruction of their families and homes. In the months to follow, Sardaars cut their hair out of fear and bit by bit, collective Sikh identity began to disintegrate. Those who chose to keep their hair long and advocate publicly paid the price. Regardless of individual choices, suffering became our people’s communal, intergenerational burden.
The 1984 Sikh genocide was the cataclysmic outcome of decades of religious persecution and class oppression. To this day, there is no official number that accounts for the dead. The small amounts of personal stories and census data that the Sikh community has preserved suggests the number of casualties ranged anywhere from 25,000 to 250,000 Sikhs. The Indian government continues to deny all accounts of genocide and there are still no resources, reparations, or national acknowledgement.
It is vital the general public understands the history of oppression Sikhs have endured for decades, as the single greatest tool of fascism is to pretend that nothing ever happened. The Indian government’s erasure of data and accounts have been carried out strategically to maintain the pretense of being a “democracy”. This censorship has prevented substantial literary publications from publishing data and serving as a reference for anti-Sikh atrocities.
Sikhs have been at the forefront of radical activism for equity and social justice for centuries. When protesting the Green Revolution, Sikhs were not only advocating for themselves, but also for farmers in the Punjab and Haryana region– regardless of faith or caste. The Sikh faith was founded in these principles, and the rejection of gender inequity and violent casteism is rooted in principles of seva and activism. Later on in the 20th century, the Ghadar party was founded by Punjabi Sikh revolutionaries as an international movement to overthrow the British Raj in India. These incredible pioneers eventually settled and organized on the West Coast of the United States, and are credited with planting the roots of South Asian American activism in the diaspora.
The current fight for farmers’ rights is not one that is exclusive to Punjabi Sikhs. Notably, the movement and general strike are to protest laws which were imposed on Indian farmers of all faiths and regions. Unfortunately, history repeats itself. The media is once again vilifying Sikhs in the media and conflating peaceful protests with unjustified violence. Famous Bollywood stars are sharing memes lampooning Sikhs as illiterate and simple-minded. The wheels of history turn creakily along, always predictable and always devastating. However, I have hope. Our resistance is, and always has been, rooted in compassion and empathy for farmers from all over India. It is rooted in a fierce loyalty to our descendants, and an unshakable belief in their right to a dignified life. It is rooted in our faith. Our discipline. Our strength. And most importantly, our devotion to fairness.
Acknowledgements:
First and foremost, I would like to express my deep and sincere gratitude to my father. The man who has raised me and been my strongest link to my heritage and faith. To say he is an inspiration in my life is a vast understatement. Being raised by a knowledgeable and curious individual with firmly held moral values has allowed me to continuously learn about various marginalized communities and advocate for social and economic justice. Secondly, I would like to thank my dear friend, Chinmayee Balachandra. Her unwavering support and encouragement has allowed me to speak up and recognize my own voice as a powerful tool for advocacy. This piece of writing could not have been completed without her edits and guidance. Her proficiency in history regarding a multitude of cultures and countries serves as motivation to continuously gain an understanding of what has been, what is, and what will be.
Written by: Mehtab Kaur Bhinder
Edited by: Chinmayee Balachandra
