A Poem By Sikh Girl On Cultural Issues For Sikhs In Canada

[yubacitysingh]

http://mistakesingh.blogspot.com/2006/03/sikh-reality-toronto-perspective.html

Sikh Reality - The Toronto Perspective

Indo- Canadian Reality

BY PUNEET PARHAR

WINNER-YOUTH CATEGORY

I grew up with, played with, studied with, partied with, rebelled with, snuck out with, lied with, sympathized with, adolescented with,

will go to university with, gain my reputation with, acquire professional power with, get married with, have children with, gossip with, then as now, with,

the confused minds of my Indo-Canadian generation,

who, dressed in bright orange, pink, yellow, green, full length Indian suits, played cabbage patch doll at family parties, in front of uncles and aunties, serving spicy tea and playing coy during the day.

who, dressed in the latest backless, braless, bright, Parasuco tops and curvy leather mini skirts, unleashed their wild inner Barbie girls at night, swaying, displaying,

who, at 18, has known since days spent playing with little pink dolls, that she must be at once an intelligent, ambitious engineering student at MIT and a head bowing, tea serving, dinner making, husband pleasing, child rearing, incarnation of Aishwariya Rai herself, that goddess of Bollywood movies and fantasies of sexually charged adolescent males and their lost-in-the-clouds mothers,

who spend countless hours raging, pleading, fighting, and engaging in futile efforts to convince parents, descendants of an ancient civilization which bore dance masters, painting gurus, philosophic geniuses, famous poets, which invented the arts, to let them pursue dreams to paint, to act, to write

who must resign themselves to ties, stethoscopes, briefcases, careers, doctors, lawyers, engineers, which strangle, choke, suffocate them,

who are told to be MEN, not to cry, but never to argue, never to stand up to their fathers, never to disobey their mothers,

who go to McDonald�s with friends, but can eat nothing, no meat, no hamburgers, no fries fried in the oil which fries the meat,

who leave the house to party with friends at 8 p.m. but must be home for curfew at 9:30 p.m.

who, shopping at Square One with their mothers, forbidden from tight fitting clothes, doomed to outfits two sizes too big, smuggle in tank tops low waist jeans strapless bras stuffed inside textbooks hidden at the bottom of bags disguised as gifts for friends

who live out their romances at Central, Streetsville, Meadowvale libraries, cell phones in hand, meeting the boys in BMWs, decked out in Ecko, Phatfarm, Nike, making excuses to their scolding mothers, sighing at the relief when the phone finally clicks, another two hours before the next phone call, the next lie,

who, Khandas hanging from their necks, claiming Sikh pride, their bulging mothers dragging them to the temple by the ear, whip out their cell phones in the lobby, smoke their cigarettes in the back, holler at the good Sikh girls they�ll be meeting later at 108, or Calypso or Berlin in Brampton,

who sit at family parties bearing the scrutiny of potential mothers in law who pinch arms to check for fat while shoving snack after snack, meal after meal in their faces, mistaking girls with short haircuts for boys,

who chase after Indian girls, looking up skirts, slapping tight asse*, pimping, macking, harassing, but refusing to respect, refusing to take home, refusing to marry,

who, brimming with anger beat the white kids, the white cops, the way their drunken fathers beat them,

who are given scotch on their fifth birthday, pass out drunkenly on the porch at family gatherings, crash brand new Mercedes-Benz every three months,

who, after countless stabbings backups shootings run ins with cracked beer bottles take pride in the scars running down their backs along their arms across their cheeks, continuing the violence, the same scars stripped across their fathers� bodies as if they were born branded, Sikh, Punjabi, fists for life this life that life the one before it the one after it,

who are ill fated to marry only Indians, only Punjabis, only Sikhs,

who must give up their Chinese girlfriends black boyfriends for husbands scanned versions of their fathers for wives printed versions of their mothers after one date one meeting one engagement ceremony,

who are linked, fianceed, married off, by caveparents who sit night after night at the computer, on the web, searching through arranged marriage personals advertising daughters as slim almond eyed quiet obedient excellent cooks,

who hate each other, he said she said they did oh my god did you see the gossip insecurity oho aha Monika Deol Much VJ <banned word filter activated> drag her down back down all the way down,

who, turbaned marked with Sikh pride know nothing of gurus eternal truths religious principles misunderstood cut their hair throw away turbans pick up diamond studded playboy bunnies,

who live Bollywood lives only two characters; Singhs, translation: lions, constantly growling fighting, proving staking out territory Brampton crew Malton boys Rexdale thugs ignored by rejected by eventually married off to Kaurs meaning: princess,

who wish all people Blacks Whites Chinese were Indians just like them Arabs Persians Pakistanis all the same as us all Brown

who, singin bling blingin drive Lexuses, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzs, operate out of 100,000 square foot homes, life is money money is life spirituality what deeper meanings what callings what love what cash yes cheques yes diamonds YES!

who, failures the legacy of the American dream parents who slaved day and night, counted every penny sacrificied fun life spending for children a better life better education high class jobs, 21 years old still in high school no pencils no books no grades failures

who never reach adulthood in their parents eyes, remain children incapable of picking their own clothes, their own husbands, their own homes, even at 37 years of age incapable of making their own decisions,

who, Im sorry to say Ill grow old with, have children with, continue the cycle with, sorry for you, sorry for me, sorry for them, confusion, confusion, confusion.

Sikh Punjabi

My name is Puneet Parhar. I am an 18-year-old student currently attending Clarkson Secondary School. I wrote this poem after being introduced to Allen Ginsbergs Howl. This is my Howl.

[yubacitysingh]

Hersh Auntie

by PUNEET PARHAR

Hersh Auntie is telling us a parable about our relationship with God.

"To entice your beloved, you must disengage yourself from all those distracting things; Porsches, diamonds, big houses, dollar bills", she says. "How can you entice your beloved if you are bogged down with material things?"

With no gurdwara, or Sikh temple, here in Kingston (Ontario, Canada), Hersh Auntie's home in the suburbs serves as a house of worship for the Sikh students at Queen's University who come here every week to listen, learn and pray.

After the paath, we gather around the table for a meal of rice, roti, and curried chickpeas. The conversation is in English, and all kinds of questions are raised: "What does Sikhism say about gay marriages?" "How do we feel about inter-religious marriage?" "What about the caste system?"

Hersh Auntie suggests answers, but she stresses the importance of doing your research for yourself. "You must learn for yourselves", she tells us. "Do not let anyone fool you with their interpretations of the Gurus' teachings".

Back in my hometown of Mississauga, the Dixie Road Gurdwara sits alone amidst the Ontario fields, gleaming like a gem, its imposing golden roof strung with Christmas lights lit up all year round. In the background stand a gas station and the headquarters of a trucking company, and behind them, suburban homes.

In the foyer of the gurdwara, row upon row of shoes - sparkly heels, pumps, Pumas and snowboots - crowd the hallway. Further inside is the langar area, where barefooted Sikhs from all over Ontario congregate and chat in Punjabi, share a meal sitting next to one another on the floor, and swap business contacts, gossip, and information about India and relatives back home as well as in other parts of the diaspora, all the while keeping their heads covered.

Sundays here mean we have to cover our heads with dupattas to avoid the babas - the caretakers - who are constantly on the prowl, ready to pounce on any young person whose head scarf doesn't hold up throughout the paath service.

Sundays also mean yanking from the back of our minds those sacred pearls, the Punjabi words which have become dusty during the schoolweek. One must be able to understand Punjabi to understand paath, to speak to our elders, and to communicate with our community.

Stepping into the gurdwara space is like stepping across a threshold which divides Sikh culture from the world outside. It functions much like a mini-homeland for Sikh immigrants.

"The gurdwara is being used as a community centre, a place for the older generation to conducts its social affairs", says San Grewal, a writer of Sikh descent at the Toronto Star. Except for the odd whispers of kids asking their parents for donation money, wanting an extra roti but too shy to request it in Punjabi themselves, or wondering when they're going home, little or no English is spoken here.

Says one Sikh father: "Parents take their kids to the gurdwara to be closer to the culture, to give them a flavour of the culture not available to them anywhere else".

My friend Sunny sits alone in silence in the gurdwara - that is, when he attends, which is rarely.

"I go once every couple of months or so, usually on my own", Sunny says. "Usually because it's a special event, New Year's or something like that. If I go on my own, I'm only there for like ten minutes". I sometimes wonder what Sunny's visits to the gurdwara must feel like. Most men who forego wearing the turban abide by the protocol with the help of a kerchief tied bandanna-style round their heads.

But Sunny, a fourth-year business major at Ryerson University, wears a ponytail. Not the kind he can tie up in a turban like his father or grandfather at home in Mississauga, both of whom are fully-practicing Sikhs who have kept their kesh.

Sunny wears his hair more like Johnny Depp or Antonio Banderas. An oddity in the gurdwara. Works at Holt Renfrew - it shows in his "high style" - and parties hard on weekends.

Sunny is silent in the gurdwara because he does not speak Punjabi. "I mean, there are many times I feel the urge to go", he says, "but it's like when I'm there, I can't really talk to anybody or converse with anyone. And I barely understand what's going on".

"It is the silence that isolates", explains Dr. I.J. Singh, a prominent writer on Sikh identity issues currently facing Sikh youth in the diaspora. He points out how silence defines the relationship between our parents' generation and the younger generation.

But he says this is not the Sikh way. "The Gurus taught by dialogue and discussion", he says. "It was a horizontal dialogue. In a horizontal dialogue, each side listens to the other; an answer is not thrust down the throat of the seeker, but the questioning mind derives the answer that satisfies it. This is the Sikh way".

For Rup Kaur Dhaliwal, a lawyer and founding member of Queen's Sikh Students Association, Sikhism is like a forward-moving path. "Every Sikh is at a different point on the spectrum", she says. One moves forward by asking questions and gaining new knowledge, which can only happen through a reciprocal dialogue with those in the know.

Dhaliwal, who was raised in Calgary, explains how she has successfully managed to overcome the obstacles that block many youth from constructing an ongoing relationship with Sikhism.

"My parents never forced us to do paath", she says. "But I had a lot of friends who did paath hardcore and who were heavily involved in the gurdwara - that's how I got involved. It used to take me an hour and a half and I used to get frustrated, but you need to make it a personal mission and goal and embrace Sikhism yourself. Now it only takes me ten to fifteen minutes".

She recognizes that kids like herself, who will take such an endeavour upon themselves, are few and far between. "Many of our youth need mentors [and] that's why I got involved. We try to get kids who don't speak Punjabi, who don't do paath, who don't normally go to the gurdwara".

A lack of horizontal dialogue is not the only thing that comes between young Sikhs and their traditional culture.

Take Manu.

When we met in high school, Manu was the only kid at Clarkson Secondary who kept his hair long and guarded in a turban. He let it out once in the cafe and all the girls crowded around to touch it. We used to have discussions about Sikh principles in algebra class.

One day, in grade 11, Manu slouched into school with a shaved head and a (fake) diamond-studded Playboy bunny around his neck. He was tired of being different, of being marked as an outsider because of his hair. It wasn't that Manu needed help in connecting to his religion. He speaks Punjabi fluently - he used to tease me in Punjabi in class. When I ask Manu about paath, he tells me: "I don't even go anymore, what's the point with all that <banned word filter activated> on the walls".

When Manu used to go to the gurdwara, he would see the fresh young faces of boys like himself - young guys who have kept their kesh - plastered all over the walls. Their pictures are hung with care near those of the Gurus, captioned neatly by statements written in Punjabi lettering which, roughly translated, read that these men have died in this or that conflict with Indian police and have performed their duties for the Sikh religion.

I googled some of their names and learnt that most of them belong to an organization that has been outlawed and labeled terrorist by the Canadian government. Their faces are plastered all over the media, especially with the recent frenzy around the Air India bombing trials. And they look just like Manu: none of these males are older than thirty years of age and all of them were raised in either Canada, the U.S., the U.K., or Australia.

Young men like Manu face enough with the pressure to date and be attractive to girls who prefer the mainstream ideal. Add to this the fearsome image that is projected onto them in the media and their daily lives, and the pressure to sever their ties to their religion - along with their long hair - seems insurmountable.

Manu has already turned away from his religion. And Sunny is in danger of losing his bond with Sikhism if something doesn't happen soon to connect him with his faith. Rup points out that "the next generation of Sikhs are not picking up the religion. It's like a filter, the next generation knows less and less. If we, who at the least still have our parents, don't learn and promote the Sikh religion here in Canada, how are our kids going to know anything?"

And yet, back in the room with Hersh Auntie, as we listen to her tell us that "as Sikhs we must look for the same pure vibration in others that exists in all of us", it becomes clear to me at least that there is something about our religion that transcends culture and circumstance, that is worth hanging onto at all costs.

On the drive back to Queen's, Dill, one of the young men in the room with Hersh Auntie, tells me: "Back home in Brampton, I went occasionally to the gurdwara with my parents; didn't understand anything, the only thing I knew was that listening to paath made me feel calm. It wasn't until I came to Queen's that I learnt anything about my religion. It's visiting Hersh Auntie that keeps me sane in this university".

[SikhWorldTv]

Stunning top marks to the writer - A real sad snap shot of a Lost Sikh Generation that could be taken from anywhere globally

[yubacitysingh]

Stunning top marks to the writer - A real sad snap shot of a Lost Sikh Generation that could be taken from anywhere globally

i don't think we lost the generation yet i believe this generation still has a hunger for sikh knowledge