My life in a turban

Tuesday, Sep 11, 2012: Hate appeared early in my life before I even knew it had a name. It poured in from the television screen, from strangers on the street who made jokes or compared me to cartoon characters, based on nothing but my turban, the sign of my Sikh faith. It wasn’t enough to rankle the normal rhythm of life, but it was a recognizable pattern. It rose into my conscience slowly, like a capillary action.

By the time I had put a name to this, I had already succumbed under its weight.

It began in New Delhi, India, where I moved from Washington, D.C., with my family in early adolescence. I grew up watching Bollywood movies, where Sikhs like me were always punch lines of the jokes. In 1984, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was shot dead by two Sikh bodyguards, and for the next few days the country erupted in mayhem. Sikhs were hunted down and burned alive. Anyone with a turban and beard was suspect. There were prying eyes on our apartment balcony and a mob seeking revenge on our blood. We survived the carnage, but up to 10,000 people were reduced to ashes. Going out into the streets for the first time after that was the strangest of feelings. The eyes staring at me said, “We let you live, so be thankful.”

But shockingly, my people moved on. We Sikhs are a resourceful lot. Within weeks, schools and shops and spiritual centers owned by Sikhs were back in business. No commemorations would take place in the coming months or years. The newspapers called it a riot and the name has stuck. I left India and headed back to the United States for school, a place that I hoped might be more tolerant.

After high school, I tried to get a retail job in Los Angeles, but it was a long losing battle. From 7-11, Taco Bell, McDonald’s to all local and national chains the answer was always, “Thank you for your application. We will call you back.” Out on the streets young and old would pass me by and burst into laughter. Clown and genie were the most common insults. Nine gestational months passed by without work.

When I arrived at Ohio State University, I became just one more in a sea of students. My bright blue turban still made me the center of attention, but I was more like an exotic specimen. It was a relief. But then the first Iraq war began. Now that our armed forces were engaged in battle with a Middle Eastern foe, my turban became a visual cue of global strife. Disregard the fact that Sikhs are from Punjab, an area uninvolved in the global conflict. Turbans reminded Americans of Iran, which had been the perpetrator of a hostage crisis led by a turbaned cleric named Khomeini. Disregard the fact that Iran and Iraq were arch-enemies. Or that one was Arab, another Persian. It was all semantics for most Americans. The turban not worn by any of the Iraqi forces was to be battled on the streets of America. I got my call to arms shortly, when a few fellow Americans beckoned me, “Go back home.”