It is a strange morning indeed—the 31st of October. Here, where I live, it is Halloween. It is a day of costumed imaginings, yet marks a much deeper resonance in my heart. Today also holds layers of history, faith, pain, and resilience for the Sikh community. It is the 40th year since the Sikh Genocide of 1984, a wound that remains raw and vivid. Today is also Bandi Chor Divas, the Emancipation Day in Sikh history, and Diwali, the festival of light celebrated across the broader community. So I sit in silence and ask myself—what do I acknowledge? What do I celebrate? What do I remember?

Halloween and I share no bond. It is a day that stirs no familiarity, and the “rising of the dead” feels distant. Yet the notion of unseen presences persists differently today in the memories of those whose spirits walk with us, whose legacy pulses through our blood.

Bandi Chor Divas—the day of liberation. I reflect on Guru Harigobind Sahib, whose commitment to justice led him to secure the freedom of fifty-two political prisoners from the Gwalior Fort. I hold the light of that day close, yearning for the Sabad’s illumination within my heart and mind. It is a day to revere that reminds me of the courage and duty that lives on in Sikh hearts.

Diwali—the timeless triumph of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance. It is a day that belongs to all, embodying the universal values of humanity. I honor its presence today as a recognition of what it inspires in all of us.

Yet, my thoughts cannot stray far from the shadows of October 31st. The 1984 Sikh Genocide weighs heavily on my spirit. Why do tears come so freely? Why does my heart ache as if those fires still burn? I see the faces of those who looked like my grandfather, my father, my brothers, my uncles—those who wore the same faith in their eyes, those who dared to walk with dignity. I see my grandmother, my mother, my sisters, and my daughters in their strength, even as justice eludes them. And the tears flow still.

They wait yet stand undeterred, facing a state that betrays its promises of justice. I stand with them, in spirit and memory, for celebrating without remembering would be the most profound betrayal. I cannot celebrate because I remember so clearly; I cannot celebrate because their only fault was being Sikh. So I remember.

I remember Guru Nanak Sahib standing upon the mounds of the dead, recording the terror Babar’s armies inflicted. I remember Guru Arjan Sahib, who gave humanity a “treasure-anthology” and shattered the monopoly on Divine truth—who was seen as a threat to both religious and political power, who faced the State’s torture and became an eternal Offering.

I remember Guru Harigobind Sahib, unjustly imprisoned by Jahangir, sharing that prison with fifty-two political prisoners—his commitment to freedom was as fierce as his love for justice. I remember Guru Teghbahadar Sahib, who willingly gave his life and refused to abandon his convictions. When the Kashmiri Brahmins sought his protection from forced conversion by the State, he stood with them, becoming “srisati di chadar—the shield of humanity.”

I remember the young Sahibzade—Baba Fateh Singh, Baba Zoravar Singh, Baba Jujhar Singh, Baba Ajit Singh—those who, alongside countless others, refused to submit to oppressive State rule, immortalizing their spirit in the sands of Chamkaur in 1705.

So I ask myself, what is life if not lived with honor?

Unyielding Unity: The Sikh Pursuit of Justice

You cannot silence us.
You cannot break us.
You cannot divide us.
We are one.

You may jail us.
You may torture us.
You may kill us.
We will always rise.

We do not seek pity.
We do not seek mercy.
We do not seek revenge.
We seek justice.

We will deliver justice.
We will deliver it in our own way.
We will deliver it on our own terms.
We will deliver it without fail.

You cannot silence us.
You cannot break us.
You cannot divide us.
We are one.