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2024 marked the 40th anniversary of the Sikh Genocide, the Ghallughara (major genocidal campaign). At the 2024 Sidak summer program, all three tracks reflected on the history of 1984 and how its echoes continue reverberating into our present. In the Sikhi 201 track, we explored the implications of long-unaddressed grievances and deep, unhealed wounds. We considered our responsibilities to survivors and their families, as well as to the memory of those who are no longer with us. We also reflected on our relationship with Panjab, particularly as Sikhs in the diaspora.
One Sikhi 201 attendee, Amaneder Singh, brought a unique perspective as a Sikh, navigating both the diaspora and the in-spora. Singh, originally from Rajasthan and currently studying in Halifax, is also a poet and a two-time Sidak attendee. He read some of his beautiful, original Panjabi love poetry in his first year. This year, he shared an original poem about those who were "disappeared" (extrajudicially murdered) in Panjab and the enduring grief of their mothers, who still await closure. His poem deeply moved everyone in the room. Silence enveloped the space, tears flowed freely, and the collective grief was palpable. His words reminded us of the ongoing pain, the mothers who still mourn, and the urgent need for closure, documentation, rehabilitation, reconciliation, and justice.
We asked Amaneder if we could publish his work on SikhRI.org and his note about how he came to write it. Below is his note and the poem, Sabne Ik Din Bhul Hi Jana, in Panjabi.
Poet’s Note:
I wrote this one night after hearing a song that included an interview with a woman wandering courthouses in the aftermath of 1984 in search of her son. My own brother left Panjab in 2012 and never returned to India. My mother would often wake up in the middle of the night, consumed with worry and anticipation about his condition. I would try to reassure her, saying, “You have me—you don’t need to worry.” But she would reply, “I have one arm, but I have lost the other.” Eventually, she obtained a Canadian visa and went to visit him. She knows she can call him, even though he rarely answers. Still, she grieves his absence.
When I saw the woman in the interview, I realized she had no way to contact her son. These women who lost their sons cannot simply call them or check-in. All they can do is sit at gates or on doorsteps, consumed with deep worry and anticipation. They have no path forward—no phone numbers to call, no one to ask about their son’s whereabouts. Instead, they wander with photographs of their sons—their lost limbs—asking anyone who will listen, hoping for even a shred of information.
I think about this often. If my mother is this distraught over my brother, whose whereabouts she knows and who she can call, how must these women survive? My mother can visit my brother; she has some connection to him. Yet she still sits with so much worry.
Many people tell these mothers who have lost their sons not to worry that time will heal their pain. But that time never comes. Even if they were to learn that their sons had died, at least they would have some closure. Instead, they exist in limbo. These mothers feel as though the world is lying to them—that the truth will never be revealed and their search will never end.
In the poem, the security guard is the only one to ask this mother a question. And even then, his question is, “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you gone home?” There is no acknowledgment of her pain. There is no listening to her grief. It is as if these women are forced to wander like ghosts—forgotten, mourning sons without closure, without answers, without justice.
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