U.S. Sikhs Bear Brunt Of Backlash

When the first of the twin towers fell on September 11, Nijher Singh was at Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn. A surgical resident there, Singh and several other Maimonides doctors rushed to the scene of the disaster. Once there, he and four other doctors scavenged supplies from an abandoned ambulance, and by early afternoon they had set up the first triage center at ground zero, just in front of one of the collapsed towers. He also helped organize a makeshift morgue in the lobby of the American Express building.

"It was surreal," he says. "You saw ashes upon ashes, notes and papers everywhere. You could still smell the jet fuel. It was a very scary situation." Singh stayed until 2 a.m., mostly treating injured firefighters who had been pulled from the rubble. From there, he went back to the hospital, slept for an hour, and reported for his regular shift at 6 a.m.

The next day, Thursday, Nijher went out to run some errands near his apartment in midtown Manhattan; it was the first time he had gone out since the attacks. "Every person was staring at me," he says. "People were saying 'There goes one of them now.' Someone yelled 'Go back to your own country!'"

Nijher is an American citizen. He is also a Sikh. Like most Sikh men, he wears a long beard and a turban. Since September 11, Sikhs all over the country have become targets, seen by many as traitors who bear responsibility for the attacks. Last week in Mesa, Ariz, a Sikh gas station owner was shot to death by a man who told police he was tired of terrorists running wild. In California and Ohio, Sikh houses were firebombed.

The abuse angers Nijher, 29, a thin, gentle man who came to the U.S. from India when he was one year old, and grew up in upstate New York. "When I was working at the scene, not a single thing was said to me," he says in unaccented English. "Everyone was working for a united effort. The thought never crossed my mind that I'd be treated like that two days later. It’s a little disheartening."

Other groups, including Arabs, Pakistanis, non-Sikh Indians, and Muslims have also been threatened and harassed since the attacks. But many Sikhs say they have been singled out most; they blame their resemblance to the suspected perpetrator, Osama bin Laden, who also has a flowing beard and wears a turban. "The picture of Osama bin Laden is constantly being flashed on TV sets," says Prabhjot Singh, director of the United Sikhs In Service of America (USSA), a prominent Sikh organization. Ironically, he says, Sikhs here look more like bin Laden than most Muslims do.

Sikhism is not connected to Islam. Started 500 years ago in India as a tolerant alternative to Hindu and Muslim fanaticism, it is an explicitly pluralistic religion, drawing on the teachings of other religions for its doctrines. Because Sikhs see hair as a symbol of spirituality, they don’t cut their locks or beards. To protect this sacred symbol, they wear turbans.

Were it not so terrifying, this cse of mistaken identity might be absurdly funny, says Dimple Kaur, the director of technology for an Internet company in lower Manhattan. Unlike most Sikh women, Kaur, 27, chooses to wear a turban; Last week, she was confronted on the subway by an man yelling that "f***ing Arabs are killing our people."

According to USSA, which is tracking the backlash, since September 11, there have been more than 200 anti-Sikh assaults, ranging from sidewalk confrontations to the Mesa murder. That number doesn't include the countless unreported incidents of spitting, rudeness and dirty looks. "I don't think that there's anybody I know who's identifiable as a Sikh who hasn't encountered some sort of harassment," says Deesh Deepak Singh (To promote a sense of unity, all Sikh men have the same last name; Singh means "lion" in Punjabi.) "It's been ubiquitous. A lot of people assume there's a connection between us and the perpetrators of this crime." Last weekend, Deesh, who recently graduated from Columbia University, was driving in Queens when a group of men in another car spit at him, chased him, and tried to run him off the road.

Among U.S. Sikhs, the backlash has produced widespread fear. Many have all but closeted themselves since September 11. "Obviously you're scared," says Nijher, who says he has been keeping a low profile. "When I drive home I know everybody is staring at me, and I worry that one of those guys is gonna go psycho. You're in a constant state of fear."

Before September 11, Rangit Singh often walked to work; he now drives. "I don't want that somebody should spit on me. It will ruin my day," says Rangit, who owns three gas stations on Long Island just east of New York City. Last weekend, he was part of a Sikh group that gave $3,500 worth of supplies to the rescue effort. While driving to drop off the donations in Queens, he was followed by a van, whose occupants began screaming at him. The van was also going to the donation center. There, Rangit explained that he was not a bin Laden backer but a Sikh; the screamers apologized.

A half million Sikhs live in the United States. Most came after 1984, hoping to escape persecution and sectarian violence in India. "We came to the U.S. because we thought it was safe," says Amarjit Singh, an American Sikh religious leader based in Washington. "And now being targeted again here – it is a feeling like homeless people. There is a feeling in the Sikh community of being very unsafe."

About 50,000 Sikhs live in the New York area, more than a third of them in Richmond Hill, a quiet residential neighborhood in Queens. Dotted with Indian restaurants and markets, the area has previously been a safe haven for Sikhs. But even there, they have suffered. Last week, for example, a 66-year-old Sikh man named Attar Singh was attacked with a baseball bat by a group of youths. The assault occurred less than a block from one of New York’s largest Sikh temples.

In response to the backlash, some ikh groups have tried to publicize their religion and proclaim their patriotism. Prabhjot's group set up a Web site to explain Sikhism; Amarjit has appeared on local radio shows around the country. In New York and Washington, Sikh taxi drivers have started giving out brochures on the religion to passengers.

In response to the harassment, some Sikhs have tried hard to differentiate their religion from Islam. But others criticize this approach. As do many Sikhs, Dimple Kaur takes pains to point out that she is not trying to shift the anger to Muslims, the overwhelming majority of whom have nothing to do with the attack and do not support it. "It shouldn't be done to anybody," she says. "As Sikhs we're against all injustice. Its not that we’re trying to save our own butts and let innocent Muslims get attacked."

Many Sikhs prefer instead to emphasize their patriotism. "We want to say that we are Americans, every inch, every centimeter, every smallest unit," says Amarjit, who spent the weekend in Mesa, with the family of the murdered man. "A good number of us are now second-generation Americans. Their mother tongue is English. They love this country and they will die for this country if need be. Even to think on these lines that we are something separate from this country, it is wrong."

Amarjit is optimistic that the rage against Sikhs will not last; he compares it to a tornado.

But Prabjhot is not so sure.

"This," he says somberly, "is going to be a long road."

BY DAVID KOHN
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