Love Binds Us All
It was September 11, 2023. I was on a business trip for Harbor Freight Tools, flying from San Jose, California, to Love Field Airport in Dallas, Texas. It was a cool morning in the bay, and the security line was a breeze. I chatted with some fellow Sikh men in the queue who were flying to Los Angeles. Soon after, at 5:46 AM PST, an announcement came over the intercom, asking passengers to observe a minute silence in memory of the first responders who died on September 11, 2001.
Some of us stood up for that silence, which stretched beyond 60 seconds. Shivers ran through my body, and I felt my eyes moisten. That silence transported me back in time.
It was a crisp Michigan morning twenty-two years ago; Scattered larch leaves lay on the ground as if signaling what was to come. My supervisor, Kim, and I had just finished our early morning ritual of replacing trash liners, sweeping walkways, and tidying up building entrances before the students of Western Michigan University arrived on campus.
Around 8 AM, I went to my apartment nearby to grab some tea and breakfast. It was there, on live TV, that I watched the horrendous attacks of 9/11 unfold, a moment that would shape the trajectory of my life and the lives of many in the Sikh community.
In the aftermath, America grasped the importance of understanding what had transpired. Fueled by the media’s insensitivity and ignorance about Sikhs, my religion became a lightning rod for backlash and hate.
After graduating from Western Michigan University, I moved to New York City a few months later to start my professional journey. Slurs, intimidation, and public profiling became the everyday norm, creating a haze of overbearing hatred. As I felt the delicate siege of winter, it seemed as if I would never again see spring. Callous name-calling in public squares hurt me the most, especially when it was from a person of color. I often mustered courage and told them, Brother, I don’t expect that from you.
I had to watch my back, but working in New York City during that time was also a window into the resilient American core. Despite hatred, random acts of kindness towards me and the larger Sikh community began to grow. People from all walks of life visited our house of worship (Gurdwara) to show their solidarity toward us. This human acknowledgment and kindness from colleagues and friends helped keep my path nourished with much-needed warmth and bloom.
The Sikh belief in the oneness of life and universal brotherhood gave our community the hope to carve out a message of love and resilience. An obscure minority like us muscled up advocacy to reach the national scale. I found it absurd that, as humans, we have to speak, yell, and often cry out loud to tell our fellow man to treat us with respect and dignity.
In 2023, my Californian circadian rhythm eagerly grabbed breakfast to silence my hunger. I bought a toasted bagel and hot tea, as I often did when I worked for a year in the Upper East Side of New York City. After enjoying the crunchy bagel, I boarded my flight. With each step in the hollow jetway, it felt like I was finding light at the end of a dark tunnel. In reality, I greeted the crew at the entrance to the plane and requested a selfie.
When the plane taxied, Southwest Love signs were present everywhere, and I knew this was no ordinary flight for me. My epiphany to be present and acknowledge my vulnerabilities when faced with adversity has changed my life forever. Ink, creative expression, and gratitude are my companions for good. I know no matter which way the wind blows, the light within us is bound by Love.
I have no courage to sigh
when the wounds are in the sky.
The ash has silenced my joy.
In the hardened clay,
I preserve my voice.
When all I do is seclude pain,
my healing is in vain.
My tears are lead-heavy and soul-weary.
To rise—
I unfold my fists and collapse the space
between my hands,
humming, *dear buoyant love in the air,*
grace me with bliss and stride.