The other day, I had lunch with a Sikh friend. We sat across from each other at a modest table, plates fragrant with spice and steam, and the conversation quickly turned from naan and dal to something more nourishing: the nature of Sikhism.

Now, I’ll admit, I had studied Sikhism before—skimmed through books, listened to podcasts, even read a few academic articles. But what I had was textbook knowledge: neat, sanitized, and a bit lifeless. What I encountered at lunch was something different. It reminded me of a principle we too often forget: to truly understand, you must ask—and then listen.

So I did. I told him what I thought I knew: temples, turbans, and the small sword Sikhs carry—the kirpan. He nodded. “Yes, that’s true,” he said. “But those are the surface. Sikhism, like Christianity, is about belief in one God, and about equality, dignity, and human rights. It’s not just what we wear or carry. It’s what we embody.”

Then I asked him a question I hadn’t dared ask before: What’s the story behind the sword?

He leaned in, and his tone shifted from casual to serious. “Back in April 1699, Guru Gobind Singh called Sikhs to arm themselves. Not to conquer, but to defend. At that time, Muslims were forcibly converting Sikhs on pain of death. Guru Gobind Singh said no more. He instituted the Khalsa—an order committed to justice, bravery, and self-defense.”

He spoke of martial arts, discipline, spiritual courage. And I listened—not just with my ears, but with my framework slowly dismantling and reshaping itself.

Side Bar

Let’s pause here and zoom out: this is the power of asking sincere questions. Not questions as tests, not questions as traps—but questions born from wonder. What I learned in that lunch wasn’t just history—it was embodiment. As Simon Sinek might say, I moved from knowing “what” to knowing “why.”

You can study a thing and still not understand it. Until you ask the people who live it. This kind of learning is ancient. In the Greek agora, in the Roman forum, in the English “penny universities” of coffeehouses past, conversation—curious, messy, and human—was the classroom. Questions were currency. Listening was scholarship.

You might say, “But can’t I just read the best books?” Sure. But let me put it this way: reading about the Force is not the same as being trained by Yoda in the swamps of Dagobah. And as Data learned in Star Trek: The Next Generation, knowing what humor is doesn’t mean you can tell a good joke. Practice and presence matter. And the stories—the real stories—often only come out when someone feels your question is safe enough to answer.

In The Goonies, there’s a deleted scene where a red octopus attacks the kids as they escape the ship Inferno. The scene was cut, but referenced cryptically in the final film When data commented on the “scary octopus”. To the casual viewer, it’s a mystery. To those who ask, a hidden narrative emerges. Real life is like that too: what’s not obvious might be the most important part. But you only find it by asking.

So ask. Then shut up and listen. There’s more treasure buried in another person’s experience than in a whole semester of lectures. And if you don’t dig—you’ll never find anything.

The Sikh Guru who made a significant decree in 1699 was Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh Guru. On April 14, 1699, during the festival of Vaisakhi, he established the Khalsa, a distinct Sikh warrior community. This marked a pivotal moment in Sikh history, as he introduced the Khalsa initiation ceremony, known as Amrit Sanchar, and gave Sikhs their unique identity with the Five K’s (Kesh, Kangha, Kara, Kachera, and Kirpan). Guru Gobind Singh’s decree was aimed at instilling courage, morality, and unity among Sikhs, preparing them to stand against oppression and injustice. His leadership transformed Sikhism into a more structured and resilient faith. – CoPilot

The Warrior’s Heart: Strength Beyond the Surface

As our conversation drifted from the origins of the kirpan to the deeper cultural threads of Sikhism, my friend—let’s call him Mr. Singh—shared something that caught me off guard in the best way: “Even women can be warriors in Sikhism,” he said. “I’m actually encouraging my daughter to consider the U.S. military. Maybe even one of the academies.”

That single statement cut through a tangle of unspoken assumptions. Not just about religion or gender roles—but about what it means to carry strength, and how tradition can empower rather than confine.

I asked him, genuinely curious, “Is your daughter religious?” I remembered, vaguely, that the last time I visited his home, she had mentioned going to the temple.

He shrugged and smiled. “I’m not religious. Neither is she. The temple is more like a community center. Like a Jewish community center. Sure, there’s a place to pray, but it’s also where people gather, eat, serve, socialize. It’s where the culture lives.”

It clicked into place. She had worn a turban that day—a style she had told me was more masculine. At the time, I had assumed it was purely religious. But now, knowing more, I realized it was also cultural, functional, and in its own way, expressive.

“It’s practical in martial arts,” Mr. Singh explained. “The long hair, wrapped and held by the turban, absorbs impact. Helps keep your head safe.”

A crown and a helmet. Faith, fashion, and physics braided into one.

And then came a moment that stopped me mid-bite.

“Sikhism,” he said, “is actually very American.”

Now that’s not a sentence you hear every day. But he wasn’t being ironic.

He spoke of the edict by Guru Gobind Singh in April of 1699—not just a spiritual reform, but a revolutionary call to arms. “The right to bear arms? That started with us. It was about standing up to tyranny. Defending the innocent. It’s not about power. It’s about responsibility.”

And suddenly, the steel bracelet—the kara—wasn’t just jewelry. It was a parry, a counter, a loop of resolve around the wrist. The small sword—the kirpan—wasn’t for attack, but for presence. A reminder: be ready. Be strong. Be just.

You might say this sounds a lot like the American frontier spirit. Or like something from a Marvel origin story. A bit of Captain America. A touch of Wonder Woman. A whole lot of quiet discipline.

But here’s the twist: neither he nor his daughter are particularly religious. And yet, the cultural practices, the symbols, the values—they endure. Not as empty rituals, but as lived expressions of identity.

Some might call that cultural inertia. But I see something else: a reminder that values can outlast belief, and that even when we stop naming something sacred, it doesn’t mean it’s stopped being real.

It makes you think, doesn’t it? About how much of what we call “ours” we’ve never actually questioned. About how someone outside your faith, your country, or your comfort zone might be living out values you thought were uniquely your own.

And you only find that out by asking. And listening. And asking again.

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The formation of the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh in 1699 was, in part, a response to religious persecution, including forced conversions under the Mughal rule. The Mughal emperor Aurangzeb had imposed strict Islamic policies, leading to the persecution of non-Muslims, including Sikhs and Hindus. Guru Gobind Singh’s father, Guru Tegh Bahadur, was executed in 1675 for resisting forced conversions, which deeply influenced Guru Gobind Singh’s resolve to protect religious freedom. By establishing the Khalsa, Guru Gobind Singh created a community of warrior-saints who were committed to defending justice, equality, and the right to practice one’s faith freely. The Khalsa was designed to empower Sikhs to stand against oppression and tyranny, ensuring that they would never be forced to abandon their beliefs. – CoPilot

The Right to Stand Tall

At one point, Mr. Singh suggested—half with pride, half in jest—that maybe Americans got the idea of the right to bear arms from the Sikhs. I raised an eyebrow. I’m not sure about that one.

But factually, he’s not far off in spirit. Guru Gobind Singh’s edict in 1699, calling Sikhs to arm themselves against religious persecution, predates the American Second Amendment by nearly a century. Whether or not the Founders were reading Sikh scripture (and they almost certainly weren’t), the resonance is striking: a commitment to self-determination, to standing against tyranny, to the moral weight of defense rather than conquest.

We came from different worlds, my friend and I—different foods, holidays, theologies. And yet in this shared value, I understood why Sikhs love America. It isn’t just about opportunity. It’s about alignment of ideals: liberty, equality, responsibility.

That kind of convergence doesn’t require shared ancestry. Just shared conviction.

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The Five Ks are five articles of faith that Khalsa Sikhs wear at all times, as established by Guru Gobind Singh in 1699. They symbolize commitment, discipline, and devotion to Sikhism. Here’s what they are:

• Kesh (Uncut Hair) – Sikhs keep their hair unshorn as a sign of respect for God’s creation and as a symbol of spiritual strength.
• Kangha (Wooden Comb) – A comb used to keep the hair clean and tidy, symbolizing cleanliness and order.
• Kara (Steel Bracelet) – A circular steel bracelet worn on the wrist, representing restraint, unity, and the eternal nature of God.
• Kachhera (Cotton Undergarment) – A specific style of undergarment that signifies modesty and self-discipline.
• Kirpan (Ceremonial Sword) – A small sword or dagger that represents courage, self-defense, and the duty to protect the weak.

These Five Ks are not just symbols but articles of faith that define Sikh identity and commitment to the Sikh way of life.

Agape and Seva Across Traditions

As our conversation wove deeper into the roots of Sikhism, Mr. Singh offered a reflection that lingered in my mind long after lunch had ended: “Christians and Sikhs have more in common than most people realize—especially when it comes to how we treat women.”

In much of the Indian subcontinent and the Middle East, patriarchy often runs deep, and the idea of gender equality can still be a radical proposition. “But Sikhism,” he said, “has always rejected that.” Then he quoted Guru Nanak, the founder of Sikhism:

“Why call her inferior, who gives birth to kings?”

That line could easily be stitched into the fabric of the Christian New Testament. Think of Mary, the teenage girl entrusted with the incarnation of God Himself. Or the early Christian communities where women supported the apostles and led house churches, even as surrounding cultures diminished them. In Sikhism, as in Christianity at its best, womanhood is honored, not hidden.

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” – Galatians 3:28 (NIV)

I admitted that while this value might be rare in some regions, Israel is an exception—another society where women’s rights are recognized and defended. But what mattered more than geography was the underlying vision: a human being is not defined by caste, class, or gender, but by their dignity.

This brought us to the Langar—the community kitchen found in every gurdwara (Sikh temple). Regardless of background, status, or belief, everyone sits together on the floor and shares the same simple meal. It’s not just food—it’s a spiritual statement: no one is higher, no one is lower. It reminded me of Jesus breaking bread with tax collectors and outcasts, or the early Christians sharing meals “with glad and sincere hearts” (Acts 2:46), erasing distinctions between slave and free, Jew and Gentile.

Then Mr. Singh brought up Seva—selfless service. In Sikhism, serving the poor, defending the weak, and standing against injustice are not optional extras; they are sacred duties. Christianity, too, is rooted in this ethic. James calls it “pure religion” to care for widows and orphans. Jesus washed the feet of His disciples and said, “Go and do likewise.” Both faiths honor not the throne, but the towel.

As he described these principles—justice, compassion, dignity—I found myself thinking of the Greek word agape, the unconditional, sacrificial love that forms the core of Christian ethics. Sikhism’s emphasis on forgiveness, on mercy, on choosing service over status—it felt so familiar. Not because it was borrowed, but because truth has a way of echoing across cultures.

We both believe in defending those who cannot defend themselves. We both believe that service is greater than pride. We both believe that love should be active—not just felt, but lived.

And maybe that’s why so many Sikhs love America. Not because it’s perfect, but because at its best, it echoes these very same values: liberty with responsibility, community with compassion, strength tempered by justice.

Different languages. Different stories. But the same music playing underneath.

When We Fail to See Our Reflection

As our conversation unfolded, a quiet sadness welled up in me—not because of anything Mr. Singh said, but because I knew how rare such a conversation really is. And how often it’s missed.

Too many Americans, I fear, respond to cultures they don’t understand not with curiosity, but with suspicion. Bigotry narrows the soul. It blinds us to the possibility that someone very different from us might actually share our deepest values—or might even embody them more faithfully than we do.

I remembered, painfully, the days after 9/11. In a wave of grief and fear, some Americans lashed out—not at terrorists, but at anyone they perceived as “other.” I still recall news reports of Sikhs being attacked, their turbans and beards making them targets for those who couldn’t tell the difference between a Sikh and a Muslim—let alone a Muslim and an extremist.

It wasn’t just ignorance. It was prejudice—the fatal assumption that entire groups can be summed up, judged, and punished as a monolith.

But here’s the irony that breaks my heart: Sikhs, like Christians, value agape—that sacrificial, redemptive love that knows no bounds. And agape has no room for bigotry. None.

When we let prejudice rule, we don’t just do violence to others—we rob ourselves. We lose the opportunity to meet someone whose story might challenge us, enrich us, maybe even heal something in us. We turn away from a mirror that might have shown us our better self.

Prejudice is the opposite of listening. It is the death of questions. And without questions, there is no learning. Only fear.

Some might say, “But people are scared. They lash out.” True. But fear doesn’t excuse ignorance—it demands we confront it. Fear should be the beginning of curiosity, not its end.

Sitting across from Mr. Singh, listening to him speak about Seva, justice, dignity, I saw not a threat—but a brother. Not a stranger, but a fellow traveler. And I thought how much poorer our nation becomes every time we let prejudice close a door that could have opened into friendship, understanding, even alliance.

America, at its best, has always been a tapestry—a Langar of its own, where the seat next to you might be filled by someone from across the globe, sharing the same bread and hoping for the same future.

But for that to happen, we have to ask. And we have to listen.

Even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then.

One Table, Two Traditions

Lunch was winding down, but my mind was still spinning with questions I didn’t have time to ask. There’s something about a good conversation—one where both people come with open hands and open hearts—that leaves you not with final answers, but with better questions. And I had plenty.

What was already clear, though, was how deeply Mr. Singh loved the United States. Not blindly or naively, but with eyes wide open. He saw America not just as a place of opportunity, but as a land where his values—and those of Sikhism—could thrive. I get it now. For him, America isn’t just compatible with his faith; it amplifies it.

And then something clicked. I remembered reading a story not long ago:

“Pfc. Jaskirat Singh becomes the first Sikh Marine to graduate boot camp with his articles of faith.”

Turban. Beard. Steel bracelet. Discipline. Loyalty. Courage.

Two warrior traditions—Sikh and Marine—bound together in one body, one oath, one act of service.

At the time, I thought, That’s awesome.

Now I think: That’s profound.

Because in that moment, we didn’t just allow a religious exception. We affirmed a resonance—the recognition that strength doesn’t come from uniformity, but from shared conviction. From a commitment to defend, to serve, to uphold dignity and justice, even when it looks different from the tradition we’re used to.

It reminded me of something else Mr. Singh said—something easy to miss but impossible to forget: Sikhism is about standing for those who cannot stand for themselves.

That’s a Marine ideal, too. And a Christian one. And an American one.

The more I learn, the more I see: when we allow space for sincere expressions of identity—when we invite others to bring the fullness of who they are—we don’t dilute our culture. We enrich it.

A Final Reflection

As I left lunch that day, I kept thinking: how many stories like Mr. Singh’s go unheard—not because people aren’t speaking, but because we aren’t asking? Or worse, because we think we already know?

In a world that rushes toward easy answers and tribal reflexes, real understanding requires discipline—the discipline to listen. To sit down, to be curious without being defensive, to hear someone else’s story on their terms, not yours. That’s not just politeness. It’s moral work.

It would have been easy for me to file Sikhism away in a mental folder labeled “Other.” But instead, over plates of curry and conversation, I saw something else: a tradition marked by justice, dignity, self-sacrifice, equality—and yes, love. Not a soft love, but a strong one. A love that acts. The kind Christians call agape. The kind that refuses to leave the vulnerable behind.

And in that recognition, something shifted. I didn’t just learn about Sikhism. I saw in it a reflection of values I already hold dear—and, honestly, a challenge to live them more consistently.

Some might scoff. “So what? You had a nice lunch and learned something.” But it’s more than that. Because the world is changed not just in grand revolutions, but in conversations. In asking. In listening. In seeing someone you thought was other and realizing… they’re not.

In Mr. Singh, I saw a patriot and a practitioner of peace. In his daughter, the next generation of leaders who know that warrior spirit can come wrapped in tradition—and driven by compassion. In a Sikh Marine, I saw what America can be when we get it right: not a melting pot, but a mosaic. Not erased differences, but celebrated strength-in-diversity.

And in myself? I saw how much I still have to learn—and how beautiful that is.

So ask the question.

• Not because you’re owed an answer, but because the question itself is a gift.
• Not to confirm what you already believe, but to expand the shape of your world.
• Ask, listen, learn.
• That’s how we grow.
• That’s how we love.
• That’s how we live.

Excerpt

Over lunch with a Sikh friend, I discovered how much deeper understanding goes when we ask questions and truly listen. Beyond symbols lie shared values—justice, dignity, and love in action. In a divided world, conversation may be the most radical act of unity we can still choose.

Reference

“Pfc. Jaskirat Singh becomes the first Sikh Marine to graduate boot camp with his articles of faith.” https://americanmilitarynews.com/2023/08/marine-who-sued-corps-for-turban-beard-graduates-basic-training/