Racists can’t hide the fact that Sikhs fight for Britain

On Wednesday in central London, I held my phone up to photograph a group of Sikh men in original First World War British military uniforms, muskets held high, mustard turbans and sashes as neat and proper as their beards. The 1914 Sikhs are a ceremonial marching group comprising military and civilian volunteers set up to commemorate those soldiers who lost their lives fighting for Britain in the First World War.

Watching British Sikhs marching out, I felt a sense of pride and belonging that I haven’t had for quite some time. I love this country, where I have lived my whole life. But the past has met the present in other, more awful ways recently.

Last month, two men raped a Sikh woman in Oldbury while racially abusing her. And earlier this week, a man was charged with raping another Sikh woman in Walsall in another "racially aggravated" assault. Gurdwaras, the place where Sikhs come together for congregational worship, are ramping up their security, installing iron gates and hiring security guards, because people are scared.

Imagine how it feels, as a British Sikh and a woman, to read this kind of news. In towns such as West Drayton, where I live, I see flags plastered everywhere – what once felt like local pride now feels like a statement about who belongs and who doesn’t. When I exercise in my Asian Women Run T-shirt, I’ve had men glare at me, mutter slurs, and even shout “P***” from their cars. I’ve changed my running routes. I avoid eye contact. Really, I hardly go out. I shouldn’t have to live like this. Nobody should.

I’m not the only person who feels like something has shifted. The justice secretary, David Lammy, wrote in this paper this week that “in Britain today, we can all feel a sense of division tugging away at the seams of our society”. He said “flagrant racism” has returned to this country, after Sarah Pochin, the Reform MP, said there were too many Black and Asian faces in adverts. Lammy also recalled his British childhood and the skinheads who roamed the streets and people who spat on him – and this was just for being who we are.

When I was growing up, one of our neighbours used to call my family racist names. They egged my car and cut down our plants, throwing them outside our front door. They even superglued the passenger door of my car. When my dad went out walking, people made cruel remarks about his turban – eventually, he cut his hair to get a job.

Dad once told me how much of himself he lost trying to fit in, so that he could earn a living and avoid conflict because he had a family to protect. It breaks my heart that, all these years later, I’m going through something so similar. As I said, past meets present.

As a British Sikh, I’m proud of my identity. I love my faith, my culture, and the values of compassion and service it teaches. But right now, I feel constant anxiety for my elderly parents, for myself, for my friends. It’s exhausting. That’s not what living in the UK should mean in 2025.

Racism isolates, silences, and breaks people from within. The country I grew up in felt welcoming and hopeful. I believed in it. But it feels different now – colder, harsher, less tolerant. I don’t feel like I belong any more.

Those boys in their uniforms reminded me of another story about Sikhs in Britain. When the Sam Mendes film 1917 came out a few years ago, the disgraced actor Laurence Fox referred to “the oddness in the casting” of Nabhaan Rizwan as a Sikh soldier, calling Rizwan’s character “incongruous”. He knew exactly who he was appealing to when he made that remark, but it was also historically daft given how many Sikhs fought in that conflict.

One in six soldiers fighting for Britain in the First World War came from India (that includes Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus). This was greater in number than the better-known contribution of Australia, New Zealand and Canadian armed forces. More remarkably, at the outbreak of hostilities of the Great War, Sikhs made up nearly 20 per cent of the British Indian Army, despite being only 1 per cent of the population of undivided India at the time.

Doesn’t this just show you how memory fades faster than prejudice? Because, for generations, we, too, have called this place home.