1장
Finding Light in the Darkest Corners
What if our most challenging moments could become our greatest teachers? In "The Light We Give," Simran Jeet Singh-a turbaned Sikh man raised in Texas-transforms his experiences of racism and discrimination into profound wisdom about compassion, connection, and joy. This groundbreaking work has resonated with readers across cultural boundaries, earning praise from spiritual leaders like Deepak Chopra and social activists like Van Jones. Through personal stories and timeless Sikh teachings, Singh offers a revolutionary approach to finding happiness amid hardship. As Arianna Huffington noted, this book "shows us how to live with more love and less fear," making it essential reading for anyone seeking to navigate our increasingly divided world with grace and purpose.
2장
Navigating Identity in a World That Misunderstands You
Growing up as a turbaned Sikh in Texas presented unique challenges. When I was eleven, a soccer referee demanded to pat down my turban, calling me a "little terrorist." Though I complied out of pragmatism, I seethed with anger for weeks. Less than a year later, when a basketball teammate yanked off my turban and joked about bombs, I bloodied his nose before teammates separated us. These incidents revealed our limited responses to anger: fight or flight. Neither addresses problems sufficiently or brings satisfaction.
My family's journey to America began when my father arrived in 1974 for graduate school with just $11 in his pocket. My mother joined him after their marriage in 1980, and I was born in San Antonio the same year anti-Sikh violence erupted in India. Though we lived comfortably in Texas, we faced regular discrimination. People constantly told us to "go back" to India-ironically a place where Sikhs face persecution and where I haven't returned in over a decade due to police harassment during research for my PhD.
Our neighborhood was quintessentially American-we played basketball with the Mieras boys, football in our backyard, and video games at the Washingtons' house. Despite seeing ourselves as typical American boys, we knew others didn't see us the same way. Some encounters were innocent curiosity, but others were painful-being forced to play the "princess" in preschool because of my long hair, being pushed from boys' bathrooms, hearing fans yell to "knock that towel off the point guard's head."
My mother proactively addressed ignorance by giving presentations at our schools about Punjabi and Sikh culture. Though I felt ambivalent about these presentations, I now recognize them as immigrants' efforts to assuage xenophobia-essentially saying, "Please don't fear us or harm us. We're really very nice."
As we grew older, my brothers and I developed witty responses to racist comments. We even made games of it, like showing up at new basketball courts pretending to be foreign, then stunning everyone with our skills. Having each other made the isolation of being hated bearable. Our friends, teachers and coaches also supported us, creating networks that would prove crucial during my senior year when our country was shaken by the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.
3장
When the World Changed: Finding Strength After 9/11
Standing in Mrs. Strong's social studies classroom, we watched the Twin Towers fall in shocked silence. My heart sank further when television networks showed pictures of Osama bin Laden-the brown skin, long beard, and white turban. I trusted my friends knew I had no connection to bin Laden, but I knew most Americans wouldn't be so informed.
Within hours, my mother arrived to take us home. For the first time ever, she locked our front door behind us. That same day, we received our first death threats. When I answered the phone, an angry voice shouted slurs until I hung up breathless. My brothers and I agreed not to worry our mother, but she intercepted a call during dinner and called the police.
In the weeks following 9/11, we witnessed two sides of America: continued threats alongside overwhelming support from neighbors, classmates, and even strangers who brought food, flowers, and encouragement. My parents pointed out that there was far more love than hate in the world. Though initially rattled, I soon realized the empty threats weren't what concerned me most-it was seeing communities nationwide devastated by racist backlash with limited protection.
Hate violence surged against anyone perceived to be linked with the perpetrators. The Sikh community recorded approximately ten attacks daily. Even Sikh doctor Navinder, who rushed to help at Ground Zero, faced racist slurs the next day. Balbir Singh Sodhi became the first post-9/11 hate crime casualty when he was murdered at his gas station in Arizona.
This intensified bigotry revealed how far we still had to go. Our family joined nightly conference calls with Sikh activists nationwide to share information and develop response strategies. I realized then that ignoring or deflecting hate wasn't enough-I needed to confront it proactively. This wasn't just moral responsibility but survival. I moved from being non-racist to anti-racist, embracing discomfort and challenging racism whenever I encountered it. At seventeen, I became the author of my own life rather than a passive observer.
4장
Searching for Belonging in New Spaces
During my college years, I began to truly engage with my faith tradition, challenging my assumptions through honest introspection. I realized I had internalized others' expectations about what religion should address, like the afterlife and divine punishment. When I cleared these biases, I discovered Sikhi's beautiful focus on the present moment rather than speculation about what happens after death. The tradition emphasizes living ethically now, serving others, and finding joy in everyday existence - principles that resonated deeply with my evolving worldview.
My interest in religion and race was further fueled by post-9/11 racism, which exposed how quickly fear can transform into hatred. I immersed myself in books and courses on these topics, discovering that American racism has deep religious roots: religion historically enabled colonization through the Doctrine of Discovery, which gave European Christian explorers divine authority to claim "discovered" lands. Christianity has been weaponized to uphold white supremacy through selective biblical interpretation and religious institutions, and continues to affect how religious minorities are perceived and treated in everything from media representation to workplace discrimination.
When I moved to Boston for graduate school at Harvard, I naively hoped I might leave racism behind in a progressive, educated environment. But even in new spaces celebrated for their diversity and intellectualism, I faced the same challenges, sometimes more subtly, sometimes more overtly. During my first Boston Marathon, young boys chased me throwing rocks and yelling, "Taliban! Taliban!" - their parents watching silently nearby. In another marathon, a volunteer refused to serve me water, calling me "a filthy Muslim," leaving me dehydrated for miles. Later, a spectator shouted to runners ahead of me: "Run faster! That guy from ISIS is chasing you." The crowd laughed, and not a single person called out his racism, their silence becoming complicity.
This is life as a Sikh in America-a constant interplay between being visibly distinct, triggering people's fears and racism, while simultaneously being rendered invisible when it comes to inclusion and belonging. Both experiences are dehumanizing, like being a ghost that people see through until someone's fear makes you noticeable. We become hypervisible in moments of prejudice but invisible in conversations about diversity and representation. This paradoxical position is shared with every marginalized group in American life, from African Americans facing both hypervisibility in law enforcement encounters and invisibility in media representation, to Asian Americans being seen as perpetual foreigners while their voices go unheard in racial discourse. The experience creates a exhausting dual consciousness - always aware of how others perceive you while struggling to maintain your authentic self.
5장
The Oak Creek Massacre: A Turning Point
When news broke of a gunman attacking a Wisconsin gurdwara in 2012, my family and I were stunned into silence. We frantically tried reaching my sister-in-law Lakhpreet who was visiting Milwaukee, only learning hours later she was safe. I felt simultaneously shocked and unsurprised by the massacre-unsurprised because I'd been documenting racist violence throughout my life and researching the same white supremacist forums the killer Wade Michael Page frequented.
As media covered the deadliest attack on a place of worship in nearly fifty years, reporters stumbled through descriptions, misidentifying our gurdwara as a mosque or Hindu temple. This magnified a painful truth: even when targeted and killed, we still weren't afforded the dignity of being understood.
Within an hour of the Wisconsin massacre, my editor Paul Raushenbush encouraged me to use my voice and platform to speak for the Sikh community. Despite my internal hesitation-I rarely spoke in classes through college and graduate school-I recalled my mother's approach to hardship: taking action rather than freezing in uncertainty. I wrote a heartfelt essay titled "As a Sikh American, I Refuse to Live in Fear and Negativity" that spread rapidly online, leading to my first television interview.
While publicly I called for peace, unity and kindness, privately I struggled with anger and betrayal. The gap between my public message and private feelings created a painful inner dissonance-I questioned whether I truly believed in the unity and love I preached, feeling like the ground had crumbled beneath me.
Finding emotional comfort after the Oak Creek massacre required months of intense soul-searching. My journey toward inner peace followed three transformative steps. First came understanding how we feel-learning to channel emotions productively by embracing the Sikh concept of chardi kala (everlasting optimism) that I witnessed in massacre survivors. Second was transforming how we see-recognizing humanity even in those who hate us, expanding our capacity for empathy. Third was discovering how we connect-finding connection across boundaries not despite our differences but because of them.
6장
The Power of Radical Optimism
After the Oak Creek massacre, I desperately searched for ways to reclaim my happiness, trying various suggested approaches-forgiveness, studying the shooter's motives, channeling anger into activism-but found them all insufficient alone. The breakthrough came from an unexpected source: the Oak Creek Sikh community itself.
Despite having every reason for bitterness, the survivors demonstrated remarkable resilience through their commitment to chardi kala (everlasting optimism). This principle became their rallying cry-appearing in Senate testimony, inspiring community events like the Chardhi Kala 6K, and even prompting some young Sikh women to begin wearing turbans as acts of defiance rather than hiding their identity.
When I asked massacre survivors how they maintained happiness amid such trauma, they consistently pointed to gratitude as their essential practice. Despite diverse perspectives on what instilled optimism-prayer, reconnection with loved ones, community service-every survivor mentioned gratitude.
This initially confused me. How could people who witnessed loved ones murdered feel thankful? Yet they expressed genuine surprise at my confusion, explaining they had much to appreciate: their lives, the safety of many loved ones, and the recognition that factors like Page never opening the kitchen door where people hid had limited the death toll.
I learned gratitude isn't accidental but cultivated through intention and daily practice. The more I looked for blessings, the more apparent they became-creating a self-fulfilling cycle of positivity. Within weeks of spending five minutes each evening reflecting on three things I was grateful for, I experienced profound transformation. I began noticing life's gifts throughout my day, from mundane pleasures to meaningful relationships.
This practice helped me experience joy through hardships, just as the Oak Creek Sikhs did-my first step toward feeling chardi kala. I realized this optimistic spirit wasn't just for enlightened people but available to everyone through intentional practice.
7장
Seeing the Light in Everyone
My next insight after Oak Creek came unexpectedly while speaking with Sikh children at a summer camp about the massacre. When a young girl described the shooter as "a bad, bad man" who was "evil," I realized I'd been using similar language myself. Though I'd started by describing Page as a "racist" and "white supremacist," I had gradually begun seeing him as inherently evil-contradicting my Sikh belief that every human contains divinity.
This realization disturbed me deeply. I was betraying my own convictions by reproducing the very supremacist thinking I condemned. By dehumanizing someone who had dehumanized us, I was drinking the poison of hate and compromising my humanity.
Standing before those children, I reconnected with Sikh wisdom that had protected me from hate since childhood. I reminded them that Vahiguru (divinity) exists in everyone and everything-"The Creator is in the Creation and the Creation in the Creator." When a boy asked if the killer also contained divine light, a young girl answered with profound wisdom: "I think the killer had Vahiguru inside of him, but he chose to ignore God and so he did a bad thing. He didn't see that light in himself or in other people."
The concept of ik oankar-radical connectedness where everything is bound by a singular divine force-offers a solution. This perspective helps us understand that social oppressions like racism aren't inherent but learned, meaning they can be unlearned. Through radical introspection, I've learned to acknowledge my own biases, creating space to humanize others with their imperfections. This shifts my question from "What's wrong with you?" to the more empathetic "What happened to you?"
I found this approach tested during a flight when an older white man sighed heavily upon seeing me as his seatmate and ignored my greeting. I noticed him watching right-wing news and shaking his head at images of refugees, triggering concerns about my safety. I confronted my discomfort by starting a conversation. To my surprise, he revealed he was returning from cancer treatment feeling utterly defeated. My heart sank-we had both stereotyped each other. Our conversation deepened into reflections on life and death, forging an unexpected connection in cramped airline seats.
8장
The Revolutionary Power of Love
When my first daughter was born in 2016, I finally understood what everyone said about parenthood. The moment she came into my arms, "love" felt insufficient to describe this overwhelming feeling. I suddenly understood my parents' sacrifice in leaving India for their turbaned boys.
This experience made me question whether I'd ever truly known love before. I realized love isn't simple-it's a spectrum that our single English word fails to capture. In Punjabi, we use multiple words (muhabbat, prem, pyaar, sneh, ishq, preet, bhau), each carrying unique nuances that English flattens into one term.
I came to understand that I had known love before my daughter, but in qualitatively different forms. My daughter's birth revealed love's expansive potential, leading me to profound questions: Could we expand this powerful love to every relationship? What might our world look like if we could love everyone the way we love our children?
In the early seventeenth century, Guru Tegh Bahadur demonstrated the ultimate form of selfless love when he spoke out on behalf of persecuted Kashmiri Brahmins, though neither he nor his Sikh community were being targeted. For this act of solidarity, he was imprisoned, tortured, and executed. This story reveals the essence of true love: unconditional, not contingent; selfless, not self-centered; ever-giving, not transactional.
Before becoming a father, I measured even family relationships through a cost-benefit lens, weighing whether visiting my parents just twelve miles away was "worth it." My love was calculated and selfish. But when my first daughter was born, everything changed. I stayed up all night when she was sick, cried when she was hurt, and prioritized her needs above my own even when exhausted or injured.
I began recognizing this extraordinary love in others-Heather Heyer who died opposing white supremacy, humanitarian Ravi Singh who rushes toward crises to help refugees, Malala Yousafzai who continued advocating for women's education even after being shot. If they could access this profound capacity for love, why couldn't I? Why couldn't we all?
9장
Living Our Values Through Daily Practice
When COVID-19 hit New York City, my family faced difficult choices about staying or leaving. After deciding to remain together, my physician wife Gunisha developed COVID symptoms and quarantined with us. Soon our children fell ill too, with our toddler's fever spiking dangerously high for three days. After five sleepless nights of intense worry, we collapsed in exhaustion and relief when her fever finally broke.
As we settled into new routines, I realized I was enjoying quality time with my children. When Gunisha pointed this out, I confronted an uncomfortable truth: I'd always claimed family came first but hadn't lived accordingly. Creating a thought experiment where aliens observed my daily behavior revealed work was actually my main priority, with family a distant second. This painful realization showed the gap between who I thought I was and who I actually was.
Social science research and spiritual wisdom agree that unhappiness stems from the gap between how we behave and how we claim to behave. This internal disconnection is our greatest source of unhappiness. Though it's not revolutionary to say true happiness comes from within, fully embracing this insight transforms how we live.
My childhood grocery shopping trips with my mother were adventures where she treated me as an equal and shared stories of food scarcity in India. When I was twelve, this ritual ended abruptly after I pocketed a Snickers bar. After paying for it, my mother asked if I knew why I wore a turban, then shared the story of Guru Tegh Bahadur's martyrdom and how his son, Guru Gobind Singh, gave Sikhs their distinctive appearance so they couldn't hide from doing what's right. "Your turban is a public statement," she explained. "It's a crown announcing to the world that you'll always do the right thing."
This lesson wasn't about the minor act of shoplifting but about integrity-doing what's right whether people are watching or not. Every decision matters because it shapes who we are and who we become-our daily actions are seeds growing into habits and ultimately our character. The real power of what we do isn't in tangible outcomes but in how our behaviors shape who we become.
10장
Selfless Service as a Path to Joy
The Sikh concept of seva (selfless service) is a natural expression of love that goes beyond conventional models of generosity. My parents taught me and my siblings to give away most birthday gifts to children in need-a practice I initially resented but now implement with my own daughters to teach them to "give before we take" (vand chakna).
During the COVID-19 pandemic, I experienced an internal conflict while my wife worked as a doctor on the frontlines. Staying home with our children made me feel inadequate compared to those deemed "essential." This discomfort forced me to confront my bias that activism requires direct, visible action.
Through self-reflection, I realized two important insights. First, service can be direct or indirect, but neither form determines one's worth. Second, I recognized that sometimes the most compassionate activism means doing nothing-staying home during a pandemic was itself an act of service.
The author first learned the golden rule-"Do unto others as you would have done unto you"-in third grade, embracing it as a beautiful vision for fair treatment. However, in graduate school, he began questioning this principle while studying European imperialism, recognizing how colonizers justified their actions by presuming to know what was best for others.
The Sikh concept of seva offers a more evolved approach: "Do unto others as they would want." While the golden rule centers ourselves while extending compassion, seva calls us to decenter ourselves and center those we aim to serve. Seva is rooted in oneness and love-it's not about feeding our egos but expressing compassion through action.
Bhagat Puran Singh, nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991, embodied selfless service throughout his life. Even in his eighties, he would pick up trash daily in Amritsar's streets. When people questioned why he continued despite the city remaining polluted, he replied with profound wisdom: "It may not make a difference to you, but it makes a difference to me. My aim is to leave this world better than how I found it."
This captures the essence of seva-the ethic, attitudes, and intentions behind service matter as much as the actions themselves. True seva is selfless love that helps eradicate our egos, which cause suffering by creating mental walls between ourselves and others.
11장
Illuminating Our Corner of the World
While tucking my daughters into bed one night, one asked if I ever tired of caring for them. Though weary from our day together, I answered truthfully: "Of course not." When she questioned why, given my day of cooking, cleaning and playing, I offered the simplest truth: "Because I love you."
I wanted to share deeper wisdom-that life isn't just about give-and-take, that receiving doesn't bring the happiness we expect, that true fulfillment comes from caring for those we love-but knew she wasn't ready. Instead, I shared Guru Nanak's insight: "The Giver keeps on giving, while the takers get tired of taking." Though exhausted at day's end, I'll never tire of caring for my children, for giving from love is an inexhaustible well.
This brings us back to Jaswant Singh Khalra's parable about the lantern challenging darkness. The lantern didn't seek to end all darkness but humbly focused on its small corner. Its light inspired others to join, creating collective change. This insight about seva (selfless service) in Sikh tradition offers us a different way of engaging with suffering. Rather than feeling paralyzed by endless global problems, we can focus on what's within our reach.
By noticing everyday kindness around us-returning a baby's lost shoe, offering bags when someone's breaks, forgiving a dollar short at the coffee cart-we can restore faith in humanity. These aren't random acts but happen constantly if we pay attention. I wonder how much better our world would be if we could infuse these small acts of kindness into our way of living.
My hope for my daughters-and for you-is to experience an expansive love that nourishes, sustains, and brings daily joy. With each selfless act, we become less selfish and more loving, illuminating our corner of the world and inspiring others to do the same.
