There were riots across northern India last week after a shooting at a Sikh temple in Austria resulted in the death of a sect leader and, given that Punjabi culture is something I bang on about on occasion, it wasn't surprising, I suppose, that a couple of news producers rang, asking me to put the disturbances into context.
I declined because: (a) as a community we are only just learning to talk about ourselves, and too often any kind of commentary is taken as criticism; (b) commenting about religion is a dangerous business when people are being killed and one has absolutely no theological authority; (c) I feel about broadcasting the way many feel about general anaesthetic (you should do it only when you absolutely need to); but mainly because (d) it's quite hard to explain what Sikhism actually stands for.
You see, one of the founding principles of the monotheistic religion, established in the late 15th century by Guru Nanak, was opposition to Hinduism's oppressive caste system. Yet the world's fifth largest organised religion has a caste system of its own, with differences between Jat Sikhs (a group that I belong to and which makes up about two thirds of Sikh society) and non-Jat castes, such as the Ramgarhias, remaining a source of political, social and religious tension.
Even in Britain you'll find different Sikh temples belonging to different groups on the same road, and - according to some media reports last week, many of them disputed by the groups involved - the violence in Austria was sparked after orthodox Sikhs from one caste objected to preachers from another caste being disrespectful towards the Sikh Holy Book.
Also, officially, Sikhs don't worship human beings, since Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh guru, named Guru Granth Sahib, the Holy Book, as his successor. But certain Sikh sects do believe in living human gurus, some mainstream Sikh families revere spiritual figures and ancestors, and - according to some media reports, again disputed by the groups involved - the violence in Austria was sparked when members of a certain sect gave the Guru Granth Sahib pride of place next to photographs and idols of their own human "gurus".
Then there's the issue of booze. Officially, Sikhs don't drink, and some families don't even allow alcohol to be kept in their houses.
But as the academics Gurharpal Singh and Darshan Singh Tatla point out in Sikhs in Britain: The Making of a Community: "Consumption of alcohol has always been high among Sikhs, with the per capita rate among Sikhs of Punjab among the highest in the world" and "a particularly distinctive feature of British Sikh society today" being "the high rate of alcoholism among males . . . Consumption rates are higher than in any other ethnic minority and in the white community."
There are other contradictions. Sikhs are meant to adopt the name "Singh", meaning "lion", as a way of encouraging equality (one's caste can often be identified by a surname), but many of us use it only as a middle name. The Gurus declared men and women to be equal, but Punjabi culture is highly patriarchal. Sikhism is the only major world religion that acknowledges that other religions are a valid way of reaching God, but some believers risk being disowned for marrying outside of their religion.
Also, Sikhs, partly as a result of having no clergy (the idea is that everyone can be directly in touch with God without priests) and partly as a result of factionalism, have never been very good at building institutions to represent them, and yet have had great success campaigning on issues such as the right to wear the turban, so much so that Sikhs can legally ride a motorbike with a turban instead of a helmet. When, the other week, the police announced that they were developing a bulletproof turban, apart from a few tiresome jokes about the "turbanator", there were almost no objections from any quarters. Imagine the fuss there would have been if the religious headwear in question had been a burka.
And if there is anything that epitomises the fluidity of Sikhism, it is the turban. Long hair, beards and colourful headwear are synonymous with the religion - I kept my own hair unshorn until the age of 14 - but if you ask any Sikh why they keep their hair uncut, they will give you a different answer.
Some say that it's a way of showing respect for the God-given form; some that it is a way of expressing love for God (like a married person would wear a wedding ring); some link it to intelligence, health and spirituality; some say that Guru Gobind Singh made the keeping of unshorn hair mandatory to give Sikhs a binding identity. There are others who will argue that long hair isn't actually necessary to be a that Sikh.
In fact, a great many Sikhs, if not the majority, don't have long hair and don't sport turbans. And those with turbans are not necessarily hugely religious: I know one turbaned man who runs that most un-Sikh of things, an English pub; another who started wearing a turban simply because he had developed a bald patch; another who is actually an atheist.
As it happens, I don't think that these ambiguities are necessarily a problem. Such issues crop up with all organised religions, and for me, and I am a believer, the massive variation in observance is appealing, as you're basically left to define your own religiosity. Not least, it's an expression of another of Sikhism's fundamental teachings, that empty ritual is meaningless, and it ensures that believers concentrate on the things that really matter, namely "Nam simran" (meditation on and awareness of God) and "Sewa" (community service).
But the concerning thing about last week's events is that we seem to have another contradiction developing. This most modern and liberal of world religions, which allows its believers to develop their own relationship with God, is developing a fundamentalist streak, with certain people determined to tell others what to believe and how to believe it, under pain of death if necessary.
About the Autor: Sathnam Sanghera
Sathnam Sanghera writes for The Times. After graduating from Cambridge University in 1998, he joined the Financial Times, where he worked as its chief feature writer and a weekly columnist. His first book, The Boy With The Topknot: A Memoir of Love, Secrets and Lies in Wolverhampton, is published by Penguin
I declined because: (a) as a community we are only just learning to talk about ourselves, and too often any kind of commentary is taken as criticism; (b) commenting about religion is a dangerous business when people are being killed and one has absolutely no theological authority; (c) I feel about broadcasting the way many feel about general anaesthetic (you should do it only when you absolutely need to); but mainly because (d) it's quite hard to explain what Sikhism actually stands for.
You see, one of the founding principles of the monotheistic religion, established in the late 15th century by Guru Nanak, was opposition to Hinduism's oppressive caste system. Yet the world's fifth largest organised religion has a caste system of its own, with differences between Jat Sikhs (a group that I belong to and which makes up about two thirds of Sikh society) and non-Jat castes, such as the Ramgarhias, remaining a source of political, social and religious tension.
Even in Britain you'll find different Sikh temples belonging to different groups on the same road, and - according to some media reports last week, many of them disputed by the groups involved - the violence in Austria was sparked after orthodox Sikhs from one caste objected to preachers from another caste being disrespectful towards the Sikh Holy Book.
Also, officially, Sikhs don't worship human beings, since Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh guru, named Guru Granth Sahib, the Holy Book, as his successor. But certain Sikh sects do believe in living human gurus, some mainstream Sikh families revere spiritual figures and ancestors, and - according to some media reports, again disputed by the groups involved - the violence in Austria was sparked when members of a certain sect gave the Guru Granth Sahib pride of place next to photographs and idols of their own human "gurus".
Then there's the issue of booze. Officially, Sikhs don't drink, and some families don't even allow alcohol to be kept in their houses.
But as the academics Gurharpal Singh and Darshan Singh Tatla point out in Sikhs in Britain: The Making of a Community: "Consumption of alcohol has always been high among Sikhs, with the per capita rate among Sikhs of Punjab among the highest in the world" and "a particularly distinctive feature of British Sikh society today" being "the high rate of alcoholism among males . . . Consumption rates are higher than in any other ethnic minority and in the white community."
There are other contradictions. Sikhs are meant to adopt the name "Singh", meaning "lion", as a way of encouraging equality (one's caste can often be identified by a surname), but many of us use it only as a middle name. The Gurus declared men and women to be equal, but Punjabi culture is highly patriarchal. Sikhism is the only major world religion that acknowledges that other religions are a valid way of reaching God, but some believers risk being disowned for marrying outside of their religion.
Also, Sikhs, partly as a result of having no clergy (the idea is that everyone can be directly in touch with God without priests) and partly as a result of factionalism, have never been very good at building institutions to represent them, and yet have had great success campaigning on issues such as the right to wear the turban, so much so that Sikhs can legally ride a motorbike with a turban instead of a helmet. When, the other week, the police announced that they were developing a bulletproof turban, apart from a few tiresome jokes about the "turbanator", there were almost no objections from any quarters. Imagine the fuss there would have been if the religious headwear in question had been a burka.
And if there is anything that epitomises the fluidity of Sikhism, it is the turban. Long hair, beards and colourful headwear are synonymous with the religion - I kept my own hair unshorn until the age of 14 - but if you ask any Sikh why they keep their hair uncut, they will give you a different answer.
Some say that it's a way of showing respect for the God-given form; some that it is a way of expressing love for God (like a married person would wear a wedding ring); some link it to intelligence, health and spirituality; some say that Guru Gobind Singh made the keeping of unshorn hair mandatory to give Sikhs a binding identity. There are others who will argue that long hair isn't actually necessary to be a that Sikh.
In fact, a great many Sikhs, if not the majority, don't have long hair and don't sport turbans. And those with turbans are not necessarily hugely religious: I know one turbaned man who runs that most un-Sikh of things, an English pub; another who started wearing a turban simply because he had developed a bald patch; another who is actually an atheist.
As it happens, I don't think that these ambiguities are necessarily a problem. Such issues crop up with all organised religions, and for me, and I am a believer, the massive variation in observance is appealing, as you're basically left to define your own religiosity. Not least, it's an expression of another of Sikhism's fundamental teachings, that empty ritual is meaningless, and it ensures that believers concentrate on the things that really matter, namely "Nam simran" (meditation on and awareness of God) and "Sewa" (community service).
But the concerning thing about last week's events is that we seem to have another contradiction developing. This most modern and liberal of world religions, which allows its believers to develop their own relationship with God, is developing a fundamentalist streak, with certain people determined to tell others what to believe and how to believe it, under pain of death if necessary.
About the Autor: Sathnam Sanghera
Sathnam Sanghera writes for The Times. After graduating from Cambridge University in 1998, he joined the Financial Times, where he worked as its chief feature writer and a weekly columnist. His first book, The Boy With The Topknot: A Memoir of Love, Secrets and Lies in Wolverhampton, is published by Penguin
Or is Waheguru the one who will throw the lifeline .....
