Into the Whirlwind

Goodbye Blogger!

2010-08-31T15:45:00.001-07:00

Blogger has been good to me. I first began chronicling my journey on this site five years ago. It was the summer of 2005, and we were heading across country in production on Divided We Fall. Now the film is released into the world, and I've moved on to speak on and work on broader issues -- from immigration raids to racial profiling by local police departments, domestic violence against women to military commissions at Guantanamo. I've launched a new website to document the next chapter of my advocacy work and invite you to join the efforts!

Check out the new website: http://www.valariekaur.com.

You can also continue to follow me here: http://feeds.feedburner.com/ValarieKaur

See you there!

Valarie

2009 Year-in-Review

2010-01-18T06:48:00.000-08:00

Today, on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., people across the country are taking a moment to celebrate our shared victories in the civil rights struggle and perhaps renew their commitment to go further. As for us, we are reflecting on our year and feel humbled and grateful for our journey with Divided We Fall -- our own modest contribution toward the dream of Dr. King and so many unsung women and men.

For the last eight years, our little film has inspired a growing community of people committed to creating social change through dialogue and storytelling. We thought that we released the film when we made it available on DVD. But in 2009, the whirlwind still swept the two of us into new and unexpected arenas -- more movie theaters and universities, but even beyond, into the halls of corporate America and the classrooms of inner-city schools, onto new public stages in the US and brand-new football fields in the UK, deep into the jungles of Central America and way down under to the Parliament of the World's Religions in Australia.

We want to thank you for supporting us and look forward to what adventures may come in the new year -- but first, here are some highlights of 2009 for you to enjoy...!

Valarie Kaur and Sharat Raju
Divided We Fall
www.dwf-film.com

CLICK HERE TO READ OUR YEAR-IN-REVIEW.

Parliament of the World's Religions

2010-01-10T11:48:00.000-08:00

I wanted to go to the Parliament of the World's Religions ever since I first heard about it as a high school student studying religion. I would close my eyes and imagine the very first Parliament in Chicago in 1893, when Swami Vivekananda rose to address an American audience for the first time. The crowd wondered if this man from India even spoke English. When he greeted them – “Sisters and Brothers of America!” – the crowd rose to their feet in applause. “Sectarianism, bigotry, and its horrible descendant, fanaticism, have long possessed this beautiful earth,” he said in his famous address. “They have filled the earth with violence, drenched it often and often with human blood, destroyed civilization and sent whole nations to despair."

Swami Vivekananda’s words echoed down the century to reach me one hundred years later, a young girl growing up on California farmland, struggling to defend her Sikh faith to Christian friends and teachers who threatened hellfire. My childhood encounters with religious conversion bred destruction and despair in my own small life, and inspired me to fight for Swami Vivekananda’s vision of religious pluralism as a filmmaker, writer, and storyteller. One can imagine my excitement, then, when invited to speak at the 2009 Parliament as an adult, eager to join a movement of religious practitioners working together to fight those dark forces Swami Vivekananda identified, threatening even more destruction in our post-9/11 world.

During the Parliament, I floated from room to room in the convention center, taking in hundreds of lectures, panels, and performances from every faith tradition from every corner of the world. Thousands of people swarmed the convention floor, exchanging ideas and stories and songs, sharing inspiring examples of social justice work from their own communities. But in the in the midst of all this networking, I could not find my movement. In the middle of the convention center, the Dalia Lama’s monks sounded the drums, as if quieting the noise around us so that I could hear our collective longing – a deep desire for action. Everyone around me wanted to meet the need of the hour, climate justice, but no one had a blueprint for coordinated global action.

The loudest ones calling for action were young people like me. Interfaith dialogue for its own sake may have been novel one hundred years ago, or even twenty years ago, but my generation has done it all our lives. We no longer need the Parliament to introduce us to people from different faiths: we grew up with pluralism. Instead, we need a way to translate our shared progressive values from our multiple faith traditions into political and social action. We need the Parliament to help organize religious practitioners committed to the same issues into global grassroots movements that apply real political pressure. For example, the Parliament sent a video in support of climate justice to the Copenhagen Summit. Imagine instead: on the eve of the Copenhagen Summit, coordinated marches led by priests and monks and nuns in every city around the world capturing headlines, calling for commitment from our political leaders at the round table. Only the Parliament, the largest interfaith gathering on earth, has the potential to serve as a platform to mobilize such interfaith social justice movements on a global scale.

In his address on the final day, the Dalia Lama himself called on the Parliament to take greater action. In order to meet his challenge, I believe that the Council for the Parliament of the World’s Religions should harness the ideas of young people, including the generation who led the successful grassroots campaign in the U.S. to elect President Barack Obama, to institute a movement-building program into the next Parliament. Marching and praying and fighting and singing together, we become true “sisters and brothers” of the world.

Remembering 9/15

2009-09-15T06:05:00.000-07:00

It is the morning of September 15th, eight years since the hate murder of Balbir Singh Sodhi. I sit with a candle in memory of Uncle Ji -- and in honor of untold numbers of people whose names will never be read at Ground Zero, but whose lives were lost or damaged in the ongoing aftermath of terrorist attacks, whether in the name of hate or vengeance or security.

Please join me in this day of memorial. Light a candle. Take a moment of silence. Invite friends or family over to watch Divided We Fall. Join people around the country and world in our campaign for deeper dialogue on hate and healing -- in your own school, office, or living room. And tell your own untold story.

Last fall, 80 U.S. cities hosted screenings of Divided We Fall to commemorate Sept 15, 2001 and engage in deep dialogue about race and religion, hate and healing in America. From Idaho to New York, North Dakota to Florida, Texas to California and Alaska and all parts between, the film screened in living rooms, lecture halls, and theaters, sparking dialogue and discussion between people from all walks of life. Read audience responses in their own words here. You can find the film on Amazon and Netflix, and you can join our national dialogue here.

My Own Journey

Today, we enter our third year of touring the world with Divided We Fall. Since our premiere in Phoenix with the Sodhi family three years ago tonight, we have reached tens of thousands of people in 130 cities around the world.

This year alone has brought many stories I have not yet shared with you -- stories from University of Michigan in February, University of Notre Dame in March, Drexel University in April, University of Chicago in May, the Library of Congress in June, a tour through England in August, and Florida in September. I have yet to order the chaos of my most recent adventures in the whirlwind. But today I would like to offer you glimpses to begin your day:

Speaking to Corporate America
Each year on Sept 11th, I find myself in New York City, invited by a university or community to commemorate the anniversary. Not this year. On Sept 11th, invited to speak to a corporation for the very first time, I stand before a banquet hall of three hundred managers and executives at Blue Cross Blue Shield of Florida. I see a familiar face in the audience; my mentor Tommy Lee Woon has come to give his support. I take a deep breath, and deliver a one-hour keynote address on terrorism, racism, healing, and health-care. When I'm done, there is a second of stillness -- and then a bursting standing ovation, businessmen standing with tears in their eyes, and smiling through the tears. And I realize that the cubicles and conference rooms of corporate America are hungry for humanity and compassion -- values that could help executives defend the poor and powerless even before mandates from Congress. Thank you, KheSahn Barker, for helping cultivate these values at Blue Cross Blue Shield of Florida.

Fighting Racism Through UK Football
In London, I find myself in a skybox at the famous Wembley Stadium surrounded by football players and sports reporters who are ready to talk about race. Sharat Raju and I have been invited by the Khalsa Football Academy to help them combat racism through the sport of football -- where young men of color often face racial barriers in their career and racial slurs out on the field. Throughout a week of film screenings and workshops, I make groups of boys and men sit in circles to examine the impact of racism on their physiology -- and find ways to cultivate healing and build resilience. A first for me. And for them.

Training British Police Officers
In Letchworth, just outside of London, I face a room of 50 white police officers from the Hertfordshire Policy Academy. They have gathered together for a two-hour workshop with me. I have never worked with police officers before. I take a deep breath and ask: "How has terrorism affected your policing?" And then: "How does racism affect your policing?" They identify two major changes: the threat of hate crimes and the need to combat the perception of racial profiling by their own agencies. After leading them through real-life case studies on hate crimes and racial profiling from the film, the officers emerge with a deeper recognition of the need for community engagement. And I emerge with a new appreciation for police officers who are committed to doing their job well. Thank you Bal Singh for arranging our entire England tour!

Kids on the South Side of Chicago
In an elementary school on the south side of Chicago, I watch fifty squirming fourth and fifth graders enter single-file for their special presentation. These kids were two-years old when Sept 11th happened. They are all African-American, looking up at me in absolute curiosity. "What country do you think I'm from?" I ask. "Afghanistan!" "Pakistan!" "Iraq!" "Mexico!" Stumped into silence, finally someone tries, "America?" And so begins magical two hours with these kids, connecting my story to theirs, thanks to our organizer and long-time kindred spirit Currun Singh. Want to know what happened? Read about it here.

In the Halls of Power
As a student at Yale Law School, I find myself in the strange position of passing senators, justices, and former heads of state on my way to class. And since I always carry copies of our little film around, I can now tell you that the following people own Divided We Fall: U.S. Senators Russell Feingold and Dick Durbin, Justice Breyer of the U.S. Supreme Court, and former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair, who incidentally says that he heard about the film before. I told him Balbir Singh Sodhi's story and hoped he would watch the film on 9/15.

Thank you for being part of our growing family. Thank you for your commitment to social change through dialogue and storytelling. And thank you for remembering 9/15.

Lessons from the South Side of Chicago

2009-05-21T23:55:00.000-07:00

Today, I stood at the front of a classroom and watched fifty squirming fourth and fifth graders enter single-file for their special presentation in North Kenwood/Oakwood Elementary School. As the teacher managed to seat them in perfect rows on the floor, my co-producer Sharat Raju leaned over and whispered, “These kids are young!”

He was right. They could not have been more than nine or ten years old. My mouth opened to give my usual introduction – after all, this was our third year on tour with our film Divided We Fall– but I stopped short. I had never had an audience so young. Would they be able to understand a story about hate violence after terrorism attacks? Would a room of African-American school children from the south side of Chicago be able to connect with the stories of Sikhs and Muslims beaten up after 9/11?

They looked at me, eager and open and very curious. I decided to follow their lead.

“What country do you think we’re from?” I heard myself ask.

Not exactly waiting to be called on, they shouted out guesses, “India! Japan! Brazil! Afghanistan! Pakistan! Iraq! Mexico!” (They certainly proved that they were learning geography...)

The excitement created by breaking classroom protocol gave way to frustration as they scanned their minds for more countries around the planet. Then finally someone said – “America?”

“Correct!”

“Ohhhhh, yeah…” They replied. We explained that although our families are from India, we, like them, were born in the United States – Sharat just miles from Hyde Park.

“What we’re going to talk about today is the difference between how we see one another – and how we want to be seen,” I began.

We had been invited here by the University of Chicago’s South Asian Center to give a series of presentations about our film Divided We Fall, the first feature documentary chronicling hate violence in the aftermath of Sept. 11, 2001. Our host and long-time friend Currun Singh (right) had arranged for us to present before all age groups, thanks to co-sponsorship of the Center for Race, Politics, and Culture and the Human Rights Program.

Earlier that morning, we had screened the film in the Max Palevsky Cinema before three hundred middle and high school students from seven schools on the south side of Chicago. Later that day, I presented a workshop to school teachers called “Race and Religion in a Post-9/11 World,” in partnership with the Office of Language and Cultural Education at Chicago Public Schools. That evening, we screened the film again for the general public.

In more than 150 film screenings nation-wide since we premiered in 2006, high school and college audiences had always been my favorite. They always asked the best questions. That morning, students asked: “After you went on this journey after 9/11, what changed for you?” “What would your grandfather think of you making this documentary?” “Was there ever a time that the racism made you want to quit?”

Afterward, a Latina student confided in us that her parents wanted her to become a housewife, another that her family only wanted her to do medicine. “But we want to study humanities and the arts!” they exclaimed. “We want to do what you did!”

Although risking parental wrath, it has been an honor to tell a story that inspires other young people to tell their own. We had wanted the film to resonate with students who like us, had come of age in post-9/11 America. We had never imagined however, that our film would one day teach children about Sept. 11th for the first time.

This appeared to be the case in our classroom at North Kenwood/Oakwood Elementary School – where the kids were only one or two when 9/11 happened. So, I did the only thing that made sense. I told my story.

“I was a twenty-year old college student on September 11, 2001. As a third-generation Sikh American, I had deep roots in America: my grandfather came to these shores nearly one hundred years ago. But the moment the towers fell, we were not seen the way we saw ourselves. The picture of Osama bin Laden was held up as our nation’s new enemy. He had brown skin like me. And he wore a turban like my grandfather.

“Four days later, a Sikh man Balbir Singh Sodhi was killed because of his turban – the first of nineteen hate murders across the country. It was as if an uncle had been killed.” The kids gasped. One girl even buried her head in her hands. I then shared with them the next brave thing I did – disappear into my room for days and read all the Harry Potter books. The kids giggled.

“Between page 277 and 278, I remembered the stories my grandfather used to tell me as a kid – stories of strength and resilience of my Sikh ancestors – and it compelled me to grab my camera and cross the country to make this film. Do you want to see some of it?”

“Yeah!!”

We showed them scenes from the film, including one with Samir Akhter, a Muslim boy about the same age as the kids in the classroom. He was called “bin Laden’s son” by the other kids at school. “I’m not a bad guy and I don’t want to be a bad guy. I’m a good guy. And I don’t want to go to jail.”

The students quickly grasped the question of identity, that Samir was able to be both Muslim and American equally, and recalled moments in their own lives when they too were treated as outsiders. This was my chance to go deeper.

“Close your eyes.” (They did, but many peeked.)

“Now, try to remember a moment when people treated you as if you did not belong. Where do you feel it? Describe the feeling in your body.”

Some said they had difficulty breathing, that they felt tightness in their chests. One girl said she felt outside of herself.

“Hold that sensation in your memory and your body for a moment. Now go to a place of warmth, into the arms of someone you love – a sister or brother or parent. Now, do you notice if anything in your body changed?”

This time, they described the tightness melting, giving way to warmth and openness in their chests or bellies or hands. Many said that thought of the safety of their bedroom or home. But one kid said, “The bathroom.” Everyone laughed.

“It’s quiet in there and I can be alone and think of my friends and that makes me feel good,” he explained.

“That’s right!” I said. “This is a tool you can use anytime. When something bad happens, let yourself feel the pain in your body. Otherwise, it might get stuck in there. But don’t stay there, because who wants to end up bitter and angry? The next step is to go to the love. But there’s a third step. Create something good out of it!”

“Like you did?”

“Right, but it doesn’t have to be a film. It can be anything that tells your story.”

“Writing!” “Dancing!” “Singing!” “Painting!” “Texting!” And everyone laughed.

“Now, when something makes you feel bad, what should you do?” I asked.

“Feel the pain!” They shouted.

“Then?”

“Go to the love!”

“And the final step?”

“Create something good out of it!”

Everyone cheered, and the class was over.

I had been worried that heavy subjects like terrorism, hate, and healing would be inappropriate or at least incomprehensible for such young children. I was wrong. These kids taught me that every human being, even a 9-year old child, knows what it is like not to belong – and can reclaim the power to transform that hurt and rage into creative action.

It is never too early to help children develop the power to empathize, cope, and understand that we all strive to be seen the way we see ourselves. I will always be grateful to the fourth and fifth graders of North Kenwood/Oakwood Elementary School for teaching me that lesson.

Thank you to our long-time friend, kindred spirit, fellow artist and activist Currun Singh (below with Sharat Raju and me) for making our trip possible!

And thank you to our editor Scott Rosenblatt who joined Sharat Raju (below) the next day on a filmmaking panel for college students.

The New Era

2009-01-29T19:42:00.000-08:00

Sharat and I stood in the bitter cold in a sea of people last week to witness our 44th President sworn into office. I could barely see the Capitol, but closing my eyes, I heard people around me whisper under their breaths "Thank you, Lord," "Yes, Lord" and "Yes we did" through the prayers and the inaugural address, and I knew I was standing in the heart of a singular spiritual moment in our nation's history where we as a people -- burdened with the sins of genocide and slavery, segregation and racism, racial profiling and ongoing hate violence in the aftermath of 9/11 -- had touched our own greatness.

No matter what our politics, as we begin the long slow work of restoring our country and communities, we can draw inspiration from this bare bold fact: we have elected our first African-American president. The promise of America is real. And yet, we break the greatest racial barrier to find a hundred more yet to be broken -- gay and straight, Christian and Muslim, white and black, citizen and not. We have yet to build a community where others see us for how we see ourselves -- where class, color, and power do not define how fully we are recognized.

So the election of Barack Hussein Obama merely present an opportunity: we who share a vision of social justice may push our vision further and farther than before. It is time to seize the moment.

And so our little film Divided We Fall has a new role to play in this new era. It can harness the swelling interest in interracial and interfaith dialogue and bring people together through a story of reconciliation. The film is now released on DVD, available for purchase by individuals and educators.

My Grandfather's Funeral

2008-11-24T23:46:00.000-08:00

Today was Papa Ji's funeral. His wisdom and love made me who I am -- and inspired Divided We Fall. I stood before his casket adorned with flowers, where his face shone regal in a red turban, and gazed out at a hundred people who had gathered in the small chapel. I never write down what I will say before an audience, but today, I knew I needed to draw courage from words on paper. I clutched the pages and spoke through the tears:

My Beautiful Papa Ji,

In the beginning, there were sounds: your voice at my childhood bedside, teaching me to recite the root verse:

Ik Onkar. Sat Naam. Karta Purakh. Nirbhau. Nirvair. Akal Murat. Ajuni Saibhang. Gurprashad. Jap. Aad Sach. Jugad Sach. Hai Bhi Sach. Nanak Hosi Bhi Sach.

You would tuck me in and kiss me on the forehead and ask: “Happy-happy?” And I was happy. I was happy walking with you to the grocery store for ice-cream cones and running through the back yard as you sprayed us with the hose, the water cascading and sparkling in the summer sun. I was happy watching you carefully wrap my school-books out of brown paper bags or cutting us fresh cantaloupe with utter precision. I was happy handing you my latest poem to tuck away in the file you kept of all my writings and learning how to underline my favorite sentences in books just like you. I was happy running from you when you became the tickle monster, and I was happy jumping into the bed next to you when I was sad. You would stroke my hair and I would gaze at your perfect ivory feet until I fell asleep. You were the pillar of wisdom in my whole existence, my constant companion and my source of truth, my playmate and my teacher.

As I got older, you began telling me stories – stories that would shape my life passions. You told me stories from your childhood – you played at the foot of a great banyan tree in your father’s village where Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims and Christians lived side by side.

You told me stories from your service in World War II – you would sleep through the air raids at night because you held faith in what your father told you, “My son, there is no German bullet made for you”; you refused to take off your turban when you were sent to the frontlines, saying, “God gave me my helmet”; you humbled your obnoxious British superiors when you outran them on Gaza beaches; and you wrapped your friend’s body with your turban when he was killed next to you. You told me stories about how you escaped India’s Partition in 1947 and the anti-Sikh riots of 1984. And when you told me all these stories, you imparted to me a sense of history, a rootedness that bound me to my ancestral home and people, and a deep sense of faith – for if you could maintain complete faith in God as your companion through air raids and illnesses, riots and unspeakable loss, then I could do the same.

Those early years we spent together – granddaughter and grandfather – made me who I am. You stirred a deep commitment to social justice that set my course of study in religion and ethics and law and inspired me to continue telling stories through speaking and teaching and even through making a film. Do you know, Papa Ji, that thousands of people have met you and learned about Sikhism from you in Divided We Fall? I can just hear you saying, “You have made me great.” And you can just hear me saying, “It’s the other way around.”

In these recent years, as I make my way into adulthood and experience real pain, real disappointment, and real fear for the first time, I begin to understand your magnificence, not just as a grandfather but as a human being who lived and breathed truth even in the face of the worst suffering. You had a small piece of paper taped to your radio by your bedside that read: "ISKCATAUAC." I thought it was a Punjabi word I didn't know until you revealed that it was an acronym: “I shall keep calm at all times and under all circumstances.” And you did. Even when disagreement entered our own relationship, your calm opened into understanding that deepened our bond.

You lived every moment in this deep calm with child-like wonder and love for the beauty in the world – and you cultivated that beauty around you, in the blooming flowers of the garden you kept and in the hearts of your friends and family. Why else would so many visitors – women and men, young and old, rich and poor – flow into your room day after day for your advice, your poetry, and your company? We were inspired by your fierce intellect, your lust for learning, your resourcefulness, your love for life, and your fearlessness – your fearlessness.

Papa Ji, you were never afraid. In the darkest hours of your illness, you were never afraid. When your lungs hardened, your throat closed, and the pain shot through you and rendered you gasping for breath and motionless these last weeks, you still managed to smile at us. You would make us laugh. You showed us you had no fear. We bathed you in our love and your eyes sparkled and your spirit blazed, even as your body shut down. Four summers ago, I asked you if you were afraid of death:

“Absolutely no,” you said. “There is no difference in my being here or not here. If I be, God will be with me. If I don’t be, I will be with God… I had been subject to changes from unit to unit in my army service, subject to transfers. And I had been going from place to place happily. On my last transfer also, I’ll go happily.”

I asked you, “What is your last wish at the time of death?”

“That I should be able to smile with all the people around me present at that time. That I could give a smile to all the people around me. This is the only wish I have. I want to go smiling to my master. Wailing and all that, this is worldly and serves no purpose. It does not do any good. So worldly attachments end. We should accept the end happily.”

You died on a Wednesday afternoon at home, with all your children surrounding you: Masi Auntie, Mama Ji and Mami Auntie, Mommy and Daddy, and Kathy rubbing your feet. They touched your lips with amrit (holy water), and you gave them a smile.

You waited until Mummy Ji (wife of 62 years, pictured) gave you amrit, you took it into your mouth, you sighed, and gazing out, you died. It was miraculous. It was perfect. Your life was a perfect miracle.

I know that you want us to be happy and you would be very upset with all of our wailing. So I must tell you, Papa Ji, that the tears we shed today are not for you. They’re not for you! We cry for ourselves. We cry because we will miss you terribly. You have made memories with each of us, and we know that you promised to appear when we summon you – but let us cry for a moment. Let me cry for a moment for what I have lost.

I have lost the pleasure of seeing you walking your garden, hands clasped behind your back, surveying the rows of vegetables like a military captain, the warmth of your face glowing in the sunset. I have lost the comfort of falling asleep on your shoulder, running my thumb over the smooth end of the nail on your right hand. I have lost the excitement of closing my eyes and sending you images to dream about on Monday nights and hearing you report in the morning. I have lost the joy in hearing you say before some new adventure, “Let’s make a memory!” I have lost the feeling of connection when you calm beneath my hands or when I rub the blue elixir into your forehead and wash you in love. I have lost the tremor of your voice, asking: “Happy-happy?” No, Papa Ji, I am not happy. Just for a moment, give me permission not to be happy: I have lost my pillar of wisdom, my constant companion, my playmate and my teacher.

Since you died, I have turned into a small girl looking for her grandfather. I wail in the streets just as you instructed me not to, then I sit quietly before a candle listening for you. I walk the cemetery calling out your name and sob when there is no answer. I fly home and search for you in all the rooms of the house. And I stand by your casket – you look handsome and regal like a king but your forehead is icy cold when I kiss it and your chest is hard where I used to rub it and your face is white without the blush of the sun, and I cannot find you there. You are not there either. The small girl in me cries.

But there is another part of me too. Deep inside, where you planted a seed of strength in my heart, I know that you are just on the other side of my anger and grief. I know that you have been with me all along. And you will continue to be with me. You will be within each of your grandchildren whenever we need you: you are laying a hand on Andrea’s head, you are dancing inside Ginny’s poetry, you are the star guiding Sonny, you are the deep rhythm in Sanjeev, you are the dreams in Neetu, and you live within Jyoti Didi and her son Harry too. It is an honor to be your grandchild; it is an honor to be blessed with your love.

We will try to live up to your example: your deep faith in God, your constant curiosity, your discipline in mind and body, your endless creativity, and yes, your fearlessness in life and in the face of death. I will feel you in the root of me, so that everything that I do, you do. Everyone who knows me, will know you. My children will know you and their children’s children will know you. It’s just as you always said: There is nothing that can separate us. There is nothing that can separate those who love one another unconditionally. And so I will go on loving you and talking to you until I am a very old woman.

In that case, since this is not goodbye, we grandchildren have one last prayer to offer your spirit as it goes blazing up into the heart of God. It is the prayer that you taught all of us when you drove us to school each day: Tati vao na lagi. The hot wind cannot touch you in the fires, Papa Ji, just as it could not touch you in life, because you move in the circle of God's Protection.

The hot wind does not even touch one who is under the Protection of God.
On all four sides I am surrounded by God’s Circle of Protection; pain does not afflict me, O Siblings of Destiny.
I have met the Perfect True Guru, who has done this deed.
He has given me the medicine of God’s Name, and I enshrine love for the One Lord.
God has saved me, and eradicated all my sickness.
Says Nanak, God has showered me with His Mercy; He has become my help and support.

[Guru Arjan, SGGS, 819:16]

Obituary printed in Sunday's Fresno Bee:

CAPTAIN GURDIAL SINGH
March 7, 2921 - November 19, 2008

Gurdial Singh, our beautiful "Papa Ji," died at home in the company of his family at the age of 87 after a courageous battle with Parkinson's disease on Wednesday.

He was born on March 7, 1921 to Tara Singh and Kesar Kaur in the village of Basupanu in Punjab, British India. He spent his childhood playing beneath a great Banyan tree and excelled at the top of his class in mechanics and engineering.

He joined the Indian Army at the age of 18 and fought in World War II. Papa Ji served bravely in Sudan, Ethiopia, Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Iran, and Palestine, earning the rank of Captain. He cheated death several times and escaped the mass riots that consumed India in the 1947 Partition.

After the war, he transferred to Kashmir, Sikkim, Bangalore, and Joshi Math, where the music of the river Ganges stirred new passions in him and he began to write poetry. Shortly after Papa Ji survived the anti-Sikh riots of 1984, he immigrated to the United States to live with his daughter Dolly and her family in Clovis, CA. In his new home, he worked at the office of Senior Citizens, tended a blooming garden, read and wrote fervently, and published three books of poetry in Punjabi, Urdu, and English. His life work in poetry won many honors, including recognition by the Punjabi Literary Society of Fresno and the Punjabi University of Patiala. In 2002, Papa Ji returned to India to rebuild his family's house in Patiala, Punjab, so that his grandchildren would always have a home in their ancestral land.

Papa Ji lived by example: his deep faith in God as his companion, his child-like wonder for the world, and his pure joy even in the darkest moments of his illness inspired all who met him. His life flourished as the great tree he played under as a child and will continue to offer shade and wisdom to all who knew him.

"No jewel leaves its mine willfully, they are forced out. And once out they are subject to cutting, chipping, buffing, and a lot of harsh treatment. Be a jewel and become more precious after harsh treatment." (CGS, USA, July 10, 1989)

Papa Ji is survived by his wife of 62 years Joginder Kaur, his three children (pictured below) and their spouses: Manjit and Jasbir Sandhu, Jagmit and Sukhwinder Gill, and Dolly and Judge Brar. He will always be loved and adored by his grandchildren Jyoti, Neetu, Valarie, Sanjeev, Amandeep, Ginny, and Simran. The family thanks the doctors and nurses at Clovis Community Hospital who took care of him and the friends who made him smile in his last days.

A viewing will be held at Tinkler Funeral Chapel and Crematorium at 475 N. Broadway in Fresno on Sunday, November 23, 2008 at 3:00 p.m. A Funeral Service will be held at Tinkler Funeral Chapel on November 24, 2008 at 11:00 a.m., followed by final prayers at the Gurdwara Singh Sabha of Fresno at 2604 E. Dakota Ave.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to Papa Ji's final project "Sikh Stars" to sponsor the education of poor Sikh girls in India. Donations can be made out to "Captain Gurdial Singh Memorial Fund" and mailed to 2779 Bullard Ave/ Clovis, CA 93611.

Election Night 2008

2008-11-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

Today marks a new era of possibility for America and the world. After seven years of despair in the shadow of September 11th, the election of Barack Obama as President throws wide open the doors to the future, and I am left blinking in the light. September 11th was the nightmare from which we could not awake; the election ushers in a new era of possibility I keep mistaking for dream. The world unites again, this time in hope and celebration, that a visionary may be elected president of the most powerful nation on earth.

"This victory alone is not the change we seek --" said the President-Elect last night, "it is only the chance for us to make that change." The hard work is yet to come, but just for a moment, I stand in awe that my generation has played a role in bending the arc of our nation's history toward justice. It is our time. And it is just the beginning...

The DWF Campaign

2008-09-11T00:18:00.000-07:00

Starting today, 80 cities across America will hold screenings of Divided We Fall and hold deep community dialogues about race, religion, and renewal during the seven-year anniversary of September 11, 2001. To find a screening nearest you: http://dwf-film.com/tour

After two years on tour with Divided We Fall, my director Sharat Raju and I sat with our circle of friends and volunteers this summer to talk about what how to release the film. In 100 screenings and events around the world, we had discovered that the film had remarkable power to rip open a space for deep dialogue among our audiences. Now that it was time to release the film, we could go the way of traditional theatrical distribution in a couple of cities, but this felt incomplete. We talked, debated, and meditated.

We thought ahead to the 9/11 anniversary mere weeks before the most historic election in out nation's history. We anticipated that the memory and trauma of the terrorist attacks would likely be used to serve a politics of fear. We knew that people were hungry for brave new honest dialogue (we felt this ourselves every time we turned on the evening news). We knew we had something to offer. And so we decided to put the film directly in the hands of communities.

With the help of our friends and supporters, we launched an ambitious grassroots campaign to screen the film in cities across the country in September -- as a way to commemorate those who died on 9/11 and its aftermath through deep community dialogue about race and religion, fear and forgiveness, who we are and who we want to be.

We didn't know if it would be possible. We had no major company behind us to print the advertising and book the theaters. We relied on everyday people to answer the call.

And they did.

Today, tens of thousands of people in 80 cities across the country will gather in college lecture halls and living rooms, theaters and mosques, churches and gurdwaras and community centers to watch Divided We Fall and reflect together on how these stories may help us imagine and work toward a more perfect union.

I am humbled and inspired by this journey that began seven years ago today. It began when I picked up my camera after 9/11, but it was carried and completed by all the people who gave their stories, skills, and passion to something larger than any of us. This film is a testament to what is possible when people join together to reach deep into hate and violence in order to transform it.

Tonight, I will spend the anniversary returning to New York City, where a gay pride group will host a film focused on Sikhs and Muslims in a Jewish community center: I can't imagine a more perfect illustration of the spirit of solidarity that the film inspires.

Thank you to all who have the courage to tell their own untold stories.

Tubman Middle School - Augusta, GA

2008-05-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

Today, I was invited to present at Tubman Middle School in the inner-city of Augusta,

Georgia

. The students live in a depressed part of Augusta where textile workers used to live before the mills shut down. They have grown up with gang violence in their neighborhoods and go through routine weapons inspections at schools. These kids know violence. I have taken the film to middle-class kids at public and private schools but never inner-city kids with these kinds of experiences. I did not know what to expect.

I had three sessions that lasted an hour and a half each with groups of 30 students, first 8th graders, then 6th graders, then 7th graders. Out of 100 students, all but two were African-American. I started out by talking about Sept 11th. This is how our sessions went:

"How old were you all when 9/11 happened?" I begin.

They shout out: "Seven. Six. Eight."

"What do you remember?"

"On the TV, planes went into the towers."

And who was responsible?"

They answer: "Sadaam Hussein."

"That is a misperception that many Americans still have. Do you remember whose face they showed after 9/11?"

After some thought: "Osama bin Laden."

"And who was he?"

"Sadaam Hussein's brother."

In all three sessions, these kids take as fact that Sadaam Hussein and Iraq were responsible for 9/11. I must break down the misinformation and give them the facts before I can move on to the problem of hate crimes.

"So what does bin Laden look like?"

At this, one student points to Mr. Narinder Malik in the corner of the room who had come with me. Mr. Malik is a distinguished member of the Sikh community and wears a turban and beard, like my grandfather. He looks at the student.

"Go on," Mr. Malik says. "You can say it."

"He looks like you," the boy says.

And that is how we begin. I introduce them to the Sikh religion, why Mr. Malik keeps his turban, and the Sikh greeting "Satsriakal." They all turn to Mr. Malik and say "Satsriakal" in unison, hands folded. I then sweep them into the story of what happened to my community after 9/11, how bin Laden looked like my uncles and cousins, how my community was attacked, and how I was so scared, I escaped to my bedroom and read all the Harry Potter books.

"I wanted to stay in the black and white world where Harry fought Voldemort instead of face the complexity outside my bedroom door where Americans were killing other Americans," I explain. "Somewhere between pages 277 and 278, I began to remember the stories my grandfather told me about surviving the 1947 Partition riots and the 1984 Sikh massacres. These stories were not in my history book. Are there stories that your grandparents have told you that aren't in YOUR history book?

They concentrate and nod.

"So who is writing history? Can we tell our own stories? I had the idea to tell my community's story, so that people would know what was happening. But it was such a big idea, that I was scared by it. Ever had a big idea that scared you?"

One kid raises his hand: "Yeah, I had the big idea of starting a newspaper."

"Why didn't you do it?" I ask.

"I was too young," he says.

"That's fear," I respond. "It is easy to let our fear keep us from chasing our big ideas. And I would have let fear stop me too. But the words of my grandfather came to me. He gave me the heart of the Sikh religion: 'In order to realize yourself and realize God, you must act, here and now, without fear'. And so I did! I got in my car at 20 years old and drove across the country and made the film and almost seven years later, I'm here talking to you. Each of us has the power to make our big ideas come true. Want to see some of the movie?"

At this, they nod eagerly. I show them the opening of the film about Balbir Sodhi's murder and my family's history and the Sikh religion and the decision to leap into the whirlwind. While I watch the kids watch the film, I imagine their lives and their needs and an idea comes over me.

"While I was on the road, people began to yell at me and tell me to go back to my country." I share with them. "It was the first time I was seen as an outsider. People did not see me the way I saw myself. All of us can remember a time when we have experienced this too. So try something with me. Put your feet on the ground. Sit up in your chair. Put your hands in your lap. And close your eyes."

The squirming kids miraculously do this. It takes extra effort to get some of them to close their eyes but they finally sit still.

"Now take your mind to a memory where you were seen as an outsider, when you were judged or disrespected, when someone called you a name or put you down, " I say slowly. "And as you remember this moment, feel your emotions. What do you feel? And now, pay attention to your body and notice what happens. What is happening in your stomach, your chest, your throat, you face? Go there."

I can see the kids wrinkling up their brows as they concentrate.

"And now take your mind to a different memory," I say. "This time choose a moment when you felt GREAT LOVE. And great support. Go to that love. It could be your mother, your father, your brother or sister, your teacher, your friend. It could be in prayer. Let yourself feel that love. Smile into it. And notice what happens in your body. Your stomach, your chest, your face. Feel the love. And enjoy that."

The kids are smiling.

"Now open your eyes. Well done! That was courageous. Did you feel that?"

They nod furiously.

"What happened?"

They hesitate to share their stories. Some of them had gone really deep. Some begin to cry and the teacher comes over to hug them and give them tissues. These kids felt those moments really, really intensely, I realize. It is too much for them to share memories, so I ask them to share what they felt.

"What did you feel when you were hurt and angry?" I ask.

They begin to shout out:

"My stomach tightened! My heart ached! My chest hurt! My face got hot!"

"And what did you feel when you felt the love?"

They call out:

"My chest opened up! My ribs felt tingly. I felt it through my whole body, flowing through my whole body. My face started smiling!"

One 7th grade-girl musters up the courage to share her two moments:

"I was walking down the street with my friends, and we were all together, and there were people sitting across the street. They were like Caucasian. And they was looking at us, like real mean. And it made me feel bad. It just made me feel bad. Like they were looking at us because were black. Because we were different. I felt it in my chest and in my heart."

"And what was the loving moment you went to?" I ask.

"I thought of going home to my sister and telling her. And I felt my sister's love. And I could see like her face right in front of me. It made me smile. And it made my heart feel better."

Then I begin to explain to them:

"When something bad happens to you, it is important to feel angry and hurt. But if we stay there, then we become bitter, angry, and sad all our lives. And that doesn't do anyone any good. So we have to go the second moment. We have to go to the love. Go to your mother, your father, your sister, your friend, your God, and feel their love. That is the full picture. The world is mean and cruel, but the world is also beautiful and loving. Each of us has love in our lives. And when we go to the love, you know what we can do next? With that love, we can reach deep inside the pain and hatred, and create something out of it! We can make a poem or write a story or do a play or decide what we want to be when we grow up or start a newspaper -- or even make a film! I'm telling you this, because if I can do it, each and every one of you has the power to create anything you dream of."

I have them all take out sheets of paper and make them write down three main points.

“When bad things happen to you or when you get hurt, what do you do? Number One: FEEL THE PAIN.”

“What if you can’t feel no pain?” one boy asks quietly, while everyone else is scribbling it on their paper.

“That’s a good question. Sometimes it’s really hard. Then you take yourself away from everyone into a quiet place and you sit there with the memory like we just did. And if you sit long enough, you will be able to notice where it shows up in your body, maybe in your chest or your stomach. Because the body is feeling it even if we don’t know it. So you have to connect your brain to the rest of you to feel it. Sometimes it takes time.”

“Why do we have to feel it? Why can’t we just ignore it?” another girl asks.

“You have to feel the pain, because if you don’t it will hide in your body and show up later on. So you have to feel all of it so that it can work through your body and then let go.”

She nods.

“Ready for Number Two? Number Two: GO TO THE LOVE. What does that mean?”

They shout out: “Go to your loving moment! Close your eyes and go to your happy place! Go to your sister or mother. Go to people who love you!”

”Yes! Even if you are far away from people who love you, you can close your eyes and feel their love, just like we did. And once you do those things, now Number Three: CREATE SOMETHING OUT OF IT. Once you have felt the pain and feel the love, you now have the power to reach deep into that experience and create something good out of it. And this will not only save you. It will save other people. In fact, THIS is how you begin to change the world.”

They are getting it. It is resonating.

"Do you want to know my two moments? The first was when people yelled at me on the road, and I got angry. But my loving moment was when I went all the way to India to meet the widow of the man who was killed. Do you want to go there with me?”

They call out yes. And I show them the very end of the film, the forgiveness of the widow, the love of the community. At the end, I ask the students to remember the three things we learned together.

“When you get hurt or when bad things happen to you, what do you do? Number One?”

“FEEL THE PAIN!” They shout out.

“Number Two?”

“GO TO THE LOVE!”

“Number Three?”

“CREATE SOMETHING GOOD OUT OF IT!”

“Now stand up on your chairs! Everyone stand on your chairs. And stand with your shoulders back. When we protect ourselves we collapse our shoulders in, yes, like that. So we need to create space around your heart and pull your shoulders back, like your heart has wings! Yes! Now say it with me! When bad things happen to us, what do we do?”

1. FEEL THE PAIN!

2. GO TO THE LOVE!

3. CREATE SOMETHING!

I get chills. It is done. The kids are buzzing and they leave buzzing, and I am buzzing too.

Thank you to Ayman Fadel, Greg Davis, Narinder Malik, and all the teachers and students at Tubman Middle School for this magical day.

The Space Between - Detroit, MI

2008-02-25T23:51:00.000-08:00

In the last week of January, my co-producer Sharat Raju and I traveled with our film Divided We Fall around the state of Michigan -- from a screening at Wayne State University in Detroit, to a workshop at the South Asian American Network conference at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, to a day at an all-girls Catholic high school, the Academy of the Sacred Heart in Bloomfield. Our audiences were diverse, but a central theme seemed to rise throughout our visit: young people learning to own the space between.

In my childhood, I grew up in what I call an in-between space. With brown skin and a religion no one had heard of before, I did not fit in with the other kids at school in my small conservative hometown of Clovis California. At the same time, with an American name and parents who had no accidents, I became aware that I was an outsider at the local Sikh gurdwara (house of worship).

Not fully American, not fully Indian, not fully Sikh, not really Christian, I grew up in the space between major national, ethnic, and religious communities. And like any kid, I hated it. I imagine that it was much easier to wrap oneself in a monolithic identity than sense your own complex strangeness.

Slowly, I learned how to see this in-between space as a source of strength, power, and creativity. I learned to own this space and speak from this space. From standing here, I could see things others could not. I could tell my stories.

I was not alone. An entire generation of kids like me have grown up in the in-between spaces. In our increasingly multiracial multi-religious country, we are navigating multiple identities, and instead of hiding our differences as perhaps our parents needed to, we are learning how to own our strangeness in this in-between space and speak from it.

This was clear to me during my tour in Michigan.

WAYNE STATE UNIVERSITY

We began at Wayne State University in Detroit where our audience was filled with students who shared the space between many identities: Sikh, Muslim, Arab, South Asian, white, American. Some wore turbans, some wore veils, and I was reminded of the sheer diversity of greater Detroit: the largest Arab-American community resides in neighboring Dearborn, MI.

I watched this audience and noticed the laughter was harder, the silence deeper, the tears more difficult, perhaps because many of these students related directly to the stories on the screen.

The first question after the film: "People see diversity as a black and white issue. What can be done to bring America together and promote true diversity?"

"Diversity doesn't mean uplifting certain minorities," I responded. "Diversity means all of us. It means all of us have differences and stories that ought to be recognized as part of the American Mosaic. We have all been outsiders at some point, we have all been guilty of biases, we all have a stake in the fight."

Sharat went on to talk about the need for diverse stories in the media as a way to promote diversity.

"It's time for us to start telling our own stories," he began. "There are few South Asian Americans in the newsroom, on television, or in the filmmaking business, for example. It takes time, but our own underrepresented communities need to push the next generation into these professions."

At the end of the hour, Amrik Khalsa, the student who first brought us to University of Michigan last year, spoke: "It is important to share our stories with the wider public, but we can be willing to start with their friends. It only takes one or two people to make a change. The burden is on us to speak, listen, and educate."

Afterward, the students in the audience wrote down their reflections and their own stories, which you can read here.

SOUTH ASIAN AMERICAN NETWORK CONFERENCE

After Wayne State, we headed into a weekend-long conference called "Catalysts for Change" hosted by the South Asian American Network at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. The conference was bursting with energy. In workshops and over the dinner table, college students engaged distinguished professors, artists, and activists on issues of social justice, creative expression, and the future of our community and country.

Sharat and I were honored to present a workshop with our personal hero, Amar Bhalla, Director of the Sikh Coalition (pictured). I first met Amar when I interviewed him for the film just weeks after 9/11. He was sitting at a roundtable in a Manhattan office, working with a group of young Sikh professionals on responding to the crisis of hate violence in our community. Six years later, his leadership has resulted in the most important civil rights organization for the Sikh community: The Sikh Coalition.

Imagine how honored we were to have Amar introduce us at the beginning of the workshop: "After 9/11, when our community's stories were not worthy of being on CNN or NBC, these filmmakers went out and captured them. It was an amazing service to our community. Our children and your children will be watching and remembering and learning from what happened in this moment in our history."

It nearly choked me up. Six years ago, we simply shared the desire to do something about the injustice happening around us, and now we stand with what that desire has produced: a feature-length film, a civil rights organization. It became clear to me that anyone who owns their own voice can act on their desire to do good -- and the impossible becomes possible.

We showed our audience of mostly South Asian American college students clips from the film and asked them to tell one another their own stories. As I walked around the room, I heard many different voices blending together:

"When 9/11 happens, I was a freshman..."

"I was a New Yorker."

"It was the first time in my life that..."

"I saw myself as an object."

"People saw me as an enemy."

"And I got off the bus and felt the stares."

"I no longer feel comfortable flying."

"There are so many stories, I don't know where to start."

We ended with asking what gave people hope. One student looked up, face shining, voice steady, and said: "Ours is not the silent generation. Our parents were, we are not. Everyone in this room, gives me hope."

We are speaking -- with our in-between voices, from our in-between spaces -- and this is what is changing the future.

This was confirmed that night at the conference banquet, where I heard Aasif Mandvi of The Daily Show fame, perform his spoken word pieces. Deftly exploring identity, confusion, pilgrimage, longing, his storytelling resides and flourishes in this space between -- a space we are all beginning to share.

ACADEMY OF THE SACRED HEART

Our last stop was at the Academy of the Sacred Heart's, an all-girls Catholic high school, just outside of Detroit in Bloomfield. A teacher had invited me to present the film and speak on the school's Diversity Day. Before I knew it, I was standing on the stage of a high school cafeteria before several hundred 14 to 18-year-old high school girls, hearing their bubbly conversations quiet down as their teacher introduced me.

I told them I was honored to be here for a high school Diversity Day, a first in the history of the film tour. I sat down as the film began and wondered what impact it would have on these young women with mostly white, Christian, middle-class upbringings. They watched quietly, attentively. After the film, the applause shook the cafeteria.

When I took the stage, the hands wouldn't stop going up. Question after question, the students wanted to know what it was like to be young, a woman, scared, and pursue a dream.

"What is it hard for you and your cousin?" asks Kassandra.

"Did you ever want to give up and go home?" asks Elayna.

"What was it like the first time you got in your car to do the first interview?" asks Emma.

"Were you scared when you were talking to the bigoted man in the train station?" asks Alex.

"How did your parents feel?" Chelsea wants to know.

"Did you feel at home in India after seeing all the racism here?" asks Casey.

"This is the first time I've heard of the Sikh religion." says Hayley. "Why?"

I share with them how I learned to own my voice and urge them to do the same. Afterwards, the girls surround me and give me hugs. And here is when they tell me their own stories.

"My grandmother used a whites-only bathroom when she was a girl," a young African-American student tells me, "and she was afraid that her brother would be hung if anyone found out. Now I'm thinking I need to tell my family's stories."

"I have a plain name and nondescript identity," a young white student tells me, "but I feel like I'm in-between, because I don't feel part of the larger culture, and I don't belong to any other culture."

These young women could respond to my story so personally, because even though they do not share my same skin color or religion or upbringing, they know what it is like to figure out who you are. They too have been thrown into identities that may not be able to hold them, and when they question their surroundings, they find themselves nestling into the spaces between, like me. Here we craft their own identities, find own own voices, as young women terrified and courageous enough to be ourselves:

We can be born into this in-between space between, we can choose it for ourselves, but once we are here, it becomes a borderland -- a meeting of ideas and stories and questions, a community of storytellers, saying the unsayable, one breath at a time. It is a space where we can recognize one another. Let there be no limit to who stands here with us. For this is where we can learn to speak our own truth and stand as one.

Special thank you to Amarinder Kaur and the Sikh Student Association of Wayne State University (pictured below at dinner), the entire organizing team at the SAAN Conference, and Chaise Ewert-Meyer at the Academy of the Sacred Heart for hosting an incredible Michigan tour!

And finally, a sign that hangs in the hallways of Academy of the Sacred Heart:

Dr. King and I - Ann Arbor, MI

2008-01-23T14:28:00.000-08:00

On the celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday, it was snowing in Michigan. Like most schools, the University of Michigan had given its students a day-off. Unlike most schools, it had created an ambitious month-long symposium in honor of Dr. King so rich and impressive, that even the snow couldn't keep more than 300 people from packing the auditorium to standing-room-only to watch Divided We Fall.

My director and I take the stage to thank everyone, especially our hosts the University Libraries, for choosing to reflect on Dr. King's message through our film. "He would have been here to support you, " one woman tells me.

As the film plays, I stand in the back and think of Dr. King leading the bus boycotts, standing up to the fire hoses, and sitting in the Birmingham jail learning to love his jailer. I think of him standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and speaking of his dreams. I see my professor Linda Hess in the crowd, a white Jewish woman who believed in him because she knew that her freedom was bound up with what he stood for.

At that moment, I see Rachael Neumann on the big screen, a white woman my age speaking about struggling with her own prejudice. Like Linda, Rachael knew that her freedom was bound up with the destiny of the turbaned man sitting in front of her on the train on Sept. 12, 2001. She saw him wrongfully arrested, ducked when the guns loomed over him, pretended that he must have been guilty for being treated the way he was. This is why she needed to apologize to him: "I want to apologize for making him not-a-person in my head for a year and a half." And this is why Sher Singh (pictured) accepts her apology: "I wish her the best in life."

Our freedom is inextricably tied up with the freedom of those next to us. "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere," said Dr. King. I feel proud that so many people are here in this auditorium on a snowy Monday supporting us in his name.

After the film, the audience asks about the negligance of the media, the possibility for dialogue with those who seem unreachable, and the reactions of my own family. Sharat and I give answers and tell stories (his are more funny than mine).

And then a woman stands up:

"I am a Sikh woman who lives and works here in Ann Arbor," says Gurpreet. "I remember going to the Sikh gurdwara (house of worship) after 9/11 and seeing American flags on all the cars, almost out of desperation to say 'we are American too.' And I remember how afraid I felt, even here in Ann Arbor. I was afraid to leave my house."

Gurpreet's story is an example of the many invisible consequences of the aftermath of 9/11 -- a lost sense of home that affects what we do and how we relate. Stories like hers make the issues in our film local and present.

At the very end, Angad Singh, a Sikh student who helped bring our film to U of M last year, comes to the stage. He thanks everyone for all the support he's received and offers his support to anyone in return.

It is the truest expression of solidarity.

And it represents the hard-unity that Senator Barack Obama spoke about in his speech at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta earlier in the day.

The hope captured in this speech lies at the heart of my experience on the road with this film. (For this reason, I invite you to read it no matter what your politics). It shows up in the exchanges between our audience members, the dialogue that rises out of a recognition that we all have a stake in the struggle for recognition, that my freedom depends on your freedom. You can see it in the response cards we gather from our audiences, stories that speak to that shared human experience, stories we post here.

After the screening, we finally tumble out onto the streets and share a huge dinner with the Sikh Student Association and my friends from college who are visiting for the long weekend. My circle of college friends, lovingly named the Pocket, have sustained me with their support and friendship through this entire journey into the whirlwind, keeping the bitterness at bay with their love. (At right: Irene, me, Irene, Jess, Shannon. At bottom: SSA members with us). All these festivities come after a beautiful catered lunch organized just for us by the university library staff earlier in the day.

The next day, Sharat and I lead a dialogue workshop for library staff in a ballroom as it snows and snows outside. The staff shares their own hopes and doubts about race, religion, and identity and leave feeling a little more hopeful, a little more connected with one another. We then head to the library for a formal conversation with students and faculty during the lunch hour, where we explore ideas of future projects with a wonderful group of people (at right).

And in the evening, we lead a 'fireside chat' in the East Quad for two hours with a group of students from the dorm (at left). We talk about our journey in making the film, the ups and downs, and share our insights on working for social justice. Our stories really seem to resonate and we leave feeling that we have had exchanges whose ripple effects will grow.

We want to thank Helen Look (below) and all the organizers at the university for hosting our incredible visit. And also thank you to John Cady, who drove us around in the snow, shared stories about Ann Arbor, took many of the pictures posted here, and extended his personal support to the film. We feel lucky to have made such great new friends.

We are heading to Wayne State today, then the SAAN conference, and then the Academy of Sacred Heart in the coming days -- all in Michigan! Check out our tour schedule!

To Be Afraid of Hope

2008-01-16T23:21:00.000-08:00

The new year begins in blood. Kenya is seized by violence. Benazir Bhutto is assasinated and Pakistan is consumed by riots. More soldiers are killed in Iraq. And here at home, terrible news spreads through the Sikh community -- two Sikh brothers are shot to death at their restaurant in Richmond, California:

Two men shuffled down San Pablo Avenue on a wet December night. They passed a burger joint and doughnut shop before pausing at the door to Sahib Indian Restaurant.

One banged on the window. "You open?" he mouthed to his quarry inside.

It was a few minutes past 9 on Thursday night. Ravinder Kalsi, who owned the place with his brother, had locked up minutes earlier. Perhaps hoping to hear better, he turned the lock.

Opening the door became his last act in life.

The killers shot the 30-year-old dead in the doorway. They stepped past him and moved quickly. They touched nothing, said nothing. They found 42-year-old Paramjit Kalsi in the kitchen and shot him.

- from Inside Bay Area, Dec 28, 2007

The Kalsi brothers came to Richmond from Patiala, my mother’s hometown in India. They had run their restaurant for five years.

Over the years, I had spent time in Richmond filming interviews for Divided We Fall after other Sikh shootings. It began in June 2003 when two Sikh cab drivers Gurpreet Singh and Inderjit Singh were shot in Richmond within three days of each other. The morning after Gurpreet's murder, his fiance in India, devastated by the news, committed suicide. Inderjit Singh was shot in the face and survived. Nothing was stolen from either cab.

Weeks later, another turbaned Sikh cab driver Davinder Singh was murdered across the bay in Redwood City. Taking into account the murder of Sukhpal Sodhi, brother of Balbir Sodhi, there were four shootings (three fatal) of turbaned Sikh cab drivers within one year in the San Francisco Bay Area alone. None of these were classified as hate crimes.

On Christmas morning 2006, Gurpartap Singh (pictured) was murdered in his cab in Richmond, California. He was a turbaned Sikh cab driver, the fifth to be shot in the San Francisco Bay Area since 2002. The police called the murder an attempted robbery; local Sikhs saw it as part of a pattern of violence against their community since 9/11. (I wrote about Gurpartap here.)

And now almost exactly one year later, two brothers have been killed in the same streets. What makes these murders different is that their killers sought them out in their restuarant without a clear motive. The FBI is now investigating the murders as hate crimes.

Driving from interview to interview in Richmond, I remember coming across stop signs riddled with bullet holes. The Kalsi brother killings pushed Richmond's annual homicide total to 47, highest since the early 1990s.

"Something has to be done. If the police can't capture the monsters who did this, they should just dissolve the police department and let people fend for themselves," Gurman Bal, the brothers' former roommate in Berkeley, told the San Francisco Chronicle. "It's nearly like that now - lawless."

This is how the new year begins -- in blood. And I think about what the news does to us. When we hear about car bombs and coffins coming home, civil war and acts of terrorism, or the latest murders in our own community, the world feels like that -- lawless -- the sense that no one is controlling the situation, that no one can. It is a debilitating feeling.

And yet it is a new year. It is meant to be a time of hope. A new beginning.

How then do we listen to the bad news? Do we ignore it? become numb to it? pretend not to despair when we see the bloodstains on the ground?

As I listen to the presidential candidates speak the word 'change' these days, I feel the cynicism rise up from the part of my heart that is tired-- the part that is afraid of hope.

And yet hope is the only way the world has ever changed in the past. Hope is what made Martin Luther King, Jr. organize and fight and speak of his dreams. It is how women won the vote, Gandhi won a country, and my turbaned grandfather won the right to be a legal citizen of the United States.
A baseless radical impossible hope that envisioned that it could be otherwise. It is the only way anything has ever gotten done. It is how I have come this far in my own healing.

Change can only happen if we first believe that it is possible.

And so somehow, I must hold onto my hope that brown faces will one day be recognized as equal Americans and live their faith without fear. I must continue to hope that our country can become a moral leader in the world, for it cannot be done without that vision. And I have to hope that what I do in response to the news, however small, counts for something.

I am afraid of hope.

And that fear is a sign for me to sharpen up all my critical thinking and -- in the spirit of chardi kala -- surrender to it absolutely.

Why Do We Fall?

2008-01-08T10:24:00.000-08:00

It has been nearly a year since I wrote here last, and yet 2007 was my most public year yet. I traveled the country on a national film and speaking tour, living out of my suitcase, moving from city to city, encountering stories and people and ideas like never before. If writing is my primary way of understanding my experiences, why did I not write? I was asked over and over again, and now in this new year, when I'm returning to myself and the world, I feel I must come clean.

It begins with a story, as it always must.

On August 31, 2004, I stood on a sidewalk in New York City with a camera in hand, taping a protest at the Republican National Convention. I was there as a legal observer, taping in order to protect against police brutality. The police came in with great force and bloodied people up in the street. When they saw my lens, they arrested me too. The handcuffs cut the blood from my hands. When I asked for them to be loosened, an agitated lieutenant twisted my hands and arm, slicing my body in pain. He walked away to make an example out of me.

I was detained behind bars for 16 hours. My arm was wrapped in a cast in the emergency room upon release. I was one of more than a thousand arrested that day. (For more, click here for my full story and my op-ed in Salon.)

A few days later, I started graduate school at Harvard. Instead of seeking therapy, I threw myself into philosophy as a way to think about human cruelty. While books steadied my mind, they could not reach the trauma burned into my body.

For the most part, I ignored my injury when making Divided We Fall. By the time the film premiered and began touring, the injury worsened into a severe chronic pain condition and brought my body to a halt last year.

I could not lift a toothbrush, let alone write an e-mail. I could not sleep for the pain. In the night, I would cry for my arm to be sliced off. I had made it my cause to stop violence against others, yet it was so easy to do violence to myself. I liked to scream at my body. It was the only way to say this is not of me. I prayed for someone to fix me - heal me - save me.

I stopped writing, not just for the physical pain that cut through my right side, but because a part of me had died. It was the part of me that trusted in the universe and my own ability to accomplish anything I dreamt -- the part that dreamt of flying. My wings had been cut, and I had to come to terms with my own fragility. I had fallen into a life of pain and prepared a graveyard for my ambitions.

I became a master at covering up my pain on stage. I held the mic and told stories and listened to people's lives. It wasn't that my smile wasn't real, but that I learned how to create two selves inside of me: the public self who spoke and shone, the private self penetrated in pain, stripped of voice. It is taxing to tear yourself in two and live both lives. Fortunately for me, it is also unsustainable.

I knew I had to move. I headed west until I hit the ocean and made a home there. This is where a circle of friends and healers put me back together. They did not take away my pain; they taught me how to own it. I learned how to sit inside my pain and still speak. I learned not to hide it like some shameful thing but to honor it. I learned how to treat my pain as a guide. And it has become my teacher. It is teaching me to love my body as I love others, to live balanced days, to recognize the pain that others hide. And each day, it takes me to the ocean and makes me listen.

On my last walk to the ocean, the setting sun burned the sky a blazing orange, as if someone had taken a match to the horizon.

A man sat with his guitar. "You just had to run to the edge of the world, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," I said, astonished at his knowing.

Suddenly a fin appeared and disappeared in the water. Something inside me woke up. “It was nice talking to you.”

I was running before I knew I was running, the sand beneath my feet disappeared, and I leapt into the ocean to meet the dolphins. They were gone. I waited there, thick silvery water holding up my broken body. "Come back!" I cried out to them. "Come back to me! You are beautiful!" A beat.

And they came back.

Swimming swift and strong around me, their smooth backs silhouetted against the orange, I could see their eyes. And I was laughing and laughing and shrieking, ecstatic. My mouth moved before my mind:

“The universe loves me!”

And looking around there was no one, so I yelled again:

“The universe loves me!... And I am in love with the universe!”

Laughing at myself, I took in the silver water, orange sunset, dark heaving ocean, sparkling stars deepening into the blue dome, and for a moment felt myself held within the infinite.

“So you sent the dolphins as your messenger. To give me the message of your love."

Walking home soaking wet, I was alive.

There is an aspect of the universe that can kill you -- bind your hands, beat you down, bleed your heart.

But there's another aspect of the universe that is loving – it can redeem your pain with love. It depends on how you read it. The sea can drown you; the sea can return you to yourself. People are the same. I am the same. I have returned myself to myself.

We have this power inside us. (We are inside this power.)

So a new year begins. This year, unlike any other, I felt the earth turn and even wept when the clock struck midnight. It is a new beginning. And although we bring with us our past pain, I have come to see that pain itself can be the path to our new beginning.

We fall so that we can swim with the dolphins.

Thank you for reading. For an excellent review of my journey with Divided We Fall in 2007, check out our YEAR-IN-REVIEW.

I’m using voice activated software to write again and will continue to blog here on my travels with the film and in life.

And -- yes, I have a case against the city of New York.

Here I Am

2007-12-16T21:36:00.000-08:00

A wrist and arm injury has kept me from writing for a better part of the year. This has made me very sad. Especially because I have so much to say. I have traveled with Divided We Fall to fifty different cities around North America since we premiered last September. It has been an astounding journey. I have encountered remarkable stories, experienced rich and brave dialogue, and have gained deep insight into what we all share in common - a longing to be seen for how we see ourselves and to live in a world better than the one we have.

I want to begin setting my journey to the page again, but first I must focus on healing. And so I'm spending a year by the sea in between touring with the film. You can follow the film screenings and my travels under TOUR at www.dwf-film.com. You can also check out stories about us on CNN, NPR, and the BBC, among others, under IN THE NEWS. Check back here in a while when the chronicles begin to flow again, and in the meantime, please explore the wealth of archives!

Click here for our 2007 YEAR-IN-REVIEW for Divided We Fall.

ECAASU at Yale - New Haven, CT

2007-02-09T23:40:00.000-08:00

We have been invited to Yale University to screen as part of the annual ECAASU Conference - the East Coast Asian American Student Union. It is a cold February night as two hundred students gather in a theater to watch the film and talk. This particular audience is all about the connections...

"Did Sikhs think there would be an internment like in World War?"
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"I see parallels between the Sikh and Jewish experiences. Is there a theology of martyrdom for Sikhs?"

"I am half-Japanese and my family lived through internment. I see the parallels now like never before. Discrimination in times of war impacts Sikh and Muslim Americans the same way it has affected me!"

The questions were compelling, and Sharat and I did our best to share our notes from the road. Afterward, a seven-year old Sikh girl named Tejpal comes up to me, "I really liked your movie." "Which part was your favorite?" I ask. "All of it," she says.

The conversation continued the next day as students met in our workshop.

"There is a difference between news and stories. Until I heard the stories and saw the tears, I never realized the extent of the pain," shares Carie.
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"What ways have stereotypes impacted your own lives?" I ask.

"When I was young, people assumed I was 'the model minority,'" says Tina. "Other kids would borrow my homework, counselors didn't help me, and I didn't seek help because that would break the stereotype. I was drowning under the myth!"

"Yes, there are two extremes," adds Tricksey. "We are the lotus flower sex symbol or the nerd. We can't be both. It wasn't until college that I saw my experience as part of the Asian American experience. The culture is shaping you and you don't even know it until later on!"

"I see how stereotypes actually benefit those who want to go to war," begins Willie. "It was useful for those in support of war in our government and media to hold up a picture of the enemy to us. We were already primed to see our Middle Eastern men as terrorists and call them enemies instead of our brothers and sisters fighting the same problems. It becomes harder to launch into war when you see them as people."

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"So how should our communities respond?" I ask Willie.

"I want people to remember the strength of the black community," he says. "And how much that strength has to teach others in this country how to fight for social justice. I lived in Tucson when Balbir Sodhi was murdered and remember that pain. All our struggles are not disjointed - it is ONE struggle that is divided."

Willie's conviction makes me think of a story that a Sikh man told me after our screening the night before: "Growing up in St. Louis, I put up with racism on the subway all the time, but since moving to New Haven, I run into 13 and 14 year olds who call me bin Laden! One morning, a group of black high school kids surrounded me on my way to work. They were about to jump me, when I asked them, "What if I called you 'n--'"?

Perhaps the great trick of racism is that all of us our guilty of it - even those of us who have gone through it ourselves. It blinds us from seeing that common struggle that Willie describes. Remembering this solidarity - our shared experience of racism and our common struggle against it - was the theme of our visit at ECAASU.

"I'm leaving the film and our discussion feeling hopeful," Tina concludes. "We feel empowered to go back to our campus and do something - because now we know we're not alone."

You can read all the stories and reflections from our audience at ECAASU here.

Thank you to Saveena Dhall, Director of the Asian American Cultural Center, Nancy Liang, and all the students who made our visit to ECAASU at Yale possible! I took a final wistful walk across campus before leaving...

A Sea of One Thousand at UConn - Storrs, CT

2007-02-06T23:04:00.000-08:00

I blink. There are one thousand people in the audience, but the stage lights blind me, and all I can make out is the roar of applause coming from a dark moving sea of people. This is our largest audience yet, and they are giving us a standing ovation. I send a smile of gratitude over to our host Angela Rola, Director of the Asian American Cultural Center at the University of Connecticut. Sharat and I take a deep breath and then the Q&A begins.

“My grandparents are from Poland,” one student begins. “They were immigrants and faced the same kind of discrimination when they came.”

“I remember how Palestinian students at my liberal arts college experienced hate crimes after 9/11,” shared another. “It happened everywhere.”

“There is an unspoken American lexicon that ‘American’ equals ‘white,’” another student added.

At this, I wanted to be sure that the problem wasn’t reduced to white verses people of color. I wanted to show how all of us – every single one of us – have experienced a moment where we haven’t been seen for how we see ourselves and where we failed to see others the way they wish to be seen. I told my own story.

In my senior year of college, after returning from the road with hundreds of stories after 9/11, I was writing my senior honors thesis about stereotype threat – the idea that stereotypes are embedded into our social landscape and we can’t help but react to them, even if we don’t support them. I wrote as if my job was to inform other people of their own stereotypes. “Surely, I am not guilty of such racism,” I thought.

That afternoon, I was walking home from school when a black kid walked toward me on the street. And I crossed the street. I pulled my bag closer and my stomach tightened. For the first time in my life, I noticed it! I asked myself, “Why is my body reacting this way before my mind has said a word?!” I thought back to all the episodes of COPS I watched in my childhood where the ‘bad guy’ was a young African-American male. I realized that those images were so powerful that my body couldn’t help but absorb them - just as the images of the turbaned bearded terrorist were so powerful than many of us couldn’t help but feel anxious when they saw Sikhs and Muslims on the street.

We are all guilty of this, and since we are all guilty, our guilt cancels out. It is not the first moment we are responsible for. It is the second moment. In the second moment, we can decide whether to give in to our body’s unthinking anxieties or whether we use our minds to evaluate: “Why am I reacting this way? What is the difference between protecting myself and actually harming another? What other stories and images can I draw from to undo the anxiety in my body and create a response of recognition?”

When I told this story, an African-American female student stood up in the very back of the theater and said, “I want to thank you for sharing your story. Just as you saw my brothers on the street as dangerous, I saw your brothers as enemies. We can change how we see one another’s brothers. I can begin to see your brothers as my own, just as you can see mine as your own – if we share these stories.”

Her response nearly made me cry. I wanted to reach out across the sea of people through the darkness of the theater and hug her.

After the Q&A, people swarmed us and the stories kept coming.

“I was born in Berlin, and I have been a student in four different countries,” a student named Robert tells me. “I was beaten up in Paris because I was seen as an immigrant. I know people who have never talked or touched a person who was different from them. Through traveling, I have come to understand how to cross this line of fear. And how important it is. Your film does that for people.”

“I am the ignorant one!” a Sikh college student Maninder tells me. “I’m Sikh, I knew this was happening, and yet I haven’t done anything yet.” After we left, Maninder vowed to begin the first-ever Sikh Student Association at UConn.

“I was twelve when 9/11 happened,” says Corey, a high school student at East Bolton High. I hadn’t realized there were high school students in the audience. “I grew up in an Anglo-Protestant town where there wasn’t much diversity. There are no Muslim kids or black kids at my school. I never had the opportunity to make sense of 9/11 or discuss it. When I saw the other side of the story in your film, it made me embrace as an American citizen the reality of the ignorance that still exists. That human civilization has been around for this long, and yet people can still hate you for having different skin color, a different god! It’s impetus to do something! Our generation can get any message out there. We have youtube. We can actually do something about it, not like twenty years ago, instead of just sitting back.”

His friend Dave adds, “This should be taught in every civic class. It’s part of our history and still going on now. We need to be talking.”

The next day, our dialogue team - Tommy Woon, Dean of Multicultural Life at Macalester, Jessica Jenkins and Tracy Wells - pioleted the workshop we had been designing for months called Crossing the Line. A group of students came together in a circle to experience powerful, courageous dialogue about how the stories of the film related to their own life and their relations with one another. Here we are:

Thank you to Angela Rola and everyone at UConn who made our visit a highlight on our film tour!

You can read all the stories and reflections of our 1000 strong audience members at UConn here.

Winter at Dartmouth - Hanover, NH

2007-02-05T23:57:00.000-08:00

On all sides, endless white snow. The snow-draped trees stretch to the horizon as far as I can see outside my car window. I have never driven through New England in February, and now Sharat Raju and I make our way between snow falls to Dartmouth College for Divided We Fall’s New Hampshire premiere. The road is long and the winter is breathtaking.

Somewhere nestled in the snow, we find the small town of Hanover. A population of 6,000 people, the town’s Main Street is one block long. It leads to the smallest of the Ivy Leagues Dartmouth College, grand white and brick buildings standing tall and isolated. I wonder what it is like to be a student here.

We are warmly greeted by our host Nora Yasumura, Assistant Dean of Student Life. She has our schedule planned to the hour – classroom visits, press interviews, lunches and dinners, and the film screening itself. As we are nudged from one discussion to the next, I soon discover that Dartmouth students come from all parts of the country and world and bring a wealth of experiences with them, not all of them easily shared at a place that can feel more both isolating and intimate.

We have lunch at Dartmouth Medical School, and the students discover that each of them had radically different experiences after 9/11: “I was an undergrad at Montreal College and had to defend America against people who said we deserved it!” says Nick. “I was in Buffalo, New York and had to watch the Muslim community defend itself,” says Nadine. “That fall, I flew to Dartmouth to start college and was isolated from what was happening in the rest of the world, including all the hate violence,” says Natalie. “And I felt guilty.”

“I was in Indonesia when 9/11 happened,” begins Raj. “I went to an American high school where half of the American students came from families associated with the oil industry. They became bullies after 9/11. People said that America deserved it, and the school broke out into fights, the lockers of Muslim students were vandalized, kids got expelled. And I was in the middle of it! I wasn’t American, but as an Asian, I knew what it was like to be from a country targeted by terrorism. There was little middle ground for someone like me. My school in Indonesia was a microcosm of what happened in America.”

I begin to wonder whether Dartmouth students felt divided. I ask the audience this question after the film screens in the Dartmouth Screening Hall, where Martin Luther King gave the speech Towards Freedom in 1962.

The hall is quiet until one student says: “The students here definitely feel segregated.”

Nora elaborates: “We know that 9/11 deeply affected the students and faculty here – the son of one of our professors was badly beaten in a hate crime – but it’s very hard to get people out of their comfort zone.”

At that, a man with a tall turban and long beard stood up in the audience: “I would like to invite everyone here to attend our Sikh services every Friday in Hanover.” This man’s name is also Sodhi. He has been a long-time resident in Hanover. “After 9/11, I was in Alaska, and a group of Alaskan Inuit kids were chasing me and calling me ‘Osama.’”

After the film screening, Sharat and I have dinner with the South Asian Students Association on campus. We sit in a circle, balancing hot plates on our laps, listening to these kids’ stories into the night – Kapil’s dad was told by a school principle that he was a terrorist and should leave the country, Anoop saw Sikh kids cut their hair and friendships broken, Yuki’s dad was told to go home when he worked at a gas station in Arizona, Sindhura saw Muslims in France take up Muslim identity as a response to the discrimination they already faced, and Nadia learned something about her father:

“When I was five years old, I remember helping my dad tape up our car window,” says Nadia, who is half-Indian Muslim and half-white. “After 9/11, I asked him about that broken window for the first time, and he said that someone had thrown bricks into the car; that was during the first Gulf War. My dad then got out a big American flag. ‘This is our insurance,’ he said.”

At the end of the night, the room slowly empties until I am sitting with just one student. Her eyes are beautiful and sad, and she says, “How do you hold these stories and not get discouraged?”

Her eyes break, and she begins to cry into her hands. And I wonder what stories she has held, alone. I remember the times when the stories would burn me in the night, alone, burning me on the inside, because I could not get them out. I could not turn the curse into a gift for the world. It was because I was alone.

“You are not alone,” I tell her. You can change it, but not alone.

“I am at the point of becoming bitter,” she says.

My mouth moves, but I do not know what I say. I say things, all kinds of things, anything to keep her from accepting that bitterness as the logical conclusion of fighting the good fight.

“You won’t win. We never win,” I say mindlessly, “But the fight itself is meaningful, the courage to make life better for one another, with one another. And sometimes we are graced with a tiny glimpse of the impact of what we do.”

I feel the warmth of her hug, and it is enough. We gather our coats, wrap our scarves tightly around our necks, and step back out into the cold.

We are grateful to Nora Yasamura for inviting us and arranging our visit with such care and attention. Thank you for creating a space for deep and honest conversation at Dartmouth, Nora! We continue to the University of Connecticut and Yale University on our New England Tour...

You can read all the stories from our Dartmouth audience here.

Courageous Dialogue at Delta - Stockton, CA

2007-02-01T23:19:00.000-08:00

I am blinking in the stage lights. I can barely make out the faces of the nearly 400 people who have filled the plush red seats of the enormous theater. There are tiny beams of light in the back of the theater - ushers dressed in black and white attire using flashlights to show people to their seats. I take a deep breath and welcome everyone to the Stockton premiere of Divided We Fall at San Joaquin Delta College in our most elegant venue yet.

Delta College is a community college nestled in California's San Joaquin Valley - a few hours north of where I grew up. The screening was sponsored by Delta College's Gay-Straight Alliance and their advisor Vicki Marie in a gesture of true solidarity. After a flawless screening, I take the stage for questions. The discussion that follows is nothing short of courageous dialogue - students of the valley asking the hard questions.

The first man says, "My friend is African-American and she thinks that they put us in the back of the restaurant because of her race. But I can't ever be sure! What do you make of that?"

"The ambiguity of racism too is a problem!" I exclaim. "The waiters could be acting on bias - or they could not - but the fact that your friend suspects and feel anxiety indicates the larger problem - that racism is a constant part of our social landscape. This happens to many people who are part of marginalized groups - did we not get the job because of our race? gender? religion? That we even have reason to question indicates the need for social change."

One Latino student stands up and speaks with an edge in his voice, "Maybe the problem is the meaning of 'American.' Why should we try to be more 'American?' Why should we let go of our own culture? Take yourself for example: Do you speak like that because you're trying to assimilate? Do you have your hair tied up because you cut it? Do you wear those clothes because you're trying to fit in? Why should people of color have to assimilate?"

It is an impressive statement spoken with the conviction and indignance of someone who has felt the pressure of social norms that keep us from being who we really are.

"You're right," I respond. "We should not have to let go of our culture to be American. In fact, I want to break open and expand the meaning of 'American' so that it's not the assimilationist norm but a circle that includes all of us - in all of our differences. We shouldn't make choices to fit into what other people think we should be - even our own cultural communities. Every choice we make about how to present ourselves in the world should be true to our most authentic selves. For example, I keep my hair long in Sikh tradition, but I don't have a traditional Sikh first name. I speak English like this because it's my native tongue, but I have an accent when I speak Punjabi. I keep my hair long and don't cut it, but I often dress in American clothes because I like it. I definitely felt pressure to fit into one norm or the other when I was a kid, but I finally have the courage to be who I am."

A student takes the mic: "Yes, I agree. I am a Pakistani Muslim American and I want to maintain my culture as a Muslim but also as an American. So I wear my hijab with American jeans. And both things are me. Thank you so much for showing the diversity of the Muslim culture in your film."

One girl admits, "I often feel shame and guilt about my ‘white-ness’ even when I was watching the movie, but then I felt really proud when the whole community came together in Phoenix. How do you feel about your ethnicity?"

"I feel the same way!" I exclaim. "I felt shame and guilt when people in my community pointed their fingers and said 'we are not Muslim' immediately after 9/11, but then I felt proud that many Sikhs drew from Guru Nanak's vision of oneness to stand together in solidarity. We have to fight for the stuff that makes us proud."

Another student of the Gay-Straight Alliance Clare stands up: "I look at you and you are beautiful and you have made something beautiful - it's just amazing. I could never do that."

I'm completely caught off-guard. I see a bright and passionate college student in front of me: "There's not such a difference between you and me! When I was in college, I never thought I could ever make this film. I didn't start the journey because I thought I was the best person for the job but rather because I could not be whole in the world without trying. I think all of us are presented with moments when we must choose whether to cross our fear and do something risky but important - or turn away and stay comfortable."

It is an intensely rich discussion. Afterward, the students of the Gay-Straight Alliance hold a reception for me and my parents. On the way out, I thank our ushers, including Juanita (who poses for a picture with me). And the conversation continues over cookies and punch.

A woman named Roxanna comes up to me and says, "I wasn’t going to talk to you, because I was afraid that I would offend you." I ask her to keep going. "As a white person, I’m discriminated against too! People assume that I'm a racist. But I lived in Michigan after 9/11 where there’s a large Muslim population, and the media just put the fear into us! I had prejudice, and I felt guilty that I had it - just like Rachael in the film. Everyone has prejudice. As a little girl, I had prejudice against Japanese Americans, but I stopped once I figured out that it was because of the images I saw in the movies!

"Racism affects all of us," Roxanna continues. "I have two white sons and also a half-Philipino half-white daughter. I worry whether my boys will get jobs because they’re white, and I worry about how my daughter will be treated because of her dark skin! I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I remembered what Joseph said at the end of the film: You have to talk about it!”

Roxanna's story crystallizes how all of us - no matter what our skin color - are struggling to be seen for who we are. She wants her own past prejudices to be understood, and she wants people to treat her children with respect - her dark-skinned daughter and her white sons. All of us have a stake in this fight - in the struggle for recognition.

I turn to Vicki to thank her for hosting us and creating a space for this brave new dialogue when a group of students begin telling me stories. A Latina student named Andrea starts, "One time, at the restaurant, this white woman refused to sit next to me. And it made me feel so bad." She begins to cry. "How could she treat me that way, like I'm not a person!"

I hold Andrea as she cries and wonder about all the people who carry these hurts around inside of them - hurts that are never expressed until someone asks. Her friends Dawna, Danae, and Be comfort her and tell her she's not alone.

Dawna says, "I come from a small community called Westin Ranch in Stockton. It's mostly African-Americans and Hispanics - I was one of nine white people in my high school. After 9/11, people put up Nazi swastikas and graffiti on Sikh houses and threw eggs at their windows. My best friend is Sikh, and when my classmates found out, they shot paintballs at her house and broke my car window. They were like, 'Why are you her friend?' I can relate to Robin Clarke in the film. I stood up for her, but her parents didn’t like me because I was white! They wouldn’t let me in the house. People think my ancestors enslaved them, but my family is from Slovakia! It's not me! All our ancestors came here as immigrants and struggled and faced oppression – people forget how hard it was for their families."

“I get it from all sides," says Danae. "I’m Mexican and Native American, and anytime I visit my aunt's family in Fresno, I feel displaced. They only speak Spanish, and I don't. They tell me, 'You're not Mexican then.' I'm like, whatever. I don't let things touch me because it gives them power. If you’re not pretty enough, not skinny enough, everyone gets picked on for something!”

Their friend Be says, "Smile at your enemy! That's what I do! Smile!" And they all laugh.

Another student John approaches me, "I have friends who are Sikh and Muslim, and whenever we go to restaurants or bars, they always get looked at. We only go to places where they’re friends with the owners, because those are the only places that are really safe. Your film brought all that out. Thank you.”

The reception winds down, and I speak with one last student Wayne. He tells me his story: “I was a junior in high school when 9/11 happened. We lived in Lodi, California, and I remember everyone in my neighborhood stepping out onto the street and looking up into the sky. We were all afraid, and the media thrusted the picture of the enemy into our face: FEAR this turban and beard because THIS will destroy your family. There have been white, Hispanic, and Muslim farmers in Lodi for decades, but when 9/11 happened, those with turbans became the enemy. I thought, 'I have Middle Eastern friends. Who do I trust now? This is scary. Were they in on this?'

My dad and I went to the gas station we always go to," continues Wayne. "The man who runs it is a Sikh man named Paul; he's like a staple in our community. When we got gas, he was just quiet. He later confided to my dad that he was terrified that week, because people had come in to threaten him. His entire family sat with him behind the cash register, huddled together. They probably thought if they were together, nothing bad would happen. I thought, 'Will we ever get over this? What’s going to happen in five years?'

"This documentary puts a face on an entire community that was disregarded in the aftermath. In the last year, there have been many forums at my college on 9/11 and terrorism, but they’ve all been very left- wing, just people yelling at each other from either side. Thank you so much for coming."

I leave carrying all these new stories. And Vicki Marie's deep warmth and care - she organized one of our finest screenings yet (we are pictured above with the one who mastered the tech for the screening).

Vicki ushers my parents and I out on the road so that I can reach the airport in time for our next week of screenings in New England...

Stanford & Berkeley Homecoming - SF Bay, CA

2007-01-31T23:17:00.000-08:00

This week, I came home. On Sunday night, we screened Divided We Fall at Stanford University and then crossed the San Francisco Bay on Wednesday night for a screening at UC Berkeley. Although these two schools are divided by the bay, not to mention decades of rivalry, I crossed the bridge between them more times than I can remember as a college student: my weekdays were spent on the sun-drenched Stanford campus (pictured) and my weekends in the down-to-earth streets and cafes of Berkeley.

Nearly four years after graduating, I returned to Stanford to share the film that began as my senior honors thesis. Stanford had given me the initial grant to get on the road, the Religious Studies department had supported my research, Linda Hess (Professor of Religion, pictured with me) was my main advisor, my thesis won a prize in the humanities, and I spoke about my journey as graduation speaker for my class. The film began with Stanford money and mentorship, and now I was able to show them the fruits of their investment: the first feature-length film on hate violence in the aftermath of 9/11.

On Sunday night, Linda welcomed nearly 200 people in Annenburg Auditorium – students, professors, local Sikh community members – and introduced Sharat Raju and me with her wonderful warmth and humor. As we watched the film from the back, I began to think of certain people in the audience – advisors, mentors, and family who made the film possible: Joseph Brown, my social psychology advisor who is fantastic in the film – Rob Reich, an advisor who made me believe my scholarship could affect the public good – Mandeep Dhillon, a Sikh activist and lawyer in the film who set me on a path to law school – Carl Bielfeldt, director of the Religious Studies department who supported all my untraditional projects – Linda Hess of course, the life-long mentor who set me on the road with the words enter the whirlwind.

My parents were also there, and Jagie Auntie and her daughter Neena who gave me a second home at Stanford (pictured with my mom before the show). Two of my past philosophy students who now attend Stanford, Jennifer Wolochow and Alyssa Martin, also made it (below in the second row). And Rachael Neumann was there, seeing the film for the first time (you can find her sitting in the middle of the audience). Her interview is one of the most powerful and transformative in the film.

The film screened perfectly and we had a serious exchange with the audience afterward, focusing on one man’s question, “How do we prevent our natural response to divide the world into ‘us’ and ‘them’?”

A Muslim man (pictured) shared, “I came to this country decades ago thinking that America was for equality and freedom, but then I faced discrimination – ever since the Iran crisis. How do we change this?”

“There are two Americas,” another said. “We need to show this to the other America, the one in the middle.”

“Yes, there are two Americas,” I reflected, “but they are not simply divided by geography. Both of these Americas exist here locally in every city and oftentimes within the same person. One embodies the commitment to equality and respect and the other runs on the fearful impulse to exclude others. We can’t force change upon others, but we can allow the stories in the film to make us aware of this natural conflict inside all of us and help us expand who counts as one of us.”

We carried the conversation across the bay to Berkeley where nearly 200 students filled the auditorium on a Wednesday night, sitting in the aisles, standing in the back, buzzing with noise and excitement. Jaideep Singh – long-time friend and older brother figure, now a professor at the Pacific School of Religion – had organized the screening. He introduced me gracefully with of course the mandatory ridiculing of my Stanford degree. I welcomed the audience and the film began.

From the first moment, the audience was alive – I could hear laughter, exasperation, tears throughout the entire film – the soundtrack to an emotional journey. It was one of the best audiences we’ve ever had. The audience applauded hard when I took the stage. One man yelled, “Thank you for making this film!” and another woman followed, “Tell people to bring tissues!”

A man from the Punjabi community (pictured) asked the first question: “I work at a gas station and after 9/11, I told our Sikh employees to be careful – to keep low and distinguish themselves from Muslims. During World War II, Chinese Americans wore buttons that said, ‘We hate Japs more than you do.’ They tried to distinguish themselves from Japanese Americans. Should Sikh Americans do the same? Do you think that’s counter-productive or necessary?”

“This response deeply troubles me,” I began, “because while I understand the immediate reaction to defend oneself, I see the danger and violence in placing blame on another innocent community.” I went on to reflect on the pressing need for solidarity across communities in responding to the ongoing aftermath.

“I’m so glad you said that,” said a woman in the audience (pictured in green). “My name is Shirin, and I’m a Muslim lawyer. I worked with the Sikh Coalition , including Amar Bhalla, on hate crime cases. In my present job at the Asian Pacific American Caucus, I continue to work on these cases everyday – and yet I cried during the film! Even though this is the work I do every day, these stories deeply moved me. Thank you so much for your solidarity with the Muslim community.”

“So you are a warrior,” I realized, “you are out there fighting the good fight. Every day. What gives you hope?”

“Things like this – when people come together,” she said. “That gives me hope.”

The questions continued. Harpreet Sandhu (pictured), a leader in the local Sikh community who appears in the film, asked, “You’ve been around the country with this film. What sort of responses have you had? Has it been as energetic and warm as this?”

“Yes, it’s been phenomenal. That’s what most surprises and overwhelms me. From New York to Miami to San Francisco to the middle of Illinois, we have been received with such warmth. At our screening in Bloomington, IL, where there was perhaps one Sikh in the audience, the entire audience stood up. An African-American man pointed to his braids, and said, ‘My braids are my turban.’ This gives me hope in the power of these stories.”

A Berkeley Sikh student said, “I’m a freshman here, and I just can’t believe someone in our community has done this! I had no idea. It inspires us. That this is possible for us.”

There were of course a handful of people in the audience part of this whole filmmaking journey. I thanked them for believing that such dreams could take flight: Harpreet Sandhu, Sikh activist recently elected to Richmond City Council - Sharon Gibson, the film's story consultant and family member - Karuna Tanahashi, my jewel of a friend who shot footage for the movie - Kulwinder Dol, long-time friend and supporter - Jaideep Singh, a role model who I've known since I was sixteen when he came to my house with footage on Sikhs in World War II and made me think, "so, we can make movies too." My brother Sanjeev Brar was also there - he shot the most important scene in the film, my visit with the widow in India. And my parents Dolly and Judge Brar of course.

We spent the rest of the night celebrating our Berkeley-Stanford premieres. Here I am with Jaideep, holding flowers that another past philosophy student Ashveer Singh handed to me:

And here is our illustrious director Sharat Raju with lovely Linda. We may have had a little too much fun, but what are homecomings for?

Teacher for a Day - Cambridge, MA

2007-01-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

The doors of the classroom swing open and thirty middle school kids tumble in, talking, giggling, tugging at each other, bouncing with energy. I am nervous. Divided We Fall has never been shown to junior high school students – we had aimed the film for colleges and high schools, but when the Fayerweather Street School invited me to teach their seventh and eighth grade class for a day, I was curious.

I've planned to show the movie in the morning and discuss in the afternoon. Now, standing in the back next to Scot Oxholm the mathematics teacher (pictured in action above), watching the students noisily find their seats, I wonder if their attention spans will even hold the film.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken. The kids sit still the moment the film begins and watch the entire movie in riveted silence. (Pictured from right to left: Scot the teacher, Oriana, Leo, and Gabe). By the end, there are kids with tears in their eyes. As they file out of the classroom for lunch, they smile at me and say, “I really like your movie.”

While the class eats lunch, Scot and I make plans for our afternoon discussion, and then before I know it, they pour back in. Scot introduces them to a silent webbing activity that has them respond to three questions: (1) What parts of the film resonate with you? (2) How do you connect the film with other things you’ve studied? and (3) How do you respond? What’s next?

The students take colored markers, silently write their responses on three gigantic sheets of paper on the whiteboard, and reach each other’s responses. (Pictured from right to left: Kelsie and Ayanna).

I sit in the back and watch the students fill the white pages with their own images and reactions. The film lives in each student's head, imprints each with different images, and inspires a thousand different outcomes. My throat closes as I realize that I will never know how the film lives inside each person who experiences it.

The discussion opens and everyone wants to speak! The students are eager and the energy is palpable, eyes sparkling, wheels turning, each comment inspiring another. (Pictured from right to left: Daniel, Caleb, Jeffrey, Tucker, Sam, and Grace).

What parts of the film resonate with them? An endless stream of film images: “When Daman cried about missing his uncle – when Amrik finds the plane tire and gets chased – when Rachael apologizes for trying to forget about Sher – when the little boy is called names during recess – when the man in prison wouldn’t talk to you – when the men in the train station told you to ‘go home’ – when the US congressman said that racist thing – when the man had to take off his turban at the airport – when you and your cousin talked about what the turban means to you – when the widow forgives everyone – when the memorial at the end makes you realize that not all people are prejudiced.”

The conversation turns to simple profound reactions: “You know you hear news about all the hate in the world – war in Iraq, genocide in Darfur – but when it’s close to you, it feels more powerful,” says Corie. “Even the Sikh doctor who worked at Ground Zero got yelled at! How can someone have that much hate?”

“The terrorists wanted this to happen – they wanted us to single out people. When we hate each other, we’re letting them win,” says John.

“Samir was called bin Laden after 9/11 and now he’s called Sadam,” says Pauly. “It’s a change but not really a change at all. Even though 9/11 is over, there’s still discrimination.”

“Yeah, even the kids are feeling it,” says Abby. It suddenly strikes me that the kids in the movie are their age – 13 and 14.

Out of curiosity, I ask, “How many of you knew about Sikhs?” Three hands go up. “How many of you have seen men with turbans walk around Boston?” Nearly all the hands go up.

"I didn’t know anything about the Sikh religion before watching the movie,” says Tucker.

Charlotte raises her hand: “Yeah, after 9/11, when people thought of terrorists, they thought of people with turbans and beards. And the media made all of us think that way. Even I thought that way. And now – I don’t.”

I’m speechless for a moment. It’s that simple.

“If Rachael in the movie can change, then I feel that anybody can change – any of us can change,” Daniel adds.

Adrian boldly declares, “This is the best documentary I’ve ever seen. Well, I’ve only seen like ten, but it’s still the best.”

I can’t help but laugh – I love the simple insights, profound truths, and honest claims that come from minds not yet held back by rules and assumptions about the world.

At the end of the day, my fellow teacher Scot turns to me and says, “This was one of my proudest moments with them. People ask me why I teach middle school math, and sometimes it’s hard but – this is why I do what I do. This is a highlight in my career.”

As I head home to finish finals, holding rolls of the students’ colorful webbing under my arm, I realize that this is why I do what I do too. For days like this – that make all the headache and heartache of ongoing injustices worth facing and changing.

Thank you to the Fayerweather Street School for hosting the film last night and bringing the discussion into the classroom today! And thank you to my wonderful fellow teacher for a day Scot Oxholm.

A Night at Fayerweather - Cambridge, MA

2007-01-18T23:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes magic happens. Last fall, through a series of coincidences, I met a woman named Valerie Courville. “My name is inside your name!” I told her. We took it as a sign. Valerie (pictured) introduced me to her 9 year-old son Dylan, an old soul with light in his eyes. They both grew close to my heart. It wasn't long before they offered to bring Divided We Fall to Dylan’s school – the Fayerweather Street School in Cambridge, a private pre-K to 8 school that focuses on social justice, creative exploration, and ethical citizenship.

Tonight, we had our first screening of the new year in Fayerweather's school gymnasium. The Fayerweather Diversity Committee transformed the gym into a theater: they set out rows of chairs and a large projector screen, hooked up speakers, brought down the lights, and soon nearly 150 people filled the room sharing tea and brownies.

The principle of the school Ed Kuh welcomed the audience of parents and neighbors, including my friends from kathak class, and affirmed the school’s commitment to diversity and dialogue. Valerie then warmly welcomed me on behalf of the school’s diversity committee. As I introduced the film, I could see Dylan in the very back, sitting eagerly, pushing away his long brown hair, bright eyes sparkling – he was so excited. They had worked so hard to make this night happen.

The film began. I had not watched it in more than a month. Since our last screening at George Washington, I had been buried in my books struggling to get through my last final exams at Harvard and thus complete my masters degree. My greatest excitement was doing two radio interviews with the BBC. Tonight, I realized that I am most in my element when in the life of the movie.

This time, I sat next to Dylan to try to see through his 9 year-old eyes. He watched with tremendous attention and calm. The stories came alive, became fresh, turned anew when I imagined what they showed him about the world.

When the lights came up, the audience applauded hard. I thanked my dear friend Shil Sengupta who had watched the complete movie for the first time tonight after reviewing countless rough drafts last year (he also played photographer tonight - except for our picture). Then I opened for questions. Absolute silence. No one moved. After a moment, a hand went up – and then another and another and it wouldn’t stop.

One parent in the audience Laurie spoke with tears in her eyes: "The film impacted me deeply. It was so powerful that I think I need several days to process it all. Right now, we just feel speechless. The more personal the stories, the more universal your journey became.”

A teacher at the school Joanie shared: "I'm African-American and I've always felt different – my community has felt different for a very long time. Whenever something bad happens, we're prepared for racism. I was so happy that you included the segment on the Japanese American Internment, because it shows how racism has impacted many people in our country's history. I'm also very happy that you talked about the power of storytelling! I believe that too, and that's what I have my kids doing in class."

Joanie’s comment launched me into a reflection on how storytelling can change people more than rational argument. I shared my encounter with New York City Councilmember James Oddo as a testament to the common ground possible through stories.

A parent then asked, "How do we get this film to a wider audience? How do we make a difference?" I shared our hope to secure distribution and the power of word-of-mouth and grassroots support in getting these stories to mainstream America.

A woman in the front row offered: "My name is Cecilia, and I'm a foreigner. The focus on ‘who counts’ as American troubles me. Maybe the problem is identity itself. Do we need identity?" It was an important question.

“After 9/11, who we counted as American in this country equalled who we counted as human – who we gave full rights, recognition, and respect.” I responded. “Since erasing identity is impossible, I think we must expand who counts as one of us to include diverse identities, so that America’s metaphor of the melting pot which absorbs identity is replaced with the mosaic which values and celebrates identity – and includes all of us. Every multicultural nation faces this same struggle.”

Another hand went up. It was someone I knew. Corey Davidson was my student at a high school philosophy program at Stanford, and now he’s in college. I hadn’t seen him in three years (our reunion pictured). He shared his love for the film and reflected, "The images in the media are just so powerful – they are everywhere - and they keep reinforcing the stereotypes in our minds. On the television show 24, the terrorists are Middle Eastern men with Russian accents! It's crazy. But I still watch it. It takes a lot not to absorb these stereotypes… It was this kind of misinformation that made us go to war in Iraq.”

“Do you feel empowered in the face of such overwhelming forces? Do you think you can change it?” I asked.

"No, I don't. I don't know what I can do."

“There is reason for hope,” said the man next to Corey. “The results of the recent election makes me hopeful. People can come together to make a difference."

A mother in the back raised her hand: "What I found remarkable is that the film shows how we are all the same. This makes me hopeful. We have our differences but beneath everything, we are human. These stories show that, and my hope is that more people are able to realize that." The little girl she was holding in her arms began to imitate her hand gestures, trying to say what her mom was saying. “You are the hope!” I laughed.

After the Q&A, the audience was buzzing. A man approached me and said, “I was an observer to the film, a bystander, until Gary Gietz said, ‘We should all put on turbans for a week… standing together.’ That made me realize that it isn't enough to recognize difference – we have to embrace it."

I chatted with Shil, Corey, and Brian Rothschild a new friend I met on a plane ride (he had already heard about the film in the Boston Globe when I told him about it!). Then Dylan handed me a heart made of marizpan, and we all took pictures.

Later Dylan quietly reflected on the film, “You expect these things to happen many years ago but not so recently, not now.” I wonder about how he will one day decide to respond to the violence he is now beginning to understand.

At the night’s end, I read through the audience comment cards. One was written by the only turbaned Sikh man in the audience. When he got up after the movie, a little girl smiled at him. “That’s the power of this film,” he realized, “the power of these stories.”

It is the smallest gestures that can be the most powerful responses. Dylan and this little girl – and children like them – already know that.

They are my reasons for hope.

A House Divided - Washington, DC

2006-12-02T23:18:00.000-08:00

The view from the seventh floor is dazzling – sunset behind the Washington Memorial, water shimmering around Jefferson, city lights coming alive. I am looking out from the City View Room in a building at George Washington University, where we are about to hold the DC premiere of Divided We Fall, our last screening of the calendar year, hosted by the GW Sikh Student Association and the Smithsonion Asian Pacific American Program. I have a moment to take in the view before it all begins.

I spot the Lincoln Memorial. I remember coming to Washington, DC every summer in high school for the annual National History Day competition. In the early evenings, my family would visit the National Mall, and I’d sit at the feet of Lincoln, imagining what would lay in store for me. Lincoln is remembered to say, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

Since September 11, 2001, I have witnessed how racism, fear, and self-preservation can divide a nation. The borders that divide us today are invisible, perpetuated in myth and media, erected in the mind and heart, separating “us” from “them.” Lincoln waged a war to save the union; now those of us who have come of age in 9/11’s aftermath take up our pens and turn on our cameras to fight for recognition in that union. The stories in the film are part of that fight, I realize, as I return to Washington, DC with the first feature-length film on hate violence in post-9/11 America, my new History Day project.

The premiere is about to begin. More than 200 people fill the lobby and wait for the doors to open. Inside the banquet room, GW students are adding the finishing touches: they cover the tables with white cloth, center the flower arrangements, place postcards on the tables, light the candles, and suddenly the doors open. It is magical. Hundreds of people flood the room and take their seats. People are standing in the back and sitting on the floor. The room is buzzing, everyone is excited, the energy palpable, and in the very back, I turn to my director Sharat and ask him to remind me that there is no reason to be nervous. We’ve done this nearly a dozen times in the last few months, traveling from city to city across America. And yet, the butterflies take over my stomach before every screening.

We are introduced by President of the GW Sikh Student Association Shana Narula (pictured below). She presents the film as part of the organization's annual dinner in honor of Guru Nanak, the first Sikh teacher.

As the film begins, I notice the different kinds of people in the room – students from the university, locals who get Smithsonian news, members of the Sikh community, people who work at the FBI, our friends and their colleagues, and many more. A truly diverse audience. As the journey goes deeper, the audience comes alive – their laughter is loud, their silence is deep, and before the credits are even over, they applaud and rise to give us a standing ovation.

Sharat and I are deeply moved when we take the stage for the Q&A. We talk about the process of making the film, the stories we didn't include, the possibilities for change. A Sikh doctor shares his experience with racism. Another man wants to know how to ask someone about their identity with respect. A woman brings up the need to show this film in France, where a ban against wearing religious articles of faith is keeping Sikh and Muslim children from public schools. Another discusses how minority communities can get stories like this into the mainstream.

After the discussion, Shana presents us with flowers and gifts, and dinner is served. Everyone continues the conversation over hot plates of delicious Punjabi food. But I don’t eat a bite. I am talking to people, one after another – a group of lawyers who reflect on the power and limits of law, a French woman who wants to bring the movie to Paris, an African-American Sikh woman who has followed our work for years, individuals at the FBI who want to help get our film seen, and law students who invite us to a follow-up discussion at their university. Muneer Ahmad comes up to congratulate us. He is the professor at American Law School who provides some of our best analysis in the film, and I am grateful and relieved that he too loves the movie. It is a stunning night in the life of the film.

A few days later, Sharat and I visit the law school at American University for a follow-up discussion. We were invited by Amna Arshad, Hanan Idilbi (pictured) and a handful of law students who attended the screening. As the conversation deepens, we realize that nearly all the students at the round-table chose to pursue law degrees for the same reason: to gain the power to respond directly to social injustices. While the interests varied - from domestic violence to immigrant struggles - we were all committed to working toward... a more perfect union. It is inspiring to imagine a generation of students like this.

What now? Now we rest for a few weeks before we are swept up once again in our now international tour - from Boston to Mumbai to Berkeley to Omaha, we have adventures in store in the new year. We hope that this energy will propel the film to ever-wider audiences and continue to deepen the dialogue about who we are and who we want to be.

Thanks to Shana Narula and all the members of the Sikh Student Association at GW for an incredible night. Thanks also to the Smithsonian for co-sponsoring our premiere! And of course what would we do without Jessica Jenkins, our director of research, who traveled from New York City, to help make our Washington, DC premiere a fabulous success.

A Golden Premiere - Sacramento

2006-11-14T23:24:00.000-08:00

Lieutenant Governor CRUZ BUSTAMANTE hosted the formal California premiere of Divided We Fall a few steps away from our state capitol tonight. Beneath the great dome of the Secretary of State building, hundreds of people mingled, holding plates of Indian food, waiting for the doors to open for the premiere. The Lieutenant Governor came to welcome us and express his excitement about the film. (Spot us in the crowd...)

We had first met Cruz Bustamante last October at the Spinning Wheel Film Festival in Los Angeles. There he had seen our film trailer and promised to do everything he could to get Divided We Fall to audiences. One year later, thanks to the skillful organization of Ravi Kahlon and Kiranjit Kaur in his office, he was hosting our California premiere.

Once the theater doors opened, we flooded into the auditorium. There were rows of plush red seats and a stage with blue curtains that parted for the movie screen. More than 300 people filled the seats, stood in the back, and sat on the steps.

The Lieutenant Governor took the stage to recognize the sponsors of the event and then give us a glowing introduction – he commended my courage for beginning the journey and Sharat Raju’s talent and vision as a filmmaker for finishing it. He also honored my parents - who were in the audience - for supporting our project, even when it took us into danger. It was the most incredible introduction Sharat and I have received on our film tour.

He then presented both of us with a Resolution he had passed on the floor of the legislature - one that formally recognized the film and its message. I felt so deeply honored that for once I found myself speechless when the microphone was handed to me. I found the words to thank him.

The resolution made out in my name read:

Whereas, I am delighted to honor and commend Ms. Valarie Kaur for her tireless efforts in creating the documentary film of the plight of Sikh Americans post 9/11 living in the United States; and

Whereas, the film Divided We Fall follows Ms. Kaur’s journey as she drove across the country in the immediate aftermath of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, documenting stories of hate violence and discrimination towards Americans; and

Whereas, Divided We Fall is the first feature documentary film to address hate crimes and hate violence in the aftermath of September 11, 2001; and

Whereas, Ms. Kaur has additional works that focus on stories of Sikh Americans, including her thesis, “Targeting the Turban: Sikh Americans in the Aftermath of September 11,” which won the Golden Medal in Humanities and became Ms. Kaur’s first written work on the experience of misrecognition in the aftermath of 9/11; and

Whereas, Ms. Kaur has written extensively about her experience and lectured at more than fifty conferences, film festivals, and community events around the country; now, therefore be it

Resolved, that I, Cruz M. Bustamante, Lieutenant Governor of the State of California, do hereby recognize and applaud the important contributions that Ms. Valarie Kaur has made to our Golden State and the nation in her efforts to educate the public about the Sikh Community.

It was a true honor for me to have the film recognized by the state of California, especially in a time when our stories are ripe for discussion in the mainstream American public.

After the film screened, the audience rose in a sudden heartfelt standing ovation. We thanked those in the audience who had seen the film to completion: Gurprit S. Hansra, who speaks about his meeting with President Bush in the film and believed in this project in the very beginning at a time when I was receiving little support. Harpreet Singh, a leader in the El Sobrante community who has worked hard to secure protection measures for local Sikh cab drivers. Pargat Singh, a wise elder in the Sikh community who told me his compelling life story, including the loss of fellow cab drivers in hate murders. Basim Elkarra, the Sacramento director of the Council of American and Islamic Relations (CAIR) who helped me understand the problems facing local Muslims.

The Q&A began with a question from a little girl in the front – how were you before you made the film, and how were you after? It was the most difficult question I had to answer, one that I’m still figuring out. Never had I imagined that the film would be recognized by officials and policymakers as vital to the discussion on diversity and respect in my home state.

As the discussion continued, we heard voices from the Japanese American, Native American, Muslim and Sikh American communities, all drawing connections between one another’s struggles. Many people pointed to the ongoing violence - including the recent murder of an Afghan Muslim woman Alia Ansari in Fremont, whom many speculate was targeted for her veil.

Basim Elkarra, Sacramento director of CAIR, offered his deep-felt support for the film and its message. “I believe that your film will save lives. It has the power to change peoples' hearts and minds. The Koran says, if you save one human being’s life, it is like saving all of humanity.”

It was an unforgettable night.
-

Thank you to Ravi Kahlon, Kiranjit Kaur at the Lieutenant Governor's office for their incredible hard work. Also to Satinder Singh for his support! (Pictured left to right: Kiranjit, me, Ravi, Sharat, and Satinder).

The Roxie - San Francisco

2006-11-12T23:24:00.000-08:00

It was like coming home. Our San Francisco premiere at the Third I Film Festival was our first screening in California, and looking out into the packed audience in the city’s famous Roxie Theater, I was overwhelmed by the image of my parents, cousins, friends, professors, interviewees, and strangers standing up together to applaud our film at the end. It was our fifth standing ovation – and the tears couldn’t help but come.

We had just flown through the night from Miami the night before to make our Sunday morning premiere in San Francisco. We were tired and barely made the screening on time, but we were energized the moment we stepped into the Roxie and took in the audience. Kulwinder Dol, long-time friend and supporter, introduced us and the film began. It was one of our best screening to date – the image and sound quality of the film were superb, the audience was alive, and afterward we felt the outpouring of warmth.

The post-film discussion was hosted by the South Asian Journalists Association. Sharat spoke about the making of the film. People in the audience discussed the need for solidarity movements and ways to build strong ties between the community and media. We received several more invitations for screenings in the Bay Area, including one at Stanford University in the spring. A woman who made the trip from Atlanta expressed her pride and gratitude for “the best film she’s ever seen.”

Then there was the long list of thank-yous. Sharat and I were able to recognize the handful of remarkable people in the audience without whose support, the film would not have been possible. We began with people in the film. Linda Hess, my Stanford advisor, now mentor and friend, whose words set me off “into the whirlwind.” Jayashri Srikantiah, Stanford law professor who provides some of the film’s best analysis. Nitasha Sawhney (pictured with Sharat and me), a Sikh lawyer interviewed in the film and our dear friend. And Mandeep Singh Dhillon, a Sikh lawyer who appears in the film leading a rally on the steps of the California state capitol.

Then there were people who helped make the film. Andrew Chung, the first person who worked with me on editing the film, credited as production consultant, but who I’ve deemed as life manager. Karuna Tanahashi, a friend and artist in her own right who filmed Linda’s interview. Sanjeev Brar, who filmed the last moving scene with the widow in India (he’s also my brother, pictured.) Kathy Jennings, production assistant and dear family friend. Sharon Gibson, the film’s story consultant.

And finally my parents – Dolly and Judge Brar, who saw the film for the first time that morning. I continue to be astounded and deeply grateful for their unending support.

Afterward, we celebrated.

Pictured left to right: Sanjeev Brar (my brother), Sharmila Gill (my cousin), Sharat Raju (DWF director), Sharon Gibson (DWF story consultant), Kathy Jennings (DWF production assistant), Ravi (friend), Dolly Brar (my mother), John Tebbets (long-time friend), me and my father Judge Brar.

Thank you to Ivan Jaigirdar and all at San Francisco's Third I Film Festival for hosting an incredible screening!

My First Sikh Conference - Miami

2006-11-11T23:55:00.000-08:00

Unlike most Sikh Americans my age, I never spent my summers at Sikh camps as a kid or attended Sikh youth conferences when I got older. As a third-generation Sikh American (my family has lived on the same plot of California farmland for nearly a hundred years), I had a very American name and couldn’t speak Punjabi well. So I grew up on the edges of the Sikh community. I always felt like an outsider – until I began the journey to make this film five years ago.

Through making Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath, I found a way to use my outsider/insider perspective to raise the voices of Sikh Americans in the aftermath of 9/11 and fight for the expansion of who we ‘count’ as American. Now that the film is on national tour, I am discovering new ways to connect and understand my community.

This weekend, I attended my first conference for young Sikh professionals – JAGO in Miami. The film’s director Sharat Raju and I were invited to be part of the conference and screen Divided We Fall on the last day as the feature film in Florida’s first Spinning Wheel Film Festival.

The three days of the conference were packed with speakers, small group discussions, prayer sessions, skits, and incredible meals. T. Sher Singh, the founder of the original Spinning Wheel Film Festival in Toronto (and thus the person responsible for first introducing Sharat and me back in 2003), gave the opening address. He spoke on the topic of Sikh identity.

While much of the discussion at the conference focused single-mindedly on the necessity of the five articles of faith, especially the turban, as markers of identity, I was grateful for Sher’s definition:

Sikh identity is a state of mind: the resolution to act as leaders. We have a legacy of leadership in Sikh tradition, whether in battle, on the streets, in the classroom, or at the roundtable. You are saint-soldiers – leaders in our world– above all.

As someone positioned at the outskirts of our community, I was relieved that Sher did not decide to rehash the old debate on who ‘counts’ as Sikh and who does not. For a long time, the main discourse in Sikh gurdwaras (temples) and homes has centered on what constitutes ‘the good Sikh.’ Some say that only those who keep their long hair and turbans are ‘true’ Sikhs. Others say that wearing the five articles of faith is the only way to realize the ideal of the saint-soldier. Many say that one must read Gurmukhi (the script of the sacred book) in order to become the gurmukh (the Sikh ideal). Some condemn all use of English translations, not to mention the giving of English names to children – names like mine.

I have always been baffled by this discourse: it encourages people to spend more time judging one another rather than deciding how to walk one’s own path. In my family, my grandfathers wear turbans, my father does not; my mother reads Gurmukhi fluently, my aunt does not; my cousins have Punjabi names, I do not. There is so much diversity in my family alone, I can’t help but think that any attempt to construct a single definition of a ‘good Sikh’ is impossible – and dangerous.

I prefer the idea that there are many ways to be Sikh in the world, that we can embrace one another’s differences, and recognize that this diversity enriches our community. Even if we walk the path differently, we can still walk it together. I often speak about how Sikhs wish to be recognized as part of the American mosaic – but the Sikh community itself is its own mosaic. There is as much diversity within our own community as there is in our nation. Resisting the impulse to judge others can free up our energy for solving real problems in our struggles responding to hate crimes, employment and educational discrimination, the ban on the turban and other religious articles in France, serious health risks such as diabetes and high blood pressure, and widespread domestic violence, and more.

When Divided We Fall made its Florida premiere on the third day of the conference, it was the first time the film screened before an all-Sikh audience. In my Q&A, I shared these thoughts on the need to embrace our community’s diversity – and was surprised to hear applause after I made my remarks. The audience received my message warmly, many offered donations, others signed up to help spread the word.

This incredible reception has given me the courage to continue speaking what I feel to be true – even at the risk of angering others or standing alone. I am grateful for the opportunity to make use of my position as a filmmaker, student, and third-generation Sikh woman to help expand the boundaries of discourse both in my community and country.

Thank you to Sheena Kaur and all the organizers of Jago & Spinning Wheel 2006 for inviting us! Click here to find out where we're going next!

What Is Solidarity - Illinois

2006-10-31T23:26:00.000-08:00

This week, the whirlwind took us to Illinois on our first state-wide university tour: first to Illinois Wesleyan University, Bloomington (pictured), then to Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, and finally to the University of Illinois, Chicago.

On Friday October 27, we arrived at Wesleyan University for the Illinois premiere of Divided We Fall. We were immediately embraced by Dr. Narendra Jaggi, the main force behind our university tour, and spent the day with the students responsible for bringing us to Wesleyan, led by Patrick Halloran (we're chatting about Sikhs Studies in the picture below) and Amee Patel of the South Asian Students Association (SASA). They gave us a tour of the campus – with only two thousand students at Wesleyan, the campus sustains a deep sense of community – and we were immediately embraced into it, thanks to SASA. We toured the campus together, visited classrooms, had lunch with professors, met with more students, ate dinner together, all before our premiere that night at the big brand-new student center.

The premiere became one of the most powerful and overwhelming nights in the life of the film. We screened before more than 200 people from the college and local Bloomington community (many came after hearing director director Sharat Raju interviewed about the film on their local NPR earlier that day).

After introductions, the film began and Sharat and I watched the audience from the balcony above as they moved together in moments of laughter, wiped tears from their eyes during the painful parts, and applauded when the credits ended. It was the first time I “watched” the film entirely through the eyes of the audience.

After Patrick introduced us to the stage, the entire audience rose together to applaud us with smiles and tears. And then the Q&A began. For nearly a half an hour, we held an open forum, with runners moving the mics through the audience as different people spoke from the heart, asked questions, shared reflections. Sharat and I told stories that weren't included in the film, stories that touched upon the central question that seemed to guide the entire discussion: what is solidarity. It was interesting that this audience – the first that seemed to capture the demographics of mainstream America – kept turning and re-turning to the question of what it means to stand in solidarity. They reflected on their own communities' experiences and the power to change the culture together – like a prairie fire.

When people lined up to talk to us after the Q&A, they began hugging us one after another – strangers hugging strangers because we were no longer strangers. Each person felt compelled to embrace us and talk to us for a long time about how the film changed them: the third-generation Chinese American theater student who had been feeling lost for a long time now re-inspired to act, the African American museum curator who poignantly said "my braids are my turban," the Muslim woman who could not stop crying through the film, the Britisher whose grandfather was Indian but who had ignored the plight of his own family's encounters with discrimination until now, the 20 year-old African American student who knew nothing about Sikhs before but now felt compelled to stand up the next time he hears someone verbally abused on the bus, the couple who randomly came to the screening and had absolute faith that the film would get into theaters because "it moves everyone, of every background, no matter who you are."

This film seems to tear open the hearts of people, helps us to bear the pain and bare the pain, the pain we share together, no matter who we are. It was a transformative night, a healing night, a night that we'll never forget. We talked to people for what felt like an hour, even signing autographs! my head dizzy from all the stories; it felt as though warmth and encouragement were poured into us, and we were full to the brim.

We then spent a restful weekend at the home of Dr. Jaggi (pictured teaching Sharat life lessons) and his wife Hansa – where we treated to late mornings and South Indian breakfast and many beautiful stories. There were more students who wanted to speak with us, so we met at the local bookstore with a small group and talked about idealism, fatigue, and the possibilities for change – no professors, just college kids getting together to think critically about the world and our relation to it. (Pictured left to right, I'm next to Simon, Nichole, Will, Becky, and Nirjhar).

We then continued south to our screening in Carbondale, this time joined by our excellent communications director Tracy Wells who drove from Omaha to tour with us.

On Monday night, October 30, the film was hosted by the Department of Cinema and Photography at Southern University of Illinois, Carbondale. We screened before more than 80 film students who asked questions about both content and technical aspects after the screening. We continued the conversation over dinner with our beautiful and spirited host Jyotsna Kapur, professor of film studies. We spent the night at her very warm home before we made the seven-hour journey back north to Chicago for our final screening.

On Tuesday night, October 31, we had a crowd of nearly 100 people who chose to spend Halloween night with us at our Chicago premiere. The screening was hosted by the Sikh Student Association at the University of Illinois, Chicago, thanks to the organization of Parminder Mann and Nitasha Kaur. We had many friends in the audience – including our brilliant editor Scott Rosenblatt and researchers Steve Gulati and Harsimran Kaur Dang. We had another rich discussion afterward that of course continued in an Indian restaurant a few blocks away after the screening.

The week was rich, exhausting, and exhilarating. We are resting before we head next to Miami in a few days. In the mean time, we are celebrating the new look of our website: http://www.dwf-film.com/ Until next time!

Thank you again Dr. Jaggi for our whirlwind tour of Illinois!

Breaking New Ground - NYC

2006-10-19T23:25:00.000-07:00

On October 17, 18, and 19, the “Women in Religion in the 21st Century” conference was held at the Interchurch Center in Manhattan. It was a gathering of academics and religious practitioners from around the country in a rich three days of panels, workshops, and films exploring faith, feminism, and “faith-fueled activism.” On each day of the conference, I was asked to speak from a different Sikh perspective: first as a Sikh filmmaker, the next day as young scholar of Sikh scripture, and on the last day as a Sikh American woman “breaking new ground.”

On the first day, I was a filmmaker. With the help of Jessica Jenkins, our fabulous Director of Research, we screened Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath before a small gathering in the beautiful space that is the Chapel of the Interchurch Center. It was an intimate setting and we had some good conversation afterward – as well as a number of invitations for future screenings: Philadelphia! Long Island! North Carolina! Michigan! Jess was busy scribbling down possibilities for the next stops on our national film tour.

On the second day, I spoke as a student of Sikh scripture and ethics at Harvard Divinity School on a panel called “The Pleasure of Our Text.” Women are often asked to defend their scripture, explained moderator Laurie Patton, so this panel asks scholars to share the pleasure of studying their text. The other two on the panel were distinguished scholars in their own fields with many books to their name: Ellen Frankel speaking on Jewish text and Asma Barlas on Islamic text; it was an honor to speak alongside them and very easy to reflect on the the pleasure of studying the poetic verses of the Guru Granth Sahib:

“Guru Nanak’s theological vision of Oneness is at the heart of Sikh scripture. It beckons us to experience the radical interconnectedness between all beings and the compassion that flows from such recognition. This opening up of boundaries, however, is often in tension with the impulse of a threatened community to close its boundaries and protect itself by ‘naming’ itself over and against others, as ‘Sikhs’ not ‘Muslims’ for example. We see both streams of ethical thinking in the Sikh community since 9/11.”

It was on the third and final day, however, when I was asked to speak on a panel called “Continuing the Legacy, Breaking New Ground,” that I had my own real break-through. It was the first time I had articulated the problems facing Sikh women in the context of post-9/11 America. While other panelists spoke of the legacies they were continuing, I emphasized the very new place of Sikh women on the stage of American religious history. I had to draw up the courage to speak with honesty; I was reminded by what my dearest friend Irene once told me: “Speak even if your voice shakes.” Here is what I said.

“I have thought long and hard about the framing for this talk and this conference: continuing the legacy. I have come to realize that for me, there is no legacy. I cannot remember any significant Sikh women leaders in American religious history. I can only draw upon the inspiration of my peers – Sikh women who are just now speaking as lawyers, scholars, and community leaders. We are blazing a path where there was none. It is often painful and sometimes extremely dangerous.

“I deeply appreciate the common language that we can share as religious women at a conference like this, but I also feel as though I am an outsider here. The mainstream women’s movement in America speaks from a place of relative stability and security. Your fore-mothers have made great gains in the last hundred years: you have a legacy that you are continuing, and although your struggles continue to be new, you are drawing upon those gains.

“In contrast, I feel as though I speak from a place of tremendous urgency and instability. I speak from a community that feels itself in deep crisis since 9/11. And from within that community, I speak as a woman who bears the burdens of that crisis. We as women bear the pressure to preserve the tradition as dictated by the patriarchs in our families and to protect those men at all costs, even if it means allowing them to take their frustration out on our bodies. I am personally connected to women in my community who are dealing with domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual incest, and patterns of abuse that follow alcohol and drug addictions, all situations exacerbated since 9/11. Here are glimpses:

“There is a woman who is beaten over and over by her alcoholic husband. She has to be taken to the hospital after he breaks her two front teeth. Their daughter finds blood on the bathroom floor. The woman won’t call the police because she’s worried that they will deport her husband back to India. And she won’t leave him because she’s afraid of ‘what people will say.’

“I know a woman who stayed with her boyfriend for two years after 9/11, despite constant emotional abuse - she knew that part of her mistreatment came from his frustration as a turbaned Sikh man walking the streets to insults everyday.

‘There is a woman whose marriage is failing under economic pressures since 9/11, but she won’t seek marriage counseling, because ‘they don’t understand our Punjabi culture.’

“And there is one woman I know who was called out to an empty park by a member of her family and threatened at gunpoint by a cousin who had molested her in their childhood. She escaped. Hours later, I asked her, ‘Why don’t you call the police?’ ‘I can’t call the police,’ she says. ‘How can I ask the police to show up at the house of a man with a turban and beard who has a loaded gun? They will see him as bin Laden in the flesh. They will pull the trigger on a sudden move; they will beat him in prison.’ I am reminded of the fear of black women in the inner-city unable to call the ‘white cops’ on their men.

“What is the meaning of security in a post-9/11 world: what does security mean for a nation on high alert? for a community often targeted as the enemy in that nation? and for women in that community who cannot call the police?

“I think back to Marion Masada, a woman I interviewed in the film. She was sexually assaulted as a child in the Japanese Internment camps by a man who released his abuse on her body. She was afraid for a long time after. The private and the public converge – the history of a nation and the history of a woman.

“This is the first time I have spoken about the dangers facing women in my community. When asked to speak in public, my impulse has been to present the best face of the Sikh religion – our ideals of equality, pluralism, and social justice – and to mask the dimensions of danger inside our own families. I urge you as fellow women, activists, and academics to ask the questions that break the mask, so that real dialogue and solidarity may be possible.”

People began to applaud slowly and then loudly. Many women told me afterward that they needed to hear this perspective. For me, the conference was a turning point in terms of connecting the struggles of Sikh American women with women from longer-standing American traditions.

At the closing of the conference, a woman stood up and said: “We are making history. This is history.” This is how it felt. A starting point for me personally and Sikh women in general to join the larger faith-fueled feminist movement. It is new ground we are breaking… and just the beginning.

Pictures by Bob Gore, the film's biggest fan - and biggest support - at the conference.

Perhaps a Mosaic - Boston

2006-10-11T23:55:00.000-07:00

After premiering in Phoenix and New York, we made our BOSTON PREMIERE at Tufts University on October 25, hosted by the Asian American Center. It was a full audience once again, but this time, it was made up mostly of college students, many of whom experienced 9/11 as freshmen in high school. Linell Yugawa, our gracious host and director of the Asian American Center, introduced us. We introduced Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath. And it began.

This time, Sharat and I sat in the back to listen to the audience. They were quieter than previous crowds, but I think it’s because we saw so many diligently taking notes. It was then that I realized how our film captures a critical moment in American history –unraveling complex themes on race relations, religion, political security, historical discrimination and the possibility for pluralism – in other words, ripe for study in classrooms.

After the film, rather then rushing through a Q&A, we had nearly a half an hour to respond to questions from both students and professors. We first recognized our friends in the audience: Deonnie Moodie (my dear friend, roommate, travel companion and oh yes, the film's story consultant), Chris Byrnes (part of the DWF Dialogue Project committed to creating curriculum for the film and our photographer that night), Kathryn Lohre (representing the Pluralism Project, a long-time supporter), Michelle Goldhaber (a beautiful friend who is like sunshine) and M. Christian Green (my professor at Harvard Divinity School who like Kathryn and Michelle, offered feedback on early versions of the film).

The discussion included the future plans for the film, the limits and powers of storytelling to transform rigid ideas about others, the Sikh community's position on forgiveness, what Sharat and I worry about, and what brings us hope.

One student asked, "What was part of the motive for Sher Singh's arrest?" Sher Singh, whose story is told in the film, was the first person to be arrested as a suspected terrorist in Providence, RI - arrested for his 'suspicious appearance' alone. Sher Singh is a Sikh who wears a turban and carries a kirpan. "Many people believe that the mayor of Providence wanted to be the first to produce a suspected terrrorist," I responded. Amarpreet Singh Sawhney (pictured), a member of the local Sikh community in Boston, stood up to share his part in the story. He had written to the mayor after the incident to explain that he had targeted an innocent community. The mayor wrote a letter of apology, which Amarpreet then delivered to Sher.

The remarkable thing about the stories in our film is that they involve the audience, sometimes in very real ways, so that one question by an audience member oftentimes can be answered by another audience member. This is what makes me so hopeful about the film's ability to cultivate real dialogue.

Our discussion ended with the crowd standing to applaud the film and its message – our third standing ovation – but the discussion was far from over. It spilled out into the reception, where Sharat and I talked a long time with Tufts freshmen and sophomores.

A few days after the screening, Linell Yugawa wrote to tell me that there was so much buzz on campus after the film, they would be holding a follow-up discussion for students. The invitation to the discussion read: "This film, shown on campus on 9/25, had an emotional impact on many in the Tufts community. The issues raised in the film prompted many of us to reflect on our personal experiences. If you saw the film and have thoughts and feelings you’d like to share, join us for a conversation and light supper!"

Tonight I sat with a group of twenty Tufts students in the Asian American Center, balancing plates of food on our knees. They were there to share their thoughts. I was there to listen. For the next few hours, everyone spoke spontaneously, in turn, sharing incredibly raw stories and moving reflections.

Linell began: “I’m a third-generation Japanese American, and oftentimes I am not seen as American. I am grateful that the Japanese Internment was presented in the film. In the film, one of the internees said that he should have marched with the Sikh community after 9/11, because 'we should be the first to know that that should not be happening.' We talk and talk, but what do we put forward?”

Across the room, another woman began to speak. “My name is Meena, and I’m a graduate student and resident director. I had to leave immediately after watching the film, because I was so emotional: I was watching my life on the screen! When I was in high school, I had a cross burned on my lawn. The worst thing about it was the total lack of outrage expressed. People said, 'Why should you even care? You aren't black.' I’ve been carrying around so much anger inside of me, and I didn't realize it until watching the film. I feel just like Nitasha Sawhney when she says at the end of the film, ‘People ask me where I’m from. I’m from Huntington Beach, California – that’s where I’m from!’"

Meena's friend responded: "The film made me realize that there is nowhere you can hide, no place you are truly safe from discrimination. The core of ideology must change: no matter what race, gender, sexual orientation, we’re all American."

A Tufts senior spoke up: "I grew up seven miles outside of New York City and saw the second plane hit the tower from the window of my calculus class. It was very real. And then there were attacks on Indian families, but my community was not united in responding to hate crimes. For the first time, I saw parts of my life in the film."

A sophomore followed: "My name is Mae-Ling, and I’m half Philippine, half Ghanan. I am seen as a foreigner in both cultures, so I could really relate to Valarie’s story in the film. When I came to America, I only knew about white and black relations, and maybe Latino, but I had no idea where Asian Americans fit. Our age group, teenagers like me, are trying to figure out how to respond to things like this, so it was really good for us to relate to Valarie and her journey as a young person in the world."

"I was in high school when 9/11 happened," another sophomore said. "And as soon as I found out, I hoped it was not Muslims. Then 'oh God, here it comes.' People from my mosque and community were attacked, and I realized that the world is not such a nice place. My religion and culture were hijacked along with those planes that day. I did not feel that I was part of the vision that everyone had for America. But I can’t go anywhere! I’m just as American as anyone else." And then, turning to me, "Thank you for making this film."

After everyone spoke, the discussion opened up into the power of stories to challenge the "constant otherization," as one student put it, both socially and politically. "The stories make you see how the political is on the playground, the street, everywhere," added a professor of English. Linell addressed the pressure on Asian Americans to "keep quiet" and not to express rage - but that rage is important if it's a source of creative protest. "Who are we? Are we a melting pot?" someone asked. Looking around at all the different backgrounds and perspectives in the room, I offered, "Perhaps a mosaic."

It was an incredible night for me – for the first time, I was able to hear all the different ways the film spoke to different people. The nights of endless work over the past five years were worth it for just this one moment – to hear people tell their own stories. The film is meant to inspire storytelling; it is presented with the conviction that storytelling can break down the boundaries that divide us. And tonight was a testament to that. Everyone in that room came from different places - both literal and figurative - yet the film opened up a space where they could all speak candidly about who we are – as Americans – and who we want to be.

I love college.

Thanks to all the students at Tufts who had the courage to speak up in their own way. After another screening in New York City next week, we embark on a entire college tour in Illinois...!

I See No Stranger - NYC

2006-09-24T23:53:00.000-07:00

A few days after our world premiere in Phoenix, we headed east for our New York premiere at the beautiful Rubin Museum of Art in Manhattan as part of the Sikh Arts and Film Festival. We arrived early to wander the sixth floor of the museum and admire the New York Times-acclaimed Sikh art exhibit “I See No Stranger" - a breathtaking presentation of early Sikh devotional art emphasizing Guru Nanak's message of the deep interconnectedness between all people. We then entered the theater downstairs to introduce our film Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath to a full house.

It was a Sunday afternoon and it seemed that everyone we knew in New York was there. Our families, friends from college and high school, people who worked on the film, people in the film, even a few celebrities (the stars of Sharat’s previous film American Made, SAKINA JAFFREY and KAL PENN), all packed into a theater meant to hold 150. We introduced the film, sat in front and waited for our film to make its second-ever screening.

As the film began, I listened closely to the audience. I am in the habit now. I have begun to understand that an audience is like a single living organism – it moves and breathes – it laughs at once and cries at once. There is no way to predict just how an audience will react to certain images and lines or why. Every audience is different. And so the film is always different. There is always a dynamic exchange – a secret one – between storytellers and their audience.

And this audience was loud – they laughed hard and held their breath together and sighed together, and we loved it. At the end, the instant the lights came up, the audience began applauding and rose together in a resounding standing ovation. Sharat and I were dazzled as we took the stage. Looking out into the sea of faces, there were friends we knew and friends we had never met joining together to commend us. I had to thank them through watery eyes. In that room, there were no strangers.

We recognized two people in the crowd who had shared their stories in the film: MANPREET SINGH, who had been profiled at an airport, and AMARDEEP SINGH BHALLA, Legal Director of the Sikh Coalition, our personal hero who fights battles against discrimination in his job everyday. We also recognized our crew members: JESSICA JENKINS, Director of Research, CHRIS BYRNES, the newest member of the DWF Dialogue Project, and TIM FORREST, our sound technician who drove from New Jersey to surprise us. And we thanked our families – Sharat’s parents TONSE and VIDYA RAJU, associate producers who made the completion of the film possible, Sharat's brother MANU and cousin RACHANA, and my aunt and uncle CHITRANJAN and JAS BRAR and lovely cousin ANIKA (who appears in the film as a baby!). Then came a lively Q&A.

Our first question was about the present experiences of Sikh Americans five years after 9/11. Sharat waved to Amardeep and his wife DILLY, who shared a story. On their drive to the theater, they had spotted a diversity billboard showing a turbaned Sikh. Their hearts leapt, but just at that instant, they spotted the graffiti sprayed all over it: “Go back to your country.” The billboard graffiti may not count as a serious “hate crime” yet it’s one of many subtle daily encounters with discrimination that have become part of post-9/11 American culture. We hope stories like those in our film can help engage and transform that culture by asking us to reflect on who we see as an American, an enemy, a friend, a stranger.

When the formal Q&A ended, the informal conversations began. (Here is Sharat talking with Kal and Sakina). The buzzing crowds took over the theater and spilled out into the halls and then the street in front of the museum until we all ended up in a restaurant down the block.

We celebrated everything we thought was good in the world, including the engagement of two of our favorite people, Sharat’s brother MANU and our beautiful friend ARCHANA MEHTA, who both drove up from DC to join us. Check our national film tour schedule to catch us at upcoming premieres, including another screening in New York in October!

The End is the Beginning - Phoenix

2006-09-14T23:52:00.000-07:00

There was a red carpet. Four hundred fifty people. Press cameras. Hot food. Banners that read "United We Stand, Divided We Fall." A whirl of conversation that settled when the film began. And a standing ovation when it ended. It was the night of our world premiere in Phoenix, Arizona, and it officially launched Divided We Fall into the world.

The premiere was held on the eve of the five-year memorial of Balbir Sodhi's murder. Hosted by the Phoenix Sikh community, the event was a memorial for those who died on 9/11 and in its aftermath. The Sodhi family was there, and so was his widow Herjinder Kaur. My journey to make this film began with the story of the Sodhi family, and so we were deeply honored that the premiere of our movie would honor of the strength and resilience of this family and the larger Phoenix community.

That didn't keep me from being nervous, though. So here's what happened, minute by minute, on the night we had waited five years to experience...

We arrived at Carpenter’s Hall, a large glass building donated to us by the Phoenix Police Department that reached up into the clear blue sky against the desert landscape. It was a grand space.

Sharat (the director) and I arrived with members of our film crew, now our very close friends: Irene Yeh, my beautiful friend now working on teaching curriculum for the film, Scott Rosenblatt our talented editor, and Eric Santiestevan our soulful composer.(We are left to right below, except for Sharat who's taking the picture).

We walked down the red carpet together through the double doors, as Sikh men and women on either side greeted us. There we embraced many people who have supported us over the years, including Gary Gietz, President of the Arizona Interfaith Movement, whose thoughtful interview appears in the film. It was our first red carpet, the most welcoming we had ever seen.

Hundreds of people soon filled the great lobby, wearing name tags, holding plates of hot Indian food the Sodhi family had prepared, meeting one another - police officers, community activists, Sikhs and non-Sikhs, people of all backgrounds who had first gathered together five years ago when Sodhi died. At 6:30pm, the doors opened and the crowd entered a long intimate hall, chairs reaching to the very back where TV cameras were set up. People passed the first printed movie posters for Divided We Fall as they sat down to face a projection screen reaching to the ceiling.

The program began with a song on the oneness of humanity by Bibi Bani Kaur, whose voice had always moved me when I heard her sing on visits to the Phoenix gurdwara. People of all faiths, including the Sodhi family, stood behind her on the stage. GuruRoop Kaur Khalsa, spokesperson for the Sodhi family, the woman who has supported me over the last five years, from sharing interviews to raising funds, then introduced the film. And it began.

My face gave it away. I was either smiling or crying or hitting my crew members on the shoulder at particularly moving parts throughout the whole film. I was in awe. It was the first time I had seen the completed film on the big screen and fireworks went off in my brain during every scene: yes, yes, yes - this is right - this is exactly how we envisioned it. That’s when I realized we did it. All of us together. Five years of doubt, fear, despair, but perseverance as we labored over creating every minute of the film. For the first time, I felt completely content. It was the end of a chapter, and the beginning of a new one.

The film ended with applause and then a standing ovation. When Sharat and I took the stage, I saw tears in peoples' eyes and smiles through the tears - as if reaching into the deepest pain brought out the fiercest hope. "It is the strength and resilience of the Phoenix community that has continued to inspire me throughout making this movie." I said. "The togetherness you exemplified after Sodhi was murdered is a testament to the unity that is possible for all of America. I thank you and commend you."

The first woman to stand up had been a civil rights activist for years. "Thank you for making this film. Thank you for inspiring all of us." People then asked when the film would be available. We explained that we hope to develop teaching curriculum around the movie and release the dvd at the end of next year. Irene (pictured) is part of the team working on that. In the mean time, anyone who makes a $50 donation to the film today is promised a copy of the film as soon as it's ready.

Afterward, we were surrounded by an outpouring of warmth and praise as crowds of people extended their congratulations and offered their own stories:

A Sikh woman my age told me that her husband faces discrimination everyday. Whenever someone yells at him to go home in a new city, he crosses that city off from the list of places he wants to live. "Thank you for making this movie - for my husband Gurmukh - thank you," she said with tears in her eyes.

A Native American woman introduced me to her daughter. She was sick of hearing racist taunts at work, and she wanted her daughter to hear the stories of other communities who have suffered injustice. "As a native American, my perspective on America is left out of the conversation," she explained. "Thank you for making a film that speaks to all of us."

A fellow filmmaker who has worked on a social justice movie for the past three years asked us how we did it. “I have no idea how independent films are made,” I exclaimed. “I have no idea how ours was made! I guess it’s a miracle of determination."

And finally the Sodhi family. Balbir's brothers Harjit and Rana embraced us with watery eyes: "We had no idea that you were making such a big film all these years!" Balbir's niece and nephew Chandni and Daman, who I watched grow up over the past five years into smart, competent, caring people, told us that they loved the movie and that "we have to hang out." I couldn't help but giggle.

And then she was there. Herjinder Kaur, whom I call "Aunti Ji" out of respect, still dressed in white, the color of mourning. I was nervous about what she thought - how difficult it must have been to see the most painful parts of her life played out on the big screen! She came close to me and whispered in my ear, “You were so small when you started this. You have done a great thing.” And she embraced me. “It’s because of you, Aunti Ji. It’s because of your strength and openness, your love.”

The family could not stop thanking us. I realized that this was all I needed to feel that we had done our job well. We told a story that was responsible to what is at stake for the people who have suffered - that their voices were represented well - and to what is at stake for audiences - that they can envision a nation that embraces all differences into the American mosaic.

In the end, we presented the Sodhi family with our gift: a framed photograph of the last frame of the film, their family standing together, an American family. We also presented our long-time supporters GuruRoop Kaur Khalsa and Dr. Jaswant and Shavi Sachdev with our very first printed movie posters.

It was an auspicious beginning for our film - and I can't wait to take it to cities around the country on a national tour this fall - New York, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Miami, Sacramento, and even London for a UK premiere! Come see us if you can.

Eric, me, Sharat, and Scott representing the whole DWF team.

The next day, the premiere made the front cover of the Arizona Tribune.

A World Premiere

2006-09-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

The film is done. Completely done. Finished. (Here it is on the big screen.) And now we enter the world...

Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath will make its World Premiere on the eve of the five-year memorial of Balbir Sodhi's murder, the first "retribution" murder in the aftermath of 9/11. On Thursday, September 14, the Phoenix Sikh community will host the event in memory of Sodhi and all hate crimes victims. The evening will include a Q&A with the filmmakers (Sharat Raju and yours truly) and a dinner reception hosted by the Sodhi family. Click here for the invitation.

This event will launch us on a national film tour, where Divided We Fall will premiere in cities around the country, including New York, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Miami, and Sacramento, as well as a UK premiere in London. After working on this film for the last five years (one-fifth of my life), I can hardly believe it.

While my team was putting the finishing touches on the movie the last couple of months, I spent the summer traveling in India. It was an extraordinary journey into a deeply religious landscape – from colorful temples in the tropical South to sacred cities hugging the Ganga in the North to the salmon pink desert cities of Rajasthan and the vast green fields of Punjab and finally the monasteries hidden in the foothill of the Himalayas. Wandering through India was my first real break since I began making the film in 2001, and it was an opportunity to put the film - and this moment in history - into perspective.

I have come to understand that suffering has always been part of this thing called life. Deep suffering, deep loss, the kind of pain that won't go away. The question is how we respond. Do we choose vengeance? Or do we chose that which is only less than vengeance - forgiveness? To me, forgiveness does not mean surrendering justice to some naive sentiment. Forgiveness can be any action that frees and protects the self without causing further unnecessary harm to the one who hurt you. I am learning to practice this form of forgiveness in my own life, but I think it can also apply to our choices in post-9/11 America.

Can we - as a nation - carry out a war on terror that operates on a mode of forgiveness rather than the logic of reciprocity? Can we choose actions that protect ourselves without causing further unnecessary harm - both to our enemies and those who 'look' like enemies to us?

When Frank Roque was arrested after murdering Balbir Sodhi on September 15, 2001, he yelled, "I am a patriot." His actions fell into a cycle of violence: because the terrorists took American lives, Roque decided to take Sodhi's life. After Roque was apprehended, the state decided that the only fitting punishment was to take his life and sentenced him to death in 2003.

Then it changed its mind. Last month, the Arizona court commuted Roque's death sentence to life imprisonment, citing low IQ and possible mental disorders. I don't agree with the reasons- the calculated reasoning in Roque's murder outweighs the defenses of illness or poor intelligence to me - but I recognize that the decision ends one particular cycle of killing. His punishment is now less than vengeance - it protects society and hopefully frees the family and community without inflicting further unnecessary violence.

Five years after 9/11, my hope is that our film can contribute to an ongoing discussion on how we choose to respond to violence. Through untold stories of hate violence after 9/11, our film explores ‘who counts’ as American in times of crisis, and by extension, who is granted respect and dignity. In this case, perhaps the recognition of Muslim and Sikh faces as ‘American’ would keep fear from steering us to vengeance and bring us one step closer toward a more perfect union.

When I travel to Phoenix with the film next week, I will see the Sodhi family once again. I have interviewed them countless times over the past five years, each time leaving with “it will be ready in six months,” “…twelve months,” “…next year for sure.” This time, the film will be done. Completely done. Finished. And ready to enter the world – the web of relations where our stories are ongoing.

The film will now become part of other peoples’ stories. I am deeply grateful that its official debut can honor Balbir Sodhi’s memory and the strength and resilience of his family and community. They are among the countless Americans whose lives have been damaged after 9/11 and who continue to rebuild. Even forgive.

Crossing East (and West)

2006-06-11T03:00:00.000-07:00

In less than 24 hours, I will be on a plane to India. When I began the journey to make Divided We Fall, I promised myself that I would travel to India once it was done and give myself time to explore and think and write. Nearly five years later, the film is almost complete, and I am about to cross east for my first real break in years.

For a moment, I stop my frenzied packing, sit down between books, medicines, and clothes thrown across my bed, and stare at the pink and black hearts on the wallpaper of my childhood bedroom. When I was a little girl, I used to spend hours in this room, writing in my journal, wondering if anyone would ever hear the stories I had to tell. Now I am twenty-five, and if I think back to the past month alone, I have to catch my breath: people are listening – on radio, on television, and on the big screen.

In May and June, the stories of my film Divided We Fall and Sharat Raju's first film American Made began to enter the public sphere:

National Public Radio’s Crossing East program began broadcasting a segment about my grandfather’s life as an early Sikh American pioneer last month.

More than half a million people watched the acclaimed short film American Made when it made its national television premiere on PBS in May.

And we just held the final advanced screenings of Divided We Fall at Harvard and Stanford universities.

These events are like fireworks to me – promises that our personal stories can be seen and heard by the mainstream public, crossing east and west. Here are glimpses…

ON THE RADIO

In 1913, Kehar Singh crossed an ocean to arrive on the Pacific shores of California. Nearly one hundred years later, the first public radio series on Asian American history Crossing East tells the story of this early Sikh American pioneer – my grandfather (pictured). The segment takes audio clips directly from Divided We Fall. You can read the transcript and listen online (Segment B). The program is still playing live around the country. You can find your local station and tune in.

I remember my father calling me after he heard the program air for the first time. There was excitement in his voice: “I had always wanted Dad’s stories to be told. I had never imagined this was possible.” For the first time, we felt that our history – the history of Sikh Americans and more broadly Asian Americans – were recognized and remembered as part of the making of America, our home.

ON TELEVISION

I have seen American Made, the first film by my director Sharat Raju, too many times to count, but nothing could prepare me for the thrill of watching on my own television set. When Edie Falco of the Sopranos introduced the film on PBS’ Independent Lens, I held my breath: this was the first time a fictional story about Sikhs in post-9/11 America was shown on television. In its first week of airings, American Made had more than half a million viewers.

While we can count the number of people who watch, it is impossible to measure the impact of sharing stories never told before. It may be impossible even to see the impact at first. But I have learned from history that the first sign of cultural change is the moment when personal stories of suffering emerge in mainstream national consciousness. Since September 11, 2001, the daily lives of many Americans – Sikhs, Muslims, Arabs, South Asians, even Latinos, anyone who seems to resemble the ‘bad guys’ – have been changed in ways large and small, yet their stories have barely captured national attention. To me, American Made on television is a small step in this direction. I hope that Divided We Fall can be part of the next step…

ON THE BIG SCREEN

We have screened the director’s cut of Divided We Fall at both Harvard and Stanford Universities in the last few weeks – our last advanced screenings before we make our official US premiere this September. Both screenings were special events for me.

At Harvard on May 7, we screened Divided We Fall before a packed theater of friends, family, colleagues, crew members, and complete strangers. That morning, the Boston Globe had run an article about our screening in the Entertainment Section (right next to ads for movies like MI III), so the Carpenter Center’s theater was full. The Pluralism Project sponsored the event (thanks to Diana Eck’s invitation and Kathryn Lohre’s hard work) and the Harvard Film Archive hosted us. My academic advisor and director of the Pluralism Project Diana Eck welcomed the audience and introduced Sharat and me. She was gracious and kind, and I thanked her for supporting me in this project for nearly three years now. I then took a deep breathe and introduced the film. Then we sat down.

The strange thing about making a movie is that you would think showing it would be the easiest part. After all, all the hard work is over. No performance is necessary: you just have to make sure the projectionist makes the movie play. But screening a new film is hard. The mind races: Will the audience laugh at the funny parts? When will you hear the weight of silence? Will they applaud at the end and will it sound more than polite? When our film was done, the audience not only applauded but slowly began to stand up. I began to realize what was happening: they were giving us a standing ovation. It was a surreal moment and I cherished it.

Diana facilitated our discussion with the audience at the end. We fielded all kinds of questions – why did you include the Japanese American internment? what was the most difficult and inspiring parts of making this film? what are the next steps? – and then the very last man who stood up (known as “Brother Blue”) made a request to us: “Please travel with your film as much as possible. Hearing your stories makes such a difference… I commend you.” It was a beautiful ending. The Pluralism Project posted pictures of the event.

Afterward, we went out for dinner with our friends: Tracy Wells (director of communications), Deonnie Moodie (story consultant), Jessica Jenkins (director of research who flew out from Washington, DC), Brynn Saito (long-time supporter who came from New York City) and even Matt Blute (our cinematographer who flew out from California)! It was a grand night. (My friend Currun Singh and me pictured below...)

Stanford University was our next stop. It seemed only appropriate that our last advanced screening was at the university where I began the journey to make this film. On June 3, the director’s cut of our film was the morning feature of the first Bay Area Spinning Wheel Film Festival. When introducing the movie from the stage of Cubberly Auditorium, I looked out to see my thesis advisors in the audience – Linda Hess, Joseph Brown, and Rob Reich. They were also in the audience when I presented my senior honors thesis in June 2003 in a lecture room just next door. Exactly three years later, the student project they mentored has become a feature-length film: a direct result of their care and instruction. I felt lucky to be able to acknowledge them.

Laura Selznick, founding director of Stanford's Undergraduate Research Programs, was also in the audience. She was responsible for the grant that put me on the road in the months after 9/11. Sean Fernandes, one of our interviewees in the film, and Sharon Gibson, our story consultant, was also there. My parents Dolly and Judge and my brother Sanjeev were there too. It was a full house: family, friends, and teachers from my college life. The screening was a success and in fact, the entire day turned into one long joyful reunion for me. I am grateful to Mandeep and Parveen Dhillon and to the whole Spinning Wheel family for supporting our film once again.

IN THE STUDIO

The picture is locked (translate: the editing is done, the story is sealed, now we put it in the hands of professionals to perfect the sound and color). The last thing I had to do was record my voice-over narration in a professional sound studio in Burbank, CA, the DubStage, where movies are made. I had headphones for the music, a big screen for the picture, and a mic for my voice. I was on my feet for eight hours, doing take after take, reciting the words that have now become imprinted in my brain, until we finally completed the film. When I finished, one of the last frames of the movie was still up on the screen: a widow holding her grandchildren. I love this scene. I have seen this movie hundreds of times and although my mind is numb to most of it, there are still some parts that break me - like the ending. Some stories are too powerful to ever become stale.

WHAT’S NEXT

Now I leave in the film in the hands of my trusty team and steal a summer adventure in India. No school, no film, no goals of any kind. I am just going to wander, journal in hand. I cannot remember the last time I did this (maybe when I was eight). I would not be able to take this break without Sharat and our team (especially Jess, Tracy, and Sharon), who will spend the summer preparing for our premiere in the fall. We haven’t made any official announcements about this yet… but check in with us in August!

Until then, I thank everyone reading this online journal for sharing in this mad film journey for the past year! We are ending one chapter and will soon open a new one: from making the movie to bringing it into the world in the upcoming year…

Toward the Finish Line

2006-04-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

January was the last time I wrote. Since then, I turned twenty-five, injured my wrist, stopped writing, started working harder, and began sprinting toward the finish line to complete post-production on our movie Divided We Fall. Now the movie is almost ready (as you can tell by our smiles) and my wrist has healed enough to write this big update...

(Photo by Ejen Chuang appears in this month's Hyphen Magazine).

UPCOMING SCREENINGS

Divided We Fall will officially premiere this September during the fifth remembrance of 9/11 and tour around the country in the upcoming year. Join our mailing list for more info. In the mean time, we invite you to these special upcoming screenings of the Director's Cut:

SUNDAY MAY 7, 2006 at the HARVARD FILM ARCHIVE
7pm, Carpenter Center, Harvard University
Director’s Cut followed by Q&A with the filmmakers
For details contact: info@dwf-film.com

SATURDAY JUNE 3, 2006 at the SPINNING WHEEL FILM FESTIVAL
10:45am, Cubberly Auditorium, Stanford University
Director’s Cut followed by Q&A with the filmmakers
For details visit: http://bayareawheel.com

(Pictured above right: Toronto's Spinning Wheel Film Festival)

Check out DWF in the news:

"Divided We Fall" in Furman Alumni Magazine by our own Tracy Wells (Pictured right). A must read - click here for the full story.

"The Untold American Story" in Hyphen Magazine by Neelanjana Banerjee. In stores now - click here for an online preview.

AMERICAN MADE'S TELEVISION PREMIERE

Before directing/producing Divided We Fall, Sharat Raju wrote and directed the acclaimed short film American Made -- scheduled to make its broadcast premiere on PBS' Independent Lens this May! With 529 air dates on 200+ station affiliates, American Made (pictured) will likely be the first fictional film about Sikh Americans post-9/11 to screen on national television.

American Made is a moving story about a Sikh American family in the aftermath of 9/11. When the Singh family’s car breaks down in the desert, Ranjit tells his father that no one will stop to help because “he looks like a terrorist.” What follows is the heart-rending struggle between a father and son and a larger exploration of assimilation, tradition, and acceptance. Told with humanity and humor, American Made has won seventeen awards from film festivals around the world. We hope you spread the word about the television premiere and tune in with us!

A NOTE

Since October, I’ve spent many weeks in our tiny editing room in Los Angeles, working with our extraordinary editors Scott Rosenblatt and Sharat Raju on shaping 130 hours of raw footage taped over four years into a final movie about a journey into the heart of post-9/11 America. After a dozen drafts and a handful of screenings for my classmates and professors at Harvard Divinity and our filmmaker friends in Los Angeles, we will lock picture in one month to premiere this fall. With American Made premiering on television next month, we are very excited about the possibility of sharing these stories with large audiences. I am deeply grateful for the feedback of our friends (you know who you are): many patient hands have brought DWF this far. To support the film, click here.

Murder, Memory and Mourning

2006-01-25T23:36:00.000-08:00

One month ago, on Christmas morning, Gurpartap Singh was murdered in his cab in Richmond, California. He was a turbaned Sikh cab driver, the fifth to be shot in the San Francisco Bay Area since 2002. The police called the murder an attempted robbery; local Sikhs saw it as part of a pattern of violence against their community since 9/11.

I found out about Gurpartap’s murder the day after Christmas. We were eating chocolate chip pancakes around the kitchen table when the call came. I stumbled upstairs, took in the news, Christmas news. I did not know Gurpartap. I registered his death as yet another murder in the city of Richmond, another possible hate crime, another piece of evidence to include in our film.

I was on the phone immediately. I called cab drivers we had filmed (pictured) and police officers we had interviewed at the Richmond Police Department. I called leaders at the local Sikh temple, El Sobrante Gurdwara, and reporters at the Contra Costa Times. My cousins downstairs had forgotten about me; I was lost to a bout of furious action, what my family has come to call my ‘passion’ but what I know to be my ‘desperate-need-to-overcome-helplessness-in-the-face-of-violence.’ Then I got an email. It was from S., my friend, a fellow student. She knew Gurpartap:

Wish you could just be here to help me just now. Gurpartap, the cab driver who was so kind and helpful to me, who took me into his home, who shared the experience of his gurdwara, who was truly an inspiration, who denied the hate in hate crimes... is dead, shot by the same sort of person that I was trying to write about, so that understanding might help put a stop to such horrible crimes. I can't say how devastated I am. I cannot write Punjabi, and Surinder, his wife, does not understand English - I so want to send her my sympathy… Oh, G-d: why do such things happen? Please, please: send a bit of the light you are trying to spread. I feel it is truly dark right now.

I wrote S. only one prescription: “I think the best thing we can do is to channel the sadness into action.” I encouraged her to write a letter to the editor and offered to help get it published. She said she would think about it.

A few days later, while I was still at home, my grandfather’s health declined rapidly. Each afternoon, I sat by his side as Parkinson’s took his body whole. I wondered how much time we had left – and how I would come to remember him. Would I remember my childhood naps on his shoulder, drifting to sleep gazing at his ivory feet. Would I remember my shrieks when he became the tickle monster and asked us, ‘Happy, happy?’ Would I remember watching him in his garden, tall and stoic from his military days, overseeing his orders of tomatoe and squash. Would I remember the time his words of disapproval stung the center of my heart. Would I remember his slow moving mouth, his elegant speech, dictating his life story as I wrote down his every word, clinging to his every memory as if this were the last chance.

On these afternoons at his bedside, I was mourning my grandfather’s death before he had even left me. I let this pre-mourning prepare me for the grief that I knew would soon strike hard, sudden, like a knife. On one of these afternoons, I received another email from S., who had just returned form Gurpartap’s funeral:

I was just so lost at the funeral. I didn't know how to contain my feelings, with Gurpartap lying there, all "fixed" for those to see - with Surinder crying quietly and that lovely granthi chanting the long service, which I so wished I could understand. Then when the time came for loving remembrances, Navjot turned and asked me to say something. I had to walk the long way up to the reader's stand and really had so many feelings and memories to express, but said barely anything - the words just wouldn't come… Oh, Valarie! I miss him so! He would have been heartened that so many of his friends were there together. Navjot is a proud offspring of his father. He was also so kind and loving--I am just speechless. I am sorry if I did not feel driven to make the death an issue for the public. It just felt like so private a time.

I wondered what S. and others said in their ‘loving remembrances’ of Gurpartap and for the first time, I began to imagine what I would remember about him if I had known him (pictured). Would I remember his eyes. The sound of his voice. The prayers he recited in the morning. His gesticulations at the dinner table. His faith in the goodness in people. The way he looked at his son. How does memory choose the details that are remembered, how is it shaped by the story we tell ourselves about that person?

For the police, on the other hand, Gurpartap is not a story but a statistic. They will remember him as another murdered cabbie, yet another mark on their record. Locals who read the newspaper articles about him will barely remember his name now, a month later. Even activists will remember Gurpartap Singh’s death as further evidence of racial violence after 9/11, another case to cite, a murder that happened (symbolically) on Christmas morning.

I suddenly realize that I am (shamefully) one such person. I have remembered Gurpartap as a statistic, a subject for the camera. How could I have ever told S., “Channel your grief into action.” As if there is a formula to healing! As if the ways of memory would ever allow such a formula.

I had forgotten that grief comes hard and fast. It knocks you down and works through your body before it can release you for action. In a culture that hides death, it is easy to forget to allow others (and myself) time and space to grieve, to mourn, to remember, in order to make the meaning required for meaningful action.

All this thought about murder, memory, and mourning has found its way deep into my psyche. Last night, I dreamt that I was raped (this is every woman’s terror), then killed; and when my body was placed in the ambulance, the nurses (who were hungry) ate my body. They started with my stomach. “Just like an eggplant sandwich!” they laughed.

There is the fear of not being remembered – of being reduced to a corpse, a statistic, a case study for consumption.

I must refuse to treat Gurpartap Singh that way, just as I could never treat my grandfather that way. Memory makes it possible to mourn a person’s death without ever having met them. Remembering the memories others have of Gurpartap in life becomes a way to mourn him in death - a safeguard against the dangers of consuming the dead for one’s own means.

I kiss my grandfather’s cheek and leave home, leave California. Back in Boston, I return to working on my documentary. Both my grandfather and the cab drivers appear in the film, their voices preserved as sound-bytes: this is how audiences will remember them. What fragments! What fractions of the human personality. What a metaphor for life: we show each other only glimpses, and ask to be remembered whole.

And somehow, miraculously, it is enough (more than enough) to keep us going.

Labor of Birth

2005-12-24T23:19:00.000-08:00

It is Christmas Eve in the world. I am at home with my family after many months. I finally have a moment to reflect.

Since September, I have lived a split life. On weekdays, I am in Boston keeping up appearances as a graduate student at Harvard Divinity, and on weekends, I am a filmmaker in Los Angeles, working in a tiny editing room on our documentary. We are in the final phase of Divided We Fall, shaping our two-hour rough cut into a polished completed film to be released in early 2006. This last phase has been more difficult than I could have ever imagined.

I have not written very much here during post-production. Between our preview screenings in Toronto, Harvard, and Southern California lie a mess of unglamorous stressful moments. There are long hours on the plane cross-country and long nights in the editing room with the team, trying new arrangements and new orders, cutting here, adding there, re-recording narration for the hundredth time, returning to the storyboard, working through frustration - don’t forget to eat something - watching the cut again, congratulating each other, berating each other – maybe we’re getting closer – getting stuck, breaking through – don’t forget. to. breathe. Making this film feels like giving birth to a something big after a four-year pregnancy. And this is labor, the most painful part.

One of the darkest nights for me came on December 11, 2005. That was the night we received news of the race riots in Sydney, Australia (pictured). Once again, the animosity lurking beneath the surface had broken out into violence in a community. Once again, the media reported the event. But there was little attention to the fact that violence is the last moment of an entire process in imagination. Dark-skinned faces are constructed as others, as foreigners, as enemies, in a nation’s consciousness before they are targeted by mobs. The race riots in Australia have shown that the question ‘who are we’ is not exclusive to America but concerns any pluralistic society.

My roommate is from Australia. I asked her, “Why aren’t certain faces seen as Australian?” She asked me, “Why aren’t certain faces seen as American?” Then she pointed out something interesting. She was born in Australia, yet people never ask her where she is from. If they do, she says “Chicago” and that’s that. My family has been in America for three generations, yet strangers almost always ask me where I am from. I answer “California” but that is never enough. They push me until I tell them that my grandparents are from India and there it is – I am an immigrant, problem solved. I appreciate people expressing interest in my ancestry, but I recognize clearly the assumption that usually underlies these questions: they do not see my face as an American face. Yet as my roommate pointed out, her ‘American-ness’ as a white woman is never questioned, despite her Australian birth.

So where are we now with the film? We’re closer than we were before. We need just a few more months. And we need funds. Finishing funds. This is my biggest prayer right now – that we find the support we need to finish, from small donations to larger investments.

Click here to help.

Sneak Preview, California

2005-12-17T23:47:00.000-08:00

Today, California's first Spinning Wheel Film Festival was held in Orange County, California. On the eve of the festival, the Sikh Center of Orange County held a gala banquet and organizer Bicky Singh invited us to offer a SNEAK PREVIEW of Divided We Fall. Our director/editor/producer extraordinaire Sharat Raju cut together a brand-new seven-minute trailer, weaving together voices and faces from the film with music from the film’s original score created by composer Sagar Jethani. (The sneak preview will be featured on the film's official website at the end of January.)

After a night of bhangra performances, slide shows, and speeches, our sneak preview screened before the gathering of hundreds. I held my breathe as it played to a hushed audience, then applause. Nitasha Sawhney, a Sikh lawyer and advocate, a friend and sister, introduced me onto the stage. I told the story behind the making of the film and asked the community to support their artists, musicians, storytellers: “Stories are a matter of life and death. Without our stories, we are invisible in the world and to each other. The site of social transformation does not lie at the top levels of government but in the space between us.”

California's Lieutenant Governor CRUZ BUSTAMANTE (pictured) was in the audience as an honorary guest for his work supporting the California Sikh American community after 9/11. He asked to speak with me. I was humbled by his earnest and excited support for the documentary. “If it’s anything like the trailer, it’s going be amazing,” he said. We went on to talk about how the problem of discrimination affects many immigrant communities, especially during times of crisis. Pulling the lens back further, all new Americans have faced resistance and persecution in this country alongside faith in the American dream.

There was an energetic exchange of stories and thoughts, and then his face became somber. “You know, I feel that my generation has failed you. And I am sorry for that. We needed to do more to fight for the rights and recognitions of all communities. And now it’s up to people like you. People like you give me hope.”

He offered to help host a California premiere when the film is complete, and I walked away thinking, people like him give me hope. People who believe in the talent and vision of younger people and who offer actual tangible support to help them be heard. I believe that my generation needs this kind of real faith if we are not to fail the generation to come after us. You can help.

On the day of the festival, our director Sharat Raju screened his previous film, the award-winning American Made to an engaged audience. Lead actor Bernard White and editor Scott Rosenblatt (also editor of our film) were in the audience and stayed to watch the other films. They were moved by the colorful independent movies exploring Sikh experiences, still on the verge of emerging into American mainstream consciousness.

Thanks to my parents (pictured laughing!), my cousin and sister Andrea Gill, and friends Kathy Jennings and Akta Patel for coming to support us once again. And congratulations to Bicky Singh, Nitasha Sawhney, and all behind California's first Spinning Wheel Film Festival for a successful sold-out event.

First Draft at Harvard

2005-12-08T23:16:00.000-08:00

Today Dr. Diana Eck and the Harvard Pluralism Project hosted a screening of the rough cut of the documentary at Harvard University (pictured above). We first screened the rough cut to a Sikh audience at the Spinning Wheel Film Festival in Toronto. This screening would be different. At an invitation-only event, we gathered classmates, friends, professors, and staff at Harvard to watch the cut and offer feedback.

When introducing the film, looking out into a sea of faces, I became nervous. Who in their right mind would show the first draft of their paper to all their colleagues at once? And yet, we had decided to share the earliest draft of our film to live audiences, because we needed to hear from people who have studied and lived the issues explored in the film. Some art can afford to be measured by the subjective view of the artist only. But art like ours is often bound by an unyielding ethical commitment to the voices of many people, many stories. It cannot afford to fail in telling the stories consistently and respectfully. There is too much at stake. And so I swallowed my fear once again, and let the movie begin.

The conversation that followed was infused with energy and reflection. Our first university screening was a success, thanks to the support of Dr. Diana Eck (pictured), the organization of Kathryn Lohre, and the help of my friends Deonnie Moodie, Brianne Goodman, and Tracy Wells, all through the Pluralism Project. I will now carry a stack of new comment cards back with me to the editing room in Los Angeles, where we will experience another first: the screening of a brand-new Divided We Fall film trailer on the eve of California’s first-ever all-Sikh film festival. Stay tuned…

Spinning Wheel in Toronto

2005-10-16T23:35:00.000-07:00

Since finishing production at the end of August, the team has been slaving away in the editing room in Los Angeles. Director Sharat Raju is co-editing the film with Scott Rosenblatt. Sheepishly, I had to return to school in Boston (for my masters program at Harvard Divinity), but I've been flying back to LA almost every weekend to witness their amazing post-production speed to meet our first deadline: this weekend. The dynamic-duo worked around the clock for four weeks in order to turn 130 hours of footage into a 2-hour rough cut.

This weekend, we premiered our rough cut before a live audience at Toronto's Spinning Wheel Film Festival, featuring Sikh films and filmmakers from around the world. The Spinning Wheel Film Festival holds a very special place in the history of our film.

In October 2003, at the first-ever Spinning Wheel, both Sharat Raju and I attended to present our respective works. I showed a half-an-hour cut of raw interviews from my journey across the country after 9/11. He showed his award-winning short film, American Made, which told the fiction-version of the real stories I gathered on the road. (On the right is a scene from the movie. The dvd is for sale on the site.)

In Sharat's film, I saw his talent as a filmmaker and storyteller: he was able to capture the heart of complex human experiences and weave them into a story that moved his audiences to tears. In my raw interviews, Sharat saw stories that hadn't been told before and recognized the potential for a powerful feature-length documentary film. This is how we joined forces.

Two years later, Spinning Wheel invited us back to showcase our work so far. Our rough cut was to premier on Closing Night, and my parents came all the way from California to support us. So did my brother Sanjeev Brar, who surprised me by showing up when I least expected it.

The weekend was filled with deeply moving films and conversations with old and new friends alike (pictured). Our Dir of Comm. Tracy Wells wrote a moving account of her experience encountering the complexity, violence, and beauty of the Sikh experience.

Finally, our rough cut premiered on the big screen. I was nervous. Very nervous. It's hard enough to show the first draft of an essay to other people, and here we were showing the first draft of a film to hundreds of people on the big screen! To my surprise, the rough cut was very well-received. People flooded us with praise and feedback afterward, and we returned home with pages of notes to help us with the second cut, scheduled for early December.

I want to thank everyone at Spinning Wheel for making this dream come true. It's been a long and lonely journey, but Spinning Wheel's support has pushed the development of this project into what it is now. The finish line is in sight, but we still have a lot of work ahead.

Can you offer us your support-- financial, emotional, spiritual? Contact us.

The East Valley Tribune

2005-09-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

To commemorate the four-year anniversary of the murder of Balbir Sodhi, Arizona's East Valley Tribune ran a front page article about his story and our film Divided We Fall.

Sikhs Still Living in the Shadow of Sept. 11.
Nick Martin

On a Saturday in 2001, less than two weeks after the S ept. 11 terrorist attacks, thousands gathered at Phoenix Civic Plaza to honor a man most had never met.

(Gaurav Singh, a relative of Balbir Singh Sodhi, kneels by a memorial outside the Mesa Star Convenience store where Sodhi was shot and killed in September 2001. Photo by Tim Hacker, Tribune)

Balbir Singh Sodhi, a turbaned Sikh from India, was gunned down a week earlier while planting flowers outside his Mesa convenience store. He was the first person killed nationwide in a post-Sept. 11 hate crime. His killer, Frank Roque, who is now on death row, shouted, "I am a patriot" while being arrested.

Jews, Muslims, Christians and Sikhs alike poured out their hearts at the memorial for the man who had been shot for looking like a Muslim. The mood was sorrowful, but those who talked to the media had hope for peace and unity.

"I feel like he was the sacrificial lamb to bring us together," one woman said.

Four years later, however, Sikhs as well as Muslim and Arab Americans, still face regular discrimination in the Valley and across the nation.

They are stared at in grocery stores and airports. They are given the finger while driving Valley streets. Sodhi’s brother, Rana Sodhi, even is told to "go back to Iraq" while working at the same store where his brother was killed.

A feature-length documentary due out early next year examines why some Americans became so violent and aggressive against Sikhs and other groups after Sept. 11. It tells the stories of the people changed forever by that violence, including Balbir Singh Sodhi’s family.

To the film’s creator Valarie Kaur, "Divided We Fall: Americans in the Aftermath" is essentially the story of two young adults on the most important journey of their lives.

That journey started as Kaur sat in her bedroom for three days after learning of Sodhi’s Sept. 15, 2001, murder.

Read on... click here.

Four Years Ago Today

2005-09-15T14:35:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today, BALBIR SINGH SODHI was murdered in front of his gas station in Mesa, Arizona. His murderer Frank Roque yelled upon arrest, “I am a patriot.” Sodhi (pictured) was the first person of as many as nineteen people killed in the thousands of hate crimes that followed 9/11.

This summer, I have traveled across the country to meet with families in targeted communities to find out how much has changed. Although numbers have fallen, there are continued reports of vandalism, beatings, and shootings. Perhaps most troubling is the way that subtle prejudices have become a daily part of the lives of millions of Americans, including thousands of Sikh Americans. Many of my interviewees talked about the stares, the avoidance, the name-calling they encounter everyday they walk their city streets, in the subway, the workplace, the schoolyard. Many children face constant teasing at schools. DAMAN SODHI, nephew of Balbir Singh Sodhi, notices the stares he gets at school.

The scholars, lawyers, and legislators I met this summer offered diverse views on how to combat this prejudice. We can pass legislation that documents and condemns hate crimes and protects targeted minorities. We can integrate educational materials into our schools, and raise our representation in the mainstream media. (Pictured is a cartoon remembering Sodhi.) Most importantly, we can participate as individuals in the larger American community and tell each other our stories. In this culture of snapshots and sound-bytes, we are starved for stories, real stories, personal authentic voices that lay claim to who we are as Americans.

When the widow of Balbir Singh Sodhi (pictured) told me about the support she found when she went to Phoenix for her husband’s funeral, it gave me great hope in the power of storytelling as a medium for recognition and togetherness. People came out in the thousands for her husband’s memorial. I came to look at Phoenix as a shining example.

But this summer, when I visited Phoenix again, I found a different story. There were more stories of hate violence. RANA SODHI (pictured below) the brother of Balbir Singh Sodhi, was verbally assaulted in Phoenix just after the London bombings. How do I reconcile this?

The caring and compassion of the Phoenix community upon the murder of Balbir Singh Sodhi is a testament to what is possible. It is possible to live in a world where we recognize one another as human beings, embrace one another’s differences, and stand with one another in times of crisis. And Phoenix will always be a place in my memory where this happened.

But we are up against powerful forces. As long as unspeakable violence takes place in both acts of terrorism and an unending war on terror, we will see the face of the enemy held up in our national consciousness. And it will be my face. It will be Balbir Singh Sodhi’s face. It will be the faces of millions of Americans. This is why in the very place that held the most hope for me, the place where Balbir Singh Sodhi was killed, things have not really changed. And this is why it is important now more than ever to share our faces and voices in telling our stories— so that we can draw upon what happened in Phoenix as a testament to what we can make possible again today.

Pictured: Friends, family, and crew in Phoenix working together to raise up our stories in this film. We invite you to join our team.

Last Day of Production

2005-08-27T22:33:00.000-07:00

Today was the final day of our summer film production. We spent the day filming b-roll (images of people and places) around our nation's capital, and then we ended our summer journey with a celebration dinner. And yes, even a shameless dance of joy. Today's pictures speak louder than words, so I invite you to glimpse moments from our day-- and our joy at the day's end!

We began at the Lincoln Memorial, and then we drove our van to the White House, where we were met with secret service agents. They kindly showed us to our own parking spot that they had reserved for the "Motion Picture Crew".

In the mean time, the crew was doing the real work. Here is our cinematographer Matt Blute filming the White House from a distance:

Our last stop of the day (and of the summer) was Capitol Hill, where the crew filmed the great center of American government.

Our friend Prabhjit Singh joined us, and we all watched as Don(our first camera) and Sharat (our director) helped Matt film the building.

After this, we needed to move one more time for a final angle on the Capitol. Matt turned to me and asked me to film the final shot of production. A little too giddy, I accepted. And I managed to pull it off, despite Matt's incessant "Don't mess up!":

After the last shot-- and an entire summer on the road together-- there was a burst of relief. There were many hugs. And congratulations. And yes, there was even a dance of joy. We had somehow managed to pull it off.

At the end of the day, we joined our friends and crew for a celebration dinner. Sharat and I toasted our incredibly resilient and dedicated and riotous crew: Matt, Don, and Marcus. We toasted Jessica and Tracy, our hard-working Directors of Research and Communications (respectively). And we thanked our beautiful friends Manu and Archana, and all the people who have supported us on this long long journey together.

Production is over! Post-production now begins. We will return to California in a few days to begin life in the editing room, where Sharat and his fellow editor Scott Rosenblatt will spend the fall turning 130 hours of footage into a movie.

What's next?

Putting this movie into the world.

You can help us make it happen.

In Defense of Democracy

2005-08-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

August, 26-2005- Today was our very last day of interviews. It was only appropriate that our final two interviewees held opposing positions on how to defend American democracy in the post-9/11 era: one believes that we need to target undocumented immigrants and use racial profiling in security searches, and the other believes that such state policies are a form of public violence that encourage private hate violence. Both were intriguing.

We first interviewed CLIFFORD MAY (pictured below), President of the Foundation for the Defense of Democracies. He is also Chairman of the Policy Committee of the Committee on the Present Danger. With a sharp and confident voice, Clifford May shared with us his reflections on what is required to defend American democracy:

"The democratic experiment has been under threat since the beginning. It was under intense threat in 20th century from totalitarian moments: Fascism, Nazism, and Communism. Radical Islam is also a totalitarian move... All these movements are profoundly anti-democratic, against human rights and free choice. They must be taken at least as seriously as the ones in the past.

"After 9/11, there is no question that the Justice Deptartment took more seriously than in the past those in this country illegally and especially those from parts of the world where terrorists are recruited... We should welcome guests and immigrants. We should insist that people should not be here illegally. But if you come into this country, we need to know your name and why you’re here. You can't be underground because that’s scary to us at this point... 1.2 billion Muslims need to understand that they must choose to fight the free world or join free world. The free world welcomes them with open arms, but if they fight, we must defend ourselves.

"I’m not for racial profiling, I’m for terrorist profiling. If you put in what you know about a terrorist into the computer, he will be male, not over eighty and not under ten years of age. On September 11, all nineteen terrorists were young, male, and from Muslim countries. You just can’t ignore it. I think most people would be willing to accept the inconvenience... Freedom is under attack. All people who are freedom-loving must join together for the fight."

Our final interview was with MUNEER AHMAD (pictured), Professor of Law at American University. He discussed the state's use of immigration law as part of a larger form of public violence that targets Arabs, Muslims, and South Asians. He distinguished this from private violence, and argued that the two operate in tandem:

"Within a couple of weeks after 9/11, there were more than a thousand incidents: murder, assaults, vandalism of places of worships, homes, stores, and racial epithets. That’s what we tend to think of as private violence. Starting soon after that began another form of violence from the government: public violence. The government began to remove people from planes, search people in racially targeted way, and craft policies that targeted people thought to be Muslim, Arab, or South Asian. There was an expansion in immigration enforcement in racially targeted ways. Immigration law is a series of trip wires. It is a complex arcane area, and it's very easy for citizen to commit immigration violation without knowing it. It became much easier for the government to use immigration law rather than criminal law to pick up and detain immigrants.

"People tend to think of private and public violence as separate, but I think that they operate in tandem. Once the government responds with racial programs and policies, it communicates to private citizens what is permissable and what is not. If it's okay for the government to engage in racial profiling, then it becomes okay for private citizens to engage in racial profiling.

"9/11 produced a signal moment when a new racial category was created. People might have had a sense of Arabs as different from whites or African Americans, but the borders of this category were not fully formed in American racial discourse. The same is true for South Asians and Muslims. After 9/11, all these categories consolidate into a single category, described in different ways. Terrorist-looking. Now the assumption is that all terrorists are Muslims and all Muslims are terrorists. Well, who is terrorist-looking? Its sweep is so large. It includes Arabs and South Asians. A significant percentage of Arabs are Christians, and a significant number of South Asians are Christians or Sikhs. Certainly the Sikh community has seen vigilante violence directed toward its members. A significant number in the Muslim community is African American. If you start to pull it apart, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Laws and policies are a form of government speech. They send a message and they continue a kind of ideology that is picked up in the culture. It is now a standard joke on Letterman or Leno about the turbaned man kicked off of an airplane. This is not an individual act but a government act. This collection of government policies and acts constitutes a state ideology after 9/11; it is an ideology of violence. It constructs these communities as enemy, as foreign, as traitors, as not to be trusted, and therefore as worthy of punishment. It's hard for governments to articulate that kind of ideology and not expect individuals in the country to espouse the same ideology."

It was a long day and both interviews were deeply compelling. Our interview with Professor Ahmad became our last interview of the entire summer's production. We have one more day of b-roll in Washington, DC. We are just on the brink of celebrating, but there is still work to do. Our director Sharat Raju is pictured coordinating our final day.

I took one last glance into our film camera set up for interviews before we took it down (pictured below). I am satisfied with the voices we captured. We talked again with many of the people I had first interviewed four years ago. And we gathered a range of political views on how we should respond in this post-9/11 world.

When we are done tomorrow, we'll have 30 hours of film footage from this summer. Add this to the 100 hours of high-8 footage from the fall of 2001. We have our work in the editing room. Best not to think about it just yet. Instead, we'll focus on one more day of production... and our inevitable celebration.

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Best and Worst of America

2005-08-25T22:32:00.000-07:00

Today we interviewed SHER SINGH (pictured) who was arrested on September 12, 2001 as the first suspected terrorist after the 9/11 attacks. He was riding a Boston-bound train when it stopped in Providence, Rhode Island. He was wearing a turban and kirpan, both articles of Sikh faith. His ‘suspicious’ appearance had caught the attention of the FBI who sent federal agents and local police with bomb-sniffing dogs to the station to intercept him.

Officers rushed the entrance of the train and pointed rifles at the man: “Get your f--- hands up.” They pulled him out of the train at gunpoint and handcuffed him. One officer said, “How’s Osama bin Laden?” They led him onto the platform, where crowds of people had gathered, shouting profanities. Someone yelled, “You killed my brother.” Others shouted, “Kill him.”

Sher Singh was released within three hours of his arrest, because it was clear he was innocent. Authorities announced that he had no connection to the attacks. Yet the footage of his arrest was broadcasted and published around the world for three days, showing a tall man with a turban and long black beard, eyes cast downward, led in handcuffs by black-uniformed officers believing they had apprehended the first terrorist

We had first heard this story from Sher Singh in December 2001. Four years later, he reflected on his experience:

“I felt and sometimes feel a little estranged. I feel for a split second, maybe I’m not at home here. But then I tell myself it’s all in my mind. If somebody has or had a negative opinion about my appearance or any Sikh's appearance, then it’s in that person’s mind. That person needs to open up. Home is where you are. No looking back.” He smiles.

“After this happened, I got more involved in my community. I gave talks about Sikhism, attending rallies on civil rights, and talked to children on understanding different faiths. I felt that I had to give back a lot more than I had ever given back.

“I’m now a solution architect for EED; I develop solutions for the Navy and Marine Corps and help develop their information technology. I get to do very high level design and it’s a new challenge everyday.”

In his story alone, I see the worst and best parts of the American experience: Sher was a victim of racial profiling, but upon his release, he was able to choose to defend American national security, developing technologies that support troops abroad.

We continued looking at the tension between the history of discrimination in America and the American dream when we made our next visit to the office of South Asian American Leaders of Tomorrow (SAALT). We interviewed the Executive Director of SAALT, DEEPA IYER (pictured). She explained a history of discrimination toward Asian Americans to provide context to post-9/11 hate violence:

"It’s dangerous to look at post-9/11 by itself. We really need to realize that there has been a history of discrimination that goes back over 100 years for immigrants in the United States. Laws by the US prevented Asians from becoming naturalized, owning land, immigrating to the US. We must remember that many South Asians challenged those laws and became active in their communities. They demanded to be treated with equality, dignity, and justice.

"9/11 was a lightening rod for sentiments against immigrants and people of color, but it did more than that. Just a week after 9/11, a high number of incidents of bias were recorded in the media by South Asians and Arab Americans. SAALT did a report within a month after 9/11 looking at bias incidents. We found 645 reported in the media in just one week. That’s a snapshot of a much larger picture of what happened in the ensuing months and years after 9/11. In the pre-9/11 atmosphere, there was a muted anti-immigrant sentiment, and 9/11 became a space for these sentiments to explode. Suddenly, it became fine to speak openly and visibly about South Asians, Sikhs, Muslims, and people who are brown as possible terrorists."

I was grateful that organizations like SAALT record these incidents and raise awareness through resources and dialogue groups. You can check out their work here.

The team is battling colds and general fatigue, but we are all staying at the lovely home of Vidya and Tonse Raju (who have supported 'the arts' for years now as Sharat's parents). We are getting some good rest here as we head for the finish line. We are joined by our final sound technician, JIM (pictured to the left of our first cameraman Don.) We have only two more interviews left in Washington, DC before we wrap up production! Here we go.

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