A letter about the things we notice too late — and what we can still do about them.
I need to tell you something that nobody told me.
It's not dramatic. There's no single moment. No teacher said anything wrong. No classmate was cruel. Nothing happened that would show up in a report or require a meeting.
It happened slowly.
And by the time I noticed, I realized it had been happening for years.
Maybe you've noticed it too. Maybe you haven't yet. But I want to describe some moments — and I want you to be honest with yourself about whether any of them sound familiar.
The morning your child left their kara on the dresser instead of wearing it to school. Not because they forgot. Because they didn't want to explain it again.
The evening you spoke to them in Punjabi and they answered in English. Not because they couldn't understand you. Because Punjabi had become the language of home — and home had become the only place it lived.
The time you mentioned Guru Nanak and got a blank look. Not confused. Just... empty. The way you'd look if someone mentioned a distant relative you'd never met.
The weekend you tried to take them to Gurdwara and they asked — genuinely, not rudely — "Do we have to?"
The day their school celebrated holidays from around the world and Sikhi wasn't one of them. And your child didn't notice. That's the part that stayed with you.
None of these moments are emergencies. None of them would alarm a teacher or a counsellor. None of them are anyone's fault.
But together, they tell a story. And the story is this:
Your child is spending the most formative hours of their life in a world that has no room for who they are.
Not because that world is hostile. Because it is indifferent. And indifference, over thousands of hours, does what hostility never could.
Thirty-five hours a week of school. Zero hours of Sikhi. Zero hours of Punjabi. Zero hours of learning about the Gurus, the shabads, the history, the values that shaped your family for generations.
Then we give our children two hours at Gurdwara on Sunday and wonder why it doesn't stick.
We teach them Punjabi on weekends and wonder why they answer in English on Monday.
We hang a khanda in our home and wonder why our child sees it as decoration instead of identity.
The math doesn't add up. It was never going to.
Here is the thing nobody says out loud:
Public school is not neutral ground for your child's identity. It is an environment that actively shapes who they become — 35 hours a week, 10 months a year, for the most impressionable years of their life.
It teaches them what matters by what it includes. And what doesn't matter — by what it leaves out.
When Sikhi is absent from the place where your child spends most of their waking hours, the message isn't subtle. It's loud. It says: this part of you belongs somewhere else.
Your child learns to compartmentalize. Sikh at home. "Normal" at school. Two versions of themselves. And over time, one of those versions gets stronger — because it gets 35 hours a week of reinforcement.
This is not the school's fault. The school was never designed to carry your child's identity. But that means someone else has to.
I'm not writing this to make you feel guilty. If you feel something reading this, it's because you already knew. You just hadn't heard someone say it out loud.
I'm writing this because there is another way.
There is a school in Surrey where your child learns the same BC curriculum — the same math, the same science, the same English — but in an environment where their Sikh identity isn't something they leave at the door. Where Punjabi is spoken every day. Where kirtan and gatka are part of the school week, not a weekend afterthought. Where the teachers know what Vaisakhi is. Where no child has to explain their patka. Where your child doesn't have to choose between fitting in and being themselves — because those are the same thing.
It's called Sikh Academy. It's been in Surrey since 2008. And it exists because a community of parents decided that 35 hours of academic education without 35 hours of identity education wasn't enough.
Your parents didn't have this option. They did the best they could — Gurdwara on weekends, Punjabi at home, and hope. They built the foundation.
You get to build on it.
The first generation built the Gurdwaras so we would remember. This generation can build on them — by giving our children a school where Sikhi isn't extra. It's foundational.
I don't know where your family is on this journey. Maybe your child is still young and you have time. Maybe you've already noticed the moments I described and you're not sure what to do. Maybe you've never considered a Sikh school because you assumed it meant giving something up academically.
It doesn't. The curriculum is the same. The classrooms are real — no portables, no staggered schedules. The classes are small. And the community is unlike anything public school can offer.
But don't take my word for it. Go see it. Walk the halls. Meet the teachers. Watch the children. You'll know within ten minutes whether it's right for your family.
Whether your family is deeply rooted in Sikh tradition or just beginning your journey — you belong here.
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