Amol Kular

I pass through the walls

Of the compound whose temples

Hold the holiest scriptures

Of my faith.

Seven years old, I see beyond

The golden rays of sanctuary

And the bright reflections on the water,

Noticing instead the bullets along the scaffoldings

Meant to strike at the hearts of my people.

As I look over at the faces

Of other visitors beside me,

I see those who fled their villages,

Faced with no choice but to escape

A regime that kills anyone who

Looks like me.

I hear the screams of those

Gunned down by troops, the cries

Of mothers and fathers whose sons

Were doused in kerosene and burned

Alive in the capital of Delhi months later.

Still I ignore the shots, trying to move

On from the dark history where thousands

Of Sikhs were killed, covering up

Evidence of a genocide, like how

The government silences my voice

And denies its past.

Where is the justice of 1984, my cousins

Left with no fathers to nurture them,

Families left with no bodies of their beloved

Or apologies from those who orchestrated

Their genocide? This memory is etched

In every Sikh’s heart and soul like the bullets

Etched in the walls of this compound.