After the controversy caused by the Liberal Party’s official position, many Sikhs felt betrayed. But given their historical connection to the party, they didn’t know where else to turn—it didn’t feel as though there were any other options. The only political leaders who supported the Sikh community’s concerns about Kamal Nath were Andrea Horwath, the leader of Ontario’s New Democratic Party; and Jack Layton, the leader of Canada’s NDP.
I was cynical about politics. Having come from an activist background and having worked with anti-poverty and immigration policy groups, my school of thought was that people get things done by forcing the hands of elected officials, not by getting themselves elected. Jack was a good example of someone who proved my cynicism wrong.
The first time my brother saw Jack was in Parliament during the genocide petition. Gurratan and Amneet had remarked how supportive he had been to the Sikh community, particularly concerning human rights issues. They both approached him to offer their support. They were anti-poverty activists, so they were already supportive of many of the policies Jack Layton and the team were proposing to improve the lives of people.
“I’m a community activist,” Gurratan said to Jack. “I like what you’re doing.”
What followed was kept secret from me for weeks.
Amneet was finishing his master’s thesis in Ottawa. One evening, he called Gurratan with a proposition.
“We can’t just work against things. We need to work for something.”
“What do you have in mind?” Gurratan asked.
“We need to run someone in the next election,” said Amneet.
“That’s not what we do. We’ve never been involved in supporting a political party,” my brother said.
“Hear me out,” said Amneet. “The system is messed up. We need someone who can push back against these arrogant politicians who take us all for granted. We need someone who wants to go there just to fight for people.”
My brother shared Amneet’s vision—we needed not only a human rights champion, but a social justice champion, one who could serve the entire community, people of all backgrounds.
“Who do you have in mind?” asked Gurratan.
“The only person I can think of is Jagmeet. That’s what he’d do.”
My brother laughed. “Jagmeet doesn’t want to be a politician.”
“Exactly. That’s why it has to be him. Can you think of anyone else who has goodwill in the community and who would take a consistent, principled stance on the issues that are affecting so many people every day?”
“There’s got to be someone else,” said Gurratan.
“Tell me who. If you can find me someone, I’ll hang up right now and call them.”
“Let me think about it.”
Gurratan slept on it a couple of nights. We were living under the same roof, eating at the same dinner table, sleeping in bedrooms across a hall. But if he was dropping hints, I was oblivious.
Finally, Gurratan called Amneet back. “You’re right,” he said. “It has to be Jagmeet.”
Good cop, bad cop happened naturally. Gurratan, the bad cop, bided his time. He waited until I got home after a late night in the office. He cornered me as I scoured the fridge.
“I think it’s time you started to think a little bigger. In terms of your career, I mean.”
“Really,” I said as I retrieved cold lentils and Brussels sprouts and set them on the counter. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I think you should consider running in the upcoming federal election.”
I laughed as I poured my food into a cast-iron skillet and turned on the stove. I turned around and saw my brother wasn’t laughing with me. “No way,” I said.
Gurratan continued. “You’re good with people, you’re popular with the community. Young people listen when you talk.”
“That doesn’t mean I should run,” I said. “Lots of people are good at those things. And I really don’t see myself in electoral politics.” My food started bubbling, so I quickly took the skillet off the heat and transferred my dinner to a plate. “Look, I just don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have some stability right now. I don’t want to actively choose a life of struggles after we’ve finally found some peace.”
“The fact that you’ve struggled is why we need you,” he said. “You know what it’s like to feel powerless, but you’ve kept it together. More than that, you’ve pulled through it. And I know your nature—when you’re motivated, you don’t let challenges hold you back.”
There was a long beat while we faced each other through the steam clouds emanating off my plate. I finally broke the silence. “Okay,” I said. “I hear you, brother.”
He let things go, at least for a while. But my brother is one of the most persistent human beings I know. A few days later, I saw Amneet’s name appear on my buzzing phone. My intuition told me what he was calling about.
“I’ve already told Gurratan no,” I said as soon as I picked up.
“I realize that,” he said. “Hear me out, though. Five minutes.”
Amneet avoided the guilt-tripping my brother had used and resorted to flattery instead. He flattered me with words like “charismatic,” and he reminded me of the impact we’d had in teaching civil rights, fighting against poverty, addressing the trauma in our community, and protesting the stereotypes about us.
“You created space for marginalized people and made them feel confident in who they are,” he said. “I’ve watched you bring people together in a way I’ve never seen before. And it’s all because you’re genuine. You have no idea what a rarity that is in Ottawa. Believe me.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you,” I said. “But maybe you should consider someone else.”
There was no way I was going to run, so I put the thought immediately out of my mind. That night, I headed home to have dinner with Gurratan and my parents, who had started visiting us each weekend. I knew how much they wanted to move back to Mississauga to be closer to us, so I’d pitched my dad the idea of moving his practice out of Windsor. He was experimenting by working one day a week in Brampton, and I was pretty sure we would get Mom and Dad to move back before long.
My mom prepared a small feast that evening. I thought our earlier conversation was done, so I wasn’t prepared when Gurratan brought politics up again.
“So you talked to Amneet today?” he asked.
I tried to ignore him.
“And?” he pressed.
I let my silence speak for itself.
Gurratan put his fork down with a clang. “So that’s it?” he asked. “You’re not going to help the community? You don’t care? All right, okay. I guess that’s your goal.”
My dad looked around the table, confused. “Why are they fighting?” he asked my mom.
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.
Gurratan was relentless. “You’re letting your family down, you’re letting your community down, and you’re letting me down.”
Neither of my parents had a political bone in their bodies, so I dismissed the first point. But it genuinely stung to hear the rest of it. All I wanted was, for once in my life, to be comfortable.
Survival had always been my mom’s outlook, but it was never my dad’s. My mom’s mentality of focusing on getting by was very much rooted in common struggles of people who arrive to a new country. It’s the goal for the first generation of immigrants: to survive. It’s always the second generation that’s given the luxury of thinking not just about surviving, but thriving. My dad skipped that step. He wanted more—for himself, for his family, for his children. His ambition is what brought him to Canada. A lot of what we had to be thankful for was inspired by his drive to never settle, even though that drive was part of what led to his undoing.
I’d always believed my brother was more like my dad, while I took after my mom, and our argument only made that clearer. But seeing how passionate Gurratan was, how unwilling he was to hear
“no,” I wondered if maybe I could benefit from being a bit more like him.
“It’s not the life I want, brother,” I said. I think he could sense I was starting to cave just a little. It wasn’t much, maybe a slight crack in the armour. But it was all Gurratan needed to hear. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and fired off a text message to Amneet. He put his phone away and returned to eating, as if he hadn’t just changed the course of our lives.
My brother and Amneet continued to apply pressure over the next four months. Finally, in mid-January 2011, I agreed to meet two NDP staffers from Ottawa, Rupinder Kaur and Linda MacAskill, at a vegetarian restaurant near our house. The two of them made another pitch for me to run. I knew Rupinder from back in the day. I had met her at the University of Guelph while I was studying at Western. She was press secretary to Jack Layton, and she knew how to argue persuasively. I hadn’t met Linda before, but she was kind and gentle, while still remaining persistent and compelling.
I was flattered that so much effort was being made to convince me. They took a page out of Amneet’s playbook and then explained the process to me. When they left, they gave me some paperwork that I would need to fill out if I made the decision to run. I took the envelope home and tossed it on the kitchen table. It sat there for weeks.
February rolled around. There wasn’t a fixed date for the election, but all signs were pointing more and more to an early spring snap election, and I still hadn’t opened the nomination paperwork. The NDP, thanks in no small part to Jack, was building huge momentum, especially in Quebec. Gurratan and Amneet saw the rising tide and kept pressing me to put my name in the mix.
My resistance was slowly wavering. I started to seriously consider what running would mean for me. I had gotten over the idea that it would take me down a less predictable path than my legal career. And I had been reflecting on my brother’s argument that a life based on just trying to survive was a life robbed of its full potential. I needed to consider how I could thrive.
The question I kept grappling with was what I could offer, and the bigger question that came with it: Why me?
The answer didn’t hit me all at once, but I started making connections. I thought about facing racism throughout my life, and how it taught me what it’s like to feel as though you don’t belong. Young Black men, Indigenous youth, new Canadians—so many people were routinely made to feel they didn’t belong, and although each person’s experience was different, I could relate to some of that pain.
It takes courage to stand up to hate. It takes courage to love yourself when you’ve been told your whole life that you’re ugly, or dirty, or a terrorist.
I thought about the sexual abuse and the shame and guilt that came with it. The fear of not being believed; or worse, the shame and guilt of believing the abuse was your own fault.
I thought about the trauma and pain of growing up with an alcoholic parent. That experience taught me that addiction isn’t a choice. It also taught me never to give up. It helped me understand that anger can’t heal pain; it only hurts you and the people around you. I learned to look at addiction as a treatable illness, an illness that lives off anger but that can be healed through love. Love is a powerful act of forgiveness.
I thought, too, about what it’s like to live with fear. I recalled the warmth and kindness of friends and relatives who supported my family through difficult times. I remembered friends whose parents struggled after they lost work at the auto factories in Windsor, and who were made to feel they had no place in a modern economy. I remembered my own financial fears, not knowing if my family would have a home to live in, or if we would be able to pay the bills. And I knew it was a fear that far too many Canadians had faced and continue to face.
It’s too easy for us all to think of ourselves as alone with our problems. As I reflected on my experiences, I started to see answers to the question, Why me? My mom’s words came to me yet again: “We are all connected.”
No matter how different we think we are, we share a common connection, to each other and to the world around us. Gradually it dawned on me that my brother was right. We did have a responsibility to help everyone thrive, whether they felt like they belonged or not; to fight for all those people who felt as though they didn’t have anyone in their corner; to stand up for those who felt neglected and marginalized; or to embrace those who endured shame, guilt, financial hardship, persecution, or exclusion simply for being who they were.
Once I realized that, I never looked back. I had a team around me who offered support. Together, we began our work, and we’ve been at it ever since. We want to eradicate poverty and inequality. We want to encourage investment in affordable housing so everyone can find a place to call home. We want to defend the environment so everyone can have access to clean drinking water, breathe fresh air, and eat food free from toxins. We want to tear down barriers to education so that all of us can pursue our dreams. We want equality and justice for all. Most of all, we want to build a world where everyone belongs and no one is left behind.
Back then, once I finally became convinced that this was walking the right path, I knew what to do. Late one evening, I made my way to the kitchen. I picked up the envelope and slid out the documents I needed to complete to apply as a candidate for the riding of Bramalea-Gore-Malton.
The first field asked for my name. I paused. My full name is Jagmeet Singh Jimmy Dhaliwal. As a kid growing up in Newfoundland and Labrador, I was Jimmy Dhaliwal. When I moved to Windsor, I embraced who I was and went by Jagmeet Dhaliwal. I’d used that name for most of my youth. But now, I had a choice to make.
In South Asian traditions, your last name represents your clan, and your clan name represents your status in society. That traditional system of hierarchy was rejected by Sikh philosophy, which teaches that every human being is equal. In its place, the name “Singh” was used as a title of royalty given to uplift all people, regardless of their birth. It symbolizes the idea that all human beings, no matter who they are or where they’re from, are equally noble.
If I wanted to fight for all people, I couldn’t be Jagmeet Dhaliwal anymore.
I took a breath and signed my name: Jagmeet Singh.
Epilogue
LEADERSHIP CONVENTION—OCTOBER 1, 2017
I pulled the blackout curtains aside and filled my hotel room with sunlight. The balcony opened to a sweeping view of Toronto from the harbourfront. I stepped outside wearing a pair of navy-blue suit pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a steel/iron kara bracelet. I filled my lungs with the crisp October air. It was the morning of the NDP leadership nomination. It was the climax to the leadership adventure, with more anticipation and uncertainty in store. For a moment, I simply savoured the calm.
My meditation was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“I’ll let them in,” said Gurkiran, my soon-to-be fiancée.
I heard Gurkiran bringing my parents into the living room, so I quickly finished dressing in the full-length mirror. I tightened my kirpan strap over my shoulder and ran my hands through my beard, appreciating how a little age had created a path of grey in the middle. I bent forward, let my hair tumble past my chest, coiled it gently, and tied a topknot. I added a wooden-comb kanga to the base and wrapped a base turban with white cloth. Finally, I added a second layer of hot pink cloth, sculpting and shaping each fold as I wrapped it around my head.
I walked into the living room and gave my dad a big hug. He wore a matching hot pink turban.
“Did you ever think this day would come?” I asked.
“Never,” he said. “It’s too hard to imagine.”
My mom, wearing a creamy, gold, flower-embroidered salwar kameez, hung up her jacket and embraced me.
“Isn’t this amazing?” I asked her.
“Yes, it’s okay,” she said. I laughed. The answer was my mom in a nutshell. She wasn’t fazed by any of the political achievements.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Excited, nervous, but not to
o stressed,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “It’s up to the will of the universe.”
We were soon joined by my closest friends. I got a text message from Walid wishing me good luck. Amneet arrived not long after, and I thought about the first time I met him in London, my little brother’s friend who asked me how high I could jump. Back then, I never would have guessed that I’d become a public servant, let alone run for leader of the New Democratic Party, and I certainly wouldn’t have imagined being pushed there by a little fourteen-year-old challenging me on my ups.
Gurratan and his partner, Satvir, walked in. “This is awesome,” he said with a grin. In many ways, this day was the realization of Gurratan pushing me to thrive, not just survive. To thrive was to use everything I had gone through in order to create the most positive change for people. Gurratan had always been my biggest supporter. His belief in my potential was stronger than anyone else’s, including my own.
We sat around the living room telling jokes and stories, enjoying each other’s company. I was surrounded by close friends and family, people with whom I’d gone through so much. We had all come a long way since our first forays into politics, so we were well accustomed to election night anxiety.
I didn’t win my seat in the House of Commons in May 2011, the first time I ran, but I came within one percentage point and about five hundred votes, proving just how much our campaign meant to people. I knew that we’d built an incredible team. So later that year we picked ourselves up, shook off the loss, and made a historic victory in the same riding’s provincial legislature. We unseated a fifteen-year incumbent and won the NDP its first-ever seat in Brampton East.
We didn’t stop there. We held our seat in the next provincial general election, and over the course of six years, voters pushed me to fight against exorbitant car insurance premiums and the government’s coziness with corporations. Together, we put an end to the Ontario police’s carding practices, which so clearly targeted Indigenous people and people of colour. And we fought to finally call the Sikh genocide what it was. That push for justice got me banned from India, and when I put forward a bill for formal recognition of the genocide, it was rejected. But a month before I began my campaign for the federal party’s leadership, a Liberal MPP put the bill back on the table. It passed, and the process of reconciliation for half a million Canadians took a bold step forward.
Love & Courage Page 24