Dear Henry Nowak, the Sikh you met was not the Sikhi you deserved to meet
A letter to Henry Nowak, the teenager who was killed in the UK after he questioned a blade carried by Sikh youth Vickrum Digwa in December 2025. Last week, Digwa was sentenced to life in jail. The Sikh community must reflect if it has become more concerned with what a Sikh looks like than with what a Sikh is becoming.
Dear Henry,
We never met.
You were 18 years old, walking back to your university accommodation after an evening out. You had your whole life ahead of you. Your family speak of your warmth, your humour, your ambition and your kindness. They speak of a son, a brother and a friend whose absence now hangs over every family gathering, every birthday and every Christmas.
You met a Sikh before you met Sikhi.
You saw a young man carrying a visible blade. You asked a question. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was youthful mischief. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. Within moments, your life was over.
The court has spoken. A judge described how a privilege granted to Sikhs was abused and how a religion was dishonoured by the actions of one of its followers.
This letter is not about him.
It is about us.
For centuries, many Sikh elders have celebrated visibility. We applauded young people for wearing symbols of identity with confidence. We welcomed public displays of distinctiveness. We praised courage in the face of misunderstanding.
There was value in that.
Somewhere along the way, however, parts of our community became more interested in what a Sikh looked like than what a Sikh was becoming.
Guru Nanak (1469-1539), who laid the foundations of the Sikh path, warned against confusing appearance with transformation:
"The Divine is not found through appearance alone, nor through pilgrimages, ritual bathing, or acts of charity," the Guru declared.
In 1699, the Sikhs were given articles of faith, but those articles were never intended to function independently of character. A kirpan without restraint becomes something else. A turban wrapped around unshorn hair without humility becomes something else. Identity without inner formation becomes something else altogether.
Your death forces us to confront uncomfortable questions.
Have we taught our young people how to display Sikhi more effectively than how to live it?
Have we become captivated by the symbols of the faith while neglecting the qualities those symbols demand?
Have we confused visibility with maturity, and recognition with spiritual growth?
In recent years, a culture has emerged in some spaces where image travels faster than wisdom. Cameras are always present. Audiences are always waiting. Recognition arrives quickly. Self-examination takes longer.
Some six months before your passing, in June 2025, I wrote about a growing tendency within parts of the community to prioritise image over substance.
The external form remains intact while the internal compass drifts. Your death has forced that concern into sharper focus.
Guru Amar Das (1479-1574), our third Guru, observed:
"Many wear religious garb, yet harbour deceit within their minds and hearts. Through such hypocrisy, they themselves become lost in wandering. One who lives by this pretence cannot attain the presence of the Divine; instead, they embrace spiritual death and remain trapped in the filth of their own vices," the Guru wrote.
Those words feel painfully relevant today.
What happened to you should never have happened.
The Gurus produced people who stood between the vulnerable and danger. The tradition taught truth before pride and service before self.
You encountered none of those things that night.
Your family now carries a burden that will never leave them. Nothing written here can lessen that pain.
Perhaps this letter is really for us.
Perhaps it is a reminder that every article of faith carries a corresponding moral obligation. Perhaps it is a warning that symbols detached from ethical formation become prone to misuse. Perhaps it is an invitation to rediscover what the Gurus were actually trying to create.
A Sikh is not recognised by what he carries.
A Sikh is recognised by what carries him.
(Views expressed in the piece are those of the author. This article first appeared as a Substack piece)
Dear Henry,
We never met.
You were 18 years old, walking back to your university accommodation after an evening out. You had your whole life ahead of you. Your family speak of your warmth, your humour, your ambition and your kindness. They speak of a son, a brother and a friend whose absence now hangs over every family gathering, every birthday and every Christmas.
You met a Sikh before you met Sikhi.
You saw a young man carrying a visible blade. You asked a question. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was youthful mischief. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. Within moments, your life was over.
The court has spoken. A judge described how a privilege granted to Sikhs was abused and how a religion was dishonoured by the actions of one of its followers.
This letter is not about him.
It is about us.
For centuries, many Sikh elders have celebrated visibility. We applauded young people for wearing symbols of identity with confidence. We welcomed public displays of distinctiveness. We praised courage in the face of misunderstanding.
There was value in that.
Somewhere along the way, however, parts of our community became more interested in what a Sikh looked like than what a Sikh was becoming.
Guru Nanak (1469-1539), who laid the foundations of the Sikh path, warned against confusing appearance with transformation:
"The Divine is not found through appearance alone, nor through pilgrimages, ritual bathing, or acts of charity," the Guru declared.
In 1699, the Sikhs were given articles of faith, but those articles were never intended to function independently of character. A kirpan without restraint becomes something else. A turban wrapped around unshorn hair without humility becomes something else. Identity without inner formation becomes something else altogether.
Your death forces us to confront uncomfortable questions.
Have we taught our young people how to display Sikhi more effectively than how to live it?
Have we become captivated by the symbols of the faith while neglecting the qualities those symbols demand?
Have we confused visibility with maturity, and recognition with spiritual growth?
In recent years, a culture has emerged in some spaces where image travels faster than wisdom. Cameras are always present. Audiences are always waiting. Recognition arrives quickly. Self-examination takes longer.
Some six months before your passing, in June 2025, I wrote about a growing tendency within parts of the community to prioritise image over substance.
The external form remains intact while the internal compass drifts. Your death has forced that concern into sharper focus.
Guru Amar Das (1479-1574), our third Guru, observed:
"Many wear religious garb, yet harbour deceit within their minds and hearts. Through such hypocrisy, they themselves become lost in wandering. One who lives by this pretence cannot attain the presence of the Divine; instead, they embrace spiritual death and remain trapped in the filth of their own vices," the Guru wrote.
Those words feel painfully relevant today.
What happened to you should never have happened.
The Gurus produced people who stood between the vulnerable and danger. The tradition taught truth before pride and service before self.
You encountered none of those things that night.
Your family now carries a burden that will never leave them. Nothing written here can lessen that pain.
Perhaps this letter is really for us.
Perhaps it is a reminder that every article of faith carries a corresponding moral obligation. Perhaps it is a warning that symbols detached from ethical formation become prone to misuse. Perhaps it is an invitation to rediscover what the Gurus were actually trying to create.
A Sikh is not recognised by what he carries.
A Sikh is recognised by what carries him.
(Views expressed in the piece are those of the author. This article first appeared as a Substack piece)
