Don’t ban the kirpan
“The Sikh communities’ campaign to maintain customs inappropriate in Britain is much to be regretted. Working in Britain, particularly in the public services, they should be prepared to accept the terms and conditions of their employment. To claim special communal rights… leads to a dangerous fragmentation within society. This communalism is a canker; whether practised by one colour or another it is to be strongly condemned.”
Enoch Powell quoted these words, from Labour minister John Stonehouse, in his 1968 Rivers of Blood speech. At the time, Powell was MP for Wolverhampton South West, where a dispute over Sikh bus drivers wearing turbans had made international headlines. The dispute began in 1967 when Tarsem Singh Sandhu, a Wolverhampton bus driver, was dismissed for refusing to remove his turban. His dismissal sparked a two-year campaign by Britain’s Sikh community for the right to wear turbans while working on public buses.
The campaign ultimately succeeded, marking a significant moment in the accommodation of religious identity within British public life. In the early post-war years, many Sikhs had felt compelled to abandon their turbans and beards to secure employment. By the late 1960s, a larger and more organised community was increasingly willing to assert its place in British society without relinquishing its religious identity. Their successful campaign marked an early example of Britain’s growing willingness to accommodate religious difference, reflecting an emerging commitment to multiculturalism that would only strengthen in the decades that followed.
Yet, more than half a century later, Britain is having the same debate. Nigel Farage recently claimed that the rights of white people matter less than those of ethnic minorities. The tragic murder of Henry Nowak by Vickrum Digwa has become the latest flashpoint, despite the clear wishes of Henry’s family. Nowak was stabbed five times by Digwa, who falsely claimed he was racially abused. Police chose to believe Digwa, and placed Nowak in handcuffs despite him telling officers he had been stabbed and couldn’t breathe. The murder has rightly sparked outrage across Britain.
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Speaking outside court last week, Henry’s father, Mark Nowak, urged against the politicisation of his son’s death. “We do not want his death to be used to create further division, hatred or tension,” he said. “This is not a case about Sikhism. This is not a case about racism. This is a case about murder.”
Reform has made this about Sikhism anyway, pledging to ban the kirpan, the Sikh ceremonial knife. The kirpan is a blade carried by Amritdhari Sikhs (baptised Sikhs who make up a minority of Sikhs) as part of the five Ks, which also include kesh (uncut hair), kangha (a wooden comb), kara (an iron or steel bangle) and kachera (a specific type of undergarment).
Crucially, Vickrum Digwa did not kill Henry Nowak with a kirpan, but with a second, much larger, blade. As we now know, he was a man obsessed with weapons and violence. But despite these facts, the British Sikh community as a whole is being put on trial for a crime they did not commit, with their religious freedoms called into question.
The argument advanced by critics is that no group should enjoy special exemptions from laws governing bladed articles. Yet British law has long recognised that context matters. A chef may carry knives for work. A tradesperson may transport tools containing blades. A farmer or hunter may lawfully possess firearms. A Scotsman wearing a kilt may carry a sgian-dubh (a small knife) in his sock as part of cultural dress.
The kirpan exemption sits within the same legal tradition. Section 139 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988, reinforced by the Offensive Weapons Act 2019, permits Sikhs to carry a kirpan for religious reasons.
While many European countries such as France enforce strict secular laws banning the kirpan, Britain is relatively exceptional in protecting religious freedoms. Given this country’s long and often painful history of religious persecution, from the discrimination faced by Catholics and Protestants in different eras to centuries of restrictions imposed on Jews, this commitment to religious liberty should be regarded as one of Britain’s strengths rather than a weakness.
And rather than fostering a sense of collective identity and cohesion, France’s hardline approach has alienated religious minorities. There are many valid critiques to be made of British multiculturalism and more can and should be done to address racial segregation and tensions between communities, but clamping down on religious freedoms does nothing to build trust between them. It will only undermine cohesion further. This is not about favouring one community over another. The consequences of using a kirpan, kitchen knife or any other object as a weapon do not depend on a person’s religion, ethnicity or background. They depend on their actions and intentions. The intent behind carrying a kirpan is religious in nature. For observant Sikhs, it is an article of faith, not an instrument of violence.
Of course, there is a need to get the balance right between religious freedoms and public safety. But this should be driven by the facts. There are no cases of this nature involving the kirpan in Britain, and the British Sikh community have always cooperated with authorities where concerns have arisen. As Jas Singh, principal advisor to the Sikh Federation, told me: “When it comes to the Olympics and the courts, sensibility and practicality comes into play. Baptised Sikhs having a religious exemption doesn’t stop you from picking up a knife. The law is very clear. The conditions around it are very clear. You are only allowed to use it if you’re a baptised Sikh. Anyone else using it, it’s an offensive weapon like anything else. The focus should be on the police, authorities and education in knife crime.”
Singh raises an important point. Knife crime is a serious issue, but there is no evidence that religious exemptions are driving it. Young people from all backgrounds can readily obtain illegal knives through social media and other online channels, and, on average, two school-aged children die each month from knife-related injuries in England.
The Cleveland Police area, which covers parts of the least diverse parts of the country, records the second-highest rate of serious knife crime in England. Yet this will hardly get a mention from right-wing commentators who instead focus on “Sadiq Khan’s London” and implicitly associate diversity with crime.
This selective framing distorts what should be a serious, evidence-based debate about knife crime, which is driven by far wider social and systemic factors than religion or ethnicity. Instead of a referendum on religious freedoms, we should be focusing on early intervention and education to prevent violent crime.
Just as Enoch Powell’s rhetoric preceded the paki-bashing of the 70s and 80s, the scaremongering and sensationalism clouding this debate is having a real impact on the British Sikh community. In recent days, there have been reports of racist hate crime directed against Sikhs, including assaults and people being spat on in the streets.
Henry Nowak’s father Mark said he wanted his son’s story “to make our streets safer for everyone”. Putting religious minorities on trial for a crime they did not commit will achieve the precise opposite.
[Further reading: This is not what Henry Nowak’s family wanted]
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