Travel has been my lifelong passion — and sport, my purpose. Together, they’ve taken me to every continent and nearly 30 countries, from the Olympic Games, both Summer and Winter, to the World Cups, Commonwealth and Asian Games, Pan American Games, and countless others over the past four decades.

Yet, amid the glory of sport and the rhetoric of “unity and equality,” I have repeatedly witnessed how bias and ignorance persist — sometimes subtle, sometimes brazen. Whether from overzealous airport security or uninformed onlookers, moments of prejudice remind me that the playing field of humanity is still uneven.

An Encounter in Milan

Just last week in Italy, I volunteered to assist with the ceremonies for the upcoming 2026 Milano Winter Olympics. After an audition, my wife and I sat at a café patio, enjoying the weekend bustle.

A group of young men took the table beside us. One wore a bright red banner with slogans, another stared at me before pointing to my turban. “What is this?” he asked. “It’s a turban,” I replied with a smile. “A Sikh religious wear.”

The curiosity quickly turned unsettling. Their faces hardened; smirks replaced smiles. The air grew thick with discomfort. My wife and I quietly finished our coffee and left. It wasn’t the first time I had faced such unease — nor, I suspect, will it be the last.

The Humiliation of a “Turban Check”

Frequent fliers learn patience at airports. I’ve never objected to security protocols; they are, after all, for everyone’s safety. But there are moments when safety morphs into humiliation.

At Brussels International Airport, a faint beep from the metal detector was enough to earn me a “special check.” 

A senior officer appeared with a handheld scanner and asked me to remove my turban. “I can let you swab or scan it,” I suggested. “But taking it off isn’t necessary.” He gestured apologetically toward a small mirror-fitted room. “You can tie it again afterward,” he said.

Surrounded by other turbaned passengers, I complied silently. My turban was placed in a tray, scanned, and handed back. As I retied it, another officer examined my bag, questioning a small steel needle — the baaj I use to tuck my hair. The same senior officer intervened and allowed it, understanding its purpose.

I moved on, but the sting of that “special check” lingered longer than the flight. A Canadian Sikh MP once told me about his own struggles at airports — being pulled aside despite holding diplomatic credentials. Frustrated, he once confronted security, pointing out that knives were sold freely at duty-free shops inside the terminal. His protest led to a policy change. Yet, as he joked, forks and knives still lie within reach at every airport café. Security, it seems, is sometimes a matter of perception — and prejudice.

Terror on the Olympic Bus

Rio de Janeiro, 2016. The first Olympics in South America. The city was alive with rhythm and pride when IOC President Thomas Bach proclaimed, “In this Olympic world, we are all equal.” Hours later, I experienced the fragile reality behind that statement.

After the opening ceremony, I boarded a crowded bus back to my apartment in Recreio. My turban and beard drew attention — curious at first, then hostile. A few youngsters began whispering and gesturing toward me. I smiled politely, unaware of what they were saying in Portuguese.

Then a kind stranger approached and asked for a selfie. “They think you’re carrying a bomb,” he whispered afterward. “But don’t worry, your stop is near.”

As the bus slowed, another couple signaled for me to get off early. One of the men who had taunted me followed. Fear gripped me. But before anything could happen, a middle-aged Brazilian stepped in. “I’ll walk with you,” he said gently, escorting me all the way to my door before turning back.

That night, I learned that hatred can travel too — even to the heart of the Olympics.

The Spirit of Sport Endures

Incidents like these could have soured my passion, but they haven’t. Most people I’ve met across borders — including those in Brazil — have been kind, warm, and curious. I’ve lost count of how many strangers have asked for photos, intrigued by my turban and story.

Last year in Paris, I was deeply honored to be recognized by the International Sports Journalists Association (AIPS) as the first Sikh with a turban to cover ten Olympic Games. It was a moment of quiet validation — proof that representation matters, even in press boxes.

In Santiago the year before, I met a Chilean sports medicine expert who claimed to have a beard longer than mine. I laughed and let him win that round. After all, sport — at its best — is about grace, not competition.

Disclaimer: The opinions and views expressed in this article/column are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of South Asian Herald.

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