By T N Ashok
NEW YORK / STOCKTON / CALIFORNIA: On a Sunday afternoon in Stockton, the prayer hall of a Sikh gurudwara hums not only with hymns but with the quiet murmur of truck drivers practicing English phrases. Men in turbans lean over sheets of paper filled with road signs, while volunteers gently correct their pronunciation. This unlikely classroom has become a refuge for Sikh truck drivers in California’s Central Valley — and a symbol of resilience for a community reeling from tragedy thousands of miles away.
On August 12, a truck accident in Florida claimed three lives. The driver, Harjinder Singh, a Sikh immigrant, was accused of making an illegal U-turn. Federal officials later alleged that he had entered the U.S. unlawfully and obtained a commercial driver’s license despite failing an English test.
For Sikhs, who make up nearly 40% of the West Coast’s trucking workforce, the crash was more than a tragic accident. It was the spark that unleashed suspicion, harassment, and fear. “Sometimes one man’s mistake becomes every man’s burden,” says Narinder Singh, a 51-year-old driver who has hauled freight across America for nearly a decade. “Now people look at us differently. They don’t see us as workers, but as outsiders who can’t be trusted.”
Just three years ago, Sikh drivers were hailed as heroes. During the pandemic, when store shelves went bare and supply chains faltered, immigrant truckers kept goods moving across the country. Many took long, dangerous routes to deliver food and medicine.
But today, drivers describe being honked at, harassed, and even called racial slurs at truck stops. Some report people throwing water bottles at their trucks. Others, like Gurpratap Singh Sandhu’s cousin in Florida, say they are stopped and questioned simply because of how they look. “It hurts because we were celebrated not long ago,” says Gurpratap, who runs a trucking company in Sacramento. “Now our drivers are afraid to take jobs in states like Florida and Alabama. They don’t feel safe.”
Beyond harassment, there is another fear: losing jobs. The Florida crash has intensified calls for stricter licensing rules and tougher English requirements. Trucking companies, nervous about compliance, are already hesitating to hire drivers with limited English.
“I know drivers who stayed home for weeks,” says Raman Singh Dhillon, CEO of the North American Punjabi Trucking Association. “They didn’t want to risk inspections or trouble. Families are losing income because of fear.”
For many Sikh families, trucking is not just a job but a lifeline. Generations have built businesses with names like “Singh Trucking” or “Punjab Transport,” sending children to college and building homes from long hours on the road. The possibility of losing that livelihood is devastating.
In response, Sikh temples across California have stepped in. They are offering free English-language classes to truck drivers, turning sacred spaces into practical classrooms.
At one such class in Stockton, volunteer teacher Arshveer Singh Sandhu leads a program called English4Truckers. The lessons cover everything from reading highway signs to explaining problems to mechanics, from ordering food at a restaurant to calling 911. “These men are strong, proud, and hardworking,” Arshveer says. “They just need support with language. If that helps them keep their jobs and their dignity, then we have to provide it.”
The transformation is visible. Harpreet Singh, a 38-year-old driver, says he feels less anxious now. “Before, I would panic if an officer stopped me. Now I know how to answer. I can even order coffee at Starbucks without fear.”
The classes are about more than just language. They are about healing a community’s wounds. Sitting side by side in the gurudwara, drivers find comfort in each other’s struggles. “Here, nobody laughs at you if you make a mistake,” Narinder Singh says softly. “We all learn together. It feels like family.”
The lessons also serve as a quiet message to the outside world: Sikh drivers want to adapt, to comply, to be seen not as a risk but as responsible contributors. “We are not here to break laws,” says Harinder Singh, a senior fellow at the Sikh Research Institute. “We are here to work hard, to serve America, and to raise our families. English is just one step in showing that commitment.”
For many Sikhs, the fear today brings back memories of darker times. In 2012, a gunman opened fire at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, killing six worshippers. The attack, fueled by ignorance and hate, left scars that still linger. “Rhetoric matters,” says law professor Arjun Sethi, who has long studied hate crimes. “When a whole community is blamed for one incident, it can lead to real violence. Sikhs know this pain too well.”
The FBI’s latest data shows Sikhs are the third most targeted religious group in the U.S., after Jews and Muslims. That vulnerability weighs heavily now, as the Florida crash becomes a lightning rod for resentment.
Yet amid the fear, Sikh drivers show remarkable resilience. Many continue to haul goods across the country, despite insults or stares. Others balance night shifts on the road with English lessons at the temple.
At the end of a recent class in Stockton, drivers gather in the gurudwara’s kitchen, sharing chai and plates of hot pakoras. The atmosphere is lighter now, laughter mixing with the aroma of fried onions. “We talk about our fears,” Harpreet Singh admits, sipping his tea. “But we also talk about our children, our dreams. We remind each other why we came here — to build a better life.”
For Sikh truckers, the road ahead may be uncertain, but their determination to adapt — and to keep America moving — remains steady. “All we ask,” says Narinder Singh, folding away his English worksheets, “is that we are not judged by one man’s mistake. We just want to work with dignity.” (IPA Service)
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