After someone gunned down a Sikh in Arizona, after an arsonist torched his Sikh friend's fence in San Jose, Manjit Gill made a wrenching decision. He called off his sons' baptism.
The ceremony would have marked the first time his children wore the turbans that symbolize their Sikh faith. But with the torrent of hate unleashed by the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Gill didn't want his children to become targets for bigotry.
The post-attack backlash has confronted Sikhs and Muslims with a tough question: Should they remove the emblems of their religion to ensure their physical safety?
Gill reached a quick decision. No way will his children wear turbans. Not anytime soon.
Harpinder Singh, meanwhile, has vowed to wear his turban with pride. ``I'll never compromise my identity for some uninformed and overzealous people.'' Singh, who lives in Foster City, had every incentive to take his turban off -- and he did, for just one night.
Shortly after the attacks, he and his wife, Sonu, were driving in Fremont on their way to buy an American flag. Two men in a minivan threw something at their Toyota Corolla, made vulgar gestures and cut them off.
``I just couldn't believe it was happening to us,'' Singh said.
That night, he lay in bed wondering if someone might hurl a Molotov cocktail through his window -- something that had happened to a Sikh friend in San Mateo recently.
And a few days later, when Singh went out at night to meet friends, he wore a baseball cap instead of a turban.
``I felt miserable about it,'' Singh said.
No matter how bad things get, he says, he'll never remove his turban again.
The turban is the most prominent emblem of Sikhism, a religion born five centuries ago in northern India. Sikhs have become targets of the backlash because their turbans resemble the one worn by Osama bin Laden, the prime suspect in the attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center. But their faith has nothing to do with the radical fundamentalist Islam embraced by bin Laden and the terrorists who hijacked four jetliners on Sept. 11.
Sikhs believe in one God and follow the teachings of Guru Nanak and the nine gurus who followed him. The 10th and last guru, Guru Gobind Singh, called for Sikh men to wear five physical symbols of their faith, including uncut hair, which symbolizes devotion to God and acceptance of his will. The guru also called on Sikh men to wear turbans to protect their hair.
Long before the Sept. 11 attacks, Sikhs arriving in America wrestled with whether to take their turbans off or endure the stares, jeers and discrimination that they often provoke. But this is the first time that wearing a turban seemed like it could be a matter of life and death.
When Gill immigrated to the Bay Area in 1988, he couldn't find a job until he cut his hair, shaved his beard and removed his turban.
``I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror,'' said Gill, who has since worn his black hair and mustache neatly trimmed.
Over the years, he's had regrets. And in his wallet, he carries an old black-and-white photo of himself with a white turban and full beard.
Gill has decided against wearing his turban again. After so many years, he says, his friends and co-workers probably would find it disorienting if he suddenly put one on.
But when his second son was born last year, the 42-year-old engineer and his wife, Kiranjit Kaur Gill, vowed to raise the boys in the Sikh tradition.
Gill felt that the Bay Area had become more tolerant and diverse. The Sikh population had grown and turbans had become more common.
Since he arrived in the Bay Area five years ago, Harpinder Singh has felt comfortable in the turban he has worn since he was a boy growing up in Chandigarh in northern India, where Sikhism was born.
Singh, 30, is the founder of a San Francisco high-tech firm. When he was in high school, every Sikh boy wore a turban, and so did their fathers and their fathers before them. He didn't reflect on the symbolism of the turban until he came to the United States in 1992 to study computer science at Indiana University.
There, his turban made him stand out in every crowd. And suddenly his Sikhism became a more conscious part of his identity. He felt like an ambassador for the faith, and he performed this role with a deep sense of pride.
Though he sometimes felt self-conscious wearing his turban in the United States, he had never felt afraid. And he never thought about taking it off.
Until his friend's house was firebombed. Until a Sikh was gunned down in Mesa, Ariz. Until two angry men tried to run him off the road.
No sooner did he make this concession to fear than he regretted it.
``I should not let something like this influence who I am and how I look,'' he said.
Sikhism, he said, stands for equality, social justice and courage – values embodied by the turban he removed, if only for one night.
``I'll never do it again.''
As much as it pains him, Manjit Gill doubts that his sons will ever wear turbans.
When he terrorists attacked, Gill was outraged. But it wasn't until several days later that he realized how intense the backlash would become.
His brother called with the chilling news that a Sikh gas station owner had been murdered in Arizona, the victim of a hate crime.
``After that, I felt we weren't safe,'' he said. ``I thought that anybody could hurt us, even kill us.''
He called off the baptism the family had been planning for months for 15-month-old Aaron and 7-year-old Uttam. ``No way will I put my sons through the danger,'' Gill said.
Neither Gill nor Singh ever imagined that their faith would be put through the frightening test they have confronted since the Sept. 11 attacks. Neither judges the other for their choices.
And they both agree on this: The entire Sikh community has felt under siege since the day of the attacks.
``There's always a fear that you are watching your shadow,'' Singh said. ``It bites at you every time you're out.''