CHAMBERSBURG, Pa -- For 70 years, daughters of the wealthy and well
connected spent their summers here riding horses and playing tennis at
an exclusive hilltop spread called Camp Robin Hood.
But this summer, echoing from the hilltop comes the throb of tabla
drums. From the dining hall at dinner wafts the aroma of chicken curry.
And bunking in the cabins are the children of a new breed of American
elite, relative newcomers to this continent, whose sons wear turbans and
whose daughters, on special occasions, don saris and scarves.
And bunking in the cabins are the children of a new breed of American
elite, relative newcomers to this continent, whose sons wear turbans and
whose daughters, on special occasions, don saris and scarves.
Camp Robin Hood is now a summer camp for Sikhs, descendants of a
religious tradition born 500 years ago in the Punjab region of northern
India. The parents of most of these campers are educated Punjabis who
immigrated to the United States within the last 30 years. They thrived
in business or in professions like medicine and engineering, and settled
down where their careers led them, sometimes finding themselves the only
Sikhs for miles around.
Soon they realized that their children could chant rap songs but not
Sikh scriptures, could name the Ten Commandments but not the 10 Sikh
gurus. Concerned that the strong pull to assimilate is stealing their
children's Sikh identity, Sikh parents around the country are creating
summer camps like this one here in southern Pennsylvania.
"We have kids whose families have become so integrated that some of
these kids have never had a Sikh friend before coming to camp," said
Mandeep Singh Dhillon, 28, one of the camp's founders, who grew up in
the small Sikh community in Raleigh, N.C., and whose father is a camp
investor and director. "They're so isolated that they don't know any
other Sikh families other than their relatives. These kids are American
now. They're Americans who follow Sikhism. So we want to give them that
exposure so they can understand their religion and be proud of their
heritage."
Sikhs are not the only predominantly immigrant religious group
organizing summer camps in an effort to stave off total assimilation.
There are Hindu summer camps in states including New Hampshire and New
York, Muslim camps in California, Jain camps in Texas. They rent Boy
Scout centers or local fairgrounds, or, in the case of one Hindu group,
buy a camp in the Poconos where Jewish parents once sent their children
to learn about Judaism.
"The intensive camp experience for Muslims or Sikhs or Hindus is like
what it has been for Jewish immigrants in the past, a kind of
consolidation of identity," said Diana Eck, director of the Pluralism
Project at Harvard University, who produced "On Common Ground: World
Religions in America," a multimedia CD-ROM (Columbia University Press,
1997).
Summer camps have become a kind of last chance for passing on religious
heritage, either because these families live hundreds of miles from
their nearest temple or mosque, or because their houses of worship do
not have youth education programs, or because both parents are
preoccupied with careers or too culturally estranged from their own
children.
At the Hindu Heritage Summer Camp in Rochester, said Balu Advani, its
president, "most of the kids are children of affluent parents who are
too busy working and don't have time to really educate their kids about
Hinduism."
The 60-acre spread of Camp Robin Hood was bought by five Sikh investors,
all physicians, six years ago for about $500,000. They renamed it
Lohgarh Retreat, for the first Sikh fort in the Punjab from which Sikhs
defended themselves against attacking Mughals in the 1600s. Today, says
the camp's Web site, "the battle here and now is against the armies of
ignorance and hatred, and the lure of assimilation."
The camp day is a mix of morning prayer, lessons in Sikh spiritual
practice and chanting, sports and peer group discussions. Boys get
turban-tying lessons. Everyone learns traditional Punjabi dance steps.
On Thursdays, after a lecture on Sikh history, all 60 campers join in an
enormous pillow fight. The other day they rode the roller coasters at
Hershey Park, soaking their turbans and scarves on the water rides. Some
campers said it was their first time out "in public" with a large group
of Sikhs.
For Sikh youth, who in this country are few but conspicuous in their
uncut hair and head coverings, camp is a place to share the culture
clash they experience with their own Indian-born parents, and the
pressures they face coming of age in America, home to only about 150,000
Sikhs out of 16 million around the world.
Late into the night, on an open-air stage where the girls of Camp Robin
Hood once performed Gilbert and Sullivan operas, 10 of the older Sikh
boys gathered to talk for two consecutive nights and found themselves
grappling with the question posed by a counselor: "Why am I a Sikh?"
In the glow of citronella candles, to ward off mosquitoes, several of
the boys admitted that they felt they were Sikhs only by heredity. One
boy said he felt like an actor in a play written by his parents.
"A lot of the guys had questions about our identity," Inder Paul Singh,
who is 18 and just completed his sophomore year at the College of
William and Mary, said later, "about whether we want to be Sikhs, why we
have to keep our hair and tie turbans, because we are so different from
everybody else."
For nearly 300 years, Sikhs have observed the mandate of their tenth
guru that the faithful wear five symbols: uncut hair, a comb, a steel
wrist bangle, a sword, and short breeches under their pants.
Such traditions are hard to keep in a junior high school in Winchester,
Va., for example, the hometown of Inder Paul Singh (who is not related
to Mandeep Singh Dhillon; in the Sikh religion, many men adopt the name
Singh, meaning Lion, just as women adopt the name Kaur, or Princess).
Paul said that in his early teens he was often teased about his long
hair, which he wore in a bun on top of his head covered with a knotted
scarf. Other boys said that they had been called "raghead," or that
their turbans had been pulled off.
But many of the boys at camp have never worn turbans and have visited
their share of barbers, just as their fathers may have. So, much of the
discussion here, among boys and girls alike, focuses on the decision to
cut or not to cut. And the pressure from parents can work in either
direction.
Navraj Rai, 14, said his mother had sent him to Sikh camp because at
home, in Garland, Texas, he had converted to Christianity in a
Pentecostal church.
"The social status I have there is ultimate," Navraj said of the church.
"Everybody knew I was a Sikh, and they were real interested in me." Yet
he agreed to come to camp because, he said, he is still exploring and
knows that he can never be a Sikh, and please his mother, unless he
better understands Sikhism.
In contrast, Mandeep Singh Mundi, 17, said his parents, in Johnson City,
Tenn., were successful business people who had forbidden him to grow his
hair or wear a turban, out of fear that he would be harassed. Mandeep
lied and told his mother he would be attending college registration,
then drove up for a weekend at the Lohgarh Retreat. When he leaves home
for college this fall, he said, he will begin growing out his hair.
"This camp has really changed my life," Mandeep said. "It turned me from
the person my parents wanted me to be, this assimilated American guy,
into someone who's proud of their culture."
At the end of the two-week camp, Navraj returned home to Texas to spend
the rest of the summer touring with his Pentecostal choir.
For Inder Paul Singh, the evening discussions with others at camp were
the first in which he had heard a rationale for Sikh customs that made
sense to him. He heard Mandeep Singh Dhillon explain that having to tie
a turban every morning reminded one of his identity as a Sikh, which
means "disciple." And a disciple, Dhillon told the boys, is always
learning, which is the essence of Sikhism.
"I kind of liked that," Paul said, adding that it had caused him to
change his mind and decide not to cut his hair.
Next year, he thinks, he may return to camp -- as a counselor.
