In 1955, when I was a boy aged 10 years, my parents decided to remove the family from Cardiff, South Wales, to Melbourne, Australia. We sailed from Liverpool on May 15, and for the next four weeks we tolerated life on board the HMV Georgic, an aging ship that had been more accustomed to transporting British troops during WW2.

After four weeks of sailing, with stops only at Aden, the Yemeni city situated at the southern end of the Arabian Peninsula, and Fremantle, the Western Australian port city for the W.A. capital of Perth, we arrived in Melbourne on June 12. Coincidentally, this date was a holiday for the then Queen’s birthday. One of our fellow travellers on the ocean journey was a man named Tex. He was from the north of England.

On reflection, the name Tex was probably an epithet. Tex dressed only in clothes that personified the American cowboy, replete with a Stetson hat. My family got to know Tex quite well, even to the extent that, when we arrived in Melbourne and spent several days at the Exhibition Buildings reception centre, we explored the city that was to be our new home in the company of Tex. Naturally, my admiration, or was it fascination, for Tex was substantial. A particular reason for this was the fact that Tex wore an impressive array of sheaf knives around his waist.

Just before we parted company with Tex and, as it happened, were to see him for the last time, Tex gave me one of his sheaf knives. It was the smallest in his collection, with a four-inch blade and a handle that was made of black and grey metal rings. The knife came with a brown leather sheaf. What a gift for a pre-teenager who still had a fascination for American cowboys and the paraphernalia that came with them. I still have the knife, but not its sheaf, and the blade is still without the sharp point that Tex removed when he gave me the knife.  I have no idea what, at that time, were the rules for the public possession of dangerous weapons in Melbourne, but, seemingly, that was of no concern to Tex. As the reader would appreciate, Tex was some kind of character, one not easy to forget – sheaf knives or otherwise.

For whatever reason, I recently thought of Tex when I read an article about a rule of public law in Queensland, Australia, that prevented male persons of the Sikh religion from wearing full ceremonial daggers in public. The ceremonial dagger, known as the kirpan, is a curved, single-edged blade that Khalsa Sikhs are required to wear as part of their religious uniform, as prescribed by the Sikh Code of Conduct. Present day it is commonly manifested as a dagger or knife. Traditionally, however, the kirpan was a full-sized Talwar sword that has been described as “the quintessential combat sword used by Sikhs as their sacred kirpan due to its superior handling while mounted on horseback”.

In what follows, I acknowledge information from various sources, including publications of the National Secular Society (NSS).

With the above description of the kirpan in mind, it is obvious to realise why opposition has been raised, in Australia as elsewhere, for example, Canada, to the wearing of the kirpan. This is a complex and controversial question that has been debated in many countries. There is no definitive answer, as different legal systems and cultural values may have different views on the issue. What follows are some possible arguments for and against allowing Khalsa Sikhs to wear the kirpan, for example, Sikh children bringing ceremonial daggers to school.

The argument by those who feel that Sikh males should be permitted to wear the kirpan consider that it is a religious symbol and a sign of commitment to the Sikh faith. It is not intended to be used as a weapon, but as a reminder of the duty to protect the weak and oppressed. Banning the kirpan would violate the freedom of religious faith expression of Sikh children and, furthermore, would discriminate against them based on their identity. The kirpan is usually worn under clothing and secured in a sheath, so it poses no threat to the safety of others. 

There are legal exemptions for carrying the kirpan in public places in some countries, such as the UK and Canada, which recognize the religious importance of the kirpan for Sikhs.

The alternative argument, that is, against the carrying of the kirpan in public places, would suggest that the kirpan is a sharp and potentially dangerous object that could be used to harm others, intentionally or accidentally. Allowing the kirpan to be worn by Sikh children in school, for example, would create a security risk and a double standard, as other students and staff are not permitted to carry knives or similar items. Banning the kirpan would not infringe the freedom of religion and expression of Sikh children, as they can still practice their faith in other ways.

The kirpan is not a mandatory requirement for all Sikhs, but a choice made by those who undergo the initiation ceremony of the Khalsa. There are alternative ways of wearing the kirpan, such as a symbolic pendant or a smaller blade, that would respect the religious significance of the kirpan without compromising the safety of others.

The matter of whether the kirpan should be worn in public by dedicated Sikhs is yet another example of the debate between free expression (in word or practice) and religious interests from two opposing perspectives.

On one side, there is the desire of Khalsa Sikhs to openly wear the kirpan as being yet another campaign to any opposition of censorship in the long war of supposed religious bias and blasphemy that some religious organisations believe is behind the disapproval of allowing all religious beliefs and practices to be legitimated. It is an opposition being raised by several religious faiths to any argument against these faiths speaking and behaving in a way that excludes any philosophical critique and debate about their religious beliefs and public practices. Another example of this attitude and behaviour can be seen in religious fundamentalists calling for the boycott and censorship of both the new Barbie and Oppenheimer films on grounds of ‘offense’.

On the other, is the privileged status afforded by UK charity law to religious organisations, seemingly irrespective of any harmful or hateful output. An example of this can be seen in the NSS’s critique of a fundamentalist religious group’s complaints when the NSS raised concerns about it being a religious charity which promoted ‘witch hunting’. It is the view of the NSS that, all too often, religion is insulated whilst speech which upsets the religious is subject to attack. That disparity is not only hypocritical, but also anti-democratic, and underpins religious efforts to avoid scrutiny and suppress criticism. To combat this the NSS is committed to ensuring that doesn’t happen, by standing up for freedom of speech, wherever it is threatened.

I am uncertain as to where the above would place my erstwhile boyhood travelling companion, Tex, were he to be alive today and strolling the street of Melbourne, or any other city, dressed as an American cowboy who hails from the north of England. What I am quite certain of is that he would unlikely be allowed to stroll very far before being apprehended for the variety of sheaf knives he wore around his waist – with or without the one he gifted me.

Life and times have changed; religious faiths are more numerous and aggressive; secular critique is more vocal and nuanced, even if, occasionally, it has the tip of its blade blunted.

RSC