Being a Sikh Social Worker inside the UK's Social Care system is far from simple

I didn’t become a social worker by accident. My parents raised me on the Sikh principles of Seva - selfless service - and Sarbat da Bhala - working for the welfare of all. On paper, it’s the perfect fit. Helping vulnerable families, protecting children, standing up for those without a voice; these are not just job responsibilities for me, they’re part of my faith. But the reality of living those values inside the UK’s social care system is far from simple.

One of my first cases, back in the late 90s, involved a Sikh family. I went in with empathy, understanding their cultural background, but also knowing I had a duty to the child above all else. The father looked despondent and beaten down, but when he saw me, he smiled just a little - as if my presence might change what was coming.

“Which village are you from?” he asked.

It’s a common question for that generation, a way of placing you, finding some shared ground. When I told him, he nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself. But then his expression shifted, and he said quietly, “I didn’t expect this from one of our own.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the weight in his words hit me harder than any shout could have. In that moment, I wasn’t just a professional doing my job - I was someone he believed had crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

I drove home that evening with my thoughts spinning. How could I reconcile my professional duty with the feeling that my own community saw me as an enemy? My kara felt heavier than usual that night, as if it was silently asking me, “Are you living your values, or betraying them?”

It’s not just the community pressures. In the office, I often found myself being given cases involving Asian families - Sikh, Hindu, Muslim, Bengali, Indian - as if we were all interchangeable. The assumption seemed to be that my ethnicity alone made me automatically equipped to work with them, regardless of language, faith, or culture. It placed me in the role of “cultural interpreter” by default, the go-between who could “handle them” because I looked the part. It was extra work, extra emotional labour and, often, less recognition.

Even when I was working with non-Sikh service users, my identity came into play. Sometimes people made offhand comments about “foreigners” or “immigrants” without realising they were talking to someone whose roots are firmly here, yet who carries the history of Punjab in their blood. Other times, I faced outright prejudice, and had to keep my professional composure while being insulted.

I worked hard. I was good at my job. But that never seemed to translate into promotion or genuine recognition. Instead, there were “helpful” suggestions for more training, and the kind of empty platitudes that sound flattering but mean nothing — the “you’re such a valuable member of the team” speeches that never lead to new opportunities or fair progression. It was as if my role was to keep giving without expecting to move forward.

The hardest part, though, is the isolation. When you’re seen as an outsider at work because of your background, and as a sell-out in your own community because of your job, you’re left standing in a strange middle ground. You learn to carry the weight quietly, but it’s still there.

And yet, I stay in this profession. Not because it’s easy — but because it matters. Every time I see a child smile because they feel safe again, every time I help a family find their feet after a crisis, I know I’m walking the path my faith set for me. It’s not the version of Seva people imagine when they think of serving in a Gurdwara kitchen or donating to charity, but it is service all the same.

The road is hard, and sometimes lonely, but I walk it for a reason. In the spirit of Sarbat da Bhala, I serve — even when service comes at personal cost.

My story is not unique. Many social workers from ethnic minority backgrounds - Sikh or otherwise - face similar experiences of stereotyping, pigeonholing, and invisible barriers to progression. The profession often talks about diversity, but true equality goes beyond numbers; it’s about valuing expertise without reducing people to their ethnicity, and creating pathways for advancement that are fair and transparent.

If social work is truly about inclusion, we must start by looking inwards. That means challenging assumptions about who is “best placed” to work with certain communities, ensuring progression is based on merit rather than comfort zones, and recognising the emotional labour that comes with being a cultural bridge.

For me, my work will always be grounded in the Sikh belief of service and justice. But service should not come at the cost of fairness or opportunity. The profession I love has the potential to be better - for workers and for the people we serve. The first step is to see us, not just for our heritage, but for our skill, dedication, and humanity.