By Tara Bahrampour
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Uighurs eased their cars into George Mason University's Lot I, as they do most Sundays. They dropped their bags on the edge of a field and pulled on cleats and blue shirts.
The Kurds arrived soon after. They slapped hands with the Uighurs and exchanged greetings: "Hey," they said, "Salam-u aleikum." A few from both sides knelt on the field to pray. Then it was time to play.
Soccer is the Esperanto of sports. Everyone from everywhere seems to play it; all you need are feet and a ball. In the Washington region, where so many ethnic enclaves share a passion for the sport, soccer fields can sometimes feel like the United Nations: Ethiopians and Ugandans; Bolivians and Kazakhs; Uighurs and Kurds. The teams might not speak the same language, but everyone understands "goal," "pass" and "corner."
Uighur United, a Northern Virginia-based team of men in their teens and 20s, was formed in 2005. Many Uighurs, a Muslim minority in western China, arrived with their families about 10 years ago, often via countries such as Afghanistan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, where they fled to escape pressure from the Chinese government. They play against other Uighurs (pronounced "WEE-ghurs") across the United States and in Canada and this year plan to go to Australia.
"We're using it as a tool to reunite our youth," said Shafkat Ali, 22, a George Mason student who lives in Reston.
"Some of the people who come here at a young age, they sort of forget their own culture," explained Mustafa Sidik, 25, a University of Maryland student who lives in Annandale. "They get kind of Americanized. That's not a bad thing, but we don't want them to forget their culture."
They are also doing something their cousins in western China can't since a violent Chinese crackdown on Uighur protesters this month.
"Most of the time they . . . don't want you to get together," said Sidik, referring to the Chinese government, which he said has barred large gatherings of Uighurs. Soccer counts as a gathering. "I don't think anyone's playing soccer right now."
Kurds in northern Iraq can gather unmolested these days, but they, too, faced repression for years and often came here for similar reasons. In fact, many played soccer with the Uighurs at Fairfax High School, and they now attend local universities together.
For whatever reason, the Uighurs are more organized than the Kurds, who don't have matching shirts or even a team name.
"I wish we could have a team like them, because they go to Canada and different states," said Zirian Shammo, 21, a Kurd from Centreville who studies at Virginia Commonwealth University.
The Sunday afternoon games are not particularly competitive. Still, each team wants to win. "They make fun of us all week if we lose," Shammo said. "The past couple of months, we've been losing, so all the jokes are on us."
The field has the potential to be a cacophony of tongues. The Uighur language is similar to Turkish, and two Kurdish dialects spoken by the players, Bahdini and Sorani, are incomprehensible to one another. The referee, an Iraqi, speaks Arabic. The game, therefore, takes place mostly in English.
As does the cheerleading, undertaken by a lone Kurdish woman with long black hair and coal black eyes.
"What the hell was that?" shrieks Sabat Mahmoud, 20, when the Uighurs score a goal in the first minute. She attends George Mason and often attends these games. "Come on, Kurdistan!"
About 20 minutes in, another group of Kurds shows up. Furious that the game has started without them, they pull on fluorescent yellow vests and run onto the field, insisting that they are the regulars and that the non-regulars must leave. Those already playing say there is no official roster; it's first-come, first-served.
The argument heats up. Some Uighurs sit down on the field to wait. Ahmed Razak, an Iraqi computer engineer who describes himself as a little of everything -- "Kurd, Turkish, Shi'a" -- retires to a bench, muttering, "You wonder why there's no peace in the Middle East."
But the fight has nothing to do with nationality; it's the same posturing among young men anywhere. Accusations of "disrespecting" are thrown around. A Kurdish player charges another; a Uighur holds him back. Rolling her eyes like an experienced matron, Mahmoud inserts herself between the combatants, saying, "Why don't we just go bowling?"
Finally, the fighting ebbs, a goal is moved to make room for a smaller Kurdish game and the larger game starts over. Despite the damp heat, they play energetically; they are even balletic. By the time the referee blows the whistle, it is almost dark.
The Kurds have won, 7-5. The Uighurs collapse beside their goal and justify their loss: They were more fatigued at the end because they played longer than the Kurds, thanks to the earlier mix-up.
The conversation turns to Chinese food, which the Uighurs insist includes dog meat; Japanese food, which is "cleanest" but involves raw fish; and wives, which, they say, are hard to find here. Most players live with their parents, who want them to find Uighur girls, but the pool is limited. One player went back home in 2006 to look for one but had no success there, either.
Ashraf Tahir, a native of Sudan and one of the team's two non-Uighurs, sympathizes about the difficulty of finding a good wife. "Our women, once they get here, become harder to deal with on a daily basis."
The players cross the field toward their cars. They talk about an upcoming protest in front of the White House. They talk about how the Chinese didn't like their parents' generation to practice Islam; now that they are here and free to worship, in some ways it's more difficult because of the non-Islamic temptations.
Walking ahead, Tahir, 24, explains to the Uighur goalie, a tall boy of 16, that a real man doesn't lose his temper, that Islam teaches that the best person is the one who controls his emotions. Many things in life will require a lot more patience than soccer.
"One day, you're going to have a wife to deal with," he said, "and you're going to have kids, and a job and a boss and co-workers who stab you in the back."
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