Eritrea's national soccer team seeks asylum in Kenya

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By Barney Jopson
Friday, December 18, 2009; A14

KAMPALA, UGANDA -- Eritrea's entire national soccer team is seeking asylum in Kenya, joining tens of thousands of compatriots who have fled one of Africa's most repressive governments.

The team absconded after traveling to Nairobi for a regional tournament. Eritrea, with only about 4 million people, was the second-biggest source of asylum seekers in the world last year, and the missing players are probably the highest-profile defectors since the country won independence in 1993.

The 11 players and one substitute were reported missing over the weekend when the team plane returned to Eritrea without them after a match against Tanzania.

After going into hiding, the players contacted the U.N. refugee agency in Nairobi, which directed them to file asylum applications at Kenya's Immigration Ministry.

Nicholas Musonye, a Kenyan soccer official who first alerted the authorities to the missing players, said: "I have been informed by the tour guide who was with them that they are in Nairobi and have been seeking political asylum."

The number of Eritrean asylum seekers worldwide last year was second only to the total from Zimbabwe, according to the United Nations.

People are fleeing a combination of political repression, food shortages, open-ended military service and a moribund economy.

More than half of them, about 34,000, fled overland to Sudan, braving harsh terrain and army shoot-to-kill orders. But many more are likely to have escaped without registering with the U.N. refugee agency.

Musonye, the general secretary of the Council of East and Central Africa Football Associations, said he had spoken to officials at the Eritrean National Football Federation, who were "a bit upset."

"The federation has a responsibility to bring the players home, so they have a lot to explain," he said.

Individual players have gone missing from the Eritrean national team before. Musonye said six absconded three years ago after a match in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

Ali Abdu, Eritrea's information minister, told the BBC that the players would get a "good welcome" if they returned home in spite of "betraying" their country.

Human rights groups say failed defectors and critics of President Isaias Afwerki's government are often tortured and confined to shipping-container prisons in the desert.

The government denies the allegation.

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• Kenyan police search for missing soccer players (cnn.com)

For Bread or Soccer, Egypt Is Ready for a Riot - NYTimes.com

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By MICHAEL SLACKMAN

CAIRO — History has proven there are two subjects that will move Egyptians to pour into the streets in riotous numbers, crashing windows, burning cars, battling each other and defying an army of club-wielding riot police.

One is the price of bread. Another is soccer, as was proven again this week after Egypt’s national team was defeated by its bitter rival Algeria, losing a berth in the World Cup tournament next year and sparking a riot outside the Algerian embassy in Cairo late Thursday night.

But there was a pronounced difference between the bread riots of 1977 and 2008 and the soccer riot: the government quieted those earlier outbreaks by quickly lowering the price of bread, while this week it stoked outrage against Algeria.

Egypt had beaten Algeria 2-0 in Cairo on Saturday to set up Wednesday’s climactic playoff in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum. After Egypt lost the second match, the government withdrew its ambassador from Algiers and accused Algerians of menacing Egyptian fans after the game. President Hosni Mubarak’s eldest son, Alaa, a wealthy businessman, sounded as if he were calling his nation to war.

“We were being humiliated and we can’t be silent about what happened there,” he said in a telephone call to Egypt’s most popular television talk show. “We have to take a stand. This is enough. That’s it, this is enough. Egypt should be respected. We are Egyptian and we hold our head high and whoever insults us should be smacked on his head.”

Despite the Egyptian complaints, which include accusations of stoning and machete attacks, there is no documented evidence of any Egyptians being seriously injured in the aftermath of the game on Wednesday, won by the Algerians, 1-0.

Dignity did seem to be a subtext, however, as hundreds of young men rushed the Algerian embassy, trashing cars and stores, burning Algerian flags and injuring police 35 police — a rare occurrence in a police state that has made gatherings of seven or more people illegal.

Soccer is a national passion. The only time Egyptians take to the streets in flag waving celebration is when their team wins. And in soccer terms the North African neighbor, Algeria, has for years been enemy No. 1. Both nations have waited a long time to get a spot in the World Cup, 24 years for Algeria, 20 for Egypt. The last time Egypt made it was in 1989, when it defeated Algeria.

From the start, the Egyptian government sought to exploit the games with Algeria for political reasons, political analysts said. State radio broadcast nationalist songs. Streets were filled with young men selling Egyptian flags. The president’s son, Gamal Mubarak, who is often talked about as a possible successor to his 81-year-old father, attended the two games with other high ranking party members.

“They charged people thinking that this would keep them busy from other problems, but in the end it backfired,” said Osama Anwar Okasha, an Egyptian television writer and columnist who blamed leaders in both countries. “It made people here and there explode.”

Critics charged that the government — and specifically the president’s political organization, the National Democratic Party — was hoping that a win on the field could bolster its credibility in the face of grinding poverty and political stagnation. By the time the Algerian team bus pulled into Cairo on Saturday, people were so riled up they pelted it with hunks of concrete and its players were bloodied — though Egyptians insisted the Algerians did that to themselves in an attempt to win a change of venue.

When Egypt lost the playoff, the government still tried to ride those emotions, leading with calls of outrage and indignation.

“It is strange that the regime was charging people with all these emotions from the beginning, as though this victory or loss will resolve all their problems,” said Salama Ahmed Salama, head of the editorial board of El Shorouk, an independent newspaper in Cairo. “What you see happening is that the problems, and the social and political oppression people face, pushes them to behave this way.”

The Algerians were not entirely innocent victims in all this. They goaded the Egyptians, claiming falsely that Algerian fans were killed in Cairo. A music video circulating on the Internet showed a picture of President Mubarak with a pig’s face as a rapper called Egyptians “beggars, beggars thieves, crooks, known pick pocketers.” (And much worse.)

Tensions ran high before Wednesday’s game, in which Egypt was favored, and the Sudanese dispatched thousands of soldiers and police to the stadium to maintain calm. Yet, after the Algerians won the crowd filed calmly out of the stadium without any sign of violence, witnesses reported.

But that was not the message sent back home, where Egyptians were overwhelmed with news coverage and amateur videos of injured fans and Algerians waving knives and insulting Egypt.

“What you don’t know is that the Algerian fans have been in the streets of Khartoum for the past three days purchasing daggers and knives,” said the minister of information, Anas el-Feqqy, Thursday night on one of Egypt’s most popular television talk shows. “These are not people going to cheer for soccer, these are people going to take revenge and exercise violence.”

That same night, young men rampaged in the streets. But on Friday, the government sent out a signal that it was time to stop, that perhaps things had gone too far. The Foreign Ministry said the government would not “tolerate violations against Algerian interests” in Egypt.

Reporting contributed by Mona el Naggar

Soccer spoken here - Philadelphia Inquirer

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By Michael Matza

Inquirer Staff Writer

On a patchy South Jersey playground, on a summer Sunday afternoon, soccer coach Daniel Rodriquez paced in front of the bench - a clump of towels, really.

With one minute left, his team, Achuapa, was locked in a tense, 1-1 game with archrival La Mancha. Watching mostly in silence were about 100 spectators, sprawled on blankets and lawn chairs in the beating sun or under tarps tied to a chain-link fence.

At stake for the players in this immigrant soccer league was another step toward the championship game, to be played today at Campbell's Field, Camden's 6,400-seat riverside stadium.

On weekdays, the men are janitors, landscapers, farmhands, and factory workers across the region. Most Sundays from spring through fall, they seek exercise, camaraderie, competition, and bonds of ethnic identity in the sport many knew in their homelands as fútbol.

For decades, immigrant soccer leagues have flourished in ethnic enclaves throughout Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware. Today, many are made up mainly of Latinos, but also include players from Africa, the former Soviet Union, and the Caribbean.

"Most of us are from countries where we didn't have much, and soccer is our common denominator," said Liberian immigrant Joe Capehart, a forklift operator.

Capehart directs field operations for Imperial Azteca, the 900-player amateur league that includes Achuapa, La Mancha, and 26 other teams. It bills itself as the region's "premier" league and is among the largest.

Azteca was founded in Camden in 2003 by Milton Valdovinos, 33, a Mexican immigrant who owns Plaza Tepis Sports on Federal Street, where players often shop for uniforms and equipment.

But the economics of immigrant soccer do not end with striped shirts and shorts.

Including insurance and referees' fees for the 20-game season, each 22-man team pays about $600 a year to enroll in the Azteca league. On some teams, each player antes up his share. For other teams, such as Achuapa, the managers foot the bill. Some might even pay for players' cleats, uniforms - and a few tortillas now and then.

Those are usually available at the games, where league-authorized vendors do a lively business in Latino comfort food: refried beans, sugary Mexican soft drinks, and homemade, wagon-wheel-shaped crisps of fried dough called chicharrines.

In the proud subculture of immigrant soccer, newcomers to America feel at home on the field and the sidelines. And men like Achuapa manager Rodriguez - a cleaning-company manager with enough spare income to subsidize a team - live the dream of a sports career.

A final extravaganza

As the ball squirted free from a jarring tackle in the Achuapa-La Mancha game, fans shouted at the referee, "Es una mano, señor!" It's a hand ball, sir!

The ref ignored them.

Rodriguez, 35, a study in calm, said nothing and seemed confident that his stars, the wily forward Renberto "Diablo" Polanco and hefty fullback Hector "Pork Chop" Aguilar, would come through in the clutch. They played well, but the game ended 1-1.

"Every game is different," explained Rodriguez, reassuring himself he would make the final again this year. "I wasn't really scared because we're always the ones to beat."

So it will be this afternoon.

Achuapa will face Jalapa for the championship at 1, followed by an exhibition game at 4 between Chivas and América, visiting professional teams from Mexico that have been rivals for decades.

In a league rich with players from Latin America, Achuapa and Jalapa are dominated by Guatemalans. Like many teams, they are named for villages or famous teams back home. Most Achuapa players were born in Jutiapa, the half-mile-high town in Guatemala's south-central highlands. Jalapa is a village to the northwest.

Today's final is a far cry from the fields of bad bounces and twisted ankles where previous championships were played.

Valdovinos, Azteca's founder, is the impresario behind the 2009 extravaganza. The costs - including stadium rent, airfare for the two 18-member Mexican teams, accommodations at the Philadelphia Sheraton - could exceed $100,000, he said.

While admission to regular-season games is free, tickets for today's games are $20 and $25. If Campbell's Field sells out, proceeds will be about $150,000. Valdovinos said he would like to use at least a portion of any profit to improve Camden's playing fields.

"This helps, first of all, my business - I don't want to lie," he said. But sprucing up city parks is important, too, "because the soccer fields in this area are not good."

Social goals

Nonetheless, from such challenging turf across the region have sprung many immigrant leagues. There is no definitive number, since some are organized and others are little more than pickup games.

But the common thread goes well beyond sport. Participants across the leagues say the weekly games, while a connection to a familiar past, are also an informal marketplace for new and established immigrants to share information about jobs, affordable housing, and social services.

Liga Amistad, a six-team "Friendship League," was founded in Philadelphia in 2005, with weekly games at Sacks Playground on Washington Avenue in Southwark.

Organizers say the league, made up mostly of Mexicans, was created to address a drinking problem in the community.

"The guys would spend the day kind of partying, doing not-so-productive activities," said Varsovia Fernandez, executive director of the Greater Philadelphia Hispanic Chamber of Commerce and one of the league's volunteer commissioners.

"In the Latino culture, Sunday is a family day. Now soccer brings them together in a healthy, recreational environment, and the wives and children come to watch."

For women who want to do more than watch, there is International Soccer 7, a female league of about 100 members on teams of seven players each. It was founded six years ago in South Philadelphia by Ruth Bull, 42, a player on Mexico's 2000 Olympic team who was sidelined by knee surgery.

For immigrants who work all week to support families in America or send remittances abroad, "soccer gives us something to do. It is a nice pastime," said Antiqua-born Mitch Williams, 41, a home remodeler who lives in Somerdale with his wife and four children.

A sinewy midfielder with a powerful kick, he modestly admitted to being able to "take a shot at a good distance with some force" - affirmed on a recent Sunday by the rocket shot he took from 50 yards out. It seemed to be still accelerating as it sailed over the goal.

As the only English speaker among Hispanics on the team called Juventud, Williams depends on body language and hand signals to communicate.

"When I first started playing, I would get so upset because there were simple little things that could improve the team's quality of play, but I couldn't communicate," said Williams, who is deeply competitive on the field.

"After dealing with it week after week . . . I started to see it from a different perspective," he said. "It's an opportunity to really let go. It's a type of joy we get nowhere else. We've been doing this since we were little kids without shoes in the streets."

Different Teams, Common Goals: Camaraderie, Competition Unite Area Ethnic Groups

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."