Beautiful Uyghurs
I took a ride share a few weeks ago. I dialed-up my app and took my place in queue at the airport. I find the stories of these drivers fascinating. I have definitely had one or two drivers that hated life (unclear if they hated theirs or mine or both), but most were doing what they needed to do with what they had to make ends meet for their family. I find it honorable.
After punching the requisite buttons on his app and orienting himself to the task at hand, we headed west. The driver and I traded small talk about the weather and about my flight in (‘boy, are my arms are tired’ still gets a laugh. Classic). His accent quickly suggested that English was not his first language. The rear-view mirror cocked directly at an angle to see me clearly communicated his desire to practice his nascent English skills. His limited vocabulary provided him with statements and facts about himself rather than questions, so I obliged and asked most of the questions.
After a question or two, I realized that this man’s story was part of a much larger story. While his was a relatively familiar story of immigration into America for a better life for his family, his was also a more unique story of the persecution of an entire group of people. Turns out, the Uyghur people, his people, are being actively ‘re-educated’ by the Chinese. My driver, whom we’ll call ’Guzel,’ was college educated, as was his wife and family. He was a civil engineer building roads and instructor for mainland China while his wife practiced some form of healthcare (the details were lost in translation). He then came to America with his family, glossing over what I am certain was an extremely challenging chapter in his life.
As the odometer on the Mazda clicked past 198,000 miles, his stories became more succinct and shifted from facts about his people to his sentiment of America. He arrived on the west coast and drove across the country, settling on the east coast with fellow Uyghur refugees. As Guzel told his stories, he would often stop mid-sentence and admire the countryside. ‘Beautiful. Just beautiful,’ he would note before returning to his stories. We talked about the food of his people and their songs, education and work. He was very proud. We spoke of religion as well. ‘The Christians help. The provided help at home and help us with jobs and getting connected in America. My best friend ‘Steve’ is an American Christian. He helps me with paperwork and teaches my daughter baseball. I like football — real football. Steve is good man. He calls almost every day to check on me to see how I am doing.’ ‘Wow’ was all I could get out. ‘Are you a Christian?’ I asked. ‘I’m Buddhism,’ he noted. ‘But I like Steve. He is kind.’
I don’t know Guzel’s story other than the highlights and I am sure that I can’t appreciate the really difficult circumstances under which he emigrated. (I’ve since read more of the Uyghur story and it’s far worse than Guzel noted). And yet despite the language barriers and religious differences, love translates. Steve loves Guzel and his family and helps him meet his needs.
That is beautiful.