"Older brother! Salam Aleikum!" My voice reaches across the small market place to the young Uygur vendor bent smiling over a rack of hot coals and lamb kebabs. I slip in between the cardboard cooler and stand-up grill as though I really have done it a thousand times before and help him fan the grill. He looks a little confused. But he's rolling with it. The Han chinese customers look even more confused. Is it a joke?
As I pick up local accents it's not uncommon for people to mistake me as local. (Not, loco). In Mexico people would ask, "what part of Mexico is Canada in?" In Germany it was, "I used to work with another guy from Albania." Here in China, I always get, "so you're from Xinjiang?" Maybe? It depends who's asking.
While haggling over "antiques" in a market once I was given the ugly eye by a shopkeeper who agreed to a lower price only after I convinced her that I'm REALLY NOT Muslim. And that's no compliment to my Mandarin either. China's massive peasant class and struglling education system leaves millions of rural people inefficient in all but their local language or dialect. Unfortunately for them the "ordinary language," Mandarin, doesn't help their plight. The word for culture, civilised, and litterate are all expressed by the same term, Wenhua. The opposite of this is Wenmang, litterally meaning "language blind" or illiterate, but potentially refering to blindness to culture, civility, etc. With language cues such as these it's not surprising that prejudice and stereotyping are very common attitudes here. For the Uygurs from Xinjiang it also doesn't help that they really do have a few bad eggs in the basket. (It's all relative mind you.)
Looking at a map of China you see Xinijang, the country's largest province, hanging on to the NW corner like a big chip of earthenware that's been glued onto the edge of a broken plater. Indeed the local Uygur population, who are proud of their Muslim culture and Turkic language, have been enduring the binding forces of the Han military for decades. No, centuries. Like many regions in China, Xinjiang was semi-independant up until the 1950s when Mao started his broad campaign to unify the nation. There is still a small but strong movement for independance led by a group called the East Turkestan Islamic Movement. In 2002 this group was formally recognised by the Bush administration as an official terrorist organisation with strong ties to Al Qaeda. More than anything it helps the Chinese government talk big and hit hard, while gainning the support of their citizens. These days, regardless of the crime, everybody in China loves to blame a Muslim.
Fortunately for me, I've never met a Muslim I didn't like and Uygur food is one of my favourite cuisines. Combinations of spicy lamb kebabs, hand-pulled noodle soup, frisbee size nan breads, and cold plates of smashed cucumber with garlic, chili, and sesame oil are part of my nutritionist's recommended daily intake. So I have no problem with being accused of an overly discerning palate, a love for fine woolen rugs, or an appreciation for a well groomed mustache. I could even go so far as to say that Xinjiang, is my Brotherland. But I wouldn't want to taken for a, well, you know, ...ist.
It's fun being faux-Mus. A dark eyed, dark curly haired boy with imperfect chinese and an "on-demand" country accent. People must often wonder, "is he a foreign friend? Or a Muslim crook?" So I have fun with it. I throw out my one line greeting to every Muslim person I see. "Salam Aleikum!" Instant friendship. I smile at the Han and tell them I'm from Canada, the honourable homeland of the valiant and brave Norman Bethune. Instant liking. Suddenly it matters to neither group who I am or where I'm from, were all having fun.
By the way, the stache and the white hat in the photo were borrowed from my brother Ali in a quick photoshop session.
