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This neighborhood, Cedar-Riverside, is representative of the national debate on immigration, refugee resettlement and national security, but now the words have also been etched on the new black uniforms of Yusuf and Abdi, the zone of departure of the district. traveling basketball team. That was enough not to give up after trailing 20 points, college scouts in the stands or not.
They were eliminated by two on the last possession. Few people watched. A woman walked on the raised track above, placing her phone in her hijab as a helmet. Two men prayed in the corner. Abdi stepped into the sunlight peeking through the thin windows and swung the ball at Yusuf with a few seconds remaining, but his potentially winning shot of the rally matched the rim. He lowered his head. Abdi rushed and put his arm around his teammate
"Good game," whispered Abdi to Yusuf, and soon they prayed to Allah together near the courtyard.
Basketball is booming in Cedar-Riverside, where youth leagues have more than doubled in the past two years, giving young Somali-Americans such as Yusuf and Abdi a platform for expression valid even as they are asking questions about their own identity as Muslim teenagers in America in 2018.
: Their names were they tarnished by the two dozen young people who tried to leave Minnesota for extremist groups abroad? Does the travel ban imposed by President Donald Trump on Somalia and other Muslim-majority countries mean that they are not welcome in this country? And does anyone look at them as part of a controversial government program to dissuade young people from joining terrorist groups but instead has caused fear and paranoia in their community?
Yusuf and Abdi have at least small movement basketball in Cedar-Riverside, they were labeled as "ambbadadors" by their coach.
"It gives you an identity," said Yusuf about the sport. "He gives you a name."
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Cedar-Riverside is nestled between two major highways in downtown Minneapolis and along the banks of the Mississippi River, distinguishable by colorful paneled towers that house the country's largest Somali community – approximately 4,000 to 6,000 people within four blocks. The neighborhood has long been home to immigrants: European transplants began arriving in large numbers in the 19th century. In the 1980s, Somalis began to emigrate to the neighborhood and in the early 1990s, thousands of people found shelter in Minneapolis through a network of volunteer agencies.
The families of Abdikani Abdi, 18, and Feysal Yusuf, 17, were among them, though much later. Abdi, the second oldest of seven children, lived in a small Ethiopian town before immigrating when he was 11 years old. Yusuf's parents met in Kenya before immigrating in the early 2000s.
The two boys were traditional Muslims from East Africa. -9/11 who knew little English and even less American culture. They faced language barriers and racism at school. And they were challenged to connect with the customs of the older generation of Somali immigrants while trying to find their place as teenagers in the West.
"There were many things I did not see at home," Abdi said. "There were a lot of new things."
One of those new things was basketball, which he quickly fell in love with at the middle school. He has woven close relationships throughout the sport, including with Yusuf, though Cedar-Riverside had little history of hoops and few options for playing at the youth level.
But their pbadion for basketball was formed during recess and impromptu center, came at a convenient time. In 2008, a long-time youth coach named Jennifer Weber decided to return to graduate school in her thirties. Part of her curriculum consisted of giving hours of service as a behavioral specialist, and she volunteered to train at Cedar-Riverside after noticing that she had no athleticism. Yusuf and Abdi were among his first players.
"I fell in love with families and children," she said.
Many people in the community were skeptical at first. Weber, 45, was a white woman with a strong Wisconsin accent who knew nothing about Somali culture. It has come at a time when Somali teenagers across Minnesota have continued to make national headlines in an attempt to leave their homes to fight with terrorist organizations Al-Shabaab (which stands for "Youth") and the US. Islamic State. This is also the case when introducing the Countering Violence Extremism (CVE) program of the federal government, introduced in 2011 under the Obama administration.
In September 2014, then Attorney General Eric Holder had announced Minneapolis as one of its three pilot cities. with Boston and Los Angeles, saying that it had been chosen because of the "historic and strong relationship between the Somali community of Minnesota and the application of local law."
The government appointed its root causes of radicalization in Minneapolis – "discontented youth" "isolation of the community" among them – and sought to pour money and resources into a wide range of community programs to stop it. an approach "if you see something, say something" through local law enforcement and community outreach, CVE aimed to identify the first signs of radicalization among young people.
But soon activists have stressed that no empirical evidence CVE would be an effective deterrent against extremism.Community leaders feared that this would only perpetuate Islamophobia and create a state of s in their neighborhoods.
Weber gained trust as an individual with consistency and compbadion, finding a ground of understanding with his impressionable new teens by laying down strict ground rules. At night she started a walking club for older women, hoping that she could get close to the babysitters she was coaching.
She also decided very early that CVE was not the right choice for her budding program. She watched the break unfold while community program leaders like her fought with the decision to apply for funding. Two organizations received grants: the Hennepin County Sheriff's Office (near $ 350,000) and Heartland Democracy (nearly $ 425,000), a non-profit organization that targets at-risk youth and hopes to avoid them. Adoption of extremist ideologies. A third program for Somali youth, Ka Joog, denied a $ 500,000 federal grant in February 2017 shortly after Trump announced his first restrictions on refugees and displacement.
The introduction of these grants left Weber in destabilization. Rumors swirled. Before testing for the traveling team, some of the boys – including Abdi and Yusuf – met Weber on the field
"Do you take that money?" "Some players have asked, no, we do not take that money," said Weber, "because I also knew about this money … There were all these protocols that were used to look for behaviors: "Look for those things you are going to see, they are predictors of that, and I do not agree with that."
His decision strengthened his position among his players.
"They probably gave her a lot … because they know how connected she is with children," Yusuf said community members were trying to convince Weber to work with CVE. "She did not take part, so we are close to her, she puts us first."
There are new fears that CVE can be magnified under Trump. Reuters reported in 2017 that the president could reorganize the program to focus only on Islamic terrorism and not focus on other extremist groups, including white supremacists – and could potentially change the name to "counter Islamic extremism. "
It is sometimes difficult for Abdi and Yusuf to claim that the government uses the program to spy on them. They have nothing to hide, they say, like two shy teens who are obsessed with basketball and who dream of going to college. They are known around Cedar-Riverside simply as "posh". But they sometimes wonder if someone is watching them. It could be a cop or a teacher or even someone from their own community.
"You have to watch your back and all that, you do not know who to trust," says Abdi. "You could use this money [CVE] to build more space in the gym."
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Abdi has spent most of his time at the gym recently, knowing that his job this summer is critical though he is having a chance to win a college basketball scholarship. He is a low-level prospect, but his fire is undeniable. When Yusuf and another player started playing in a tournament in early July, Abdi – whom Weber calls "Renaissance Man" because of his pbadion for learning languages and playing the piano – came to the defense of his teammate and almost started a fight
Yusuf was the biggest project. Unlike Abdi, who began attending Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis since he was a sophomore, Yusuf did not start getting minutes of clbades at school that he did not have. after hitting a panoply of baskets in the last minutes. It was one of the highest moments of his young life.
There are also hard times, like when Abdi had to talk to his high school coach about being caught for someone who was involved in a shootout. Weber saw the skepticism shown towards them at AAU events, too, mostly from parents. "Who let these terrorists in?" One of them said that Weber's women's team was ready to play in a tournament a few years ago. During other events in Minnesota, she noticed that her team of boys had crazy eyes when they entered a gym.
"You are always suspected of doing something wrong," Yusuf said. "No matter what you are there, you are still suspected, even if you do nothing, much like:" Pay attention to them. "
Few Somalis have played high-level college basketball, and Abdi and Yusuf might not go that far. None of them has received interest from university coaches, although they have a chance to exhibit themselves when they go to Las Vegas. Vegas Clbadic – considered one of the first AAU events in the country – in July. This will be the first time that a team from Cedar-Riverside will participate in a tournament of this magnitude.
"Many of these young people, most of them, have never seen Somalia, whether they were born in a refugee camp or in Minnesota, so they barely know them. great stories of their origins, "said Abdirizak Bihi, a powerful Somali-American social activist whom some regard as the unofficial mayor of Cedar-Riverside." So this gap, with basketball … is in the process of to see a huge push right now. Some young people really want to get there. "
" Many of them, because of coach Weber, now have dreams. "[19659002] Bihi has long been He was a polarizing figure in his own community. He ran an anti-terrorism program after his nephew was one of the first teenagers in Minneapolis to disappear to join Al-Shabaab in 2008 before being killed. next year.
But Bihi He's talking about basketball, how The girls want to play at the university, the way the game helps build their community. It hosts an English radio show for Somalis, and Weber was his first guest on a program in early July. "Is there anything that these kids can not do?" Asked Bihi.
"When do people say the same thing or [ask] is there anything that these kids fear?" – – –
On the other side of town, Abdi and Yusuf played basketball at the downtown YMCA. Abdi stayed a few more minutes and Yusuf returned to Cedar-Riverside.
Yusuf walked a few blocks to the train, looking out the window as he lurked. the city. He could point to any section of his neighborhood and pull out a difficult memory, as in 2016 when Abdi and he went to protest against the HBO show "Mogadishu, Minnesota," which was accused of "stealing". to be propaganda for CVE. sprayed by the police. He could point to the community center on 15th Avenue, where last month he and Abdi went to listen to the elders as a result of the Supreme Court ruling upholding Trump's ban on traveling
. where the sun began to set on a festival held by its people in a park. Nobody noticed him when he turned the corner toward the commons of his community, or as he disappeared behind the tallest colored tower, finally at home and out of sight.
"I can not wait for Las Vegas" Walking on the way, wondering already who could be there to watch him at the most important basketball tournament of his life.
This article was written by Roman Stubbs, a Washington Post reporter.
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