I am eating my polur (pilaf - think fried rice or paella) in this small family owned restaurant just outside Er Dao Qiao, owned by a Uygur man named Abulikim. I like eating here. The restaurant is nothing fancy. In fact, it is anything but fancy. The pilaf is cheap, it's flavors enticing and the rice that slowly melts in your mouth helps you realize that this place is unpretentious. I was able to look at the owner's eyes when he offered me some tea. They were sincere and proud and musical at the same time. When I saw his eyes, that was the time that I realized thatI made the right decision in eating in a less touristy place.
Seated outside, I am sharing a table with a mother and daughter eating polur on the same plate. They seem happy, contented by the humble polur on their plate. The daughter, about nine years old, i think, looks at me with her big, brown and naive eyes. She's probably wondering why I was writing in a restaurant instead of eating pilaf or kebab. Then she shyly looks the other way, chewing her pilaf and all, when I recognize her stare.
A while ago, there was a tired-looking woman wearing a sequint black dress with a daughter who passed by and asked for some tea. She was given one. She did not pay. They willingly gave her a drink.
I see a sense of belonging and shared responsibility among the Uygurs. Something that I do not see among the proud Hans (Chinese) or the Filipinos.
I am humbled.
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