My Father’s Doppa: In Honor of Uyghur Doppa Day, May 5
May 2, 2025
A UHRP Insights column by Rafael Kokbore
In 2003, when I was 11 years old, my father was forced to flee overseas due to political persecution by the Chinese government. After that, my mother and I were dependent on each other, living in depression and fear. My mother was constantly questioned, threatened, and harassed by various government personnel at the school where she teaches and by the police.
It had become a normal part of life for the police to come to her home to question her. My mother, worried about the government’s all-round surveillance, gradually began to speak Chinese to me, even at home, to reduce unnecessary trouble and out of consideration for my future.
Later, because my father was under government scrutiny for his involvement in the Uyghur human rights movement in the United States, we felt the Uyghur community in Shihezi gradually distancing itself from us. In my loneliness and fear, my mother always sternly advised me not to interact with other Uyghurs or discuss family matters. She often told me, “We must keep a low profile, talk less, and not cause trouble for ourselves.”
At that time, I went to school in Shihezi, and there was no opportunity to speak Uyghur in school. In addition, due to my father’s political sensitivity, I rarely mentioned my Uyghur identity, and I didn’t even dare to set foot in my father’s hometown, Chuluqay, for a long time.
Losing My Uyghur Identity
Gradually, the Uyghur language became increasingly unfamiliar, and the traditional customs and festivals of the Uyghur people lost their meaning to me. Anything related to the Uyghur identity was like an old photo sealed in the corner of my memory, carefully and deliberately hidden away.
Under the powerful and brutal state terrorism, my Uyghur identity was distorted and swallowed up bit by bit by the so-called Chinese Han culture, causing me to be Sinicized, consciously or unconsciously and lose my Uyghur self.
A few years later, I graduated from junior high school. The Chinese government was implementing a new policy in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region: “Inland Xinjiang High School Class,” known as the “Xinjiang ban” in Chinese. This policy allows so-called “minority” students from the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, especially those with good grades, to go to key high schools in the mainland. It may appear to be a good policy, but the purpose of the Chinese government was nothing more than to more quickly and thoroughly Sinicize Uyghur and other non-Han ethnicity students.
When my mother heard about it, she thought this might be an opportunity. She thought that if I could leave my hometown, I could temporarily get away from the suffocating surveillance and harassment, which might be helpful for my future studies and employment. So, with my mother’s encouragement and help, I signed up for the selection test for the internal high school class and was eventually admitted to Ningbo Middle School.
The day before I left, my mother pulled out a slightly faded doppa with a beautiful pattern from the depths of the closet and handed it to me solemnly, saying, “Take this doppa with you.” It was a green Badam Doppa. The fabric was a little worn, and the edges were slightly white. I vaguely remembered that the hat once belonged to my father.
My father may have explained the meaning of the pattern on the doppa when I was a child, but I can no longer remember it. I stared at the hat, confused: Why do I have to wear a doppa? I haven’t worn a doppa for a long time. I couldn’t think of any reason, but my mother’s eyes showed some kind of expectation. I couldn’t refuse my mother’s wish, so I had to take the doppa silently and stuff it into the bottom of my suitcase.
The “Inland Xinjiang High School Classes” implemented a fully closed dormitory system. When I arrived at the school, I was assigned to live in an eight-person dorm room. Most of my roommates came from different hometowns. Including me, there were five Uyghurs and three Kazakhs. On the first night, we started to get to know each other. We talked and joked enthusiastically in our native languages mixed with some Chinese, and the dormitory was filled with laughter.
But for me, it was like I was suddenly thrown into another strange world. Apart from a few Chinese words, I could hardly understand what they said. Soon, some of my roommates noticed my embarrassment and silence, and they tentatively asked me, “Are you mixed-race?” I was a little embarrassed and simply told them in Chinese that I was fully Uyghur.
It was impossible for me to tell them the real reason why I was not good at speaking Uyghur, so I could only bite the bullet and tell them that I gradually forgot my mother tongue because I had studied in a Chinese school since I was a child and lived in Shihezi City, where the Uyghur population was very small.
“You Are Only Half Uyghur Now”
My roommates didn’t make things difficult for me after hearing this. They just laughed and joked, “Then you can only be considered half Uyghur now.” My roommates were only teenagers at the time and spoke frankly. There was no malice in their words, and they were just saying it casually.
But their words were like a sudden thorn that pierced my heart. I was a little angry but mainly felt helpless. I realized that I was about to lose my Uyghur identity.
For me, the identity of “Uyghur” was becoming more and more blurred. Sinicized education had already unconsciously changed my identification with the identity of “Uyghur,” and even made me begin to doubt whether I still belonged to that group. Therefore, I just smiled reluctantly at the slightly sarcastic jokes of my roommates and did not respond.
In the days that followed, although they did not deliberately exclude me, I always felt that there was an invisible wall between us. My understanding was intermittent, and I always spoke a little late. Even if they were willing to communicate with me in Mandarin, it was still difficult for me to truly integrate into this small group. The language barrier was not only a communication barrier, but also a loss of identity, which constantly reminded me that my roommates and I seemed different and had no common language.
Just when I was worried about how hard it was to fit in, Eid al-Fitr arrived quietly. The school gave us a day off. We were free to celebrate the festival in the morning, and a celebration party was arranged for the evening. Students from all nationalities would be performing on stage. This was the first festival we were spending together in the dormitory. Everyone seemed excited. They changed into their best clothes and put on their doppas. The dormitory was bustling.
Watching them get ready, I remembered the green Badam Doppa my mother gave me before I left. After arriving at Ningbo Middle School, I had put it in the innermost corner of my chest, as if it were a dusty memory.
I took a deep breath, rummaged through the boxes to find the doppa, and then, facing the mirror, I put it on my head solemnly for the first time.
No Longer Alone
One of my roommates saw it and immediately shouted happily in Uyghur: “Great, Rafael is wearing a Doppa too!” Another roommate came over, helped me straighten my collar, and carefully adjusted the position of my doppa. He patted my shoulder and said with a smile: “Now, you are a real Uyghur!”
At that moment, a long-lost joy surged in my heart. That doppa was no longer just a forgotten souvenir, it made me feel instantly part of my Uyghur identity. Despite being far away from home, despite not being with my parents to celebrate the holiday, I found myself in that moment, with the help of my roommates.
The Eid al-Fitr that day was perhaps the most unforgettable one I have had since my father left. Although I was far away from my family, I felt that I was finally no longer alone. I began to take the first step towards reintegrating into my own nation, finding my own culture, and regaining the national identity that I had lost in fear.
After that, my roommates took the initiative to be my Uyghur teachers. They patiently taught me pronunciation, tried to make me speak Uyghur whenever we chatted, and patiently taught me the words I didn’t know. Like a sponge, I was eager to reabsorb knowledge about Uyghur culture and traditions. Whenever I had free time, I would ask them questions.
My Badam Doppa
As for my Badam Doppa, after my roommates’ explanation, I finally understood its meaning. The Badam tree represents life and hope. The hat’s embroidery, in the shape of the Badam tree’s almond-like fruit, symbolizes the Uyghurs’ expectations for the future and their love for their homeland. The Badam design is not just a decorative pattern in Uyghur culture. It also carries the tradition and history of the Uyghurs, and represents the tenacity and perseverance of generations of Uyghurs in difficult situations.
As I continued to learn more about this knowledge, I was eager to learn more about our history and culture. Uyghur words were no longer just words in my mouth, but a bridge for me to connect with my culture and identity. I gradually began to communicate with my roommates in Uyghur, talking about the scenery of my hometown, the significance of festivals, and traditional food. These memories that had gradually become blurred in my life became vivid again.
Unfortunately, as we were still in the “Internal Xinjiang High School Class,” our school was implementing the policies of the Chinese government specifically to assimilate the young people of East Turkistan. The teachers encouraged us to communicate more in Chinese, but since all courses were taught in Chinese, those students who were not fluent in Chinese began to feel exhausted. The same was true for my roommates, who could barely keep up at the beginning, but as the course became more difficult, they gradually became unable to cope. At that time, they hoped that I could communicate with them more in Chinese to help them improve their language skills.
In the following four years, with the heavy workload of high school studies and the deliberate guidance of the school, my roommates gradually got used to using Chinese for daily communication. Like me in the past, they gradually became more and more Sinicized. Although their use of the Uyghur language had not completely faded, in such a deliberately created environment as the Internal High School Class, it is difficult to resist Sinicization. Our ability to express ourselves in Uyghur would inevitably be eroded, if we used only a few simple Uyghur sentences after class and during a few hours of celebration on holidays.
Gradually, I began to worry that one day, even the slight sense of belonging that I felt when wearing my doppa would be swallowed up unknowingly.
After graduating from high school, I was admitted to a university in Harbin. I left the “Xinjiang High School Class” and was in a more thoroughly Han Chinese metropolis. There was no Uyghur culture to be found there. For a long time, I had no chance to communicate in Uyghur.
At the beginning of 2014, after going through many hardships, I finally managed to escape from China and went to Türkiye. Living in a country using a Turkic language, immersed in a Muslim culture, finally gave me a chance to breathe. The cultural fragments that had been somewhat vague or even forgotten in my memory were suddenly activated and connected to each other. I soon integrated into life in Türkiye. It felt like returning to my father’s hometown, when visited as a child.
However, just two years later, the situation in East Turkistan took a sharp turn for the worse. An unprecedented catastrophe suddenly struck. Concentration camps called “re-education centers” quickly spread throughout my hometown, and countless Uyghurs, Kazakhs, and other Turkic Muslims were detained for various reasons, including my relatives, neighbors, and friends.
Officially it was called “vocational training,” but in reality it was a cage that crushes the soul, destroys culture, and suppresses faith.
In just a few years, millions of Uyghurs have disappeared or been imprisoned, mosques have been demolished, the Uyghur language has been completely banned, and traditional festivals have been downplayed or even forcibly abolished. All of East Turkistan is completely blocked by an invisible iron curtain, and Uyghur culture and memory seem to be slowly disappearing behind high walls and electric fences.
Living in Türkiye, piecing together the tragic situation in my hometown from the news and exile communities every day, my heart was filled with guilt, self-blame and anger.
For a long time, I felt extremely pessimistic about the future of the Uyghurs. I thought that under such an overwhelming genocide, we might no longer be able to preserve our national culture. We might eventually disappear in the long river of history, just like those nations that once flourished but have long since disappeared.
A Uyghur Wedding
Just when I was falling into this despair, a Uyghur friend in Turkey invited me to attend his wedding.
This wedding had no blessings from parents and elders, no company from relatives and neighbors, and no grand Uyghur songs and dances; there were only us young people who were stranded and left alone. But precisely because of this, the wedding was full of special meaning.
My friend specially prepared a beautiful doppa for each boy who attended the wedding. When we put on the doppa and danced to the traditional Uyghur music, the long-lost, strange yet familiar feeling suddenly came back. At that moment, I seemed to have returned to my childhood, to the homeland where, although it was depressing, I could still see the smiling faces of the Uyghurs and my relatives finding joy despite the suffering. I realized as long as we continue to sing in Uyghur, our culture will continue.
Many of us have been driven out of our homes and forced to disperse around the world. The Uyghurs in our homeland are struggling under the genocide and tyranny. But as long as we still have the national pride of the Uyghurs in our hearts, use the Uyghur language and traditional doppa, clothing, and food, and preserve the roots of our Uyghur culture, we will surely be able to rebuild our homes from the ruins — just like the fruit embroidered on the Badam Doppa, which breaks out of the ground, sprouts, blooms, bears fruit, and once again becomes a towering tree.
My pessimism was swept away and I smiled again. Uyghur youths abroad are wearing their doppa on their heads and taking to the streets and squares of various countries to express resistance to China’s tyranny in various forms. Uyghurs have made the Chinese government’s genocide policy the focus of condemnation around the world, with sanctions imposed by many countries.
As long as the Uyghurs are still here, and we wear our doppas on our heads, we Uyghurs will eventually overcome the difficulties and revive our nation. No matter where fate takes me, no matter where I drift in the world, our Uyghur doppa will always remind me that I am a proud Uyghur.