"Guess where we're from," one of the girls asked us.
My friend and I were drawing blanks. We were in China. They looked Middle-Eastern. But they spoke fluent English and Mandarin.
"Hm, Iran? Lebanon?" I guessed.
"No—it's hard right? We're Uyghurs."
Ah! I'd never met a Uyghur before. I'd only heard about the atrocities and the alleged genocide.
I wanted to pry more. But I held off. They'd just waved us over to their table a minute ago.
Later, I eased in with an innocent question,
"How's life in Shenzhen? Is it a good place to live?"
One of the girls replied,
"For everyone else, yes. But for us—it's hard. I got instantly denied an apartment five times because of my name. I'm not allowed to leave the country. The government thinks I won't ever come back. And when I travel inside China, the CCP checks in on me at my hotel. I am constantly watched. I have less freedom than a regular Chinese citizen."
"Wow." I replied.
I took a puff of the strawberry-flavored hookah. The smoke seemed to linger longer than usual, just like the words she'd just spoken.