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China Quake Highlights Ethnic Rift in Xinjiang
QIONGKUER QIAKE, China, March 25 (Reuters) - Ali's
teenage son led the way into a dim, deserted bazaar,
away from a main street thick with Chinese police,
soldiers, television cameras and possible informants
among his Muslim Uighur brethren.
The usual hubbub of haggling had fallen silent after
an earthquake, the worst in the northwestern region of
Xinjiang since the Communist Party took power in 1949.
Traders had abandoned their stalls, usually laden with
sacks of cumin and piles of freshly sheared wool, to
hurry home to rebuild their crumpled homes and bury
their kin.
For Ali, with his amiable brown face, black curls and
eyes full of fear and anger, the calamity was no
natural disaster. He believed China's majority Han
people were to blame for the quake.
The theory has no scientific basis. Nevertheless it
reflects the deep suspicion and resentment that the
Muslim Uighurs in Xinjiang, China's gateway to Central
Asia, feel for the majority Chinese people and their
rule.
``Han people kept using explosives to take oil from
around here,'' Ali fumed in his Turkic dialect, his
wary eyes darting to and fro as his son translated
into Mandarin.
``This earthquake came about because they took the oil!''
The eruption of anti-Han feeling after a quake late
last month killed at least 268 people and injured
about 4,000 reflects the desire of many Uighurs for
independence and resentment of a government that
brands activists ``terrorists.''
``DON'T ASK US''
Communist Chinese rule has brought power, running
water, paved roads and schools to desert outposts such
as Qiongkuer Qiake, Uighur and Han government
officials said.
The government response to the quake was swift.
Soldiers arrived quickly to hunt for survivors. Food
and sheeting for shelter from near zero temperatures
arrived promptly, considering the remoteness of the
region.
But Uighurs, few of whom speak more than a smattering
of Chinese, privately criticised the government as
they stood among the debris of their homes.
Talking openly about the ethnic divide was off limits.
``We are told not to speak about problems between the
majority and minority peoples,'' said one man. ``Please
don't ask us.''
Half a dozen other people simply ran their fingers
across their throats to show talk was dangerous.
Ali was among those who could not hold back.
``This is the Han people's country, not a free country,''
he said in a garden strewn with sticks and boulders
where his house once stood.
A crowd of onlookers gathered at his gate. His son
said he was told to soften Ali's message in
translation because of a young Han woman in their
midst.
Another Uighur man, 36-year-old Ku'erxi, marched over
and picked up where Ali left off, saying locals saw
little of the profit from the oil and gas extracted
from the region.
``All the oil comes from Xinjiang but we have to pay
four kuai ($0.45) per litre for gas,'' he said.
Local people say Qiongkuer Qiake is still poor, with
the typical household earning about 100 yuan ($12) a
month, half China's rural average of 206 yuan in 2002.
Activists say oil helps Beijing keep the Uighurs down
because Han settlers control the industries, state
firms take the oil and army trucks command the roads.
``SEA OF HOPE''
Beijing has dubbed Xinjiang a ``sea of hope'' because
of energy deposits rich enough to justify projects
such as a massive pipeline due to pump gas to the east
coast as early as 2004.
But China's plans to develop Xinjiang hinge on keeping
the ``sea of hope'' calm. Violence has flared before
in the area and troops put down an uprising by 1,000
armed Uighurs in 1988.
Chinese officials, who have said Uighur militants
trained with al Qaeda, have beefed up local forces and
given them high-tech hardware since the September 11,
2001, attacks on the United States, to ``preserve
stability.''
Beijing also persuaded Washington last year to add a
Uighur separatist group to the U.S. list of terrorist
organisations.
In Bachu, a teacher said the town was too scared and
weak to marshal activist forces or to contact groups
abroad.
``We've tried very hard but have not really been able
to hook up with them,'' he said.
Later, a 25-year-old neighbour pulled out a worn scrap
of paper with a Washington D.C. phone number scribbled
on it and asked to borrow a cell phone.
Asked whose number it was, the man didn't answer. It
turned out to be the hotline for U.S. broadcaster
Radio Free Asia.
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