The Refugee Cricket Championship of Serbia.
Sunday the 13th April was a warm day in Serbia’s capital, Belgrade, and the long awaited final match of a cricket tournament was about to begin. Over the previous last two weeks, groups of refugees living in the abandoned factories known as the ‘Barracks’ in Belgrade have been hosting a cricket tournament.
Every other afternoon around 5pm teams of Afghan or Pakistani men and boys would gather on the small patch of cleared concrete that acts as a cricket strip in the grounds of the Barracks. It was hardly a test series at Lords but still for every game there was an eager crowd of onlookers who, regardless of result, would cheers with gusto.
Fourteen teams had been whittled down over the previous two weeks and now the final teams from twenty were going to face it off for the title of ‘refugee cricket champions’. I was lucky enough to witnessed this rare sporting spectacle between the teams, the Afghan Peashawar Zalmia vs the Pakistani Jalabad.
Surrounding the make-shift cricket strip, sparse patches of grass mingled with building debris and rusted train tracks. There were no seats but concrete blocks along a border wall where the crowd of onlookers spread out. Slabs of torn concrete with rusted metal bars protruding became seats and in the overgrown shrubbery others sat in a long line facing the action.
Roughly 200 contributed to the electric atmosphere around the ground that day. The two teams had been the favourites of the competition but had been fortunate enough not having faced one another in the quarter or semi-finals. But now the time had come. Afghanistan vs Pakistan must slog it out innings for innings to take the title and emerge as refugee cricket champions.
The first to bat was a young refugee from Pakistan who poured dirt from one hand to the other whilst eyeballing his opponent. Ahmad from Kabul let out a rocket of a bowl but was quickly off balanced when Arslan shocked onlookers by hitting a six clean over every fielder. An onlooker said “This guy used to be in the youth national team, he is very good”.
With every bowl Arslan would either hit a six or play it safe but still gain a couple of runs in-between his strategically placed shots. His time came with a spin bowl that arched to the left and swooped in, blasting the bails into the sky.
The game had ups and downs but both sides having studied the opposing sides strengths and weaknesses the game progressed quickly with the umpire frantically scribbling down the scores. Over the course of the game the crowd grew more enthusiastic and elaborate in their cheers and howls and with every bowl and wicket screamed louder and louder.
Everybody there had travelled a long, difficult and dangerous route to reach Europe but ended up, thousands of Euros out of pockets and stranded on its fringes. Not one person wants to be in Serbia but having been beaten, robed and abused in Bulgaria, Hungary, kicked out of Romania and Croatia, Serbia is their only safe haven for the time being.
Their dreams stifled by the tighter borders and with little prospect of moving onwards to western Europe, depression and despair have taken hold of those stranded in Serbia. In the winter there was hope, Hungary had a porous border, as did Croatia, but now the net has closed and left them indefinitely into Serbia.
The eyes and demeanour of the people were different that afternoon. They could momentarily forget they were refugees and forget their plight. It was a group of friends sharing a mutual passion for a game they all enjoyed and together they watched not needing the umpire to keep the score on their behalf.
The final batsman took to the wicket and everybody perched a little closer to see the bowl. The batsman was a stocky Afghan with a determined look in his eye. If he could scrape together 20 in total, he could win the game but if he were to stumble it would be lost.
The first few shots he deflected tactically to the right and then the left, followed by at least four stadium clearing slogs that Flintoff would have been proud of. Then the decisive ball came and as it left the bowlers hand you could tell it was something special. Down the middle like a bullet, shooting dust as it bounced passing through the batsman’s legs and blew the bales off the stumps. Regardless of the special bowl the Afghans had won.
A sense of sporting optimism and inspiration had spread and the crowd having watched in suspense exploded in a hubbub of sheer jubilation. The crowd leapt up from their seats and ran to the strip. Hoisting the winning team onto their shoulders, the cheering and shouting didn’t subside for ten minutes joined with loud Afghan music blaring from portable speakers. Dust rose from the ground with the stampede of dancing, laughing and cheering spiralling round the victors like a merry-go-round.
There are moments in sport that unite supporters, nationalities and in this case people. That afternoon was a special occasion for the people there. After surviving the bitter winter and impossible odds of making it this far they, for one afternoon, all emerged victorious and united in celebration.
It was a moment that will cling to the memories of everybody fortunate enough to have witnessed the scene for many years to come. In the future it won’t just be, oh do you remember the winter in Serbia it will also be do you remember the game.
April 2017
