In Iraq, Little People Football Team Dreams Big

Dwarfism is a medical or genetic condition that results in stature below four foot, 10 inches, according to Little People of America, a support organisation Ahmad AL-RUBAYE AFP
Dwarfism is a medical or genetic condition that results in stature below four foot, 10 inches, according to Little People of America, a support organisation Ahmad AL-RUBAYE AFP
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In Iraq, Little People Football Team Dreams Big

Dwarfism is a medical or genetic condition that results in stature below four foot, 10 inches, according to Little People of America, a support organisation Ahmad AL-RUBAYE AFP
Dwarfism is a medical or genetic condition that results in stature below four foot, 10 inches, according to Little People of America, a support organisation Ahmad AL-RUBAYE AFP

Twice a week, a small football pitch in Iraq offers the 25-member national squad of little people a chance to fulfill dreams and tackle prejudice.

Omar Abdel Rahman's team has set its sights on an ambitious goal: to travel to Argentina for their first international tournament.

Despite modest means, the players come from across the country to train, leaving behind their daily troubles, discrimination and jibes.

"The team has changed the course of my life and that of the other players," said Abdel Rahman, who works in a Baghdad cafe where he prepares shishas, AFP reported.

"I'm good at football, but we're treated with contempt and it's impossible to play in mainstream teams," said Abdel Rahman, who stands at 1.42 metres (four foot, eight inches).

"But now everything is changing," said the forward, clad in a number nine jersey, with green socks hiked up to his knees.

The team has just returned from a friendly match in Jordan. Next year, they aim to travel to Argentina to take part in the tournament for little people.

In 2018, a "Dwarf Copa America" was held in Buenos Aires, the first of its kind.

The date of the 2022 edition has yet to be set, said Facundo Mariano Rojas, head of the Argentina-based international football federation for little people.

This will depend mainly on restrictions imposed for the coronavirus pandemic, he told AFP.

"We're also looking for financial resources to help the participating countries."

The matches will be played by seven-member teams in indoor stadiums and on futsal fields.

A key difference will be the size of the goals, fixed at 1.7 metres (about 5.6 feet) in height and two metres in width, compared to the regular 2.44 by 7.32 metres.

It was the Copa America that inspired Hussein Jalil to start up the Iraqi team in 2019.

Other players come from Arbil, Sulaymaniyah and Kirkuk in northern Iraq, from Nasiriyah in the southeast, and the eastern city of Kut.

Salah Ahmed, a 37-year-old forward, takes time off from work as a bike-repairman to attend.

"Before joining the team, I suffered from society's attitude towards little people," said the father of one.

Dwarfism is a medical or genetic condition that results in a stature below four foot, 10 inches, according to Little People of America, a support organization.

Those with the condition, who refer to themselves as little people, face several challenges when it comes to playing football.

"Some players suffer harassment in public places and on the streets," said Jalil. "But the situation is changing, football has given them more confidence."

He pointed to other problems, such as finding football kits in the right sizes in the shops, so they have had to improvise.

There are also financial difficulties. When they travel, they have to borrow money to pay for their tickets.

"Upon our return, the youth and sports ministry reimburses up to $7,000 to cover our expenses," Jalil added.

Abdel Rahman, a father of three, said the sport needs more backing.

"In other countries, a team like ours has the support of football stars like Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi," he said.

"In Iraq, the stars of the sport don't even know that our team exists."



Beauty Salon Near Ukraine Front Offers Brief Respite from War

Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
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Beauty Salon Near Ukraine Front Offers Brief Respite from War

Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP
Maryna Skromnaya didn't think twice about making the 40-minute to the salon. Genya SAVILOV / AFP

Maryna Skromnaya was ready to face shelling and explosions to get her hair done at a salon in Pokrovsk, the eastern Ukrainian city under intense Russian attack.

"I need to stay beautiful rather than run around looking like Baba Yaga!" she said, referring to the mythical forest witch who feasts on children.

Her blue eyes now framed by a fresh bob cut, the frail 57-year-old stood up from the hairdresser's chair and flashed a peace sign in a brightly lit mirror.

The salon's roaring trade exemplifies how thousands of Ukrainians living in partially deserted and shelled-out frontline towns are trying to cling to a sense of how things used to be, AFP reported.

Its pristine white-walled salon is a rare pocket of normal daily life in Pokrovsk, even as Moscow's forces less than 10 kilometers (six miles) away, are closing in.

The mining city was home to 60,000 people before Russia invaded.

Its population has plunged from around 48,000 to 16,000 over the last month, according to the authorities, who are urging all residents to leave.

Skromnaya was preparing to heed that advice, but wanted to savor a few final moments at home.

That included a haircut at her favorite spot, even if it meant a 40-minute walk to get there.

"Public transport? You may as well lie down on the floor waiting for it. It's gone," said Skromnaya.

'Always something exploding'

"You can always start walking, turn your music on, go feel beautiful," she said.

But venturing outside in Pokrovsk these days is perilous.

"There were bangs here, bangs there, there's always something exploding," Skromnaya said, waving her arms left and right.

Inside the salon, the buzz of hair clippers and blow dryers barely covered the thuds from the front line, some seven kilometers away.

Facing increased Russian bombardments, the authorities have ordered residents to stay inside their homes for 20 hours a day.

So would-be customers were constantly rushing in, pleading for a slot in the narrow window between 11:00 am and 3:00 pm -- outside the strict curfew.

"Look at me, I look like a bum!" one man joked, lifting his cap to reveal a slightly uneven cut.

Salon worker Natalya Gaydash shook her head apologetically. He didn't have an appointment.

The team was doing its best to squeeze in as many clients as possible.

"The war is not a reason to just lay down and die with your hair undone, your nails unclipped and dirty," said 32-year-old Gaydash.

The salon will stay open as long as the Russians are far enough away, said owner Ludmila Kovaleva, who opened the place five years ago.

"How can you stop going to work if people are waiting for you?"

'Empty soul'

"People come for a slice of positivity," Gaydash said.

"Some come to share their problems ... others share a bit of joy with us."

Feeling fresh and handsome after his trim, 54-year-old Yury Chaplygin beamed, revealing a few golden teeth.

"There's a good atmosphere, you can drink coffee as you wait for your turn," the locomotive driver said in a deep voice.

The few remaining workers from a nearby market, now mostly closed, hustled round the salon's coffee machine, sharing gossip for a few minutes.

Another beauty salon just round the corner, owned by Kovaleva's sister Iryna Martynova, recently shut its doors.

"Clients used to get served by my sister, then go see me, then go back to my sister just like on a merry-go-round," Martynova said wistfully.

But people stopped trickling in after the evacuations stepped up in August.

Martynova's salon is now empty, save for a few shelves covered in blue plastic wrap.

The door was cracked in a recent shelling attack.

"This is not normal, and with every day that passes it's getting even more abnormal. I've already made up my mind, I'm leaving," Martynova said, tearing up at the thought of having to start all over again.

She was taking some comfort that her former clients, now spread all across Ukraine, have already started calling her to see where she'll go and if they can make a booking.

"This is my life's work, my favorite job. I'm left without it. My favorite clients, I've known them all for years. Now my soul is empty."