On a field in a suburb of Seattle, coach Mahamed Kassim wasn’t barking out lineups on a World Cup stadium pitch. Instead, he was teaching children from the “Somali Health Soccer Club” to keep their heads up and get away from defenders. Parents watched from the sidelines as the boys prepared for a 3×3 tournament timed to coincide with the celebration of Eid al-Adha. The scene is part of a growing soccer buzz across the region ahead of the 2026 World Cup, with matches taking place at Lumen Field—one of the loudest venues in MLS and home to the Seattle Sounders. For the tournament, the FieldTurx synthetic turf will be replaced with natural grass.
The club exists because organized youth soccer is often too expensive for low-income families. A free year-round program based in Tukwila—a southern suburb that since the 1990s has drawn Somali refugees with affordable housing, proximity to social services, and an established community—serves immigrants and low-income families. Today Tukwila is often dubbed “Little Mogadishu,” home to Somali cafés, mosques, and halal shops. It began informally about ten years ago, and in 2018 the club came under the management of the Somali Health Board. The program has since grown from one team of 17 children to 11 teams and more than 170 players.
Every year, tryouts are held; the selected players practice twice a week and take part in tournaments and leagues. On Saturdays, open sessions can draw up to 100 children. Partly funded by King County’s “Best Start for Kids” initiative, the club provides uniforms but does not require the costly fees typical of paid programs. “Best Start” funds come through a sales tax (0.1% on purchases) and grants, supporting not only sports projects but also early childhood education, youth mental health, help for families in crisis, and parent training.
Executive director Najma Osman emphasizes that the club’s value isn’t in equipment or elite fields. This is a place for social and emotional well-being: children find their identity and friends. “It helps youth stay connected to their culture by building friendships,” she says. That is especially important for communities where they want children to feel at home.
Although most players are Somali, the club is open to children from Latin American, Afghan, and other immigrant and refugee families from East Africa. Since many families are Muslim, the program is adjusted to religious practices: during Ramadan, practices are canceled and matches are scheduled early in the morning so those who are fasting can play. “We do all the work without waiting for parents to ask,” says Malim.
On the field, mothers chatted on a bench, while the boys in purple jerseys worked on dribbling under Kassim’s instructions. Parents say there’s a special atmosphere here—everything is built around familiarity and shared culture. Idil Shifow says her son tried two other programs before finding this one: “He sees a lot of people who look like him, talk like him, and the coaches are older uncles.” Aisha Tunkara adds: “We have a family-like atmosphere. Kids call each other brothers and call mothers ‘aunts.’”
Community activist Mohamed Yusuf notes that football has always been at the center of life for Somali people and many immigrants. He recalls watching the World Cup in Somalia on a black-and-white television, arguing about Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God.” After arriving in Seattle as a refugee in 1996, he saw how soccer helped newcomers build community. “Football is in our DNA,” Yusuf says. “Now the kids play because their parents played.”
The World Cup connection has been overshadowed by the United States’ refusal to grant entry to Omar Artan—a business owner of popular cafés (such as “Café Avole”) and an activist who for decades has helped Somali people with employment and built bridges between cultures in Seattle. He was supposed to become the first Somali referee at the World Cup. The border agency’s decision, tied to passport disputes, outraged the community: another youth team returned 20 free tickets to the matches. Yusuf called it “devastating,” but added, “We’ve seen things worse. We’re resilient and we move on.”
Despite the disappointment, children from the club are excited about the upcoming World Cup. The program received 40 free tickets through a youth initiative and plans to bring players and families to the Round of 16 match on July 6. For the club, the tournament is not only a global event, but also a reminder that some players may someday end up on a stage like that. The experience inspires and opens access to something that would otherwise be out of reach.
The club has already notched successes: several graduates went on to found the semi-pro team Holac FC, and the under-19 team won the Washington State President’s Cup. Abdul Hamadi, 14, who joined the club at age 8, was selected for the U-14 talent camp of the United States Soccer Federation. He acknowledges: without the club, he wouldn’t have achieved it. Still, the program faces financial hurdles—other clubs charge thousands of dollars, and grass fields are expensive and often booked. Somali Health Board Soccer Club mainly uses cheap grass fields, and some children arrive without cleats. “We don’t have backpacks,” Malim says. “But what they lack in material things, they make up for with their hearts.”
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