A steady drumbeat of "Push!” "Press!” and "Good ball!” echoed across a Portland park on Sunday, the kind of sideline chorus that usually defines youth football. But here, every pass, every sprint and every goal carried a deeper weight.

This was no ordinary tournament. For organizer Som Subedi, it was a deliberate answer to fear.

Billed as a "World Cup” for immigrant and refugee girls, the event brought together players aged 10 to 18 from families spanning Mexico, Somalia, Myanmar and beyond. It unfolded against a tense backdrop, where immigration enforcement has seeped into everyday life, even into spaces as routine as schoolyards and training fields.

Subedi, a Bhutanese refugee who spent years in a camp in Nepal before resettling in Portland in 2008, understands that tension firsthand. A member of the Lhotshampa community, he carries his own history of displacement into the work he now does.

"ICE and federal enforcement must be out of our parking lots, out of our football fields, and most importantly, out of the fear in our hearts and minds,” he told the crowd during the opening ceremony.

His vision was clear. Build a space where the game restores what fear has taken away.

Across the United States, youth sports have increasingly felt the ripple effects of immigration crackdowns.

In Portland, matches have been canceled or moved over concerns about federal agents appearing in parks.

Elsewhere, coaches have stepped in to shield players from encounters with immigration authorities. For many families, the uncertainty has turned routine activities into calculated risks.

Data from the University of Washington Center for Human Rights showed a sharp rise in immigration enforcement in the Pacific Northwest last fall, with nearly 1,200 arrests recorded in Oregon over a three-month span.

In Portland, protests have continued outside the city’s federal immigration building, underscoring a community on edge.

That unease has filtered down to the youngest players.

Some of the girls who took the field Sunday have lived through it directly.

Valeria Hernandez, 15, played with a quiet determination shaped by loss. Her brother, her closest companion and biggest supporter, was deported to Mexico late last year.

"I broke down at that moment,” she said, pausing as emotion caught up with her. "He was my best friend.”

His absence reshaped her daily life. He used to drive her to practices. He was the one who encouraged her to keep playing, to keep improving. Now, she carries that motivation alone, holding onto the connection in small ways. Before her first game, she sent him a photo from the tournament.

"He was very passionate about it,” she said. "So I wanted to be just like him.”

During the opening ceremony, Valeria, her mother and younger sister were wrapped in brightly colored scarves, a public show of support from the community around them. For Subedi, it was a symbolic gesture with a clear message. Families belong together.

The emotional weight of the moment was not unique.

Subedi has seen similar fear take hold in his own home. His 11-year-old daughter recently hesitated to attend football practice after reports of immigration agents near her school. Even with reassurance, even with official identification in hand, the fear lingered.

"I had to calm her down,” he said. "She went into practice, but not without that fear.”

That reality shaped how the tournament was built.

Organizers focused as much on the environment as on the matches themselves. Officers from two local police departments attended, not as enforcers but as visible support. Under Oregon’s sanctuary law, local police are barred from assisting with federal immigration enforcement, a distinction that Subedi said helped reassure families.

"They came to support,” he said. "Their presence helped families feel protected, not policed.”

An immigrant rights group was also on site, adding another layer of reassurance. Around the fields, families gathered in numbers, filling the sidelines with applause, conversation and a sense of shared purpose.

"When a community shows up like this,” Subedi said, "it creates belonging. It creates safety.”

On the field, that sense translated into freedom. The girls played with energy and expression, their focus fixed on the game rather than the pressures surrounding it.

The tournament itself was fully funded through donations, covering everything from jerseys to cleats, ensuring that cost would not be a barrier. Six teams were formed, some representing specific communities, including the Karen people of Myanmar and African refugee groups. Trophies awaited the top finishers, but results were secondary.

Dozens of volunteers filled key roles, from referees to coaches, giving their time to sustain the event.

Among them was Sergio Medel, a former professional player in Mexico who has coached in the United States since 1997. His daughter, 16, played in the tournament, adding a personal dimension to his involvement.

"I hope they leave feeling like they’re not alone,” he said. "That’s the most important thing.”

That message extended beyond immigrant families. A handful of girls from non-immigrant backgrounds asked to participate and were welcomed without hesitation, reinforcing the inclusive spirit Subedi envisioned.

In the stands, Esraa Alnabelsi watched her 13-year-old daughter play, reflecting on her own journey from Syria to the United States in 2012. For her, the tournament offered more than sport. It offered a glimpse of unity.

"We really have to be in one hand,” she said. "That’s how we face what’s happening now.”

Football made that unity possible. Its simplicity, its universality, stripped away differences.

For Subedi, that has always been the game’s quiet power.

"There is no language needed,” he said. "You just come together and play.”