Football: New Stadiums, Old Fractures
Stade Moulay Abdellah in Rabat, and Stade El Massira in Safi. In just a few days, two brand-new stadiums — some of which recently hosted what many described as the greatest Africa Cup of Nations in history — descended into chaos. One incident resulted in 136 people taken into custody and hundreds of bladed weapons confiscated; another left a photographer hospitalized. Seats were ripped out, press stands vandalized, videos flooded social media, and a persistent feeling emerged that these images say not only something about football, but about something far larger.
Football passion in Morocco is not merely a topic; it is an empirical reality. For decades, ultras culture, chants, tifos, and the creativity of the terraces have formed part of the country’s popular DNA. The entire world realized this in 2022 FIFA World Cup, when the Moroccan “red wave” transformed the tournament into a demonstration of fervor, dignity, and civic spirit. That image became a brand, almost an international signature. The Moroccan supporter in the stadium was someone other nations spoke about with admiration.
And yet, only months after an Africa Cup of Nations globally praised for its organization, atmosphere, and the elegance of its supporters, those same stadiums have become the backdrop for scenes resembling urban guerrilla warfare. The contrast is brutal, and it raises questions not only about responsibility, but also about solutions.
It is important to remember that during the tournament, many voices — including that of the national coach and several players — complained about a lack of fervor in the stands. The public was accused of becoming “bourgeoisified,” invaded by influencers and selfie enthusiasts, with football transformed into a weekend entertainment product confiscated from the “real supporters.” Beneath that criticism lay a broader one: the idea that Morocco was building world-class stadiums when, as some argued, “the country needed other things.”
Then, barely after the tournament ended, it was precisely those terraces once criticized for being too calm that erupted into violence. On April 30 in Rabat, an AS FAR vs Raja Casablanca classic that should have been a celebration spiraled into chaos. Clashes erupted in the stands, projectiles flew, the press gallery was invaded, journalists were targeted, and a freshly renovated stadium suffered serious damage. Eleven days earlier, in Safi, Morocco had already embarrassed itself on the international stage when supporters of USM Alger stormed the pitch before kickoff, chairs were used as weapons, a Moroccan photographer was injured and taken to the hospital, and the match kickoff was delayed by an hour and twenty minutes. Nor are these isolated incidents. Even the final of the Africa Cup of Nations itself, held at Stade Moulay Abdellah, had already been marked by unrest among Senegalese supporters. Before that, ultras groups from Casablanca, Marrakech, Agadir, and elsewhere had repeatedly made headlines, sometimes ending in tragedy.
The question can therefore no longer be avoided. Now that the stadiums exist — modern, secure, and dedicated to the popular passion Morocco proudly claims — why are they so systematically and violently destroyed by the very people who demanded them? What does this determination to destroy what was built for oneself reveal? Is it the responsibility of these young people, of their parents, of the state, or of society as a whole? Whatever the causes may be, the consequences appear to be spiraling beyond everyone’s control.
The sanctions imposed following the Rabat clásico were, it must be acknowledged, exemplary and unprecedented. Five matches behind closed doors for AS FAR, three for Raja Casablanca, fines of 200,000 dirhams for each club, shared repair costs, and above all a generalized ban on away supporters until the end of the season — which, incidentally, is nearly over anyway. The clubs will therefore pay the financial price, while supporters will lose the celebration. But this firmness, however legitimate and necessary, solves nothing in the medium or long term. How can it be explained that police forces, deployed in massive numbers, are still overwhelmed? How can it be explained that law enforcement officers are attacked with such violence, or that hundreds of bladed weapons are confiscated around stadiums before every high-risk match? A purely repressive response, however exemplary, does not seem capable of holding back the tide crashing against it.
Because it is indeed a tide. Like waves crashing violently against the coastline, these outbreaks reveal what society pretends not to see, and what none of the country’s tangible and objective advances have managed to absorb. A part of Morocco’s youth has been abandoned, left to fend for itself, in the grip of drugs and an everyday violence that has become, in the end, the only real sport they practice. Does this excuse them? Of course not. But honesty requires acknowledging that poison cannot serve as an antidote. Stadiums can be closed to them, entire seasons played behind closed doors, arrests multiplied, and prison sentences increased, but all that amounts to putting on blinders to avoid confronting the economic, social, and intellectual misery feeding this anger.
The snake is eating its own tail. These youths are violent; they destroy what is built for them, and yet they have every reason in the world to be angry because no credible alternative has been offered to them. It is the exact same dynamic witnessed when the largely peaceful protests of Generation Z were followed almost nightly by astonishingly violent outbursts: hooded youths, urban riots, senseless destruction without slogans, leaders, or articulated demands. Just a raw need to release frustration, to scream hatred and despair. The stadium has now become another stage for this phenomenon — more visible, more mediatized, but driven by the same underlying force.
In such a context, what can parents, neighbors, educators, authorities, or football enthusiasts themselves realistically do in the face of this wave? Who will have the political courage to confront the deeper problem — one no longer measured in dozens of troublemakers, but in thousands of citizens adrift? Must the country, as too often happens, wait for a tragedy before finally addressing the issue at the scale it deserves?
Over the next five years, Morocco will play one of the most demanding matches in its recent history by preparing to host the 2030 FIFA World Cup. In just a few weeks, the final of the African Champions League will take place at Stade Moulay Abdellah. Legislative elections are scheduled for September. And in the background lies an entire development model struggling to fully embody itself.
The country has already demonstrated — and the Africa Cup of Nations provided dazzling proof — that it knows how to organize, host, secure, and impress. What remains to be demonstrated, with equal ambition, is whether it also knows how to repair what is cracking internally, in those margins society prefers not to film.
Because wherever one stands on either side of the barrier, there is truly reason for concern.
Zouhair Yata
