Have you ever wondered what the world would look like without passion? Perhaps it would feel peaceful, calm,…,perfect, some might say. Yet I would never choose to live in such a world, not when life offers intensity even in discomfort. I, like some of you, grew up in emotional chaos, an intensity so severe that my heart became the organ I am most conscious of; a soul so loud I could never comprehend the appeal of silence.
And like many of you, from a very young age, I discovered what passion looks like when it unites groups, when it lifts crowds. My spirit enjoyed the trance driven by chants, rhythms, words exposing, in their harshness, the tenderness of our being. I remember the saltiness of flowing tears when my team lost, the ones I tried so desperately to suppress; the way my lips curved softly at the first goal, and the screams of joy when passion took full control of my consciousness.
I discovered feelings through football games: euphoria, disappointment, anger, injustice. Some of my emotions became deeply intertwined with football; injustice above all.
Despite all of these mixed emotions, intensity is something I will always return to when watching my favorite team. It will forever remain in a corner of my heart and mind, tied both to the positives and to an awareness of the negatives. Yet the beauty and poetry behind the beautiful game come at a price I can no longer afford.
And while I consider rage a constructive element of my personality, to the point where I find it poetic that something as brutal as rage is born from softness and aims toward peace, I draw the line when its intentions become destructive to oneself or to society. I will turn my back on the emotion that feels most familiar, deny it, and accept a state of emptiness when rage begins to mirror the very ugliness it claims to fight.
Football, for the majority of us, is not just a sport. In Africa, tournaments once served as anti-colonialist events, uniting people deliberately separated by imperialist forces. In countries like Morocco, where ultra culture is deeply rooted, football becomes the voice of the people, carrying powerful political and social messages through artistic spectacles often more mesmerizing than the game itself. For children in the streets, it offers belonging, a shared identity, a space where experiences and memories intertwine to form unbreakable bonds.
Yet it also has a darker side, driven by consumerism at an institutional level, by the egos of staff and players, by propaganda machines when serving political interests, and by a lack of responsibility and accountability when people with platforms and no self-awareness use media either to spread harm or to protect themselves from failure through misinformation. Perhaps this tournament serves as a reflection.
A reflection on how fake news, originating from a single social media post, can lead to real-world violence between fans and escalate online into hate speech. A reflection on journalists casually entertaining conspiracy theories, severely underestimating the power of their words and their impact on people’s lives and futures. A lesson for institutions to educate their staff on ethics, accountability, and self-awareness, because the ideas they insinuate hold immense power over crowds, while accountability remains far behind that power. This becomes a case study in how communication strategies can be as critical as infrastructure. A stadium without responsible communication is merely a structure no different than a gas station.
The cost of this failure is high: injured staff, endangered diasporas, material losses, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal felt by fans.
And while institutions and professionals carry the greatest responsibility in such events, we cannot look away from our own rage and the stories it tells us. From the people we become within crowds, from the group effect, and from the way we hide behind our screams. Anger blinds us to the point where we can no longer distinguish between accepting our emotions and engaging in hate speech meant solely to stigmatize and harm entire populations. In this state, we become both victims and pawns amplifying the damage caused by those who initiated it.
If our rage no longer targets peace; if it is fueled by good intentions but aims to hurt more than heal; if it calls for destruction instead of unity; if, in its grip, we abandon morality and justify harm through offense, then this may signal the decay of our societies. Because instead of confronting injustice, rage begins to mirror a darkness buried for so long it can no longer remain contained.
When rage loses its poetry, it becomes poison, an unbearable intensity with no sweetness left to hold onto. So for now, I am letting it go. I may return to it one day, when it complements me again instead of destroying what I love about life.