The Politics of the Football Terrace
In Algeria, football stadiums have long been sites of protest, expression, and resistance. As public space shrinks and surveillance rises, their political future hangs in the balance.
Young members of the Verde Corazon ultra during a match of their club RCR, Relizane, Algeria, 2016. (Photo by Fethi Sahraoui)
I remember February 22, 2019, with vivid clarity—the day the Hirak anti-government movement erupted in Algeria. There was a collective intuition among Algerians that something was brewing. It was a Friday, a day that naturally lends itself to protest across North Africa as people get together to carry out weekly prayers. More importantly, in the weeks leading up to that day, scattered protests began to pop up across the country. Tensions were high over the news that President Abdelaziz Bouteflika—then 81 years old and visibly debilitated by multiple strokes—intended to run for a fifth consecutive term.
Describing the atmosphere in Algiers as “tense” on that morning of February 22 is too simple. It doesn’t account for the accompanying tangible feelings of hope and fear in the air. In a country where formal political expression is tightly circumscribed, moments like these—when people reclaim public space en masse—become more than just protest. They become fleeting openings in an otherwise closed system, sites where the political becomes possible again. The excitement stemmed from the simple idea of stepping out onto the street, blending in with the masses, and freely voicing an opinion out loud—an opportunity that only comes once a generation in Algeria and almost always has macro-level repercussions on the country’s political future.
Yet, history also loomed large. The violent crackdowns on the 1988 October Riots and the 2001 Black Spring, which left hundreds dead, were sharp reminders of the risks involved. An eerie silence gripped the city immediately after Friday prayers. Fifteen minutes later, chanting erupted from the working-class neighborhoods of the Casbah and Bab El Oued. By mid-afternoon, tens of thousands of protestors had flooded downtown Algiers, completely overwhelming a flimsy attempt by police to contain the demonstration.
The floating feeling of emancipation was undeniable. Algerians from all walks of life had reclaimed the streets. Police checkpoints were thoroughly engulfed by the crowd, allowing free movement. The ever-present plainclothes officers who usually stopped public filming were nowhere to be found. Protestors could finally express themselves openly. But with newfound freedom came uncertainty. “What now?!”
Amid the euphoria, most understood the moment’s importance. The eyes and ears of the state were on them and this was the time to voice demands. Disjointed and incoherent slogans emerged: chants against rigged elections or corruption, or tactical instructions like the warning to remain peaceful in order to prevent a government crackdown. By evening exhaustion set in, but elation remained. It was clear that something historic was unfolding. Protestors vowed to return the following Friday, and from then the Hirak movement persisted every week until the COVID-19 pandemic brought public gatherings to a halt.
Although the Hirak was a generational event for many, for Algeria’s football fans February 22, 2019 felt all too familiar. This familiarity wasn’t incidental. For years, Algeria’s terraces have served as a kind of political training ground—a place where the protest rituals are rehearsed weekly, long before they erupt into the street. Breaking through police cordons, creating captivating visual displays, and chanting nonstop were weekly rituals. Over the following months, by exporting stadium behavior to the street, football supporters would play an inextricable role in shaping how the general public expressed their demands.
MC Algiers vs Orlando Pirates
These days, six years after the Hirak was stamped out, the only place in Algeria where tens of thousands still gather each week is not in protest, but at a football match.
On April 1, I took a cab to the Stade 5 Juillet to watch Mouloudia of Algiers play Orlando Pirates in the caf Champions League. Mouloudia of Algiers are Algeria’s most popular club. They’re the oldest, founded in 1921, and they are the richest, owned by Sonatrach, the national oil and gas conglomerate. In many ways, MCA is representative of all clubs in Algeria and their supporters are representative of all Algerian fans.
Of course I cared about the result, but every time I’m in the stadium I am drawn in more by the chance to be an amateur sociologist; to sit, watch, and take the temperature of the everyday Algerian football fan. The first thing that hits you is how much the stadium resembles the makeup of working-class areas in Algeria’s cities: it’s overwhelmingly populated by young men. Elderly men are scarce, children rarely come alone, and women are virtually absent. Domestic football, shaped by a mix of violence and social norms, has become the male-only domain of youth.
The parallels between stadium and street don’t stop there. Like everyday life in the city, match day involves a whole lot of waiting. In Algiers, if you have business to handle, you learn to arrive early—sometimes hours early. The same logic applies to football. I got to the stadium four hours before kickoff and bought a ticket from a scalper, one of the stadium’s many informal marketeers. Economists estimate that between 20% and 40% of Algeria’s economy operates in the informal sector.
Buying a ticket is always straightforward; getting inside the stadium is the real mission. To an outsider the entrances might resemble conflict zones. Armored vehicles funnel the crowd into snaking queues. Security forces bark at people to hold ids and tickets high above their heads. A series of patdowns follow. Only after all that do you step inside, exhale—realizing you’ve left one of Algeria’s most repressive ceremonies behind, and are entering one of Algeria’s few truly free zones ahead.
Once inside the Stade 5 Juillet, you immediately notice how the stands are organized by neighborhood. Flags representing nearly every corner of Algiers hang from the railings of the stadium’s entrance tunnels. Bloc 17 belongs to fans from Cheraga; Bloc 18 to those from El Madania. The stadium is a microcosm of the city.
Minutes later, two young men start collecting donations for someone in distress. “Brothers, Mouloudia, help your brother out—his daughter is sick and needs urgent care.” Nine out of ten supporters reach into their pockets and toss coins into the young, unfortunate father’s plastic bag. I can’t help but think that the football supporters are just as charitable as the mosque-goers at Eid prayers the day before. In so many ways, the stadium reflects the society outside its walls—or maybe it’s the other way around. I’ll return to that idea. However, where the parallel is clearest is in the freedom of expression, whether on the terraces or during political demonstrations. On the terraces, just as in the street, the security apparatus is overwhelmed, and tens of thousands can express themselves freely, even if the state is always watching.
This is why scholars like Mahfoud Amara have long seen the terraces as a true measure of the Algerian street’s pulse. Since football first arrived on Algeria’s Mediterranean shores in the early 1900s, fans have instinctively known how to use the game as a political tool. And yet, there’s always been an ambiguity about what kind of political space the terrace is. Is it where new forms of political awareness take shape—where people learn to move, chant, and act together? Or is it just a tolerated pressure valve, a space that releases steam but leaves the structure intact? The Algerian stadium embodies both possibilities simultaneously: a space of real expression, but not necessarily of real transformation.
The politics of the terrace
In Sport et Politique en Algérie, political scientist Youcef Fates traces the roots of artistic expression in Algerian football culture back to the colonial period. At a time when native Algerians were denied the right to assemble freely, sports clubs became a means of uniting around shared ideals and identities. Through chants, artwork, and choreographed displays, Algerian supporters earned a global reputation for their expressiveness.
For instance, in the 1940s it wasn’t uncommon for Algerian supporters in the terraces to sing “Min Djibalina” (“From Our Mountains”)—a patriotic song penned by Algerian scouts that called for Algerian independence. Even in post-independence Algeria, the messages delivered in stadiums carried significant social and political weight. A powerful example is the 1977 Algerian Cup final between JS Kabylie and NA Hussein Dey. JS Kabylie supporters were mostly Kabyle—a branch of the Amazigh indigenous to North Africa—and they did not hesitate to use the occasion to voice their displeasure.
That day, President Houari Boumediene was in attendance. He was not a popular figure among Kabyle fans due to his staunch Arabization policies, which suppressed Amazigh language and culture by declaring Arabic the sole official language of Algeria. The JSK fans seized the moment to voice their discontent. They boldly chanted “Anwa wigui? Imazighen! (Who are we? Amazigh!)” and booed the national anthem. Open defiance like this was virtually unheard of in 1970s Algeria and was certainly never broadcast on state television.
Boumediene responded swiftly. Over the next few months, he instituted a sporting reform that rebranded every football club in the country. JS Kabylie lost its ethnic identifier and was renamed JE Tizi Ouzou after the club’s home city, but the attempt to erase what happened in that match failed. That moment of protest became a precursor to the Berber Spring of the 1980s—a landmark movement for Amazigh cultural and linguistic rights.
In the early 2000s, the influence of the “ultra” movement in Italy began shaping North African fan groups. Mark Doidge presents a thorough definition of ultra groups:
The term has been adapted to refer to all hard-core football fans that demonstrate an unwavering support of their team… This support is highly ritualistic and is characterized by the extensive displays of flags and banners, igniting of flares, and chanting of songs.
The North African ultra movement first took hold in Tunisia where Esperance de Tunis supporters formed “L’Emkachkhines.” Morocco followed in 2005 with Raja Casablanca’s “Green Boys,” and by 2007 Algeria and Egypt saw their own ultras emerge—“Ultras Verde Leone” for MC Algiers and “Ultras Ahlawy” for Al Ahly.
What sets North African ultras apart is the presence of dedicated musical groups affiliated with nearly every group, especially in Algeria. These groups compose and record tribute songs to their football clubs celebrating their histories and victories. However, the lyrics frequently go beyond football, touching on everyday struggles and veering into overtly political themes.
For example, in the 2010s, as Algerian President Bouteflika’s public appearances became increasingly rare, the Dey Boys of NA Hussein Dey released a provocative track ahead of the 2016 Algerian Cup final with the line: “The president in a wheelchair; [he’s] a puppet holding on to power.” A year later, Ouled El Bahdja—Algeria’s most notorious football musical group—dropped the song “Qilouna” (“Leave us be”) amid news that the government was considering shale gas fracking in the Sahara. The track criticized government corruption with the lyric: “The people don’t hear what’s happening in the Sahara.” Then in 2018, following the seizure of 701 kilograms of cocaine at the port of Oran (an incident ultimately tied to associates of ministers, mayors, governors, and even national police chief Abdelghani Hamel), Moh Milano released “Y’en a marre,” declaring: “The state is wild, (importing) hash and cocaine.” Y’en a Marre—which means “we’re fed up”—was also the name of a collective of Senegalese rappers and journalists who helped galvanize a mass youth movement against political stagnation in 2011. Whether or not Moh Milano’s track was referencing them, the resonance is striking. From Dakar to Algiers, music has become a vessel for political fatigue—and the possibility of its rupture.
Beyond music, fans communicate through choreographed visual displays—tifos—that often carry political messages. Their visual impact and shareability make them a powerful tool: once raised, they’re instantly clipped and posted online, quickly racking up tens of thousands of views. The Algerian government is acutely aware of their influence. To preempt potential controversy, and in exchange for early stadium access to prepare them, authorities require fan groups to submit their tifos for approval. Due to this vetting process, many tifos echo Algeria’s official foreign policy. Since October 7, 2023, for instance, Palestinian solidarity messages have become widespread. In November 2023, Mouloudia Club of Algiers unfurled a tifo of a freedom fighter and a Palestinian flag with the slogan, “The revolutionary Mouloudia is at your service, land of revolutionaries.” This choreography was applauded by all factions of Algerian society including some members of the government.
Yet, despite these controls, unsanctioned messages sometimes make it through, particularly in lower-tier leagues. In 2018, second-division side AS Ain Mlila displayed a provocative banner with Saudi King Salman and U.S. President Trump, captioned: “Two sides of the same coin.” The Saudi government protested vehemently, and Algeria was forced to issue an official apology.
The criticisms voiced by football supporters inside Algerian stadiums, whether aimed at domestic politics or international affairs, were never unique; you could hear the same grievances echoed in the streets. But what gives the stadium its unique power is how it amplifies those critiques through artistic expression. Songs and choreographies don’t just express discontent—they elevate it, stylize it, make it memorable and shareable. Nowhere was this more clear than during the Hirak protests of 2019 when the chants, rhythms, and defiant spirit of the terraces spilled into the public squares, energizing a nationwide movement.
When the chants spilled out
During the Hirak demonstrations, football supporters naturally gravitated toward one another, carrying with them the atmosphere of the terraces. On the steps of Barberousse Secondary School, fans of rival clubs stood side by side, chanting, setting off flares, and moving in rhythm. Their energy and coordination were contagious, transforming the protests into a powerful and unified spectacle.
One song in particular, “La Casa Del Mouradia” by usm Algiers’ fan collective Ouled El Bahdja, became the unofficial anthem of the Hirak. Written from a football supporter’s point of view, the song delivered a scathing critique of Bouteflika’s four-term presidency:
It is fajr (dawn) and I cannot sleep, / I am slowly getting high, / Who are the causes, who can I blame (for my problems),
We are sick of this life we are living. / In the first (term) we can say they tricked us with “reconciliation,” / In the second (term) it became clear that this was La Casa Del Mouradia,/ In the third (term) the country suffered because of personal interests, / In the fourth (term) the puppet died and our issue persists.
Seeing protestors of all backgrounds sing stadium chants—many laced with vulgarity—was surreal, but powerful. Other football songs, like usm El Harrach’s “Chkoun Sbabna” (“Who is to blame?”), also gained traction:
And if they say “You want to wreak havoc,” / It has been a long time since havoc has been unleashed, / You have sold Algiers and split it up, / You have bought all the villas in Paris. / Who is the cause (of our problems)? / The government, they are the cause,
The cause of our misery, / Algeria has worn us down.
Soolking, an Algerian hip-hop star, further amplified stadium anthems when he adapted Ouled El Bahdja’s “Ultima Verba” into the song “Liberté” (“Freedom”), racking up hundreds of millions of views on YouTube and resonating with protests worldwide.
Freedom, Freedom, Freedom, / The stand is singing / And we are your obstacle, O government, And our fire will not be extinguished.
The Hirak protests would only cease after the breakout of the COVID-19 pandemic and assembling in close proximity, even outdoors, was deemed a health risk. Like in many countries, the Algerian government used the pandemic to pass repressive legislation and crack down on protests, imprisoning hundreds of “prisoners of opinion” and effectively sealing off access to the street. In the view of many, the Hirak failed to topple Algeria’s entrenched military-civilian establishment, largely due to its lack of centralized leadership. Protestors were wary of figureheads, fearing co-optation or suppression. Although the government repeatedly called for dialogue and invited the movement to organize itself, deep mistrust and ideological diversity made such coordination unworkable. Ultimately, the horizontal nature of the Hirak, coupled with an unprecedented global health crisis, ensured the regime remained intact.
The last stand?
Since the repression of the Hirak protests, which coincided with the beginning of Abdelmadjid Tebboune’s first mandate, the Algerian government has quickly erected several state-of-the-art stadiums. In Oran, the Miloud Hadefi Stadium was built to host the 2022 Mediterranean Games. In January 2023, the Nelson Mandela Stadium was built adjacent to the Algiers International Airport. 2024 saw two stadiums inaugurated—the Ali La Pointe Stadium in a southern suburb of Algiers and the Hocine Ait Ahmed Stadium in Tizi Ouzou.
These developments signal more than just sporting ambition—they reflect a calculated transformation of the stadium experience. For the first time, fans are required to purchase tickets online. Ostensibly introduced to streamline access, this system has often produced the opposite effect. QR codes frequently malfunction, and with only a handful of open turnstiles, fans are forced to wait in even longer queues. Perhaps the most glaring difference is that authorities now have the names and contact details of everyone sitting in a given section.
This digital shift fits into a familiar pattern. Under Margaret Thatcher, the U.K. pioneered a model of stadium reform built around surveillance and control. After the Heysel disaster, her government increased police presence, intensified stop-and-search practices, and introduced mandatory membership cards for fans provoking widespread backlash.
These tactics did little to curb violence, and arguably worsened conditions contributing to tragedies like Hillsborough in 1989. It wasn’t policing but the commercialization of the Premier League that eventually changed English stadiums, ushering in all-seater venues, higher ticket prices, and a more affluent fanbase which diluted the intensity of British football culture.
Algeria’s trajectory seems to be following a similar blueprint with digital ticketing being just the beginning. If prices rise, as expected, working-class fans could be priced out and replaced by wealthier families and tourists. This shift within the stadium has already taken hold for national team matches. And, although it hasn’t yet affected the domestic league, such a shift would result in a more diverse, but sanitized, subdued, and apolitical audience there as well. All of this unfolds against Algeria’s increasingly precarious economic situation, as its hydrocarbon-based rentier economy has lost its ability to distribute benefits like it once did. If the state’s capacity to subsidize consent weakens, the transformation of the stadium space may not only reflect class exclusion, but may also deepen the potential for wider unrest.
There is, however, another possibility. If, as history suggests, the stadium and the street influence one another, then a bottom-up reimagining of stadium culture is within reach. During the Hirak, feminist groups claimed public space and became a constant presence in weekly protests. Should they and other grassroots movements see the stadium as a viable platform for gathering, organizing, and resisting, the very character of Algerian stadiums could evolve once more. Whether or not this is possible is a question worth asking—and a challenge worth taking up in a political climate that has suffocated all but the loyal vassals of the Algerian political system.
For, of all the political failures of the Hirak, the movement succeeded in at least confirming one evergreen truth: for now, Algerian stadiums remain a mirror of the nation’s political soul. It is where voices rise in defiance, where grievances take artistic form. Where, if you wait patiently enough, the next great Algerian political movement will incubate. Or perhaps it is simply where politics is held—suspended, unsettled, not yet extinguished. The terrace sits on the edge of something: maybe a beginning, maybe an end. That uncertainty is what gives it life. When coins clink into a plastic bag for a sick child, when a forbidden chant goes up from the bloc, when the crowd sings what cannot be said elsewhere—that is where you feel it. Not power, maybe, but the pulse.
