When Morocco’s Greatest Match Becomes Its Worst Mirror… 1914
The Casablanca derby, the supreme celebration of Moroccan football, meant to take place at least twice each season, has turned into a sad reflection of our collective failings. What should have been a hymn to the passion of football has become a march toward shame: the shame of not respecting the most basic alphabet of the game, of civility, of respect for others, and of the rules of the Federation and FIFA.
The latest edition, in particular, offered yet another all-too-familiar scene: flares, clashes, the throwing of incendiary objects, destruction of public and private property, and a match repeatedly interrupted. The green rectangle, once a sanctuary for the game and the players’ sporting performance, is now held hostage by the pyromania of the stands and the forced complacency toward behavior that is beyond disturbing.
This time, the sheer number of flares was so staggering that it raises countless questions: Who sells them? Who ignites them? And how are they so regularly smuggled into stadiums?
Who benefits from turning the Casablanca derby into a footballing wasteland?
It is no longer a football match, it is a war zone, a scene of spectacular movie-like special effects imported into the terraces. In the name of the club’s flag, common sense has been cast aside. Raja and Wydad, two monuments of our sport, are being manipulated, overtaken, hijacked, and exploited by crowds who confuse fervor with fury, believing they defend their colors while trampling the honor of the beautiful game. In the name of the club’s supposed love, we end up defending obscure causes far removed from the essence of the clubs themselves — if such an essence still exists.
It has become a kind of grandstand ultra-nationalism. Some groups have set themselves up as militias of the stadiums. They control the stands, impose their laws, and enforce their violence. They now even dictate the rhythm of the matches, play begins when they allow it and stops when they decree it. Their tifos are glorified, but few dare name their excesses for what they are. Yet behind the choreographies, sometimes splendid, sometimes tasteless, lie preparations worthy of a battlefield: sharp objects, stones, illegally imported flares and explosives, coded mobilization calls, and incitements to confront all that represents order.
Insults to institutions, fake news, subversive slogans, everything mixes together with no restraint or shame: a volatile cocktail of social grievances and barely veiled political activism. Even foreign policy and the country’s international positions are dragged into it. So much for the common good, the good of the entire nation.
Club officials feign surprise or hide away, waiting for the storm to pass, as if smashed buses, bent gates, and toxic smoke were accidents of fate. The authorities design strategies and take precautions, yet repeatedly face dangerous overflows. Their stance is paternalistic at best: as if dealing only with unruly children. The ringleaders, meanwhile, stay safely out of reach, though some are visible, even stepping onto the pitch to stir up and inflame the crowds.
As for the Federation, it responds with fines and closed-door matches, the same administrative ritual that no longer frightens anyone. Has football been taken hostage?
The consequences are disastrous: interrupted matches, financial sanctions, and a tarnished international image. Morocco, once celebrated for its popular fervor, now offers the image of a sick football, where passion blurs into madness. These outbursts kill the game, stifle talent, and drive away families who once dared to attend matches.
In a country where football is almost a religion, it is heartbreaking to see the temples of sport turned into lawless zones. Children who once dreamed of the derby as a founding myth now see only ritualized chaos, a folklore of wreckage. Some may even join in, believing this is simply “how it is.”
But should we resign ourselves and admit a failure of courage?
It is not club rivalry that is to blame, but our collective inability to civilize it. It was not always like this. The problem does not lie in the chants, but in what we tolerate in the name of passion. Stadium violence is, above all, born of silence: the silence of clubs unwilling to alienate their supporters; the silence of media that prefer to glorify the atmosphere rather than denounce its excesses; and the silence of authorities forced to maintain order alone before a crowd they were never meant to manage, unlike elsewhere.
By failing to choose and only punishing after the fact, we have allowed *charhabe* to settle in as a tolerated subculture, a norm, a distorted identity. The derby should not be a test of strength but a celebration of the city, of talent, and of the players’ pursuit of excellence on the field.
Yet the myth of the derby must survive, because beneath the rage lies a truth: the Wydad–Raja rivalry is one of the most beautiful stories in African, perhaps even world football. It has inspired generations, forged careers, and given birth to songs and dreams.
But this tradition will not survive if it continues to sink into hatred and absurdity.
The derby deserves better. Casablanca deserves better. Morocco deserves a football where passion does not mean madness, where the color of a jersey does not justify brutality and violence. If nothing changes, the kingdom’s greatest match may soon become its greatest scandal: **the Derby of Smoke.**
