Soccer Star Zinedine Zidane: A much needed head-butt

That’s using your head

&tIn the end, Zidane did in fact end his career without regrets. When he head-butted Italian player Marco Materazzi, millions of fans – myself including – all thought it was an action that he would later regret. But in his first interview since the event last Sunday, he apologized to the children around the world who witnessed his reaction but stopped short of showing regret or extending an apology to Matterazzi. “I tried not to listen to him but he repeated them several times,” Zidane said. “Sometimes words are harder than blows. When he said it for the third time, I reacted. The reaction must be punished but if there had been no provocation there would have been no reaction.”

The question then is what prompted a man who has been called the “Bob Marley of soccer” to respond this way and to later show no remorse?

The best clue to understanding Zidane is to look at his upbringing. The famously shy Zidane was born on June 23, 1972 in the immigrant neighborhoods of Marseille, France, the son of Kabyle Algerian immigrants. He has said of his childhood, “It’s hard to explain – I have a need to play intensely every day, to fight every match hard. And this desire never to stop fighting is something I learned in the place I grew up. And, for me, the most important thing is that I still know who I am. Every day I think about where I come from, and I am still proud to be who I am: first, a Kabyle from La Castellane, then an Algerian from Marseille, and then a Frenchman.” Much has been written lately of the tough neighborhoods where Zidane grew up of which he says, “I was lucky to come from a difficult area. It teaches you not just about football but also life. There were lots of kids from different races and poor families. People had to struggle to get through the day. Music was important. Football was the easy part.”

Football, indeed, did seem like the easy part. He was discovered at age 14 by a talent scout who described him as a “genius” and later went on to careers with the French soccer teams AS Cannes, Bordeaux, Italian team Juventus F.C., and finally Spain’s Real Madrid.

Little else, however, is known about him. There are very few details about his wife and kids (unlike the very public Ronaldo or David Beckham whose private lives are perhaps too well known). We do know that for much of his career, he has endured accusations (by players on the field, by fans, and even some by fellow Algerians) that his father was a harki, an offensive Arabic word that, according to Wikipedia, “was the generic Algerian term for Muslim Algerians serving as auxiliaries with the French Army, during the Algerian War of Independence from 1954 to 1962. Reports show that Zidane is particularly close to his father and ascribes much of his work ethic from him. He once told an Algerian journalist, “I’m very inspired by him. It was my father who taught us that an immigrant must work twice as hard as anybody else, that he must never give up.”

When France hosted the World Cup in 1998, it was a new France on display. The French team boasted the likes of, as right wing French politician Jean-Marie Le Pen would say, “not very French” players Thiery Henry, Patrick Vieira, Zidane, and others. Off the field, cities like Paris were brimming with large, mostly Arab immigrant populations, many of whom still struggle to find acceptance against the backdrop of France’s de jure and de facto discrimination. But despite efforts of the likes of Le Pen to thwart the popularity of the team, the French people then – and even now – stood behind Zidane as he led France to its first World Cup victory. It was Zidane’s header then, albeit a legal one, that scored the decisive goals of that game. The next day, an estimated 500,000 people (the largest crowd since the French Revolution, some say) poured onto the Champs-?lysȥs to honor the French team and specifically Zidane. Many chanted ;Zidane pour le president.” It was historic moment for to hear the collective chants of Frenchmen routing for a team that was “Black, Blanc et Beur” or black, white and North African.

But the ecumenism after the 1998 World Cup victory did not last long. In October 2001, the comments against Zidane’s family escalated to an unbearable level. In a “friendly” match between Algeria and France, the two teams squared off for the first time since Algeria’s independence. The purpose of the game was to mend relations and build ties based on a common affinity for soccer. But just the opposite occurred. According to the Observer, “The reality was grotesque. In the lead-up to the match Zidane received death threats. During the game, he was booed and taunted and, he says now, was ‘disconcerted’ by the posters that read ‘Zidane-Harki’. The match was abandoned after a pitch invasion in the second half, with young French Arabs chanting in favor of bin Laden and against the French state. The multicultural adventure launched by the French team of 1998 was in disarray. The far right was on the move.”

Fed up by the insulting (and provocative) comments about his father, Zidane later broke his usual silence and said, “I say this once and for all. My father is not a harki. My father is an Algerian, proud of who he is and I am proud my father is Algerian. My father never fought against his country. Being Algerian, and proud of it does not mean that I am not French.”

Zidane’s new prominence after the 1998 World Cup prompted a flurry of political, religious, ethnic, and national groups to try to use him as their spokesman. But Zidane was not interested, saying famously that he had “no message.”

This did not stop the likes of France’s right wing Jean-Marie Le Pen from calling Zidane a “a son of French Algeria,” implying that somehow France’s brutal colonization of Algeria somehow deserves credit for producing a legend like Zidane.

But although Zidane was frequently provoked, he never responded – at least publicly – to the provocation. This was no easy feat, given the unfathomable degree of racism still present in European soccer today. In a riveting ESPN documentary, various players speak about being verbally taunted with monkey chants or being pummeled by bananas from audience members. In one segment, the fans at one Italian game are shown making the Nazi salute, chanting monkey noises and throwing bananas at Ivorian player Marc Zoro. Finally in the middle of the game, Zoro is shown grabbing the game ball and walking off the field in tears. He later told reporters, “I have been playing in Italy for three years and I see this happening almost daily. All this makes me really sad. It’s not easy for me and it hurts. I don’t deserve this.”

Part of the fault is that FIFA has responded lackadasically to incidents of racism. Recently the Spanish national team coach Luis Aragones recently told his player to show England’s Rio Ferdinand to “show that black little shit that you are better than him”. What compounded the incident was that each time a non-white player on England touched the ball during their “friendly” with Spain, the Spanish crowd would make monkey noises. The fine for Aragones remark? A paltry $4000, the equivalent of a day’s wage for him. Some wondered why FIFA did little to reprimand somehow the Spanish fans for their inexcusable behavior.

Of course others insist that the solution is for the players to rise about the racism and not let it affect their player. Politics, it is often said, has no place on the field. But when Thierry Henry walks on a Spanish soccer field and is taunted by monkey chants from the audience, is it Henry that is bringing his politics to the field or the audience? Is it fair to expect him not to respond?

For many American authors, Zidane’s event has already been compared to “infamous” moments of rage in sports like Mike Tyson’s in- ring ear biting or Bill Lambeer’s entire career. But if in fact Matterazzi’s provocation were racially tinged, then it might have conjured up a very real experience of enduring racism, discrimination, and xenophobia for Zidane.

Some say Zidane showed more restraint in dealing with these issues in 1998. But consider the events that have transpired since France’s 1998 World Cup victory, especially the 2005 French riots, in which one person was killed, 2,888 people were arrested, 8,973 vehicles damaged, and an estimated IJ00 million in property damages. Much of the anger displayed during that violence was retribution for the overt discrimination against immigrants in France. In an article published on November 2, 2005, the BBC reported, “Racial discrimination is banned in France. But a quick look at the people working in any shop or office suggests the practice is widespread. The impression is confirmed by official statistics. Unemployment among people of French origin is 9.2%. Among those of foreign origin, the figure is 14% – even after adjusting for educational qualifications.” According to the French National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies, unemployment overall for university graduates is around 5%, it is 26.5% for “North African” university graduates, many of them French born. If France’s embrace of its diverse World Cup team showed that nation’s willingness to welcome immigrants to its soccer team, then the rest of French society has yet to show that same acceptance of immigrants in society. At some level, Zidane’s head butt was an empowering gesture of protest and intolerance against racism. With ten minutes left in the game, Matterazi’s provocation reminded Zidane that no matter how much fame, fortune, or adulation that he acquires, Zidane still confronts racism. Is it fair to blame him for being angry or fed-up?

In 1998, Zidane emerged a hero for guiding France to victory. Eight years later, Zidane again emerges as a hero, albeit for different reasons. This year Zidane did not hold the prestigious World Cup gold trophy, but then again, not all trophies are made of gold.

Zahir Janmohamed, the co-founder of The Qunoot Foundation, never thought he would write an article in defense of a man whose (middle) name is Yazid.