Socialism

I guess I am a socialist. Here’s the deal: I don’t think about socialism at all. I don’t think about overthrowing the American government and forcing my values on others. I don’t think about nationalizing huge corporations, although I do think a lot about a national health service, which I suppose qualifies me. Back that deal- it seems like there’s a big group of people back there in the States that’s doing all this thinking for me. I mean, I can mention that I like something or someone- Obama, for example, or Sonya Soto-Mayor, or soccer, and suddenly I’m a socialist. I think it’s that last one that gets me the most.

Here’s how it works: Soccer makes me happy. And soccer, according to the Tea Party folks, is a socialist game. Here’s the reasoning behind that:
1. Soccer is a team game. Teamwork is socialism.
2. It reflects European Economic values, and everyone knows the EU is a socialist organization.
3. You don’t have to use your arms for it, so if you are a soccer player it’s likely that your arms will become atrophied and drop off. This means you will need to rely on other people and possibly even need governmental assistance to get basic things done for yourself. Even if you manage to escape the fate of relying on others or social safe guards, if you have no arms when the reds march in and start taking over your town, you won’t be able to fight back.
4. Spain won (OPENLY socialist government, lots of greasy hair) against Holland (Amsterdam, gay marriage, and Dutchness= socialist, duh). Socialism fought against socialism and socialism won. It wouldn’t have been like that if they could use their arms.


So… I guess I’m a socialist.

Listening to news from the States, it sounds like the World Cup is a bigger deal back home than it ever has been before, but I currently live in the rest of the world. In the states, the general feeling is that soccer is played by elementary and middle school students so they can learn socialism… pardon, I mean teamwork. But in North Africa, as in the rest of Africa, and Europe and Central America and South America and Asia, soccer is life. Nike uses this as a slogan, but it really is true. Both boys and girls, even in my tiny community, play from an early age. I’ve mentioned before how the grass here is hand cut by women and girls, leaving behind large swaths of perfect lawn in late summer. It’s not unusual to see three or for games being played at once on these fields. Girls here are uneducated, over-worked and married off early, but they still play soccer. I’ve seen a young mother in her traditional dress, returning from the fields with a sack full of grass on her back kick a stray ball back into a game with perfect accuracy. I believe Morocco’s national team should, in the future, recruit from among the shepherd boys of the High Atlas. This is the only way to get a team that can contend for the world cup in any seriousness!

Anyway, I started this year’s world cup adventure in the place where it all ended for the rest of the world, Madrid. Two pints of Guinuess, a jamon and pineapple pizza, and a handful of American School of Madrid teachers helped us celebrate our tie match with the UK. The Irish bar we chose was split 50-50 with Americans and Brits, all well behaved but noisy. The man sitting at the table beside us yelled “For FUCK’S SAKE!!” repeatedly, which really is the only thing you can say when your keeper lets a half-hearted American kick roll gently between his arms and into the goal.

After that game, I saw a serious of games during a trip to the North of Morocco and then home again. I managed to catch every US game, including two that happened while I was in the clutches of a nasty case of giardia. I dragged my dehydrated ass out of bed and over to the café around the corner to watch the Algeria vs US game and then the Ghana vs US game two days later. The young guys who run the shops in town kept me up to date on all the other scores and commiserated with me when the US was knocked out. During every US game I saw, the majority of Moroccans rooted for us, even though, they assured me after the US vs Ghana game, they really didn’t mind seeing an African team do well. This is Africa, after all!

My site has had electricity for four years, but even here, the World Cup was unavoidable. Souk, the main part of town, usually has several very social hours between the afternoon prayer and the final prayer, with a brief break for the sunset prayer. During the world cup, however, only a few old men lingered in the streets. Everyone else packed into the three cafes that had shelled out for Al-Jazeera sport. Typically if I travel somewhere, I get back to site within the period of time between the calls to prayer and find my town bustling with men. But afternoons during the cup, I’d step off my transit and find my world deserted because my community, like communities all over the world, was watching the world cup. The speaker mounted outside one café blasted Arabic play by play into the streets and the sounds of vuvuzelas could be heard even from inside my house, but I don’t mind at all. Even if I made the decision not to watch, I still felt like a part of it all.

I watched the final in my souk town with a handful of other volunteers. During the day, the temperatures averaged around 45 degrees C, too hot to think, but the evenings are lovely. A group of local associations had set up a stage and invited several Moroccan musicians to play. The square was packed with families and groups of friends. We found some space on the upstairs terrace of a small café overlooking the square. The sounds of Arabic and Tamazight hip-hop mingled with the commentary and a cool breeze blew across the terrace. Just perfect! The outcome was not exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t mind at all that Holland lost. It was a great game, a blissful setting, and a wonderful way to wrap up the tournament!