By now, you’ve probably seen the footage: children, adults, grandparents, people of all ages emerging onto the shores of the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, utterly exhausted after swimming for hours across the Mediterranean in search of a better life beyond their native Morocco. Marking one of the largest migration waves the enclave has witnessed in decades, the crossing has once again thrust Ceuta into the spotlight as a flashpoint of irregular migration between North Africa and Europe. More than 60,000 people are reported to have attempted the journey, while at least 80 are believed to have lost their lives at sea, with the death toll only expected to rise.
Since then, everyone has tried to make sense of it, with no shortage of theories spreading across social media. Some insisted the crossings had been staged, casting them as part of a U.S.-Israeli effort to punish Spain for its support of Palestine and its refusal to allow American forces to use its airspace during the war with Iran. Others claimed the Moroccan monarchy had deliberately loosened border controls to send Madrid a message after Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez was recently spotted in Algiers as Spain looked to repair and deepen ties with Algeria.
For all their differences, these theories shared one thing in common: they shifted the focus away from the people at the center of it all. Whether the culprit is the CIA, Israel, the Moroccan state, or no one at all, it changes very little about the reality unfolding on the ground. Tens of thousands of people do not risk their lives at sea because of a viral conspiracy. They do it because desperation leaves them feeling they have no other choice.
Perhaps what is most striking is how quickly we have become distracted. Not that long ago—myself included—we were proudly celebrating Morocco’s national football team climbing to sixth in FIFA’s world rankings, treating it as proof of how far the country had come. Yet somewhere along the way, many of us forgot to ask where we rank in the things that matter far more: education, healthcare, literacy, poverty, and the opportunities available to ordinary people. Football can inspire a nation, but it cannot conceal the realities that continue to push so many to leave it behind. But, in a way, it seems to have.
Think back to less than a year ago, when protests erupted after pregnant women died struggling to access basic hospital care, and when young Moroccans took to the streets demanding dignity only to be met with repression, arrests, and violence. Think of the people imprisoned for saying the wrong thing, or simply for asking for rights many would consider fundamental. The rappers prosecuted over their lyrics. The filmmakers dragged through the courts. The ordinary Moroccans whose names never made headlines. Yet somehow, all of it seemed to fade into the background. A remarkable World Cup run, capped by a quarter-final demolition of Canada, gave the country something to celebrate, and rightly so. But in the euphoria, the structural problems that had fuelled so much public anger only months ago appeared to slip from the national conversation altogether.
Football didn’t create those problems, nor did it solve them. It simply gave us, however briefly, something else to look at. There is, after all, a reason why prestige projects have long appealed to governments around the world. A new stadium photographs better than an underfunded public hospital. A glittering skyscraper is easier to sell than meaningful reform. Infrastructure can project the image of progress, even when many of the conditions shaping people’s daily lives remain stubbornly unchanged.
As Roman poet Juvenal warned nearly two thousand years ago in panem et circenses —bread and circuses — keep people entertained, give them moments of national pride, and uncomfortable questions can be postponed. But only postponed, because sooner or later, the cracks will start to show. No World Cup run, no skyline, no megaproject can permanently mask a lack of opportunity, an overstretched healthcare system, or the desperation that leads tens of thousands to risk their lives at sea, regardless of their socio-economic background.
The most striking example could be the story of Faten Ben Omar Al Azizi. The 20-year-old footballer, who had previously played for Moghreb Tétouan and Moghreb Athletic de Tanger, was among those who attempted to reach Ceuta by sea. She never made it. After being caught in the currents off the coast near Fnideq, she drowned. Her death cuts through many of the assumptions attached to irregular migration. She was young, athletic, and already part of the country’s footballing infrastructure, the same world Morocco has so proudly presented as evidence of its progress. Yet she still saw enough reason to enter the water and attempt the crossing.
Faten Ben Omar Al Azizi will rightly be remembered as one of the victims of the Ceuta crossing. But she should also be remembered for what her death exposed. For all the talk of Morocco’s emergence as a regional power, of World Cups, megaprojects, and international prestige, none of it could persuade a 20-year-old footballer that her future was worth staying for. And if that doesn’t force us to rethink what progress really looks like, nothing will.