Football stadiums around the world have long functioned as more than just places to watch football; they are also spaces where political frustrations are aired, broader societal questions are debated, and public sentiment is made visible, often in ways that escape official control and state-sanctioned narratives. Far from being a phenomenon exclusive to Europe, our region has also latched onto this dynamic, with supporter groups routinely seen using match-days to criticize political elites and draw attention to inequalities they believe demand accountability and, most importantly, change.
One could argue that some of the most striking examples of such activism have come out of Morocco, where ultra groups have spent years turning football stadiums into arenas dedicated to social commentary. Through elaborate tifos, carefully written chants, and coordinated displays, supporters have repeatedly used the people’s game as a vehicle to address issues ranging from economic hardship and unemployment to political disenfranchisement and the rising cost of living. Few chants illustrate this dynamic better than Rajawi Falastini, an iconic chant popularized by the supporters of Casablanca-based club Raja Athletic. Framed as a message of solidarity with the Palestinian people, the song draws parallels between the Palestinian struggle and broader themes of marginalization, dispossession, dignity, and resistance, eventually taking on a life of its own and becoming one of the Arab world’s most recognizable political anthems.
Algeria also shares this rich tradition of politically charged stadium chants, one that developed along with — and not after — Morocco’s own culture of supporter activism; though the real difference lies in what happened next. While both countries have long used football as a platform for social and political commentary, many of Algeria’s most popular stadium songs eventually broke free from the footballing world altogether.
To understand how, you have to rewind back to 2019 and the Hirak movement: the mass protest campaign that erupted in opposition to former president Abdelaziz Bouteflika’s bid for a fifth term in office. As millions took to the streets, demonstrators began repurposing chants that had first been sung inside stadiums, most notably La Casa d’El Mouradia and Liberté. Originally written and performed by ultra groups, these chants gave voice to frustrations surrounding corruption, unemployment, political stagnation, and the lack of opportunities facing young Algerians; the same concerns that sat at the heart of the Hirak movement. As demonstrators flooded the streets, these songs evolved into the unofficial soundtrack of Hirak, their lyrics taking on new resonance amid urgent calls for political reform.
In many ways, the foundations of what would later become Zanqaoui had already been laid. Only months after the wave of protests first kicked off, local hitmaker Soolking had teamed up with Ouled El Bahdja — the supporter group behind La Casa d’El Mouradia and Liberté — to record a studio version of the latter. Originally conceived as a stadium chant, Liberté was reimagined as a fully fledged song, helping introduce the sound to a much wider audience, particularly in France, where it resonated strongly with the country’s large diaspora.As Hirak gathered momentum and more artists began recording and reinterpreting stadium-inspired music, the movement gradually became known as Zanqaoui—literally meaning “from the streets” in Algerian dialectal Arabic.
Drawing from rap, raï, chaâbi, and football chant culture, it has, since then, become a genre of its own, producing a new generation of artists who have transformed the sounds of the stadium into one of Algeria’s most compelling contemporary musical movements. Artists such as Didine Canon 16, Four Torino, and Mouh Milano carry that tradition forward, producing music that continues to engage with many of the same frustrations and aspirations once solely echoed from the stands. Though their songs may no longer be tied to a particular club or pitch, they remain rooted in the realities of everyday life that so many across the North African republic relate with in their own way.
That legacy of resistance remains woven into the fabric of Algerian football. It can be found in the chants sung from the stands, the banners unfurled on matchday, and even in the colors worn on the pitch. USMA’s iconic red-and-black kit, for example, is widely understood to be a tribute to the victims of the May 8, 1945 massacres in Sétif, Guelma, and Kherrata, when French colonial forces brutally repressed nationalist demonstrations, killing thousands of Algerians.
And more than eight decades later, that same spirit continues to echo through Algeria’s stadiums, its protest movements, and increasingly, its music. In many ways, Zanqaoui is simply the latest chapter in a much longer story that we’re witnessing develop in real time.
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