Football’s Commandments: On Sport, Race, and (Post)Coloniality

Paul A. Silverstein, Reed College


There was racialism in cricket, there is racialism in cricket, there will always be racialism in cricket. But there ought not to be. (CLR James, Beyond a Boundary, 58)

In his autobiography, Beyond a Boundary, the Black Trinidadian Marxist writer, critic, and activist CLR James conveys the centrality of sport—and cricket in particular—to the reproduction of and resistance to colonial racial structures.[1] When the predominantly Black petit bourgeois team Shannon played against white aristocratic Queen’s Park in Trinidad, or when the English Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) traveled to the Caribbean to take on West Indian sides, the matches became theaters of—and “metasocial commentary”[2] on—the palpable contradictions between sporting ethics of fair play and meritocracy and the blunt colonial realities of racial segregation and white supremacy. Learie Constantine, a Shannon man and the first Black West Indian player to succeed in the professional English county leagues, succinctly articulated the heavy weight of colonial sporting and racial hegemony, which even a decolonial militant like James had internalized. To James’ bemoaning of the ostensibly low moral standards of West Indian cricketeers as compared to the English heroes described in Jubilee encyclopedias that he had devoured as a young player at a government preparatory school, Constantine responds, “You have it all wrong. You believe all that you read in those books. They are no better than we.” As James came to realize, “‘They are no better than we’ did not have a particular application. It was a slogan and a banner. It was a politics, the politics of nationalism.”[3]

Cricket, for Black West Indians like Constantine and James, opened opportunities for self-realization under conditions of blocked social mobility, for momentary visions of a “society lived otherwise,”[4] for a “sentimental education”[5] (as Clifford Geertz would put it) in playing with passion while keeping a straight bat. And sometimes those passions would boil over, as they did on January 30, 1960, when a visiting MCC side played a test match against a West Indian XI at Queen’s Park Oval in front of a massive crowd of 30,000 spectators who erupted in bottle-throwing when the Trinidadian Charran Singh was given a questionable run out. The crowd’s reaction to what they took to be pro-British bias registered decades of pent-up frustration over the racial exclusion of cricketers of color from Queen’s Park Club and the captaincy of West Indian sides. It was the first public act in the final decolonial push for Trinidadian independence, finally achieved two years later. As James famously put it, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” thus transforming Kipling’s imperialist salute into a decolonial rallying cry.[6]

The history of sport is a history of colonialism. And, mutatis mutandis, the history of colonialism is a history of sport. To make this claim is not to engage in reductionism—to reduce sport to colonialism or colonialism to sport—but simply to insist on their co-constitution within a long nineteenth century. Madina Thiam and Baba Adou have likewise documented in their papers in this collection that colonialism has laid the racialized and gendered social and political ground from which our contemporary world has sprung. The French and British empires were certainly not equivalent, but they continually defined themselves through each other and ended up converging in their deployment of sport—from physical education and gymnastics to cricket and football—to save (male) indigenous souls and discipline (male) indigenous bodies. Contemporary sport carries the weight of such gendered and racialized colonial elaborations, even as the so-called “civilizing mission” has become transformed into a postcolonial integrating mission, which articulates itself in the ostensibly color-blind language of liberal universalism. As Nicolas Bancel, Pascal Blanchard, and Sandrine Lemaire have averred, being attuned to the “liveliness of colonial memories” in the present does not in any way imply “a linear heritage, an identical reproduction of past practices.” Rather, they continue, “thinking the postcolony is to necessarily understand how the phenomena engendered by the colonial fact have continued but also hybridized, transformed, retracted, reconfigured.”[7] Much the same might be said of categories of race and processes of racialization, understood as the historical transformation of fluid categories of social difference into fixed species of embodied otherness—something which Olivia Rutazbiwa and Solène Brun have likewise shown in their papers, if in quite different ways.[8] In the colonial situation, race—to gloss Bernard Cohn—constituted a language of command through which imperial administrations performatively ordered a heterogeneous social world that did not naturally resolve to polarities of Black and white, colonizer and colonized, but which the command of racialized language enabled colonial subjects to navigate.[9] James’ fraught decision to join Maple, the club of socially-mobile Brown professionals, rather than Shannon indexes the complex intersectionalities of gender, class, ethnicity, and even religion within West Indian cricket’s particular racial formation, much as existed across the landscape of the colonial North African football clubs I will discuss below. Decisions faced by postcolonial footballers whether to play for France or the national side of one of its former colonies index similar complexities of identification, affiliation, and belonging that are neither single nor static.[10] Postcolonial sport in France and North Africa remains ever racialized, even as those racialized differences continue to mutate around contemporary Islamophobia and the rise of Amazigh indigenous activism.

Colonial Bodily Discipline and Decolonial Sporting Passions

If the British Empire (like the Battle of Waterloo) may have been won on the proverbial playing fields of Eton and other public schools—where future colonial officers and civil servants imbibed an ethic of muscular Christianity through cricket and rugby—French imperialism can trace part of its lineage to the Ecole Normale de Gymnastique in Joinville-le-Pont, a military training school whose curriculum centered around emergent French methods of physical education. In the wake of the “national humiliation” of the 1871 defeat by the Prussian armies, such military gymnastics would become a mandatory part of the now secular, compulsory education under the Third Republic. Framed within a nascent eugenics movement, ideologues like Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of the modern Olympics, championed physical education to counter what they saw as the biological degeneration of the French “race” ravaged by “social plagues” (fléaux sociaux) of decadence and alcoholism.[11] Such concerns over social hygiene were likewise projected onto the colonies where military officers and schoolteachers exported gymnastics training both to prepare French soldiers for the rigors of colonial life and to “civilize” and “masculinize” indigenous recruits into the auxiliary troops necessary for further imperial conquest (euphemized as “pacification”). Coubertin, among others, championed colonial sport as an “instrument of acculturation”[12] to convert and assimilate indigenous populations and strengthen the national unity of Greater France (la plus grande France).[13]

Assimilation, however, was at best an ambivalent colonial policy, with administrators primarily concerned with maintaining order, regulating—indeed segregating—relations between settlers and indigènes, and catering to settler sensibilities of superiority. As Evelyne Combeau-Mari has concluded, “Colonial governors and administrators were convinced of the importance of promoting physical exercise among the colonized populations for patriotic, health, economic, and ‘civilizing’ purposes as long as such activities remained limited to the barracks and schools.”[14] She reports on a 1930 physical education textbook written by Joinville instructors, which recommended “that races be separated…lest jealousies arise.”[15] Indeed, when Coubertin attempted to extend his Olympic model to French Africa in the 1920s, in part to demonstrate the athletic superiority of the white race, colonial administrators rejected the proposed Jeux Africains out of fear of destabilizing the social order, even symbolically, in the case of an indigenous victory.[16] In the meantime, beginning in the late nineteenth century, colonial settlers in North Africa and beyond began to invest in leisure sports like football, pétanque, sailing, cycling, horse racing, and automobile rallies. These sports lent themselves to exclusive bourgeois clubs, imposing infrastructure, and extravagant spectacles that signaled and performed settler distinction as modern and cosmopolitan—“the privileged sign of ‘pied-noir’ identity.”[17]Cross-country cycling tours and auto rallies further constituted a “symbolic (re)conquest” of colonial space,[18]with trans-Saharan rallies demonstrating the “administrative unity of the French Empire” and the “sportive Frenchification (francisation)” of the North African region.[19]

And yet such sports did not remain an exclusive pied-noir domain but soon appealed to indigenous elites who saw themselves as the settlers’ equals, if not superiors, in masculine virility. Exceptional North African cyclists and footballers were recruited onto professional teams in the colonies and metropole, and individual runners and boxers came to represent France in international competitions. Postcolonial activists and scholars have resurrected memories of the pioneering feats of African athletes like Larbi Ben Barek (football), Ali Benouna (football), Marcel Cerdan (boxing), Raoul Diagne (football), Louis Mbarek Fall (boxing), Ali Mimoun (athletics), Ahmed Boughera El Ouafi (marathon), Abdelkader Zaaf (cycling), and others competing on the world stage of the Olympics, Tour de France, and World Cup in the early decades of the twentieth century.[20] Moreover, as the pathbreaking historian Bernadette Deville-Denthu has maintained,[21] indigenous men (and to a lesser extent women) across Africa came to reject the forced discipline of physical education and gymnastics imposed by schoolteachers and military instructors, opting instead for collective games like football, “much to the distress of colonial administrators.”[22]

Algeria exemplifies these dynamics of inclusion and exclusion.[23] If Europeans organized the first football clubs in Oran, Algiers, Constantine, and other major centers of colonial settlement around the turn of the century, by the early 1920s Muslim, Jewish, and other racially-marked Algerians (including Kabyles and Corsicans) had created dozens of sporting associations in the same cities primarily dedicated to football. Among those was the Mouloudia Club Algérois (MCA) whose ties to the ‘ulama movement and green and red jerseys—the colors of the future Algerian flag—signaled its proto-nationalism.[24] While explicitly Muslim, Jewish, and European-identified teams initially played in the same sports leagues, colonial administrators in 1928 sought to prohibit matches between them and beginning in the early 1930s required a minimum number of European players on otherwise indigenous teams.[25] Once mono-racial clubs were re-constituted as Franco-Muslim “unions” or “ententes,”[26] the result was at least a fleeting moment of intercommunal sociability where football clubs, pitches, and stadiums provided what Driss Abbassi has provocatively termed a “relational space” (espace-relation). Here Algerians encountered each other across racialized terrains of ethnic and religious difference, embedded within a broader “socially hierarchical and ethnically segregated social order.”[27]

By the late 1940s, intercommunal violence and rising anti-colonial nationalism foreclosed such relational spaces, with the colonial government re-segregating the football leagues and the FLN calling for a boycott of settler sporting institutions. In the meantime, post-war “integration” policies and hesitant efforts to transform the French Empire into a pan-racial “Union”—as documented by Oumar Ba and Audrey Celestine in their papers—facilitated the mobility of colonial footballers to play for metropolitan professional sides and even the French national team. In these venues, they were subject to repeated public questioning of their identity and loyalty, notwithstanding the fact that a full 35 percent of those who have played for French national sides have had family backgrounds outside the metropole (Blanchard 2010).[28] Among them were Rachid Mekloufi and Mustapha Zitouni who shortly before the 1958 World Cup clandestinely left France to join the FLN’s team based out of Tunis. While never recognized by FIFA, the team would eventually include 35 players, all but one of whom had been playing professionally in France, and would play 80 matches across the world with the explicit goal of promoting Algerian independence.[29] The FLN capitalized on the long work of indigenous teams like the MCA to construct an anti-colonial national identity, and indeed many of the FLN’s commanders, including the first Algerian president Ahmed Ben Bella, were accomplished footballers.[30] Like the decolonial militants Aimé Cesaire and Léon Damas who organized an Antillean football team, “New Hope,”[31] a young generation of Algerian nationalists discovered their collective agency in Muslim sporting associations, thus distinguishing themselves from the elder generations they saw as marked by “fatalist quietism.”[32] As Commandant Si Azzedine would recount in his memoirs, “Sport was for me a school of nationalism, and the pitches were my first battlefields.”[33]

Postcolonial Legacies

Constitutive colonial ambivalences of integration and segregation, inclusion and exclusion, did not resolve at the moment of decolonization, but rather have taken on new racialized dimensions on the entangled sporting fields of postcolonial France and North Africa. In France, the civilizing mission (mission civilisatrice) transformed into an integrating mission (mission intégratrice) directed at those of postcolonial immigrant background inhabiting peri-urban (banlieue) housing projects and other quartiers populaires racialized as zones of insecurity, “social fracture” (fracture sociale), sectarianism (communautarisme), and even jihad, as Hamza Esmili and Marwan Mohammed unpack in their papers. Sport has been a central component of urban revitalization programs, which have privileged the building of athletic infrastructure and establishment of sports programs for young men and women to re-discipline their bodies, secularize their dispositions, and counter their ostensible attraction to so-called “fundamentalism” (intégrisme).[34] Such discursive opposition of (secular) sport and Islam as incompatible bodily practices underwrites both the racialization of the latter and the suspicion cast upon Muslim-French footballers whose actions are surveilled and whose loyalties are questioned. The French Football Federation (FFF) has banned the wearing of hijab in any competition or exhibition held under its aegis at any age level, a regulation upheld by the French high court in June 2023 in spite of strident protests by a group of covered sportswomen, Les Hijabeuses, and contrary to FIFA’s explicit policy allowing covered female players to participate in the World Cup.

Male football players are similarly commanded to set aside their religious obligations to fast during Ramadan, which the professional leagues have refused to accommodate and the national team has effectively made a prerequisite for selection. Failure to abide by these secular sporting commandments—or to enthusiastically sing the national hymn—can lead to being labeled as “unprofessional” or even as “troublemakers.” As a result, talented Muslim footballers like Nicolas Anelka, Hatem Ben Arfa, Karim Benzema, and Samir Nasri have fallen afoul of the French Football Federation and been excluded from the national sides. Others like Rayan Aït-Nouri, Sofiane Boufal, Riyad Mahrez, and Romain Saïss have elected to exit France, ply their footballing trade overseas, and compete for their heritage nations; their commitments are as biographically particular and psychically fraught as James’ (later regretted) opting for Maple over Shannon.[35] While the men’s 1998 World Cup winning team was broadly embraced as emblematic of France’s multicultural (black-blanc-beur) future, secularist pundits like Alain Finkielkraut have derided subsequent sides as “too Black,” and the national coaching staff under Laurent Blanc controversially contemplated a racial quota system to ensure the representation of white players, eerily recalling late-colonial policies in Algeria.[36] In the meantime, Black players like Lilian Thuram and Christian Karembeu have used the legacy of the 1998 team to connect contemporary racism and inequality to a largely unaddressed history of slavery and colonial violence.[37] And Les Hijabeuses have expanded their struggle against the secular patriarchy embedded in the women’s game, which likewise derives from a long-standing colonial trope of saving Muslim women from Muslim men.

North African states have likewise deployed sports to navigate their own postcolonial contradictions, including the continued vitality of inherited colonial racial categories that regimes have ambivalently denied and embraced. As historian Philip Dine has recounted, “Independent Algeria moved quickly to appropriate the ex-colonial sports system as a means of fostering domestic legitimacy and international recognition,” hosting a number of international mega-events in the 1970s and 1980s.[38] To date, international encounters between North African national sides and France—like during the 2023 France-Morocco World Cup semi-final—have served as spectacular occasions to memorialize colonialism and reflect on the unfinished business of decolonization. Moreover, North African states have deployed such spectacles—and sports more broadly—to bolster national loyalty among its heterogeneous populations, many of whom reside abroad in the diaspora. Much as in France and other North African countries, the Algerian Ministry of Youth and Sports invested in sporting infrastructure to channel the passions of younger generations and reorganized the football league to “abolish regionalism and chauvinism” in favor of national identification.[39] In spite of such efforts to order spirits and discipline bodies, stadiums became salient sites for anti-regime protests as well as the expression of religious and ethnic identification.

Notably, the Jeunesse Sportive de Kabylie (JSK) parlayed its continental success into regional pride. Its matches serve as a site for supporters to advocate for cultural and language rights with songs and banners composed in Taqbaylit, with Amazigh flags held high, and with its canary yellow jerseys becoming the de facto uniform of the transnational Amazigh movement.[40] Football clubs in Agadir and Hoceima have played a similar role in Morocco. In the southeastern Moroccan oasis town of Goulmima—a center of Amazigh activism for the last 30 years with an ethno-racial heterogeneity much as described by Judith Scheele in her paper—the main local amateur side calls itself the Jeunesse Sportive du Ksar (also JSK), wears canary yellow jerseys emblazoned with the Tifinagh alphabet symbol for freedom, and adopts the names of Amazigh cultural heroes for its players. Many of the area’s activists got their start playing for the local JSK, particularly in Ramadan tournaments during which religious piety—pace both French commentators and salafi reformists—has never been incompatible with either athletic endeavors or ethnocultural identification.

Football is but one of the sports practiced in peripheral areas like Goulmima. If football, in its practical simplicity, lends itself to easy appropriation, local variation, and political deployment, the other sport increasingly associated with Amazigh activism, pétanque, with its indelible connections to French settler colonialism and pied-noir leisure, most certainly does not. Today, the casual sociality of the old colonial pétanque court, which continues to attract the sons and grandsons of former tribal notables who have a surplus of leisure time, stands in stark contrast with the new martial arts clubs whose modalities of self-discipline and master-disciple relations parallels that practiced in both Sufi and salafi traditions and which tend to be frequented by poorer, formerly enserfed residents now racialized as “Black.” Younger (“white”) Amazigh activists have organized regional pétanque tournaments that map out rural circuits and networks that layer on top of (and often in direct contrast to) those channeled by state infrastructure. These tournaments are isomorphic with new claims for regional self-determination and indigenous sovereignty in the area. Les boules(pétanque steel balls) replace les balles (bullets) in new performances of the martial masculinity by which Amazigh pastoral groups were racialized by French colonial officers. Throwing a steel ball (kura hadidiyya) further constitutes a symbolic riposte to the “years of lead” under the former King Hassan II as well as the ongoing extraction operations and Arabization policies from which the local landscape and residents’ bodies still bear the marks of violence.


Playing a decidedly colonial game in a landscape indelibly marked by the violence of colonialism and postcolonial development underlines just how malleable sporting practices are to appropriation and domestication. Postcolonial racial projects like the Amazigh movement necessarily involve acts of bricolage, working, in the words of Claude Lévi-Strauss, with the “remains and debris of events… ‘des bribes et des morceaux’… odds and ends… fossilized evidence of the history of an individual or a society.”[41] Sporting practices like football and pétanque, as well as racial categories like “Berber” or “Muslim,” are part of such “imperial debris”[42]—the remains and rubble which colonialism has left behind. But legacy is not destiny. The meanings and meaningfulness of race and sport are not determined by the colonial order of things, itself internally heterogeneous, dynamic, and contradictory. As Laurent Dubois has insisted, “Across its history in imperial and postcolonial France, football has not only crystallized social conflicts but has also sometimes seemed to overcome them, showing the way for a society to live other how and otherwise.”[43] Legacies, in this regard, need not only be burdens or commandments but can also be inspirations and provocations—not only “models of” but also “models for”[44] a world organized on different racial and sporting grounds. What do we know of race who only race know?


[1] CLR James, Beyond a Boundary (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993 [1963]).

[2] Clifford Geertz, “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” Daedalus 101, no. 1 (1972): 26.

[3] James, Beyond a Boundary, 112–113.

[4] Laurent Dubois, “L’identité des Onze tricolore: un héritage colonial?” in L’Empire des sports. Une histoire de la monidalisation culturelle, ed. Pierre Singaravélou and Julien Sorez (Paris: Belin, 2010), 200.

[5] Geertz, “Deep Play,” 27.

[6] James, Beyond a Boundary, 233. Kipling’s original formulation was, “And what should they know of England who only England know?” from his 1892 poem “The English Flag.”

[7] Nicolas Bancel, Pascal Blanchard, and Sévérine Lemaire, Ruptures postcoloniales. Les nouveaux visages de la société française (Paris: La Découverte, 2010), 13. See Paul A. Silverstein, Postcolonial France: Race, Islam, and the Future of the Republic (London: Pluto Press, 2018), 3–7.

[8] See Etienne Balibar and Immanuel Wallerstein, Race, Nation, Class: Ambiguous Identities (London: Verso, 1991); Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack: The Cultural Politics of Race and Nation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formations in the United States(New York: Routledge, 1994); Paul A. Silverstein, “Immigrant Racialization and the New Savage Slot: Race, Migration, and Immigration in the New Europe,” Annual Review of Anthropology 34 (2005): 363–384.

[9] Bernard S. Cohn, “The Command of Language and the Language of Command,” in Colonialism and Its Forms of Knowledge (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997).

[10] See Sami Everett, “The Beautiful Game Between Algeria and France,” Middle East Report 304 (Fall 2022).

[11] Nicolas Bancel and Jean-Marc Gayman, Du guerrier à l’athlète. Éléments d’histoire des pratiques corporelles (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2002), 229–231.

[12] Ibid., 245.

[13] Raoul Girardet, “L’apothéose de la ‘plus grande France’. L’idée coloniale devant l’opinion française (1930–1935),” Revue Française de Science Politique 18, no.6 (1968): 1085–1114; Evelyne Combeau-Mari, “Sport in the French Colonies (1880-1962): A Case Study,” Journal of Sport History 33, no. 1 (2006): 31.

[14] Ibid., 33.

[15] Ibid., 35.

[16] Bancel and Gayman, Du Guerrier à l’athlète, 243.

[17] Philip Dine, “Dresser la carte sportive de l’Algérie ‘française’: vitesse technologique et appropriation de l’espace,” in L’Empire des sports. Une histoire de la monidalisation culturelle, ed. Pierre Singaravélou and Julien Sorez (Paris: Belin, 2010), 112.

[18] Niek Pas, “Vélocemen, hiverneurs et Algériens. Cyclisme et sociabilité sportive en Algérie (1885–1914),” Vingtième-Siècle 136 (2017): 14.

[19] Dine, “Dresser la carte sportive,” 108, 111.

[20] Philip Dine, “Sport,” in Postcolonial Realms of Memory: Sites and Symbols of Modern France, ed. Etienne Achille, Charles Forsdick, and Lydie Moudileno (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2020), 411–419.

[21] Bernadette Deville-Denthu, Le Sport en noir et blanc. Du sport colonial au sport africain dans les anciens territoires français d’Afrique occcidentale (1920–1965) (Paris: Harmattan, 1997).

[22] Combau-Mari, “Sport in the French Colonies,” 40–42.

[23] Youssef Fatès, Sport et politique en Algérie (Paris: Harmattan, 2009); Stanislas Frenkiel, Le Football des immigrés. France-Algérie, l’histoire en partage (Arras: Artois Presses Université, 2021).

[24] Dubois, “L’identité des Onze tricolore,” 191; Everett, “The Beautiful Game”; Didier Rey, “Les identités multiples. Corse et Algérie au miroir du football (1897–1962),” Insaniyat 34 (2006): 29–45.

[25] Rey, “Les identités multiples.”

[26] Combau-Mari, “Sport in the French Colonies,” 35.

[27] Driss Abbassi, “Le sport dans l’empire français: un instrument de domination coloniale?” Outre-Mers 96, no. 2 (2009): 7.

[28] Pascal Blanchard, “Bleu-black-beur, l’équipe nationale aux “couleurs” de l’histoire,” in Allez La France! Football et immigration, ed. Claude Boli, Yvan Gastaut and Fabrice Grognet (Paris: Gallimard, 2010), 122–131.

[29] Kader Abderrahim, L’Indépendance comme seul but (Paris: Méditerrannée, 2008); Michel Nait-Challal, Dribbleurs de l’indépendance. L’Incroyable histoire de l’équipe de football du FLN algérien (Paris: Prolongations, 2008).

[30] Youssef Fatès, “Les marqueurs de nationalisme: Les clubs sportifs musulmans dans l’Algérie coloniale,” Quasimodo 3–4 (1997): 121–129.

[31] Dubois, “L’identité des Onze tricolore,” 188.

[32] Jakob Krais, “The Sportive Origin of Revolution: Youth Movements and Generational Conflicts in Late Colonial Algeria,” Middle East – Topics and Arguments 9 (2017): 134.

[33] Cited in Ibid., 136.

[34] William Gasparini, “L’intégration par le sport. Genèse d’une croyance collective,” Sociétés Contemporaines 69, no. 1 (2008): 7–23; Fethi Sakhoui, “L’insertion par le sport des jeunes d’origine maghrébine des banlieues en difficulté,” Migrations Société 45 (1996): 81–100; Paul A. Silverstein, “Sporting Faith: Islam, Soccer, and the French Nation-State,” Social Text 65 (2000): 25–53. On the disciplining of female Muslim bodies, see the papers by Hanane Karimi and Eleonore Lépinard and Sélima Kebaïli.

[35] Everett, “The Beautiful Game.”

[36] Paul A. Silverstein, Postcolonial France: Race, Islam, and the Future of the Republic (London: Pluto Press, 2018), 103–114; Christopher S. Thompson, “From Black-Blanc-Beur to Black-Black-Black?: ‘L’Affaire des Quotas’ and the Shattered ‘Image of 1998’ in Twenty-First-Century France,” French Politics, Culture & Society 33, no. 1 (2015): 101–121.

[37] Laurent Dubois, Soccer Empire: The World Cup and the Future of France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010).

[38] Philip Dine, “Sport in Algeria: From National Self-Assertion to Anti-State Contestation,” in Algeria: Nation, Culture and Transnationalism, 1988–2015, ed. Patrick Crowley (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2017), 205.

[39] Mahfoud Amara, “Football Sub-Culture and Youth Politics in Algeria,” Mediterranean Politics 17, no. 1 (2012): 38.

[40] Paul A. Silverstein, “Stadium Politics: Sport, Islam, and Amazigh Consciousness in France and North Africa,” in With God on Their Side: Sport in the Service of Religion, ed. Tara Magdalinski and Timothy Chandler (London: Routledge, 2002), 37–70.

[41] Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966), 22.

[42] Ann Laura Stoler, Imperial Debris: On Ruins and Ruination (Durham: Duke University Press, 2013).

[43] Dubois, “L’identité des Onze tricolore,” 200.

[44] Clifford Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System,” in Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. Michael Banton (London: Tavistock, 1966), 1–46.