But the World Cup is not one game. Teams are capable of producing the unthinkable. And at this year’s competition, perhaps no nation needed the impossible more than Iran. Which is why, as an Iranian-American, my allegiances in soccer have always been tethered to my ancestral roots. For decades, Iran’s people have been stymied by pariahs, by blinkered Supreme Leaders, by feckless, CIA-backed coup d’états. Nowadays, it seems Iran’s likeliest victories will come outside the political realm. So as we headed into the second game against Wales, I stood but did not sing the national anthem, watching as a grown man from Iran wept during the opening ceremonies. Once the game began, I cheered and screamed so loud I got lightheaded. My fellow Iranian fans followed suit. In an intensely one-sided match, Iran scored two goals in additional time to win 2-0. After the final whistle, the atmosphere was so jovial, the unity of purpose so palpable, that upon later reflection I understood why the regime was so hellbent on fracturing support: this felt like the sort of shared ambition that could shake a government. Back in Iran, however, only pro-government forces celebrated the win. The streets, typically rabid with soccer-obsessed fans after any Iranian victory, were noticeably quiet.
The result against Wales meant that a win or draw against the US would see Iran through—for the very first time—to the tournament’s prestigious knockout stage. For the Americans, the must-win match spurred a real intensity to earn respect in a global sport where they’d always been the little cousin: puerile in creativity, full of unrealized energy, stubborn in their refusal to grow. But for the Iranians, it was something far more complex. Some saw it, and I count myself among them, as a ripe moment: a chance to light a spark in an otherwise empty matchbox, a moment to be proud of our people after decades of feeling otherwise. Others simply wanted the regime to be humiliated by way of a loss to the Great Satan on the global stage.
Things were tense even before kickoff, but not in the way I had expected: instead of Iranians versus Americans, it was Iranians at each others’ throats. News had leaked that Iran’s government had sent upwards of 10,000 people to Doha to cheer, monitor, and bully any anti-regime protests. Their presence wafted throughout the stadium like a lethal stench. A stranger sat next to my father, thrusting an Iranian flag into his hand while asking him to wave it. My father refused. He didn’t see the man for the rest of the match. Two Iranians next to me exchanged heated words over one’s refusal to remove the Palestinean flag from around his neck. Some brave Iranians devised a way to smuggle through tight security different types of anti-government sentiments. Eventually, they were found out. I saw one man wrestled to the ground after loudly chanting the words on his t-shirt: women, life, freedom. His shattered eyeglasses were all that was left behind after the Qatari police carried him away. Later, I asked a quiet, older Iranian gentleman behind me why he had an American flag on his lap. “Just something small to take home as a souvenir,” he smiled, explaining in Farsi. But the moment of empathy was fleeting, as the Americans took the lead thanks to a steely goal by Christian Pulisic. The game turned out to be a tight chess match, largely controlled by America’s young and skillful midfield. On the field, Iran kept searching for the goal that never came. In the stadium, I kept searching for the chant that never did: Mahsa Amini. When the final whistle arrived, stamping America’s 1-0 victory over Iran, I turned and consoled a teenage boy who traveled from Tehran to watch the historic match. “What now?” he mumbled through tears. Several august American fans placed a hand on his shoulder, wishing him well. None of us could have foreseen what awaited us outside the stadium.
Nick Mafi
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