In the past few decades, the Moroccan city of Salé, situated across the river from Rabat along the Atlantic coast, has experienced a significant transformation. At the turn of the century, it was known for its rough, working-class character, with its old town often resembling the war-torn capital of Somalia, Mogadishu, as seen in the film “Black Hawk Down.” However, under the country’s authoritarian regime, Salé has evolved dramatically, with changes often occurring without adequate oversight.
The city’s population has surged threefold over the last 40 years. Many informal settlements have been forcibly removed to pave the way for ambitious projects, including a new tram network, upscale tourist developments, a pristine marina, a prestigious business park named Technopolis, and since last July, the African headquarters of FIFA. This environment, marked by upheaval and rampant commercialism, seems almost fitting for a beleaguered warlord’s last stand.
Recent reports from the Times indicate that FIFA President Gianni Infantino has been secluded in Salé as he seeks to salvage his presidency. His aides have reportedly been urgently reaching out to FIFA Legends—former player ambassadors—to encourage them to publicly support him. On Wednesday, Luís Figo, one of these legends, broke his silence, stating, “Infantino must go,” and criticized the proposal to sell a stake in the World Cup to private investors as “the lowest, most deceitful and cravenly self-interested behavior I have ever witnessed.” That seems to be a definitive rejection.
Meanwhile, leaders from UEFA, Concacaf, and the Asian Football Confederation are uniting against Infantino. One strategy being discussed is a “governance boycott,” wherein members would abstain from attending meetings or endorsing FIFA decisions. The most drastic measure proposed is a competing tournament akin to the World Cup, effectively creating a schism. While this may be emotionally satisfying and feel like justice, it raises an important question: why is this happening now, and in this manner?
FIFA’s initial proposal to sell a portion of its commercial assets was made nearly eight years ago. In 2018, Infantino reached a preliminary agreement with the Japanese firm SoftBank—backed by Saudi Arabia’s public investment fund—for an expanded Club World Cup and a global Nations League. Although that initiative eventually faltered, it did not provoke the level of outrage witnessed in recent weeks.
It has been four years since the controversial World Cup in Qatar, which was marred by various scandals, including Infantino’s infamous “today I feel gay” speech that turned him into a figure of mockery. Two years have passed since Saudi Arabia was awarded the 2034 World Cup in a bidding process that left other nations unprepared. Three years ago, the establishment of the Club World Cup faced criticism over player welfare issues. Just two months ago, Omar Artan was denied entry to officiate a World Cup match, and a month ago, Folarin Balogun’s suspension was overturned in what was supposed to be an independent review.
For those who seem to hold Infantino’s fate in their hands, these past events did not appear to cross any red lines. Over the years, numerous injustices, indignities, and environmental concerns have been overlooked. This raises the question of whether anything substantial has changed, aside from the fleeting opportunity for ambitious football executives to take control of Infantino’s domain.
It has been over a decade since the late Lord Triesman, former chair of the FA, labeled FIFA a “mafia family,” and that characterization remains accurate today. FIFA operates as a supranational entity, functioning beyond conventional political or economic norms, governed by its own rules and moral guidelines. This system is maintained not through public consent but via a feudal structure of loyalty and protection, changing only through drastic measures akin to mob-like actions.
While the ethical concerns surrounding Infantino’s investment strategy are apparent, what stands out even more is the economic naivety involved. A single chosen buyer (Joshua Kushner), an arbitrary valuation ($20 billion), and a contrived deadline (September 19) raise questions—this approach does not seem to be the best way to maximize asset value. Instead, it suggests a desire to secure a larger share of the riches he has cultivated, even as he is constrained by the terms of his current position.
Looking back, it appears Infantino’s willingness to bend rules was a method of displaying loyalty to the billionaire investor class, akin to a Yakuza tattoo signifying belonging. It is no surprise that, when faced with adversity, his instinct was to seek support from Donald Trump, whom he views as a protector and ally.
The assertion that Infantino represents a symptom while FIFA embodies the broader issues holds true; however, FIFA itself is symptomatic of a larger ailment—capitalistic fascism, an alarming disregard for humanity, and an ideology that suggests some individuals are born to lead while others are destined to follow. This troubling mindset is likely to persist within our institutions long after Infantino has exited the spotlight and the next FIFA leadership arrives, promising reform.
Despite these challenges, football, as the world’s most popular sport, will undoubtedly endure. Its remarkable capacity for adaptation, even in the face of adversity, is both its strength and its curse. In a way, this resilience mirrors the evolving skyline of Salé, reflecting the complexities of the sport’s future.
