In Sport et Politique en Algérie, political scientist Youcef Fates traces the roots of artistic expression in Algerian football culture back to the colonial period. At a time when native Algerians were denied the right to assemble freely, sports clubs became a means of uniting around shared ideals and identities. Through chants, artwork, and choreographed displays, Algerian supporters earned a global reputation for their expressiveness.
For instance, in the 1940s it wasn’t uncommon for Algerian supporters in the terraces to sing “Min Djibalina” (“From Our Mountains”)—a patriotic song penned by Algerian scouts that called for Algerian independence. Even in post-independence Algeria, the messages delivered in stadiums carried significant social and political weight. A powerful example is the 1977 Algerian Cup final between JS Kabylie and NA Hussein Dey. JS Kabylie supporters were mostly Kabyle—a branch of the Amazigh indigenous to North Africa—and they did not hesitate to use the occasion to voice their displeasure.
That day, President Houari Boumediene was in attendance. He was not a popular figure among Kabyle fans due to his staunch Arabization policies, which suppressed Amazigh language and culture by declaring Arabic the sole official language of Algeria. The JSK fans seized the moment to voice their discontent. They boldly chanted “Anwa wigui? Imazighen! (Who are we? Amazigh!)” and booed the national anthem. Open defiance like this was virtually unheard of in 1970s Algeria and was certainly never broadcast on state television.
Boumediene responded swiftly. Over the next few months, he instituted a sporting reform that rebranded every football club in the country. JS Kabylie lost its ethnic identifier and was renamed JE Tizi Ouzou after the club’s home city, but the attempt to erase what happened in that match failed. That moment of protest became a precursor to the Berber Spring of the 1980s—a landmark movement for Amazigh cultural and linguistic rights.
In the early 2000s, the influence of the “ultra” movement in Italy began shaping North African fan groups. Mark Doidge presents a thorough definition of ultra groups:
The term has been adapted to refer to all hard-core football fans that demonstrate an unwavering support of their team. . . . This support is highly ritualistic and is characterized by the extensive displays of flags and banners, igniting of flares, and chanting of songs.
The North African ultra movement first took hold in Tunisia where Esperance de Tunis supporters formed “L’Emkachkhines.” Morocco followed in 2005 with Raja Casablanca’s “Green Boys,” and by 2007 Algeria and Egypt saw their own ultras emerge—“Ultras Verde Leone” for MC Algiers and “Ultras Ahlawy” for Al Ahly.
What sets North African ultras apart is the presence of dedicated musical groups affiliated with nearly every group, especially in Algeria. These groups compose and record tribute songs to their football clubs celebrating their histories and victories. However, the lyrics frequently go beyond football, touching on everyday struggles and veering into overtly political themes.
For example, in the 2010s, as Algerian President Bouteflika’s public appearances became increasingly rare, the Dey Boys of NA Hussein Dey released a provocative track ahead of the 2016 Algerian Cup final with the line: “The president in a wheelchair; [he’s] a puppet holding on to power.” A year later, Ouled El Bahdja—Algeria’s most notorious football musical group—dropped the song “Qilouna” (“Leave us be”) amid news that the government was considering shale gas fracking in the Sahara. The track criticized government corruption with the lyric: “The people don’t hear what’s happening in the Sahara.” Then in 2018, following the seizure of 701 kilograms of cocaine at the port of Oran (an incident ultimately tied to associates of ministers, mayors, governors, and even national police chief Abdelghani Hamel), Moh Milano released “Y’en a marre,” declaring: “The state is wild, (importing) hash and cocaine.” Y’en a Marre—which means “we’re fed up”—was also the name of a collective of Senegalese rappers and journalists who helped galvanize a mass youth movement against political stagnation in 2011. Whether or not Moh Milano’s track was referencing them, the resonance is striking. From Dakar to Algiers, music has become a vessel for political fatigue—and the possibility of its rupture.
Beyond music, fans communicate through choreographed visual displays—tifos—that often carry political messages. Their visual impact and shareability make them a powerful tool: once raised, they’re instantly clipped and posted online, quickly racking up tens of thousands of views. The Algerian government is acutely aware of their influence. To preempt potential controversy, and in exchange for early stadium access to prepare them, authorities require fan groups to submit their tifos for approval. Due to this vetting process, many tifos echo Algeria’s official foreign policy. Since October 7, 2023, for instance, Palestinian solidarity messages have become widespread. In November 2023, Mouloudia Club of Algiers unfurled a tifo of a freedom fighter and a Palestinian flag with the slogan, “The revolutionary Mouloudia is at your service, land of revolutionaries.” This choreography was applauded by all factions of Algerian society including some members of the government.
Yet, despite these controls, unsanctioned messages sometimes make it through, particularly in lower-tier leagues. In 2018, second-division side AS Ain Mlila displayed a provocative banner with Saudi King Salman and U.S. President Trump, captioned: “Two sides of the same coin.” The Saudi government protested vehemently, and Algeria was forced to issue an official apology.
The criticisms voiced by football supporters inside Algerian stadiums, whether aimed at domestic politics or international affairs, were never unique; you could hear the same grievances echoed in the streets. But what gives the stadium its unique power is how it amplifies those critiques through artistic expression. Songs and choreographies don’t just express discontent—they elevate it, stylize it, make it memorable and shareable. Nowhere was this more clear than during the Hirak protests of 2019 when the chants, rhythms, and defiant spirit of the terraces spilled into the public squares, energizing a nationwide movement.
