CPT The Magic of Football

The Magic of Football
2007 July 20

Managing a football (soccer) team is never easy, especially Old City Hebron’s 10 to 12 year old boys team. The asphalt street in front of our CPT apartment is now our practice field. And one sideline is the wall of the central IDF (Israeli Defense Force) base in Hebron, with sentries looking from their rooftop straight down onto the boys.

One afternoon an IDF squad arrived in our street. “This street is closed to football practice, because someone broke through the steel bars separating you from the settlers, and someone set two fires in the abandoned buildings under the IDF sentries.”
Zleekha, the team mother, responded, “These boys did not break through the steel bars while they were busy playing. They did not set any fires. Why are you punishing them collectively for the wrongs done by others? You accuse us of teaching our children terrorism. Here we are teaching them football, and you stop us. What are you teaching them?”

As Zleekha, my CPT mates and I engaged several soldiers in conversation, the other soldiers began to interact with the boys. They began to join in kicking the soccer ball around, laughing and jostling with the Palestinian boys.

Suddenly a moment of magic occurred. One of the Palestinian boys said, “There are five soldiers, and five of us. Can we play a match with them? … If they win, the street is closed. If we win, the street stays open.” The faces of the soldiers lit up. It quickly became obvious they liked the idea. They were excited to play. (Soldiers here spend most of their time standing guard, doing nothing but watch Palestinians. Their life is exquisitely boring.)

The squad leader said he would call for other soldiers to take their guns and field packs. Zleekha said, with a twinkle in her eye, “I will take care of your guns and packs.” The leader chuckled. But when the base commander appeared on the rooftop looking down onto the street, he declined to allow the match. The squad was obviously disappointed. After a few minutes they left.

A little later, the commander stepped through the gap in the concrete wall, alone, and approached the steel bars just behind one goal. I approached him from the Palestinian side of the bars.
“I am Israel.”
“I am Lorin.” I made several suggestions about security.
“Those are good ideas, worth thinking about.”

When Zleekha arrived, he said, “The boys may play one hour each afternoon.”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “They need to practice more than one hour a day. They need three hours a day.”
By the end of the conversation, he had agreed to let the boys play from 4 to 7 pm every day. The boys have played football each day since. Sometimes the soldiers come. But they have, so far, not asked the boys to stop.