It is rare for a World Cup match to be halted at halftime because of a storm. Nearly 65,000 spectators for the France-Iraq game in Philadelphia remained inside the concourses and sheltered areas of the stadium for more than an hour, waiting patiently for play to resume.
Under FIFA safety protocols, if lightning is detected within eight miles of the stadium, play must be suspended for at least 30 minutes, and the clock resets every time another lightning strike occurs within that radius.
When officials finally allowed the match to resume, fans returned to their seats under heavy downpours but unfazed. It was almost as if the rain did not exist.
Because such scenes are uncommon at a World Cup, I considered myself fortunate. This was the first football match I had ever attended in person — and it was being held in not just any stadium, but in one of the largest and most significant venues in the United States, in Philadelphia, a city that occupies a unique place in American history.
Philadelphia served as the political and administrative capital of the fledgling United States before the government moved to Washington. Inside the historic halls of Independence Hall, some of the nation’s most important founding documents were drafted and adopted, including the Declaration of Independence in 1776. This year, the United States is celebrating the 250th anniversary of that declaration.
Growing up in Lebanon, I had always watched football on television. Going in person never crossed my mind. The reason was simple: fear, a long-honed instinct for survival in a country shaped by conflict and recurring wars.
Attending football matches in Lebanon, especially high-stakes league or cup games, can be risky. Many matches have ended in security incidents, including clashes that require intervention by security forces, sometimes resulting in even more violence.
What should be a celebration of sport can instead resemble a sectarian confrontation. The atmosphere becomes so toxic at times that the Lebanese Football Association frequently bars supporters from attending matches or severely limits crowd sizes. Many football matches end up being played behind closed doors, ostensibly to preserve civil peace.
Sport in my country has rarely escaped politics. And politics, in one way or another, finds its way into football — even at the World Cup.
On July 9, 2006, a giant screen was set up in a dusty municipal square in the southern Lebanese city of Nabatieh for the World Cup final between Italy and France.
I supported Italy. I always had, ever since my teenage years.
But many Lebanese carried a peculiar superstition: Italy winning the World Cup seemed somehow connected in collective memory to war. Italy’s triumph in 1982 coincided with Israel’s invasion of Lebanon that same year, creating an irrational but persistent association between Italian victories and national catastrophe.
And what many had feared happened again.
Three days after Italy defeated France on penalties to win the 2006 World Cup, Hezbollah captured Israeli soldiers along the Lebanese-Israeli border, triggering a devastating 33-day war.
Should I have supported France instead? I often asked myself that question with a dose of dark humor.
Since then, Italy’s fortunes have declined. The Azzurri crashed out in the group stage in 2010, exited early again in 2014, and have failed to qualify for the World Cup ever since.
I needed a new team to support. I chose France, largely because of my admiration for Zinedine Zidane. Since then, I have followed Les Bleus while waiting for Italy to regain its footballing senses.
At the 2026 World Cup, Lebanon is still living through a war that began on Oct. 8, 2023.
Italy is not even participating in this tournament, yet war came anyway. So perhaps it was not the Italians’ fault after all.
The phrase “It’s the Italians’ fault” is actually a famous one in the Levant, and was even before the Azzurri emerged on the scene. Its origins are often traced to the French Mandate era in Syria and Lebanon, between the world wars. According to the popular story, a Frenchman and an Italian became embroiled in a legal dispute. Because French influence dominated the courts, everyone — including witnesses — heaped blame on the Italian, the politically weaker party.
Since then, whenever blame is unfairly assigned to the weak or innocent, people say: “It’s the Italians’ fault.”
Today, Lebanon is living under a ceasefire. As the dust settles, the scale of destruction left behind by the war is becoming clearer.
This time, the Italians are entirely innocent. So who, then, bears responsibility?
I stood inside the stadium in Philadelphia wearing a blue France shirt cheering for France and eagerly watching Kylian Mbappé, despite being surrounded by Iraqi friends.
I teased my companions that the French would score five goals. They scored only three. Mbappé scored twice. Iraq didn’t score at all.
Despite Iraq’s disappointment, its supporters remained jubilant. They danced, sang and celebrated their country’s appearance on football’s biggest stage.
They even found room for humor.
As we left the stadium, one Iraqi supporter joked that defender Zaid Tahseen had produced two “legendary” World Cup assists — one for France’s Mbappé and another for Norway’s Erling Haaland.
The rain had eased by then.
Fans streamed toward the exits as reflections from puddles shimmered across the asphalt.
The storm lengthened the match and enriched the experience. And while Mbappé’s performance brought me joy, the rain stirred a deep sense of longing and melancholy.
As Iraqi flags waved among the departing crowd, I found myself recalling Badr Shakir al-Sayyab’s famous poem, Rain Song.
Its words echoed in my mind, blending happiness with sorrow:
“How many tears we shed on the night of departure,
Then pretended, fearing blame,
That it was only the rain.”
Adapted and translated from the original Arabic.
