Homos can’t play soccer. You hear me? You understand? It’s against the rules.

They laughed at me, hard, all of them. But I was used to it by now. It didn’t affect me at all anymore, their teasing, their insults and their rules. 

They were more or less the same age as me, around 15 years old, and their spiteful, stupid words no longer roused fear in me. I will not tremble before them anymore, I had made up my mind almost two years before. I will not hide myself anymore. I will go out like them in the street. I will go like them to the vacant lot, on the road to the Rabat-Salé airport, which we use as a soccer field. And I will speak, too. I will tease them, too. And if they all want to hit me and humiliate me and spit at me, I will fight back and if necessary I will accept my fate and go back home. Alone. But without crying. No more tears.

I want to play soccer, too. I want to be in the middle of the lot running after the ball. I want to be part of a strategy, follow the guidance and instructions of the coach. In my head, I’m capable of all that and I like that, being part of the group, part of the energy of the group, the solidarity of the group, a body that’s no longer alone, a body that emerges from the shadows, from the night. A body that sweats and glistens. Despite its bad reputation, a free body. Free for the length of a match. An hour and a half.

One day, I looked right in the eyes of the soccer team players in our neighborhood Hay Salam, in the city of Salé. And I spoke.

I’m tired of being a defender. I want to change position. I want to score goals.

They burst into laughter. And one of them, Ali, pronounced the verdict.

Homos can’t play soccer anymore.

I had slept several times with Ali, who was one year older than me. He’s very sexy, it’s true, I won’t lie. But this Ali is a liar, a hypocrite, a coward who doesn’t even know how to orgasm properly. He acts like the leader when he knows nothing at all about the complicated aspects of life. I am stronger than him. I am better than him.

I couldn’t not respond to Ali’s murderous words. I can speak like a brazen whore too. Get my revenge right now, why wait for tomorrow. Cause chaos. Set my enemies’ hearts on fire.

In our neighborhood Hay Salam, I’m not the only homo. On that soccer team, I’m not the only homo. You know it, Ali. You want me to say who I’ve slept with on this team? You want the truth, the whole truth?

Shut up, little girl. You’re not a man. Abdellah. Your name is too nice and too pure. You don’t deserve it. You should change it. Shut up or I’ll smash your face in again.

Ali was furious. Mission accomplished. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. And his threats were no match for my blackmail. Which was not only directed at him, for that matter. So I kept going.

Come, Ali. Come. Show me what a man you are, a proper man who scores spectacular goals in soccer matches. Come. All of you come with him, come smash my face in. I’m not going anywhere.

The players on our team understood that it wasn’t in their interest for me to keep running my mouth. It had to stop. Make this little thing named Abdellah shut up before it’s too late. Teach him a real lesson, hit him, give him a bloody nose, break two or three ribs so he never dares to speak to his teammates this way again. We’re the real men, not him. We’re the majority, not him. The law of Morocco is on our side, not at all on his side. Where does he get the audacity to speak to us like this with no shame? We should break a few teeth, too. Do you hear, Abdellah, you little bitch?

I knew perfectly well that any second now they would lunge at me and start striking.

There are 16 players on the team.

It will be 15 to 1.

15 players against me, on me.

They throw me to the ground.

They hit and they hit and they hit. With their hands. With their feet. With their knees. And even with their heads.

The true words that I’ve just said in their FACES drive them wild. They all know perfectly well just how true, how true they are, the words of that homo Abdellah. He’s not the only homo on the team. He’s not lying. This can’t happen. We’ll kill him. He has to be killed.

I don’t resist. What’s the point. It’s not the first time. I’ve already died, several times. Died and come back to life several times.

I let them take it all out on me. Act like worthy, savage heterosexual guys preying on their favorite victim. This is how they prove to the others that they haven’t slept with me. Through violence. The lie is always accompanied by a colossal smack that immediately knocks you down.

Bash me. Bash bash bash. Again again again.

I like soccer and I want to keep playing soccer. When are you going to get that fact into your head?

That’s what they don’t understand and can’t bear, my teammates. They have insulted me, hit me, seriously wounded me, but I always end up returning to the team. I can’t do without soccer. 

Abdellah, listen to me. Abdellah, this is your heart. I’m speaking to you. Do you hear me? This is your heart… If you continue like this, Abdellah, one day they’ll end up killing you once and for all. 

No, no, no, that won’t happen. When they come to see me in secret, they aren’t violent. They’re even quite tender. It’s when they’re together that things get complicated for me.

What do you want, Abdellah? You see that you won’t change them. They are the way they are. They were born and they grew up in a country that doesn’t love you and doesn’t protect young teenagers like you. What do you want? You should run away and build your future alone, alone and far from them.

I don’t want to be alone, I can’t take being alone anymore. You speak to me of the future, but I don’t see it at all, this future. I only see today, not tomorrow. I want to live even with…

The criminals… Is that it?

I love them. You don’t understand. I love them, those soccer players. I grew up with them. Outside of my family, they are all I know in life.

They hurt you so badly. They come to harm you, to make you bleed from the mouth and nose. That’s not love.

I want to change them and I want to keep loving them. Where would I live without them?

The Earth is big, you know, Abdellah. The world is vast.

I’m only 15 years old, my heart. 15. You hear me, my heart? And I want to keep playing soccer here, in Salé, nowhere else. I belong to this world here, not the one in Paris or New York. I know only Morocco, the reality of Morocco, the laws of Morocco, and that gives me as much legitimacy as anyone else. I don’t dream of freedom in Europe. I believe freedom doesn’t exist. I don’t see it anywhere. I see battles, yes, endless battles, arguments, brawls, shouts, wars, black magic between us. I see all of this very clearly. I am neither deaf nor blind. I want to change this world. I will do it. I am already doing it. They will see one day that I love them truly, truly, fiercely, fiercely, and they will finally see me through different eyes. There will be no more violence. There will be only love. Like in the old Egyptian films. Love wins. ABDELHALIM HAFEZ sings “I am yours forever.” Soccer is mine. My lot is mine. The future. A small surface where I want to fly fly fly and score several goals. The terrible beatings they give me now will stop one day. They won’t kill me. I am indestructible. I am a hero. The wicked will grow weary, will fall, and I, I will still be here, alive. Alive. I run, I dribble, I kick the ball, I shoot, I score. I am not alone. I don’t want to be alone. Never never alone.