By Emma Jaber | Staff Writer

War arrives at your door uninvited, unannounced, interrupting dinner, cutting off conversation and staying the night. War stops many things, but football is not one of them. It has for the longest time struggled to put an end to the persistence and resilience of determined football players. In 1975, the Lebanese civil war seeped into every part of life. Bombs didn’t just fall on battlefields; they fell on homes, on schools, and on streets that once felt safe. They destroyed buildings and shattered homes. Yet, football still remained one of the few constants. Teams like Nejmeh SC and Ansar SC continued to play, even as gunfire echoed through the streets of Beirut. As relentless bombings reduced homes to rubble, fans risked their lives for the joy of a stadium alive with cheers.

The civil war of 1975 was anything but uneventful for football fans. Many players would travel through areas heavily controlled by armed security, interrogating travelers, checking names, sectarian connections, and sometimes even their accents. Players risked everything for the love of the game. Even when continuous bombings crushed homes and cities, the stadium remained a place of escape and temporary relief. In 1985, the “Martyrs’ Game” became a symbol of defiance. Hundreds of people, divided by war but united by the love of the game, packed into dusty stands. The war outside wasn’t thought about for those 90 minutes. For those 90 minutes, the only battle was on the grassy field, and it was one that would end with a final whistle.

In times of war, unifying pleasures like football mean everything to those watching, and even more to those playing. When death tolls rise and survival becomes a luxury, the ability to share a moment of normalcy, to feel part of something beyond destruction, becomes invaluable. A match isn’t just a game; it’s an escape, a declaration that life continues despite everything. In times of war, the ball will continue to roll. Sometimes, it’s on a cracked pavement littered with decaying flowers, or a broken road where families used to travel through. Maybe the goalposts are made of stacked bricks; maybe the net is imaginary. Maybe bottles of water are colored with remnants of dirt and mud. Maybe shin guards are made from cardboard, or not used at all. Maybe players dribble aimlessly with feet that lie bare, black and bloody at the bottom. But the game happens anyway.

For the athletes who may feel helpless, as relentless rockets and bombings wash away life, stepping onto the field becomes more than a game; it becomes a refusal to be defined by war. It’s a reminder of the life that existed before dust filled skies and gray clouds took over, and that this life will continue. It’s the same defiance displayed by Lebanese footballers who have recently played through bombings, by Syrian teams who refused to separate and disband after losing their stadiums, and by Palestinian players who practice on rocks and rubble. The conditions may change, but the fight remains the same.

Football to many may seem like a fickle hobby, practiced out of boredom or temporary enjoyment, but for the Arab world, football is an act of resistance. It is woven into our culture and our blood. We scream at television screens together, we eat with games accompanying us in the background, and we play like we will never be stopped. Most wars have shown this to be true. Tearing a player at war from their ball can be just as tragic as bombing their city. Because in times of war, survival isn’t just about staying alive, it’s about holding

onto the things that make life worth living. Football, against all odds, remains one of them.