Under the European Lights: One Fan's Dream Becomes Reality

June 10, 2012

            Soccer fans across both the “old continent” and throughout the world have been eagerly anticipating this 2012 European Football Championship since the 2010 World Cup, when Spain, one of the few national teams who play the game “the right way,” were deservedly crowned champions. Spending that summer in Granada, Spain and observing the infectious euphoria of a nation was special, but I wanted to be in the thick of the action, I wanted to see the real thing. I wanted to be ‘under the lights’ when it all happened.  

           

            Under the lights of Arena Lviv

 Overused as this adjective is, there is something completely magical about witnessing live football, especially when that match is a European Championship clash between giants Germany and Portugal. Even the best camera work cannot fully capture the speed, technique, or emotional investment in such a match. Televised viewing often gives off a mundane impression of football, yet live viewing confirms the technical virtuosity required to perform a seemingly simple action such as a back pass, defensive clearances, or an off-the-ball sprint under such immense pressure.  In the heavy atmosphere of such a match, one cannot help but glue their eyes on every movement with the fixation of a predator following its prey.

            Thus, I knew that attending any match, let alone the Germany-Portugal match, would satisfy a long-held inner craving for an authentic soccer experience. In this case, the unfamiliarity and magnitude of the occasion rendered it more memorable than the outcome of the match-a grinding 1-0 German victory courtesy of an early second half Mario Gomez header. In hindsight, I will forever cherish the experience and look forward to future evenings under the lights.

            Many North Americans who follow soccer, or “football” as it’s known in the rest of the world, dream of one day crossing “the pond” and finding their Mecca at the Ibrox, the “Theatre of Dreams,” or at Camp Neu in the company of fellow Bhoys (Glasgow Celtic), Red Devils (Manchester United), or Cules (Barcelona). The Euros, however, present an entirely different scenario-the prospect of international glory where the stakes are higher.  In both the Euro and the World Cup, supporters must temporarily set aside their club affinities for the “good of the nation.” The Euro, unlike the World Cup, however, is a shorter, and more concentrated tournament that presently includes seven of the world’s top ten national teams, and consequently, many consider it more difficult to win.  In other words, each Euro match is more meaningful, there is less room for error, and considering the history between the Germany and Portugal teams, those in attendance had something special to look forward to.

             In coming to Lviv, Ukraine for the group stage of the tournament, I anticipated a feverish excitement. I knew that merely stepping into the Adidas Fanzone (a glitzy fenced off area in the center of the city for viewing matches), let alone attending a match, would cause a certain giddiness and unbearable excitement that I associate with viewing an eagerly anticipated movie or attending a live performance of a beloved musical act. Yet with Finland never having qualified, I also felt privileged to be able to analyze the events as a neutral-a true fan of the sport.

  Inside of the Adidas Fanzone

            My pessimism initially grabbed hold of me upon reading that all matches were sold out, and I resigned to spending several sweaty hours watching matches in the Fanzone. Acquiring a ticket, it turned out, was as simple as standing in the Fanzone during the tournament’s opening match. The turnout at the Fanzone for an eventful and numerically underwhelming match between Poland and Greece was impressive.  Several thousands gathered near the famous Shevchenka Statue to witness the tournament's official inauguration in Warsaw. Germans, Poles, Greeks, Portuguese, Canadians, Brits, Danish, and of course, Ukrainians, crowded the square to get a view of the action.

Fans of many nationalities

           My chance for the golden ticket came when a middle-aged, red haired German fan passed by my host Ioora and I with an extra ticket in hand during half time.  Spotting the opportunity, Yura raced toward the man and inquired about the price. He was asking for face value on the ticket-a mere 120 Euros (a bargain really). Having left most of my money at Yura’s house, I cursed my luck and nearly drifted over to the beer vendors to quench my sorrow in some cold suds.  But I was in luck-Ioorah lent me money to buy the ticket-which he claimed he had no interest in-and I was set to join a group of three Germans at the Germany-Portugal match!  

          Despite my initial reluctance to break neutrality and sit with this group, I soon relented after the vendor sold me the ticket for 20 euro less than he had initially suggested.  Now I was truly a “kid in a candy store,” so excited that I even ignored my jetlag, which I had yet to extinguish. Jumping for joy and so thankful for Ioora, we made our way back home.

            That night I barely slept.  I kept dreaming of an audacious Cristiano Ronaldo backheel, an incisive Mesut Ozil assist, or a thumping long range strike from Nani.  On paper, this was about as exciting an encounter as world football can offer, yet the past few international matches between these countries-a handful of overly physical friendlies, and the quarter final of Euro 2008-were both chippy affairs with plenty of fouls and a stop-start pace that had, until recently, typified the German ethos.  Now Germany was a balanced offensive machine, with a plethora of attacking options, and more than ready to face the most lethal offensive player in the world-Cristiano Ronaldo. 

            Groggy, but with butterflies swimming all over my stomach, I woke up late and spent most of the day with Yura in Bryukhovychi-a sleepy, forest-covered suburb of Lviv.  The match would not begin until 21:45, so we decided to stop at a pub in the city center and watch some of the Netherlands-Denmark match, which turned out to be an enormous upset.  Somehow the Danes pipped the Dutch to three points following a narrow 1-0 victory.  Three half-litres of Lvivsky “1715” (local) lager, two pork blini (eastern European crepes), and several potato varinicky (traditional Ukrainian dumplings) were more than enough to calm my nerves and satisfy my stomach.

            At 19:30 we left the pub and I followed the mass of supporters, dressed nearly every color, to the bus station.  Chants, songs, and the sound of improvised musical instruments filled the air as the revelry stretched through the streets of downtown Lviv.  Such was my excitement that even with time to spare, I began walking at a frantic pace to the bus station and began needlessly perspiring from head to toe.  With my wallet and passport in one pocket, and my camera and precious ticket in the other, I shoved my way into one of the Stadium-bound designated buses amidst the Deutsch Fussball-Bund supporters, who were smiling, singing, and chanting all through the 30-minute ride to the marshy outskirts of Lviv.  

Squishing into the bus

It's the "European Way"

            The stadium was not visible from the bus stop, but a host of male Germany fans, sporadically urinating on the side of the sparsely-paved walking path to the stadium, were. I decided to spare my fellow attendees such a graphic display and answered the call of nature in the no less disgusting stadium bathrooms. My heart leapt as soon as the pentagonal-shaped metal stadium came into view, and every step brought more joy to my heart.  “This is the greatest day of my life,” I kept telling myself-a hyperbole no doubt, but it made me truly happy to think that I was fulfilling one of my life’s goals. 

 Arena Lviv in all its glory

A thorough pat-down and a ticket scan later I made my entrance into the sparkling new Arena Lviv, completed only two weeks prior.  All around me were smiling faces, sometimes brushed with the colors of German or Portuguese flags, but always smiling. I drained one more forgettable Carlsberg beer as the dull sun left its final streaks of color on the flat landscape beyond, and then headed inside.

Up, up, up, and...

Freshly planted seed waiting to be destroyed 

            I will never forget the moment I emerged from the stadium hallway into the seating area: it defies explanation and I can only compare it to being re-born.  The fresh grass was surrounded by a surprisingly intimate seating arrangement where spectators, even from the upper levels, felt close to the field. It all seemed so perfect and accordingly pristine. I soon found my companions on the "B-level" (second story) seating, who immediately wrapped me in a Germany scarf, to which I begrudgingly responded with a, “okay, but just for today, I’m a neutral.”

 Meine Freunde" (90 Minuten)

Deutsch Fussball-bund fans

                 The first thing I noticed after taking my seat was the quantity of Germany supporters.  Nearly half of the stadium was blanketed in their colors, while the Portugal supporters were reduced to one small corner.  I attributed this to Germany’s proximity to Ukraine and a stronger economy.   

                 The first half witnessed each team showing too much respect for the other; each one prodding, testing, and defending without constructing any meaningful plays.  Barely 15 minutes had passed when a few dozen Germany supporters started throwing crumbled up pieces of paper onto the pitch, obviously aiming for the Portugal players.  When Portugal winger Nani won a corner he was hit by several, and complained to the referee, after which he was booed loudly.  After five more minutes of insipid play, during which neither team created a chance, an announcement on the loudspeaker in English, German, and Ukrainian proclaimed,  “we understand your desire to support your team, but throwing paper onto the field is bad sportsmanship and could result in the match being canceled, and your team being penalized.”  With that the disrespectful contingent ended their paper charades. 

      Portugal's Nani takes a corner amidst the garbage      

 You stay CLASSY Germany fans

            Portugal defender Pepe nearly brought the crowd to its feet right before the end of the first half. Capitalizing on a momentary German defensive lapse, he smashed a loose ball against the crossbar that bounced downward and almost into the goal. But instead it fell tamely for German keeper Manuel Neuer, and it was not to be for Portugal. 

            Profligacy was the name of the game for both teams until a well-taken header by Germany forward Mario Gomez (born in Germany to Spanish parents) in the 74^th minute.  The stadium erupted into cheers of “YA!” and “YA VOL!” and the match never seemed like it would shift courses after that. Despite the childish behavior by one faction of their fans, I must say that I was rather impressed by the level of German support.  The mere presence of so many Deutsch Fussball fans should be credited with giving the team a slight edge in the form of a “12^th man.” Even the vast majority of Ukrainians seemed to be lending Germany their support (one wonders if western Ukraine's abhorrence of anything Russian and the old World War II animosities between the Germans and Russians have anything to do with this...).

 Germany lining up for one of many free kicks

 It was to be "Ze" Germans' evening

            The match felt like a blur, and before I knew it the final whistle blew. Germany had won 1-0 and picked up three deserved points, a giant step toward qualifying for the knockout stages from the “Group of Death.” Just like the three previous international tournaments in which Portugal had participated, Cristiano Ronaldo was disappointing and failed to produce, though not for a lack of effort.  The world's second best player seemed isolated on the left wing and appeared to be playing at a different pace and skill level than his lesser teammates.  But he would have other opportunities to prove himself.

            I left the temporary companionship of the Germans, quickly gave them back their scarf (vowing never again to wear German football gear), and crowded onto another bus headed for the center, but not before snapping another photograph of the Arena Lviv in its nighttime splendor-a transparent pentagon of pleasing metal and concrete spines.  

 Arena Lviv at night

            Some of us dream of attaining riches, fame, or universal admiration, while others have more humble desires. My fantasy, however, was far simpler: to cross the ocean and attend a match at an international soccer competition. Because of its physical distance, the prospect of attending such a match once seemed so unattainable, and even mystical, which reinforced my desire.  For so long I dreamt of taking my seat under the lights and watching the very best the world had to offer, and now I have. After last night, I can honestly admit that I may now die a happy man. 

 (You'd think I could at least stifle a smile?)

Live from Lviv: Euro 2012 Day 1

 

            The pieces are set; the squads-finalized, accommodations-fully booked, overdue construction projects-glossed over, and the plasticy, inflated “fanzones-”furnished and ready for a two-week long party. The opening ceremony of the world’s third largest sporting event-the UEFA European Football Championship-is mere hours away.  Towns across the Ukraine and Poland are buzzing with anticipation for the flood of tourists, noise, color, and passion that will envelop the two host countries for nearly a month. 

           

            The historic city of Lviv, beating heart of western Ukranian culture, will play host to Group B, a.k.a. the “Group of Death.” Germany, Portugal, Netherlands, and Denmark will duke it out for the right to call themselves conquerors of one of the most difficult groups in recent tournament memory. Here in the region once known as “Galicia,” the atmosphere is one of optimism and warmth. The charming renaissance, baroque, and classic architecture, combined with the delicious coffee and beer, and the friendliness of the locals, will no doubt leave a strong impression on the minds of tourists, players, and pundits alike. 

            Lviv is a city of multiple heritages. Its balcony covered stone cobble streets, with three-window baroque facades rising above, relics of the Austrian-Hapsburg era, (which also left behind a strong cafe culture), its ornate Gothic churches, marks of its Polish past, which upon first visit are full of elderly worshippers, the seemingly out-of-place modern Soviet “block-style” apartments, and the multitude of theatres, museums, and book-fares made this place one of Europe’s true hidden gems-but not for long.  

  

          Droves of German and Portuguese tourists shoved past me in the dimly lit Art Noveu train station, filling the thankful Ladas, Skodas, new Japanese imports, and flashy European makes, whose eternally cigarette-puffing chauffeurs were more than willing to accept them.

             After an overnight flight to London, a two-hour layover, a three-hour flight to Kiev, an hour shuttle bus ride to the train station, and a 13-hour overnight train, I finally made it to Lviv in one jet-lagged piece. Having been under the mistaken impression that the Euro competition would produce a multitude of signs in English, I was dependent on my guidebook and helpful Ukranians in navigating Cyrillic. Yet it was also pleasantly surprising to not have encountered any other tourists on my drowsy train journey through central Ukraine, a somehow reassuring fact that made me feel like an exotic foreigner.  While the Kiev Train Station felt like one sweltering mass of people-young and old, rich and poor, all walking fast and talking on their cell phones, the trains were a throwback to a previous era. 

            Having chosen a fare in the narrow kupe sleeper compartment for a reasonable 188 Ukranian hryvnia (about $20 US Dollars), which I thought I would be sharing with three others, I made my way down the platform and consulted with various attendants before running into a young assistant who spoke English and directed me to my car.  However, not being able to read the ticket, I initially settled into the wrong compartment, from which I was soon redirected.  The kupe class was a long, and comically narrow corridor with miniscule boxy compartments on its left side and windows on the other.  The compartments contained four bed-seats with two bunks on each side, and sparse bedding packets to cover the adorning red vinyl and worn foam.  Slava, my non English-speaking kupe-mate, was kind enough to have shared his crackers and chocolate with me as we churned out of Kiev and into the forests and wilderness of central Ukraine. 

            Jetlag soon caught up with me, however, and I slept amazingly deeply throughout the rickety stop-and-start journey with no real idea of who would meet me on the other side.  At 5:45 am we crawled into Lviv, I gathered my things, thanked the compartment attendant, and wandered around the station looking for my contact Ioora.  With no Ioora in sight, I found the “internet hall” and Skyped my Ukranian friend Lili who was still in California. The conveniences of modern technology soon bore fruit as an enthusiastic, but tired-looking Ioorah found me and took me through central Lviv into the maple and pine forests that bore numerous modern suburban homes. 

            Eventually we reached Lili’s cousin’s house where I was eagerly met by her younger cousin (also named Ioora), and two family friends, Anatoli, a former physics teacher, who spoke excellent English (and Portuguese, having lived and worked in Portugal for four years), and his wife Maria, whose hospitality took me by surprise.  After a large breakfast of blini, open-faced egg sandwiches, and ham and cheese, Anatoli and I hopped on a small packed bus into the compact “friendly city.” With the impending kickoff of Poland against Greece, I can only hope that this tournament is reflective of the same friendliness and positivity that I’ve encountered thus far in Lviv.

This post is dedicated to my friend Alexander Ryan Amber. Rest in peace Al.

Global Cuisines: A Brief Examination of the Globalization of Gastronomy

             Why are Americans so quick to proclaim their country the best? It is all too frequent to hear Americans refer to their country as the “greatest in the world.” Xenophobic and racist connotations aside, that phrase, along with a whole host of others (“land of the free,” “the American dream,” “the land of opportunity”), are gross misstatements, whose utterance continues despite mass dissatisfaction with the status quo. The recent Occupy Movement has exposed the exclusivity of the American dream and the disheartening remoteness of sustainable economic opportunity for the majority of young Americans. Yet in one sense, America may still reign supreme.

              Homemade pizza-an ode to Naples

             America may no longer produce as many goods, possess the same caliber of public education, or command the same diplomatic respect as other superpowers, but the “great melting pot” (one hackneyed description whose accuracy is indisputable), does contain the greatest offering of ethnic cuisines in the world.  Chinatown, Little Tokyo, Little Armenia, Little Haiti, Koreatown, Little Italy, Filipinotown, Little Saigon, Mexican Town, Greektown, “Curry Hill,” Russian Hill, these are some of the neighborhoods that have historically provided the most piquant and exotic culinary delights in cities across the United States.  The dishes of once distant cultures, along with their diverse ingredients and tastes, now form a cornucopia of affordable and high-end offerings, given further visibility by the Internet and television. One need only consider the ubiquity of pizza (in all of its variations), lo mein, or tacos to demonstrate the globalization of cuisine. Moreover some of the most profitable fast-food chains (Taco Bell, Yoshinori, Panda Express) and pre-made food producers are based on American interpretations of “ethnic foods.”

           

             An oft-used proverb states that in order to tell where one is going, they must know where they came from. The globalization of cuisine over the past 150 years has undoubtedly expanded our taste buds and taught us much about disparate cultures, yet at what cost? The constant mixing, re-inventing, and mass reproducing of what were once local delicacies has no doubt produced fantastic results, but it has also obscured the specific history of certain cuisines. There is no denying the influence of haute cuisine and Italian cooking on Western Culture, but while most Americans could probably tell you that pizza came from Italy, could they also recognize its Neopolitan origins or appreciate its traditional ingredients?

            

            Culinary globalization has also had profoundly negative environmental consequences. Delicious curry, tantalizing mole sauce, and authentic gazpacho all require ingredients from different climates, whose plastic packaging and global transport pollute our ecosystems. Furthermore, demand for exotic foods has changed the complexion of countless ecosystems. In order to maximize profits, food growers are often forced to depend on monocultures, or else clear large parcels of land to rear livestock, both of which compromise local biodiversity and ultimately, the health of global ecosystems. Twentieth century capitalism’s never-ending addiction to the “logic” of supply and demand contains little space for environmental or cultural considerations, yet for all of its destructiveness, it is impossible to unilaterally condemn globalization. Instead, it exerts both positive and negative influences with varying consequences (creating and destroying jobs, damaging the environment, giving rise to new dishes and preparations, culinarily educating, refocusing on local provisions etc.). 

            

            The local food movement of the past decade, although not universally accessible, or even viable in colder, harsher climates is an important alternative to a dependence on unsustainable food production.  Local foods not only offer not a more healthful and environmentally sound alternative, but can also retain financial benefits within a smaller community, and thereby decrease dependence on imported, mass-produced foods. Yet local food production, like most cutting-edge trends, remains socially exclusive, and often more expensive than non-local food. Writing this from Los Angeles, California, a veritable Mecca of inexpensive ethnic food, I am truly grateful for the diversity that has resulted from large-scale immigration, itself a consequence of globalization. Having also worked at an organic permaculture-style farm in Kona, Hawaii for the past three months, I understand the importance of growing one’s own food and remain committed to supporting local agriculture. 

 Mason and I building a garden bed

             Something as simple as eating, then, is made infinitely more complex by the variety of options and consequences that arise from making gustatory decisions.  Unlike Michael Pollan, however, I will not advise you what to eat.  I can only relate my own experiences while working on a farm – growing and consuming food 200 feet from my bed, without pesticides, fungicides, or insecticides, was the best that I’ve physically felt and among the simplest, yet most delicious food that I’ve tasted. I also realize that growing one’s own food is not always possible, yet considering the myriad hazards posed by imported, unregulated, and genetically-modified foods it will become crucial that we at least understand how to do so while shifting our resources towards local food production.   

 Kale, lettuce, taro, and our nursery in the mandala garden of Ginger Hill Farm

The One-Club Man: An Endangered Species

 

The One Club Man: An Endangered Species

            Loyalty; succinctly defined it is a strong feeling of allegiance and support. Loyalty can take many forms and play multiple roles in our lives. Along with being an important component of any lasting relationship, loyalty was once an integral thread in the fibers of economic stability throughout much of the industrial and post-industrial western world. The stability of businesses, both large and small, was largely built on mutual loyalty, which, in its extreme manifestation came to be known as “cronyism” or “corruption. Yet in this previous era those who demonstrated their commitment to a business could expect more job security, social mobility, and a brighter future for their children. In recent times, however, loyalty has given way to a global obsession with efficiency, cost effectiveness, and profits at the expense of employee welfare and for lack of a better term “the common good.”

           

            In sport loyalty also manifests itself in a variety of ways: fan loyalty to a team, player loyalty to their coaches, teams, supporters, contracts, agents, and/or commercial sponsors, etc. Apropos of those seemingly ubiquitous commercial sponsors, it is likely that the boundless amount of capital and moneymaking potential in professional sport has rendered loyalty completely obsolete. But does athlete “loyalty” to a club or to its fans mean anything anymore? Is it natural that athletes and clubs simply need to look out for their own interests? In an age when the bottom line for teams is staying competitive (and profitable), in which professional football clubs sign children as young as five to outrageous professional-tract contracts, and millions of dollars are just as often thrown at budding, unproven teenagers, where exactly does a player’s loyalty to his club fit in? 

           

            Such are the questions facing new generations of professional footballers, many of whose role models lived in eras when players considered factors other than just money when deciding their futures. These very role models, some of whom dedicated their entire careers to a single club, and are now occasionally often referred to as “club legends” or “old school players,” have become an endangered species and perhaps even find themselves out of place in today’s neo liberal market economy. It is likely that we so fondly remember these “legends” because of their willingness to dedicate their careers to a cause larger than themselves-a team legacy, its identity, or out of respect for the club that showed faith in their talents. This then, is a salute to the one-club men of yesteryear.

           

            Many of the greatest footballers of the past two decades have pied their trades for several teams.  Maradona, Pele, Romario, Ronaldo, Zidane, Baggio, Schmeichel, Cruyff, and Platini all played for at least three professional clubs.  Even so, each of these legends will always carry a special place in their heart for one team. La Bombonera has long been Maradona’s second home, Pele made a name for himself, and even retired with Santos, Zidane’s greatest club achievements occurred with Real Madrid, where he now works and whose youth team his children play for. Cruyff settled in best with Barcelona where he excelled as both a player and coach. Whether pro footballers remain with one club their entire lives or play for several, most of them retain a fondness for one club over the others, a feeling that no amount of money can alter. This, ironically, is how many people feel about certain past romances.

           

            To stick with one club (and woman) through thick and thin, in spite of greener pastures, or larger pay package offerings is a sign of integrity and dedication.  One-club men are also rare in football due to the effects of promotion and relegation in most leagues, which causes the tendency for young players to be loaned out (for experience), for players to move clubs for financial reasons (if the club is relegated), and for older footballers to play at lower levels in order to elongate their careers. It is with this in mind that we should salute the handful of contemporary 30+ one-club men: Ryan Giggs, Paul Scholes, Xavi Hernandez, Victor Valdes, Carles Puyol, Iker Casillas, Francesco Totti, Alessandro Del Piero, Jamie Carragher, Steven Gerrard, Ledley King, and John Terry, who remain amazingly vital to their respective teams.  Club supporters will forever remember these players as more than just world-class footballers, rather, they will look upon them as definers of their team’s identity and regard them as fellow fans.

 

The Dirtiest of Wars

I would love to believe in the stirring verse originally sung by Chilean group Quilapayun-"¡El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido!" (The people united, will never be defeated!).  This aphorism may eventually ring true because a united group of people are louder, more visible, and therefore powerful than a divided one, but it is the complicity of the general public during a struggle for power, rights, or equality that makes Quilapayun's phrase difficult for me to truly believe.

Recent history has demonstrated that it is during times of economic crisis that we must remain especially protective over our human rights and personal safety.  Keeping that in mind, it is now, more than ever, that we must remain vigilant, as the global recession gives cause to austerity measures, unemployment, inflation, mistrust, demagoguery, and fear.  Such "austerity" has been used as an excuse for recent funding cuts to health care, public education, infrastructure, and environmental protection, which not only serves to further the gap between the wealthiest and the rest, but will erode some of the very foundations of our societies.

Similarly, much of the rhetoric behind such atrocities as the Pinochet coup/ military government in Chile, and Argentina's "Dirty War" has been based on specious "economic" claims-i.e. socialist economic policies and social programs are ineffective, cause inflation, are not conducive to national industrial development or foreign trade, and/or are generally deleterious.  The people, as such military juntas of Chile and Argentina seemed to believe, would be better off under rigid discipline, privatized industry, and a "strong" (tyrannical) central leader (who were both covertly supported by the "democratic" United States government).

In the face of such claims, one must remember that global trade and the free market economy are inherently subject to fluctuations that can disproportionately affect certain regions of the world more than others based not only on domestic economic policies, but geography, national and international laws (like constitutions and international trade policies), diplomatic relations, amongst other factors.  The global economic downturn of the 1970's, coupled with the (sham of an) oil crisis compounded the ongoing governmental instabilities, massive inflation, financial uncertainty, and political fragmentation in Argentina and Chile.

Those of you uninterested in Latin American history must be wondering...'where is he going with this and why should I keep on reading?'  Besides attempting to draw certain comparisons between disparate historical epochs (South America in the 1970's and The US/Europe of the second decade of the 2000's), I want to discuss, in brief, an atrocity that very few of my friends know about-"La Guerra Sucia," or, "The Dirty War,"-its causes, its vestiges, and its involvement with "futbol."

Argentina has long been a place of political instability and social upheaval.  Beginning in the late nineteenth century waves of European and western Asian immigration brought a mixture of cultures and creeds to this new country south of the equator.   Migration and immigration from other South American countries and from Argentina's rural areas in the early twentieth century made the country's industrial urban centers like Buenos Aires, Rosario, Cordoba, Bahia Blanca, and La Plata swell.  By the early twentieth century Argentina was one of the world's foremost economic powers with the ninth largest economy by 1920.  However, the Depression of the 1930's brought an end to that and badly crippled an economy in advanced stages of industrial development.  With unemployment and inflation soaring, Argentina's government crumbled.  This period did witness the establishment of universal (male suffrage), but during the 16 years from 1930-1946 the country saw 8 different heads of state, including several military dictatorships. 

The Juan Peron governments of the late 1940s through mid 1950s, and then later in the early 1970s temporarily stabilized Argentina's volatile economy, while enacting numerous infrastructural improvements/modernizations (including railroad extensions, bridge and hospital constructions, the enlargement of the country's ports amongst others), pro-union labor reform, and the construction and updating of dozens of professional soccer stadiums.  The famous "Bombonera" stadium-home to the famed Boca Juniors Football Club, was funded by money from the Peron government.  The stadium improvement program was as much an infrastructural improvement campaign as it was apolitical move.  Always with an ear to the streets, Peron shrewdly recognized the power that soccer held over the masses and channeled much of his support from terraces and stands of the "estadios" around the country. 

Figurines of Juan Peron, "Evita," and Diego Maradona in La Boca neighborhood of Buenos Aires

Peron's government, however, a curious "third way," which existed somewhere in between capitalism and socialism, did not last.  The nationalizations and protectionist economic policies that defined much of his presidency isolated private investment and led to substantial debt.  Exports fell, and unemployment rose sharply from the mid 1950's onward.  Peron was also quite guilty of having illegally disposed of certain opposing forces.  During his first reign in power, he fired more than 1500 university professors who opposed him, including the famed writer Jorge Luis Borges.  Peron was deeply suspicious of both staunch conservatives and radical left wing factions.  Certain policies, such as his proposed legalization of abortion and prostitution, were too controversial for a mostly catholic country, while frequent clashes between the Socialist Party and Peronists became violent.  Peron was even excommunicated by Pope Pius XII in 1955. A Nationalist-Catholic coup deposed him that same year and he was exiled from the country for 18 years, during which the size of the economy doubled while inflation became a daily expectation for Argentinians.

By the time he returned from exile, Peron was in poor health, and by some accounts, even senile.  A series of debilitating heart attacks effectively ended his third term in 1974, the same year of his death, after which his third wife Isabel was put in charge of the republic until the dreaded military coup of 1976.

The events of 1976-1983 are probably the darkest in Argentine history.  General Jorge Videla head of the Argentine Armed Forces, and leader of a new military junta, easily deposed of the ineffectual Peron regime in a coup d'etat, privatized several state-owned companies, shut down the legislative branch while restricting freedom of the press, and initiated a campaign of state-sponsored terror via the euphemistically-coined "National Reorganization Process." 

Videla (on the left)

From 76' onward the government initiated the "Dirty War" against its own citizens whereby marxists, trade unionists, students, and any citizens with suspected left-leaning sentiments were kidnapped, sent to detention camps, tortured, murdered, or raped.  At any given moment people could be pulled over by the police and beaten senseless without explanation, have their homes looted by soldiers, be drugged and forced to undergo the "vuelos de la muerte" (death flights) where they were drugged, forced into helicopters or fixed-wing aircrafts, stripped naked, and pushed into the Rio de la Plata or Atlantic Ocean to drown.  Among the most heinous human rights violation carried out by the junta was the stealing and redistribution of "children of the disappeared," whereby infants or very young children of apprehended individuals were given to families who supported, or at least complied with the regime.  (For a masterpiece narration of this subject see the heart-wrenching film "La Historia Oficial"-The Official Story.)

Above: Propaganda from the Videla Government that reads "Argentinians: We are human rights"

Below: An Abduction in Buenos Aires

It is estimated that between 9,000-30,000 Argentinians were forcibly disappeared between 1976 and 1983 and that up to 500 children were stolen from their parents.  Though some Argentinians resisted, such as the "Madres de la Plaza de Mayo," who continue to gather in the Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires to demand knowledge of the whereabouts of their disappeared children,  (preceding this article is an iconic symbol of their organization-the white hood), the majority went about their daily lives.  How, one might ask, could the world stand by and allow this to happen after the atrocities of the Holocaust?  The answer, sadly, is a mixture of successful cover-ups, US-support for the anti-communist military junta (via Operation Condor), successful propaganda campaigns, and general international complicity or even coordination (in the case of Chile, Uruguay, and Bolivia).  

The "Gauchito"- official mascot of the 1978 World Cup

In the midst of the Dirty War Argentina hosted the 1978 FIFA World Cup under the watchful eyes of Videla and co..  The Montoneros, a Peronist and marxist guerilla group tried to disrupt the tournament by coordinating several bomb attacks, but were unsuccessful and swiftly crushed by the Junta.  Some of the teams that qualified, such as the Netherlands, initially considered not participating due to the Junta's rumored persecution of the people, but eventually relented.  In another controversy, FIFA allowed the Argentine National Team to play all of their matches at night, thereby giving them the advantage of knowing all previous match results.  

The Naval Academy Building in Buenos Aires

The Estadio Monumental, used for the World Cup, is located less than a mile from the infamous Naval Mechanics School in Nuñez, which was used as a concentration camp at the time, and has since been designated as a space for the "memory and promotion of the defense of human rights."  It is said that prisoners there could hear the roar of the crowd during matches.  An LA Times article discusses several disturbing details of the tournament...

"Surviving detainees have recalled Kafkaesque scenes of interrogators taking time out to root for the home team. Guards even encouraged shackled, hooded and half-conscious prisoners to join in the merry-making.  "We won! We won!" the lockup's notorious chief of intelligence, Jorge "El Tigre" (The Tiger) Acosta, shouted over and over, recalled Graciela Daleo, a survivor. "When he said, 'We won,' I was certain that we had lost," Daleo said in a seminal documentary film made here examining the "parallel history" of the 1978 championship. "And we did lose." (http://articles.latimes.com/2008/jun/28/world/fg-mundial28)

 

Star forward Mario Kempes and the "Albicelestes" might have won Argentina's first World Cup, but the real beneficiary was the Videla regime who were able to maintain power for another five years while deflecting growing international attention to their bloody methods.  In this way, some have compared the 1978 World Cup to Hitler's manipulation of the 1936 Berlin Olympics that covered up his persecution of the Jews, Communists, and Gypsies.   After the ill-fated Falkland' War and growing international concern with the Junta, democracy was restored in 1983, but the vestiges of the Dirty War persist to this day-with the occasional news coverage of genetic testing of a child of a disappeared, the sporadic trials and convictions of former military leaders, and the frequent gathering of the Madres de la Plaza.

In the end "el pueblo unido" were not necessarily defeated, but they were unable to effectively mobilize and topple the regime, which fell for other reasons- mounting debt, high inflation, and the diplomatic catastrophe caused by the Falklands War.  During the Junta, isolated and small-scale anti-government violence was carried out mostly by divided guerilla groups.  The brutal repression and state terror inspired such fear in the populace that the impetus and unity required for an effective resistance, whether violent or non-violent, was never fully present.  Further dividing the people was the fact that the government mostly targeted leftists who they considered to be an ideological "threat" to their stability.  The Videla government is often referred to as "la ultima dictadura"-the last dictatorship; let us hope that it remains thus. 

You might wonder why I care so much about this topic, or why I am so concerned with what happens in Argentina.  Though I am not Argentinian, I did live there, and will always feel connected to that country.  The experiences of the "ultima dictadura" and the Pinochet regime in Chile should serve as eternal reminders of the dangers posed by volatile economic conditions and the opportunistic ultra-right wing politics that emerge during such times of crisis and who purport to treat such maladies.  While I do not believe that Argentina, the US, or any European entity are in danger of being toppled by new repressive autocracies, I do feel that the all-too-popular austerity measures and tax-cuts that are causing the slow erosion of the foundations of such western democracies could potentially give way to new tyranny, especially in light of the ultra-nationalist/religious and reactionary factions waiting in the wings to manipulate discontent with current governments.