The Tunisian national team’s collapse at the 2026 World Cup is not just a sporting failure. It has, unwittingly, become a political barometer. What collapsed on American soccer fields was not merely a defense incapable of withstanding the onslaughts of Sweden (5-1), Japan (4-0), and then the Netherlands (3-1). It was an entire system of governance—based on the personalization of power, the promotion of loyalty at the expense of competence, and the gradual dismantling of checks and balances—that was laid bare.
Rarely has soccer been so closely tied to politics.
As journalist Mhamed Krichen aptly noted, the national team’s two losses achieved what neither the opposition protests, nor the condemnations by human rights organizations, nor even the ongoing deterioration of living conditions had managed to do: loosen people’s tongues. In just a few days, the debate moved from the soccer fields to the public sphere. Anger toward the players and the Federation has turned into a much deeper questioning of the political system itself.
This shift is by no means coincidental. Soccer is a mirror of society. When a country operates on the basis of arbitrariness rather than competence, loyalty rather than merit, and propaganda rather than accountability, it would be surprising if its most popular sport were to escape this pattern.
Over the past five years, the regime has methodically stripped institutions of their substance. Oversight mechanisms have disappeared one after another. Decision-making is increasingly concentrated in the hands of a single individual. Appointments are based more on loyalty than on experience. The consequences are evident everywhere: government, the economy, healthcare, diplomacy… and now soccer.
The criticisms leveled at the Tunisian Football Federation echo, strangely enough, those directed at the government. Lack of transparency, amateurism, improvisation, cronyism, refusal to take responsibility: the same words recur in both cases. It is as if soccer has become a metaphor for a country where institutions no longer fulfill their functions.
But what is perhaps most revealing is what happened after the defeats.
No sooner had internet users begun drawing parallels between the national team’s collapse and that of the country’s governance than the now-familiar reflexes of the government and its mouthpieces became apparent. A poster widely shared on social media issued this warning: “Anyone who links the national team’s failure to Kaïs Saïed is a traitor and an agent. ” This message is not an argument; it is a tactic of intimidation. Instead of responding to criticism, the authorities seek to discredit those who voice it. Dissent is no longer viewed as a normal expression of democratic debate, but as a form of treason.
This rhetoric has become commonplace since 2021. Opponents, journalists, judges, union leaders, and human rights defenders have, in turn, been accused of being “traitors,” “agents,” or pawns in conspiracies. Seeing this language applied to ordinary sports fans or commentators illustrates just how far this culture of suspicion has spread.
Another striking symbol: the comparison with North Korea. Initially, it was purely sports-related. Several observers noted that another heavy defeat would place Tunisia in the unenviable ranks of the worst World Cup campaigns in history, on par with North Korea’s 2010 performance. But very quickly, this analogy took on a political dimension. For many internet users, the reference was no longer limited to sports rankings. It evoked a country where the cult of the leader, constant propaganda, and fear of criticism ultimately lead to mediocrity in all areas. The comparison is obviously metaphorical; nonetheless, it reveals the dismay of a public that sees the collapse of the national team as a reflection of a more general decline of the state.
The paradox is striking. While fear had gradually narrowed the spaces for political dissent, soccer became the catalyst for long-suppressed voices. Thousands of Tunisians, both within the country and in the diaspora, used their team’s defeat as an opportunity to finally speak out about what they no longer dared to say: the excessive concentration of power, the lack of economic progress, the collapse of public services, shortages, the loss of trust in institutions, and the feeling that competence has given way to loyalty.
The government had promised a “historic correction.” Today, Tunisians are witnessing a series of setbacks. The national team’s failure is not the cause of this; it is a symptom. A national team cannot be built in a political vacuum. It is the product of the institutions that support it, the values that guide it, and the societal model within which it operates.
Ultimately, perhaps the real lesson of this World Cup is this: an authoritarian regime can control institutions, curtail freedoms, intimidate its opponents, and impose its official narrative. But it is much more difficult for such a regime to hide the consequences of its own governance when they are laid bare before the eyes of millions of television viewers.
Tunisia didn’t just lose two games. It took a long, hard look at itself. And what many Tunisians saw on American soccer fields was less a failing national team than a reflection of a country weakened by five years of authoritarian drift, where the erosion of institutions, the personalization of power, and the prioritization of loyalty over competence inevitably lead to the same outcomes: powerlessness, mediocrity, and decline.
