A friend’s son, who is in primary school, was approached by a classmate keeping a tally. “Which team are you supporting?” the boy asked. My friend’s son was confused, but the boy persisted: “You know, Israel and Palestine. Which team?”
Football culture reigns supreme in Britain, and when we moved to Birmingham almost a decade ago, my husband wanted to get the kids into it. Back home in Canada, we had gone to ice hockey games and baseball games; in our new home, obviously, it would be football. My boys arrived in Birmingham already owning Man United jerseys, as it happens, so when Man United came to play our local team—Aston Villa—I suggested they wear them to Villa Park. I thought it would be cute to show up in matching outfits, and all the better that the jerseys represented of one of the teams playing. How could I know that appearing to support the away team was deemed utterly unacceptable? Or that away fans had separate rules and a small, designated space of their own and “Any visiting supporters identified in home areas of Villa Park will be ejected from the stadium”?
Luckily, my husband was wiser than I, and our children (clad in neutral clothing) came home intact.
In the 100 days since 7 October, I’ve thought a lot about football culture. As cars have driven past us streaming Palestinian flags, and pupils showed up to my youngest son’s school, their faces painted in green, black, red, and white, as signs have been erected bearing such slogans as “Bham2Gaza” as well as the standard “From the River to the Sea,” I have been constantly reminded that where I live, you can only support one team. As stupid and childish and unconstructive as it is to compare a war as akin to a football match, it’s hard to think about it differently.
It's also hard to be, in any visible way, supporting the away team. A tiny part of me wants to put an Israeli flag in my front window to show my allegiance with the country that my father grew up in, where I met my husband, where members of my family and close friends still live, and which I have always thought of as my homeland. But I won’t do it. A flag in the window has no nuance. It contributes to a culture of polarisation and not one of reconciliation. I would rather put my efforts into interfaith/intercultural dialogue. Also, I want my house—and its inhabitants—to remain intact.
To be clear, Birmingham is in no way unique in its extreme, and sometimes cartoonish, support of one side of the war. Since Christmas, I’ve been visiting my mom and in-laws in Miami Beach. Here, palm trees are wrapped with the faces of the hostages, who also appear, magnified 100x, on a giant billboard under the heading “Kidnapped October 7th. Pray for their safe and immediate return.” Israeli flags fly from the windows of restaurants, homes, cars, and even one town hall; some are inscribed with individualised statements, like “Bagel Time Proudly Stands with Israel.” I go for a meal, and my electronic menu’s home screen reads: WE STAND WITH ISRAEL (followed by language options: English, French, עברית, Spanish). Everywhere I look, people are sporting “Bring them home” dog tags around their necks. Many of the messages here are produced in earnest, but sometimes I think the clever capitalists are taking advantage of the high-stakes match to sell large quantities of kit. At the International Jewellery Exchange—a vast emporium of kiosks heaped with gold and diamonds—we are repeatedly told that gem-encrusted Magen Davids, chais, and mezuzahs have been the top sales since 7 October. “We have to identify ourselves, show the world who we are,” one vender explained. (I picked out a hefty diamond-laden Jewish star for my husband, who, seeing the $20,000.00 price tag, decided to pass).
People in London participate in a 'Bring Them Home' solidarity rally in Trafalgar Square calling for the release of hostages held in Gaza by Hamas, October 22, 2023 (Credit: Peter Nicholls/Getty Images)
I’m not going to lie: being in Florida (where the opportunist governor has just declared an executive order to waive certain requirements for Jewish students transferring in to state universities) feels easier right now than being in Birmingham. In the Jewish kit I always wear around my neck, I’m automatically identified as part of the home team.
But 100 days in, more than anything, I wish this ‘match’ would end.
