Date: December 18, 2025 Arab World Cup Jordan vs Morocco
Location: Doha - Lusail Stadium (How much I hate this stadium)!
Attendance: About 86 thousand spectators, more than 60 thousand Jordanians
I haven't slept for two nights as we traveled from New York to Doha via Manama on a grueling journey. We booked the last three seats with great difficulty, Ahmed, Omar, and I. We got separated on the plane, but we are united in our heart, loving this team—a golden generation that took us far, and now we shake off the dust of Lusail's defeat in the controversial Asian Cup.
After great effort, through rains, floods, and winds like Doha hasn't seen in years, we reached the stadium on foot, a journey like darting between Safa and Marwah. We met thousands of Jordanians, not to mention friends, neighbors, and childhood buddies. Our voices never rested as they sang for Jordan and Al-Nashama. Despite the cold weather and the rough road, you feel immense pride in being Jordanian. The folk songs were present, as were children, mothers, and the elderly. As the starting whistle blew, I felt a sense of tranquility as our team played technically and physically adeptly in the final, delivering a better round than Morocco, who had drawn with Oman. We didn’t lose a single match and were advancing steadily towards victory. We were still whispering to our seats when we sat down until the first goal came as a sudden punch. It saddened me deeply, and I felt a lump that lasted until the end of the game. That goal shouldn't have come in such a dramatic way. We came back into the game, equalized, and then took the lead before Morocco scored and advanced. The noise subsided as our voices had worn out.
A deep sadness hovered over the stands, an excessive gloom, pain, and a gnawing lump consuming me. As brilliant as the performance was, the loss was painful, and the regret and sorrow were evident on our faces.
The game ended, and we lost the heart. That moment, indistinguishable from my imagination, an image of Ali Alwan as he went one-on-one with the goal. If that ball had scored, it could have changed the mood of Jordanians and Jordan, from that striking northern corner to the last rocky cliff at our grim southern border. We were shouting, "Ali… Ali…" but alas. The ninetieth minute was enough to bring us back into the match. At that time, even if we lost by penalty shootout, it wouldn’t have mattered, as it is a game of luck and fate.
That goal could have been a reason to pump adrenaline into millions of Jordanians, it could have eased the harshness of life. That missed opportunity will remain a thorn in the heart. You were not alone, Ali, as you ran. All of Jordan was behind you, and the goal stood alone before you, manifesting as it awaited the goal. We return once more and fall silent when the words defeat us, until the basil blossoms anew.
